Monday, December 31, 2007

Just a Quick Note


To say that I am more than highly offended that the term "Baby-daddy" is being validated and accepted into the vernacular by dipshit journalists and the mainstream media, further proof that our language is going straight down the toilet.

It is an ugly, ignorant term and should be treated as such, not used in FUCKING HEADLINES ON MAJOR NEWS SITES, you pandering IDIOTS.

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Oh Elmer, that dog stinks to high heaven. You'll be permeated by its odor!


I remember it well - the ENORMOUS can of "Lavender Mist" air freshener, complete with chlorofluorocarbons, resting prominently on the tank of my grandmother's toilet. The image on its metal exterior promised that the contents within, when released, would create a soothing, peaceful environment - one reminiscent of drifting lazily to sleep beneath a weeping willow as the spring breeze floated through faraway flowers, bringing peace and harmony to your relaxed nose.

It was, in fact, a Pandora's Box in aerosol form, its hidden elixir emitting horrors as yet unknown to mankind, a mist of misery spreading throughout the land, bringing with it freed daemons from Hell, itching to drag desperate souls down into the burning lake of fire.

As I sprayed that can's contents in my grandmother's bathroom that one and only time, I realized then and there that mankind had done itself a huge disservice in creating this odor. I realized it even more intensely when I left the bathroom stinking like artificial lavender and having my mother scream at me that I was going to cause headaches and sneezing fits in my household.

Some jobs should never have been invented. One in particular has obviously been distressing me throughout the years, but was brought to the fore again yesterday evening - that is the career that necessitates inventing artificial fragrances.

Whether you're walking past Wicks 'N' Sticks or Bath & Body Works in the mall, the cleaning products aisle in ye olde grocery shoppe, a nail salon, a dentist's office, your own personal closet, or just about anywhere, you are sure to be assaulted by some noxious chemical concoction that was created by some "chemist" in an idiotic bid to mask natural odors.

How did these fragrances come to be accepted? Why would anyone rather smell "Summer Zing" than, say, actual air? Why would anyone want to smell like Cool Water, a fragrance that immediately elicits a physical response in me that makes me ball my fists up, ready to punch off the lower jaw of whoever has dared invade my personal space with its rancid fumes? WHY?

Life creates odors. There's nothing you can do about that. Whether you spray an entire bottle of Febreze on it or attempt to cloud it with any of these Airwick Pods of Damnation that people drape around their homes, you really only get one thing - a natural odor that is now mixed with an unnatural odor. A mixture that ultimately is worse than the original.

I had not been looking forward to yesterday evening's flight home from St. Petersburg to New York. My previous flight, as reported here, was anything but pleasant. Fearing a repeat, I approached the gate with consternation. My flight seemed, however, as if it were going to go smoothly. We took off at the appropriate time, and aside from the fact that I was sitting next to a chattering, overly-friendly old woman, I thought this flight would be fine.

And then it hit me - a blast of perfume so strong and industrial that my head immediately felt as if it were going to explode. Take the cheapest, most obnoxiously fragranced laundry detergent, multiply that by ten, throw in three urinal cakes and Plug-ins of assorted stenches, and you will perhaps begin to get an idea of what I was confronted with here. This smell was so unholy it would force Satan Himself prostrate on the ground begging God for forgiveness.

At first, I thought it was the woman seated next to me. Old people tend to stink.

Then, I realized it was coming from the airplane bathroom, which was several rows behind me. Never in my existence have I noticed an airplane bathroom that smelled as horrible as this one did. And it made me sit there, temples throbbing, trying to breathe through my mouth as much as possible, wondering - who the FUCK invented that smell, and why? Someone was actually paid to create that odor! And whoever paid them actually thought that the odor was acceptable.

This odor did not even begin to approach being pleasant - the faint smell of shit that could potentially have wafted out from the bathroom would have been preferable. This, however, was the olfactory equivalent of being tied down and forced to watch your family members murdered slowly and painfully before your eyes. I wasn't the only person to complain. Others were holding their noses. Others were screeching, "What the FUCK is that smell!"

I screamed as I ran off the plane. I gasped for air in the terminal. As I drifted through a chemical haze to the taxi kiosk, I cursed mankind yet again for exposing me to its rampant stupidity.

Artificial fragrance is a fact of life, I'm sorry to report. It is in everything. People rely on it as yet another crutch to get them past the idea that life is not all going to be "Rose Bouquet" or "Springtime Apple Breeze." Life is full of shit, gas, compost, asphalt, exhaust, armpits, crotch sweat, decaying flesh, stagnant lakes, red tide, offal, buttholes, and petting zoos.

We need to accept it. It's better than the alternative.

Friday, December 28, 2007

Another Golden Wedding of Sorrow.



I went to see The Golden Compass tonight, technically "a flop" in the United States.

This was one of the best, most original fantasy / sci-fi movies I have seen in a LONG time - a riveting story that was absolutely beautifully made and splendidly acted.

Why is it a flop? Primarily because Jackass, brainwashed Christians who HAVEN'T SEEN THE FUCKING MOVIE were warned through an internet smear campaign that the movie is "atheist," "anti-Christian" and "may persuade parents to bring Godless books into their homes," and therefore, they stayed away in droves.

I remember when The Last Temptation of Christ came out. I went to see it at a theater in Asheville, North Carolina amid a throng of fat, stupid picketers. I stopped before buying my ticket (I was with a group from college who were seeing what all the hubbub was about) and asked some of the drooling, hypnotized fat fucks holding their placards and signs how many of them had seen the movie. Not a one. Surprised? I wasn't. It's as easy to get these dipshits to do something as it is to tempt a small child with candy. Tell them "Jesus doesn't like this" and they're putty in your hands.

