Friday, August 30, 2002

Crappiest Labor Day weekend vacation spots:


Lake Toxidumpa

The Corbin Bernsen Fantasy Camp

Club Med Jalalabad

The Betty Ford Center

Needle Exchange State Park

Uncle Molesto's Bed & Breakfast

The Not Grand But Still Relatively Impressive Canyon

Hemophilia Beach

Colonial Staten Island

Thursday, August 29, 2002

Tales of Mass Transportation!

This morning, I had one of those 'shoulder wars' on the subway. This is where some asshole takes a seat in between two people on a packed train and tries to wedge his shoulders behind those of his neighbors, so that his entire spine is flat against the back of the seat. I know that this isn't a problem for most of you wimminfolk and slender-ish men, but for a broad-shouldered fellow like myself, it's quite an annoyance. I just think it should be an unspoken rule that if you insist on cramming your ass into the 7.5 inches of space between me and the guy next to me (this was one of those long bench trains, where individual seats aren't designated), you at the very least forfeit the right to push all the way back against the wall. Just lean forward a bit--is that so goddamn difficult?

But no, some people are just fucking above that sort of thing. That's how I interpret it, at least. I feel like when someone wedges his shoulders back behind yours, it's the subtle equivalent of someone walking into a room and saying "You're in my chair, bitch. Move."

Usually when this little subway ritual occurs, I'll grudgingly cede my good posture to the offending Alpha Male (women occasionally pull this shit, but not nearly so often), simply in order to avoid confrontation. But every so often some douchebag will get my dander up and I'll find myself locked in silent combat, both of us battling for that precious right to lean our heads back against the window/subway map/Bacardi Silver ad. This morning was simply ridiculous. From Times Square all the way down to Canal Street (on the goddamned local I might add), my rival and I jockeyed for position--he'd try to nudge his shoulder behind mine, I'd immediately press it hard against the back of the seat. He'd give me a tiny-yet-unmistakeable sideways shove, I'd give him a tiny-yet-unmistakeable shove back. At one point we were pushing against eachother with such ferocity, that if one of us were to suddenly stand up, I'm quite sure the other would have fallen over onto his side.

Of course, both of us pretended to read the newspaper the entire time. We didn't utter a word to each other, we didn't even make eye contact. But for those eighteen minutes, this guy was my mortal enemy. My Lex Luthor. My Iron Sheik.

Afterwards, as I made my way through the crowded streets of the financial district en route to my temp assignment, I realized that my morning had already been ruined. My neck and back had been transformed into one large ball of knotted muscle, and my jaw was locked as tight as a pit bull on a baby's head. Welcome to New York, fuckface.

Those of you who think that New Yorkers are simply rude for the sake of being rude are mistaken. New Yorkers are tense and potentially hostile because they're forced to physically interact with strangers (who also tend to be tense and potentially hostile) in ways that people from other cities and towns simply can't comprehend. Sure, traffic is a bitch, but even in the worst highway nightmare you have the personal space of your automobile to act as a physical buffer zone between you and the giant sweaty, stinky butthole that is Humanity. Seriously, how many times in the past year have you been forced to stand completely motionless for upwards of forty minutes, sandwiched in between an oversized baby stroller and a pit-stain laden fat guy whose sour milk breath you can actually feel hitting the side of your face? If you live in New York, the answer is probably "upwards of sixty".

In that situation, how can someone not become just a little bit rude? I mean, dark sunglasses and a walkman playing whale sounds can only take a brain so far.

Thank christ for absinthe.

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

A letter to the Governor

Dear Mr. Pataki,

Despite our many meetings and the thorough proposal I submitted to your office six weeks ago, I still have not heard from you regarding the $215 million in state subsidies I am requesting for a new apartment on the west side of Manhattan. Therefore, I am hereby setting an official deadline of September 12th, 2002. If we do not have have at least a preliminary deal in place by that date, I will be forced to move forward with my relocation plans. As you are aware, I'm involved in ongoing discussions with the City of Anaheim, as well as potential investors in Charlotte, Louisville and San Jose.

