bad days don't seem so sad

by mg at 09:06 PM on June 30, 2001

Did you ever have one of those days when everything seems to go wrong?

No? Well, fuck you, Miss Perfect Pants. Why donít you just shut down your computer, go outside and turn the world on with your smile, we donít need your kind here.

Now, for the rest of you, this, obviously, has been one of those days for me. I really just feel like that Peanuts character that walks around with a black cloud over his head, getting rained on all the time. And I canít even say, ďThis or that big awful thing happened.Ē Because, really, nothing big and awful happened. The day was full of little awful things that built up to one miserable time.

When I woke up this morning, well, this afternoon, it smelled like something had died in my bedroom. Iíve got this problem. I donít know whether it is a medical condition or what, but when I sleep, I sweat. A lot. It doesnít matter whether summer or winter; hot or cold; clothed or nekkid; alone or with partner; night or day; I just sweat a lot when I sleep.

Iím not a big sweater during the day, but when I am sleeping, Iím dripping. Sometimes I I wake up thinking I had a nocturnal emission, until I realize it is just my crotch sweating. Anyway.

I though, at first, that the smell was me. But it wasnít. After I got all wet and naked, I still smelled that ďdead thingĒ smell in my bedroom. I poked around for a bit, and couldnít find whatever it was that died, so I just lit a candle and went on with my day.

Iíve been waiting for two weeks for my last paycheck from work to show up. At the beginning of last week my boss had even called to tell me that heíd sent it out. Yet, when I went to check my mail today, still no fucking check. And, I really need the money. Iím starting to think that my ex-boss was just messing with my mind.

Which brings me to the next event. When you are unemployed, the mailman is one of your best friends. I check my mailbox three or four times a day, because, the Internet is boring, and snail mail makes me happy. When I went to check my mail today, my paycheck wasnít there, as previously reported. Not only that, but of the five pieces of mail in the box, only one of them was for me!

I got mail for three of my neighbors, plus something for my aunt and uncle, who havenít lived in this apartment for more than two years. The one thing in the box for me was, drum roll please... a notice that my bank account was overdrawn.

See what happens when you write checks that your ass canít cash, Michael?

The bank sends you nasty letters.

Well, lucky for me, kind of, I had just the day before gotten a whole lot of cash (like US$1,000) that Iíd loaned to someone a while back. That person was supposed to return it to me months ago, and is totally on my shit list right now for fucking up my credit since Iíd written all these checks thinking I would have gotten my payback by now. Just you wait, deadbeat, Iíll be getting my payback on you pretty soon.

So, all that money needed to get deposited into the back today, but as Iíd lost my ATM card a couple weeks ago, the only way to do that was to physically go into the bank. I have not physically entered a bank in over a year.

I hate going to the bank. Theyíve got such god-awful hours. I think on Saturday, they close at 3pm. So, if I try to get there around 1:30, I should have plenty of time to take care of business.

So, to kill some time, I decide to fuck around on the computer a bit, which just thoroughly bored me. To relieve my boredom, I decide to do my taxes, which are now more than two months late. Iíd filled them out back in April, and remember that I was supposed to be getting back a ton of money this year. When I dug around the piles of paperwork in my ďto doĒ pile, I found that I had, in fact, not filled out my taxes after all, but just done a bit of the math involved.

After spending a bit of time filling them out, I realized Iíd messed up on the math the first time around, and Iím supposed to get back about US$300 more than I was expecting. Which is the one and only good thing to happen today.

So. I take my cash (to deposit in the bank), my taxes (to drop off at the post office), and as happy a disposition as I could muster (so I didnít snap and kill someone while running my errands), and left the friendly confines of my apartment to trip out to the world to take care of business.

To begin with, itís about 500 degrees Fahrenheit out. For those of you in countries with the metric, that relates to about 9000 degrees Celsius. If I thought I was sweating a lot last night, I was sweating just as much the instant I stepped out of my nice comfortable air condition enabled apartment.

Needless, I was soaking by the time I got to the bank. Which is closed. Apparently they close at 1pm, not 3. Fuck. Iíve done this a million times. I always think the bank closes at 3 when it really closes at 1. When will I learn? Probably never.

I walk on over to the post office, another two blocks away, and am just about to drop my letter in the little mail chute when I noticed Iíd forgotten to put a stamp on it. And of course, the post office also closes early on Saturday. So, of the three things to get done on my daily excursion, Iíd already struck out on two of them.

The next thing to do was to buy some groceries since Iíd run out of food a couple days before and had been subsisting on stale saltine crackers and the cans in my cupboard thatíd long ago lost their labels. The grocery buying, at least, went off without a hitch.

Then, I just came home, turned the air conditioning way up, pulled the blankets over my head, and waited for the day to be over.

I also broke a glass. And I'm starting to feel a little sick.

Hmm, writing all this stuff down, it seems that nothing that terribly bad happened. But, there is always tomorrow to look forward to.

comments (4)


sex machines : erection killer

by mg at 04:30 PM on June 29, 2001

Have you ever found yourself having to "go commando?" If so, have you ever pulled up your fly a might bit too quickly and caught a little tuft of pubic hair in your zipper? That's a pain you don't soon forget.

Or, have you ever been going down on someone and got a little bit of their pubic hair caught in your braces, and then when you pulled away, the hair got tugged and your partner got totally turned off because the pain was so bad? Actually, that's probably never happened since anyone wearing braces would probably be going down on someone who hadn't even grown any pubes yet.

Well, anyway, in 1889, James H. Bowen of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, unveiled an invention to prevent nocturnal erections/emissions that took the kind of pain that can only be brought on by pubic-hair-in-the-fly (or braces) to new levels.

Bowen, in the aesthetic design of his device, appears to have drawn inspiration from the restraining mechanisms of horse bridles. A little metal hat was placed over the head of the penis, with small chains on either side dropping down to the end of spring-loaded clips. The clips were then securely clasped to tufts of pubic hair at the base of the penis. When a nocturnal erection began, and the penis enlarged beyond the length of the chains, the pubic hair was pulled, causing the kind of pain guaranteed to wake the naughty dreaming sleeper who was, according to Bowen, "thereby enabled to prevent or check the discharge."

The book I'm stealing all these pictures from says that stylish lines of his invention are visually suggestive of an ornate piece of jewelry, though, I defy you to find one of these in the Bloomingdale's jewelry department.

comments (31)


If you're single and you know it clap your hands...

by snaggle at 10:27 AM on June 29, 2001

Here's another great (stolen) list for your reading pleasure. This one was written by my friend spacecheese. Too many of these apply to me, though a few need a switch from 'opposite sex' to 'same sex' for me. mg said he wanted to steal this, but I called dibs because I've been single longer — and need to post more than he does. Feel free to add your own; maybe someday we can publish a great compendium of BadSamaritan Lists of Stuff or Something.

    Things people who have been single too long (not necessarily me) do:

  1. Pause a little too long when flipping past the "Girls Gone Wild" commercials (applies only to straight males).
  2. Fold in the side mirrors on the medicine cabinet, stick their head between them, and look at their profile fading off to infinity (don't try unless you have really high self esteem - you look weird, trust me).
  3. Take vacations with their parents.
  4. Become overly self-conscious about their eating habits in public, no longer use forks, plates or glasses in private.
  5. Stop believing that anyone else in the world is having sex.
  6. Start believing that everyone else in the world is having sex.
  7. Start a website.
  8. Defensively and pre-emptively inflate their self-esteem. "I'm too good for her. I don't even have to talk to her to know that."
  9. Find themselves surrounded by PDAs. The old kind.
  10. Get quizzed frequently by their mothers about all of their opposite-sex friends.
  11. Start looking at all of their opposite-sex friends. Catch themselves.
  12. Wonder if this means they should become priests or something.
  13. Use a lot of metaphors involving deserts.
  14. Say things like "I don't know if I'll ever date again, really. Maybe I'll just settle for casual sex," and then actually settle for crappy anime. Every night.
  15. Bore their friends with complaints about being single too long.

comments (6)


When you suspect your brain is suddenly geometrically inclined....

by zia at 08:47 PM on June 28, 2001

Although I'm feeling kinda groggy right now, my energy level seems ridiculously high. I must expend it or risk self combusting in the next minute! Talked to him on the phone till 6 this morning. Farout! And must have hit the snooze button more than 10 times by 9 am...

The reason I don't allow myself to pig out on sleeping is that when I pig out, I pig out. I can sleep at 8pm and wake up late in the afternoon if I want to. Wow, talk about self control....hehe. Anyway, I make it a point to wake up before 12 noon or earlier to break off this 'pig-out' habit of mine which lately, seemed to be very stickier than Wriggley's. And now that I'm on hols, my procrastination elevated another level to the extent that I hide all my books so that I can't find them and therefore can't study without them. Hehe, smart huh?

More often than not, with one eye still refuses to wake up, I would wash up, collect all my soft toys that I've kicked into the gap between my bed and the wall the previous night, apologize and put them back in the 'collision' course of my bed....Then I would jump around a bit to heat myself up because usually:

1. Sister switched off the damn heater.

2. Mornings are horribly chilly.

3. And still sister switches off the damn heater.

But I suppose I will have to bear partial blame for the morning stagnant fuzz because I ...well, sorta asked her to switch off the heater when she wakes up because I woke up later than her and always woke up feeling half-baked....


I can't stop grinding my teeth god damnnit. This girl is hyperventilating. Why do I always get irrational hormones? Grr. Oh great, now I felt the pounding urge to spread and encourage the outbreak of screwy unbalanced insanity and sheer lunacy. Hold me down...somebody!

At the moment, the shape of my mind is triangular. Is that a good thing?

The variegating colours of my external self ! Look of the minute: Bewildered rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming 14 wheel, 16 tonne truck.

This is very tiring.

Especially frustrating when you're actually going for this I-can't-deal-with-puberty look when people actually thought you were half a decade older than you were....damn...

I need to congregrate more goofy friends. Its hard not to play when there's so many toys...

Beck rocks my world. ( What a handful of digression! ). And I couldn't seem to dish out whatever description of any standard music classification that would do his brand of music justice. About all his albums are catchy and hook laden, very saturated with promising pitches of giddy inducing riffs. Oh boy. They were totally an original hybrid of hip-hop, folk and honky tonk country, laced with twisted, hyper observant, lyrical poetry, and punctuated with weird noises and sample...a quirky consumption indeed.

Hey, I've just crunched on this lightest potato chips I've ever managed to shatter crisply all over my face....

I want a pet ..*whines* ...preferably with multiple features...

I'm crapping and I knew it and still I refuse to emancipate you guys from this cyber bondage...*evil cackle*

No, I'm not bored. Don't be silly.


i'm an eligible bachelor. love me.

by mg at 02:00 PM on June 28, 2001

A couple weeks ago my friend Mei invited me to this party put on by the company she works for. I think Mei is the absolute beeís knees, so of course I said ďyes.Ē Then she let me know that the party was a singleís only thing, and that the price of admission (for her) was brining an eligible bachelor of the opposite gender (me).

I guess that should make me happy. When someone you crush on (but could never actually date) has your name float to the top of her brain when she has to think of eligible bachelors, thatís kind of cool.

A little bit about Mei; just because I feel like talking about her. She is a very cute (hot), and smart woman who Iíve known for eight or nine years now. She is entirely too quiet, though. Back in high school, most of us (guys) hardly noticed her. That might also have been because she was in a long term, serious, committed relationship, but I attribute it to the quietness since Iíve never failed to lust after another manís woman before.

Now, Mei is still cute (hot, actually), smart, and still just as quiet, though, she finally seems to be overcoming it and damn, all the guys in our circle have certainly noticed. Iíve had talks with nearly all of them about how much we are all in love with her.

Mei is also kinda cute because she is just as innocent as a girl scout on a camping trip. Whenever my mates (XX and XY) get into conversations about weird sexual perversions, at some point in the conversation, sheíll have to lean over to the person sitting next to her and ask what we mean by ďtossed salad,Ē or whatever. Isnít that just the cutest?

Anyway, the party was for singles. The way Mei described it was that this was going to be a small thing, just for her department. Itíd be a chance to mingle with a few people who were also single and looking to hook up with someone. When she invited me, perhaps because I was feeling a little down and a lot backed up, I said yes.

Now, Iím sure Iíve mentioned this a million times, and you probably could have picked this up on your own even if I hadnít, but Iím socially awkward. Well, not exactly, but Iím not socially proficient by any means. Once Iím talking to someone, it usually isnít a problem. I can just blather on and on. Iím a great listener, and Iím funny and cute. But, Iíve never been able to just go up to a strange woman and start talking to her. I just canít get over that ďfirst contactĒ thing.

Also, Iím a bad one on one conversationalist. Sometimes I can talk a mile a minute, but there are other times when I just donít have a damn thing to say. Silence isnít good if you are only talking to one other person. I hate those long awkward pauses. But, if Iím in a group of three or more people, itís great, because someone else can always pick up the chatter slack if Iím just not able to come up with a reply to whatever stupid thing the woman Iím talking to is saying.

Well, all that stuff I conveniently forgot about when I agreed to go to this party. And while it was still a far way off, I could just think about how much fun it would be to hang out with a lot of desperate women, because I didnít have to think about how Iíd actually have to talk to them, and not just end up back at my apartment all sweaty and sticky.

As the dreaded day approached, the idea that Iíd actually have to talk to people (women) started dawning on me. Eek! Mei actually talked to me earlier yesterday to ask if I still wanted to go. I really didnít, but I didnít want to stop her from getting her swerve on with any guy she might meet there, so I said yes. Besides, I figured, at best, Iíd be going home with some really hot, slutty, drunk babe, and at worst, Iíd have something interesting to write about today.

So, finally, I got dressed up to go, all casual like, a nice pair of slacks (Dockers!) and a button up shirt, and headed out. Itís been hot as hell in New York recently and yesterday was no exception. By the time Iíd walked the three blocks from my apartment to the subway, I was sweating like I hoped I would be by the end of the night. Only, there wasnít someone elseís naked, sweaty body pressed against mine. Not until I actually got on the subway. Except for the naked part.

Anyway, I met up with Mei at her office, and we walked over the where the party was going on andÖ It turned out being a much different deal than I thought.

This wasnít a little office party; this was an event. The party was not actually put together by the company Mei works for, but by People magazine. This was some sort of event to coincide with the magazineís 50 Most Eligible Bachelors issue. I was at a party sponsored by AOL Time Warner. I was ready to just about shoot myself.

Everyone there was dressed in black. Beautiful. Yuppie. Typical New Yorkers. Or at least the kind of typical New Yorkers that everyone who has ever seen any movie or TV show about New York expects typical New Yorkers to be like. The kind of typical New Yorkers that everyone who moves to New York from somewhere else tries to be. So basically, this party was a total fictional New York. That only exists on the silver screen. And, I suppose, right then and there in front of me.

Can I just say that I hate the typical New Yorker? The kind of person who roller blades around Central Park, who eats Sunday brunch at a sidewalk cafť, who picks up the New York Times, and insists on reading it on the subway without knowing the proper way of folding it. The kind of person who will move to Connecticut as soon as they have kids.

To add to the impression that I had stepped into the movie, there were also TV cameras around, reporting on this ďnewsĒ story. And Iím sure if I had stuck around much longer, there might have even been a celebrity or two. But, obviously, I didnít stick around. Luckily, Mei is as socially awkward as I am, and we both felt uncomfortable, so we left.

comments (8)


show me your state

by mg at 11:03 AM on June 28, 2001

The problem with email spammers is that sometimes people like me get emails like this:

Hello, I am contacting you about trading links. I currently run Branson Shows. It is a site about the Branson, Missouri area. What I would like to do is have you add a link to Branson Shows, and in turn I will add a text link to your site on every page on Branson Shows under the 'Our Friends' section. Please take a look and see if it would work for you, to add your link now simply click on 'add your link' link. I think it would be a great feature for my visitors to be able to visit your site, I think you have some very good content that they would enjoy. My site visitors are mainly the upper class and they love to travel, to just about anywhere.

Now, if youíve never heard of Branson, Missouri, Iíll use a quote from The Simpsons to explain how much of a mistake it was for them to send me an email like this; "Branson is like Vegas run by Ned Flanders."