These stupid fucking Christians make me sick. SICK, I tell you. I wish these assholes would just once mind their OWN business and stop trying to cram their antiquated and, if I may say so, MORONIC ideals down everyone else's throats.

It's a MOVIE. A MOVIE. Most of us, those of us with brains that operate above a pre-K level, can see a movie without it "corrupting our souls" or "leading us from the path of God." If you're so pathetically troubled that you can't sit through an hour and a half without worrying that your sense of spiritual well-being will be in danger, then you might as well just kill yourself - you're obviously too weak to live. Either that, or you realize way back in the back of your fat pea brain that you're not as much of a "true believer" as you've tricked yourself into thinking you are, and that scares the hell out of you. Either way, you suck.

Christians. Driving around in their mini-vans, collecting stuffed animals, shopping at Wal-Mart, wearing stirrup pants, eating hot wings, and never ever DARING to think for themselves, they take over everything like a cancer spreading in an unsuspecting body. I want to cut the cancer out and get a fat fucking dose of chemotherapy to make sure the shit is dead. I HATE THESE PEOPLE.

I hate them.

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

A Christmas memory.


Marky Mae Brown is aflutter with Christmas joy.

The twinkling lights on the tree have softened Marky Mae's generally sour disposition just long enough to allow one small, fragile Christmas memory to slip through the seal of misery that is holding her brain in place. She has decided to share it with you while it still floats fresh in her mind.

1987. My cousins Sadgie and Coley had gotten Zinka for Christmas. Do you remember that crap? Zinc that protects you from the sun, but in really hideous da-glo colors that one smeared on one's face in wretched patterns? (Well, what do you want. We're Floridians.)

Anyway, in an effort to be trendy, we were all Zinkaed up, wearing our brand new surf gear. We decided to walk down to the bayou that was near my cousins' house to do some skimboarding. Back then the bayou was untouched by human idiocy - a bird sanctuary, and a lovely one. Mangroves grew everywhere, cranes and storks lazed about, peering intently into the water until they could be bothered to snatch at a hapless fish. The water and the air was clean, crisp and gorgeous.

(The way it is today, however, is another story. They actually had the NERVE to call the shopping center they put in where an eagle's nest had been torn down EAGLE'S LANDING. Imagine? And across the street they put in a condo called OTTER KEY. Well, they WERE eagle's landing and otter key til you came in and RAPED them, you assholes.)

We skimboarded for quite some time, managing through some small miracle to keep our Christmas outfits in relatively clean condition. After we had done enough of this frivolity, we started the walk back to my cousins' house.

In order to get there, we had to walk over a bridge that had two lanes of traffic going in either direction. As soon as we were about halfway across that bridge, someone leaned out of his or her car window and vomited, covering my cousin Coley from head to toe with yellow and pink puke, containing very fine pieces of what looked (and smelled) like ham.

And that's my Christmas memory.

Merry Christmas.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Sunday Feature - Reader Spotlight

Marky Mae would like everyone to know that she appreciates your submissions, but due to the sheer volume of mail she receives, she cannot respond personally to each missive. When she receives one that she feels merits an in-depth study, she will impart it upon her readership so you can experience the horror right along with her.

The image below was sent in by reader Fuddles Le Roux, presumably as he passed what one can hope is its only location - that being in Tampa International Airport. It expresses in grim detail the horror that is modern life in America.

Photobucket


Chris Sherman, professional fatass of the St. Petersburg Times, had this to say about the Flatbreadz kiosk at Tampa International Airport:

But if you're really pressed for time, you should try somewhere else.

That should be Flatbreadz, a Host version of an upscale wood-fired bakery complete with those beautiful tall jars of vegetables arranged like parfaits, flowers and even arugula. The last is for stuffing into sandwiches made from a distinctively thin and crusty flatbread that makes a sturdy container for a husky sandwich.

Fillings come from an attractive open bar, reassuringly stocked with fresh goods. No mystery meat, only mystery cheeses in varying degrees of blandness. My favorites were the roast beef and the turkey and bacon; the $6.99 price is not inexpensive, but it's big enough for two and beats anything on the plane.

Flatbreadz misses key opportunities by not baking more often to create a come-hither aroma and by not offering more vegetarian choices. The Mediterranean image of flatbread plus the location at the international airside made me hope for a meatless sandwich with, say, hummus, tabbouleh or portobellos or a thick vegetable soup. Alas, soups were chicken noodle and beef barley.


Another key opportunity Flatbreadz missed was one NOT to butcher the English language for the sake of cuteness. Nothing makes Marky Mae Brown's blood boil faster than cutesy, intentional misspellings or mispronunciations of words.

Marky Mae's cousin (a fatass, even) has a penchant for pronouncing spaghetti "PUH-SKETTI" when talking to babies, and Marky Mae has a very difficult time not slamming her in the face with a baseball bat, making sure that mispronunciation of ANY word would be impossible for several years due to the wires that would be keeping her jaw from emitting such vulgarities, let alone cramming down that fourteenth Hot Pocket of the day.

So you can see, it's a rather tender subject for Marky Mae. Just speak and write the language the way it was intended so we don't end up a mass of drooling zombies, for GOD'S SAKE.

Marky Mae also has a difficult time understanding who would intentionally name a food kiosk 'Flatbreadz.' She is picturing a Baptist couple, the woman with tightly permed hair, who drive a minivan to church every Sunday. The woman is fat and probably collects Precious Moments. Whatever the reality, Marky Mae knows one thing for sure - the owners of Flatbreadz SUCK.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

Kissin' Cuzzins


Have you ever seen someone eat an enormous stack of pancakes in less than two minutes? I witnessed that today at Kissin' Cuzzins, a "family" restaurant on 34th Street here in St. Petersburg.