I am aware that this matter was recently put to a public referendum and that, on the surface, taxpayers seem opposed to the idea of subsidizing my new state-of-the-art living quarters. But I think it's safe to say that the general public is not seeing the 'big picture'. The citizens of New York of New York will receive a swift and substantial return on their investment, both in terms of the quality of my life and in increased corporate investment in the community as a whole. As you can see from the architectural plans I included with my proposal, I've allotted over forty acres surrounding The RJR Nabisco One-Bedroom Center (as per a naming rights deal to be signed by week's end) for a pedestrian shopping mall, petting zoo and food court. That means jobs, Mr. Pataki. And, of course, there's also the matter of civic pride, which I don't think you can put a price tag on. If I'm not mistaken, it is and election year, Mr. Governor--how do you plan on explaining my impending departure to voters?

I simply cannot continue to operate at a loss, sir. My current apartment was built decades before those of my peers, and I am simply unable to compete with them, absent the various amenities the public has come to expect--among those are hardwood floors, central air conditioning and track lighting. Plus, the luxury box situation in my current apartment is nothing short of a joke. Sure, I have the two, but they are dilapidated to say the least and the sightlines are terrible--it's nearly impossible to see me when I'm sitting on the living room floor in my boxers, playing Grand Theft Auto III on my Playstation. And the "gourmet" luxury box catering? Two stars, at best.

The current situation is untenable. I love being part of the fabric of New York City, and it's my sincere desire to remain a part of this vibrant metropolis, but it must be on terms that allow me to remain economically viable. Last month I used my credit card to pay my rent, Mr. Pataki--does that sound economically viable to you? If your administration is unwilling to allocate the proposed $215 million in subsidies for the creation of The RJR Nabisco One-Bedroom Center, I will not hesitate to relocate to a more hospitable business climate. Pain me thought it may, I am fully prepared to move on. And I think we both know who the real losers will be in that scenario:

The fans.

I look forward to hearing from your office, sir.


F. Christian Finnegan
Principal Owner,
Christian Finnegan

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

Note to corporate America:

A framed picture of Kramer does not make people think you're whimsical.

Monday, August 26, 2002

Official Hip Hop Lingo for 2003!

I am a comedian first and foremost, but as many of you know, I am also extremely influential in the world of urban culture. My mad skillzz have been profiled in a number of high profile hip hop periodicals, among them Vibe, The Source and Redbook. I've also done a good deal of pro bono work over the years for The Flavor Flav Foundation, which provides oversized wall-clock necklaces to needy children. But the thing I'm most proud of is having been named to The President's Council for a Fly America in 1986. As head of the Linguistics Division, it is my responsibility to oversee the creation and grass roots circulation of all new urban slang. We've had a number of success stories over the years, including "No Diggity" (1996), "playa/playa hater" (1998) and the initial test runs of the now classic "Throw your hands in the air" refrain. We're by no means perfect (who can forget the lamentable "NOT!" epidemic of 1989), but I think our track record speaks for itself, especially in light of recent additions to the urban lexicon, such as "bling bling" and "holla" (2000).

I am therefore very proud to announce the Official Hip Hop Lingo for 2003:

Brie (Definition: Cool; favorable)
�Yo yo yo, that track was brie, kid!�

Silly Billy (Definition: One tough customer; not one to be trifled with)
�Don�t be gettin' all in my face, beeyatch�you gotta know I�m a Silly Billy."

Bajillions (Definition: Large amounts of money)
�Go ahead and order the Cristal, girl--check out these bijillions."

Snorkler (Definition: A woman of poor reputation)
"Yo, that female is a snorkler--better wear TWO jimmyhats, playa."

Verisimilitude (Definition: The act of being genuine in one's words and deeds; keeping it real)
"I ain't frontin' on you, dawg--I gots verisimilitude, word is bond."'

Squibdiddlydangdoodle (Definition: Declarative exclamation)
"Squibdiddlydangdoodle, that girl is fine!"

Chris O�Donnell (Definition: Unimpressive; wack)
I ain't feelin' that. That shit is strictly Chris O�Donnell.�

Fizzeyelier (Definition: To file one�s income tax return)
�Check it shorty, it�s almost April 15th�time to get fizzeyelier."

Also, in accordance with the Suburban Appropriations Act of 1924, the following words and terms have been re-zoned for mainstream usage in non-urban locales. Accordingly, they will no longer be employed by anyone intimately associated with hip hop or urban youth culture in general:

"Raise the roof"
"In da house"
"Back" (as in, "Baby got")
"P. Diddy"

These changes will go into effect on January 1st, 2003. Please circulate this memo to your friends, family and to those damn kids down the street who are always bothering the good, hardworking people of the neighborhood with their baggy pants and loud music.

