There we are, on the set of Primetime Live, summoned to help 'splain the blog phenomenon to Diane Sawyer. Makeup people are busily applying rouge to her surgically taut cheeks. Under the harsh klieg lights we look like squinty-eyed prairie dogs wrested from their underground lairs.
Diane: So MG, you launched Bad Sam back in 2000. A heady time on the 'Net, no? It seemed like anything was possible.
MG: Yeah it was.
Diane: You sure seem to have a lot of time on your hands. You wander around Queens snapping pix of urinals and accidents. You watch Arab men unload strange meats from their cars. Have you got something against Arabs?
MG: Not at all. Some of my best friends are...
Diane: Lovely. Linz, you write about your experiences as a 25 year old vixen in the Atlanta dating scene.
Linz: Well, I write about a variety of...
Diane: What about that time some guy bent you over the railing on your balcony? Do you have a touch of exhibitionisn in you?
Linz: No. My apartment is on the sixth floor and it was dark. Plus, it wasn't just some guy, it was...
Diane: Whatever. Lizard, you're afraid of grocery stores. What's up with that?
Lizard: It's not that I'm afraid of them, and that was just a passing reference I made. I write about a lot of matters of cosmic significance like...
Diane: So your parents used to abuse you in the dairy aisle. Now getting back to you MG. How do you support yourself?
MG: I used to work as a website designer and I saved up...
Diane: So you deal drugs to schoolgirls, then.
MG: I don't even use...
Diane: Effenheimer, you have a real day job as a columnist. Don't you ever worry that your editor will log on and find you complaining about what an untalented moron she is?
Eff: Not really, she can't even arrange her icons on...
Diane: Does she mind that you show up for work drunk?
Eff: That was just one time and everyone was...
Diane: Fascinating. Anna, aside from MG, you've---how do you say---posted more entries than anyone else. I guess you too have a lot of time on your hands.
Anna: Oh no, I'm very busy, what with soccer and...
Diane: You seem obsessed with rape and violence.
Anna: Those are some of the things I write about but it's not like I go around...
Diane: You're a man. Why do you call yourself Anna?
Anna: It's a long story. I...
Diane: We don't have time for that. Now Linz, I see that you once rubbed a man's bulge through his pants. Was it big?
Linz: Well, I'd say it was average. But you're making it out like...
Diane: You blonde hussy. I bet the carpet doesn't match the drapes. Now MG, it seems like Bad Sam is an insular world. There are like, twelve people who visit your site and most of those double as writers.
MG: We've gotten a million distinct hits. I've got more statistics right he...
Diane: So Ezy, you dig satanists?
Ezy: No, I have a steady girlfriend named...
Diane: Sure you do. Now Mr. Blank, you draw cartoons?
Mr. Blank: I prefer to think of it as art.
Diane: Art, sh-mart. Coming up on Primetime, Rob Lowe tries to promote his oh-so-serious Legal Drama but I keep bringing up that saucy video he shot with a minor. And Rush Limbaugh tries to discuss his new book but I grill him about his OxyContin addiction. All that and Comment Envy when we return.
Linz: You bitch, I can see your brown roots. We bare our souls for all to see and this is the thanks we get?!
Director: That's a wrap. Brilliant work, Diane. We'll edit out that last outburst.
I'm what you might call an early adopter. Not in that Angelina Jolie or Mia Farrow Chinese baby early adoption way, but in the "I want that new piece of technology, and I want it before all my friends get one kind" of a way. Which is, you know, just a selfless as the Chinese-baby adoption thing, if only because I'm often stuck with a useless widget that I can then steer my friends away from spending their money on.
The point is, when I replaced my sickly cell phone last month, I went whole hog and bought one of them thar' camera phones. The picture quality is less than stellar, but it is phone being able to take pictures, stealthily, whenever I want. It makes me feel like James Bond. Or a stalker.
A self portrait. I'm not a complete narcissist, but it seems most of the pictures I take are of myself. What a like most about this shot is the poster behind me. If I were a rock star, I'd use a picture like this for my first album cover.
A picture from the weekly Farmer's Market in Union Square Park. These are mums that were as wide around, at the bottom, as Mike Tyson's neck. At the top, they were as large as Mike Tyson's cell mate's sphincter after Tyson was through with him.
I was at the Museum of Natural History over the weekend. In the "Native Peoples" wing there are all these life-size dioramas of, well, Native Peoples. When I saw this dude getting ready to throw a spear with his dink hanging out, I couldn't help myself. What I don't get is that he is wearing a belt! If you are already putting on an item of clothing, why not let that one item you put on be a nice pair of underwear? I was going to take some pictures of the women with their native boobies hanging out, but I didn't want to look like a pervert.
It is a common topic of female comedians that men don't put the toilet seat down. Personally, I think if I bother to put it up (and thereby guarantee I'm not peeing on it) then the least the bitch could do is put the seat down, right? What irks me though, is when someone doesn't flush, as is the case in this picture, taken in a public bathroom at school. What is even grosser than the lack of flushage, is the amazing amount of leekage. This person left a shot glass worth of urine on the floor. Gross.
I was bored in class one day. I wish my professor had been facing me when I snapped this one, just so you all could see how Hogwart's School he looks. Still, there is something about this picture I just really like.
A couple weeks ago, there was this car accident on the street where I live. It was the kind of accident you can hear from your apartment, and you immediately have to go stick your head out the window to see what happened, because, damn, who doesn't love a good car wreck? Un/luckily, this wasn't a bad accident. A couple minutes later I had to run out to the store, and decided to take the long route (ie. go in the completely wrong direction) to get a better look. The accident was between a taxi, who was completely at fault because he went the wrong way down a one way street. In the picture, the taxi driver is the guy in the blue pants. The driver of the other car, the enormous black guy, is standing next to him and looking like he's about the beat the crap out of the guy. This dude was so big that when he got out of his car it looked like that episode of The Simpsons where Nelson "ha-has" the big guy in the little car, and then the big guy gets out and makes Nelson degrade himself publicly. Remember that? The really funny part is, only a couple minutes later when I walked by again, the second driver looked like he was about to cry. I'd have go over to hug him, pat him on the head and tell him everything was alright, but I didn't have a ladder handy.
Buying a home is much like getting married. You think it’s for life but oftentimes it isn’t. The converse holds true as well; hence the novel concept of a “starter spouse.”
We’re preparing to sell ours and it’s gotten me to mulling the last time we endured that living-in-a-fishbowl ordeal. It was twelve years ago. My wife and two stepdaughters lived in what is known as a piggyback townhouse. This means two 2-level residences sit over one wide one story job. The lower half is actually the basement of the top two. As such, it is subjected to groundwater infiltration. We lived in one the upper units, thank God.
So the seepage got so bad that the homeowners’ association was hounded into Taking Action. Since we blew off all their meetings, my family had no inkling of what was to come until a large construction trailer appeared in our parking lot. It eliminated half the already scarce parking.
Backhoes dug huge trenches around each row of townhouses. Men clambered down in there and slapped creosote on the foundation. This was supposed to keep the basement-dwellers’ homes dry, but it didn’t work. More Urgent Measures were necessary.
Of course, this debacle didn’t come cheap. The association thus saddled residents with a $250 monthly assessment. That would include those who’d remained blissfully unaffected by the water i.e. us. I remember being upset by the collectiveness of this burden. I’m like, sorry to hear about the standing water in your living room but hey, it’s not my problem. I think I know how if feels to write a monthly alimony check to an ex-spouse who continually cheated on you.
It was at that point that my wife became pregnant with Ian. The townhouse no longer met our needs. Enter AA Clay.
I’ve been chums with this idiot all my life. To say he has an addictive, driven personality would be an understatement. He used to hole up in hotel rooms for days on end with an ounce of cocaine, a cooler full of beer and stacks of pornography. He’d get all wired and jerk off until his dick was bloodied. One time we went to Atlantic City and gambled away a small fortune. We retired to my car with only toll money left. When I awoke, all groggy and disoriented, he was nowhere to be seen. He had gotten a hunch and put our last dollars on a number. Needless to say it didn’t hit. I had to call my dad to bail us out.