I was a sucker, I checked the site out, and figured, what the hell, thisíll be good for a laugh. While Iím sure the Branson webmaster probably likes this site, I canít imagine the kind of people whoíll get drawn into a visiting a town because Andy Williams plays there regularly will really be into Bad Samaritan style humour. I also find it hard to believe that someone whoíd make any city in Missouri a vacation spot (except for, of course, Columbia), could be considered ďupper class.Ē

But, heck, if they link me up, Iíll be happy. Iím such a link whore.

comments (2)


Summer of Sin

by snaggle at 11:27 AM on June 27, 2001

It would only be fair of me to tell you all about the wonderful events in my life since turning 21 rather than only the depressing side. The past week has been filled debauchery and... um, well, other illegal substance use/abuse. A few weeks ago my best friend Jeffery decided that this summer would be the Summer of Sin: lots of drinking, drugs, and sex. So far I've grabbed the proverbial bull by its proverbial horns for the first two, but not so much for the third. Ah well. If anyone wants to change that, please let me know. We've woken up and had morning cocktails multiple times, imbibed copious amounts of alcohol, but both of us are a little dry on the boy scene. Ah well.

So I turned 21 at 12:00 AM on Wednesday, June 20th. I was at a bar by 11:57 PM on Tuesday the 19th. (Yes, they actually did make me wait outside for three minutes. I thought it was a joke, but they weren't laughing. Bars and clubs around here are very anal retentive about being 21 to even get in; thatís why whenever someone turns 21, itís a rule that they have to go out and drink to excess, even if theyíre not a big drinker.) That night, between 12:00 and 1:30 AM, I think I consumed about eight alcoholic beverages: three mixed drinks and five shots, I believe. I was just fine the next morning. We went out again starting at 6:00 PM that evening and made a tour of three bars and I had probably twelve or thirteen alcoholic beverages. That night I posted a few drunken comments about articles (you can go back and look for them yourself) that I quite honestly don't remember posting. The next morning, I was not so much fine. My boss had to call me and drag me into work (which wasn't a big deal. I love not having a job where I have to interact with people. Yay, web design!) Why I didn't take the morning off is beyond me; just a moron, I guess.

Over the couple days, I had more drinks and one illegal substance. Then came Saturday. I'd been planning for quite a while on dragging everyone I knew down to Des Moines (about 30 minutes away) to go to The Garden, a gay & lesbian bar/dance club. I had another illegal substance that day and then in the evening completely fretted over what I was going to wear and how to get everyone down there. I even had a few people from out of town joining me, which made the evening just that much more special. Finally, everyone was at The Garden, the person that wasnít actually 21 got in using anotherís ID without any problems, and we were all inside scoping out the place. From what I recall, I had a great time. Everyone was being really nice to me because everyone introduced me as the birthday boy. I danced for a while, got introduced to the owners, had several free drinks (which is a good thing, because drinks there are about $5 each) and was promised a spanking on stage during the drag show at midnight. She forgot to pull me on stage, however, and I was somewhat disappointed. After that, memory starts getting hazy. I was having a great time with more dancing, drinking, and talking with people. I donít think I ended up dancing in the cage, though our illustrious Shar did. I hear she was dancing with our friend Natalie — and they made around $10! After The Garden closed at 2 AM, everyone was milling around outside. Apparently, the drag queen that promised to spank me finally kept her word; outside the garden, with a crowd of 50-100 people all counting along with every spank, I got 21 spankings so hard I needed someone else to hold me up while I received them.

There are a few more hours to my night that involved wresting with people in the parking lot, during which I think it was that I acquired the scrape on my elbow that hurt the next day; puking in the grass with a lot of people standing around me; trying to get on my neighbor, who turned me down very politely (so I hear;) and finally being put to bed. What a night. The next day I couldnít figure out if my ass was sore from the spankings or from dancing — probably both.

And now? The past couple days Iíve felt horrible: very unproductive, without any motivation to do anything at all. It was all I could do last night to do some laundry so I had clean clothes to wear today. Thatís what sucks about having a great weekend: the next few days after it will suck hardcore. Thatíll teach me to have a good time...

comments (2)


grab my poll

by mg at 09:56 PM on June 26, 2001

Change is good. Adding Snaggle, then Zia and Shar, was probably the best thing to happen to this site since sliced bread. But, I've been wondering recently, well been forced to wonder, both by folks asking to join the staff, and with folks I'd like to join the staff, whether it was time to ass some new blood. So, in an effort to do as little actual thinking as possible, I'll leave the choice up to you guys:

Is it time to add some new blood to the site?


Current Results

comments (2)


do you have the time to listen to me whine

by mg at 03:35 PM on June 26, 2001

What do you say when you have nothing to say. Besides saying that you donít have anything to say?

That is what Iíve been struggling with the last couple days. Iím just so thoroughly unmotivated to do anything, including waking up, eating, getting dressed. I really donít even feeling like looking at porn lately. How much of a slacker am I that I donít even have the energy for porn?

And the Internet? Fuck the Internet. I can imagine nothing more boring than the fucking Internet at this very moment. Suck is dead. Fubar is dead. Pretty much the entire e/n scene is dead (though, most days Iíd say good riddance.) What else is there out there on the world wide fucking web for me?

I know I donít want to get sucked into daytime television. Throughout college I watched enough daytime TV to last me a lifetime. There was an entire semester that I only left my dorm room to eat, pee, and going drinking. I subsisted on the Internet (back then it was all ASCII text, so no porn unless I could get turned on by o and oIo. Which I canít. Unless Zia is saying it.), TV and sex. That semester was pretty much like my existence now, but one of the things on the list is missing — the thing that made everything worthwhile before.

So, without sex, I donít think I could bear to watch another Rikki Lake makeovers. And I really donít want to get wrapped up in any soap operas. I find it hard to break my addictions, and Iíve been off Days Of Our Lives long enough that I donít even have the cravings to know what is going on in Salem anymore, though I know itíd only take a few days before I was addicted again.

What else is there besides the Internet and TV?

I suppose I could go on lots of walks, like my friend who moved to L.A. a couple months ago. She goes on hikes every damn day, but she certainly doesnít seem any happier for it.

And sure, I live in New York City, the greatest damn city in the world, and there is plenty of stuff to do around town. But, that would require me getting up, getting dressed and getting out of the house. I donít have the motivation to get out of bed with the promise of porn waiting for me, and you expect me to go outside and do something that wonít involve any porn at all? Whatever.

Going out in New York also requires tremendous amounts of money. It is $3 just to get from one place to another. Add to that food, another $6, plus whatever it is I end up doing: a movie for $10, a museum for $8, peep shows for $0.25 a minute. I just donít have that kind of cash.

So, what else does that leave? The Internet is free, but like I said, booooooring. TV is free but just plain stupid. Sitting and staring at my apartment walls, while fun, gets old awfully quick. Iíve already listened to almost all of my 600 CDs, and I donít think Iíve sunk low enough to play that embarrassing Bullet Boys disc yet.

Iíve watched all of my meager collection of DVDs. Someone dies in every damn movie, and most are incredibly depressing. Watching Björk get hung in Dancer in the Dark, or Kevin Spacey get his head blown off in American Beauty is really not the way to break out of my depressive-funk.

I suppose I could redouble my job search efforts. But damn. What a soul crushing experience that is. If I read the words ďRequired: 5-7 years of experienceĒ one more time, I think Iím just going to give up and see if the local White Castle is hiring.

This site, which was my anchor to the real world when I was unemployed a couple months ago, just isnít doing it for me now. I always said that I wouldnít force myself to do this if I wasnít enjoying myself. And, Iím not really enjoying myself right now.

I know there are those among you whoíve been in similar experiences. Christ, weíve all felt this way at times; so, please tell me what to do. Iím ready for suggestions. Okay people, how do I spend my waking hours?

comments (4)


Defective poo poo/ crap/ shit spitting gun...

by zia at 06:44 AM on June 26, 2001

# I think I'm a girl.

# Writing up a will. Arse face brother can have my toenails. From the left foot only. Because my left foot sucks.

# Got two freaky calls this evening. All I heard was beeping. Then the line went dead. Who is it ! Own up you beardless punk!

# I forgot how to sleep. Insomaniac overdrive. And going to be sworn into Raccoon Annonymous earlier than I thought I would.

# How the hell do you reload this half arsed gun....

Oh, look how pretty my temper are. That's all you guys are getting tonight sugar. What is the use of throwing beautiful tantrums when you don't have a good audience?

Off to amuse myself. And oh, by the way, when you say you're seeing shit, say when.

comments (2)


how to : be a role model for today's youth

by lizard at 02:00 AM on June 26, 2001

Young people who have no business being role models are regularly being thrown into the spotlight, thanks to the omnipresence of video cameras & the public's insatiable appetite for salaciousness. What should you do, if you find yourself in the role of role model to your generation? After eight long years of scholarly Chelesa, the young people of America have a new icon in Jenna. Her more studious twin sister Barbara, a student at Yale with only one arrest to her credit, is a much less realistic goal for the average college-age girl (or boy) to try to emulate, & besides Jenna is just way hotter. Way.

For those still in high school, wondering how they might be more like Jenna, I offer this example: buying snacks for friends will make you popular! Jenna, known as 'the doughnut girl', was elected class vice president in her senior year, & also was voted "most likely to trip on prom night" before her high school graduation. So remember: if you drink heavily & buy people food, they will like you.

Guys, especially, will like you. & if you find a special guy, make sure he knows how to handle himself in difficult situations, for instance, if he gets arrested for being drunk in public, he should know how to express himself in a way that commands respect: hollering 'I'm nailing the president's daughter' as he's being hauled away in handcuffs is a sure way to get special treatment in the holding cell while waiting for the secret service to arrive in an unmarked van with Virginia plates to bail him out. What the hell, discretion isn't very sexy anyway.

Maintain your popularity by getting wasted regularly. Frat parties are a great venue for this sort of activity, & letting friends take your picture is even better than buying them doughnuts, because they can't sell those doughnuts to the tabloids for more beer money. No need to worry about your image - remember that commercial, image is nothing, thirst is everything; drink, drink, drink! & when you get arrested, you are just showing your peers that it's ok to get in a little trouble now & then.

Now, if your dad's a famous cokehead, it makes it harder to rebel against parental authority. If you're Jenna, though, you can just say it with cutlery - like this time in 1998 when, reportedly: "There was tension in the Bush family when Karla Faye Tucker, a murderer who became a born-again Christian, was due to be executed. According to family friends, Jenna dropped her fork dramatically at the dinner table and said she was against the death penalty." Shocking though this may seem, daddy went ahead with the execution anyway.

One thing Jenna might wish to consider though, before she's past her prime, young, hot, rebellious years, is the generous offer she received from Larry Flynt - an unprecedented 10 million dollars just for showing some pink. & depending on how much damage daddy does to the economy, it's an offer that shouldn't be dismissed lightly.

comments (2)


all artistic and stuff

by mg at 02:12 PM on June 25, 2001

My friend jamila wrote this. I'm posting it because it amused me, and I'm feeling positively unmotivated.


morning talk shows make me sick

who needs to know how to make party sandwiches at 8 am

must i start my day with a tally of the world's tragedy

or another middle aged womans hapiness strategy

cute anchors and jolly weather men

fluff pieces on seasonal fashion

while journalists in training badger bereived parents

medical updates-new studies new drugs

tips on being safe from attacks by a thug

what a way to start the day

when it's hard enough to convince myself

that getting up and clean

is better than hazy slumber

I really start to wonder

Where my priorities are and how they got there

Perhaps NPR instead, for an intellectual approach for what's in the day ahead


Attention! Hey you, look over here.

by zia at 09:12 PM on June 24, 2001

Pardon the lack of post. Just gotten over with my Mid-finals. And now, fraught with a nagging preoccupation to retrieve something I've lost couple days ago. No, it doesn't quack.

Just keep a big eye for it okay?

Lost: A virginity at the University lawn. If found, please return to Zia ASAP as she is missing her innocent look.

comments (4)


sally struthers : i never thought i'd see you naked

by mg at 02:06 PM on June 23, 2001

Carroll O’Connor, whose portrayal of irascible bigot Archie Bunker on “All in the Family” helped make the groundbreaking TV comedy part of the American dialogue on race and politics, has died. He was 76.

O’Connor’s Archie Bunker spouted off against minorities, liberals and his long-haired son-in-law and kept at it for 13 years. He didn’t flinch at playing an unlikable character and deftly brought Archie’s intolerance to life. O’Connor gave Archie a vulnerability that allowed him to be seen as a beleaguered soul, bound by his unthinking prejudices and buffeted by the changes sweeping Vietnam War-era America.

All in the Family ranked No. 1 for five years, and was top-rated for much of its 1971-’82 run. It, and O’Connor, were responsible for making racist, sexist, homophobes chic again. All in the Family also introduced the world to the The Jeffersons (before they moved on up) and launched the career of Bea Arthur. But more importantly, All in the Family will always hold an important place in American pop-culture for reminding us that Sally Struthers was once one a hot piece of ass.

Kids today know Struthers as that fat mess who begs for money for starving foreign children, as a perennial punch line on South Park, and the psychopathic neighbor on Gilmore Girls. They don’t remember her for the tight little body she used to have back when she used to be Archie’s little girl, and getting naughty with the Meathead. But don’t fret, future generations will always have reruns of All in the Family on Nick at Nite and this steamy nudie pic to remember Struthers in her finer days.

What, you’re saying that when you started reading this you thought I was going to show a nudie photo of Carroll O’Connor? I may be a pervert, but I’m not sick.

comments (23)


ol' bessy never had it this good

by mg at 11:51 AM on June 22, 2001

Ack. It is Friday and Iím still writing about last weekend! How pathetic is my life?

I just donít want any of my friends thinking I forgot about them or that the time I spent with them was not important to me, because it was.

Iím also really trying to finish this story because Iíve been really lacking in follow through lately. Iíve gotten into this nasty habit of starting stories, and then never finishing them. Can you say, Transexportational?

I begin a story and say Iím going to finish it up, but never get around to it. There was a point a while back when Iíd decided to devote an entire week to wrapping up all the ends Iíve left untied over the past 8 months, but did that week ever happen?


The weekend was split into two parts. The friends I had when I was with my ex-girlfriend and the friends I made after we had broken up (the first time). I like to call the friends from those periods in my life, Iowa-Peeps V 1.0 and Iowa-Peeps V 2.0. Actually, Iíve never used either of those terms before today.

The Iowa-Peeps V 2.0 crew includes a lot of people (including Snaggle), but most importantly it includes Jerry and Jamila. I met J&J in kind of a weird way. I was the President of the Student Union at University (yes, and you thought I was just a big slacker). J&J were two graduate students that I was (partially) responsible for hiring. I learned this weekend that when we first met, they were both scared of me. Strange. When they got hired, they became, essentially, my advisors, even though I was older than Jerry and only a few months younger than Jamila.

Neither of them talked to me for about the first four months we worked together. Which really sucks, looking back, because I would have liked to have another four months to hang out with them. Then, I canít even remember why, we went out to the bar together one night, and then ended up on this string of closing the bars everyday for about two straight weeks.

Iíve never felt so instantly connected to anyone before. Once theyíd actually decided to talk to me, it was like weíd been friends for years.

After that we hung out plenty. Jerry and I are practically the same person. Weíd both be able to say the things that in other company would have people scratching their heads in wonderment. But we always knew exactly what the other was talking about, no matter how left field it was. Jamila, most nights would be the willing audience for our collective insanity. Iím not saying Jamila wouldnít participate in that insanity, because she would. I think we brought out something in her that she wouldnít let out around other people. I think among the three of us, we were all so very comfortable to be our real selves.

To relate thing back to Bad Samaritan, and really, what events in life donít relate back to Bad Samaritan, Jamila was basically the one who helped me come up with the idea for the site. So, if there is anyone to blame for this madness, it is her. And Jerry, damn, Jerry. He brings out the Bad Samaritan side of me more than anyone else I know.

So, I was really glad to be able to see them last weekend.

I caught up with both of them at Snaggleís party. Within about 15 minutes of being there, Jerry had a drunk and moody gayboy throwing beer in his face. All I can say is Jerry is much more patient than I am. If someone had thrown beer at me, I would have punched them right in the gut. He just laughed it off. Then Jerry and I managed to piss off this one girl because we were talking about the Shabbat, the Jewish day of rest. Iím guessing she was Jewish, or just really in a pissy mood (maybe on the rag), because she seemed to take offense at every thing we said. And sure, I do tend to make fun of people, and when Iím around Jerry, my Bad Samaritan personality tends to be more prevalent than my Michael personality, but I donít think I said anything offensive. I could be wrong about that, though; I was pretty drunk by that point.

Jamila showed up a bit later, and we sidled on over to Thumbs, which I already talked about.

The next morning, J&J and I went out for pancakes. The end.

I will eventually finish up this damn hellish weekend wrap-up. Probably Monday. I still havenít even talked about my ex-girlfriend or the rest of my Iowa-Peeps V 1.0. Damn. It never ends.


things you learn when unemployed

by mg at 10:03 AM on June 22, 2001

Normally, I try not to link to people who get less hits than I do, because, damn, what have they got to offer me? But last night I stumbled upon Innocent Bystander and, specifically, this list:

things you learn when unemployed:

1. when there is nothing to do each day, each day seems the same. as a result the days seem to go much faster or much slower, depending on your mood.

