12 DAYS AND COUNTING!!
Well, the holiday season is in full swing and you fine folks are probably banging your heads against the wall trying to figure out what to get me. Look, I know you;d rather surprise me, but I'm not always the easiest person to buy for, so I thought I'd give you guys a few Yuletide suggestions. So, without any further ado, here is my Christmas List (abridged):
* Autographed photos of Andrew Lloyd Webber and Chewbacca (together, if possible)
* Subscription to "Goth Fisherman Magazine".
* Baby's First Fry-o-later (from the makers of Easybake Oven)
* Lifelike, self-cleaning Jane Eyre sex doll
* Trade paperback copy of "Yankee Rose: Letters from David Lee Roth to Simone de Beauvoir, 1977-1986" (Bantam)
* Gray's Papaya platinum card
* VHS copy of "Wildest Police Cavity Searches -- CAUGHT ON TAPE!"
* Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Catfight
* Traditional Irish Claddagh cockring (I'll wear it with the heart pointing outward, as I've yet to be "won")
And, of course,
* Hashish
Time's a-wastin', folks--let's get shopping!
Thursday, December 12, 2002
DON'T READ THIS
I have nothing to say today. Nothing. You really shouldn't even bother reading this today--you'll just be disapointed. No, I'm not in a bad mood. I'm not in a good mood, either. I am simply neutral. I am utterly without inspiration. Really, you should stop reading this right now. I have nothing to say. No, I'm not joking--I really don't have anything whatsoever to share with you. I wonder how long you'll read this, wonderging when the funny stuff is going to start. Well, you should just give up right now, because it's not going to happen. Seriously. Shoo! Go away! Nothing to see here, folks. What do I have to do to get you to stop reading this? This is not some sort of witty post-modern deconstruction of "meaning" in the context of language and culture. Although it would be interesting if it was. Not funny, necessarily, but intreresting. But no, there's nothing intellectual about today's post. I just wanted to take this moment to impress upon you exactly how devoid of meaning today's entry. And yet, you continue to read. That really is something of a character flaw on your part, you know. Don't go around bitching and moaning about how Tower of Hubris was really lame today, because I gave you all the opportunity in the world to stop reading and you chose not to listen. I mean, what can I do? I throw up my hands. If I wanted to make people reading, I would pull a couple of cheap little tricks, like putting random words in bold-type. That way, as you were reading the above sentences and thinking "Man, this is fucking boring," you would see the boldface words out of the corner of your eye, leading you to believe that there was something important coming up. But I'm not going to do that. Hell, I could even
start a new paragraph, which would lead one to believe that I was moving on to something new (and, one would have to assume, more interesting). And if I was a real prick, I could just throw in some random hypertext, making you think I was sending you to some hilarious and/or informative website. But I'm not. You clicked it, didn't you? Man, what the fuck is your deal? I made that URL up, just to prove a point. http://www.zebrafart.com--it doesn't exist. Let's just hope I don't get to the point of JUST CAPITALIZING A BUNCH OF SHIT. Because that's annoying. And now you're thinking "Man, this jackass is just going to keep on typing, isn't he? What a dick!" Well, all I have to say to that is
I have nothing to say today. Nothing. You really shouldn't even bother reading this today--you'll just be disapointed. No, I'm not in a bad mood. I'm not in a good mood, either. I am simply neutral. I am utterly without inspiration. Really, you should stop reading this right now. I have nothing to say. No, I'm not joking--I really don't have anything whatsoever to share with you. I wonder how long you'll read this, wonderging when the funny stuff is going to start. Well, you should just give up right now, because it's not going to happen. Seriously. Shoo! Go away! Nothing to see here, folks. What do I have to do to get you to stop reading this? This is not some sort of witty post-modern deconstruction of "meaning" in the context of language and culture. Although it would be interesting if it was. Not funny, necessarily, but intreresting. But no, there's nothing intellectual about today's post. I just wanted to take this moment to impress upon you exactly how devoid of meaning today's entry. And yet, you continue to read. That really is something of a character flaw on your part, you know. Don't go around bitching and moaning about how Tower of Hubris was really lame today, because I gave you all the opportunity in the world to stop reading and you chose not to listen. I mean, what can I do? I throw up my hands. If I wanted to make people reading, I would pull a couple of cheap little tricks, like putting random words in bold-type. That way, as you were reading the above sentences and thinking "Man, this is fucking boring," you would see the boldface words out of the corner of your eye, leading you to believe that there was something important coming up. But I'm not going to do that. Hell, I could even
start a new paragraph, which would lead one to believe that I was moving on to something new (and, one would have to assume, more interesting). And if I was a real prick, I could just throw in some random hypertext, making you think I was sending you to some hilarious and/or informative website. But I'm not. You clicked it, didn't you? Man, what the fuck is your deal? I made that URL up, just to prove a point. http://www.zebrafart.com--it doesn't exist. Let's just hope I don't get to the point of JUST CAPITALIZING A BUNCH OF SHIT. Because that's annoying. And now you're thinking "Man, this jackass is just going to keep on typing, isn't he? What a dick!" Well, all I have to say to that is
Wednesday, December 11, 2002
A SMALL PLEA
My friend, the glorious Susie Felber, writes funny horoscopes, dream interpretations, and other comedic interpretations of the Great Unknown for the Comedy Central website. It has come to my attention that a spike in "hits" to her page would be rather beneficial to her, creatively and financially.
I therefore invite you, the small readership of this page to bask in her wit and wisdom by going here.
You there, yet? Great. Now, go ahead and bookmark the page. Then, go back there tomorrow. Then, the next day. And the next. And the next. Pretty soon you won't be able to leave the house in the morning without consulting The Great Susie. She's your new spiritual crutch!
Many thanks.
My friend, the glorious Susie Felber, writes funny horoscopes, dream interpretations, and other comedic interpretations of the Great Unknown for the Comedy Central website. It has come to my attention that a spike in "hits" to her page would be rather beneficial to her, creatively and financially.
I therefore invite you, the small readership of this page to bask in her wit and wisdom by going here.