Anyway, AA Clay cleaned up his act and became a realtor. He applied that same maniacal if futile persistence to selling houses that he had to drug abuse, pud-paddling and gambling. So naturally we turned to him when it came time to unload our townhouse. Impediments to quick sale included said burdensome assessment that would increase any prospective buyer’s monthly outlay by 30%, the trailer/parking problem, construction strewn equipment everywhere and the fact that we had three small, very messy children.
Time after time couples would tromp through our abode, peering disdainfully at our meager belongings. After nine months of this humbling torture Clay took me aside and looked at me gravely. “It’s your appliances, man,” he blurted out. “What about them,” I asked. “Dude, they are avocado green. It’s so seventies it isn’t even funny. No one will ever buy this house until you update the kitchen.” Since we were flat broke, he agreed to foot the cost and be repaid when the sale was complete. I can’t tell you how painful it is to be in the throes of poverty and to throw away a perfectly serviceable stove, dishwasher and fridge.
Within days the house sold and we were prancing on our merry way. But to this day I refuse to be a part of any collective endeavor, unless you count soccer or Bad Sam. Indeed, as we search for a new place to huddle, our #1 criteria is that there be no homeowners’ association. We will deal with our own household problems, thank you very much. Nobody will tell us what colors we can paint our house. To my mind it comes down to the age-old communism vs. capitalism debate. And I am not my brother’s keeper. I’m worried about my neighbors’ welfare in the same detached way I care about the state of Ben ‘n Jen’s marriage: I’m all for it so long as it has no adverse effect on me or mine.
As for AA Clay, he’s since retired to play Mr. Mom to five children. The only homes he sells are his own. He buys shabby hovels on the cheap, renovates them and doubles his money upon sale. I am going to blackmail him into coming out of retirement. I’ll threaten to tell his wife about those porno binges.
I mentioned Lowell George in a comment recently. Suffice it to say I know way more than necessary about this guy.
In the late 60s he and pianist Bill Payne were recruited into Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention. A guitar virtuoso himself, Frank demanded no less from his cohorts. He wanted not only crack musicians, which George and Payne were, but teetotallers in his own image. When he found out his proteges had gone astray, he promptly booted them. What would later become Missing Persons was brought in as replacements.
Little Feat was formed as an offshoot of MOI. Their first two albums epitomized what would later be known as grunge: Raw, stripped down but with a healthy dollop of edge and irony. (Telephone was ringin', they told me it Chairman Mao. I don't care who it is, I just don't wanna talk to him now.) Little Feat then entered its commercial prime with the release of the twin gems Dixie Chicken and Feats Don't Fail Me Now. Most of the material on their live opus Waiting for Columbus was culled from these albums. My friends and I were there for that series of shows at Meriweather Post Pavilion. If there'd been any more electricity in the air it would have been Florida's death chamber.
We were partying in the parking lot when my date noticed a mustachioed figure slouched against a wall, smoking--- the picture of studied LA nonchalance. "That's Billy Payne," she whispered. We approached him and asked if he'd like to partake with us. After a long pause he drawled, "My partying days are over but the other guys would be delighted." With that we were escorted backstage to behold a scene of debauchery I won't even try to describe. What struck me most was what a regular guy the by-then legendary George was. At some point my date slipped him her phone number with a note that read, "Give me a call sometime." He stuffed it in his shirt pocket along with all the others, with an impish grin plastered across his mug. We were sure he'd lose it like you do those mysterious credit card receipts you find in your pocket the morning after.
By that time world-class lead guitarist Paul Barrere had joined the band. They toured the globe and served as the backup band for the late Robert Palmer and Bonnie Raitt. But they never quite hit the big time in terms of record sales. They'd bicker, disband and then reunite. Though it all the LA natives (oxymoron?) developed this weird bond with the DC area, where they were the hottest ticket going. Elsewhere they were the poor man's Eagles.
During one of those breakups George completed his wistful, almost fatalistic solo project Thanks I'll Eat It Here. And to look at him, the composer of Fat Man in the Bathtub had been doing entirely too much of that among other things. He'd ballooned up to 260 pounds and his face had grown grotesquely bloated. That famous boyish enthusiasm had drained from his demeanor.
Touring behind this modestly selling album he played Constitution Hall, a smallish venue downtown. Most of the tunes were from that album but as Little Feat's leader and chief songwriter he felt free to dust off a few old chestnuts, much to the crowd's delight.
Afterwards he retired to the posh Watergate Hotel. He phoned my pal. George never lived to see another sunrise, but she said he looked content when she last saw him. He was found dead alone, survived by his long-suffering wife Elizabeth. The band later reformed and released some lackluster albums. But Little Feat without Lowell George is like pasta without any sauce.
Check out Waiting for Columbus instead. Listen to the piano break on Willin'. George goes, "Mr. Billy Payne" but his words are so slurred for the longest time I thought he said, "He's an old hand." Which in fact he was, just way before his time. But at least he died happy, trying to remember to forget.
Here's to you, Lowell.
A one-year-old boy has been bitten 30 times by a group of more than a dozen other babies at a nursery in Croatia.
Frane Simic was covered in a series of deep bite wounds all over his body, including his face, attacked after the class nanny stepped out of the room to change another baby's nappy.
Dr Sime Vuckov, head of the hospital in Rijeka which treated the boy, was found later in an abandoned parking lot nearby, staring into the middle distance. "Biting between young children is not uncommon," he said, possibly taking a deep, deep pull from a bottle of unlabeled Chechnyan vodka and wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. "But I've just... I've never seen anything like this."
Police have launched an inquiry into the biting frenzy but admit they are clueless as to the babies' reasons for attacking.
"Right now, we've narrowed it down to two basic possibilities," said Olga Shevchenko, Senior Officer of Demonic Infant Activities, in a prepared statement. "One," she said, extending an index finger that had been partially bitten off during an investigation in late 2001, "the child is some kind of living dimensional vortex who will eventually mature into his native power and destroy the majority of the coastal countries along the Aegean Sea in a bid for power - the other children were merely acting instinctively to destroy the evil they intuitively sensed, or Two: the child was the newest inductee into a secretive toddler cabal and was proving his loyalty to the group. We see that sort of thing all the time."
"I don't know," one caregiver at the school commented, holding a hand-rolled cigarette to his lips with a shaking hand, "you expect this kind of thing in... Herzegovina or Montenegro, you know? Not here." He shook his head, as though trying to will the memory of the incident away. "Not in Croatia."
As might be expected, I’m not one to get overly emotional when hearing about the broken marriages, overdoses, and other assorted mishaps of the Hollywood elite. But today I heard about the apparent suicide of one of my favorite singer/songwriters, and it’s hit me in quite an unusual way.
Elliott Smith, who you will most likely remember for the Oscar Award nominated soundtrack to Good Will Hunting, was found in his apartment yesterday with a knife wound to the chest. While there is no reason to expect otherwise, besides a self-inflicted knife-wound to the chest being quite an unusual way to commit suicide, I’m still holding out hope that there is some other explanation for his death.
I’m a huge fan of Smith’s, which certainly explains why I feel anything at all, but, as is probably not at all uncommon in the case of suicides, what I feel most is disappointment. It was only a few days ago that it’d dawned on me he hadn’t put out an album in a few years, and one should be due. He was, in fact, working on a new album, slated for a spring release, after suffering through several years of writer’s block.
I’m frustrated at the thought of never hearing another new Elliott Smith album (though, if Tupac is any indication, Smith will likely posthumously release more material dead than he did alive). But, more than anything, I’m disappointed that someone, having reached a level of success far beyond their expectations (and, in Smith’s case, beyond his desire), would find something to be distraught enough about to literally fall on his sword. I can imagine why someone like me, or the dumbass who lept Niagra Falls (and survived), would think about ending it all, but that someone who’d achieved something with their life to think about Hari Kari (and not just how upset he’d be about the Cubs own meltdown), it is just shocking.