2. if you don't see anyone all day, you will make odd faces into the mirror

3. do not take naps in the middle of the day

4. do not stay up until 4 a.m. each day

5. do not wake up at 2 p.m. each day

6. it is no good to listen to NPR for the entire day

7. it is also no good to listen to KPFK for the entire day

8. do not listen to music, either, the entire day

9. you must remember to eat well

10. you must remember to set goals for yourself

11. unemployment is only interesting for the first two days.

12. last-minute plane tickets are very expensive

13. you will become lonely and tempted to commit to dates with people you don't want to date. then you will have to find reasons to cancel on them

14. remember to speak to someone each day. yourself doesn't count. your stuffed animals don't count. the tv and radio don't count. posting on slashdot counts, but only for half points. instant messaging counts, but you will come to feel it is unfulfilling.

15. unemployment sucks.

16. employment sucks.

That list, and basically everything else on the site read as if it was coming straight out of my own head. I haven't felt so instantly connected to another weblogger in a long time. I stole the list, but you should go read the rest of the site.

comments (1)


To make my mark upon the world

by snaggle at 04:42 PM on June 21, 2001

I guess I said yesterday that turning 21 didnít warrant a long depressive post about getting older; however, every year I get the birthday blues. Why should this year be any different? Yesterday I thought that Iíd escape them this year because I was very giddy about my new ability to go out on the town, plus my beautiful laptop arrived right on my birthday (talk about great timing and a great birthday present.) At midnight on the 20th, we all went out drinking and I consumed eight drinks within an hour with no hangover. Last night I had even more than that (still without getting sick!) but unfortunately woke up with quite the hangover. When my boss called me at 10:30 to drag me into work it had subsided some since the initial regaining of consciousness at 7:00, but it was still with me. I wasnít very goofy last night (though I donít remember posting the comments on a few of the latest articles) so I donít really have a reason to bury my head in the sand. No, what Iím feeling right now owes nothing to alcohol.

At least once a day I stop and ask myself what Iím doing with my life. I was born outside of Chicago but my parents moved to Waterloo, Iowa when I was about two years old. I grew up there Ė and itís really not that bad of a place to grow up. Itís quiet enough that in most parts you donít need to be worried about leaving your house door unlocked. The greater Waterloo area is about 110,000 people and is home to one of the state universities. It was diverse enough to give me some breathing room, as opposed to the horror stories of growing up in small Iowa towns I hear from so many people. When I was in high school, I was always an overachiever, but the last couple years were a big struggle for me, as I battled the often excessive external pressures of my parents and the always unreasonable expectations that I gave myself that catapulted me into the depths of depression at a very early age. I wanted to move far, far away from my parents as early as possible and go to a great school and really do something with my life.

When college application time came around, I was still pretty undecided as to where I wanted to go. I was a fool and only applied to a few schools. And guess what? Most of them didnít want me. Stanford didnít. Brown didnít. Oberlin did, but it wasnít good enough for my parents. Then there was my fallback school Ė Iowa State University. Since I was a National Merit finalist, ISU offered me a full-ride scholarship for four years. In the end, I decided to go there with the original intent of being here only a few years and then transferring somewhere else.

Three years later, Iím still here. Iíve changed my major(s) multiple times and now Iím finally in Graphic Design, on the road to actually doing something that I enjoy. I should be happy. Right?

Not only that, but Iím actively doing something that I enjoy for work as well. Iíve been doing web development professionally since I was 19. Iím currently working as a web developer for the university. I get to design new sites for university departments, do information architecture work, a little bit of code, and supervise the other students in the office to ensure a smooth day-to-day operation of the office. Sounds like a great job, right?

And yet...

Here the influence my parents had on me comes up again. Iím twenty-one years old. What have I accomplished in this time? My parents were always clipping out articles of child prodigies and teenage entrepreneurs. I was raised in a very Indian manner Ė success is very important. Indeed, monetary and professional success is the only way to measure your life. Maybe thatís why I heave a sigh when I realize that I havenít created any wonderful art or changed the world or made my first million or made my mark upon society. Iím finally beginning on a path towards being a real designer. And yet... when I visit random sites on the Web I happen upon great sites done by punk 15-year-olds in their parentsí basement that are as good, if not better, than anything I could do myself. Maybe thatís why I havenít made a personal site in years Ė performance anxiety.

I make my way through school in the middle of Iowa, now going into my fourth year and the last year of my scholarship. I basically went here because of the full ride; not being reliant upon my parents as much for school was a very tempting idea. But now Iíll need to actually pay for school Ė and Iíll still be in Iowa. Very often I think about going away to school. My best friend Jeffery lives in New York City and has friends who go to the School of Visual Arts. Many times Iíve thought of trying to go there. And yet Iím still here in Iowa. Iíve just applied to a three-year program and itís hard to just pick up and go elsewhere. Plus if I do that, itíll put me even further behind. I already know people who had multiple degrees by the time they were 25; Iíll barely have a bachelorís.

I try to tell myself that being in boring Iowa helps me focus on school. Itís a likely idea; the Big City has so much in it that focusing on school could be a lot harder to do if youíre not constantly surrounded by other college kids in a strictly college town. Then I take a glance at my GPA Ė barely at a 3.3... not quite good enough to even be in the honors program here. Always the nerdy scholar, it hurts me to look at some of the terrible grades I have in some classes.

And yet...

I remind myself about the person behind that transcript. I try to learn about the person behind the name, behind the Social Security number, behind the brown eyes. Always searching for myself, I sometimes grasp at straws to say who I am. I have to force myself to remember that the B+ I got in that class took a lot of work to get. I have to remember that I got an A- on that test because I cut studying short to be with a friend who needed me. I remember the C on that project was a struggle to get because I was too busy sobbing to work on art. How can you explain to your instructors that sorry, I couldnít study for your test or work on that project because I was too busy trying to convince myself not to resort to the coping methods Iíd developed in high school (though I often failed anyway.) I have to remember that the B- on that project came after triple-dosing myself with antidepressants just to make it through the night.

What have I achieved in my 21 years? Nothing. Nothing tangible. But it is not for a lack of trying or a lack of motivation or a lack of anything. Itís simply because I havenít. Yet. I celebrate my small victories. Iím in the graphic design program. I have loving friends. Iíve been off antidepressants for six months and doing reasonably well. Iím in school trying to do something with my life and pursue my dreams. I recognize my faults, acknowledge them, and slowly but surely I try to change them and make myself into a person that someday... someday Iíll be able to love. And maybe, just maybe when that happens, thereíll be someone to love me too.

I take a deep breath of fresh Iowa air, filled with that pungent aroma of freshly cut grass that always tells me that itís summer, my favorite season. Itís a smell of life, and chipmunks scamper across my path, darting around the baby bunny in the bushes. Stand up straight, shoulders back, head up... and face another year.

comments (1)


sex machines

by mg at 12:34 PM on June 21, 2001

Welcome to the second installment of Sex Machines. For the benefit of our readers who visit from public terminals or their working cubicles, who might be embarrassed to be found looking at a picture of 19 inch spiked dildo, this, and all future installments of Sex Machines will include images in pop-up windows.


Charles Barlow of Tucson, Arizona, had his patent for a vaginal harpoon tube invention accepted in 1979. His device was meant to prevent or deter rape through a passive means, i.e., one that would fight back, whether the victim was able to or not.

prongThe vaginal harpoon tube is shaped like a sheath and is meant to be inserted into the vagina. The device consists of a plastic plug embedded with a surgical steel shaft. The steel shaft is fitted with double harpoon barbs at its point.

When inserted, the device, which has no moving parts, depended on the would-be rapist to impale his own penis on the waiting spike. The harder the assailant's initial thrust, the deeper the harpoon will penetrate the offending penis.

The device is also available in a three-prong version.

I'd think even the single prong version would teach a fella not to stick his bits where they aren’t wanted. I fully support the use of this device. Though, I can see how it could be used for evil. Roving women, on the hunt for the “great white whale” that got away. Just don't call me Ishmael.

comments (29)


When everbody has got one.....

by zia at 03:41 AM on June 21, 2001

Suck list huh? Urm, okay. So the girl says:

I hate not knowing where to start. I hate knowing where to start now. I hate shiny people. I hate being easily distracted by shiny things. I hate people that hide when I turn around. I hate fat numbers. I hate Riccarton area traffic. No matter where youíre going at anytime, the whole population seems to be following you there. I hate pokemon. I hate being stepped on. I hate the word cyber. I hate filling out forms. I hate titanic. I hate polite people. I hate everything that is real. I hate flat beer. Undrinkable. I hate my guts. I hate those things on your face. I hate splash backs from toilets. I hate locking myself out of my house. I hate cold butter. I hate short people. I hate short people who get offended when I hate them. I hate burping tabby cats. I hate things that stick out and poke me. I hate bogans with loud stereos when Iím trying to get rid of my headaches. I hate writing three page papers overnight. I hate http error number 404. I hate dealing with cat litter when I donít own a cat myself. I hate to be addicted to hate. I hate commercialization of things. I hate it when I have this Ď The thong songí by Sisqo stuck in my head. I hate Ackland. I hate it when I typed Ackland instead of Auckland. I hate manufactured guilt. I hate 6am. I hate being painfully cold. I hate explaining the same thing over and over and over and over. I hate it when I inappropriately laughed at other peopleís pain. I hate the sound of my alarm clock. I hate Britney Spears. Notice her initial also stands for BULLSHIT ( haha! ). Wait, so does BS! Oops!. I hate to be stared at. I HATE that! I hate holier-than-thou people. I hate panickers. They make it worse for everybody. I hate waking up confused not knowing whatís the day, time or where am I. I hate to list all this hate stuff. I hate people who drive sub speed limits. I hate random brakers that brake like the road is going to end. I hate forgetting to do homework. Wait, I donít do homework! I hate not knowing how to get out this suck list. I hate smart people, especially when they ask me questions that I have to think about and thus wasting my time. I hate people who think I hate them when I really do. I hate everybody else too as I donít want to be accused of being discriminatory. I hate it when itís dark at half past 3 in the afternoon, unnecessary shit? I hate pickup trucks that wonít pick up anything. I hate intellectual snobbery. I hate begging at the table and getting no response at all. Meanies! I hate choosing between sleep and school. I hate those pointy weeds along Avon River. I hate potties that wobble when you sit on them. I hate toothbrushes with flexible head. They always flew out of my mouth when I brush too erratically. I hate not being able to brush erratically. I hate fruity pebbles. They make my mouth hate me. I hate how you lost your faith in peopleís sincerity when you take up psychology. I hate girl/women/ladies who pretend to act stupid and think it is attractive to do so. I hate easy cocktail listening fads. I hate corduroys, and that goes without saying. I hate it when MS word underlines words in red. I hate 6am. I hate the fact that Iíve already said I hated 6am. I hate other peopleís hair in my soap. I hate the stuff in your teeth. I hate bad porn. Wait, thereís not such thing as bad porn! (?). I hate that Iím actually addicted to the things that I hate. I hate repeating. I hate scary braids. I hate healthy people who park in handicapped spots. I hate thongs riding up my... I hate the fact that it isnít all that easy to hate. But I still hate each and every hate and will hate them all over again!

comments (4)


cigarettes and chocolate milk

by mg at 05:41 PM on June 20, 2001

The overarching theme of my weekend was alcohol. Sure, there are tons of people who can say that, but not all of them write for Bad Samaritan. So, there.

From Friday, when I got into Iowa, until I left on Monday afternoon, there were only a few waking hours that did not include me standing, sitting or lying with a beer bottle in my hand. It all startedÖ *cue harp music and wavy lines now*

Öwith a party at Snaggleís place. Actually, the drinking started before the party, when I caught up with Snags and we swung by Sharís apartment. Iíd met Shar before; sheíd stopped by the office where Snaggle and I worked. It would be tough to forget a stunning Filipino girl in a town full of blonde-haired blue-eyed sorority types. But, even though Iíd met her before, Iíd never actually had a conversation that lasted longer than ďIs Snaggle working now?Ē No. ďTell him Shar stopped by.Ē Okay.

Mind you, that was before I was MG of Bad Samaritan fame, so she really had no reason to take notice of me.

But this weekend I had the chance to sit down and talk to her for a while and she is every bit as Shar as she seems in her posts. She is totally crunk. (I donít know what that means, but I read it in a review of the new Weezer disc and figured it must be something good and that sheíd enjoy hearing about herself) I also got to meet Nora, a blonde-haired blue-eyed non-sorority girl who I regrettably fell in love with in the first 5 minutes of talking to her. I say regrettably because she lives in Iowa and I live here in New York.

It has become a trend with me to fall in love with a fine lady and have her move away on me. Or Iím the one who moves away. Or, best yet, I meet them, spend hours chatting them up, only to find out that they donít live anywhere near me, and I just wasted a night talking to someone I never had a shot with. Why canít I find a nice (hot) girl who lives in the same zip code as me? Shit, Iíd settle for a girl who lives in the same time zone.

Anyway, me, Snaggle, Shar and Nora went out to dinner at Great Plains Sauce and Dough Company. If you ever find yourself in Ames, Iowa, I implore you to visit Great Plains. Every college town has one pizza place that is just miles above the rest, and if all of those places were to move to one college town, Great Plains would be the one place that was still miles above all of those. Pizza is not known for itís orgasmic capabilities, but Great Plains certainly made me froth my shorts, especially since itís been so long since Iíve gotten any.

That was also when the drinking started. We ate dinner around 6 pm and the party didnít stop Ďtill around 2am. We went back to Snaggleís pad and started drinking until the rest of the party caught up to us. I got to meet lot of Snaggleís friends, which was nice to be able to finally put faces to all the names. I also met Gordon, of Spacecheese. He said some nice things about me. I wish I had the chance to talk to him longer, so he could have said more nice things about me.

Actually, that was the running theme of the weekend. No, not people saying nice things about me, most people spent the weekend saying awful and hurtful things to me. The theme of the weekend was wishing I had more time to spend with people. I really should have stayed in Iowa for the entire week. But I figured I should get back and get to the job hunt; you can see how hard Iím working on that task.

After some amount of time that I canít really recall, most of the party left to go to Thumbs. Thumbs is the kind of bar I wish I could find in New York City. The place is tiny and dirty, but also incredibly laid back, the drinks are cheap, they never turn up the music so loud you have to scream in order for the girl your sweating to hear you, there is always someone who brought their dog with them, it was a block away from where I live (and therefore an easy stumble home), it was the only bar in town that was equally patronized by townies and college kids, and in five years of going in there, I never saw them check an ID.

And, sure, I was in there this one time when they ran out of beer, and the bartender had to run to the grocery store to get more, but it is still a great bar, and one of the things I really miss about Ames. The other great thing about Thumbs is that there is always someone in there that you know. If Cheers was small, skanky, and filled with hippies, it would be exactly like Thumbs.

Wowzer, still got three more days of my vacation to cover.

comments (4)


Plus ca change, plus ca la meme chose

by snaggle at 11:05 AM on June 20, 2001

I was born on June 20, 1980. Today I am 21 years old. I've been alive for almost a quarter century.

21 isn't nearly as depressing an age as 25, so no long depressing "If I were an ant I'd have been squashed by a foot 2,585,871,284 times by now" talk (though it may be warranted, considering as how little I've actually accomplished.) However, birthday greetings are always more than welcome and very much appreciated. I would post a big wish list of stuff I want for my birthday like mg did, but considering as how only one present was given to mg and y'all love him way more than you love me. Plus all I really want for my birthday is for someone to come do my laundry and clean my room. Preferably a hot nude male maid.

comments (5)


sometimes you feel like a nut

by mg at 12:58 AM on June 20, 2001

While I was away from the site and not religiously checking my email/referrer logs, a couple really cool things happened:

I got a mention on Must See HTTP! Holy fucking shit! Brad is an "A-Lister." An A-Lister gave my site a mention! That is so crazy cool as to be unimaginable! Fucking-A man. Bradlands won a 2001 Weblogs award. He is a total big shot Internet superstar. I can't possibly express how joyously, deliriously happy it makes me to have gotten a mention on Bradlands.

The folks over at Yea Shit Happens, linked me up. Shit Happens did the impossible by making the Bad Samaritan/FUBAR rivalry over on the GoodWebsite Toplist look silly by shooting up the charts and beating out both of us. The only reason they are winning is because Zil is a hot chick and Justin and I aren't. We aren't hot chicks, that is. We are both quite hot fellas, though, but I've come to the conclusion that chicks aren't nearly as horny as guys.