You there, yet? Great. Now, go ahead and bookmark the page. Then, go back there tomorrow. Then, the next day. And the next. And the next. Pretty soon you won't be able to leave the house in the morning without consulting The Great Susie. She's your new spiritual crutch!
Many thanks.
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
A NEW HOLIDAY GAME!
Anyone who's ever worked in a cheesy, we're-all-part-of-the-team office environment si well familiar with the concept of "Secret Santa". This is where you pull a co-worker's name out of a hat and buy him/her a bottle of Body Shop tangerine scented hand lotion, Virgin Megastore gift card, or any other kind of uninspired holiday gift meant to say "Merry Christmas--I tolerate you!"
But there are always going to be people in your office who you don't particularly like, and for those people I suggest becoming a "Secret Secret Santa". This is where you give various people in your place of business unsolicited "gifts" meant to convey a slightly more pointed message. For instance, two years ago I bought a giant jug of mouthwash, wrapped it in colorful paper, and left it on my boss' desk with a note attached:
"Dear Joanne,
Your mouth smells like ass.
Love, Secret Secret Santa
P.S. Seriously, you really need to take care of that."
And then last year, I bought Rob from human resources two Frankie Goes to Hollywood albums and a buttplug, once again accompanied by a note:
"Dear Rob,
Everyone knows!
Happy holidays, from your Secret Secret Santa
P.S. You do realize that your computer keeps a record of what websites you've vistied, don't you?"
This year, I mixed things up a bit. Instead of a co-worker, I'm playing Secret Secret Santa to that fucking prick at Golden Dragon who put broccoli in my Sesame Chicken, even though I specifically told him not to! Earlier today, I murdered a small kitten and left it hanging from the takeout window (I made a little noose with Christmas ribbon--it was sooo cute!). I left the following note taped to its paw:
"YOU."
This is going to be the greatest Christmas ever!!!
Anyone who's ever worked in a cheesy, we're-all-part-of-the-team office environment si well familiar with the concept of "Secret Santa". This is where you pull a co-worker's name out of a hat and buy him/her a bottle of Body Shop tangerine scented hand lotion, Virgin Megastore gift card, or any other kind of uninspired holiday gift meant to say "Merry Christmas--I tolerate you!"
But there are always going to be people in your office who you don't particularly like, and for those people I suggest becoming a "Secret Secret Santa". This is where you give various people in your place of business unsolicited "gifts" meant to convey a slightly more pointed message. For instance, two years ago I bought a giant jug of mouthwash, wrapped it in colorful paper, and left it on my boss' desk with a note attached:
"Dear Joanne,
Your mouth smells like ass.
Love, Secret Secret Santa
P.S. Seriously, you really need to take care of that."
And then last year, I bought Rob from human resources two Frankie Goes to Hollywood albums and a buttplug, once again accompanied by a note:
"Dear Rob,
Everyone knows!
Happy holidays, from your Secret Secret Santa
P.S. You do realize that your computer keeps a record of what websites you've vistied, don't you?"
This year, I mixed things up a bit. Instead of a co-worker, I'm playing Secret Secret Santa to that fucking prick at Golden Dragon who put broccoli in my Sesame Chicken, even though I specifically told him not to! Earlier today, I murdered a small kitten and left it hanging from the takeout window (I made a little noose with Christmas ribbon--it was sooo cute!). I left the following note taped to its paw:
"YOU."
This is going to be the greatest Christmas ever!!!
Monday, December 09, 2002
I HAVE RETURNED!
And because I love you fine people so much, I present...
(...man, this is exciting...)
...MORE KIKKO-MANIA!!!
If you loved the original adventures of Kikkoman (which I originally linked to back in November), just wait until you get a load of his arch-enemies!
I will not rest until I know how the fuck this shit came into existence.
And because I love you fine people so much, I present...
(...man, this is exciting...)
...MORE KIKKO-MANIA!!!
If you loved the original adventures of Kikkoman (which I originally linked to back in November), just wait until you get a load of his arch-enemies!
I will not rest until I know how the fuck this shit came into existence.
Sunday, December 08, 2002
WEST PALM, BEEEAAATCH!
Here I am, back at the glorious West Palm Beach Public Library. I head back to NYC tomorrow morning, for which I am excited spiritually, if not physically. I ain't gonna lie to you--it's pretty fucking nice to be wearing shorts in the middle of December. But after a mere three days, this place is already starting to grate on me a bit. There seems to be absolutely no angst in West Palm Beach. Stress, sure. But no angst. What is the difference, you ask? Stress is a menial, situation-based feeling, e.g. "Shit, I'm late for my tanning booth appointment!", or "Where's the waiter with my goddamn mojito?" Angst is stress put to a higher cause. It is timeless, ephemeral. It is the late night crush of self-doubt that says "Who the fuck am I, why the fuck am I, and what sort of hellish nut-punch can I look forward to tomorrow?" It is also the impulse from which most of the world's great art is created. There's none of that is West Palm Beach.
Everyone here is laidback, even the panhandlers. Just now, as I was walking down beautiful South Rosemary Avenue, a neck-bearded twenty-something (probably a fan of Phish and/or Widespread Panic) called out to me from across the street. "Hey there, man," he shouted, offering a friendly wave. He was no less than thirty yards away from me and sitting with his feet up beneath a canopy at an outdoor cafe. I didn't know the guy, but I thought maybe he recognized me from the comedy club, so I responded with a casual "Hey, man. What's going on?" He then cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed "You got a cigarette?"
What was he envisioning would happen? Was he expecting me to drop what I was doing and walk over to him? Say what you want about NYC's freeloaders--at least they're go-getters.
Oh, and one more thing about West Palm Beach in December. Santa Clause wearing a vest and short-sleeved shirt? Pretty lame.