Thank you.

Friday, August 23, 2002


The following are words that, if used without irony, may prevent you from getting laid tonight:










"A-rab" (This particular pronunciation only)





* Unless you're an attractive woman.**

** Oh, who the fuck are we kidding? Unless you're ANY woman.

Thursday, August 22, 2002

Last night, I pulled an allnighter. I just sat in this very chair and worked. And worked. And swore angrily at the heavens. And worked. Then, after sitting in front of the computer for thirteen hours straight, I showered, put on a shirt and tie and stumbled down to Wall St. for a stimulating day of temp work.

Suffice to say, it was a rough one.

When the fuck did I get so old? Back in college I'd pull at least three allnighters a month and the next day I was fresh as a fucking daisy. Calm as a fucking cucumber, I tell you. And today? Well, I'll just say this: at about 11am, the photocopier had a paper jam and I actually began sobbing.

On the upside, I met my spirit guide. He's a puma named Terrance. He says hello.

I was up all night working struggling to finish a writing project that I'd put off for almost a week. Nice to know that while my body seems to be aging like Jimmy Page in The Song Remains the Same*, my work ethic seems locked in perpetual adolescence. At what point do you stop assuming you'll grow up one day and simply accept that this is the asshole you are?

That point is around 5:40am on August 22nd, 2002, if I'm not mistaken.

* I will marry any women who understands this reference.

Wednesday, August 21, 2002

Simple Rules for Living

Look, just because it's technically moving, that doesn't mean you can't also walk up the fucking escalator stairs. And if you are going to just stand motionless like a drooling mongoloid, move your fat ass over so people can pass you on the left. It's like traffic, a-hole. And when you get to the top of the escalator, WALK!!! That's not an appropriate place to dig through your pocketbook for a goddamn Cert.

Okay, as you were.

Tuesday, August 20, 2002

Tower of Hubris, your source for up to date entertainment news!

It appears that Brian Heidik, one of the "real" contestants from the upcoming fiftth season of Survivor, has something of a porn past.

First of all, I'd like to say that I'm very familiar with the work of Mr. Heidik (you may know him better by his nom-de-bone, Dave Roth) and I'd hardly call his oeuvre 'pornographic'. Sinful Obsession is not some smut flick, it's a gripping psychological thriller about a bored housewife leading a double life as a high-class call girl, indulging her innermost fantasies in a dangerous world she barely understands. Furthermore, you barely even see bush. And Passion Cove? Why that's a thoughtful rumination on what happens when loving couples endeavor to explore passion in a cove-type scenario. This is the kind of quality fare one might find in the programming annals of Cinemax, or as a one-time charge billed to your suite at the Red Roof Inn. Pornography? Nay, nay, three times nay!

And secondly, it's not as if Mr. Heidik is the first actor to brave the challenging world of 'Adult Content'. Who can forget Gwyneth Paltrow's breakthrough performance in Snotty Little Cocksuckers, Vol. IV? Or NYPD Blue's Dennis Franz in the out-and-proud military romp Drop and Give Me Eleven? To those who would deign to judge Brian Heidik, I would only remind them there was once a young actress who struggled for years in the stuffy world of "legitimate" theatre. But all of her hardwork eventually paid off and she's gone on to win four (count 'em, four) AVN Awards, including "Best D.P." and "Best Human Actress in a Film Featuring Canines".

The actress' name? Julie Andrews.

Let's give Brian Heidik a chance, people.

Monday, August 19, 2002

Hey kids! Hold on to your twizzlers, it�s Christian Finnegan Fun Facts! Share �em with all your friends!


* that in a recent interview with Packaging Digest Magazine, Dustin Diamond recently referred to Christian Finnegan as �our most important living artist�?

* that, while only two inches long, Christian Finnegan�s wangdoodle is fourteen inches wide?

* that Christian Finnegan was nominated for a Norwegian Grammy last year for his original composition �Porcine Astral Protector (The Temples of Vynxx, Parts I-IV)�?

* that Christian Finnegan just drew a hot bath for your mother?