Actually, I think Shit Happens must be cheating, considering that they don't actually have a vote link anywhere on their site. Either way, they run a pretty good ship and as Justin would say, "nice ass."

And, looky here, crossing the boundary between reality and virtual reality, Space inflated my ego not only in person but also on his site. He wrote:

I met mg of Bad Samaritan fame. If you see me at work and I'm giggling into the moniter, chances are this man is the reason. I was starstruck and just kind of stood back and admired him from afar. Later I got him to sign my autograph book, right below Peter Tork's name.

He misspelled monitor, but I'm willing to overlook that in this situation. I can honestly say I never thought I'd be mentioned in the same sentence as Peter Tork. I'm honored. And don't worry because I won't let the fame of Internet stardom go to my head like it did with Peter Tork. You know I wont be buying any solid gold ski-caps. *

I also got this great piece of spam email:

Horse and Dog chiropractic seminars. To REALLY learn how to adjust animals.

1. Minneapolis, MN June 9th and 10th

2. Rapid City, SD June 30th, July 1st

3. Boise, ID July 7th and 8th

4. Charleston, West Virginia July 14th and 15th

Look for Dr. Kamen's animal chiropractic books on

"The Well Adjusted Dog."

"The Well Adjusted Cat."

"The Well Adjusted Horse."

I've always wanted to REALLY learn how to adjust animals.

All I can say is I wish I had a horse. Though, not for the perverted reason you sickos are thinking. I'm just looking forward to the point in my unemployment when I run out of money and resort to eating horsemeat. I found out last time that fresh horsemeat is so much better than the processed stuff you find in bologna.

We also got a mention from our friends over at the The Fat Website. They wrote:

Bad Samaritan is quite a good site.

That is hardly the most twinkly praise we've gotten recently, but praise nonetheless and as you are all well aware, I'm quite the narcissist.

They also wrote this:

But don't visit them by clicking on TheGoodWebsite link because they are already way too far ahead of us.

Haha! They say that because I am kicking their arse on their own Top Sites list. You lose, suckas! Though, I do have to give mad props and well wishes to Edo for his run on Survivorer. Good luck, kid.

And lastly, Hotmud linked me up. They've got Old Skool e/n, only slightly more literate. At one point, they'd had Bad Samaritan pitted against Satan. I'm not sure what that was all about, but hey, I love the linky love any way I get it.

If you want to give me some linky love, uhm, just link me up on your site. Eventually, I'll talk about it, and then I'll send you tons of hits. It's that easy. Set it and forget it, baby.

* This joke makes no sense and is pretty unfunny if you don't know that Peter Tork was the guy who wore the ski-cap on The Monkees. The joke was just unfunny if you do know that Peter Tork was the guy who wore the ski-cap on The Monkees. A little known fact about Peter Tork; his mother invented White Out. I don't think Peter Tork has been mentioned this many times in 20 years.

comments (4)


the suck list

by mg at 04:14 PM on June 19, 2001

When Dack closed down last month, there was a hole in my heart. Well, not really, but I did miss the suck list. So, I decided to make my own:

the suck list *

> Stealing ideas from other people.

> The eternal struggle between cool summers and having to sell your left nut to pay the electric bills.

> The little fabric balls that grow on your clothes after they've been washed a few times.

> All those damn e/n and blog sites that have been shutting down.

> George W. Bush bashing.

> The dearth of high quality free porn sites.

> The gunk that falls out of your keyboard when you turn it upside down and shake it.

> Not even being able to get a hippy to have sex with you.

> A leather couch, no shirt, and 90-degree weather.

> DVDs without director's commentary.

> Finding out the condom in your wallet has expired two months ago.

> Dust bunnies.

*stuff that sucks

Now, lets have a truly interactive experience, and you add your own item to the suck list!

comments (5)


hog butt and hand grenades

by mg at 01:02 PM on June 19, 2001

As you may have guessed (since my last post was Thursday), I was away this weekend. My wonderful and talented staff did a great job of posting in my absence, but even with three of them, they were barely able to match my excessive daily word output.

ďDidnít you just quit your job? How can you afford to go away for a long weekend?Ē

Well, this was actually one of those ďI just quit my job, and now Iím going to go away and spend all my money so the fear of god is in me to find a new job, and quickly, so Iím not forced to sell one of my kidneysĒ vacations. Which would make it an entirely appropriate time to go away for a weekend.

But before yaíll get jealous about the glamorous and extravagant lifestyle of an Internet Superstar, this vacation wasnít to sunny and beautiful California, like my last trip, but to flat and hog-butt smelling Iowa.

If I hadnít mentioned it before, while Iím from New York City, and live here now, I went to university in lovely Ames, Iowa. A lot of my friends still live back there, including Snaggle and (future columnist) ScrodBoy. I was there for 6 years and by now most of my friends have moved on. This was probably the last time Iíll be making it back to Iowa, which was awfully sad, to tell the truth.

But a casual visit wasnít the real reason I went up there. The actual reason is a little twisted; I went out there for a wedding. If things had happened differently, it very well could have been my (and my ex-girlfriendís) wedding. If things had gone differently, it could have been my ex-girlfriendís wedding to another guy. In both cases, I still would have been in Iowa last weekend, in former case as a participant, in the latter, a Dustin Hoffman like wedding crasher.

Iím sure there are alternate universes out there where both of those weddings happened, but the wedding I went to this weekend was that of my ex-girlfriendís brother.

In another of those weird twists of fate, my ex-girlfriendís family really likes me. Last summer, I visited her parents even though a) she wasnít there and b) we were broken up at the time. So, I really like her family too. When I was living out in Iowa, paying my way through university, I didnít have a lot of money to be flying home for holidays. I spent more Christmases and Thanksgivings with her parents then I had with my own. I really like them.

I had kind of agreed to go to the wedding months ago when we were, for a brief period, back together. Then things went badly, again, and it would have beenÖ inappropriate for me to be there. When we started chatting each other up again, I asked if I was still invited to the wedding, because, like I say, I really do enjoy her family.

Unfortunately, I didnít really have the forethought to realize how uncomfortable it would be hanging out with them. Her parents know what happened between her and I. They know how not my fault the break up was. But the rest of the family doesnít and, of course, you always want to think the best of your own kinfolk, so Iím sure they blame everything on me. ďAmanda couldnít have done anything wrong, so it must have been that (evil) Michael.Ē

Add to the fact that none of them knew I was going to be there, and it makes for some uncomfortable minutes at the start of every conversation. But, Iím a charmer, especially when Iíve had a few drinks, and I won them over without ever having to get into the ugly details of the breakup (which always adds people to my side of the equation).

The one member of her family that I never thought liked me was her brother (the groom).

Him and me are probably as different as two guys could be. He grew up in a small midwestern town (population 400), likes cars and sports and building things. I grew up in New York City, like books and computers and art museums. But, possibly the most moving thing to happen the entire weekend was when he personally mentioned me in his speech at the reception. It is awfully nice to be finally recognized as the wonderful person I am.

So, that was the explanation of where I was for the last couple days. I still have to talk about pre/wedding/post happenings, the party at Snaggleís, and bowling with ScrodBoy and my Angels.

comments (1)


May the bitch be with you....Hell not!

by zia at 04:02 AM on June 19, 2001

Zia at her study desk, slutting away among shitloads of handouts and notes. What a lame scene. Makes you actually feel good that youíre staring at the screen now rather than prostituting your self to endless pages of ink. More often than never, I would indulge in some stolen hype and crusade down my imagination highway, liberating my mind from those pedantic cells. Not missing even a beat when it comes to fondling my doctored thoughts to my heartís content. Damn, sheer bliss.

Okay, I donít have a point here. Boo me.

Oh wait, I do have a blah to spare though. You see, I often lament how numbers always conspire to flip me on my ass. Well, it did it again. 2 hours into my 3-hour Management Science final paper, Iíve already given up on the accounting section. How could I not when it repeatedly raped me of my phlegmatic cerebral matter? Since Iíve completed other sections and contributed some of my Ďart Ď to the calculation sheet, I was ready to leave. Not so fast. Nobody is allowed to leave the room until the prescribed time is exhausted. Bugger. So I just have to entertain my idle thoughts. Goat porn. Dancing kumquats. Bikini robots. Kurt Cobain. Big mistake. As if on cue, the catchy tune of Ď Teen Spirití began to possess me. Before I could pull a rein on the melodically urge, I was shocked to find myself humming gluttonously to the beat. Should be no big deal but hello? Iím in the middle of an examination room. Furious scribbling took the second gear and I was meet with 250 pairs of annoyed stares. I helplessly returned the collective stares. What the fcuk else can I do? Oh oh. And I was still humming. I canít freakin stop it ! ( the song is THAT good! ) Hey! The cheek! I tried to shut myself up, clamping both hands on my mouth and the room still vibrates subtly of the muffled noise traced back from my mouth. I was flabbergasted. This is so not happening to me. Unreal.

As the supervisor escorted the still humming me (!) out of the room, I made a mental note to choke myself with 3 cartons of eggs the very minute I reach home.

Never underestimate the bitch power in you. And by the way, the song rocks my socks! Yay!

comments (2)


Penis Radar

by shar at 09:57 PM on June 17, 2001

I've been single for about a year now, and in that year I've been given one of the lamest superpowers ever: Penis Radar. I have a heightened curiousity whenever boys walk into my direct line of vision. It doesn't matter how they look or who they are, if they've got a penis, I'll immediately run up to them and see if 1) if they're cool and 2) if they're single. While it is a lovely way of meeting people, Penis Radar is quickly losing its novelty. Unfortunately, the only cure for Penis Radar is one of those crazy Relationships. Until then, strange side effects like whacked-out dreams, lusting after celebrities, and having crushes on random boys will continue to plague me.

Enough for now. Here's the first installment of Penis Radar.

Penis Radar: REM with Pete Sampras

So I was in Kansas City with Doug and we were crashing on the floor of my friend's place. I wake up and Doug's sleeping bag isn't 2 feet away from me, but right next to mine. I sleepily look over, and Pete Sampras is in the bag with his head propped up with one arm. He's grinning like a monkey, as he's been watching me sleep and also finds me ridiculously adorable. Pete invites me to share his sleeping bag. Before I know it, I'm making out with Pete Sampras (who, by the way, is a damn good kisser.) I need to catch my breath, so I pull away a little bit and open my eyes and it's not Pete Sampras anymore, but Doug. I'm confused, but I figure, hey, I did go to bed drunk and it's frickin' dark in the room. Maybe it wasn't Pete Sampras the entire time. We start kissing again.

Then I wake up. I look over and Doug's still sleeping a few respectable feet away from me.

What the fuck does this mean?!? It's been on my mind ever since it happened. Ugh.

comments (6)


Dad will never look the same anymore.....

by zia at 04:30 AM on June 17, 2001

It was freaky. I dreamt I possessed wizardly powers. That I can defy gravity and perform some little interesting tricks ( which often produce less than desired results...). I dreamt that I went to visit him ( the dude that digs yours truly who digs the dude I'm talking about)...with my family on the tow! This is crazy but hell, dreams have the knack of twisting events into abstruse shit so just play along with it. Just be prepared for some off-the-wall narration here as well.

I met this little girl who told me that I really mustn't roam around so freely or somebody will catch me and do something really really horny to me? Strangely enough, I believed her. Now this is where the kooky bits start. There is this big guy sporting electric blue hair in this shiny blue (Manchester United?) shirt marching towards the toilet and I found myself in the most uncompromising position; I was suddenly behind the door of the toilet! The little girl screamed and ran off. I was too shocked to run for my life, unlike that traitorous brat! Anyways, the striking blue dude entered and I got the time of my life treating my bulging eyes to the biggest...erm, thish...erm...* zia starts to babble* . Anyway! He didn't see me because I happened to lift myself in the air and splat myself on the ceiling. Oh boy, who do you think you are? The Matrix?

*Cheek Chak* A Joe boxer on the carpet....followed by Zia's favourite pastel blue the vision climbs up onto the bed...the scene began to unfold..a girl and a boy were engaged in rowdy sexual intercourse...the nude girl was seated on top of the dude with her head leveled, kissing the boy most passionately while the feverish boy grabbed her hips and libidinously pumping himself into her...

What? I donít recognize her. Really. Cross my heart ( and you're going to rot in hell, Zia ).

*Cheek Chak* Scene changed again. I was in the bed (again) with this sexy she-devil giving me hell by unbearable pressure point attacks on my knees and shins. And does she give amazingly painful butt-fcuks! Now who the hell would believe this? I didn't buy it at first but the pain was real! I retaliated as my powers were just as potent as this bitch. But everytime she butt-fcuked me with her electric-charged fingers, I got too shocked by the intensity of pain+giddiness+pleasure that I couldn't put my act together fast enough to butt her back. and the clamor continues...

*Cheek Chak* ( this crazy scene swapping is starting to confuse me...). Aunty Clara? Holy moly! I'm Samantha from the comedy ĎBewitchedí. Why the hell am I treading outside the window of a 1000000000000 floor building?

Aunt Clara: They're going to get you Samantha.

Samantha (me): * Bewildered* Wha..? Not again! Who?! Where?! Wh...

Not much to say here because before I could finish my sentence. I was dead. Plopped lifelessly on the ground. How flattering. Speaking of parity in a case of imperceptible hostility .. Never mind, at least I get resurrected for the next scene. Hee hee.

*Cheek Chak* Living room. Lots of people. My brother was there. Except that he doesn't look like my brother. And he ( the dude i dig ) was standing right beside me.( Ooohhh..) I know staring is very rude but I couldn't help it. The dude that I dig has got a ripe orange pumpkin for a head!! While he has trying to hit on me, I was too stunned to be receptive let alone concentrate! Damn! That orange head! Suddenly I was whisked outside the balcony by my dad to watch fireworks. I saw no fireworks, only a building that keeps on breaking down and constructing a variety of interesting shapes in amazing now I am not even trying to pretend that I am surprised anymore after the previous treatments..

But when I spotted my father waving excitedly at me, circling around the ridiculous building on our green kitchen broom, cladded only in his Y-briefs, I fainted.

It is not just me is it? ( Come on! )

comments (4)


Goat porn this way sir.

by zia at 08:50 PM on June 15, 2001

My throbbing left eyeballÖ

Anyway, Michaelís online presence will have to be compromised as he is away again ( with his ex? The saga continuesÖ ) for the weekend...

This morning the bus dropped me somewhere in the city instead of the usual route. After asking around, it turned out that the new routes were administered 2 months ago. Where did time go? No, where was I all these while?!

Then it dawned on me that I have been living like a hermit for the past 6 months, doing something of somewhat nature that I somehow couldnít put a finger on. In other words, I hide in secrecy most of the times. This is most disturbing.

On a whole tangent, I am feeling pretty homicidal now. Imagine this, after dispensing a truly awesome crap down the bowl ( thatís the best I can refine of the effect! ), feeling pretty good about myself and as I reach for the paperÖ.I grabbed nothing but a handful of airÖNOT FUNNY. I HATE IT WHEN IT ALWAYS RUN OUT ON ME. You may have your own respectable way of acquiring fresh rolls and I have mine, which I rather not disclose due to its enchanting highly graphical content. But do bear in mind that it was executed with much pride and dignity.

Taking the liberty to digress again, I like guys. I like girls too, but I like guys more. And I just added some traits/bits I dig in a guy in my ever-growing list of ďCrappy But Important CrapĒ:

- Rugged chivalrous hands. I would pass out a zillion times in my room if those hands goes anywhere near mine.

- Old Spice Cologne. They melt my butter.

- Endearingly fierce. If he says sit, I stand and he snaps my head off then kiss the shit out of me. I will be very happy and pass out again.

- Porn. The bigger his collection is than mine, the better. Bonus if heís willing to share, because I will drool and pass out on him while watching it together.

More to come.

Of course, it all boils down to the salient requirement that I will have to love him. Not too tricky actually, but a pornographic body would certainly make me pass out for the umpteenth time and you can help yourself from there.

* Meow *

comments (72)


Homosexuality-free post

by snaggle at 11:16 PM on June 14, 2001

Multiple wonderful events have transpired in a very short period of time lately. No, I didn't get laid — though I am taking applicants. (Side note: that had nothing to do with me talking about how gay I am, did it? It just talked about needing some. Damnit! I just mentioned it! This was supposed to be a homosexuality-free post. Christ. Will I ever get it right??) No, the wonderful events of the past forty-eight hours have indeed been academically-related.