Which is why, I think, Kurt Cobain’s death has always held such a mystique. Kurt had the world. After just a two full length albums, he had already been crowned the voice of his generation. Sure, that is a tough title to wear, but, damn, why wouldn’t you just pull a J.D. Salinger and disappear forever rather than stick a gun in your mouth? Of course, he had to live with Courtney Love Hole’s chatter constantly in his ear, handing over half your cash in a divorce settlement seems like a much more reasonable alternative than blowing the top of your skull off.
And though I can remember exactly where I was when I learned that Kurt Cobain was dead, it was more because of the events going on in my life at the moment, rather than any effect his death had on me. In fact, I was much more saddened to hear about Courtney Love Hole’s recent slide “back” into drugs, and the fact that her daughter, Frances Bean, has been removed from her custody and placed with Kurt’s parents, who did such a bang-up job with Kurt that we should all be giving them our kids, will still make for a much more stable home life than with a nude and ranting Courtney. Wow, that’s a long sentence. Anyway.
As far as musical deaths go, I’m still saddened that John Lennon isn’t alive, but who isn’t (besides Yoko). As for contemporaries, I was most effected by the deaths of Shannon Hoon (from Blind Melon) and Brad Nowel (of Sublime). Both died (or should I say, both overdosed) only shortly after the deaths of their children, which is about the saddest thing I can think of. In Brad’s case, he died only weeks before the release of the album that would have made him a star.
As for Smith, I can’t say his apparent suicide is much of a surprise. His music was always dark (if you aren’t familiar with the songs from Good Will Hunting, you might remember the song Needle in the Hay as the song playing during the Luke Wilson suicide montage in the The Royal Tannenbaum, and no other piece of music could have been as appropriate in that situation).
What all these suicide/overdose/meltdown have in common is the true depth of talent of those who died. Isn’t it strange that it’s always of such tremendous ability to create, not just perform, people like Hendrix, Nick Drake, Kobain, Brian Wilson, and Janis Joplin, who burn out young, rather than no talents like Celine Dion, whichever teenage blond virgin/slut is the flavor of the week, or those kids from Menudo?
Jet when I was getting my buzz on and feeling good in the last post...
Well not five fuckin minutes after I posted the last entry I tried to leave when I stumbled upon about 6 managers soaking up the leftover booze down the hall with the publishers Barbie-esque personal assistant, a woman so hot she melts copper. Most guys dig that shit. I tend to discriminate against pretty people becase, well, because I hate the fuckers. They get everything handed to them. They can be stupid as shit and people will stare at them like they are enraptured. I make no aplogies.
They are pounding it back pretty good. One of the dudes decides we should all go to the TT bar. I'm down. It's 7:30 or so. Plenty of time to get our groove on and be home in time for Law&Order:SVU. I make no apologies. An hour later we're still there, at work, drinkin'. Well they are. I nurse my wine because I don't get hammered any more since that massive anxiety attack I had Summer '02.
Things are cool until the party planner (who stuck around to drink with us) tells me she really likes my column. This is embarrassing. I'd rather people just talked to me, but its either they ignore me or I have nothing to say because what do you say when someone lavishes you even a little bit with praise?
So the praise sets off the circulation manager (a glorified paperboy) who says ... and I quote ... "If you had any fuckin' talent you wouldn't be working in THIS place." Every word was emphasized about as snotty as you can get. Now, I'm senstive, but I know he's full of shit and either way he isn't qualified to judge, but god damn. Talk about a buzz kill.
Long story short he apologized, I made hime squirm and tomorrow I plan to hit him up for some promotional material. I want my face on every vending box in town. When people buy this paper, I want them to think ... my name and see my face.
I tell you though, I wanted to kick his ass pretty bad or at least bad ass him good.
EXCUSE THE CAPS BUT I BROKE MY FINGER IN A BIZARRE SLEEP ACCIDENT. I CAN'T USE THE SHIFT KEY.
Sniper John Muhammed's trial began this week. He's charged with gunning down Dean meyers at a Sunuco near my stepdaughter's apartment. Had the bullet gone astray she might have been killed. That hits a little too close to home. That hits a little too close to home. Thus I've taken an interest in a trial that has foregone cunclusion: guilty as charged.
He elected to proceed Pro See, a bad move. In his opening remarks, he said had this to say about the jurors: "They wasn't there. I was. I know what happened and what didn't" To top it off he allowed prosecuters to leave grisly images of Meyer's corpse on monitors far longer than necessary. Anyone who's watched Law and Order would know to object to that as gratuitous. Although he's since changed his mind about representing himself, the damage is done. He's a goner.
But there should be some question as to whether he'll receive a death sentence. Va law allows the state to whack anyone who kills 2 people in 3 years, including juveniles. That's why ag ashcroft chose my home state as a venue. But there's a catch. You have to personally kill them. It's called the triggerman rule. Police haven't a shred of evidence that Muhammed shot anyone.
The second way to be rid of this scum is under an untested anti-terrorism law passed in the wake of 9/11. Lawmakers wanted to ensure that osama would pay the ultimate price for the pentagon bloodbath even though he was thousands of miles away. It wasn't their intent to condemn a sniper-accomplice or "sighter" like Muhammed.
The punk Lee Boyd Malvo's story is more straightforward. First off, he was an illegal alien with no business infesting this nation. Second, he plans to mount an insanity defense. That never goes over real well here in the south. Lastly he's a black man who shot a white woman for no reason, a definite no-no round these parts. Say bye-bye.
Both of them are born losers who never amounted to anything. I won't lose any sleep over their executions. I certainly have no desire to subsidize their lavish indoor lifestyle, which is a major step up from their previous residence in an old chevy caprice. Nonetheless, i get the feeling muhammed is getting railroaded.
Fact is authorities are always trying to manipulate statutes to off notorious n'er-do-wells. Charlie Manson got a death sentence even though he wasn't at the Tate or Labianca scenes. Scott Peterson faces two murder counts even though he allegedly murdered just one person. The extra count will allow ca to revoke his gene pool pass.
Last I checked, folks, fetii aren't people. If they were, jails would be full of abortionists and abusive husbands.
Strange indeed but to me the oddest part about the Peterson case is how Laci was such a lip-sticky hottie while his masseuse/mistressm is such a dog. How many wive keep wearing bright red lipstick five years into the marriage? Dude, what were you thinking?
<ed note>all caps removed for the sake of all our sanity</ed note>
I am currently drunk at work because we had a shin dig for all the VIPs in town. Senator Tom Harkin was invited. I'd like to say we spent a good 15 minutes talking about Iraq, but he blew us of like lint. The mayor didn't even show up. Somebody must've forgot to tell him there was free booze here. Other than that it proved to me that I am even more popular than I thought, everybody loves me and now it's time to go home, alone, and pass out now that I am bloated on shrimp, good cheese and reasonably-priced wine. Maybe I'll get me a hooker.
It’s no wonder so may folks have grown so cynical and mistrustful of everything they hear. From day one their elders have been force-feeding them adages, homilies and platitudes that are demonstrably bogus. Allow me to debunk a few here.
Beggars can’t be choosers. Oh yes they can. Give a panhandler a nickel and he’s liable to throw it back in your face.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Anyone who’s ever tried to sustain a long distance romance knows this to be false.
To err is human, to forgive is divine. Granted, people do make lots of mistakes. My wife has every single blunder of mine catalogued in her mind. But we’ve got way too much forgiveness going on these days. Take Richard Nixon. He had the Watergate thing, which was pretty egregious. Yet to my mind, his Peace with Honor scam was far worse. 50,000 dead and having our mighty military trounced by a ragtag cadre of starving guerillas had nothing to with honor. Nor did putting the lone blemish on an otherwise undefeated military juggernaut’s record or allowing the filthy commies to overrun a nation we’d vowed to protect. Defeat with Shame would have been more accurate. Despite all that, his funeral was a stately affair. Bob Dole spoke eloquently of his statesmanship and achievements. Something like four ex-presidents and countless dignitaries paid their respects. All was forgiven, and that ain't right.
Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you. With most people, this is all well and good. But what about masochists and submissives? Do we want them doing unto us as they’d have others do unto them? Do we want them stringing us up from trees and lashing us with cat o’ nine tails; or making us sit in uncomfortable chairs and tell what useless sluts we are? Or forget about out-and-out masochists---what about those who gravitate toward abusive relationships? I sure don’t want to be treated that way.
A penny saved is a penny earned. I don’t even bend over to pick up pennies when I drop them. It isn’t worth the effort. In fact, many people have advocated elimination of the bothersome coinage.
Honesty is the best policy. Not always, I’m afraid. If you’ve seen Liar, Liar you know that. Surely Jim Carrey would have been better off not telling that busty woman in the elevator that everyone was treating her nicely because they liked her succulent jugs. And tell that to criminals who’ve been duped into leveling with the police and now find themselves at the mercy of horny cellmates. I am wearing your soiled underwear. Did you want to know that?
‘Tis better to give than receive. I used to take great pride in my generous United Way contribution, until I learned that the charity’s top execs were diverting the money to themselves. They spent it on fancy cars, gambling junkets and strumpets. Evidently others agree, as contribution levels have dwindled since these facts came to light. As for the obligatory gift-giving at Christmastime, my family members never seem particularly enthralled with my gifts---there isn't much selection on Christmas Eve, after all.
I’d challenge anyone to name a single adage that is above such reproach.
Last night there was an accident on the Staten Island Ferry. The ferry shuttles something like 60,000 passengers a day and is a tourist favorite, since for just 50 cents and a half hour out of your life, you get to float right past the Statue of Liberty get great views of lower Manhattan, and only have to physically be on Staten Island for about a minute before you can get on the boat the hell out of there.
The boat's pilot fled from the scene of the accident and was found at his home and reportedly had tried to commit suicide by shooting himself in the head with a BB gun. The boat crashed into the dock, ripping a huge gash in the boat while killing ten and injuring more than forty more, which is no laughing matter. Still, I’m not sure what the big deal is; fairy’s get blown in New York City on an hourly basis, and, more often than not, they are left with a huge bloody hole.
The pope celebrated his 25th anniversary as, uhm, the pope this week. Is it just me, or does anyone else think it’s time for ol’ popey to step down? At this point the poor guy can barely keep his head up. It’s one thing to bow your head in prayer, but it’s just sad when you’re so feeble the weight of your giant pointy hat keeps you stooped lower than Alanis Morissette in a movie theater.
If the pope is finally allowed to step down then Donald Rummsfeld can take over, since we all know he is the one running things in the Vatican anyway. Oh, wait, I was thinking of the U.S. government, not the Catholic Church.
With the Cubs losing game 7 to the Marlins last night, how long do you think it will be before the fan that reached out for the foul ball in the eight inning of game five ends up mysteriously dead? Now, Cubs fans are used to losing, so I don’t think any of them would be so distraught as to take the fellow out, but I could certainly see police finding him a couple days from now with a self-inflicted BB gunshot to the skull.
Either that, or he can expect Rupert Murdoch’s personal hit man (and please don’t try to tell me Fox Empire’s impresario doesn’t have a personal hit man) to come knocking on his door late one night. The program directors at Fox have got to be pooping in their Armani slacks this morning, because, despite the fact that the Marlin’s have been the most exciting team this post-season, I can’t imagine a bigger snore-fest than a Marlins vs. Red Sox/Yankees World Series. The Marlins can’t manage to garner fan enthusiasm in Miami, much less grab the imagination of the country and shake it like a Swedish nanny. The final game of the Yankees vs. Red Sox series is tonight. Unfortunately, I can’t skip class tonight and watch since there are only three other students in the class, and my absence would be incredibly conspicuous.
If the Yankees win (which, come on, is pretty damn assured), the world can let out a sigh of relief, since the possibility of either the Cubs or Sox winning a World Series is one of the signs of the apocalypse, and foregoing a series win by either of those teams in 2003 will ensure the world goes on for at least another year.
Earlier this week China launched their first manned spacecraft into orbit, making them only the third nation to do so. Or did they? They are so damned secretive over there, they didn’t allow Western press to get a view of the launch or touch down, and the pictures they are revealing sure look a lot like publicity stills from the set of Chinese television’s version of Galaxy Quest.
I'm so fed up with modern lingo. Here are some examples of what irks me to no end.
Undocumented workers: People who've flagrantly flaunted immigration laws i.e. illegal aliens. The current euphemism implies that someday proper documents will be produced, which will never happen.
Significant Others: Oh give it to me, my significant other. Your penis is so...sizable.
Takes Pole: You often see this in sports page headlines, as in "Jeff Gordon takes pole." It sounds awfully...peculiar.
Pre-owned: Used car dealers have taken to slipping this into ads, as though it's a good idea to have someone else break in your car.
Native Americans: I know an Indian activist who claims the government foisted this label upon them. His tribe came from someplace else too, namely the steppes of central Asia. Hence no one is a native American, he explains. What would they prefer to be called? Americans, that's what. Works for me.
Higher Powers: This is needlessly vague and dilutes the grandeur of God or Allah or The Donald or whoever you choose to worship. "Praise be to Higher Power" simply doesn't cut it.
Life affirming: Yet another nebulous term we don't need. Life its ownself is plenty real and requires no further affirmation.
Syndromes: Real diseases like malaria or chicken pox have distinct symptoms, progressions and causes. Such so-called syndromes as chronic fatigue, sick building and chronic pain do not. Thus they don't rise to the level of a full-fledged disease. That is needlessly confusing.
Special Needs: Special used to mean something good, as in "special talent." But when combined with needs it means something bad like retardation, behavioral problems or disability. Needless to say it isn't good to have special needs.
Needless to say: Then why say it?
Right-thinking people: This is heard from both sides of the ideological fence and means, "those whose views happen to coincide with mine."
Angst: I'm not altogether clear on what this is. I just know it's ponderous and I'm sick of hearing about it. Corporate angst, investor angst, anti-globalization angst and angst among Gen-X members. And it's got too many consonants like a Polish name.
Metrosexual: I just don't like the way this sounds---like a homeless dude who offers to give you a hand-job on the subway.
All hip-hop vernacular: By the time it wends its way into the suburban lexicon it's hopelessly trite. See: Peace out.
Whatever it is that Ozzie is still muttering about: This guy and his family are so five minutes ago.
Freedom fighters: Oh, please. If it's a terrorist, call it a terrorist and then kill it.
This is surely a major indication that I’ve finally become comfortable enough with this site that I care more about quality than quantity, but I did manage to catch a numerical milestone just in time to make some noise about it.
Sometime later this week Bad Samaritan should reach the tremendous achievement of 1,000,000 unique visits. Pretty f’ing amazing, if you ask me, and though you haven’t, I’ll still tell you. As I’ve mentioned numerous occasions, I’m pretty sure when I started this site I’d never have imagined that a) I’d still be doing it 3+ years later, b) that the world would have visited the site in excess of one million times, except if I had personally visited the site in excess of one million times myself.
But, both those things are true, so I suppose I should expand my mind to the possibility of other strange things. Such as: it being October and both the Cubs and Red Sox are still playing, that someone could be so stupid no just to think chicken of the sea tuna is actually some kind of chicken from the sea, but that the world is actually laughing with them instead of at them, a grab assing body-builder from Austria could become the governor of Caulifornia, or that the Chinese have sent a manned craft into space.
If I can wrap my mind around the idea that people have visited this site on 1,000,000 unique occasions, anything else should be no problem. I have nothing more to say.
Except here are the official stats () so you can keep track yourself. If you happen to be the one to hit 1,000,000, please feel free to take a screenshot and let me know. Whoever it is, well, you probably wont win a fantastic prize, because this site is run out of my apartment and we’ve already far exceeded our marketing budget (of $0) for the year. But, you will get recognition for being the wonderful human being that you really are.
Those of you who spent some time in Iowa almost know how bad "the Husker Bullshit" can be. But trust me, unless you live on the border where Nebraska media unashamedly bombard the airwaves with Husker bullshit, you have no idea how ridiculous these fucks can be.
