July 9th, 2008

the weekend and lines (as in queue and pick-up)
Jason posted on January 31, 2005

Sunday is the worst day of the week.  It’s not even close.  Well, actually, Monday is a pretty bad day.  Yeah, come to think of it, Monday is probably worse than Sunday.
 
Ok, let’s start over.
 
Sunday is a very bad day.  I usually spend my Sundays in various stages of nudity and disrepair, as I move from bed to shower to toilet to couch throughout the day, my body trying to figure out what to do with the several liters of booze slogging through my bloodstream.  My head and body aches, so there’s only one thing I can do: eat lots of greasy food.
 
What’s worse than the physical repercussions of the hangover are the psychological ones.  Sundays are the reason I stopped doing (most hard) drugs - I couldn’t deal with the comedown.  While flushing out all the alcohol, your body is going through all sort of chemical changes and reactions, and when this is happening my mood swings wildly between crying at a car commercial to chasing the little brown delivery guy down my hall and stabbing him in the leg because they only included ONE packet of ketchup with my sausage, egg, and cheese bagel.  Fucking assholes.          
 
Usually, the deleterious effects of Sunday are mitigated by hours upon hours on football, but this was not the case this past Sunday, the first since early September without meaningful football.  And boy did I suffer.  Left alone without such a wonderful distraction, my troubled-but-not-troubled-in-a-cool-way mind turned to several harmful thoughts, including but not limited to:
 
- “I’m dying”
- “I can’t keep drinking like this - look what it does to me”
- “What kind of man am I?  I’m 25 and look at what I’m doing to myself”
- “Seriously, I’m fucking dying”
- “I am fraud and a failure.  I’m not sure how, but I know it’s true and it sounds cool to say.”
- “Why do I always smell like semen?”
- “Ok, that’s it - I’m dying.  Ready, 1-2-3.  I’m dead.  That’s it.  Over.  Fuck.”
 
It was a rough weekend.  “Rough”, however, means “fun because I got pretty damn f’ed up”.  Friday night I went out locally with some buddies, and Saturday night I ventured back to my old ‘hood for a birthday party.  I didn’t drink especially hard either night: there was nothing like gratuitous “5 shots of Jaeger in an hour”-type drinking, but there was some long drinking.  Do I have a problem if after drinking from 7pm on on Saturday night I got home at around 4am and decided to have some wine to help me sleep?  Is this bad?  Is something wrong with me?
 
What’s terrifying to me is that this is a sign of things to come.  Come this Sunday night when football season ends, I’m looking at a long string of hungover Sundays trapped in my apartment (too fucking cold to go outside) without football.  These are going to be some dark, dark days. 
 
[Sigh]
 
Anyway, the party on Saturday night was a good time.  It was nice to be back in the old neighborhood, and more specifically, near my favorite pizza place EVER - Rosario’s, in the Lower East Side on the corner of Orchard & Stanton.  Holy shit it’s fucking good.  After leaving the party, my roommate Brian and I quickly hit up a few bars we used to frequent and then ended the night at Rosario’s, with a $16 order.  Fucking A, man. 
 
But let me back-track: I was at said party on Saturday night, a birthday party for my friend Maggie, standing in line for the bathroom, when some guy who was about 40 or so who was also in line said to me out of the blue, “It’s a shame that kids nowadays are no longer main-lining heroin.” 
 
I looked at him and thought, “Dude, who are you - me?”  I thought it was a pretty funny line, and said something like, “Yeah, they’re too concerned with their looks that they don’t want track marks.  When I was young, track marks on your arms from heroin use were a sign that you were not only becoming a man, but also that you were the man.” 
 
So props to that guy, and it got me thinking about some other good/shocking lines.  My friends and I would do this thing in college where we’d try to be as obnoxious as possible within earshot of others, usually really hot girls.  For example, we’d be getting cash out of an ATM before entering a bar, and at the ATM machine next to us there’d be two gorgeous, way out of our league girls, and we’d play out a scene where we were in mid conversation, talking about something horrible and offensive:
 
Me: [getting cash, being very animated] “So I said to her, I said, ‘You better shut the fuck up right now before I fucking slap the shit out of you’ and you know what she said to me?  Do you know what the bitch said to me?”
My buddy Bill: [enthralled] “What did she say?”
Me: “She said, ‘Fuck you fat ass.’  Can you believe that?  Can you believe the balls on her?”
Bill: “What a bitch.  What did you do?”
Me: “What do you think I did - I fucking punched her right the fucking nose.  Hard too.  And I said, ’Mouth off again at me, and I’ll swear I’ll fucking give you brain damage.  I will punch, kick, bite and claw you until your brain is permanently damaged.’”
Bill: “Serves her right.”
Me: “God damn right it does.  Now let’s go get fucked up.”  [me and Bill high five, walk out of ATM to horrified stares of hot girls]   
 
I know what you’re thinking, “Maybe this is why you don’t get laid, asshole”.  But there are many other reasons besides being obnoxious that I don’t get laid.  Besides, it’s not like these two girls were gonna fuck us in the ATM vestibule anyway, nor would they even have looked at us in the bar, so we might as well have had some fun with them.  
 