In my bio I stated that I'm studying Graphic Design and Philosophy. I must hereby inform you that that is a lie. I'm so sorry. All I can say is I never meant to hurt you... any of you. Up until yesterday, I was studying Philosophy and Pre-Graphic Design. The GR program at my school is selective admission, based upon GPA and a portfolio review. I've been taking the required preprogram classes slowly and sporadically over the past couple years, more for fun than with any intent on applying them towards a degree. However, in the past year, I've had a change of heart and realization — graphic design is what I want to do (at least in some way, shape, or form. Exactly what way, shape, or form remains to be determined.) So I muddled my way though the required studio classes, creating some fantastically... unique pieces along the way, contumaciously forging my own path reading between the lines of the assignment guidelines and finding every loophole in verbiage possible.

This culminated in one day at the beginning of May when I along with the other hundred potential graphic designers all put our life's work up on the walls of the College of Design for one of the most stressful days of a designer's life: the portfolio review for admission. We all sat around that day, knowing that they eyes of the entire graphic design faculty were roving over the work over which we'd lost weeks of sleep, spent hundreds of dollars, and shed blood, sweat, tears, and gallons of rubber cement. When it was all over, all we could do was sit and wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.

After five weeks of neurotically checking my snailmail thrice daily, it came yesterday: a nondescript business-sized envelope, imprinted with the university nameplate and the telltale heading of my department. I knew what was in this envelope. "Dear snaggle, you may have already won a million dollars!" Wait. Scratch that. Wrong nondescript envelope. I hadn't been expecting the letter to come that day any more than any other day, so I stopped, fingers frozen, as I flipped through the stack of mail to find the Pantone 186 red of "Iowa State University, Department of Art and Design" staring me in the face. I handed the letter — reassuringly thick... it contains more than one piece of paper — to my best friend Jeffy. He stood there holding it in his hands for a moment, knowing full well what it was, but unsure what to do with it until I addressed an impatient "Well???" to him. He opened it and scanned for a moment, maintaining pokerface, finally proclaiming "I am pleased to inform you that on the basis of cumulative gradepoint average and portfolio review the graphic design faculty has recommended admission to the graphic design curriculum."

We both let out shrieks like the homos we are and jumped up and down in a massive hug. I can't imagine a larger hug if it had been that letter from Publisher's Clearinghouse. (Damn. There's a second mention of gay. Maybe I need a little shock collar and every time I type any word for gayboy it should give me a few volts. "You can save Tinkerbell... Clap your hands if you believe in fai— OWWW!!" Maybe not.)

Today I called Dell to get a more direct pricing for the laptop machine I'd been cruising only to find that a particular promotion for that machine ended that day. Yikes! It's as if it was meant to be. I called the parents and explained the situation and within a few hours I had a confirmation message for my Dell Inspiron 8000, with an Intel 1 GHz processor, 256 mb RAM, a combination DVD/CD-RW drive, and a whole host of other souped up innards.

So now, at long last, I have direction in my life. Or at least a bit more than I had two days ago. I'm studying a field into which maybe possibly I may enter someday. I carefully skirted the classic polemic between my parents and me ("And what are you going to do with that degree?") And I have a new toy.

comments (1)


Fried brains with red pickles.

by zia at 09:22 PM on June 14, 2001

It's funny, the singular depletion of willpower amongst me and myself. When zia and the brain meets, they just sit there and laugh. They realized how much they donít know and laughed their butts out again. Then they laughed some more.

Too many jokes and an empty head. That's how I'm going to face my finals. Simply awesome.


queer as a three dollar bill

by mg at 09:06 PM on June 14, 2001

In Snaggle's last post, he mentioned how he always has to write about how gay he is. Which is okay, I suppose, because he is one big homo.

However, I was talking with someone about just that fact, and they were kind of upset about it. Or at least concerned.

My response was, "How come I'm allowed to mention hot girls in every post, but Snaggle isn't allowed to talk about hot boys?" In every post he makes, he talks about being gay. And while I never come outright and say, "Hey, I'm a big flaming heterosexual," I do happen to mention looking at chicks, or lying on top of chicks, or how I can't seem to find chicks in virtually everything I write.

A common complaint about the homosexual community is that they make a point of throwing their sexuality in the face of everyone who'll listen, and even those who don't. And sure, I think anyone who defines their self by who they choose to have sex with is pretty sick and needs to have their priorities checked. But, I am perfectly okay with guys wanting to stick their bits into other guy's bits, and I am really okay with chicks who like to stick their bits in other chick's bits (I'm obviously a little hazy on the details of that one, but I can try to imagine. Actually, I'll probably be imagining it a little later tonight.)

Snaggle is one of the coolest people I know, he just happens to be gay. And he just happens to like to talk about it. A lot. In his last post, he explains that himself by saying he talks about sex because he hasn't gotten any in a long time, and he needs to somehow to reaffirm the fact that his genitals are there for more than just ornamentation (and to stop from peeing on himself).

Which is exactly how I explained why I mention women in all of my posts. I do it because I haven't had one in a while. It is tough to remember what a woman feels like sometimes. It is tough to remember what a woman tastes like sometimes. It is hard to remember what it feels like to lay on top of a woman and make hot monkey love with them.

So, I like to talk about it from fear of losing it. I don't want my penis to become a vestigial organ.

Snaggle also forgets doing those kinds of things with boys, which, if he wants to explicate, I'll let him. If I were to write it, I'd have to think about it, and I think that would be just icky. But because I find two sticky boys to be icky doesn't mean he, and whatever consenting adult he wants to hook up with, shouldn't be allowed to do those things. And he should be allowed to talk about it too.

When I first started this site, for some reason, it was kind of a hit within the homo-boy weblogging community. I think because I joined the Boylogs webring and it is made up of a lot of fags. Whatever. I certainly know no girls were reading this site and wetting their chairs. So, if a couple guys were coming here and getting their jollies, one way or another, out of reading what I wrote, I suppose that is as close to sex as I was getting at the time.

I'd write more, but I need to go look at some boobies now.

comments (4)


how to : care for your kitties

by lizard at 12:34 PM on June 14, 2001

Having only one pet myself, I could hardly be considered an expert on the subject of their care, so I offer these suggestions based on the wisdom of Marilyn Barletta of Petaluma, CA, who recently made headlines when it was discovered that she had over 200 cats locked up in a house she purchased specifically for that purpose. Surely she must possess abundant knowledge in the area of feline husbandry, and we could all learn a thing or two from her:

First of all, it's important to remember, there is no such thing as too many cats. Pick up every stray you possibly can, because if you don't, well, you just don't know what's going to happen to them. But when you take them home to your cat house, you *know*.

When you get them home, remember there's no need to worry about cleaning up after them. You might find the smell a little disturbing, but the cats surely don't mind. If they did, they wouldn't sit around licking their own asses, would they? I may not know too much about cats, but I do know that mine has his nose down there pretty much all the time.

Now, you might be wondering, what if one of my kitties passes away? Don't be sad, death is a natural part of life and nature takes care of its own. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; dead things plus feces equals... mulch! And we all know how beneficial mulch is; it helps things grow! And speaking of growth...

The issue of spaying and neutering is a touchy one. How would you like it if someone took you to the doctor's, against your will, and the next thing you know, you wake up in pain only to discover your goodies are gone! It's a safe bet you would be seriously traumatized, so how could you even consider inflicting such indignities on an innocent creature? Breeding kitties are happy kitties, and then there are more and more happy kitties; remember the first rule of cat care: no such thing as too many happy kitties.

The only real drawback is, when your cat population approaches three figures, people might start to think you're a few fleas short of a circus, but don't worry, you're doing the right thing. You are an Animal Lover, the noblest creature of all.

comments (1)


sex machines : penile erector nail

by mg at 12:16 PM on June 14, 2001

In our ever continuing quest to elighten and educate our audience, Bad Samaritan presents the first in a continuing series on the illustrated history of sexual technology.

The first device is the Disposable Internally Applied Penile Erector. John Friedmann filed a U.S. patent in 1988 for the device that is shaped like a large plastic nail. Friedman explained, "To use the device, one merely slides the support tubing down the urethra of the user's penis until the concave disc at the end of the hollow support tube touches the head of the penis... the use of the urethra for insertion of the splint in conjunction with the anatomically correct disc 'mooring' and condom-like latex or rubber sleeves there will be no injury to the male or female involved in intercourse." Which is a good thing.

After seeing the hammer used to insert the plastic nail, hitting your thumb will be the least of your worries.

comments (15)


Hmm...this should do.

by zia at 06:01 PM on June 13, 2001

This was meant to be posted yesterday, but I managed to muck up the ..the...god, computer stuff! software error or something. Dear Michael had to fork out an hour of his life to remedy my punk deed. Of course, he is also so kind to request an hour off me for ""what" can be discussed at a later date."

Sorry and thank you. I'm nervous already.


Oh god. Iím boring my ass off here. Thatís when my mid-year tests/finals are six peanuts days away, a jungle for a backyard, and my pile of homework is celebrating its two-year old anniversary.

Maybe Iím lazy, if you think youíre even lazier than me, sure, take the title, Iím too lazy to defend it anyway. And man, can I procrastinate! Even the enigma ( did I just used that word? never mind, Iíll leave the explanation later. ) of my sexuality is not spared. * sings * ď Everybody loves you when youíre a Bi, kissing all the girls and licking all the guysÖĒ. Now that might turn a few brains, again, Iím procrastinating on top of whatís already afforded. Bytch.

Like going to school would help. Although I must inform that I do religiously turn up in every lectures with much decency, even to those that I donít belong to. Conscionable time killers. Lecturer that goes pretty fast is fine, if only the notes bears any remote existence when she says sheíll put them on desk copy Ö. Those that bored me to death and takes endless pauses only nurtures my around-the-clock ennui and smiles upon my bugging lassitude. There is one so academic that he canít explain concepts in plain English. Lacking pedagogical ( the science of teaching ) knowledge is a surefire way, hell yeah, to generate rambling lectures with irrelevant and unnecessary babbling. Some babble and waffle and babble and waffle. Those dudes just arenít clear and donít know what theyíre talking about. Simply a case of overblown arrogance. Wait, this sounds just like meÖ

( Now I would have to digress! ). I reckon all the tedium would subserviently vanish like dream if college were history and I get to skip around in my business suit and heels. Yay!. Then there would be plentiful tidbits to keep me occupied and sane. Stuff like putting the picture of my scowling mother on my business card, go to work in my fluffy pyjamas, schedule meetings for 2.12 am, endless jolly banter with the copier machine and the list is inexhaustibleÖ

The last thing you can suggest are boys. Boys make my life complicated. Enough said.

Thank god for tomorrow. Wednesday would be my energetic, go-getter, enthusiasm pullulated, ego tripping personality Ė that means Wednesday would last about 2 minutes. No ill feelings towards Wednesday anyway [ leftover from Tuesdayís attitude!].

Would love to fill you in on how Mondays ( Hah! ), Thursdays, Fridays and the weekends fare. Maybe. Iím too bored to write on. Mind you, this is Tuesday talking.

Oh yes, if I must, I gotta congratulate Michael on his kick ass attitude but Iím too lazy to type about how I felt about his previous couple posts regarding his work. So Michael, if you're wondering, here it is:

* Pull down her knickers, paint a W on each of her ass cheeks and bend over *



making a list, checking it twice

by mg at 09:53 AM on June 13, 2001

With unemployment, and the uncertainty finances that comes with it, there comes this overwhelming desire to make sense of every other part of your life. For some people, that sense making might come in the form of relationships with friend and family. For some people that sense making comes in the form of religion. For others, that sense making comes from a bottle of Jim Beam. But for me, that sense making comes in the form of list making.

So far, in the last 24 hours, Iíve made about 15 different lists. The lists have touched on everything from the simple, ďI need groceries, what should I get?Ē to the esoteric, ďSteps toward achieving eternal happiness.Ē Unfortunately, Iíve yet to do anything on any of those lists.

Okay, that isnít true. When I left work for the last time ever yesterday morning, I made a list of the things to do for the rest of the day. ďWalk around for a bit. Go home. Pick up beer, ice cream, and laundry detergent. Eat ice cream. Do laundry. Watch Full Metal Jacket. Drink beer. Look at porn. Masturbate. Fall asleep.Ē

I did all of those things. Which certainly made me feel like I got something accomplished.

And, I think, as long as I keep making these lists reasonable and actually doing all the things on all these lists, I won't have to face the reality of having no job, no prospects, and no money. Or the fact that I have to fall asleep alone every night, and not having a place to wake up and go to every day means there is no chance Iíll get to meet someone nice. And hot. If I never meet new people, I won't have the chance to find someone to lie on top of when I need someone to lie on top of every once in a while.

And letís just forget about the future. I donít even like to think, even briefly, about the whole California side of the equation.


One of the reasons I stuck it out with the ďdynamic duoĒ as long as I did was because I knew all that daily soul crushing abuse was allowing me to save the up the mad benjamins Iíd needed to finance a cross-country move. So, losing my job means, potentially, losing the chance to move to California.

But, ack! I donít want to think about that just yet.

Better to keep my lists small, like ďWake up. Smoke cigarette. Make some eggs for breakfast. Shower.Ē That is just so much easier for my fragile psyche to manage right about now. I can get my brain around that kind of list.

Now, I donít want to give the impression that my spirits are down from my previous indulgent ice cream and beer high. Because they arenít. I am still gloriously happy to be free. Itís just unfortunate that few other things in life are free.

So, what is on my list for this morning? ďWrite a morning post.Ē

Done and done.

Iíve got to go now; item number 2, ďbreakfastĒ awaits me.

comments (1)


kicking a dead horse

by mg at 04:10 PM on June 12, 2001


Remember how I said my bosses wanted me to at least finish the week off?

Well, I came in this morning, and they wanted me out of there as soon as possible.

When we talked last night, they were practically twisting my arm to make me stay, not only the week, but indefinitely. I wanted to leave there then and never come back, but I agreed, because like I said before, I am a huge dumb ass. But, something most have happened after I left last night, because the "dynamic duo" were not sweating me so hard this morning.

In fact, after I came in this morning, presented what I had been working the last couple days, they wanted me gone. I went in to talk with the CEO and not only did he want me gone, but he had written my resignation letter for me. That is some serious shit.

I am not going to get into the whole thing again. But according to them, it was all my fault, despite the fact that everyone else who worked there was happy to see me go. And not in that "I'm glad that bastard is gone" kind of way, but in that "I'm glad that lucky bastard escaped."

I walked in at 10:00, presented my material and was out of there by 11:30. That is exactly how long the workday should be. If every day were like that, I never would have quit.

I spent the next four hours walking around New York City, and it is absolutely the most beautiful day out. Sunny, gorgeous, and there just seemed to be rainbows everywhere. This is one of the first nice days of the year, and New York has a lot of beautiful people, and those beautiful people don't like to wear a lot of clothes when it is this kind of day. I saw more skin today then I have in months.

I'm telling you, this day will rank as one of the best days in the history of mankind.

After walking around, I went home, stopped at the grocery store and picked up a tub of ice cream and some beer. I finished off half the ice cream, and as soon as the beer is cold, I'm going to crack one of them open, and then the other, and just keep going until I forget the Zionist movement ever existed.

Man, I am just so gloriously happy.

comments (4)


died dead dying

by mg at 09:05 PM on June 11, 2001

Tim McVeigh is dead.

My boy Justin over at FUBAR is dead. (Though, like Lazarus, I have a feeling he will rise again)

And now my career is dead too.

I think I may have mentioned it before (1|2|3|4|5|6), but I hate my job.

I quit today. Or at least I tried to quit.

I actually said the words "I quit." And with those words, I felt a great weight lifted from my chest. I was finally free.

And unlike all the previous times I've said those words, whether to my own reflection in the mirror in men's bathroom, or the crazy homeless guy who hangs out in the park across the street from work, I actually said it to my boss.


Somehow, I find myself having to be back at work again tomorrow.


I'd thought I'd been able to release myself from the bonds of slavery that those foul Israelis use to shackle my soul inside a 4 foot by 4 foot cubicle. But theyíve somehow managed to drag me, like a two-bit criminal, back in to the folds of their Hebrew speaking, matzo eating "family."

My boss, his brother (the CFO), and I ended up speaking for more than two hours tonight. And after it all, things somehow ended up being my fault, despite the fact that in a company of seven people, five are unhappy. That only leaves the "dynamic duo" running the company who feel like everything is hunky dory (my fav david bowie album, by the way).

The entire time Iíve been working there, two months now, Iíve had the impression that whatever Iíve said to them has gone in one ear and out the other. This conversation was no exception. So, despite the fact that we talked for more than two hours, I donít have the impression they heard a single word I said.

For example, I brought up the fact the office environment isnít very welcoming. The two guys who run the company, as well as two of the other employees speak almost nothing but Hebrew around the office. I remarked how this wasnít very inclusive of the three other employees who can barely pronounce ďShalomĒ correctly. Their response? That if I was working in Mexico, I should expect to hear people speaking Spanish. Think about it for a second.