I don't really follow sports, but I do hate people who won't shut the fuck up about the god damn Huskers, who wear Husker gear when they go out to the bars or who get all defensive when a Husker commits an egregious, antisocial act.
A Nebraska football player committed a crime of violence last weekend, but this time it was against a man! And in public!
Kellen Huston, a Nebraska place-kick holder – a position more closely associated with Lucy van Pelt than football media coverage – appears to have intentionally struck a Missouri fan who was running onto the field just as the player was scurrying back to the Nebraska locker room in shame and frustration Saturday night.
Now, I didn’t hear about Huston’s allegedly “brutal assaulting” of an innocent, possibly drunken, Missourian until Tuesday because I was too busy having a life this weekend to care, but I heard that the Huskers lost. I was driving down the main drag in Omaha on my way back from the Big&Tall store when I saw hundreds of people wailing and gnashing their teeth. Curious about this archaic display of sorrow, I asked some dillweed what the problem was: “Lo, dude in the Husker gear, what be-eth thy problem?”
And he did say back unto me, “The Huskers hath fallen, oh why, why, why? Ooooohhhh, why?!”
After some prodding, I found out the score was 41-24, which, to my way of thinking isn’t so much a loss as a smiting.
Huston’s alleged “fan assault” has caused the usual amount of Nebraska brain-farting as newscasters, coaches and fans alike try to make this incident sound as though it is not only NOT the fault of the Husker player who – “all worked up” after such an intense game full of place-kick holding – clothes-lined a civilian, but is in fact the fault of the guy who was punched, whose nose was broken and who was knocked out on the field as his assailant fled the scene of the crime like a thug.
“The Missouri fans shouldn’t have been on the field any way!” Hey, fans take to the fields especially after they beat a team they haven’t beaten in a long time or in the case of a bowl-game victory as any Husker fan well knows.
“The fan was drunk.” Was he? I haven’t seen that evidence, but assuming he was, so what, he didn’t hit anyone. And the last time I checked, someone’s just being drunk didn’t mean they were asking for it, but then I can see why the average Husker player would think that it does mean that, at least with their female victims.
“The Missouri fans were being bad fans.” Oh yes, we hear this one every year. Anyone who has the temerity to cheer for a team besides the Huskers is technically a bad fan. Anyone who cheers loudly for their own team, especially when the Huskers are traveling, really upsets Huskers and their fans.
“The Missouri fans shouldn’t have been on the field.” Yeah, because fans NEVER, EVER take to the field anywhere else. Huston probably thought he was being attacked and just wanted to defend himself lest he miss the regular end of the game prayer meeting. Fans take to the field, that’s what they do, not all the time, but regularly and this was one of those justified occasions..
“Nebraska coach Frank Solich is investigating the alleged assault.” What is he a private dick? No, but as a long-time fan of the Father Dowling Mysteries, he might as well be. I’m sure the Missouri police as well as “the alleged victim” are satisfied that that Nebraska coach Solich will do his best to root out the true culprit just as soon as some of the furor over “the alleged assault” dies down.
CBS, I think I have a new hit show for you, “HuskerCSI.” It would be a show where Nebraska coach Frank Solich goes around trying like crazy to “solve” all of the crimes his players are accused of using all of his scientific technical expertise to “take of it” week after week.
“Kellen Huston was just all pumped up after a hard game. Adrenaline got the better of him.” Adrenaline has nothing to do with the place-kick holder’s life. The water boy has a harder job. In fact, the place-kick holder shares the same rank as his plastic counter-part, “that thing the ball sits on during kick-off.”
Unlike the average Husker fan, I actually used to play football and the assumption that after a game, one is so pumped up that one is, for all practical purposes, unable to tell right from wrong or legally insane is highly inaccurate to say the least. You can argue there is a big difference between high school and college ball and I would agree. College players should be much better at controlling their tempers than a bunch of adolescents since they aren't pumped up on hormones – at least not naturally occurring ones.
Die, Die, Die Pig, Die! Fuck the police!
Yea, that’s right mufucka. I went there. Ice-T and Body Count said it first but I’m saying it again. What could possibly justify such a statement you might ask? Well, let me tell you.
A few years ago, as in 1999, I was in Wisconsin doing a job. My old company put us all up in a hotel and, pretty much, left us alone. We had none of the comforts of home and were like displaced specters rattling chains down the halls of this fine establishment for nearly a year. I once thought living in a hotel would be fun to do. They clean up your mess every day; laundry drop off is handled at the front desk and meals can be delivered to your room still piping hot. Sounds like a pretty good deal right? Wrong. That shit gets old very quickly and whatever detergent they were using gave me a rash. Ah but I digress. I am a big Third Eye Blind fan and was anxiously awaiting their new CD. On the fateful day in discussion I had joined some friends, I made up there, for some food and drinking. People from that part of the country can drink anyone under the table. I have no scientific facts to back this up but did see, on more than one occasion, petite young ladies, from UW Madison, out drink big burly country boys so badly that they had to be helped from the bar. I may or may not have been one of these guys. I’ll never tell. Anyway we all get our drink on and after a while I remembered it was 3EB’s CD release date. I had one of the ladies drive me to the mall where I promptly purchased it then she took me back to the hotel to listen to it. I got back to my room happy as I could be until I remembered……..I had no CD player to put it in. Shit! My drunken brain mulled this problem over for a while then I realized my rental car had a CD player. Sweet!
I bundled up and went outside to check it out. Anyone who has ever been close to Wisconsin knows that the winters there are frigid. Cold doesn’t adequately describe it at all. When you have wind chills of -40 then you know it’s bad. Well, I get in the car, pop in the CD, turn up the volume and proceed to enjoy my new purchase. I was bundled but it was still damn cold so I cranked up the car and put on the heat. After about ten minutes I heard a knock on my driver’s side window; It was the cops. I turned down the music and put the window down. The officer asked me how I was doing and I said fine. I asked if the music was too loud and let her know I would turn it down if that was the case. She didn’t even answer my question and asked me to step out of the car. She asked me how much I’d had to drink that night and I told her plenty. She then proceeded to give me a field sobriety test. I told her that there wasn’t any reason for that. I admitted that I was hammered and told her if she wanted to give me a ticket for drunk in public I would happily accept it so we could both get out of the cold. She told me she was writing me up for operating a motor vehicle while intoxicated. What?! I was operating the CD player, not the car. “Why do you have the car running” was her next question. “Because it’s -20 with wind chill tonight” I answered. “Where have you been driving” she asked. “I haven’t driven at all tonight” I answered. You could tell that the car hadn’t been moved due to the snow piled up behind it. I pointed this out but she was having none of it. She cuffed me, stuffed me in her cruiser and off I went to jail. Sure enough they charged me with OWI. I couldn’t believe it. I had to leave WI for North Carolina in four days, due to the job being done, and they said I could contest it from there. Fine. I got a court appointed lawyer and had them go to court for me. The judge didn’t like this and issued the full fine and a bench warrant for my arrest if I ever set foot back in WI. Fuck-heads. I didn’t believe I was treated fairly so I decided to appeal. This appeal has been ongoing to the present. I have been in touch with the lawyer up there almost monthly and figured all was well. Today I pulled my credit report online, because I want to buy a house soon, and guess what? Those fuckers sent the fine to a credit collection agency. My lawyer had assured me that everything was proceeding well and was confident that this trumped up charge would be cleared soon with no repercussions. I guess not. Not only do I have to pay these assholes $800, I have a blemish on my credit report. Pissed off doesn’t even come close to describing what I feel right now. I was trying to do things legally but you can’t beat these bastards in their own system. Sometimes I think rights are a complete line of shit. Sure you have rights until someone within the system decides the time has come to snatch them away. Fuck them. I wish I had the balls to go “Natural Born Killers” on their asses but I’ll just hang my head and write them a check like a good little bitch. Fuckers.
Warning: This post contains sweeping generalities. If you truly believe we're all individuals free of preordained tendencies, read no further.