Some advice - next time you’re at a bar, standing next to a cute girl, and you want to start up a conversation but don’t know what to say, use one of these numbers.  You have my personal guarantee (which means absolutely nothing) that any on of these will get you laid (whether it’s consensual or not is for the courts to decide):
 
- ”So, are you a religious person?”  
- “You know, they should really put a magazine rack here or something.  By the way, one of my balls is MUCH bigger than the other.” 
- “If we had kids, I promise that I would never touch them.  Unless they were really, really hot.  Or if I was left alone with them.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t lay a hand on them.”   
- ”You look like someone who’s on anti-depressants.  Which is your favorite SSRI: lexapro, prozac, paxil, or zoloft?”
- “I don’t know…I don’t think I need a test to tell me whether or not I have an STD.  I know I don’t have an STD, no matter what the test said.  A lot of guys get pus-filled whiteheads on the head of their penis.  Not a big deal.” 
- “Cool music.  So how do you feel about ass-play?” 
- ”Seriously, women like the taste of semen, right?” 
- “I’ve been clean for a week and a half now and it’s been the worst week and a half of my life.”
- “You haven’t kissed a black guy, have you?” 
 
I know, I know - you’re welcome.  Just use them wisely, and if you live in NYC, don’t use them at all.  I plan on dropping those little love bombs at various bar bathrooms all over the city, in the hopes that one special little lady will say, “I can’t speak for all women, but I love the taste of semen.  Looking at you, I’m thinking yours taste like a mix of burnt popcorn and hepatitis, and I’d like to find out.  Care you join me in the bathroom?” 
 
Keep your fingers crossed.  Just keep your fingers crossed.

enough with the blind accordion players, “american idol”, Dakota, sweaty palms, RSS, music, victory is mine
Jason posted on January 28, 2005

I have gotten an astonishing amount of thought- and discussion-provoking emails from you all recently.  Some hilarious, some controversial, some non-sensical, and one with a picture of two guys making out with a deer (I wish I was kidding). 
 
I’ve been wanting to write a post in which I compile a “best of” your emails (as I have done in the past), but unfortunately, I am really, really bad at writing these.  This is because I’ll read an interesting email, usually while intoxicated, and think to myself, “I should totally write about this”.  Then next time I’ll check I’ll have a lot more emails, and the good one will get buried by emails like, “Dude, are you really that fat?” and “I bet your penis is not that small” and “I’m an editor, and the period goes inside the quotation marks, not after it”.  (Yeah, I know, but it just looks better my way)
 
However, one really struck me and needed immediate publication.  Tom Dedman writes:    
Just thought you should know that blind accordion players are apparently not uncommon. I hail from Melbourne, Australia, and here we have a blind accordion player called Bernadette who plays in various streets all over the city. No shit, she is practically famous here. You might be onto something with that convention accident theory.
He also provided a link to an article about Bernadette that has a picture of said “blind” accordion player. 
 
However, in this picture, we can clearly see from that Bernadette is not blind, but rather just closing her eyes.  I mean, she’s wearing glasses, and not the Ray Charles/Stevie Wonder kind that covers the eyes because blind people’s eyes are scary and look like Werewolf eyes.  Why would a “blind” need glasses like that?  She’s wearing the same type of glasses I wear when I get too drunk to put my contacts in their case and instead eat them. 
 
I mean, c’mon - look at that fucking picture!  She’s just saying she’s blind to get more fame (and as an internet quasi-celebrity, I know a thing or two about fame and eating a lot of fucking french fries)!  How is it that no one has realized this before?  Maybe I’ll close my eyes when I play guitar and everyone will say, “Holy shit!  That blind guy sucks at guitar!” and write an article about me.  
 
And yes, maybe I’m just jealous that she thought of it first.  Lucky bitch.      
 
*****************************************
 
If you are not watching “American Idol” right now, you really need to be.  I don’t give a shit about the competition, but right now it’s at the tryout stage.  Three reasons you need to watch:
 
1) It’s hilarious, uncomfortable, and sad all at once.  These poor misguided losers get up there and sign their hearts out, most of them running the gamut from sounding like someone is stepping on their balls to sounding like they are being stabbed in the lung, only to be criticized and crushed in front of millions of people.  And then they proceed to cry and make a big stink into the camera afterwards.  There is no joy in the joy that a really bad person (i.e. me) can get from the agony of others, so this shit is right up my alley.  Also, last time two identical (male) twins sang Boyz II Men’s “I’ll Make Love To You” and got all into it.  It was very, very gross and weird.   
 
2) Randy Jackson.  Hey Randy, listen - we get it - you’re black.  You don’t need to say things like, “Yeah dog yeah!” and “Aight, aight, I’m witch you” all the time.
 
Actually, the funny thing is that Randy only really talks like this when the black contestants are on.  Seriously - watch him speaking to a nerdy white guy, and then see how he transform when some black kid in an oversized NBA jersey walks in.  He’s kinda like your buddy who speaks French.  You know he speaks French, but you don’t really think about it because in an everyday situation, who is he going to speak French to?  And then you, him, and some friends go to Montreal for a weekend of pills and strippers and he’s so excited he finally gets to speak French that he can’t stop speaking it to everyone.  It gets so annoying that you ultimately grow to hate him, and kill him in an alley. 
 