For those of you unfamiliar with the "family restaurant" - whether you were raised in a place of taste or were just never forced to enter one - picture it:

1) The restrooms aren't labeled "Ladies" and "Men" - they're labeled "Ma's" and "Pa's" with faux outhouse carvin's on the doors.

2) Drinks are served in mason jars.

3) Almost everything, including the iced tea, salad, crackers, and jell-o, is deep-fried. Ain't no gettin' around it - us Southerners like our food fried, fattening, and health-threatening.

4) The waitresses' forms are generally built so that they could balance potted plants on the shelves of ass they're toting around.

5) Dead animals decorate the walls.


So there I was this morning with my parents and my aunt and uncle. The only thing on the menu I could eat was oatmeal. I had to bring my own soymilk to dump on it. They don't know what that is in restaurants like this.

Two fatasses, and I mean FATASSES, came in - they crammed themselves into a booth to my right. the woman was so fat that her tits were pressed into and draping OVER the table, her stomach jammed under it out to her knees.

The man was as obese but I couldn't see his ripples of blub gained through years' worth of recreational eating as he was crammed in facing the other way.

I imagined what their homelife must be like. Instead of getting turned on and porking, I imagined them building themselves up to eating cartons of sherbet, oreos, pizza pockets, moo-town snackers, Chips Ahoy, and Oscar Mayer bologna rolls. Sex for individuals of this girth must be more of a chore than it ends up being worth - how can the woman splay herself out enough for anyone other than Long Dong Silver to enter? Add to this the fact that the man's unit must be enveloped in fat, and you get a situation in which no one wins. But sex wasn't this couple's priority, I can tell you, because while I was pondering this situation and its intricacies, the waitress arrived with their food.

She set down not one, but two huge, full plates of food in front of each of these leviathans. The man proceeded to spread two - yes, I said two - sticks of butter onto an enormous stack of pancakes. I couldn't see what was on his other plate, but it was full. Hash and eggs and bacon and sausage and toast were all represented, I'm sure.

Meanwhile, he cut the stack of pancakes into thirds. He drowned them in syrup. He took a THIRD of a pancake, folded it in half, and shoved it into his mouth, refraining from swallowing, and then did this with the rest of the stack. It was gone in less than two minutes. TWO STICKS OF BUTTER.

My family and I were amazed. We couldn't talk about anything else until this man's fatass wife started to pick her nose with such immediacy that one would have assumed a bee had lodged itself up in there or something.

As I left, I was grateful for the fact that, over the years, my relationship with food has softened and I am never in danger of having to play lift-and-look with prospective partners.

It is a sad fact, however, that most people in St. Petersburg have to do just that, if they ever get past their stacks of Girl Scout cookies, hoagies, Little Debbies, Cheetos, Bac-Os, and Stouffer's French Bread Pizzas.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Don't know when I'll be back again.


I have been raped by Delta Airlines.

Yes, I said RAPED.

My flight for Tampa was supposed to leave yesterday at 3:50 pm, so I, like any responsible flyer, arrived at the airport two (2) hours ahead of schedule in order to shuffle my way through the dreadful screening process that supposedly filters out any scoundrels intent on blowing up planes or any other act of idiocy.

Now, JFK’s security staff is not what one would refer to as bright.

I approached the screening kiosk to have my ears assaulted by a shrill attendant screaming, “Y’ALL GET DEM SHOES OFF! Y’ALL GOTS TO BE TAKIN DEM LAPTOPS OUT YO BAGS!” She then proceeded to scream at her supervisor, saying, “You think you can play games will I gonna play games right back!” She continued her attack on the English language after her boss left the vicinity, saying to no one in particular, “he think he gonna play dat game wit me. Shoo.” All the while, she gazed at her gaudily painted fingernails in lieu of examining the x-rays of people's luggage.

I got through this procedure annoyed, but unscathed, and then everything slid into what can only be called an Abyss of Dark Terror from which few escape with their sanity.

To start, I had to go to the bathroom. Really badly. So I ran off to the ONLY men’s room in a HUGE international terminal, expecting to prepare my toilet in relative ease.

That was not to be. There was a little man in there who pretended to be scrubbing something, but the floor looked like the it belonged in a particularly unkempt petting zoo, muck and detritus streaking the white tile. Tiptoeing through this cess, I procured a stall, only to discover that there were several pieces of very obviously used toilet paper scattered about the bowl. Horrified, I backed away, but after looking at the other booths, realized that this was, in fact, the cleanest of toilets in the only men’s room in the Delta terminal at JFK International Airport.

After placing nineteen layers of paper around the seat, I went about my business, hoping to make a speedy exit. Then someone in the next stall started smoking. I almost started screaming at this dildo to put that fucking cigarette out, but reconsidered after thinking about what type of person would be dumb enough to smoke in an airport restroom.

I escaped that vision of the apocalypse only to drift into a fouler, much deadlier one.

My flight had been delayed. Indefinitely. A "part" was being delivered from Newark, and it would then have to be installed. As anyone who has ever been through this process at an airport knows, this can take up to twelve (12) hours. I sat and I sat and I SAT in that fucking terminal. Finally getting restless, I relocated.

I moved to the food court. It was the only place that had any chairs available. Bad enough was the fact that an endless stream of horrifying Christmas music was flowing FULL BLAST throughout the food zone, but on top of that they actually expected customers to PAY for wi-fi access. The nerve of these characters. Have you ever gone to an airport and been asked to pay for internet access? Free wi-fi is standard almost EVERYWHERE. You can get free wi-fi at fucking soup kitchens, and these shitheads are asking me to pay them so I can check my email. FUCK OFF.