Here I am, back at the glorious West Palm Beach Public Library. I head back to NYC tomorrow morning, for which I am excited spiritually, if not physically. I ain't gonna lie to you--it's pretty fucking nice to be wearing shorts in the middle of December. But after a mere three days, this place is already starting to grate on me a bit. There seems to be absolutely no angst in West Palm Beach. Stress, sure. But no angst. What is the difference, you ask? Stress is a menial, situation-based feeling, e.g. "Shit, I'm late for my tanning booth appointment!", or "Where's the waiter with my goddamn mojito?" Angst is stress put to a higher cause. It is timeless, ephemeral. It is the late night crush of self-doubt that says "Who the fuck am I, why the fuck am I, and what sort of hellish nut-punch can I look forward to tomorrow?" It is also the impulse from which most of the world's great art is created. There's none of that is West Palm Beach.
Everyone here is laidback, even the panhandlers. Just now, as I was walking down beautiful South Rosemary Avenue, a neck-bearded twenty-something (probably a fan of Phish and/or Widespread Panic) called out to me from across the street. "Hey there, man," he shouted, offering a friendly wave. He was no less than thirty yards away from me and sitting with his feet up beneath a canopy at an outdoor cafe. I didn't know the guy, but I thought maybe he recognized me from the comedy club, so I responded with a casual "Hey, man. What's going on?" He then cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed "You got a cigarette?"
What was he envisioning would happen? Was he expecting me to drop what I was doing and walk over to him? Say what you want about NYC's freeloaders--at least they're go-getters.
Oh, and one more thing about West Palm Beach in December. Santa Clause wearing a vest and short-sleeved shirt? Pretty lame.
Friday, December 06, 2002
GREETINGS FROM PARADISE (sort of)
Afternoon, winners! I'm currently sitting in the West Palm Beach Public Library, which looks more like the loft from The Real World: Hawaii than a place of learning. It's so "pretty" here that it goes somehow beyond the point of being attractive and borders on some sort of strange ugliness. Except the other library patrons, of course--they're the regular ol' kind of ugly. Beside me are three mulleted fellows (one wearing a baseball hat with the confederate flag embroidered on the front) sitting on a sofa, idly scratching their nuts and babbling. i think they're upset that someone checked out all three copies of the new Salman Rushdie novel.
Flying out of the NYC snowstorm yesterday was just about the most hellish travel experience I've ever had, in a life of rather hellish travel experiences. My flight was cancelled, I was funnelled onto a different plane, with just about every dues-paying member of the AARP. Better yet, I was seated on the aisle, about two rows up from the bathroom, so for the entire flight (including the 2 hours we sat on the icy runway prior to takeoff), I had chatty and inconsolable elderly people bumping up against me in the neverending line for the restroom.
On a nicer note, I at in a jacuzzi this morning. Jealous much?
Ok, the library is about to kick me off the computer, so I shall have to cut this short. I apologize that today's entry is more a travelogue than properly hilarious penis joke and/or paean to pop culture.
Afternoon, winners! I'm currently sitting in the West Palm Beach Public Library, which looks more like the loft from The Real World: Hawaii than a place of learning. It's so "pretty" here that it goes somehow beyond the point of being attractive and borders on some sort of strange ugliness. Except the other library patrons, of course--they're the regular ol' kind of ugly. Beside me are three mulleted fellows (one wearing a baseball hat with the confederate flag embroidered on the front) sitting on a sofa, idly scratching their nuts and babbling. i think they're upset that someone checked out all three copies of the new Salman Rushdie novel.
Flying out of the NYC snowstorm yesterday was just about the most hellish travel experience I've ever had, in a life of rather hellish travel experiences. My flight was cancelled, I was funnelled onto a different plane, with just about every dues-paying member of the AARP. Better yet, I was seated on the aisle, about two rows up from the bathroom, so for the entire flight (including the 2 hours we sat on the icy runway prior to takeoff), I had chatty and inconsolable elderly people bumping up against me in the neverending line for the restroom.
On a nicer note, I at in a jacuzzi this morning. Jealous much?
Ok, the library is about to kick me off the computer, so I shall have to cut this short. I apologize that today's entry is more a travelogue than properly hilarious penis joke and/or paean to pop culture.
Thursday, December 05, 2002
HEY THERE
Come in--there's something we need to discuss.
Please, sit down.
Look...boy, this is kind of hard to say. Um...well...I'm just going to come right out and say it: I need a little break. No no, you're great! You're the best group of mostly anonymous, faceless blog readers that's ever happened to me. But there comes a time in every comedian's career when he has to branch off, see the world, get a little taste of what else is out there. It's like, you love pizza, but would you want to eat pizza every day? Right? Know what I mean?
Please, stop crying. That came out wrong. I'm just saying... I'm not saying it's over. It's just four days. four days! Never mind where I'm doing comedy this weekend. Never mind--it's not about that. Okay, it's Florida. Happy now? That's right, I'm going to do a weekend of shows in Florida just to make you angry! It's always got to be about YOU, doesn't it?
FER CHRISSAKE, I DON'T WANT--
(...)
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. It's just...I've just got to get away for a few days. Will I be posting blog entries while I'm in Florida? I don't know. I don't know. BECAUSE I DON'T FUCKING KNOW, THAT'S WHY!!
(...)
Listen, I...I'm not sure if I'll have access to a computer. If I do, then I'll post. Yes. Yes, I know. Look, I'm well aware of the existence of internet cafes, okay? I mean, it's not like I'm stupid! No, I'm not being a wise-ass. I'm just saying...sometimes, you just say things that...don't need to be said fifteen fucking times.
I did not call you stupid! I did not! That's not what I'm saying! That's not--
Look, what if I posted a funny link? You know, like this one?
You liked that, didn't you? Yeah, I knew you couldn't stay angry! How about a picture of seven Doug Hennings in a station wagon, posted on my friend and Daily Show with Jon Stewart writer Eric Drysdale's new site?
There's the blog readership I (don't) know and (do) love! If I don't "speak" to you before Monday, have a glorious weekend.
Toodles, folks.
Tuesday, December 03, 2002
AN INTERNAL MONOLOGUE
THE SCENE: A very crowded, douchebag-laden subway car, 2:34am. The train has mysteriously slowed to a complete halt in the long tunnel between Manhattan and Queens.