That’s kinda like Randy.  I’m sure he spends all his time around Simon, Ryan Seacrest, and Paula Abdul and a bunch of stuffy TV people that when he finally sees a black person, he can’t stop speaking, well, black to them.
 
Or something like that. 
 
3) The guest judges.  Last week, it was Mark McGrath, douchebag from Sugar Ray.  This week, it was the biggest asshole and leader of the worst band on Earth, Gene Simmons.  Next week, it’s Kenny Loggins.  I’m just waiting for an appearance from the that lead singer from the Fine Young Cannibals (also, a tip: if you do it right, “She Drives Me Crazy” is an awesome karaoke song). 
 
*****************************************
 
When I have a kid (if I don’t have one already - DNA tests are pending in Honduras, but thank god that country’s poor and is scientifically on the level of 1934 Poland), I hope it’s like Dakota Fanning. 
 
I came up from the subway last night and there was an advertisement for her new movie with Robert DeNiro.  And there she was on the ad, her face juxtaposed next to DeNiro’s.  And she ten fucking years old.  Good lord.  When I was ten years old, I was going to the beach and eating dead jellyfish because I didn’t know any better.  And she’s sharing adspace with Bobby DeNiro.
 
Her parents are very, very lucky (that is, until she turns 12 and starts blowing dudes for heroin).  I hope that when I have a kid, it’s as accomplished at ten as Dakota Fanning is.  However, I’m pretty sure that when my kid is ten, he/she will be sitting next to me on the beach eating dead jellyfish right with me, as my estranged wife yells at us to stop.   
 
A boy can dream though…
 
*****************************************
 
I recently met my buddy Griff for lunch, who’s in town from Seattle on business.  When I shook his hand, he recoiled and said, “Ugh - I forgot how gross your hands are.”
 
Yes, in addition to being fat, having poor posture, a tiny bird, bad hair, no money, and no self-esteem, I have the clammiest hands in the world.  Not only that, but they are very white and I have very long, crooked fingers.  My friends in college used to joke that I have vampire hands.  Although I’d imagine that a vampire would have very dry hands.  I don’t know why, but I just do.
 
But if I were a vampire, at least I could use that as an excuse for having disgusting hands.  Instead, mine are just plain gross.  On my blue mouse-pad at work, there is an area just below where my mouse sits that’s bluer than the rest, because it’s sweat-stained.  Yes, I managed to get sweat stains on my mouse pad.  I have to take pills immediately, because if I hold them in my hand, they have about three seconds before they completely liquefy.  I avoid shaking hands at all costs, especially with women.  I don’t mind as much if a guy gets my soaked hand in his, but when a woman gets a handful of sweat, I’m sure she’s not thinking, “Wow - I hope he gets to rub those clammy hands all over my bare breasts later!” 
 
I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I just wanted to get it off my chest.  So there. 
 
*****************************************
 
Our lovely and talented sitemaster Brendan wanted me to tell you all that we now have a fully functioning RSS feed, which you can get by clicking on the link at the bottom of the index page.  He even had a little article explaining what an RSS feed is.  Isn’t he the best?   
 
If, like me, you have no idea what this means, don’t worry about it.  But apparently it’s pretty cool, and will automatically email you once this site is updated.  But again, I know very little about computers, so I’ll just stop talking now before my monitor catches fire. 
 
*****************************************
 
Six Songs:
 
- “The Light”  Common
Leave it to me to find the mushiest rap song ever recorded and pimp it on this site.  I don’t care, I like it.  I told you I’m sensitive, so stop judging. 
 
- “White Light/White Heat”  Velvet Underground
What I love most about this song is that it sounds like it was written and recorded in about eight minutes while the entire band was high.  I can see Lou Reed telling the band in some small smoky recording studio, “Ok, you guys play this, and sing ‘White Light’ twice, ‘White Heat’ once, and then ‘White Light’ again.  And I’ll just make it up as I go along.  Are we ready, or should we take more drugs first?”
 
- “Fat Bottomed Girls”  Queen
Think about it: the most flamboyantly homosexual man in history singing about having sex with fat girls (unless I’m missing a hidden meaning or metaphor here, which I kinda hope I am), screaming at the end “Get on your bikes and ride!”  A really gay dude and fat chicks riding bicycles: does it get any better?  I think not.   
 
- “Timorous Me”  Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
I have a very love/hate relationship with this song.  For example, I hate the instrumental break which is both smack in the middle of the song and at the end.  I think it messes up the rhythm and excitement of the whole song.  Otherwise, this song is fucking perfect.  Not only because of the awesome guitar work and singing, but when the band comes in with Ted after said instrumental break (about 2:15 in), I jump up and start dancing wherever I am.  I think it’s impossible not to (too bad this make-me-dance part lasts only about thirty seconds).   
 
If you haven’t heard of this band, please download this song.  It may rock your world. 
 