That was annoying, and then I saw it. A fat bitch came and sat next to me. She wasn’t just fat, she was AGGRESSIVELY fat. She had a fold of goo hanging on the front of her body that reached almost to her knees. She screeched into her cellular telephone, asking “how’s my fayvwit niece today?”, obviously talking down to a baby. I wanted to kick her in the kneecaps. Then she waddled off.

I forgot about her because another fatass, this one worse than the last, managed to heft herself into a chair near me. She had a reserve of fat so large that she could quite easily have doubled for Gardulla the Hutt in The Phantom Menace. She was missing several teeth and was not shy in revealing this fact through exaggerated yawns and spit-laced cackles. I hated her. She sat there with her skinny husband and I thought to myself, “How does this little tiny man have sexual congress that engorged pile of guts?” But I didn't have time to postulate any feasible means of entrance. Fatass number one had returned.

She sat down closer to me this time, and had gotten comestibles from various fast food kiosks throughout the court. She had with her, and ate in this order, a TCBY sundae with M&Ms and sprinkles, a plain toasted bagel with cream cheese, and a Gatorade.

I watched as she gobbled this down, applying extra cream cheese to each piece of bagel she crammed into her gaping maw, and wondered what synapse in her brain had misfired that allowed her to think this meal was okay.

After she had vacuumed that meal down, she made several phone calls, each one bitching more vociferously about our delayed flight. I tried to get away from her, but everywhere in the terminal afforded a view of her ballooned, stretched body.

At 8:30, people were getting pissed, so Delta decided to do something "nice" and offered food court vouchers worth $7 to each ticketed passenger. Earlier, I had purchased a 20 oz. Diet Coke at one of these vendors' shoppes, and it had totaled a whopping $2.75. So these vouchers weren't worth much. I can tell you one thing, though - that fatass who had gobbled that TCBY was first in line when they made that announcement, and then undulated off to Hunan Wok to get her a heapin' helpin' of sweet & sour chicken.

9:15 rolled around and they announced that we would FINALLY be boarding the plane. What they hadn't told us, however, was that we were going to have to board via what can only be called a "contraption." It was like a double decker bus, but not fun. They crammed us all into this contraption and drove us over the runway to the plane, where they held us up for another 1/2 hour as they waited for "paperwork."

They let us on the plane. I was in seat 31F, the very rear of the plane. i approached my seat and saw it - a NEWBORN baby. I shuddered. I always. ALWAYS get seated next to either a) a newborn baby or b) some fatass who requires a "seatbelt extender."

The first good news of the evening was soon to pass, however - the baby's mother asked if I would switch seats with her sister, who was way up at the front of the plane. "YES," I moaned orgasmically, knowing I wouldn't be subjected to the incessantly ear-piercing screeches of this womb maggot as it made its first plane trip.

I scampered up to the front of the plane, escorted by a dipshit stewardess wearing a hat reminiscent of Judy Garland's heinous costume in the "Get Happy" number from Summer Stock. I HATE THAT FUCKING HAT. I wanted to punch the stewardess in the teeth for making such a dreadful fashion choice.

She sat me down next to two (2) gays who were bitching at the Sky Mall catalog. FINALLY some normal humans. As we sat there, however, we realized that we were located next to someone in the final throes of emphysema, and we were subjected to a hacking that sounded similar to logs being tossed into a wood chipper for the entire flight.

Add to that the cat that was shrieking under the seat two rows back and all of the babies that screeched simultaneously as the cabin pressure changed, and you can imagine that this was a flight into Hell.

I arrived home at 2:30 in the morning, near death, trembling, black circles under my eyes. A shell of a human.

I am sending Delta Airlines an invoice, itemized. They are going to pay me for the several hours they have stolen from my life. They are going to PAY.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

I wish you'd sing me 'Love Me Tender'...


Marky Mae Brown has a few random thoughts before boarding an aeroplane for St. Petersburg, Florida, the home of geriatrics and fatasses in decorative sweaters:

1) After watching the final episode of Twin Peaks again for the first time in about ten years, I can say with some authority that Twin Peaks is, by far, the best television program ever created in the history of man. Everyone should watch Twin Peaks and learn from it. I take back everything I have ever said to deny the second season's brilliance. I had believed that the show's creative prowess waned slightly after the mystery surrounding Laura Palmer's murder had been solved, but oh my goodness was I in error. The show kicks ass start to finish, leaving many unanswered and debatable points to keep fans pontificating at one another for the rest of their lives.

Some favorite moments:
A. The entire pilot episode, start to finish, is brilliant, but when Sheriff Truman comes to the Great Northern when Leland is on the phone with Sarah, I almost explode every single time.
B. Albert Rosenfeld's speech to Sheriff Truman when he finally admits that he is not a grouchy bastard. "I love you, Sheriff Truman."
C. Shelly Johnson. Just everything about Shelly Johnson.
D. Walks in the woods at night.
E. Traffic lights turning red.
F. Owls.
G. Ben Horne's vision of the young dancing girl.
H. The old man in the bank taking up 9/10 of the final episode walking from his desk to a safe deposit box.
I. Little Audrey Horne's dance.
J. Donna Hayward's little sister Harriet.
K. Everything except James Hurley, who is a whining turd who deserves everything that happens to him because he is a cunt.