___________________________________________________
What? What...what's going on? Oh come on. Don't do this to me. Please. It's too late for this shit. No no no. I need to sleep. Please, not tonight.
Move. Move. The train is going to move�now. Now. Now. FUCKING FUCK!
Now�now�now.
This is bullshit. This is totally fucked. Are they even going to make an announcement? Isn�t anyone else on this train pissed? What the hell is that woman babbling about? Shut up. Shut up. No one wants to hear...no one wants to hear your fucking conversation, bitch! Why would anyone feel the need to talk so loud? Do you think anyone gives a shit about your fucking boyfriend's band? Seriously! You obviously think people want to know, or else you wouldn't be yelling! And fuck your friends, too. They're all assholes. This subway car is filled with assholes.
God. Oh dear god. Move. Move. Please fucking move. Please let this fucking train move. GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!
Okay, calm down. Relax. It's got to move soon.
What? What the...what the fuck are you saying? How the fuck do you get a job making subway announcements if you can't speak English? I mean, christ! Dude, the word is "Queensborough"! "Queeeensboooorough"! And "Plaza", not "Plodga"! FUCK YOU!!!
A train? In front of us? Bullshit. I stood on that motherfucking platform for 35 minutes�there�s no goddamn train in front of us. This is the only train that even runs on this line! But now you�re telling us that a train has somehow magically appeared in front of us? What, a mystery train? The motherfucking great space coaster? FUCK YOU AGAIN, YOU STUPID COCK FUCKER!
Finnegan, stop it. You�re just making yourself crazy. Close your eyes and relax. Relax. Pretend you�re somewhere else. I�m at the beach. I�m at the beach. I�m at the--
Dude, if you step on my fucking foot again I'm going to stab you in the throat with a pen. If you step on my foot one more fucking time...ohhhhhhh.....ohhhhh....oh my fucking god. I'd going to hit someone. I think I may actually hit someone. I'm going to start screaming and then I'm going to punch that fucking asshole on the side of the head. No one knows. No one has any idea that I'm about to start fucking hitting people. It�s almost funny. They�re about to witness someone freak the fuck out, and they have no idea. I�m going to count to ten and if this train isn�t moving�
1�2�3�4�why is that bitch still laughing?! What the hell is her problem? SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHU TUP SHUT UP SH UT PSH UTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!!!!
(sigh)
Please. Please let me go home. I�m not asking for a lot. I just want this train to start moving, so I can go home and go to sleep. That�s all I want. Please. I just want this train to move and for every person on this subway car to get face cancer and die. That�s all. Please?
(REPEAT AND FADE OUT)
THE SCENE: A very crowded, douchebag-laden subway car, 2:34am. The train has mysteriously slowed to a complete halt in the long tunnel between Manhattan and Queens.
___________________________________________________
What? What...what's going on? Oh come on. Don't do this to me. Please. It's too late for this shit. No no no. I need to sleep. Please, not tonight.
Move. Move. The train is going to move�now. Now. Now. FUCKING FUCK!
Now�now�now.
This is bullshit. This is totally fucked. Are they even going to make an announcement? Isn�t anyone else on this train pissed? What the hell is that woman babbling about? Shut up. Shut up. No one wants to hear...no one wants to hear your fucking conversation, bitch! Why would anyone feel the need to talk so loud? Do you think anyone gives a shit about your fucking boyfriend's band? Seriously! You obviously think people want to know, or else you wouldn't be yelling! And fuck your friends, too. They're all assholes. This subway car is filled with assholes.
God. Oh dear god. Move. Move. Please fucking move. Please let this fucking train move. GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!
Okay, calm down. Relax. It's got to move soon.
What? What the...what the fuck are you saying? How the fuck do you get a job making subway announcements if you can't speak English? I mean, christ! Dude, the word is "Queensborough"! "Queeeensboooorough"! And "Plaza", not "Plodga"! FUCK YOU!!!
A train? In front of us? Bullshit. I stood on that motherfucking platform for 35 minutes�there�s no goddamn train in front of us. This is the only train that even runs on this line! But now you�re telling us that a train has somehow magically appeared in front of us? What, a mystery train? The motherfucking great space coaster? FUCK YOU AGAIN, YOU STUPID COCK FUCKER!
Finnegan, stop it. You�re just making yourself crazy. Close your eyes and relax. Relax. Pretend you�re somewhere else. I�m at the beach. I�m at the beach. I�m at the--
Dude, if you step on my fucking foot again I'm going to stab you in the throat with a pen. If you step on my foot one more fucking time...ohhhhhhh.....ohhhhh....oh my fucking god. I'd going to hit someone. I think I may actually hit someone. I'm going to start screaming and then I'm going to punch that fucking asshole on the side of the head. No one knows. No one has any idea that I'm about to start fucking hitting people. It�s almost funny. They�re about to witness someone freak the fuck out, and they have no idea. I�m going to count to ten and if this train isn�t moving�
1�2�3�4�why is that bitch still laughing?! What the hell is her problem? SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHU TUP SHUT UP SH UT PSH UTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!!!!
(sigh)
Please. Please let me go home. I�m not asking for a lot. I just want this train to start moving, so I can go home and go to sleep. That�s all I want. Please. I just want this train to move and for every person on this subway car to get face cancer and die. That�s all. Please?
(REPEAT AND FADE OUT)
Monday, December 02, 2002
Saturday, November 30, 2002
A few general rules
Anyone who claims to be "too nice" is a fucking prick. Anyone who really was "too nice" wouldn't be the kind of person who would notice it, much less declare it.
No woman looks better with bangs than without.
"Whack-A-Mole" is the world's unsexiest activity.
Oh, and one more,
There is a direct relationship between what a bartender is forced to wear while on duty and the Douche Propensity of his clientele. The dressier the bartender's uniform, the douchey-er his patrons are likely to be.
Anyone who claims to be "too nice" is a fucking prick. Anyone who really was "too nice" wouldn't be the kind of person who would notice it, much less declare it.