Also, I said that their ďprocessĒ sucked. Their process includes lying about your research and then one person (the CFO) making everything up as he goes along, ignoring the strong objections of those heís paying to act as experts (me). Of course, I told them they sucked using much politer and professional verbiage. They said their ďprocessĒ was the right one because the process used at Razorfish (my former employers), obviously wasnít the right way to go, because just look at all the failed dot.coms. The process I used at Razorfish, and the process they use EVERYWHERE else in the know universe, includes doing user research before a bit of code has been written, and then basing all subsequent decisions on a combination of user needs, business strategy, technological limitations, and the expertise of those involved in the project.

I told them that I would give them an official two-week notice if I really had to, but that I really didnít want to. I told them how I came in to work late everyday because I woke up every morning with a stomachache. That for the last couple days, I didnít do a single second of actual work because all I could think about was how much I hated being there.

Their response? Could I come in tomorrow, and for the rest of the week, at least, just to kind of see if things got better? And fuck me up the ass if I didnít say ďYes.Ē

Why, you ask, would I agree to stay someplace that was causing me physical pain? Because I am a dumb ass, plain and simple. And because I have this overwhelming sense of responsibility to them. People always decry the lack of personal responsibility in America these days, but I am scarily responsible. As much as I loathe these people, I feel the need to finish up what I am working on. I donít know how thatíll possibly happen considering for the last two days Iíve done nothing but alternately surf the web and suffer severe stomach cramps while pretending to work. Hopefully, now that I know my time there will soon be at an end, I can actually get something accomplished, can actually talk to my bosses without feeling nauseous, feel like Iím not such a complete and utter dumb ass.

But here is the more important reason that I agreed to stay the extra time: Iíve got nothing else to do. The job market still sucks and is, if anything, worse now than it was two months ago. If I quit now, I can't collect unimployment, no longer live off the governmentís dime, no longer suck Uncle Samís milky white teat. You know how scary it is to have no money in the bank, no job, and no prospects of finding a new one anytime soon?

So, I want to leave, have in fact been trying to leave for almost as long as Iíve been working, but I just canít give up that steady check for complete and utter uncertainty. I donít want to be just another 25 year-old former web-head living in his parentís basement. Anyone out there looking for a slightly bruised information architect, web developer and writer?

comments (1)


master of his fate

by mg at 01:53 PM on June 11, 2001

Timothy McVeigh was killed today at 7:14 a.m. (CST) by lethal injection. McVeigh was guilty of the worst terrorist attack to ever occur on US soil, causing the deaths of 168 people when he bombed a government office building in Oklahoma City in 1995. He was the first person put to death for a federal offense in almost 40 years.

Creepy - the final, handwritten, statement of Timothy McVeigh, a poem called "Invictus," or "Undefeated." And here is the MetaFilter thread about it.

McVeigh says, "Sorry."

But he also says, "it's 168 to one."

The official statement from President Bush, a man who's had a hand in quite a few executions.

One of the witnesses to the execution speaks out.

Trail of a terrorist, lets you visit key places in McVeigh's life as he moved "from small-town boyhood to the execution chamber."

A beautiful and moving interactive photo essay.

China has executed more than a thousand criminals since April. Some were killed Roman-style, in front of +3,000 spectators.

Europe to the U.S. - McVeigh execution was "sad, pathetic and wrong."

comments (6)


win free stuff

by mg at 12:16 PM on June 11, 2001

A couple months ago Iíd asked Snaggle, as the resident design guru, to come up with a new logo for the site. Unfortunately Snaggle is one lazy MoFo and he never got around to it. The bastard! His laziness is why youíve all been inflicted with my poorly hacked together ďBSĒ box logo thing. You should yell at him about it.

Anyway, Iíve been kicking around the idea of selling Bad Samaritan swag through Cafť Press. I donít expect to make millions off of mugs and mouse pads, but DAMN, how cool would it be chilling around town with a bad sam t-shirt?

So, what Iíve decided to do, both to encourage Snaggle to move his ass, and to increase the ďstickinessĒ of this site, is to run a contest. Yes, thatís right, a contest.

Here are the details: there will be two categories, logo design and t-shirt design. I was thinking there would be only one winner, but there might be several really good t-shirts, in which case Iíd want to offer several different shirts.

I will make the final decision about who wins and who is a loser, unless there more entries then I am expecting, in which case I will whittle down the list to a couple of favorites and then allow you to make the final decision.

If you arenít a kick ass designer, donít fret. For the t-shirt design the quality of your concept will carry almost as much weight as the quality of your execution of that idea.

Winners will receive 1) a free whatever it is theyíve designed, 2) my eternal gratitude, 3) the adoration of millions and 4) a percentage of profits from sales of the merchandise. If you win the logo design, your logo will be used here on the site, and I guess Iíll have to figure something else for you to win since there wonít be any sales or profits. Youíll get something and itíll be good, whatever it is Ė probably a pile of money.

The contest will be open for two weeks. All entries should be in by Monday June 25. You should should mail me for details about how to submit your work

Keep in mind the siteís official tagline, which is ďLast in line for the Nobel Peace Prize. First in line for pie,Ē and the current color scheme, though, I want people to go crazy. If someone creates a kick ass idea/execution that I would never have come up with on my own, I will be equally as bowled over as by someone who seems to have read my mind and comes up with the same thing I would if I were better than a half-assed designer.

comments (1)


The Hairdryer kill(ed) it.

by zia at 05:30 PM on June 10, 2001

Ting ting..erk..psssssssssst...toing toing. "Logging into network". Hooray. Type type type. Thirsty. Tea. Hot. Spilled. Keyboard screamed. I screamed. *blink* blink*. *hits keyboard* hello? are you okay?. " I hopne soe.". Positive?. " ere, nbot anbytmoere?". Hairdryer!. Okay!. Zapped. Great, died on me too huh?. *hits hairdryer repeatedly* You okay man? you okay?. Silence. Fine. Back to keyboard. You alright over there?. " I wanbt myt mommyt...". This is bad. And its all hair dryer's fault!. Evil thing!. Boardie, can you still hear me?". * Farts persistently *. Gee. Sleep Boardie, Sleep! . " Z3zzwrzz..zzqsrzzzz...".

And it snowed here in Christchurch for the first time in 9 years since 1992. And first time on my bare hands in 20 years since I was born. Holy Cow!

Standing in the cold. Bewildered. Mouth agaped. Wonderment. Ate snow. Freakin ICE!. But heck, the novelty still hasn't faded. Yet. Still and even more, dazed. Pathetic.

P/s: Three screeches for Boardie. At least Boardie's recuperating ( afte a treatment of natural, erm, 'breeze' from me. No, don't even go there. To think that I farted on him is just as sick as you farting on my keyboard ). Will be running around in no time. Hey wait! Didn't I just typed coherently?! Boardie! You're back!

" Hee Hee, never felt this rejuvenated"

" Yay!"

" Ytaz!"

" ?! Not again!" *thwacks *

" No wait! I'm just pulling your...AAaaaah!"

" Oops, I did it again? "

" !@#$%^&**(()zweruqoiua;dsfoiuf;alkdfj!!!!!!!"


i never thought i'd see you naked : Sally Field

by mg at 02:42 PM on June 10, 2001

I feel kind of honored, and okay, possibly a little aroused, to present the latest and most distinguished entry in the “I never thought I’d see you naked” picture gallery. This week, Bad Samaritan is proud to present Sally Field nude.

Sally started her career in 1965 playing the spunky Gidget on the television screen, which is ironic considering that after you see this this pic, I’m sure some of you will be playing your gidget and spunking on the screen while imagining a 69 with Sally

She then went on to star as The Flying Nun. I’m sure I could come up with some sort of comment about naked nuns and things flying onto habits, but I’d hate to jeopardize my already precipitous grasp on eternal salvation.

After that, she did some other things, including: win two academy awards, one for Norma Rae and another for Places in the Heart, which brought about the famous “You like me, you really like me!” acceptance speech (which I copped for the title of a post earlier in the week), star as the multiple personality disorder victim and perpetual punch line Sybil, have sex with Burt Reynolds, and tell Forest Gump that “Life is like a box of chocolates.” I bet her box smells like chocolate.

Most recently, she has had a recurring guest role on ER, playing the “Crazy Mom.” And let me tell you, I don’t care if she is nearly 90, I had to perform a little surgery of my own watching her on ER. I don’t know what it is, but crazy chicks just make me hot.

comments (20)


Part-Three-Formerly-Known-As-Part-Two - The saga deflates...

by zia at 11:08 PM on June 09, 2001


The kitty pacified herself with a lusty lick.

The storm instantly murdered its tenacious gait at my will.

A sigh of gratification escaped kitty's black hole of desire.

I shut my eyes firmly to accommodate the flux of assuagement.

In tandem we reposed. Recuperating from the virtual brawl. For the meat.

Our denuded being were stripped raw by the velocity of the issue.

"I need to be disciplined and I don't mean spanking this time". Purrs kitty slyly.

I grinned. ( Anyone? with, ahem, big hands ? thank you..)

The breeding ground for an impending denouement. A claim for my newfound Independence.

I was strained to hold accountable to all this, because that pink wolly bytch refused to disown her pride for the sake of truth. She only entertains varnished sentiments, anything that screens her tainted conscience, and our mutual objective: To maximize the inner freak.

And the stake prompted a question, a question not to be answered by me nor my kitty.

' Are you doing this because you need someone? Or you're doing this because you need me? ( kitty: and me! )"

Me and my kitty. Now liberating from our careful probation, to kiss ( Whoa! ) and make up. To feed each other kind and comfort in spite of ourselves, in acknowledgement of incestuous exchange.


The status quo has rendered Part-Three-Formerly-Known-As-Part-Two to be irreverently redundant. Kitty will not make anymore 'pubic, urm, public appearance'. She decided to stay home to provide the solace, sex ( rub your eyes again. Exactly, you must be crazy to think I actually typed sex. What the hell is wrong with you? Pervert! ) and support I may hanker for.

I have no man to hold my hand anymore. *sniff* But kitty says:

" Fret not, bent over and I will make you brand new all over again ".

I really don't know what I can do without her. Muah. Love ya kitty.

comments (2)


Voulez-vouz coucher avec moi ce soir?

by snaggle at 11:26 PM on June 08, 2001

If you haven't seen Moulin Rouge yet, see it as soon as possible. Keep this in mind going into it, however: it is a musical. Expect some of the campiness and some of the clichés that one might find in a musical. So far the only person I've talked to that hasn't liked it thought it was too cliché — but then again, I don't think she had the background in musicals that I do (of course, what average female can compare with your average theatre-and-music loving homo? [begin tangent] Better question than that, why must I always talk about being a homo in everything I write? Maybe because since it's been so long that I've gotten any or even been hit upon I need to keep reminding myself that yes, I do still bat for that team and that yes, someday I'll get it on again before I die. Hopefully. Knock on wood.[end tangent])

The director of Moulin Rouge, Baz Luhrmann, is the same guy that did Romeo + Juliet and Strictly Ballroom. From what I hear, he regards this as his "trilogy of love movies."

It's been a while since I've seen Strictly Ballroom, but from what I remember I think it's a bit further from Luhrmann's most recent opus than Romeo + Juliet. Moulin Rouge has a similar modern, contemporary feel to it as R + J did. The camerawork is intense, with multiple angles and pans. Every shot is composed beautifully, with striking attention to color, lighting, and composition. For example: I didn't notice it the first time I saw it, but in parts of the movie, each of the main characters is lit completely differently when they're in a solo shot. Nicole Kidman's character Satine, a "smouldering temptress," is often bathed in a cool white light, while Ewan McGregor's firey Bohemian Christian is lit with warm reds. In one of the most subtle tricks of moviemaking that I wouldn't have consciously caught on to had it not been pointed out to me, these lighting colors spill over into actual local color usage in one of the last few shots of the movie. After the curtian falls and Christian and Satine share what will be their last embrace (don't worry, you find out that she dies in the end early on in the show) red and white flower petals intermingle in a heartwrenching finale. Color is definately a primary compositional element in this work, which is somewhat unusual to see today. Red is in the title and is probably the most prevalent color in the show.

The show's definately an emotionfuck. It'll take you on a rollercoaster from campy cancan numbers to two men singing Madonna's Like a Virgin to each other with ballet waiters all around to the end when everything seems like it'll work out beautifully and then falls apart. Speaking of Like a Virgin, I actually didn't know when I went to see it that it's a musical that uses contemporary songs and incorporates them. For example, you'll find such musical gems as The Sound of Music, Roxanne, Like a Virgin, I Will Always Love You, Voulez-vous Coucher Avec Moi, Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend, and Smells like Teen Spirit. It sounds corny, but it works. I suppose it's more likely that people walking down the street will suddenly burst into a heartwarming rendition of Whitney Houston than Sondheim (unless you're in Chelsea, of course.) I also believe that Kidman and McGregor did their own vocals, which is astounding. I'm quite a critic when it comes to voice, and the two of them carry the show beautifully.

My only complaint about the show is that it feel like it run a bit long. It clocks in at two hours, but the storyline moves slowly in a couple places. It would have been hard to keep the energy of the show up during the entire thing, granted, and the compression of a musical into shorter time always presents difficulty, especially when the entire show is done so artistically.

Kay, this little review hasn't really been very "amusing," per se. So instead of using the quantity of vocal outbursts of jocosity to determine whether or not you'll click that little "amused" down below, why don't you use it to tell me whether or not you thought this review was any good and if you want me to write more? I'm toying with the idea of writing a movie review as a weekly column or something of the sort. What do you think?

comments (6)


you like me, you really like me!

by mg at 01:02 PM on June 08, 2001

Man, if I realized all it took to get people to tell me they liked me was to beg people to tell me they liked me I would have been down on my knees faster than a Clinton intern (I'm sorry. I hearby declare this to be the last Clinton/intern joke of all time).

All I had to do was pimp myself out for some loving, and now look at all the nice things that people are writing about me. And as far as I can remember, I didnít have to make a single one of them up! As an aside, the easiest way to get me to link you up is for you to write something glowing about this site on your's. Iím not encouraging anyone to do that, Iím just saying, thatís all.

So, to beging the lovefest, DJ Decepticon over at Bizzos and Marshmallows gushed this:

I was just over at Bad Samaritan. That site is amazing. I so envy their writing ability. There are always those sites that you feel proud to be an affiliate of. They are definitely one of them.

Damn, that is nice. I inspire pride in the Bizzos boys. BOO-YA! That is so much better than the revulsion I usually inspire.

Seriously, I only link up sites that I actually read, so the fact you guys are up there on my "friends" list means I dig you too. And Decepticon, if I ever write a book, you can be sure as hell Iím going to be calling you up to write one of the blurbs on the dust jacket back cover.

And Spacecheese had this to say:

MG over at Bad Samaritan has written a hilarious little something on the issue of spam that some of us can probably relate to. Warning: not for the faint of heart.

"Not for the faint of heart." I like that. You know, I've always found what I write to be fairly tame. If I wrote down half of what was in my head, then we'd be talking about some fainting hearts, let me tell you.

MrAnonymous at Enigmous wrote:

They {us}have one heck of an awesome site. The post very, very often. Daily, usually two or three a day. They are long, quality posts. They also have some good content, some very funny stuff. Be sure to check out their Columns and Best Of sections. Good stuff, I'm tellin' ya. (That's a quote from my math teacher. Oh, sorry.) They are cool. I'd like to say cooler than us, but I just don't feel that way.

Thanks for the compliments guys, you've got a pretty nifty site yourselves. However, I hate to burst your bubble, but we are so much cooler than you are. Do you inspire pride in Bizzonians? I don't think so. Have you ever made someone's heart faint? I don't think so.

And if you still think you are cooler than us, just check out what Justin my arch-nemesis from FUBAR had to say:

Anyway, in reference to this post, no you silly overly sensitive man you... you are not BAD. I just couldn't think of anything else better to put next your link. I would've probably put NECROPHILE next to it if i'd thought of it at the time but alas, when you're out of inspiration, you tend to think half-heartedly. So i just took the BAD out of the BAD SAMARITAN, which is like half of what your site's called, and stuck it up next to your link. Big whoop.

Justin doesnít think Iím bad! Justin doesnít think Iím bad! Woo Hoo!


Looking over the list of superlatives I've wracked up the last couple days, ("Not for the faint of heart," "awesome," "hilarious," "amazing," "pride inducing," etc), I think "necrophile" has got to be my favourite. I'd just like to point out, however, that she wasn't dead when I started, so I don't think that can technically be considered necrophilia.