* that Christian Finnegan has supernatural powers that would make John Edward shit his overly-snug dungarees and that just last night he contacted the spirit of Mahatma Ghandi, who turned out to be a total dick?

* that if a woman fails to find Christian Finnegan attractive, it�s only because she needs to download the latest version of Flash?

* that, when prepared correctly, chicken salad makes for a very tasty lunch?

* that, even still, Christian Finnegan would never eat chicken salad because it's for goddamn pussies?

* that referring to yourself in the third person, even ironically, makes you a royal d-bag?

* that, um, Christian Finnegan doesn�t really care what you think?

* that maybe Christian Finnegan should care what I think, seeing as I am in fact he?

* that Christian Finnegan thinks you�re/I'm just jealous and that you've/I've never wanted to see Christian Finnegan succeed because you/I are/am intimidated by Christian Finnegan's/my indomitable charisma and manly prowess?

* that Christian Finnegan should, like, get real?

* that Christian Finnegan wants to know why you/I don�t just admit it?

* that Christian Finnegan is totally a lying�liar?

* that Christian Finnegan wants to know if you�re/I'm gonna cry now, little baby? Is baby gonna cry?

* that�that�Chris...Finn�he�s�ff�munh��..I HATE YOU!!!

* that Christian Finnegan wiins again, bitch?

* (sob)?

Friday, August 16, 2002

I'm at the Best Western. They're charging me $.40 a minute to use their horseshit dialup computer, so I'll keep this brief.

Highlight of tonight's show: a drunken "helper" from the audience, celebrating his 22nd anniversary, jumped onstage and grabbed the mic during the headliner's set (he was relatively sedate during mine, thankfully). At one point, he pulled the skin on his temples taut (i.e., made a "Chinese Face") and started shouting "CHING CHONG CHING CHONG CHING!!!"

Even if there was an explanation for this, there would be no explanation for this.
I'm off for the weekend to do some glorious stand up comedy in Washington DC. Well, not technically DC. No, I'll be performing at a Best Western in McLean, VA at a place called "Wiseacres". I guess the thought process behind the name went something like "We need to let the customer know what exactly kind of people he can expect to see upon entering this establishment".

I've noticed, as I'm sure you have, that most comedy clubs are extremely literal when it comes to their names--e.g., "Wiseacres", "Bananas", "The Laugh Factory", etc. This tends to ensure that an audience will never be truly blown away by what they're seeing because, really, what should they have expected?

"Well sure, I laughed a bit. But this is the 'Laugh Factory'--that's what they do here."

"That last comedian was alright, but was he truly bananas? I'm not so sure."

I think comedy clubs should take the opposite strategy and choose names that go against the 'funny' grain. That way, after a great show, an audience member can tell his friends:

"Boy, I walked into 'The Dialysis Room' not expecting to laugh a whole lot, but those guys and gals are hilarious!!"

It is in this spirit that I suggest the following comedy club names, for you aspiring entrepreneurs out there:

"Chapter 11's"

"Baby Doc Duvalier's Comedy Stop"

"The Child Custody Hearing Hut"

"The Sylvia Plath Yuk-O-Rama"

"No Fire Exits' Comedy Connection"

"Childhood Pet Killed in Oncoming Traffic Comedy Club"


Anyway, I suspect that will be some sort of way to get online at the beautiful Best Western. But if I don't "see" you before Sunday night, everyone make sure to play nice.

Now get out there and love somebody!

Thursday, August 15, 2002

The summer heat has been getting me seriously down and I think it's probably been showing in my recent blog rants. What Tower of Hubris needs is a serious dose of fun and bonhomie. Therefore, I plan on buying myself one of these!* Think of all the joyful comaraderie! Who's with me, kids? I'm not joking around, here--I actually desperately need to own one of these!

Yippidy dee! Whippidy dang doodle!

(By the way, that link was sent to me by my friend and yours, the lovely Jodi. Go visit her.)

* as soon as I sell my recently completed teleplay, based on the life and times of my hero.
From the �I�M A ROMANTIC� file:

I broke up with my last girlfriend because she was going on vacation. Well, I should clarify where she was to be vacationing: she had scheduled a two-week trip to Barcelona and Madrid. Needless to say, I called it quits two days before she left.