- “1969″  Iggy Pop & The Stooges
This song reminds me of walking into a party in, well, 1969.  One of those slow-motion shots, where I walk in and check out the scene, and everyone’s all hippied out, waving the freak fly high, all fucked up and getting more fucked up.  I kinda look like Jimi Hendrix, but much fatter and much more pale.  And then I walk into the middle of the room and pull out my bird.  Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks at me, and I spit out some tobacco juice on the ground.  Then I put my bird back on my pants (remember, it’s all slow-mo), turn around and walk out.  Then there’s a scene of me fucking a dog in a van (the dog is on top).  End of scene. 
 
- “Police On My Back”  The Clash
If “Timorous Me” makes me dance, this song makes me punch shit.  “Police On My Back” was a staple in the “Punch Your Balls” playlist, which I listened to while at the gym pumping iron.  Also, it spawned a long-lasting private joke among my friends and I: whenever we do something stupid, we’ll scream in an exaggerated and terrible British accent, “What have I done???”  As in:
 
[at grocery store]
Me: “Brian, dude, you just fucking ran over that toddler with the shopping cart!”
Brian: [screaming in British accent]  “What have I done???”
 
[at bar on Saturday night]
Ben: “Christ Jay - you have shit all over your pants!  Did you fucking poop yourself?”
Me: [drunk, screaming in British accent] “What have I done???”
 
You get it.
 
*****************************************
 
Finally, a thank you to all of you who voted for me in the Best of Blog (BoB) awards.  Turns out, I actually won.  While I still don’t know exactly what “snarky” means and though I’ve been referring to my blog as “award-winning” since its inception, I can finally not be lying when I say it.  So thank you again, and I promise to use this award in any capacity that I can, including scoring women and free drugs.  If it works, I’ll let you know, but don’t get your hopes up.
 
[Have a good weekend]   

the great american diet
Jason posted on January 27, 2005

I have a confession: I am on a diet.
 
Yes, I know, I know.  It’s very out of character.  I’ve never before limited what I eat, except to say occasionally, “You know what?  I don’t want extra cheese on the pizza - it’s just too much.  I just had a milkshake and a grilled cheese, so if I have extra cheese on the pie I might go into a dairy seizure or coma or some shit.  I saw it happen to some dude once on the Learning Channel and it was fucked up.”  And I know that after years of being fat and drawing strength and power from my girth, if I were somehow to lose weight, like some 21st century obese cokehead Sampson who likes to shoot cars with a bb gun when he’s high, I might lose the source of my power and my entire identity. 
 
The good news is that there’s absolutely no way this diet is going to succeed.  I have a better chance of going to heaven than I do of slimming down.  It just ain’t gonna happen.
 
That will not stop me from talking about it though, because hey - it’s something to write about.  And though I know as much about dieting as I do about pleasing a woman or not masturbating in the corner of my apartment building’s laundry room late at night, I am pleased to announce Jason Mulgrew’s Guide to Dieting.
 
“Jason Mulgrew’s Guide to Dieting”
by Jason Mulgrew
illustrations by Jason Mulgrew
edited by Jason Mulgrew, with the help of SpellCheck
thought of while pooping by Jason Mulgrew
 
I figure that after years of get rich quick schemes, I should try creating a diet.  People will do and pay just about anything to look and feel good, and I am the right mix of schemer, deviant, and charismatic leader to manipulate a large amount of people with low self-esteem into giving me money.  And look at me - I’m fat as shit!  All I have to do is take a couple “before” pictures, go on this diet and lose 100 pounds, take a couple of “after” pictures, and then sit back and watch the checks come in.  It’s really very simple, you see.  Now on with the diet… 
 
You see, dieting is fundamentally simple.  Like Communism, witch hunts, and Jim Crow laws, it makes perfect sense on paper and seems easy enough: all one needs to do is make moderate changes in lifestyle to reap countless rewards, like being able to walk up a flight of stairs without collapsing or rising from your chair at your desk without your knees buckling under you so that you fall and hit your fat head on your keyboard.  However, it’s the application of dieting that’s difficult.  And here’s where I come in to help. 
 
There are three things you need to think about when you diet:
 
1) Why you want to stop being a fat fuck
 
2) Why you are currently a fat fuck
 
3) Stop being a fat fuck already
 
If you follow these three steps (and eat a lot less and exercise at least one hour a day), you are guaranteed to lose weight.  Now in the words of Jesus Christ Himself, “Let’s briga-briga-break it down!” (Editor’s Note: we were not able to confirm if Jesus actually said “Let’s briga-briga-break it down!” by press time, but from what we know of Him personally and from our Bible study groups, we assume that He did in fact say it)
 
1) Why you want to stop being a fat fuck
 
There are all sorts of reasons for dieting.  Some, like me, want to diet because they fear that they may drop dead at any time, as since they graduated from college they have exclusively eaten from the following food groups: booze (beer, wine, hard alcohol, homemade wine that was actually just vodka mixed with apple juice); the fried family (chicken fingers, french fries, onion rings, nachos dipped in a fryer, sticks of butter dipped in a fryer, your finger dipped in a fryer); the cream family (ice cream, whipped cream, sour cream, cream cheese, hand cream); cheap booze (any liter of alcohol that can be purchased for under $6, very old Pepsi, homemade “sangria” made from $4 tequila, homemade wine [see above], and rubbing alcohol); miscellaneous (a tire, two folding chairs, a couple of pens, and a dog); and of course, methamphetamines. 
 