No woman looks better with bangs than without.
"Whack-A-Mole" is the world's unsexiest activity.
Oh, and one more,
There is a direct relationship between what a bartender is forced to wear while on duty and the Douche Propensity of his clientele. The dressier the bartender's uniform, the douchey-er his patrons are likely to be.
Friday, November 29, 2002
HAPPY POST-THANKSGIVING!
Ok, I know Turkeyfest is technically over at this point, but I have so many things to be thankful for and I'd like to take a quick moment to give credit where credit is due. Please indulge me, folks.
* I'm thankful for elastic waistbands.
* I'm thankful for the quick resolution to my lawsuit against Chuck E. Cheese, Inc. 'The Ball-Crawl is safe for all ages', my ass!
* I'm thankful for the love of my new ladyfriend, Fox News personality Greta Van Susteren.
* I'm thankful for the existence of you-know-who, simply as a reminder that I'm not the biggest fucking jack-ass on the planet.
* I'm thankful for that new topical ointment!
* I'm thankful to our dark lord Satan, for all of the wonderful career perks! My soul is thine, o glorious one!
* I'm thankful for my growing collection of Pay it Forward action figures. I just got the new Kevin Spacey with the tear-jerkingly scarred face!
* And, last but certainly not least, I'm thankful for the sweet refuge of hardcore drugs and pornography--you are the wind beneath my wings!
Ok, I know Turkeyfest is technically over at this point, but I have so many things to be thankful for and I'd like to take a quick moment to give credit where credit is due. Please indulge me, folks.
* I'm thankful for elastic waistbands.
* I'm thankful for the quick resolution to my lawsuit against Chuck E. Cheese, Inc. 'The Ball-Crawl is safe for all ages', my ass!
* I'm thankful for the love of my new ladyfriend, Fox News personality Greta Van Susteren.
* I'm thankful for the existence of you-know-who, simply as a reminder that I'm not the biggest fucking jack-ass on the planet.
* I'm thankful for that new topical ointment!
* I'm thankful to our dark lord Satan, for all of the wonderful career perks! My soul is thine, o glorious one!
* I'm thankful for my growing collection of Pay it Forward action figures. I just got the new Kevin Spacey with the tear-jerkingly scarred face!
* And, last but certainly not least, I'm thankful for the sweet refuge of hardcore drugs and pornography--you are the wind beneath my wings!
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
I AM SO MOVING TO JAPAN!
The lovely Daegan sent me the link to these wonderful television commercials, which I believe provide even more proof that Japan is a nation of inspired lunatics. Never mind that the page is primarily a bunch of question marks, just start clicking on the hyperlinks and marvel at the, um, "amply equipped" wildlife!
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
GREETINGS FROM THE 'WHO GIVES A SHIT?' DEPARTMENT!
Alright, I know most of you don't give a shit, but I thought I'd reveal the ansers to the little test I gave out this past Friday. The winner of this little challenge is Jeff Reguilon, who got nearly all of them correct. He will be the proud recipient of some bullshit prize that I've yet to decide on. In the meantime, though, here are the answers:
____________________________________________
Hey you (Pink Floyd). Hello (Lionel Ritchie).
Hush (Deep Purple)! Voices carry ('Til Tuesday).
I've got a feeling (The Beatles). I can't fight this feeling anymore (REO Speedwagon). You are the sunshine of my life (Stevie Wonder). Have I told you lately that I love you (Van Morrisson or Rod Stewart)? You're the one that I want (John Travolta and Olivia Newton John). U got the look (Prince)! Let's spend the night together (The Rolling Stone). Why (Annie Lennox)? Because the night (Patti Smith or The Boss). This is the time (Billy Joel). Please, please please (James Brown)! Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me (The Cure)!
I hate myself for loving you (Joan Jett). I fall to pieces (Patsy Cline)! Don't be cruel (Elvis Presley). Accidents will happen (Elvis Costello)--I can't help myself (The Four Tops). That's the way love goes (Janet Jackson). Try a little tenderness (Otis Redding).
Wait (White Lion).
Think (Aretha Franklin).
Of course (Jane's Addiction)!
Tonight's the night (The Shirelles or Rod Stewart). The show must go on (Leo Sayer or Queen or Pink Floyd)! Joy to the world (Three Dog Night)! Let's dance (David Bowie)! Do ya (ELO)? Come as you are (Nirvana). Rough boys (Pete Townshend), fat-bottomed girls (Queen), everyday people (Sly and the Family Stone)--surrender (Cheap Trick)! Let a smile be your umbrella (The Andrews Sisters or Perry Como)! The best is yet to come (Frank Sinatra)--don't stop 'til you get enough (Michael Jackson)!
And now, back to your lives. Our great national drama is over.
Alright, I know most of you don't give a shit, but I thought I'd reveal the ansers to the little test I gave out this past Friday. The winner of this little challenge is Jeff Reguilon, who got nearly all of them correct. He will be the proud recipient of some bullshit prize that I've yet to decide on. In the meantime, though, here are the answers:
____________________________________________
Hey you (Pink Floyd). Hello (Lionel Ritchie).
Hush (Deep Purple)! Voices carry ('Til Tuesday).
I've got a feeling (The Beatles). I can't fight this feeling anymore (REO Speedwagon). You are the sunshine of my life (Stevie Wonder). Have I told you lately that I love you (Van Morrisson or Rod Stewart)? You're the one that I want (John Travolta and Olivia Newton John). U got the look (Prince)! Let's spend the night together (The Rolling Stone). Why (Annie Lennox)? Because the night (Patti Smith or The Boss). This is the time (Billy Joel). Please, please please (James Brown)! Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me (The Cure)!
I hate myself for loving you (Joan Jett). I fall to pieces (Patsy Cline)! Don't be cruel (Elvis Presley). Accidents will happen (Elvis Costello)--I can't help myself (The Four Tops). That's the way love goes (Janet Jackson). Try a little tenderness (Otis Redding).
Wait (White Lion).
Think (Aretha Franklin).
Of course (Jane's Addiction)!