Now I�m not a particularly jealous person�I�m relatively secure with myself and if I�m in a relationship, I don�t spend all of my time worrying that my girlfriend is off sleeping with other men. But I�m also not an idiot. The truth is, no relationship is so secure that it can withstand a woman spending two weeks by herself in Spain.

It�s just a simple fact, gentlemen: any pre-menopausal American woman who spends more than four days in Europe will eventually fuck someone.


Sorry, fellas�you can�t compete with an entire continent.

And I�m not saying that women go on vacation, let their guards down and things �just happen�. No, on some level, sex is one of the reasons women go to Europe in the first place. I�m sure it�s not always a conscious thing, but I guarantee you: when a woman sits down to plan her fantasy trip to Europe, whether or not she writes it into her day planner, �getting laid� is on the agenda.

�First, I�ll go visit the Sistine Chapel, and then I�ll sit and drink espresso at some little caf� down a cobblestone street, and then I�ll bring �Umberto the Gondolier� back to my youth hostel and fuck the holy shit out of him.�

Now, allow me to make this clear: I'm not juding women, here. Hardly. When an American woman goes to Europe, all she�s doing is thinking the way a man does all the time. Trust me, ladies--when I plan out the way I want a day to go, it always includes getting laid. And I�m not talking about the days I�m backpacking through the Swiss countryside here, I'm talking about any run-of-the-mill afternoon.

�Well, let�s see. I have to go drop off the dry cleaning, then I�ll swing by Kmart and pick up a couple of extension cords and a new cartridge for my printer, and then, hopefully, I�ll fuck someone�or something.�

Needless to say, things don�t usually go according to that plan, but it�s still part of my thought process. But women aren�t free to think like that�they have to contend with societal double standards that men aren't subject to, simple as that. So when a women gets to leave the continental United States for more than a few says, it�s like she�s living on �Sexual Bonus Time� and can get freaky without being judged for it. And even better, it's Europe, so she can project some bullshit poetic framework onto the whole thing.

�Sure, I blew three guys in two hours. But I was on the Eurorail! What was I going to do, come off like some rude American? I�m not slutty; I�m worldly! I�ll never forget sweet Mattias, Rolf and Allexandro�they were all so, so tender.�

So just a word of advice, guys: if your girlfriend is going to Europe and you�re not going to be there to watch over her every single second of every day, do yourself a favor and break up with her now, before things get ugly. Save yourself some humiliation, because it�s gonna happen�nothing you can do about it.

Now if you�re married and your wife is going to Europe without you, I�m not saying you necessarily need to go get a divorce. But while she�s gone, you might as well start getting some papers drawn up, just in case. That way, when she comes home and she's holding an icepack to her genitals, you can get that that legal separation ball rolling 'tout de suite'.

Just trying to help, folks.

Wednesday, August 14, 2002

Do yourself a favor and peruse this for a little while. And, just so you know, my birthday is in April.

(My thanks to Ms. Susie for exposing me to this very important website.)

Tuesday, August 13, 2002



Middle aged Latina woman on the subway platform. Stop fucking judging me. Yeah. That's right, don't play dumb with me. Just. Stop.

Yes, I'm aware that I'm currently pacing up and down the platform like a homicidal maniac, occasionally punching concrete pillars with my open fist and screaming "GODFUCKINGCOCKMOTHERSUCKFUCKINGCOCKFUCKER" through my clenched teeth, but I don't need your condescending looks, okay? Is that clear, middle-aged Latina woman?

Stop chuckling to yourself. Stop. I can see you chuckling to yourself! Do you think I can't see you?

Like you're so fucking perfect? What, you've never spent 40 minutes in the middle of the night waiting for the L, mistakenly sat down on a train headed in the wrong direction, not noticed until you were in fucking Bushwick because you were too busy playing Tetris on your palm pilot, scrambled off the train at the next stop, desperately sprinted up the stairs across the street and back down to the other side of the platform, only to see the train heading back to Manhattan just leaving the station? Like you've never had that happen to you?

NEVER? Not even once? What are you, some fucking golden child? That's just just just...I mean, come on!

God. Fffffuck. Cock.