So if you haven't watched this since it was on, or haven't watched it ever, I suggest very firmly that you drop everything you're doing, because believe me, compared to this whatever you're doing is inconsequential and bland, and run screaming to Ye Olde DVD Kiosk and get the newfangled Deee-luxe Gold Box of Twin Peaks and watch the fuck out of this shit. DO IT.

2) Our government continues to prove its stupidity and backward thinking even in light of recent "progress" toward global warming action at the UN conference in Bali. How stupid do you have to be? For fuck's sake. Read this dumb shit. Your government at work, securing an ugly, horrifying future for your children. THESE PEOPLE ARE ALL IDIOTS.

3) Why is it that whenever anyone "pulls through" a disaster, like a tree crushing their leg or a battle with cancer or being found half-starved on a snow-covered mountainside, they "thank God" for a miracle? You know what the miracle would be, assholes? It would be a God who wouldn't put you through such horrifying shit in the first place. "It's a test... a test to prove your devotion," these fuckfaces say, falling on their knees in prayer before sitting down to eat a spiral-cut ham dinner. What I say is, it's too bad the test ended the way it did. Clearly, you failed.

4) Fuck people.

So I am off and up out to Florida momentarily and am quite sure that horrors await me that are beyond my comprehension. Who knows what fat bullshit is down there hiding behind a Ben & Jerry's stand in Tyrone Square Mall or at the Publix just waiting to jump out and spring some new, fat-laden snack food or fashion trauma on my virgin eyes. I shudder with fear.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Have you forgotten today's the day for my abortion?


Wow, what a shock. Not only is Britney Spears a baby factory - her little whore sister is, too! And the bitch is only SIXTEEN! Great role models for the youth of America, those Spears sisters...

Britney Spears should have been drowned the moment she hacked her way out of her mother's shame slot, and Jamie Lynn should have been sucked out before she had a chance to see the sunlight. Clearly these genes are too pathetically sparse in intelligence or merit of any kind to be sprinkled around in the pool of life, but that hasn't stopped these FAS sufferers from revealing their chapped, stretch-marked entrances to anything even resembling a penis.

JAMIE LYNN - DO THE WORLD A FAVOR AND ABORT THAT CHILD. If you're anything like your sister, and I'm quite sure that you are since you carry her same trademark vacant haze of a face, you're in no position to be a mother. Get it out of you. You'll be sparing it a life of misery, ignorance, incompetence, and bad taste. GET IT OUT OF YOU. GET IT OUT.

We barely have enough room in the world for babies who may actually end up doing something that doesn't suck, much less ones that are going to lead vacuous, spoiled lives of leisure and stupidity. Let it end with you, Jamie Lynn. End the cycle.

How many more generations of these deranged inbreeds is the world going to be subjected to before we finally say, "NO MORE SPEARS" and have all of these little twats STERILIZED?

Wait - I forgot. If there weren't any Spears whores around to run over people's feet and then drive off, operate vehicles with small children in their laps, shave their heads, speak unintelligibly, flash their gashes to the universe, and, oh yeah - "sing," the media would actually have to report on THE NEWS.

Monday, December 17, 2007

In This Golden Wedding of Sorrow... In This Golden Wedding.


Why am I continually assaulted by the grossest of human detritus?

It's as if I am a magnet for the basest, most malignant offal the human race has ever pushed through the scabbed lips of its birth canal of shame. Day after day I am forced to witness countless acts of excretory, oral, nasal, or any other variety of bodily probing, plucking, licking, or scraping.

Picture it - I'm on the Q train trying valiantly to get home before this alleged noreaster was going to hit New York City. I had stopped off at the Whole Foods market in Union Square after a delightful evening with our dear friend Mr. Murray Hill. There I had purchased necessities like organic cat food and kombucha, should snow start to fall after I got home, making perambulating the streets of Brooklyn difficult and unpleasant the following day.

So there I am on the subway, laden down with sacks of comestibles with which I plan to ride out the impending storm, when I look over and there seated in front of me is a fatass reading a zagats guide. I shrug him off, thinking he's probably searching for restaurants that serve the largest portions or have "endless bars" of pasta and ice cream and bread sticks and hot wings. I turn away, attempting to remove the vision of this human Hutt from my memory.

Then I notice out of the corner of my eye some vibratory action. I am TRYING to concentrate on King Diamond, so I pay it no mind at first. Eventually, however, my curiosity gets the best of me, and of course, complete and utter horror ensues. King Diamond is, perhaps, an appropriate soundtrack for the events that follow.

I turn to look at this squatting, rotund turd and realize that he is picking his ear with an urgency generally reserved for attempting to escape a burning home or avoiding Jehovah's Witnesses that have rung your doorbell. This in itself is bad enough, but then he does something much, much worse.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketHe pulls his bulbous digit from his ear and flicks a chunk of earwax the size of a potato chip onto the bag in his lap. Inspecting it, marveling at its size, he picks it up and rolls it in his finger. This is a HUGE chunk of earwax, mind you. Satisfied that he has manipulated this ball of lipids to the extent of its maleability, he flicks it into the unknown and I jump out of the way for fear that it land anywhere on or near me.

Then he goes in for more. "Surely there can't be any more in there," I pray silently, but alas, my prayer goes unanswered, and out comes a chunk that resembles a buttered popcorn flavored Jelly Belly.

I am glaring at this asshole the entire time, hoping he'll glance up and see my grimace and realize that he is being completely and absolutely inappropriate. However, when he does meet my gaze, peering out through the curtains of fat that are his eyelids, no lightbulb illuminates in that ham-soaked mind of his, and he roots in for more, gleefully maneuvering the inner folds of his ears in hopes of excavating yet another treasure.

Attempting to keep from vomiting in his lap, I turn around, finally able to break the spell of horror that has been cast by this ample idiot's need to dig for gold in public.