Others, also like me, want to diet because they are not getting the attention of the opposite sex.  They’re tired of going out with their friends and being ignored by the attractive people they lust after, something that bothers them so much that they go home and light their arm on fire or immediately buy a gun.  Therefore, they want to make a change so that they too can be viewed with the same lust they view this sexy bitch (both of them).  Also (from what I can remember), having sex feels pretty good, so they’d like a piece of that action if possible.
 
I personally have another reason for dieting, a combination of the two above: I firmly believe that if given the proper tests, my doctor would declare that I am not healthy enough for sexual activity.  There is no doubt in my mind about this.  I’ve written before how my heart races when I stand up quickly or pee, and how I can’t even look at a flight of stairs without needing to take a nap.  I can’t imagine what a round or two of passionate, consensual love-making would do to me, since after masturbating I need at least a week to recuperate, having to stay in bed twenty-two hours a day and stay away from operating any and all heavy machinery.
 
So the first step is knowing why you want to diet.  Not only that, you must focus on these reasons, never allowing yourself to forget the ultimate goal: “One day, when the opportunity presents itself, I would like to have an orgasm without worry whether or not my heart will explode.” 
 
2) Why you currently are a fat fuck
 
The second step, in case you didn’t notice from the “2)” and the bold text above, is figuring out why you currently are a fat fuck.  Is it because you eat unhealthy foods?  Is it because you eat a lot?  Is it because your whole family is fat?  Is it because you don’t move unless you absolutely have to?  Is it for all these reasons, in addition to believing that deep down fat really is sexy? 
 
All these reasons apply to me (well, except the whole fat being sexy thing - believe me, that’s the last thing I’m thinking when I’m in the shower whipping the wash cloth onto the vast expanse that is my back, trying to clean areas that I have not been able to touch nor have been exposed to direct sunlight since pre-school).  
 
I think my biggest problem is portions.  My doctor and I spoke out this the last time I visited him and tried to score some painkillers, sleeping pills, anti-anxiety meds, laxatives, whatever.  He made a great point when he said, “Jason, I don’t believe in the whole ‘low carb’ thing.  Think about it - look at all the Orientals.  The main staple of their diet is rice, and they’re very skinny - and, might I add, great at math.  The problem is portions.  How many times have you split a box of spaghetti with a roommate?  Do you know that there are eight servings of pasta in a box?  It’s portions, not the carbs.  And please, put your penis back in your pants.  There’s nothing wrong with it, and I know you’re just saying something’s wrong with it so that I’ll touch it.  You are a sick man.  A sick man with a baby’s penis.”
 
I just like to eat a lot.  For example, a lot of times I’ll order a large pizza with the justification that I can eat some now, and still have enough left over for another meal or two.  Sadly, twenty minutes after the pizza arrives, after a lot of screaming and tears, all that’s left is an empty box and half of that little white plastic table they put in the middle of the pizza so the box top doesn’t get crushed onto the cheese (I keep forgetting that this is NOT candy, something I don’t realize until I’m choking on the fucking thing). 
 
Another problem: beer.  For all it’s wondrous qualities (giver of strength, wisdom, sexual prowess, an excuse to do/say whatever you want, object of blame when you “accidentally” download three gay porn clips), beer isn’t the best thing for you and your belly.  It’s basically a lot of calories and carbs mixed with just the right amount of poison so that when the proper amount is ingested you think, “You know what?  It can’t be too hard to fly.  I think those who tried to do it before and failed were just pussies.  I’m gonna go to the top floor of the parking lot to test this out.” 
 
So if you are seriously trying to lose weight, you’re going to have to cut down on the beer.  Fortunately, that doesn’t mean you have to stop getting messed up.  Straight alcohol is very low in calories, and will get you much drunker much more quickly.  Also, to my knowledge, pills are very low in calories as well (thought I only went to med school for one year - long story).  
 
3) Stop being a fat fuck already.
 
You have decided why you need to stop being so fat.  You have figured out precisely why you are fat.  And now the hard part: stop being a fat fuck already.
 
First, you have to change your eating habits.  Cut down on the bad stuff, eat more of the good stuff.  Different people have different approaches to this.  I’m trying one of those diets in which you eat six small meals a day instead of three giant meals.  My daily diet is supposed to consist of:
 
- Morning: two eggs, oatmeal
- Mid-morning: protein bar
- Lunch: salad with tuna or chicken
- Mid-afternoon: protein bar
- Dinner: piece of chicken, fish, or beef with vegetables
- After dinner (if necessary): protein shake
 
I thought this would work, first and foremost because the protein bars are delicious and quite filling.  There’s one flavor called “double fudge brownie”, and believe it or not, it tastes kinda like a brownie, albeit a stale brownie that looks like a turd.  Also, the protein shakes, though I won’t be confusing them with milkshakes anytime soon, aren’t too bad either.  And I like eggs, oatmeal, chicken, tuna, and beef!  Doesn’t this look so good on paper???
 
!!!
 