Tonight's the night (The Shirelles or Rod Stewart). The show must go on (Leo Sayer or Queen or Pink Floyd)! Joy to the world (Three Dog Night)! Let's dance (David Bowie)! Do ya (ELO)? Come as you are (Nirvana). Rough boys (Pete Townshend), fat-bottomed girls (Queen), everyday people (Sly and the Family Stone)--surrender (Cheap Trick)! Let a smile be your umbrella (The Andrews Sisters or Perry Como)! The best is yet to come (Frank Sinatra)--don't stop 'til you get enough (Michael Jackson)!
And now, back to your lives. Our great national drama is over.
Monday, November 25, 2002
MESSAGE OF LOVE
So the holidays are nearly upon us, which means people will be expecting presents, for which I have very little in the way of funds. So you all know what that means! Christmas presents? No money? Say it with me, kids: MIX TAPES!
What the fuck does it say about me that I'm 29 years old and still making people mix tapes? Sure, technically they're CDs now, but for all intents and purposes, they're still 'mix tapes'. The thing about making a mix tape for someone is that, while you're doing it, it feels s if you're doing something both productive and creative, when in fact you are doing neither. And my passion for making them is a product of the low-budget Junior High egotism that seemd to define my very existence. Because, in the end, a mix tape is always much more about the person giving it than the person receiving it. It's meant to say, "Hey, look at all of the cool music Iown! Aren't you impressed? You want to befriend / have sex with me, right?! Please, tell me I'm valid!" My curse is that I'm fully aware of how fucking retarded this mindset is (unlike these people), and yet I cannot turn away from my calling.
If I were to consistently put the same amount of energy into my comedy career as I do into burning goddamn CDs, I'd be a bigtime playa. In fact, I like to consider myself The Jerry Seinfeld of Mix Tapes. Lordy, the hours I will labor over things like 'track order'. You see, in my mind, I'm taking the person (usually a woman) on an emotional journey--I actually picture it in my head!
Okay, I'll start things off with something buouyant and austere, like Spoon's "Everything Hits at Once", to which she will involuntarily bob her head by the middle of verse two. From there, it's on to "Feedback Queen" by Lotion. Five listens from now, she'll be dancing around her living room to this song in a manner that is simultaneously awkward and unspeakably beautiful, but for now she's just digging it silently, wondering how it is she's never heard of this band. "Christian is so cool," she'll say to herself, "And, now that I think about it...attractive".
But she has no idea that I'm also extremely deep and capable of despair--at least, not until song #3. Man, by the time she gets to minute five of Cat Power's "Colors and the Kids", she will be sobbing into a throw pillow! "Christian has touched my very soul," she will cry to the heavens, "I must feel his tender kiss upon my face and neck! I absolutely must!"
Whoa, wait a minute. What am I thinking? Am I some kind of fucking moron? "Feedback Queen" driectly into "Colors and the Kids"? That's crazy talk! The shift in emotion is waaaay too abrupt. I need to slip in a 'transitional track'--something uptempo, but with a hint of poignant melancholy. Hmmm... I've got it! "Achin to Be", by The Replacements! It's the perfect mix of happy and sad! Plus, when she reads the back of the dazzling CD case I've made her, she'll think "Oh, The Replacements! I've heard them referenced in conversations with people I respect and I've always wondered what they sounded like--and now Christian Finnegan is giving me that chance!"
And then, as she scans down to the bottom of the track list, "Oh my god," she'll gasp, "Aretha Franklin's 'Ain't No Way'? My parents used to sing that to me when I was a little girl! What a breadth of knowledge! How could he have known? Is it fate? Could this be...love?
I'm sure you get the idea. What's pathetic is that when you give someone a mix tape, she's never quite as thrilled to get it as you want her to be. She'll give it a perfunctory scan while you resist the urge to start babbling how long it took you to make it, why you picked each particular song, etc. Does she not understand just how precious a gift you've bestowed upon her?
A couple of weeks will go by and you won't hear anything from her. Or, maybe you will. In fact, maybe it's the best gift she's ever been given and she's called/Emailed specifically to tell you how incredibly appreciative she is. But it won't matter to you. Sure, she claims to "really like" a few of the songs, but has her life been truly affected by what you've shared with her? Has her world begun anew, the sun and moon and stars replaced by dreams of you and you alone? No*? Well, I guess you'll just have to try harder next time.
Basically, I won't be satisfied until one of my mix tapes convinces someone to kill herself. Not necessarily out of despair, but because she has been so awakened the the relentless and unyielding beauty of the universe, she simply can't bear to return to the drudgery of life BMT (Before Mix Tape).
I dare to dream.
(* It was probably that damn Shaggs song you put at the end--you should have known she wouldn't find it funny.)
So the holidays are nearly upon us, which means people will be expecting presents, for which I have very little in the way of funds. So you all know what that means! Christmas presents? No money? Say it with me, kids: MIX TAPES!
What the fuck does it say about me that I'm 29 years old and still making people mix tapes? Sure, technically they're CDs now, but for all intents and purposes, they're still 'mix tapes'. The thing about making a mix tape for someone is that, while you're doing it, it feels s if you're doing something both productive and creative, when in fact you are doing neither. And my passion for making them is a product of the low-budget Junior High egotism that seemd to define my very existence. Because, in the end, a mix tape is always much more about the person giving it than the person receiving it. It's meant to say, "Hey, look at all of the cool music Iown! Aren't you impressed? You want to befriend / have sex with me, right?! Please, tell me I'm valid!" My curse is that I'm fully aware of how fucking retarded this mindset is (unlike these people), and yet I cannot turn away from my calling.
If I were to consistently put the same amount of energy into my comedy career as I do into burning goddamn CDs, I'd be a bigtime playa. In fact, I like to consider myself The Jerry Seinfeld of Mix Tapes. Lordy, the hours I will labor over things like 'track order'. You see, in my mind, I'm taking the person (usually a woman) on an emotional journey--I actually picture it in my head!