I run screaming from the train and clutch my heart on the platform, taking several deep breaths. As I walk home, I wonder again what curse has been placed upon me that I am almost always in the "right place at the right time" when these events occur. I have seen every bodily function performed in the strangest of places.

It's as if these drizzling buffoons are waiting there, flexing their various sphincters in order to retain fluids or solid wastes until I round that corner, at which point they unleash a torrent of misery onto the sidewalk, bench, garbage can, newborn child, or whatever else is nearby that should never, ever be shat, spat, jizzed, snotted, urinated upon or used as a tool with which to extract or wipe the human body free of its various excretions.

I am a cursed soul.

Friday, December 14, 2007

Those aren't the right kind! I told you
Cha-cha heels - BLACK ONES!

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The fashion footwear industry has been taken over either by blind Eskimos or gay, retarded aliens.

I ask you - what the hell is up with people's boots these days? All those straps and pompoms and dangly things and horrid prints and faux fur and buckles and velcro lanyards and buttons and zippers and lenticular inserts and contraptions are enough to make one feel nauseous.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketIt started with Uggs. Stupid, yes, but somewhat bland in their offensiveness. Then people started wearing Uggs in the summer, and with shorts. No sense at all. "It's 98 degrees outside! Let's wear fleece-lined, winter boots with these cute hotpants!"

When walking the streets of LA, every time I saw someone guilty of this stupidity, I wanted to hack at their legs below the knees until they were felled like a tree, scrambling to stanch their oozing stumps as they bled to death.

The Uggs, of course, were a gateway boot to much deadlier footwear.

If we were on the set of Star Trek, I would completely understand the monstrosities parading before me on a daily basis, but out on the street - it's as if the collective sense of taste and decency has been subverted by a malignant force, one that calls for people to not only wear, but PROUDLY DISPLAY, the most hideous footwear ever to rape the human form with its presence. I mean, this shit is UGLY.
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Most people, people who aren't jumping Helen Keller-style onto bandwagons, look at these ridiculous excuses for footwear and laugh hysterically. But here, idiot "trend setters" are scrambling to strap these Sheaths of Stupidity onto their feet.

How desperate do you have to be to be fashionable? These people switch their fashions so frequently that they are never able to achieve an identity, so intent are they on looking like everyone else.
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Whether it's irony t-shirts, leg warmers, hip hop pants, too-tight pants, HIDEOUS neckerchiefs on men, overalls, those STUPID FUCKING HATS girls are wearing because of Britney Spears and that ASS Ashlee Simpson (who needs to have her face pressed into a running lawnmower blade) or any other of the fashion buffoonery these tabula rasas of ineptitude are willing to supplant their own personalities for - young'ns the city over are parading around like an army of the damned in their uniforms of conformity, screaming, "I like to think I look so cutting edge but in reality, I tried really really hard to look just like everyone else because I am just too plain scared to express myself because I am a spineless, vacuous CUNT."

There really is no other explanation for this. No one, aside from a particularly dense circus clown or a drag queen who's going for laughs, would pick up a pair of these things and think, "Hmmm. These are cute. I'll take them!"

I hope that in twenty years you look at photos of yourselves in your various ensembles of doom and weep bitterly at the final realization that all of you are, in fact, retarded.

Because you are, in fact, retarded.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

For all y'all talkers up in here - time to keep it down right now.


Can all y'all pedestrian cell phone users do me a favor and cram those phones straight up your fucking asses?

I have HAD IT with you blank-faced idiots blocking my way while focusing on either sending one of your dreary compatriots a text message, retrieving a voicemail, or blathering incoherently about absolutely NOTHING. You're BLOCKING MY FUCKING WAY. You do it on the sidewalk, in the grocery store, in the bathroom, on the stairs to the subway, at the ATM, everywhere.

I can't turn a corner without seeing one of you simpleton douchebags drooling into your cell phone. WHY, oh WHY do you feel the need to be talking ALL THE TIME? How can you afford it?

Get off your cell phone and get the fuck out of my way or else I will do everything in my power to make sure that the next breath that you draw will be your last.

Seriously - how many times have you tried to maneuver around some tubby asshole who is STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF A SET OF STAIRS, not moving, having some mundane conversation, blocking everyone's way? "SHUFFLE YOUR CHAFING BULLSHIT THIGHS OUT OF MY WAY, YOU CUNT!" is what you want to scream, but you happen to know the meaning of the word propriety.

What has happened to people's brains in the past ten years?

Just today, as a matter of fact, as I was coming back from lunch and trying to ascend the stairs at the Broadway-Lafayette F station, some puffy-visaged guttersloth was not only standing on the stairs, chattering into a cell phone and trying to gnaw a Dunkin Donuts donut all at the same time - this bloated cretin was doubling her offense by standing in the dead center of the row of stairs.

No one could squeeze past, but she seemed uninterested in anyone's dismay. I should have pushed her fat ass down those steps, pointing and laughing as she careened headlong into what it can be hoped would result in a serious concussion.

You see, I'm not fucking around about this. It has gotten out of hand.

There is a protocol for pedestrian traffic. You stay to the right, you look behind you when you make turns or need to go back the other way, and you KEEP MOVING. I am so horrified by the disintegration of this practice that I am, on a daily basis, in danger of hurling some Williamsburg hipster douche cooze out into oncoming traffic or pushing some fat, pathetic turd flailing into a frank peddler's cart.

It's really NOT that difficult, jackasses. You want to make a call? Move out of people's way, make your dreary call, and then keep moving.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

I'll send you a love letter straight from my heart, fucker!