Sadly, I have not been able to follow this verbatim.  I use yesterday’s record of consumption as an example, with the diet prescribed as above and the actual food I ate in parentheses:  
 
- Morning: two eggs (with three types of cheese - monterey jack, american, mozzarella - in a tortilla), oatmeal (two sausage patties)
- Mid-morning: protein bar (protein bar)
- Lunch: salad with tuna or chicken (chicken caesar salad with approximately one cup of caesar dressing and two- to three-hundred croutons, rice pudding)
- Mid-afternoon: protein bar (protein bar)
- Dinner: piece of chicken, fish, or beef with vegetables (cheeseburger (with lettuce), fries, large Nestea, half pint of ice cream)
- After dinner (if necessary): protein shake (Nesquik chocolate milk)
 
So this really is the hard part.  However, I will remain “committed”, especially since I just spent $120 on protein shakes and protein bars, because it’s not like I have over $20,000 in student loans to pay off or anything.  Nor a $2600 computer to pay off.  Nor a credit card bill that’s so high I’m embarrassed to write the amount.  So spending over $100 on protein shit is completely acceptable and fiscally responsible. 
 
But in the battle of losing weight, dieting is only the one half of the equation.  The other half is exercising.  I can not speak to this at this juncture, as I have been advised by my doctor not to exercise for at least four weeks.  This is not because I sustained some glorious injury in a game of sport, but because I have an unglamorous affliction: athlete’s foot.  Terrible, terrible athlete’s foot.  I mean, this shit is GROSS.  My feet are literally rotting, and go from pink to red to purple to blue throughout the day, and smell like a homeless guy’s balls.  Not that I’ve ever smelled a homeless guy’s balls (sober).  But it’s bad.  Really, really bad.     
 
…
 
So there you have it: my guide to dieting.  I know, I know - it’s pretty fucking awesome, and you’re welcome.  All I ask for is that when you follow it, for everyone pound you lose you send me $10.  I don’t think that’s asking too much.  They say you can’t put a price on neither health nor beauty, but I disagree - it’s $10 per pound.
 
[If you are too poor to send me $10 per pound lost, please contact me and we can agree on something mutually beneficial (and by "mutually beneficial" I mean "you give me a handjob and I don't spooge all over the back seat of your Chevy Lumina but rather into a perfectly positioned soiled pair of boxers")]
 
Good luck.  With the right combination of thinking positively, eating right, and exercising, you can work your way to a new a better you!
 
(Or just throw up after you eat - you know, whatever really.  Who gives a shit.)

:(
Jason posted on January 26, 2005

I planned something special for you guys today, but shortly after I started working on it this morning, I realized that it was gonna be big.  I kept at it, trying to get across what I wanted to say and it got bigger still, but without getting any closer to being finished.  And now it’s 3pm, and I’m staring at a giant post that’s only half-way done.
 
So therefore, knowing that I will not be able to complete what I gots to do to make you all happy, I’m going to use one of my free passes and say that I’ll get back at you tomorrow.  I hope this doesn’t adversely affect our relationship; you must realize that I do this not out of spite, hatred, or jealousy because you can remember the last time you stuck your penis in something warm that wasn’t coming out of a microwave (for the male readers) or because you get to wear all sorts of cool skirts and comfy underwear and not get beat up for it (for the female readers).  I do it out of love - I want to give you all I have, and if I can’t, then I’m not gonna half ass it.
 
(And hey - at least I’m telling you this now, so you don’t have to keep checking back)
 
So have a good day, and a wonderful evening, and we’ll all meet back here tomorrow.
 
Love,
Jason MJPAE Mulgrew

nyc subway shit-show
Jason posted on January 25, 2005

There is quite a fucking ruckus going on here in New York City right now.  And it’s all because a homeless person (isn’t it always the fucking homeless?), trying to keep warm, started a fire in a signal room a subway tunnel.  The result was a relatively minor fire with massive consequences: two subways lines - the A and the C - have been crippled and may not be restored to normal service for three to five years. 
 
[You can read the entire article here.  If not, it's not necessary to read the article to understand the rest of this post, and I summarize the article below.]
 
[Christ, I have to do everything for you.] 
 
Before we get too into this, I know that I often write about the subways in NYC, but I spend a lot of time on the subway.  This is partially because in a fit of delirium I chose to move and lengthen my commute from 15-17 minutes door to door to 45-65 minutes door to door, and partially because I like to troll the subways at night, preying upon unsuspecting drunks who have passed out on the train - not robbing them of their cash, but rather rubbing my bird on their legs or arms or chins or any exposed skin.  Sure, most of the time it’s the drunk hobo types I do this to, but every once in a while I’ll come across a passed out frat boy, and, well, it’s like Christmas.   
 
But I write a lot about the subway because when I’m on it, I do a lot of thinking.  I’m either on the subway going to work in the morning, when I’m thinking about things like, “God, I’m tired as fuck” and “I wonder if today is the day that my boss finally breaks down and punches me in the face?” and “Does it make me gay that I had a dream about blowing Justin Timberlake last night and right now I’m the happiest I’ve been in years?”  Or I’m on the subway heading home from a stressful day at work, when I think of all kinds of different things like, “I should definitely pick up some wine for tonight” and “What is the actual definition of ’stalking’?  What’s the difference between stalking and standing outside a woman’s apartment building drinking cheap gin, crying, and masturbating?” and ”Man, I hope when I go to sleep tonight I have another dream about blowing Justin Timberlake - that was fucking awesome!”     
 