Justin also had this to say for himself:

But anyway, I found it pretty amazing that you could actually write a whole big ass post based on the three little letters of the alphabet that I decided to bestow next to your link.

I wish i could done that.

Yeah. That was pretty amazing, I turned three little letters into +700 words. But see, this is why I love/hate Justin; I wrote this long assed post, and Justin's response, though half as long (and punctuated poorly) is just much better then anything I could have written.

*Sigh* You'd think with all these people sweating me recently, I'd have a little more confidence, wouldn't you?

comments (2)


He loves you Zia. He really really does.

by zia at 05:47 AM on June 08, 2001

No, hate to burst the bubble but this is not the sequel to Part One. But rather, a rude transition that challenged and deflated the authority of Part-Three-Formerly-Known-as-The-Part-Two. Like it or not, it is here to stay.


The man I like said this to me:

"Now I remember what I wanted to tell ya....

There are only 2 possibilities. Either,

1. We eat MORE of each other's shit but this time it's our business.

2. We end up in ( censored ) and eating even more of each other's shit for the rest of our lives."

I was deeply moved. And kitty rubs herself delicately against my bosom. Manifesting satisfaction from the artful expression.


Zia: Be yourself.

Him: I can't be myself if I don't turn you on.

I managed a grin. My kitty purred with delight.


"Is that so hard to realize that I so fuckin like you ?"

I was caught off-guard. Kitty tripped over her tail in disbelieve and fell flat on her little furry face.

He really really really LIKES me? * ignores the whinning kitty *


The man who likes me said to me:

"Do you miss me ? Did you think of me when you were in varsity today?"

I wish I could find words to tell him how his presence has sewn up my absorption. How he ventilated tender heat to thaw my being. How he ruthlessly attacked my thoughts, when they were struggling to adhere to their comtemplated priorities. How I kept seeing his name in my little poetry book, unable to register a single line of expression but him. How I shamefully caught myself writing down his name, when my crisp sheet demand the intended notes. How can I admit my fatuous design when my pride threatens suicide by default.

I render him guilty. Guilty for every thought that impaled my concentration. For every conscious moment that scrapped through my heart.

I revealed, no, I vomitted. The system rejected input and informed error detected.

Because I can't handle the truth. Yet.


"I love you jia "

I spluttered. Kitty gasped. Those words were heavily soaked with unexpressible sentiment. I quickly collect myself only to find myself mashed over and over by the effect. Kitty ran. Kitty hits wall. Bang. Kitty passed out. Kitty's last words, "The world has gone mad.".


"Can we have a relationship? I hate not being able to preserve what we can have together. So can we still have a relationship?"

He thought. He thought about it. A lot.

I don't want to express how I feel about it. Because I was a bit hurt. Kitty was very quiet. But I know she's distraught.

Thanks to my unchecked conscience, I realized that I had long acknowledged the truth by means of denial.

And now, the truth has met its match?


Then I saw the ANSWER. He was sitting cross-leg in a corner, not too far away. I looked at him and he stared back at me.

"You knew I was here all along Zia" His intense eyes bore into my denial gaze. I turned away from the accusing attention.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Still refused to look at him.

"Sure you do. You can't run away from me. And I can't hide from you. We're bonded by design of reality." He touched my arm.

I recoiled.

Kitty knew I was dejected. Kitty knew his words injured me gravely. Kitty is sad.

Little did she know, I wasn't hurting too bad. I was partially shielded. My obstinacy absorbed most of the blow and the residuum just sharply arrested my oxygen intake, only to have it resume operation as the effect fades by degree.

Then I smiled, patted kitty's head and was rewarded a wtf? . Dear kitty, if only you knew.


Kitty wants to know what's next.

We shall see, sweetie. We shall see.


This is waaaay too long. >_< . I've breached my conscience and violated the word limit. Aaaaaa! Michael is going to skin my little kitty. Aaaaaa! I'm now packing my bags. Gotta start running. Run far far away from Michael and gang. Run far far where nobody can get a piece of my sexy kitty. Run, kitty, run!

comments (4)


bad advice : WWBD?

by mg at 02:21 PM on June 07, 2001

Melanie asks:

Should I stop smoking?

Should you stop smoking? What the hell kind of question is that? You meant it to be rhetorical, didnít you? It must have been a rhetorical question. At least, I hope it was a rhetorical question. I mean, after all the things we know about smoking now, how can you even ask such a question?

It is almost like asking me whether I want to have sex with Drew Barrymore . Of course I want to have sex with Drew Barrymore! You shouldnít have to ask. It is a given.

Just like with smoking. Should you quit smoking? Of course not! You shouldnít even have to ask. It is a given.

Do you think Humphrey Bogart ever asked if he should quit smoking? Do you think Jack Nicholson ever asked if he should quit smoking? Do you think Christian Slater ever asked if he should quit smoking? Hell no!

And why have Bogie, Jack and Christian never asked if they should quit smoking? Because they are some of the coolest people in the history of cool people and because smoking is one of, if not, the coolest affectations a person can have.

Did you ever see someone in a bar and think - ďDamn that person looks cool, I wanna get with themĒ? I know have. And have you ever thought about what quality is that is drawing you to that person? I know have. And sure, you might think it might have something to do with looks, or personality, finances or pheromones, despite what you might think at first. When you really get to the root of things, attraction is based entirely on whether your paramour has got a cigarette between their lips.

There is also one thing that is consistent between all of the best books and movies ever made Ė the main characters are smokers. Well, okay, there are two things if you count alcohol. Three if you count sex. But smoking is the main thing they all have in common, and since you can do it with your clothes on, it is a lot easier to do in public view.

Iíve smoked now for ten years. Freaking crazy, considering Iím only 25. But, what are you going to do? There have been long periods of time within those ten years that I wasnít smoking. Recently, Iíd ďquitĒ for more than six months. Then I started working with my Israeli friends, and I knew it was only a matter of time before Iíd succumb to the nicotine cravings again.

Speaking of work, I recently had to do the WebMD Health Risk Appraisal test. Well, I didnít exactly have to take the test for work, but I did take it at work. Moving on, based on my age (25), and how much I smoke (around 5 cigarettes a day), I want you to guess how much longer my life would be if I stopped smoking now.

Take a wild guess. There are no wrong answers here except all of the ones that arenít 0.2 years. Thatís right, if I quit right now, my life would be extended by 0.2 years. You know how long 0.2 years is? Only about 73 fucking days!

That is less time than it takes to ship a George Foreman ďKnock out the FatĒ Grill! That is less time than it would take to order a new passport! Iíd only be able to get 7/8 around the world in a hot-air balloon in 73 days! Are you kidding? You want me to quit smoking so I can live for another measly 73 days? It isnít worth it.

So, Melanie, whenever you find yourself asking whether you should quit smoking, just ask yourself, ďWhat would Bogie do (WWBD)?Ē The answer, of course, is that Bogie (not to mention MG) would ďJust say no.Ē To not smoking, that is. Which would mean you would keep smoking. Ah Christ, I need a cigarette.

comments (8)


A not-so-ordinary kitty and me.

by zia at 12:34 AM on June 07, 2001

The exam fever has noxiously wiped out 2/3 of my brain cell count and arrested my once budding inspiration. So today, armed with only the remnants of my quivering cells, I have no choice but to resort to stealing. Now I donÔŅĹt feel too healthy doing this but no use crying over spilt milk now. HereÔŅĹs the shit I looted from some blog. Okay, mine. But hey, IÔŅĹm doing it for you guys and you guys are to share my burden of guilt. Otherwise, IÔŅĹll sulk myself fat and never to be seen here again!

Part one. Translation sheets not included.

"So, my shields were down, my security system de-activated. Does that represent my personal feelings through the most brutal honesty it can afforded me? We have been friends for like forever ( The meaty dude and me ). This might modulate some of the composition of our sublimated relationship if not all. Initially I thought it would not but it did and I felt a bit betrayed by myself. Everything is now against me and my harmless kitty. This is not an upheaval, not ripping down what we had built right to the ground to make way for a new site. But like an amelioration, a project of progression and cultivation of some sort.

My inner freak is very disturbed. The kitty trembles slightly. The boundaries have been brusquely violated by each unforgiving thought and that fact stabbed cruelly at my reluctant mentality, in the absence of lubricant and due mercy. Have I brought this to myself by elevating my dam? The dam that repels intrusive fancies? By introducing another playmate for my kitty? By succumbing to my mortal predilections?

Kitty is adamant. "I want him." She hisses. Her silky back arched menacingly. No kitty, I want him. I burned my sable eyes into hers.

The reverberation of a single whiplash punctuated the cold air, followed by the pungent smell of blazing hostility brewing between me and the kitty. Saturnine.

The bubbles whipped up a storm in the cauldron of compromising passion, threatened to spew its raging content over its hot earthy brim. Over my kitty, over the now scalded me. I am not airing any grievances, neither is the kitty. We're just lusting and bytching at the potent energy of the coveted meat. And claiming our share of the meat.

Now different cards have to be swapped. The actors changed but the drama retained its drip of trenchant flavor. The show has only just begun.


Meat : The man a.k.a. him a.k.a. the dude.

Kitty : Not-an-ordinary kitty. Possesses analogous attributes to those of the normal feline species that we know as The Common Cat. But this kitty ( mind you, not cat ) does not ingest fish. It would be abnormal and sick for kitties of her persuasion to even think of it.

Coming up next: Part two. Demands for translation sheet will be taken into consideration for a measly bribe of two hearty slices of wildberry cheesecake minus the berries.

comments (11)


bad - in a good way?

by mg at 11:17 PM on June 06, 2001

So apparently my boy Justin over at FUBAR thinks Iím "Bad." And I really donít know what to think about that.

He used to have me listed in his links section as a "Rival." Which, I suppose, we are. We both have similar websites that exist within a little circle of online friends. We both get more hits then most of the other folks in that circle. We both post really frequently. We both post long. We link up, and are linked by, a lot of the same sites. We talk about a lot of the same things.

The whole "Rival" thing actually started because were fighting it out to be the top site on the FatWeb's topsites list. Even though it has always been sort of a loving rivalry weíve both done some subtle things that could be seen as stirring up the rivalry. We've linked up some of the same people, talked about the same movies, and pined over the same girls. But that can be explained by the fact we've got the same unique tastes - not that there aren't lots of guys out there who have a thing for Kirsten Dunst.

Actually, I was honored when I first saw the "Rival" tag next to my name. If Justin actually thinks of me as a rival, I must have finally arrived on the e/n scene. When I first started up my site, Justin's was one of my models. FUBAR is one of my favorite sites, and has been almost a year. For the love of god, I visit it at least ten times a day! So to be considered by Justin as rival was thoroughly cool. One of the definitions of rival is "equal of," and I know Justin is a smart guy, so I kind of took it that way more than offensively.

But, Iím just not sure how to take the "Bad" tag that he has recently added next to my link.

Is it a moral judgment? Does Justin think that I am a bad person? There are certainly enough people out there in the Internet world (not to mention out there in the real world) who would probably think I'm a pretty evil person after having read some of what I've written. I'm sure there are people out there who would condemn me to hell for my turns of the phrase. But Justin? I didn't think he was all wacko-religious like that.

So, is "Bad" a qualitative assessment? Does he think my writing sucks? This would bother me more than if he thought I was evil. I may be pretty self-deprecating about it, but I have a lot of pride in my writing abilities. I think I'm pretty damn good, actually. But I think Justin is a damn fine writer as well, and if someone I respect as an "artist" doesn't respect me, man, that would be rough. I don't want to believe that option because it would just make me sad.

Does he mean "Bad" in a produce sort of way? Like "Taste this milk, did it go bad?" Have things here passed their "Best Used By" date? I think Iíve tried to keep things mixed up. I don't talk about one thing all the time (like DVDs or how much Doritos cost), I change up the design pretty frequently, and I've even added a couple hot new writers. This site is, by its very definition, fresh.

Then, what else could Justin mean by "Bad" then? I know he doesnít mean it in a Michael Jackson circa 1987 way. Like in a "that MG is so bad I have to grab by crotch and scream now" kind of way. No, I can't imagine Justin being that into the King of Pop, even if he is from another country.

So, Justin, I can't figure it out. If you are reading this, please explain yourself. I just want to know why, all of a sudden, Iím "Bad." You know, I don't want a war. Unless you're sending me emails for free long distance, I'm a pretty peaceful guy and war never really solved anything. But if that is what it comes down to, I'll be awfully sad, but let's be realistic now Ė I'd kick your ass.


i love you man

by mg at 10:33 AM on June 06, 2001

When I first started this site back in October I wanted it to be a forum for intelligent, but humorous, takes on politics, society and daily life. I wanted to create something that was a combination of Suck, the Darwin Awards, and the Onion.

What I didn't realise when I started was how hard it would be to write the Onion all by myself, or with the little help I did have. I didn't know what a weblog was at the time, and I hadn't ever really read one (or at least one that called itself that). I'd been reading some e/n sites for a while, and while I liked the free form style, I didn't really want to post links to porn or pictures of people with their heads chopped off (My, how times have changed).

So, in my laziness, I just started writing these little daily essays on a news story or the crazy things that would pop into my head during the course of a day. I started reading other sites that did the same type of thing, and I really began loving them.

Back then, if I got ten hits a day, I was ecstatic. Despite the fact that I knew all those people in real life, and basically had to beg them to visit, ten people are ten more than had been listening to my babble before I had a website.

By December, if was getting 50 hits a day, I would be deliriously happy. At this point, more than just my close personal friends were reading the site. I didn't know who was reading the site and I couldn't believe why anyone who didn't know me would care to read anything I wrote. While my logs said that I had people visiting, I really never believed these people existed. If I couldn't see them, and didn't talk with them, they weren't really there.

I got much better at writing on a daily basis. And more people started showing up. But it wasn't until the beginning of March that the site reached 10,000 hits. It was around 140 posts and about 6 months since I had first started.

The site reached 20,000 hits by the beginning of May. That second 10k came in only two months! Also in that two-month period, there were another 100 posts. Prolificacy breeds hits, apparently. Perhaps quality writing and nude pictures of Betty White helped a bit too.

Now, here it is just the 6th of June and the site will probably reach 35,000 hits by the end of the day. This last 15k took less than a month! Holy shit!? I'm shocked, to tell the truth.

I really... I just don't know what to say or think about this. I am just constantly amazed by this and by all of you, my readers and friends. Because even though I really like getting 500+ hits a day it isn't about the hits at all.

What I love is that I know there are people out there now. Real live people. Not imaginary numbers in my logs. There are people that I trade emails with and chat up on AIM on regular basis. I love that. I love seeing when someone mentions me on their site or links me up. And I love that you guys feel connected enough to what is going on here to comment on posts.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love you all, really. And I hope I can continue to entertain and amuse ya'll and that we can continue this relationship, strange as it might be.

Man, I don't know where the sappiness came from, but it gone for now. I should probably get back to posting nude pictures of Teletubbies and threatening the lives of telemarketers.

comments (5)


"I carried a watermelon..."

by snaggle at 11:36 PM on June 05, 2001

I have a confession to make: I love dirty dancing.

I have another confession to make: I love dirty dancing with girls.

Yes, you read that right. I bump 'n grind with girls. To some of you, that sounds perfectly normal. Of course a gay man grinds with straight women. And some of you are scratching your heads at this moment with a quizzical countenance. Why would I dirty dance with straight women?

I went out last night with a bunch of friends, and enough of them, women and men, seemed incredibly distressed/confused/befuddled by this odd seemingly heterosexual hip gyration, so I'm here to set the record straight (pardon the term) for once and for all: it is a rule that gay men must grind with their straight female friends. It's just a rule. "Normal" dirty dancing can be a little odd; who wants to see a couple having sex on the dance floor? However, when it's a gay man grinding with multiple women and all involved parties are laughing their asses off, one can only come to the conclusion that this is, indeed, a G-rated event, rather than the hormone-drenched sexcapade normal grinding is. So women: do not be afraid or confused when your slightly drunk (or very drunk) gay friends starts molesting you on the dance floor with an "atomic crotch," as someone called it last night. It does not necessarily mean he is a 6-pack hetero; quite likely he is just asserting his sexuality. "Look! Look! I can dance provocatively in very sexual ways remeniscent of prurient fleshy encounters with women and not be turned on! All you homos who are watching, come get me! I'm single!!"

Or maybe that's just what I seem to shout. Hrm. I should probably do something about my raging sex drive. It always seems to get me in trouble (especially if candy necklaces and alcohol are involved.)

comments (4)


how to : end spam email forever

by mg at 12:14 PM on June 05, 2001

To whom it may concern,

Please remove this e-mail address from your mailing list you FUCKING SCUMBAG.