I don't know what happened between my generation and the one directly following it.

It seems as if a collective chromosome has been removed, or radiation tainted every fertilized human egg that was brought to term starting in 1987 and going forward.

When these little trend-hopping tumors open their mouths, you can expect to be assaulted by a form of English that is so horrifying in its sheer and blatant stupidity that you will automatically realize why the human race is doomed.

- Overheard -

"I was, like, at this, like, really amazing restaurant with this really cute, like, guy..."

and

"Irregardless, like, we've been, like, you know, really synergistic about the whole thing. Yeah."

This is what I want to know. How did the word "like" become a buffer to connect words in a sentence? Where did it come from?

Yes, I remember the "Like, oh my God!" phrase Moon Unit Zappa made famous in the song "Valley Girl" - but that was a JOKE. It was supposed to be showing the rest of the world how STUPID this shit is, not acting as a guidepost from which douchebag idiots should formulate their daily speech patterns.

Every time I see some self-important NYU student or some Williamsburg artsy-fartsy ass rammer blathering out this idiotic "language" that is now the popular vernacular, I immediately fall prostrate to the ground and PRAY for nuclear annihilation to wipe out all life on earth. It is clear that we have come to a point of no return in human evolution - that of DEVOLUTION.

I work for a major publishing company, one that specializes in children's and educational books. Publishing, in New York City, is supposed to be one of the final bastions of intellectualism - an outpost of intelligence in a wilderness of drooling buffoonery, battling the cretins in a war waged on ignorance.

Well, guess what - the cretins have infiltrated the citadel of intelligence and our defenses are crumbling. We published a book recently that contained the word "irregardless." IRREGARDLESS. Do you know how many people that word was exposed to before it made it to print? The author, the acquisitions editor, the actual editor, the proofreaders... what this means is - almost everyone working on the project is stupid.

Irregardless is NOT a word - it is a symbol of stupidity. Anyone who uses this word should immediately have his or her teeth smashed out with a baseball bat, treated like the human offal they are. I am mortified to be associated with such idiocy, but I'm afraid it's here to stay.

Try attending a meeting. "Like, like, like, like, like, like, like..." that's all you hear. If it's that bad in the publishing industry, imagine how it is everyplace else. These people have ENGLISH degrees. It just proves - you can spend a shitload of money to get a degree from NYU, but it doesn't mean you're going to have a functioning brain.

Weep for the future. If it's this bad now with these adults who were the LAST generation to have been blessed with a relatively cable-cell phone-internet-free childhood, imagine what it's going to be like when these little plugged-in, mentally vacant turd children we've got littering the planet now grow up.

You won't be able to understand a single word they're saying thanks to their daily diet of netspeak they've acquired from IMs and that hip hop jibberjabber their parents allow them to listen to.

I am doing my part. I have a niece who is just now reaching her teens, and I have told her that for every time she uses the word "like" inappropriately in front of me, she's going to owe me a nickel.

Oh, you think I'm joking? I've already put it into effect and faxed her an invoice for $.75, and that was just from a visit of a FEW HOURS over Thanksgiving.

She'll be getting more invoices from me in the future, and I'm sure her brother will too, when he reaches an age that necessitates his attempting to emulate society's standard for popularity. Oh, what a sad, sad, world.

We are doomed. George Orwell was right.

Saturday, December 8, 2007

Brand new feature!



Remember those sunny saturday mornings when you were a child? You'd wake up, eyes filled with hope and happiness, and rush to watch your favorite cartoon characters and their wacky hijinks, that magical smell of breakfast filling the air.

Nostalgia has overtaken Marky Mae Brown, and she is now planning to fill your hearts with that feeling of overwhelming joy all over again!

Her special guest, Klippy the Klown, will introduce to you a snazzy new children's story from time to time. Here, then, is Klippy's first weekend offering!


Yeng-Li Visits Grandfather Tiger


In a misty valley in the land of China lived a little girl named Yeng-Li Chow. Yeng-Li lived with her mother and father in a simple hut made of bamboo on the edge of Dragon River, where her father made his living as a fisherman.

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here.


One morn as Yeng-Li was out cutting sugarcane, she happened across a ferocious tiger who was lurking in the stalks.

"Oh Grandfather Tiger, please don't eat me. My parents are poor and need me to help them," she pleaded to the tiger, who was licking his lips in anticipation of the feast he saw before him.

"I will spare you, child, on one condition: you must find for me the fabled Fish of Wishes who swims in the waters of this river," the tiger roared to the frightened imp. "You will have one chance and must meet me here when the sun is setting over Snow Mountain tomorrow evening. If by then you have not caught the Fish of Wishes, I will not only eat you, I will eat your parents, too."

"Oh, thank you, Grandfather Tiger! I will not let you down!" Yeng-Li promised as she rushed away through the brambles.

Yeng-Li padded back to her hut as fast as her worn silk slippers would take her and asked her father for his best fishing net.

"Why, child, must you ask for my best fishing net?" pondered the fisherman as he ate his rice.

"Because, father, I have been asked to catch the Fish of Wishes. If I do not catch the Fish of Wishes, Grandfather Tiger has promised to eat us!" Yeng-Li cried.

"Oh, well then, take this net," said Yeng-Li's father while handing her the most impressive fishing net she had ever seen. "This net was passed to me by my father and to my father by his father's father. This net has brought our family nothing but good luck. I am sure you will be able to catch the Fish of Wishes with this net."

Yeng-Li thanked her father and rushed off to Dragon River to catch the Fish of Wishes. She climbed the dangerous peak to reach the Well of Dreams, the calmest part of the river, the home of the Fish of Wishes.