But it’s also because my commute in the morning can completely make or break a day for me.  Some days, you’ll be lucky and have a short wait before an empty train comes, allowing you to get a seat, hopefully next to a lovely young Puerto Rican princess who smells like roses and poor.  You’ll start the day on a good note, and it’ll carry over to the rest of the day.  For example, when your boss asks you in the afternoon about whether you’re finished with the task he assigned to you four days ago, instead of hiding under your desk and saying, “Um, Jason isn’t here - he died, so go away”, you can confidently say, “No sir, I am not finished.  As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even listening to what you were saying, because I had had an undercooked Whopper for lunch, and it took every fiber of being to prevent me from shitting myself all over your office.  Now what was it again that you wanted?”   
 
On the other hand, there are mornings in which you can wait for several trains, each one more crowded than the next, finally having to force yourself onto one.  Then you’re treated to a 50 minute subway ride, your face three inches from some guy’s stank mouth, as he decided to eat some hot garbage for breakfast with this morning coffee.  Then the day is much different - when this happens, I usually black out with rage, but from what I pieced together last time this happened, there was a lot of broken glass and a baby crying.  But I really don’t remember. 
 
And because some homeless guy (who has not been found by the authorities, probably because he doesn’t have a home), the commute of a whole shit load of people is fucked.  Some highlights from the article, in case you didn’t read it:
  • the fire was started in a room no bigger than a kitchen, which is unguarded and impossible to fireproof
  • this caused “the worst damage to the subway infrastructure since September 11, 2001″, and will take “several millions of dollars and several years” to repair (after 9/11, the four stations that were closed after the attack were opened within one year)
  • the A line will run one-third of the normal amount of trains; the C will no longer exist
  • the A-C have a combined ridership of 580,000 each weekday
  • only two companies in the world can repair the signals: one in Pittsburgh, the other in Paris
  • there are dozen of these kitchen-sized signal rooms throughout the NYC subway system
  • quote of the day from transit historian Clifton Hood, who has been waiting his whole life for this moment: “It seems astonishing that a single signal room would be so central to the operation of the line that it would take five years to recover from”
Allow me to join in the chorus of New Yorkers when I say, “Are you fucking kidding me???”  One little fire caused by a homeless person trying to keep warm has devastated the NYC subway system and made the commute of half a million New Yorkers much, much worse?  Good lord.   
 
I feel for these commuters.  I wouldn’t wish what they now have to experience on a daily basis on my worst enemy.  Well, maybe I would, but what I’m trying to say is that is really sucks.  The impact of this subway nightmare can not be understated; this is the kind of shit that lowers property values in the affected areas, because no one will want to move somewhere where the commute will be such a hassle.  
 
But what disturbs me most is that something seemingly so inconsequential has had and will continue to have such a devastating impact on the city.  There are “dozens” of these signals rooms located throughout the NYC underground, all not fireproofed and unguarded.  Indeed, unless this homeless person was a spymaster or ninja, they are also easy to gain entrance to.    
 
Remember, this is one small fire in a signal room, on a Sunday afternoon, on the lines of one of the lesser-ridden subway lines, and it still will affect the commute of almost 600,000 New Yorkers every day for the next three to five years.  What if a bunch of crazies were to plan an organized attack on a few these signal rooms?  What if they hit some of the bigger, more important lines, and did so during the weekday?  Can you imagine a more efficient, less deadly way to completely shut down the most populous city in America, and financially the most important in the world, for an extended period of time?  If we can use this incident to hypothesize further, the city would be in complete and utter chaos for weeks, if not months. 
 
If a homeless guy can do this (again, no offense to the homeless guy - I’m sure he’s very skilled in the art of sabotage), what could someone who’s thought about and planned this do?  And who would be able to stop him?  Are there any protections currently in place (nope), or will there be (not with the MTA budget the way it is)?  
 
…
 
Ah, there’s really nothing like living in New York.  Greatest fucking city in the world.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to abuse some of my prescription Xanax.     

vindication and bliss (yes, another fucking sports post)
Jason posted on January 24, 2005

I should not be at work today. 
 
My head is pounding, my complexion is ruddy, and my eyes are bloodshot.  I have the shakes, the chills, and the runs.  I’m not answering my phone, I can’t focus on work, and I’ve spent half of the day either in the library ”resting my eyes” or on the can reading every article from philly.com.
 
The source of my current pain is an unbelievable joy: the Philadelphia Eagles are going to the Super Bowl. 
 
I still can’t believe it, so I’ll write it again: the Philadelphia Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.
 
I hesitate to write such sweeping, grandiose statements like, “This is one of the best things that has ever happened to me” or “My life as I know it will forever be different”, but to be honest, they do apply here.  Call me shallow, tell me that I don’t have my priorities straight, say I’m racist for once putting a sign on a public beach that said, “We Don’t Want No Ricans Here”, but it’s true: I am in complete and total rapture, all because of a football game.
 