Okay, I'll start things off with something buouyant and austere, like Spoon's "Everything Hits at Once", to which she will involuntarily bob her head by the middle of verse two. From there, it's on to "Feedback Queen" by Lotion. Five listens from now, she'll be dancing around her living room to this song in a manner that is simultaneously awkward and unspeakably beautiful, but for now she's just digging it silently, wondering how it is she's never heard of this band. "Christian is so cool," she'll say to herself, "And, now that I think about it...attractive".
But she has no idea that I'm also extremely deep and capable of despair--at least, not until song #3. Man, by the time she gets to minute five of Cat Power's "Colors and the Kids", she will be sobbing into a throw pillow! "Christian has touched my very soul," she will cry to the heavens, "I must feel his tender kiss upon my face and neck! I absolutely must!"
Whoa, wait a minute. What am I thinking? Am I some kind of fucking moron? "Feedback Queen" driectly into "Colors and the Kids"? That's crazy talk! The shift in emotion is waaaay too abrupt. I need to slip in a 'transitional track'--something uptempo, but with a hint of poignant melancholy. Hmmm... I've got it! "Achin to Be", by The Replacements! It's the perfect mix of happy and sad! Plus, when she reads the back of the dazzling CD case I've made her, she'll think "Oh, The Replacements! I've heard them referenced in conversations with people I respect and I've always wondered what they sounded like--and now Christian Finnegan is giving me that chance!"
And then, as she scans down to the bottom of the track list, "Oh my god," she'll gasp, "Aretha Franklin's 'Ain't No Way'? My parents used to sing that to me when I was a little girl! What a breadth of knowledge! How could he have known? Is it fate? Could this be...love?
I'm sure you get the idea. What's pathetic is that when you give someone a mix tape, she's never quite as thrilled to get it as you want her to be. She'll give it a perfunctory scan while you resist the urge to start babbling how long it took you to make it, why you picked each particular song, etc. Does she not understand just how precious a gift you've bestowed upon her?
A couple of weeks will go by and you won't hear anything from her. Or, maybe you will. In fact, maybe it's the best gift she's ever been given and she's called/Emailed specifically to tell you how incredibly appreciative she is. But it won't matter to you. Sure, she claims to "really like" a few of the songs, but has her life been truly affected by what you've shared with her? Has her world begun anew, the sun and moon and stars replaced by dreams of you and you alone? No*? Well, I guess you'll just have to try harder next time.
Basically, I won't be satisfied until one of my mix tapes convinces someone to kill herself. Not necessarily out of despair, but because she has been so awakened the the relentless and unyielding beauty of the universe, she simply can't bear to return to the drudgery of life BMT (Before Mix Tape).
I dare to dream.
(* It was probably that damn Shaggs song you put at the end--you should have known she wouldn't find it funny.)
Saturday, November 23, 2002
WHO'S THE MACK, LADEEEES?
It's Saturday night and I've got my party on! I'm looking fly in my dirty sweatpants, sipping on an icy glass of Mountain Dew, and watching some mad Harry Potter action on the cable TV, y'all!
Hoo-doggy! Party party party! Makin' shit happen! Freakin' the crazy phunky stuff! Getting all up in that...sexy...party...fun...
...p-p-party...
(sob)
It's Saturday night and I've got my party on! I'm looking fly in my dirty sweatpants, sipping on an icy glass of Mountain Dew, and watching some mad Harry Potter action on the cable TV, y'all!
Hoo-doggy! Party party party! Makin' shit happen! Freakin' the crazy phunky stuff! Getting all up in that...sexy...party...fun...
...p-p-party...
(sob)
Friday, November 22, 2002
POP SONG POETRY
Hey you. Hello.
Hush! Voices carry.
I've got a feeling. I can't fight this feeling anymore. You are the sunshine of my life. Have I told you lately that I love you? You're the one that I want. U got the look! Let's spend the night together. Why? Because the night. This is the time. Please, please please! Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!
I hate myself for loving you. I fall to pieces! Don't be cruel. Accidents will happen--I can't help myself. That's the way love goes. Try a little tenderness.
Wait.
Think.
Of course!
Tonight's the night. The show must go on! Joy to the world! Let's dance! Do ya? Come as you are. Rough boys, fat-bottomed girls, everyday people--surrender! Let a smile be your umbrella! The best is yet to come--don't stop 'til you get enough!
BONUS CONTEST:As you probably figured out, the above is comprised completely of song titles. I will give a prize (I'll think up some shit) to any person who can identify every artist referenced. All of the songs were reasonably big hits (except one, which is on an album at least half of you own). You can either paste your answers in the comment field, or Email me at ChristFinnegan@aol.com. It's ON, weenies!)
P.S. Googling is for pussies.
Hey you. Hello.
Hush! Voices carry.
I've got a feeling. I can't fight this feeling anymore. You are the sunshine of my life. Have I told you lately that I love you? You're the one that I want. U got the look! Let's spend the night together. Why? Because the night. This is the time. Please, please please! Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!
I hate myself for loving you. I fall to pieces! Don't be cruel. Accidents will happen--I can't help myself. That's the way love goes. Try a little tenderness.
Wait.
Think.
Of course!
Tonight's the night. The show must go on! Joy to the world! Let's dance! Do ya? Come as you are. Rough boys, fat-bottomed girls, everyday people--surrender! Let a smile be your umbrella! The best is yet to come--don't stop 'til you get enough!
BONUS CONTEST:As you probably figured out, the above is comprised completely of song titles. I will give a prize (I'll think up some shit) to any person who can identify every artist referenced. All of the songs were reasonably big hits (except one, which is on an album at least half of you own). You can either paste your answers in the comment field, or Email me at ChristFinnegan@aol.com. It's ON, weenies!)
P.S. Googling is for pussies.
Thursday, November 21, 2002
KIKKO-MAN!!!
I'm trying to ween myself off of sending out so many links, but for the love of fuck...
To paraphrase a friend of mine: The nation of Japan is completely insane--let us pray they never convert to Islam.
(And I pity all of you who don't have sound on your computers!)
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
THE CLOUD HAS LIFTED!