Monday, August 12, 2002

TERM OF THE DAY: Preemptive Anecdotal Sabatoge

I went to a party last night and ended up getting cornered by a complete asswipe for the majority of the evening. The kind of guy who locks his tractor beam gaze onto you and spends hours regaling you with 'hilarious' anecdotes, most of which revolve drunken adventures he's had (usually with a 'cousin' or 'best friend from home'), stories you're quite sure he recycles from social event to social event. No less than three times over the course of an hour did this fucker perpetrate the truly heinous act known as 'Preemptive Anecdotal Sabatoge'.

Here's how it works:

You're trying your best to make pleasant chitchat with some boorish prick, consisting mostly of nodding your head and maintaining enough distance from his face that you're not constantly breathing in the stale Dorito smell that's escaping from his constantly-moving lips. Eventually, the asswipe says something that reminds you of a personal anecdote. So, at the proper moment, you say something simple, like:

"That reminds me, I went to Coney Island a couple of weeks ago, and--"

At this point, Mr. Interesting immediately butts back in, bellowing: "OH, I'VE GOT A STORY ABOUT CONEY ISLAND!". A story which, by the tone of his voice, must be more interesting than whatever you were about to say. And then, as if being incredibly magnanimous, he adds "...but you go ahead."

But do you even want to continue, at this poing? Knowing as you do that your little story now serves no other purpose than to give this asshole time to gather up steam? Why fucking bother?

Nevertheless, you start recounting your trip to Coney Island, suddenly feeling this ridiculous pressure to be interesting. Out of petty defiance (you'll show him who has a story to tell!), you begin exagerrating the particulars of your Coney Island anecdote, eventually making shit up altogether. No longer is this a simple conversational tidbit about seeing some girl throw up on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Nope, it's now an epic tale of sex, intrigue, betrayal...even murder. You feel like an idiot, but you are not going to let this...fuckface think he can tell a more interesting anecdote than you! Fuck that! And FUCK HIM!

"So I ended up having to, um, stab the guy in the throat with my pocket knife. It was pretty fucked up," you hear yourself saying.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, perhaps), you eventually realizes that it matters not a lick what kind of horseshit is coming out of your mouth, because Mr. Interesting isn't actually listening. His eyes are dancing around in their sockets as he privately goes over what he is sure will be The Best Anecdote Ever. His mouth is locked in an anticipatory grin and his head is twitching up and down like a Parkinson's sufferer, a not-so-subtle way of saying "Please hurry this up so I can blow your mind!"

Out of pure spite, you drag your story out for as long as human possibly, never daring to pause, lest Mr. Interesting interpret it as an invitation to commence mindblowage. Finally, once you've exhausted all possible alternatives, you punctuate your anecdote with some jarring nonsequitor that would seemingly make it impossible for Fuckface to launch into his saga, such as:

"By the way, and did I mention that I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma this morning?"

Mr. Interesting misses not a beat.



That, my freinds, is 'Preemptive Anecdotal Sabatoge'.

Saturday, August 10, 2002

Listen, about yesterday...

What can I say? Someone told me you'd all been reading someone else's blog and, well, I just snapped. But I'm going to make it up to you, babies. I'm going to buy you all the things you deserve--the fancy cars, the fur coats, the jewelry, you name it.

But in the meantime, enjoy another installment of...

Celebrity Morning Pages!

(If you're unfamiliar with this running thread, click on the 'Archives' link and check out the entries for 4/10/02 and 7/23/02.)

TODAY'S CONTRIBUTOR: Sarah Jessica Parker, thespian

Perhaps no show on television deals with the issues facing the average New Yorker like HBO�s �Sex and the City�. And no woman has done more to elevate her entire gender than actress and role model Sarah Jessica Parker. But there�s more to Sarah than classic beauty and killer outfits�she�s also happily married to actor Matthew Broderick, with whom she�s expecting her first child. Luckily, she still had time to give us this brief glimpse into her world. Enjoy.