These feelings are impossible to understand or to explain to anyone who is not a sports fan.  I know that I have done nothing, save for karmic support, to help the Eagles get to the Super Bowl.  But yet I have dedicated a large portion of my life and energy rooting for this football team.  For years I have followed them, watching every possible game I could and reading everything written about them - from the days of Randall Cunningham and the Gang Green defense (when I knew all the words to the unintentionally hilarious “Buddy’s Watching You”, a song about then-coach Buddy Ryan), to the bleak days of the Rodney Peete-Ty Detmer-Bobby Hoying-Koy Detmer-Doug Pederson QB shit-show.  And now finally, for only the second time in the team’s history and the first time since the 1980 season (when I was one), the Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.
 
The game itself yesterday was tense.  During the first half, I remarked to my buddy Greg that I’m not entirely sure why I’m a sports fan, since Eagles games are usually a terrible three hours for me, as I sit on the edge of my seat, fidgeting like a crack baby after a case of Red Bulls, and drinking faster than I can swallow.  Fortunately, I was surrounded by a good group of hardcore Eagles fans, and though the game was relatively close throughout, everyone in the bar felt confident (and drunk).  My original plan was to stay a little bit sober so I could watch and remember the game, but I guess I forgot how good Bud Light drafts taste.  The good news is that I had about fifty wings (though I don’t particularly like wings) and a half-pound burger during the game, so that kept the alcohol at bay and allowed me to have rational thought processes like, “Man, the Falcons are killing us with that off-tackle run” and “We need to stretch the field out a lot more than we’re doing”, rather than drunken observations like, “I wish I was at the stadium so I could get a hot dog” and ”Why do black people have so many tattoos?  Don’t they know that you can’t really see them?  Why don’t they just get white ink on their tattoos, so they can be more easily seen?  I have a boner.” 
 
And as the Eagles pulled to a 27-10 lead with only three minutes left in the game, it took every ounce of my being to hold back the tears of joy.  Yes, I almost cried over a football game.  I’m not ashamed to admit it; after all, I’m a Cancer, so I’m very sensitive.  I usually only cry under three circumstances: 1) every time I hear Elton John’s “The One”; 2) after a really good poo after a really good sandwich; and 3) whenever I notice that the sour cream has gone bad.  But yesterday - I think my allergies were acting up, because it was getting a little misty in there.
 
I thought the partying would continue all through the night, but sadly, shortly after the game my compatriots all left.  I too eventually left, when it became apparent that I could no longer fit any more beer or wings into my body (a sad realization that I did not take well) and, oh yeah, when I stumbled into the bathroom and on the way back the bartender offered to call me a cab (I took that as my cue to leave).  My recourse was, of course, to go home and drink a bottle of champagne in the shower - I mean, duh.  In an alcoholic frenzy, I had drank a bottle of champagne on Friday night, because it was the only thing in the fridge.  So on Saturday, while stocking up on goods before the blizzard, I got another bottle (in addition to a ton of meat products, beer, and loads of chocolate syrup) because I had enjoyed the first so much.  I had to get sober, because I couldn’t call out of work today, so I sat in the tub, shower head aimed at my feet and the water flowing down the drain so that the rest of my body was dry, drinking champagne.  And yes, I realize how weird this is, and how flawed my idea of “getting sober” is.  And no, I don’t care, because it was fucking awesome.   
 
And now I’m here at work.  The beers, shots, champagne, and greasy foods did quite a number of me, and Vegas currently has the over/under on my heart attack at 4:30pm.  It doesn’t help that I was sick all weekend with a fever and the chills, which I completely ignored in order to - surprise surprise - drink and get high with my roommates as a blizzard raged outside, keeping us in all fucking weekend.  And while there’s very little worse than having a massive hangover on a Monday, it’s all good, because the fucking Eagles are in the fucking Super Bowl.   
 
And now the hard part: waiting.  The Super Bowl isn’t until February 6, so until then I have two weeks to read all sorts of articles from football analysts and experts saying the Eagles don’t have a chance against the mighty Patriots.  I’ll save my analysis for later, because I need to bask in the warming glow of being a winner.  I don’t get this chance often, so if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to nursing my hangover, reading about the Iggles, and staring at the giant (well, moderate) erection I have.  I don’t know if it’s me, but it looks a little bigger than usual.  But, I admit, I am a little high, so that might have something to do with it.  Oh well. 
 

technical difficulties
Jason posted on January 21, 2005

[For some reason, the ending of the post below just ain't showing up, so I've added it here.  And yes, Brendan, our official sitemaster, is fired.  Send him some hate mail at Brendan@jasonmulgrew.com.]
 
All I ask for is that you think of me this weekend.  Know that from 3pm to 6pm (est), I will be living and dying with every minute.  Psychically send me some good wishes, and hope that if things don’t turn out the way I want them to, I don’t start punching everyone and everything around me.  And hope that if things do turn out the way I want them to, I don’t go one a four-day binge and lose my job.  Unless in the course of said binge I get laid.  Because then it’d probably be worth it.