The nightmare is over! After not allowing me to 'publish' all day, Blogger has finally worked out whatever bug was fucking their shit up and I'm once again able to bring the joy of text (both hyper and otherwise) to the world! Hallelujah! Praise be to Jeff*! This is going to be awesome! I can't wait to publish this sure-to-enthralling blog entry! Now, the only thing to figure out is...what the fuck do I have to say today?
(sigh)
Ok, here's something.
I went into Old Navy yesterday to buy a plain black t-shirt, and I couldn't find one. Oh, they had plenty of t-shirts, but none without the words "Old Navy" emblazoned across the front. Who exactly is buying the logo-laden t-shirts? Surely people must be, or else the stores wouldn't bother displaying them so prominently. But why? I can understand why someone might wear something with the word 'Gucci' on it. Or 'Tommy Hilfiger' or 'Sean John' or 'D&G' (although I did once have to ask a chick what the hell that stood for). An prominent logo is a statement about the person wearing it. You're basically announcing to the world, "Gucci is a very fashionable brand name, and I'm the kind of high-class person who can appreciate that" or "I'm wearing Tommy Hilfiger because I have enough money to justify spending $145 on a glorified rugby shirt". But are there people out there who are dying to let people know that they shop at Old Navy? Apparently so.
I'm not judging, here--I would say, conservatively, that 50% of my wardrobe was purchased at that damned store. But my repeat business is purely a matter of economics. Where else can you get a three pairs of jeans, a rollneck sweater and flip-flops for $7.00? I'm certainly not ashamed of shopping there--it's just common sense. But I'm not so keen on announcing that shit to the general public. By wearing an Old Navy logo t-shirt, exactly what sort of message are you trying to get across?
"Ooooo, an Old Navy t-shirt! I bet that guy eats at Gray's Papaya! I wonder if he buys Rite Aid brand mouthwash and toilet paper! I wonder what it's like to sleep on a futon!"
Aren't you relieved that Blogger fixed its problem so you didn't have to miss that?
The nightmare is over! After not allowing me to 'publish' all day, Blogger has finally worked out whatever bug was fucking their shit up and I'm once again able to bring the joy of text (both hyper and otherwise) to the world! Hallelujah! Praise be to Jeff*! This is going to be awesome! I can't wait to publish this sure-to-enthralling blog entry! Now, the only thing to figure out is...what the fuck do I have to say today?
(sigh)
Ok, here's something.
I went into Old Navy yesterday to buy a plain black t-shirt, and I couldn't find one. Oh, they had plenty of t-shirts, but none without the words "Old Navy" emblazoned across the front. Who exactly is buying the logo-laden t-shirts? Surely people must be, or else the stores wouldn't bother displaying them so prominently. But why? I can understand why someone might wear something with the word 'Gucci' on it. Or 'Tommy Hilfiger' or 'Sean John' or 'D&G' (although I did once have to ask a chick what the hell that stood for). An prominent logo is a statement about the person wearing it. You're basically announcing to the world, "Gucci is a very fashionable brand name, and I'm the kind of high-class person who can appreciate that" or "I'm wearing Tommy Hilfiger because I have enough money to justify spending $145 on a glorified rugby shirt". But are there people out there who are dying to let people know that they shop at Old Navy? Apparently so.
I'm not judging, here--I would say, conservatively, that 50% of my wardrobe was purchased at that damned store. But my repeat business is purely a matter of economics. Where else can you get a three pairs of jeans, a rollneck sweater and flip-flops for $7.00? I'm certainly not ashamed of shopping there--it's just common sense. But I'm not so keen on announcing that shit to the general public. By wearing an Old Navy logo t-shirt, exactly what sort of message are you trying to get across?
"Ooooo, an Old Navy t-shirt! I bet that guy eats at Gray's Papaya! I wonder if he buys Rite Aid brand mouthwash and toilet paper! I wonder what it's like to sleep on a futon!"
Aren't you relieved that Blogger fixed its problem so you didn't have to miss that?
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
From the 'Eternally Single' file:
I don't bother to chat up random women in bars anymore. It always starts okay, but I eventually end up sounding like one of those local news "Shame on You" investigative reports.
"EXCUSE ME, MISS! EXCUSE ME! I JUST HAVE A FEW QUESTIONS! WHY ARE YOU COVERING YOUR FACE, MISS? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO HIDE? YOU'RE JUST NOW INFORMING ME THAT YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND, AND YET YOU'VE ALREADY ALLOWED ME TO BUY YOU THREE VODKA CRANBERRIES--WHY IS THAT, MISS? DOES THAT SEEM FAIR TO YOU? NO, I WON'T GO AWAY! IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE YOU'RE TAKING PEOPLE FOR A RIDE! HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT, MISS? NO, I WON'T! NOT UNTIL YOU ANSWER MY QUESTIONS! WHY WON'T YOU JUST ANSWER...WHERE ARE YOU GOING, MISS? WHERE ARE YOU GOING? YOU CAN'T RUN AWAY FROM THE TRUTH!!!!!"
I don't bother to chat up random women in bars anymore. It always starts okay, but I eventually end up sounding like one of those local news "Shame on You" investigative reports.
"EXCUSE ME, MISS! EXCUSE ME! I JUST HAVE A FEW QUESTIONS! WHY ARE YOU COVERING YOUR FACE, MISS? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO HIDE? YOU'RE JUST NOW INFORMING ME THAT YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND, AND YET YOU'VE ALREADY ALLOWED ME TO BUY YOU THREE VODKA CRANBERRIES--WHY IS THAT, MISS? DOES THAT SEEM FAIR TO YOU? NO, I WON'T GO AWAY! IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE YOU'RE TAKING PEOPLE FOR A RIDE! HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT, MISS? NO, I WON'T! NOT UNTIL YOU ANSWER MY QUESTIONS! WHY WON'T YOU JUST ANSWER...WHERE ARE YOU GOING, MISS? WHERE ARE YOU GOING? YOU CAN'T RUN AWAY FROM THE TRUTH!!!!!"
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