Most guys either can't or don't wrap gifts very well. Nor do they tend to put much thought into gift purchases. They aren't real good at whipping up gravy from scratch either. For the life of them they can't keep track of birthdays or anniversaries. Guys don't excel at faking interest in things that bore them, like ballet or feelings or gossip. Empathy doesn't come easy to guys. Nor does a simple act like sewing on a button. Generally speaking, dudes aren't good team players. Many of them tend to be loners who call escort services when they want companionship. Bail bondsmen consider them greater flight risks. They fart freely and they are slobs.
Few gals can throw a ball with much oomph. You don't want to take a girl to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Women are easily tempted by such forbidden treats as chocolate. At the same time, many of them seem embarassed about the necessity of eating. They're often jealous of one another. They make catty remarks. They aren't good at reading maps.
Men can read maps and fix things. They know more about cars and appliances. They aren't overly talkative unless they're on coke, a definite plus. Men take great satisfaction in a job well done. They're goal-oriented. Overall, men are tougher. To them, everything is black and white with no grey areas.
Women are pleasing to the eye and seem to come in more physical varieties. They smell better than dudes. Their belly buttons are cuter. They are intuitive and attuned to nuance. Most of them possess an innate skill set that eludes men, including gravy-making, gift-wrapping and giving head. They pee sitting down so you don't have to deal with that icky residue around the toilet bowl. They seldom fart and tend to be fastidious. Insurance companies consider them safer drivers. And they are willing to put in the work necessary to sustain friendships.
Men often sprout unsightly hair in all the wrong places. Women rarely do, and when it happens they get rid of it pronto.
Until age 11, girls are easier to raise. After 11, they're much more combative and difficult than boys. Voluptuous women usually claim to have been late bloomers who had few dates in high school, while buff male pro athletes excelled at sports from a young age. These studs started getting laid regularly in their cribs.
Guys like almost nothing better than to have a girl complement them on their penis size, even if deep down they know it's barely mediocre. The only thing better would be to overhear her gushing about his battering ram to a girlfriend. Gals like for guys to tell them they smell good, but only if it's in fact true. They don't want to hear that after a grueling workout or gang bang. And they'd be mortified to overhear him gushing about her firm tits to a pal. Ditto for her blowjob lips (you know, the ones that never quite close.)
Chicks have their own words, like "bitchy." So do guys, like "blowjob lips."
That's all I could think of at the moment. Maybe y'all have noticed other subtle differences between the two main genders?
You know that show Amazing Race, where pairs are put through various rigmaroles as they trot the globe in pursuit of a $1 million prize? My wife and I have been caught up in just such an ordeal for months, though for slightly smaller stakes. We aim to unload our 40 year old hovel and turn a six figure profit.
The problem is that it's so run-down and the decor is vintage seventies. So far we've put in new bathroom fixtures and floors, painted the entire house, replaced fences, wallpapered, hung new blinds, gutted crumbling walls, landscaped, installed new light fixtures and fixed the railing and chimney. All that's left is to have the hardwood floors refinished.
This process takes three days, during which time we can't walk on the floor. We've thus been relegated to our dank basement, where we've thrown two bare matresses. (Shades of The Godfather, when the capos went to the matresses.) We've got a cooler for our half 'n half and yogurt, a coffee machine and a microwave. We've got a DVD player and a pile of rented movies. The chinchillas are down here too, because they're real sensitive to fumes. The birds, toads, fish and iguana will have to tough it out upstairs.
Of course, the furniture had to go somewhere. We crammed as much as we could into the kitchen, bathroom and den. The rest went into a 15 foot cargo van we rented. A sign at Budget Truck Rental warned that we could wind up liable to the tune of $45,000 if we didn't buy the insurance. Despite the fact that I'm lucky to clear $45k in a year, we declined.
For impoverished sorts, we've accumulated mad stuff. I lugged item after item out to the truck as my wife wrapped curios in newspaper. Eventually I had it winnowed down to things that it takes two to carry. We started with our box spring. I noted that it had no springs and that the wooden slates were all broken. "Remember that Valentine's Day when you promised me a new bed but only delivered a matress," she asked. "Yeah," I lied. A spirited discussion ensued and it turns out that I'll either buy a new box spring to replace the creaky 15 year old one or live like a monk. Mattress Discounters here I come!
Sundown came and we're still hoisting huge pieces of furniture out the door. Or should I say the doorway, cuz we had to remove the door to get my son's desk through it. This behemoth weighs about as much as Rosie O'Donnell, only more unwieldy. No way we could lift it, so we dragged it across the floor, leaving visible gouges. Oh well, it'll be refinished tomorrow, we reasoned. Which means there's no way it's coming back inside. There the $400 desk sits, out at the curb, free to anyone with the brawn to haul it away.
As the drudgery dragged well into the evening, tempers started to flare. My wife complained that eventually I'll pass out and she'll be left to toil alone. She may be the only woman alive who could make you feel guilty about going to bed at midnight when you have to be up at 6 AM. (Then again, most woman are pretty good at manipulating guys with guilt among other tools in their array.)
I woke up on the mattress with the ironing board and footsball table within inches of my head. I had that disoriented feeling you get when you awaken hung over in a strange alley. My son's alarm is blaring, which means it's...7 AM. Bah! I scramble out of bed and make a beeline for the coffeemaker in the kitchen. Woops, it's downstairs. I brew coffee and toss a Toaster Strudel into the micro for my son. He saunters in, munching on a Quaker Oatmeal to Go Bar. "Don't bother with breakfast," he says.
I stumble bleerily into our halfway renovated downstairs bathroom. The faucet are all new so I struggle to get the right bathwater temperature. I clean up in a hurry, just scrubbing the parts that stink. I go to shave but there's no mirror so I pull one off the dining room wall. I'm sitting on the floor in my robe with my balls hanging out. It occurs to me that I've never seen them while shaving before. I fish through a plastic bag and pull out what I think is toothpaste but is actually acne cream. Yuk!
No laundry is clean so I go through that routine where you whiff it to see which garments reek the least. Balanced on my pillow, I iron a pungent shirt and pants. I'm wondering just how late I'm running. I tear through the house in search of a clock that isn't stored away but find none. I crawl through a maze of furniture in my den but my shoes remain just out of my grasp. At last I lay hands on them and dash out the door, bleeding from my chin. Scavengers are already picking through items we've discarded at the curb, but the floor guys are nowhere to be seen. The clock in my car's broken and the DJs are acting like the time is some closely guarded secret. Traffic's backed up to the horizon and beyond. My trademark Ray-Bans are packed away in my nighstand, which is ensconced in the front of the truck. The sun is boring into my bloodshot, photophobic eyes like a Lasix laser.
So I finally make it to to my job all disheveled and harried. Who'd be seated at my desk but my stern boss! "Glad you could stop by," he sarcastically says.
This saga should end there but no. That night we're in full bunker mode with our provisions on hand. I pop Identity into the DVD player and summon my son to navigate the myriad screens and make it play. My wife fires up the micro to pop popcorn. Poof! We're plunged into darkness like hapless postwar Iraqis. We keep plugging it into different outlets but the breaker keeps flipping. Then it broke altogether. So we're trapped downstairs without power, with no movie and a useless bag of unpopped kernels.
Yes Bob, it's indeed hopeless and forlorn. Yet through it all my wife remains steadfastly chipper. "Make the best of it," she chides me. This lady is amazing.
Steve Martin said he studied just enough philosophy to mess him up for the rest of his life, well, linguistics will do the same thing. It breaks language down into its smallest components by describing phonemes, such as an unvoiced bilabial aspirated oral plosive, like the “p” in “peanut” or a voiced labiodental fricative like the “v” in “Venus.”
Linguists do this to understand the basics of language as well as to understand language in the broadest possible way: by acknowledging that language is a living, evolving entity that adapts and changes to meet the organic needs of speakers.
“Language” has certain elemental traits, but in the end, there really aren’t many “rules.”
This is something they don’t teach in junior high, I’m afraid,m but tell that to the hordes of local language arts hacks who like pretend I'm the devil for knowing more about language than them. I mean, c'mon! I went to college with people who trainED to be English teachers, man, I wasn't impressed.