Yesterday a horribly unattractive girl came up to me to ask for an autograph. That wasn�t the bad part, although I DO wish fans would at the very least put on some makeup before approaching me. But here�s the thing�she said that people were always telling her she looked like me! I was so furious. I mean, this girl was horrid! And this is like the fifth time this has happened! Why do unattractive people all think they look like me? Sometimes I worry that all of the low class girls who ask me for my autograph see me as some sort of conduit between them and all of my beautiful and legitimate friends. Not to be a bitch, but that really offends me! I mean, I�m a legitimate Hollywood sex symbol! Yeah, I know my nose is slightly large, but that just gives me character! Access Hollywood said so just last month! If I hear �offbeat good looks� one more time I�m going to pummel someone with my bony, brittle fists! I�m unique, and therefore desirable! How many times is E! going to have to profile me before homely, "normal" women accept that I�m not one of them? Maybe I need to wear more eyeshadow. You can never go wrong with eyeshadow. Or maybe I need to lose some weight. This whole pregnancy thing is wreaking havoc with my figure (by the way, I think Matthew is starting to catch on that it isn�t his�must remember to give Adrian Zmed his boxers back). Anyway, like I was saying, being pregnant is a bummer. Yesterday I weighed myself and I was almost 94 pounds! 94! I feel like such a fatty! I can barely see the veins in forearms! I feel like all those ugly people who sit around in two star restaurants eating red meat! Disgusting! I better get a colonic tomorrow. We�re shooting a scene at Moomba today. Moomba is soooooooo over. Not that I care about things like that�you know, trendy lounges and expensive clothes and all that. That�s just the character I play on the show. After all, I�m a serious actress, trained in the theatre. But if I WAS that kind of person, I wouldn�t be caught DEAD at Moomba! What is this, 1998? Why can�t we shoot the scene at Bungalow 8? It�s not like I couldn�t have called Amy Sacco and made it happen. That reminds me, I have to find a way to Nicky and Paris Hilton on the show. Those girls are so cool and down to earth! Ok, I�m going to go now. I have a busy day today. I have to stop by D&G for this week�s free outfits, swing over to Kenneth Cole for my free shoes and then I have an appointment to get the palms of my hands liposucted. Maybe afterward, I�ll walk around Chelsea and let a few gay men validate me. TTFN!

Friday, August 09, 2002

Look at you. You should all be ashamed yourselves.

No, you don't get a blog entry today. You don't deserve one. Oh, don't play innocent with me, motherfreakers! You know what you did.

You sick bastards.

No, you'll have to go a full day without reading my delightfully whimsical prose. There'll be no wacky comedic 'list' for you today--no "Worst Songs to Publicly Play Air Guitar To"* and no "Things I'd Rather Do To Myself Than Sit Through Goldmember"**.

Sorry, no dice.

And no, it's not because I'm semi-drunk and need to be awake in less than six hours. This has nothing to do with that. It's because you guys fucked up. BIG TIME!

Hope you're happy with yourselves.


* But if I WAS going to compile this list, it would include "Escapade" by Janet Jackson, "Chains of Love" by Erasure, and "Ave Maria".


** But if I was going to compile THIS list, it might include stapling my applebag to the inside of my leg.

Thursday, August 08, 2002

Rejected titles for Movin' Out, the new Billy Joel musical:

Billy Joel Superstar

Phantom of the Incredibly Bland Opera


Bottle of Red, Bottle of Mediocrity

Captain Jack-Off

Billy Joel and the Amazing Technicolor Shitstain

You May Be Right (I May Be Sucky)

Piano Moron


The Longest Time

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

I was considering asking a woman on a date last week, but I wanted to make sure that I'm worthy of a loving relationship. Therefore, I compiled a list of all the things I have to offer a woman. I think you can see that I am definitely Boyfriend Material.

1. I am a good listener
2. I have never murdered anyone (intentionally)
3. I am relatively punctual (because seriously, where else would I need to be?)
4. I own a Brita
5. I can show you how to steal food from a deli salad bar
6. I once ran three entire miles, back to back
7. I can name all five members of the band Ratt
8. I'm 75% sure I don't have Herpes
9. On second thought, maybe 65%
10. Well...definitely above 50%, that I promise you

Line up, ladies.

Tuesday, August 06, 2002

Earlier today, I was chatting with a friend of mine, and she mentioned that she had spent the previous evening writing opening lines for novels she plans to one day write. Not to be outdone, I figure it's high time I start working on my magnum opus. Therefore, I have written ten prospective 'opening lines', which I now present to you, the reading public. Pick your favorite and, assuming there's any interest, I will use it as the opening literary salvo in a brand new short story to be posted on this site for the cultural enrichment of our great nation. Also, feel free to suggest a title, if you feel so inspired.