If I receive any more emails from you, I will take action against your company. No, actually, I wonít take action against your company. I will take action against only the individual responsible for hitting the "send" button.

That action would most likely entail me hunting them down and beating them to death with a tire iron. No, make that an aluminum bat. Iíve always wanted to know if an aluminum bat will still make that same "ding" sound when it hits bone as it does when it hits a baseball.

Additionally, I will find that person's family, chop up their children, and feed the remains to the family dog/cat/goldfish/parakeet while I make their wife/husband/significant other watch. I will also be raping their wife/husband/significant other while I am forcing them to watch their dog/cat/goldfish/parakeet eat their children's remains.

As well, I will record over all their episodes of "Touched by an Angel," sit in their favorite chair naked, replace the toilet paper in their bathroom so that the flap hangs the wrong way, and finish all their milk but put the carton back in the refrigerator anyway.

That is how much I don't want to receive another email from you. Don't you think that if I wanted a University Diploma, (feel free to replace "University Diploma" with "Home Mortgage," "Free Porn" or "Office Toner") I would have replied to any one of your 23 previous emails, you stupid cum chunk?

Seriously, how stupid do you think I am? No, actually, I understand your marketing ploy. If people are stupid enough to fall for your scam, they are also stupid enough to believe that having a University Diploma from a company that sent them a spam email will actually help them achieve a better life.

You are pathetic and spineless for preying on the weak minded. Well, let me tell you something Mister (or Miss), I am not weak minded. Before I hunt you down and kill you, I will mess with your mind. I will follow you around, and when you go into the grocery store, I will hotwire your car and change the parking spot that you left it in. When you are doing laundry, I will take one half of all your socks from the dryer. I will replace your regular coffee with Folgers crystals.

You will be so mindfucked by the time I come for you, and I will come for you, you will welcome death. You will kiss my feet, even as a crush your skull. That is how much I want to never receive another email from you. Do you understand that you commie pinko bastard?

Hahahha. J/K! ;)

Wasnít that a funny joke? I don't really want to rape your children or mess with your head. Not only that, but I really do want a University Diploma. In fact, I want two of them. So that when I hunt you down, I can stick one up your ass sideways, you goddamn spam monkey! The other one I will hang on my wall in a nice frame, so that I will always remember how happy I was the day I raped your wife/husband/significant other.



comments (11)


cucumber salad

by mg at 07:52 PM on June 04, 2001

I realised I hadn't added any new friends in a while, and was thinking to myself, "Hmmm, who should I add?" Then I remembered seeing Cucumber in my referer logs over the past couple weeks, and that every time I went over to her site I loved what I read.

She writes wonderful things like this:

Yesterday I went to all my classes. Today I will go to all my classes. Possibly stoned, but we shall see about that. I am going to go to every class for the last two weeks of school even if it kills me. Even if I have to go stoned. I've never been to a class very stoned, except for one time. I wrote a test and did PRETTY DAMN WELL.

Isn't that wonderful? Can't you just hear her voice in your head? I love her writing, but I'm kind of worried about her drug use. However, she has really cute pink hair. Hmm... yeah Cucumber!

Anyone else want to be linked up?

comments (6)


Where did my privacy go?

by zia at 06:19 PM on June 04, 2001

I am currently spinning around my chair in the Law library. Fix me now, I wish you could.

Hmm. My head feels heavy. It always does. Must be the junk that I tote around, or was it the dissonance that weigh this much?

I find Once A Upon A Time anything but absorbing. Obviously I was born somewhere sometime to somebody doing something of somewhat. And yes, the girl continues to live, breathing in and out every single day. Naturally.

Still, I should know better. You need more. Right.

I simply adore animals. But I can't afford keep them. No, actually, they won't let me. The last one died laughing at my frantic endeavor trying to change the damn channel on the telly, only to find that I was actually choking the buttons out of my poor black cordless phoneÖ To say I'm plain silly is an outright understatement. But the other way round won't do me justice either. Because of my current state of mind, I always feel THIS small. * squeak *

I get odd joys out of mowing lawns. Simply relish those 'Whoops' moments. "Whoops, there goes the hoseÖWhoops, my mom's roses!Ö.Whoops, where's the neighbor's cat?!" Fascinating time killer indeed.

I'm Chinese-educated. Another fact that often catches people off-guard. The perception of Chinese in Malaysia ( Yes, Zia is Malaysian made ) is pretty paradigmatic. A Chinese-ed is supposed to yak in Mandarin ALL the time, and speaks horrendous English. Conversely, if you speak good English, they will expect you to have forgotten or speak no Mandarin at all as you have been 'English-fied'. I refused to subscribe to either of these stripes. Zia offers no funky reasons.

As I grow older, things come at a higher price while the quality plummets. That's why I'm still living like an 18 year old like I did 2 years ago simply because I couldn't afford and refused to submit to anything less than my individual yardstick. I talk too much and yet I don't talk enough. I can't help but admit that my literary prowess ( what prowess? ) is very much confined to creative writing. How thought provoking. Not! I doubt my capacity to generate philosophical or even politically laced pieces akin to the meritable works of snaggle and mg. I just can't find a common ground with logic. Especially when it is used against me. Right, I can always try to accomodate any request for pieces of the above mentioned genre but will accept no liabilty to bogged down IQ levels, paralyzed facial muscles and any related disorders ( however far-fetched ) due to digesting my sappy/prodigious/sheepheaded/

flabbergasting/wanky attempts. Laughing discreetly with your fat index finger pointing at my work is strictly prohibited as I would/might not find it insulting. Believe me, a red face angry chinese girl is not a pretty sight at all.

There is this big annoying dude standing next to me who kept staring at my screen while waiting for the printer to spit out his printing. I just gotta stop right here or I will be damned compelled to yak about his stubby smelly fingers. * tries to slap the offending hand*

Wait, I take that hand spanking thing back. He looks humongous. Don't forget, zia at the moment, is THIS small.

Pity pity me...>_<

comments (3)


the dark knight returns

by mg at 01:12 PM on June 04, 2001

I'm listening to a lot of music lately, seeing as that is the only thing that manages to keep me sane at work. I think if I wasn't allowed to listen to music, I'd probably long since come in with a shotgun and splattered my boss' brains on the back of his chair.

So, listening to music keeps me sane. That and talking on AIM with my new hot coworker, who, after working here for only a week, already hates the place as much as I do. I love her. She is hot, smart enough to laugh at all my jokes, hot, and pretty funny herself. She also hates the Israelis as much as I do. She is pretty hot as well. Did I mention she was hot?

Anyway, I was listening to Rich Creamy Paint this morning, and one of their songs has easily the cheesiest line in a love song ever. The line goes something like "I'm your Chris Farley, and you're my David Spade." I don't think Rich is gay considering that all of his songs are about girls, and even girls that aren't his mom or Liza Minelli, but I think he has a lot to learn about women if he goes around comparing them to Chris Farley or David Spade, though at least Spade looks a little like a woman.

I mean, am I wrong here? Guys, would you ever be stupid enough to compare your woman David Spade? And ladies, what would you do if your fella compared you to Chris Farley? You'd probably sit on him, right? And not even in that good way, tubby.

Actually, whom would you all rather be compared to? On the one hand, Chris Farley was the funny one. But he was also about 300 pounds overweight, remarkably sweaty, and is, well, dead. And while David Spade is alive, he is a little lightweight, not sweaty as far as I can tell, but is, well, David Spade. For me, I guess it would be a toss up between being fat and dead and David Spade.

I don't know what else to say about this, other than that this talk of Farley and Spade reminded me of this Onion article about sidekicks, which got me thinking about the fact that all my life I've been looking for a sidekick. Up until a couple years ago, believe it or not, I've always been someone elseís sidekick. I guess it came from not being confident in myself. I always managed to befriend with people who (I thought) were better than me in whatever it was that I was trying to be good at doing at the time.

My best friend the whole time I was growing up was Sam Dyches. Every Friday after school I would go over to his house and not go home until Sunday afternoon. He had a hot older sister, an Atari 2600, and lived a block away from the park. He kicked my ass in everything we did. Whether it was playing Joust on the Atari, hockey in his hallway (using miniature golf clubs as sticks and a tennis ball for a puck), or baseball in the park.

I remember how excited I was when I finally figured out how to throw a curveball, but as soon as we got to the park and I tried out my new pitch, he promptly knocked it out of the park. Sam was more personable than me, and could learn new things quickly. I remember how we both started playing guitar at the same time, and within months he was another fucking Jimi Hendrix and I still hadn't mastered the G chord.

In a way, I idolized him. In a way I also really hated him. Everything was just so easy for him. Looking back now, I know it wasnít. He was just as fucked up and confused as I was. But looking at him then he just seemed so confident. I wanted to be him, but I settled for just being around him Ė the Robin to his Batman, but not in the gay way.

I am much more confident in myself now. I am no longer the sidekick. I guess that would make me Nightwing or something. I haven't quite gotten to the point of having a sidekick of my own. But I know I will someday. Even if I have to mail order him from Thailand.

comments (2)


i like my couch

by mg at 10:50 PM on June 03, 2001

After the chaotic and amazing time I spent in California last weekend (which I've still failed to fully report on), I spent this weekend almost completely immobile. I did not, for any period of more than half an hour, leave my couch.

I'd joined the Columbia House DVD club a while back Ė yes, I got sucked into the 5 DVDs for a penny deal. I know, I know, I'm stupid and gullible; let's move on. My 5 introductory movies arrived during the week and I hadn't the chance to watch any of them, so when I got home from work Friday night I put in one of the movies - Clerks.

Clerks is bad in every category that movies are judged. The production values were awful, the acting terrible and the script was entirely too wordy. Yet, the movie still ranks up there as one of my all-time favorites. When that was over, I watched the commentary, with Kevin Smith, the guy who played Dante, some of the other production staff, and best of all, a very drunken Jason Mewes ( who will be returning this summer as Jay in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back.

Then I went to bed. On the couch. Did I mention that I didn't leave the couch all weekend?

I woke up Saturday morning around noon. I guess noon isn't morning anymore. I got about 13 hours of sleep. Let me tell you, I needed the sleep, and bad. For some reason Saturday morning cartoons are all done by noon so I decided to just put in another movie. Hey, when we were kids, didn't Saturday morning cartoons always last all day? I guess "Saturday morning" cartoons was kind of a misnomer then, and when I was 8 I probably didn't even know what misnomer meant, but I'd certainly like to get back to those halcyon days of innocence and ignorance if it means that I can wake up at noon and still get to watch the X-Men.

Regardless, I put in another movie, Dancer in the Dark, which I had actually bought weeks ago and never finished watching. I think I might have mentioned in the past how much I love Björk, and despite the fact that Dancer is one depressing movie, I was quite "excited" to watch her in action.

I had planned on getting up and doing something then, but I was kind of depressed by the end of the movie, what with Björk getting hung and all, so I decided to just laying on the couch a little longer and flip through the channels on TV. And what happens to be on TV but Meatballs. How cool is that? I love Bill Murray and I love cheesy camp movies. Maybe I should get that movie on DVD so I can see the boobies and hear the real curse words?

Anyway, by the time Meatballs was over, it was really much to late to go out and do anything, so I put in another movie. No, wait, actually I took a nap. On the couch. I woke up an hour or so later.

Then I put in another movie. I finally got around to watching American Beauty. Let me say, it was pretty stupid of me to have held out so long on this one because it was such a great movie! American Beauty is the kind of movie that you watch and it changes your life. That is, if you ignore the fact that everything that Kevin Spacey does changes his life, but ends up getting his head blown off by a homophobic Marine.

The only thing that redeemed my total depression after seeing that movie was going back to the scenes with Mena Suvari and Thora Birch naked.

So after seeing Kevin Spacey's brains splattered on the kitchen wall, it was actually time to go to bed for the night. I fell asleep around 10. On the couch. I have mentioned how I spent the entire weekend on the couch, right?

Sunday, I woke up at noon again, after around 14 hours of sleep. I really needed the sleep. I had two more movies that I hadn't watched, High Fidelity and Full Metal Jacket. I wasn't in the mood to watch anyone else get killed - I wanted to be made happy - so I put in High Fidelity which was really a pretty stupid mistake. Comedy, my ass!

High Fidelity is probably the worst movie you could probably watch if you are in the middle of weird relationship issues, and really, when is there a time when you arenít in the middle of weird relationship issues?

At the beginning of the movie John Cusack asks: "Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?" At the end of the weekend I asked: "Was I miserable before I started watching all these movies? Or did I watch these movies because I am miserable?"

Anyway, I am so used to seeing stories where boy meets girl, boy loses girl and then in the end something remarkable happens that causes boy to get back girl. Usually, that thing involves fireworks and the kind of stuff that never happens in real life.

In this movie, things are exactly like they are in real life. So, the fact that Cusack gets back together with his girlfriend at the end of the movie doesn't really make me feel better because he goes back to a life that was making him miserable. Yeah, and sure he seems happier at the end of the movie, but "comfortable" is hardly the way I want to describe my love life.

Though, "comfortable" is a much preferable word than "non-existent." Blah. The only thing that could make me feel worse is realizing that I have to be at work in less than 10 hours. Hello neighbors, can we say "Suck ass"?

Oh, hey, I'm looking for a few columnists. Currently, some of the ideas I have for columns are "If they were porn stars," "Bad News" (which already kind of is a column, but I'm looking for someone else to write it), "Sex Machines," and "Movie Reviews" like the ones in this post that give away all the endings. You can write stuff like that, or you can choose to come up with your own idea. You are smart people, I'm sure you can come up with your own ideas. If you do, or even if you don't, you can send me an email.

comments (5)


Hold the lap dance!

by zia at 02:54 AM on June 03, 2001

Feelings. Undesigned feelings. They undergo aggressive mutation under the split of every second. Instincts are my personal ticket to the embellishment of reality. If you feel like doing it, ambush it if capacity is not the question. Educated by primal urges, succeeded through unbridled conscience. You know you want to, so whip the Devil up by its tail! Often or not, many blamed the Devil for ill-favored adversity after holding out to his charms but in de facto situation, the call is yours. Stop leeching on his sinful sapid tail and chew your own bitter pill. When you took one too many, the bitterness will eventually give way to a much more endurable savor and the adventure starts right there baby!

Weeeeee. I'm feeling much more better. *sniff*


i never thought i'd see you naked : Teletubbies' Pui Lee Fan

by mg at 09:30 AM on June 01, 2001

I always thought the Teletubbies were naked to begin with, I mean, why else would I get so turned on whenever I watched the show? But, apparently, the Teletubbies aren’t real - they are just people inside costumes.

Crazy, I know!

And it turn’s out there is a real live woman inside of Po (The Red One) that amusingly enough, is named Pui. The actress who plays Po is named Pui Lee Fan, to be exact, and after taking off the Po costume, she slipped into a couple of lesbians on the BBC’s Metrosexuality. Pui is often naked on the show, and has been spotted performing cunnilingus (a word with more syllables than are usually spoken in an entire episode of Teletubbies) on other girls.

We contacted Tinky Winky, former co-worker of Po’s and no stranger to controversy himself, who said he’d seen the pictures, but that he wasn’t all that interested in them.

The rest of the children’s television community were shocked about the pictures:

When we showed them to Fred Rogers he started taking off his sweater and shoes and said, "Oh, would she be? Could she be? Please, won’t she be my neighbor?” Mr. Rogers added, “I'm just so lonely and playing make-believe isn't really doing it for me anymore."

Big Bird, of Sesame Street, said he had seen the picture. He told us that looking at them made him "a bigger bird." Before we could continue with the interview, he abruptly told us that he couldn't answer any more questions because he just remember he had to go play with his Snuffleupagus.

Papa Smurf, contacted at his retirement community in Boca Raton, Florida, said, “Holy Smurf! What a set smurfs on that smurf! I’d sure like to stick my smurf in her smurf and smurf her all night long!”

We contacted another former co-worker of Po’s, Laa-Laa, to question him about Po’s nudity, but every time we put away the pictures and tried to begin the interview he would say “Again! Again!” Finally we just gave him the pictures and left.

comments (14)


Hold your dinner, eat this first.

by zia at 12:56 AM on June 01, 2001

It is incredibly heartening to take in the forwarded esteem from kassygal. Who else but mg to thank for the space and audience? Hereís a chocolate fish for you Master. *Bows*

The delectable commix of 25 oz. of mgís shrewd gray matter, 3 spoonfuls of snaggleís eloquence, a pinch of sharís allure, not forgetting a dash of ziaís asinine flavored essence and whoa! BS's very own brand of truly yummy cake for your mental gratification.

Bingeing on this ambrosial treat is totally acceptable. Really.