To say that “ain’t” is not a word is like saying that Twinkies aren’t food. It just ain’t so. To say that one must never split their infinitives is like saying one must never break the speed limit while driving a Mustang convertible on a lone desert highway. You got-TA, baby, ya just got-ta do it!
So what IS important? To me, it’s communication. What is language if not the means to get what is in my head into yours? If I can do that, if you can understand me, if I can understand you, then we are communicating. I’ve known a great many people who thought that never using double negatives or dangling their participles made them masters of the English language. Tell that to Mark Twain, William Faulkner or Zora Neale Hurston.
Please don’t use this site as your primary source of news, but, as you may have just woken up (like I have), you may not have heard that Arnold Swartzen…, Schwarts…, the guy who starred in the Terminator movies, is now the governor of Caulifornia.
This, and the fact that both the Red Sox and Cubs are still playing baseball are surely signs that the end times are nigh. Still, if Arnold’s campaign and the thrilling play of the baseball post-season are any indication, at least the end will be entertaining. There must be a fifth horseman of the apocalypse, and his name is "Ratings Gold!"
But, this isn’t about end times or baseball, but about the star of End of Days and a bat and pair of balls of a completely different nature.
The nation, based on press coverage, and Caulifornians, who turned out in higher numbers on the question of recalling Davis than had shown up to put him in office in the first place, love Arnold. Which is strange considering that more people showed up for the recall than showed for Terminator 3, Collateral Damage, and The Sixth Day combined.
The nation's unquestioning love of Arnold is why, though my spies stumbled across Arnold’s smallest, but dirtiest little secret way back in August, I waited until after the election to bring it out into the light of day, that bare fluorescent bulb in your parents basement, or whatever the lighting situation might be where you are viewing this site right now. I may be a lot of things, but I’m no muckraker.
Forget about Nazism, or grabassing production assistants in elevators; Arnold’s dirtiest secret is that this Austrian-born actor sure
doesn’t have an Alps in his pants. Arnold is a very popular, yet, as 20 Fingers so aptly put it way back in the 90s, we “don’t want no short dick man,” and I didn’t want his lack of… experience, to influence voter opinion.
Which means now that Arnold’s filling out a change of address form for his new digs in Saucremento, it is okay to expose the pictures, and his tiny little wee wee. I guess you have to give the guy credit, he owned up to doing “bad things”, and seems, in this picture, very comfortable exposing his own “Gary Coleman.” You have to give it to a guy with those kinds of hidden secrets putting himself out there for public exposure like that.
But, I will give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Arnold did take a lot of steroids back in his bodybuilding days, and we’ve all heard about the berry shrinking effects of ‘roids. Plus, Arnold played Mr. Freeze in the forgettable Batman and Robin, which also brings to mind the possibility of shrinkage. There may be many explanations for his tiny ding-dong.
Whatever the situation, he must be one confident mofo to go around posing naked and gangbanging black chicks in weight rooms. Which, in my book, is the only real necessary qualification for governorship. The confidence part, not the gangbanging.
Winter is almost upon us and you know what that means: fashion designers trotting out their spring collections. Haughty junkies who subsist on a steady diet of pocket lint and cum will parade along the catwalks clad in outlandish costumes nobody with even a trace of human DNA would be caught dead in. They'll grimace as if hot fireplace pokers were being jammed up their asses, under the weight of handbags big enough to hold a lipstick case. Hips will swivel, bra straps will show. You and I shall remain clueless about all of this.
Ah but we mustn't criticize let alone dismiss the endlessly gaudy display. As with modern art and fine wine, to do so would be to reveal yourself as a boorish clod. It's okay for learned critics to quibble with certain details, however. They can protest that the colors are all wrong. They can lament the raising or lowering of hemlines. Yet no one will step back and jeer at the entire haute couture industry.
Thus it shall live on forever, in a parallel universe unrelated to the one we inhabit. Even when someone caps a designer as happened a few years back, his sister will take the reigns to ensure that the preposterous getups continue to be churned out.
We drink enough wine around here to float a battleship. I go to Total Wine and examine the bottles with 3 criteria in mind: 1) Price. 2) Is it Merlot? 3) Is it French? I don't consider how sassy or exuberant it is. Nor do I care if it boasts the texture of fine cashmere. Yet wine critics routinely bandy such esoteric terms about, describing fermented grapes that have been stomped upon by dirty-footed peasantry.
Lest the rest of us appear ignorant at wine-tasting soirees, we nod our heads knowingly at this gibberish. The wine guy hands us a tiny Dixie cup with some remark about how "oaken" or "silky" it is. No one thinks to grab the bottle and take a long swig. It just isn't done, dahling.
Like pearls cooped up in a slimy oyster, every so often we resolve to become more cultured. We'll take a jaunt down to the National Gallery of Art, where you have to step gingerly over surly homeless men who doze on the steps. Once inside, there is art. Mad art, none of which is any good because those European museums insist on hoarding all the priceless Rembrants, Monets and Michelangelo works. Artsy types stare at it with their heads tilted, as if trying to will some meaning into an incoherent bunch of squiggly lines on canvass. They speak in the hushed tones of golf announcers but no one thinks to point out that they've got better art stuck to their refrigerators with cheesy magnets. For we wouldn't want to be mistaken for culture-challenged rubes, now would we? Instead we line up with the experts and tilt our heads in that same curious way. Then we head home to swill wine from bottles with screw-off caps or better yet, boxes.
All you need to know about modern art is that something called The Lights Going On and Off won a $30,000 prize from the famed Tate Gallery a couple years ago. It is pretty much self-explanatory, but this guy seemed to read more into it.
Oh and you should also be aware that some fool rolling around in cow dung onstage isn't art, it's a fashion statement just like track marks.
In a final attempt to make Americans explode, the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association has begun to combat its number one foe in the fight for a place on your plate and in your belly. No, not Vegans. Chicken.
When it comes to America’s favorite cardinal sins, sloth beats gluttony and when it comes to “convenience foods,” chicken rules the roost. Beef is good, I mean, hey, it's what's for dinner ain't it? But apparently beef isn't fast enough. It doesn't microwave well and fly into our mouths covered in breading and ranch sauce they way a chicken wing or a chicken finer or a chicken nugget does. AND THAT WON'T FUCKING DO for the Beef Illuminati who want us sucking on beef all day long because the 60 pounds of beef the average American ISN'T ENOUGH!
Can you believe this shit?
Here is the real kicker. We still eat less chicken (only about 50 pounds a year), but we could be eating so much more beef if we'd only just try.
So these guys at the NCBA have an actual R&D RANCH they call it where they come up with ideas to sell even more beef. It is not enough for us to consume hamburgers for lunch and the occasional pot roast for dinner when there are many other opportunities for us to be eating beef, snacking on beef or even just thinking about beef when we aren’t eating or snacking on it. And don’t forget about veal! It’s the other, OTHER white meat! Don’t believe the tales of cruelty.
Some of the concepts (recipes) devised by the NCBA R&D Ranch posse (yee-ha!) include such potentially artery-popping fun foods as “cheeseburger fries” – ground beef and cheese that is breaded then fried or baked. Jalapeńos optional. Why have fries with your cheeseburger when you can have more cheeseburger with your cheeseburger? It’s only logical when you think about it.
“Philly cheese steak bits” appear to be pizza roll-type items, I can dig that, I mean, once the Pandora’s Box of pizza rolls were opened, anything goes.
“Country-fried steak tenders.” OH BOY! Just thinking about eating chicken fried steak while at the bar trying to get drunk makes me want to effin' puke.
They've also come up with “Sante Fe sticks” (your guess is as good as mine I don't know what the fuck that could be) and “beef and bacon bleu cheese wedges” – for some odd reason they DONT make me wanna puke. I like bleu cheese. I like bacon.
What's Next? Tired of Gatorade? Try gravy as a sports drink. How about one-a-day, vitamin-enriched beef smoothies? Worried about giving out candy at Halloween? What’s wrong with kabobs? I see coffee-flavored ice cream, why not pot roast?