Now, the opening lines:

1. Time, like a nose during flu season, dripped onward.

2. I�ve said it before, and I�ll say it again: never trust a dildo salesman.

3. If there was one thing Sister Marjorie hated, it was homeless people.

4. From the moment I met Terrence Chu, I knew he would one day make Dungeons & Dragons history.

5. �If that�s not the murder weapon, I�ll molest a child,� declared Inspector Tippington.

6. Corrine was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman at the �Free Mumia Pie-Eating Contest and Texas Chili Bake-Off�.

7. Excusing herself from Lord Percival, Lady Brently retired to her private toilet and dropped a major deuce.

8. Morning found Sheriff Wurley sobbing into his International Male catalogue.

9. �Love is the answer to all questions,� the wise old shaman whispered to his John Stamos poster.

10. I still remember the day I decided to run for mayor of Boner City.

Monday, August 05, 2002

How did I know my last girlfriend had issues? Every time we had sex, she'd want me to yell "Who's your foster daddy!"

(rim shot)


Sunday, August 04, 2002

Top 5 Hottest Corporate Mascots:
1. St. Pauli Girl
2. Swiss Miss
3. The Pillsbury Dough Boy
4. Teri Hatcher
5. Mr. Peanut

Top 5 Least Hot Corporate Mascots:
1. Mr. Clean
2. That two sided Shredded Wheat dude
3. Mrs. Buttersworth
4. Pringles moustache guy
5. Sting

Friday, August 02, 2002


* THE WALLFLOWERS "Bringing Down the Horse" -- In terms of mileage and reliability, there really is nothing like a Volvo.

* LEE GREENWOOD "God Bless the USA" -- Just give me a reason to go all 'hate crime' on your ass.

* PAPA ROACH "Lovehatetragedy" -- Mom, don't drop me off right in front, drive around the corner. Drive around the corner! Mom, don't be a dick!

* TERRENCE TRENT D'ARBY "Neither Fish Nor Flesh" -- I yearn to be ridiculed by black people and white people alike.

* DIXIE CHICKS "Wide Open Spaces" -- I may be a 43 year old high school algebra teacher, but I still enjoy a healthy dose of "sass"!

* YEAH YEAH YEAHS "Yeah Yeah Yeahs" -- I like to think of myself as post-everything.

* BOYZ II MEN "Legacy" -- I'm a sucker for closed eyes and clenched fists.

* THE BREEDERS "Title TK" -- Nothing has changed! I'm still 20! Lines in my face? What lines?! No, that's just because I was out late last night! Balding? Me?! No! Never! Noooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!

* V/A "Now That's What I Call Music Vol. 10" -- I do what I'm told.

* BOB DYLAN "Blood on the Tracks" -- I'm thinking of picking up Bob Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks".

P.S. If you're unfamiliar with this running thread and would like to read Parts I-III, click on the 'Archives' link to the left of these words and check out the entires for 5/23, 5/26 and 6/4.

Thursday, August 01, 2002

A unique investment opportunity!

With so much volatility on Wall Street these days, many financial analysts are advising their clients to invest in the bond market. And they couldn't be more right--there's never been a better time to align yourself with the reassuring profitablity of bonds! And it is to this end that I am taking a cue from one of my heroes, David Bowie, and issuing my intellectual property to the general public. As of Monday, August 5th 2002, you can now buy into the comedic juggernaut that is my career in the form of FinneBonds. The way this works is that you buy a FinneBond and then you collect on all future monies earned by me, at a rate of 8.42%. Now, I really prefer a minimum investment of $6,000 (or to be accurate, MasterCard would prefer a minimum investment of $6,000), but I'm willing to consider anything. Say, for instance, you decide to buy me a beer. In one short year, it'll be as if you bought me 1.0842 beers! In two years, 1.1684 beers! I mean, can you see how great this is? This is an incredible financial opportunity for you! At rates like these, I must be insane!!

Or, if you�re a more cautious investor, you can just buy into an individual joke. And if that joke gets sold to a television show or a lazy politician, you collect! And something should know: my material is guaranteed to mature! That's right! You know that thing I wrote a few days ago about Natalie Merchant taking a dump? Well, that horseshit is guaranteed to mature! In five years, that joke will blossom into brilliant commentary on isolationism in a global economy! Yup, today's dick joke is tomorrow's bon mot!

You can't afford to let this opportunity pass you by, people. FinneBonds! FinneBonds! FinneBonds!!!