Frankly, the R&D Ranch-hands have overlooked some of the less morally questionable NON-FOOD uses of beef that could be just as lucrative, if you ask me. Beef jerky doesn’t have to be just a high-sodium treat any more, now it can be the perfect concealed weapon. Avoid metal detectors and feel safe in dark parking garages with jerky nunchuks, throwing stars and two-by-fours made from dried whole-beef tenderloin.
Don’t tell me a car can run on corn and not jus, because I’m buying that. And once we get our cars revved up with it, what’s to say we can’t make alcohol from beef products?
Of course all of this will be moot so long as we have nothing faster to cook beef in than a microwave. We need to get our cooking times down to 10 seconds, because all this waiting around for a full minute is just bullshit. HEY THAT'S BEEF!
There was a time, not too long ago, but it seems like it was forever, that I was addicted to this website.
Over the past three years, and especially during those times when I was unemployed (though admittedly often while I should have been working), I would spend a good portion of each morning crafting a perfectly witty and timely, though thoroughly grammatically flawed, post. Then I would spend the rest of the day responding to comments and religiously check on the stats to see how many people were visiting the site, who was linking it up, and lets not mention all the rest of that Google fun.
Well, if it isn’t obvious from the fact that I haven’t posted anything in more than a month, I seem to have shaken that particular monkey off my back, though I can’t say the same about Madden, which has taken up entirely too much of my time over the past few weeks. Madden and trying to down as much Vanilla Coke as possible before they inexplicably decide to take it off the market and all I’m left to do to satiate my need is to pour vanilla extract and plain old regular Coke into my mouth and swish it around like, well, something out of a Japanese scat film.
The point is that I haven’t been around much. Why I’m back is, well, for one, despite the fact the wide receiver pats the quarterback’s butt after a great throw, it’s all virtual, and if I’m going to have someone touch my ass, virtually, I’d rather have it be a real person than an artificial intelligence and I just know if I start posting regularly again I’ll be getting all the virtual ass grabbing I could ever hope for.
The second reason is because, since no one else is as likely to notice or mention it is I, I’m back today specifically to mark Bad Samaritan’s third anniversary. That’s right, this website was started three years ago, today, way back in the hazy recollections of the year 2000. I can honestly say that at the time I had no inkling that, three years later, not only would this site still be around, but that it would be what it is, and as successful as it has become.
What’s more, when I think about my life on October 3rd 2000, then 2001, then 2002, and now 20003, I can only think “Oh my, god.” I don’t think I could have imagined from one year to the next about what my life would have been like from one year to the next. And if someone had told me where I’d have been and asked me to explain how I got there, I could never have done. Shit, if you ask me now how to explain how I got from A to B to C I’d be unable to do it, but then, all I’d have to do is look through the Bad Samaritan archives.
So, on it’s third anniversary, here’s to you Bad Samaritan, the record of a life. And for all the other Bad Samaritans, a record of all our lives. Scary, no?
The following was posted by my wicked twin annA.
You'll find no porn at my house. We don't even have tasteful nudes on our walls. You'd sooner find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. My wife hates smut and I respect her wishes. But even if I didn't, our humble abode would still be bereft of porn. When it comes to finding it, she's like a heat-seeking missile.
The closest I come to porn these days is hearing adult stars on the Howard Stern Show. One of them was on there this AM, prattling on about her latest venture. Seems she both directed and starred in a rather hard-core affair. She claims that today's audiences demand rough action and such innovations as....double anal. Yes, two guys pummeling a bucking lass back there at the same time.
This simply floored me, because I'd never heard of such a thing. Isn't it about as far from lovemaking as you could get? And putting aside the daunting logistical challenge this feat presents, isn't it more than a bit gay? She says no, it's a sensual experience like aroma therapy.
For some reason I am reminded of a picture I once saw of a toothless woman with a whole pack of hot dogs crammed into her mouth by parties unknown.
In a related matter, I once attended a bachelor party where they showed what must be the world's oldest porno flick. It's to today's slick smut as hieroglyphics are to weblogs. Shot in grainy 17 mm film, it involves a homely farm girl who totes a pail out to the barn. But this maiden's in no mood for milking, so she coaxes a dog and a pig into banging her. Then she wanders listlessly back into the house and that's it. Has anyone else ever seen this unspeakable dollop of perversion or perhaps, worse?
As for more conventional cinematic fare, I'd recommend Wonderland. I've read the Esquire article it's based on. It chronicles Johnny "Wad" Holmes' swift descent into madness, addiction and ultimately murder. Tawdry stuff indeed, but you can rest assured that with the armadillo he had stuffed into his trousers, he never engaged in any double anal action. Ouch!
Cautionary author's note: Whatever you do, don't form a mental picture of that in your mind unless you want it etched permanently in your memory banks as it is in mine.
We all have those family friends who are just so close to you and have been a part of your family's life for so long that sometimes it's easy to forget that you're not actually related to them. My family used to live in Chicago for a while before and after I was born. We lived close by another Indian family, the Shahs, who had two sons close to my brother's and sister's ages. Our parents became close friends and their kids grew up together, remaining very close even after we moved to Iowa. It's traditional for Indians to address any older person as "uncle" or "auntie," but in this case they really almost were an uncle and aunt to us. Since most of our relatives still live in India, they were in fact closer to us than our actual family.
Nalini Auntie was quite a character. Standing about four-and-a-half feet tall (maybe a little more on a good day) she had the strongest, most grating voice you'd ever heard. It was always that voice that would wake you up at seven in the morning, carrying through multiple floors and walls from the kitchen where she and my mother would sit and chat over their morning coffee, piercing, nasal Hindi phrases echoing down the hallways.
She also used to tease me incessantly. She was especially fond of a story from when my parents were still living in Chicago, which would have made me probably about one or one-and-a-half years old. Apparently I would always run to her (crawl? waddle? what do kids do that young?) whenever she would come over to our house, and hang on her legs when she would leave. She felt like I really liked her. Strangely enough, I wouldn't do the same thing when we would go over to her house. Turns out I just was hoping she'd take me with her when she left my house; no excessive fondness there.
One of the best things about her was that she would never hesitate to straight-up tell you what she thought. She would come right out and say it if you were doing something wrong or such. She had the strongest personality and really, no one could stand up to a diatribe of heavily accented English coming from her. You just had to give in to whatever she was saying. (I think that's how she always got me to eat more vegetables.)
Two years ago she began a bout with cancer. At first it wasn't much of a big deal, but eventually it started spreading everywhere, especially over the past two months. She was in and out of the hospital, on many different treatments, and things looked up for a while, but eventually there just wasn't anything to do. They put her on the hospice floor and she wasn't expected to last more than a few days. True to her form and stubborn nature, she got a little better and eventually went back home. However, eventually the cancer spread to her brain and her body began shutting down, one system at a time. Last Friday night I called her house and spoke to her. By that point, she could no longer talk, but only mumble a little bit. I talked to her for a little while, just telling her about how my life was going and how much I was enjoying Rome and school. I told her that the plans for my sister's upcoming wedding in November were right on schedule. I wasn't really prepared to say goodbye, but I knew that I was when I told her that my sister would be very happy and that her fiancé is a great guy and I really like him. I can't count how many times I said that everything is going really well for me and that I'm happy. I told her that I would see her when I came back to the States for the wedding. But by the end of the conversation, I was choking up and it was all I could do to not cry while talking to her. I'm told my those that were there with her that she was smiling and happy to hear from me. After I hung up I broke down crying. I hadn't expected it to hit me so hard, but it really did.
Last night as my brother was driving home from work, he had a sudden thought that he should call her sons, Rubin and Sumin, which he usually doesn't do on the weekends. My sister, half the country away, did call at almost that exact time. Turns out that it was right about then that she left us, almost as if they could feel the hole left by her passing. My brother sent me an email today that I received while I was in class. I pulled my friend Chris aside and cried on his shoulder for a bit, then left class and stumbled through the streets of Rome, winding my way back home.