She dipped her net into the water and began to sing a song her mother taught her when she was very young:

"Tibet, Tibet, tiny Tibet
We will beat you, you can bet
Your Dalai Lama
Is in for trauma
Tibet, Tibet, Tibet!"


She was so preoccupied with her happy song that she did not realize that the Fish of Wishes had accidentally gotten caught in her net. She felt the slight tugging on her hands and snapped out of her trance just in time to see the aged strings of that net rip as the Fish of Wishes swam to safety under Moon Bridge.

Yeng-Li began to sob uncontrollably. "Oh, Fish of Wishes. What have you done? Now Grandfather Tiger will surely eat me! Why was I singing instead of paying attention to my net?"

The Fish of Wishes, a wise old fish, heard the child crying and swam closer, listening intently to her laments.

"Do not cry, my child," the fish gurgled. "If Grandfather Tiger would like the Fish of Wishes, then he will get the Fish of Wishes. You should have explained this to me sooner."

With that, the Fish of Wishes explained his plan: the creature who holds the Fish of Wishes is permitted one wish. Yeng-Li would simply present Grandfather Tiger with the Fish of Wishes and then before actually handing the fish to the tiger, wish for the tiger to turn into a kitten who could not harm anyone.

Yeng-Li was brimming with happiness. She put the fish into the swim bladder she had brought with her, filled it with ample water to keep the fish satisfied, and set off for Snow Mountain.

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here.


She reached Snow Mountain and waited for Grandfather Tiger to come for his prize.

Mother Wind was not favoring Yeng-Li that day, however, and a large tree blew over, trapping Yeng-Li and sending the Fish of Wishes rolling out of his swim bladder into the dirt.

As the Fish of Wishes sucked the last bit of oxygen out of the evaporating pool he was in, he could see Grandfather Tiger slinking out of the willows toward the unconscious Yeng-Li.

© 2007 bft-cfc ent incorporated. No portion may be used without permission froum thee author.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Christmas is for Buttholes.


'Twas a time that I looked forward to this season - when I was a child, the sparkling lights and stunning visuals associated with Christmas brought a warm glow to my heart that went beyond the knowledge that I was going to get a shitload of presents in the very near future.

I looked forward to the ability to listen to The Carpenters' "A Christmas Portrait" without feeling like a total retard.

My family actually acted civil toward one another - a Christmas miracle if ever there was one. No white trash factions clashing, no whispers about who had had the most recent abortion, no prescription pills mysteriously disappearing from their owner's bathroom. It was a happy time.

I don't know if my opinion of Christmas has soured because I'm older now and see it for what it really is and always has been or if, in fact, it HAS morphed into something else. Something ugly. But let's consider these things:

1) Christmas fever starts now as early as mid-October. Before witches and ghosts and vampires even get a chance to have their shopping moment, Santa and his god damn elves are already taking over the shelves, their bright lights eclipsing what SHOULD be a time of cobwebs, cauldrons and coffins.

2) Gift cards have stolen all joy from gift-giving. People don't bother to personalize gifts anymore - they just thrust a plastic piece of crap in your face. Nothing says, "I really didn't give any thought to you at all" more than a Starbucks gift card. Oh sure, fatasses will be happy that they can get their calorie-soaked Venti peppermint mochas along with a slab of pound cake that will add to their already-ample "winter padding," but really - giving gifts at Christmas is SUPPOSED to show that you value someone's presence in your life. Put a little fucking effort into gift-giving, and if you don't know what someone wants, ASK THEM.

3) Hip hop Christmas carols. If you are forced to go into a mall during the holiday season, no longer will you be greeted with Andy Williams' classic "It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" - you'll be forced to listen to some talentless idiot rapping about how she'd BETTER get a fur coat for Christmas or else you ain't gettin' no play. Again, evidence that our collective values have been dragged screaming into the lowest common denominator TOILET. I HATE hip hop to begin with, and to rape Christmas with its bastardization of the English language just makes me foam at the mouth with rage. FUCK HIP HOP. Play real Christmas carols or I will shoot you.

4) Christmas-induced guilt. So your boss gives you a tacky card and some stupid "gift" like a scented candle, or your cousin you haven't spoken to in five years decides to send you a box of sugar cookies in a decorative tin. How do you react? Do you think, "Wasn't that nice of them"? No, you FREAK OUT and run to the mall at the last minute and buy some horrible trinket to give back to them, because we are taught that if someone gives you something, you have to give them something in return.

Well I for one have HAD IT. My home has over the years become stocked to overflowing with horrible crap I would rather have killed myself than own, all because I feel guilty for wanting to get rid of something that someone else gave me. Example - every year. And I mean, EVERY YEAR. My parents give me a Slinky. Why? I couldn't even begin to tell you. I'm 37 years old, yet I'm getting Slinkies. If I were to connect all of the Slinkies I've been given over the years, they'd probably stretch to equal the circumference of the earth.

5) Christmas has transformed from a celebration of joy to a celebration of greed, consumerism, sloth, gluttony, and blatant stupidity. Money, money, money - that's what it's all about. Children are taught they can get whatever they want at Christmas, and they whine HORRIBLY if they don't. The amount of food Americans consume at Christmas is beyond reprehensible, yet we still cram as many fucking honey-baked hams and beef sticks down our fat, god damn throats as we can manage without throwing up.

Malls and stores are now opening as early as 4 in the morning the day after Thanksgiving, now known as "Black Friday," to pander to consumers' psychotic need to buy as much useless garbage as humanly possible.

6) Christian idiots have taken to feeling persecuted around this time of year and very arrogantly make a show of saying "Merry Christmas," following it up with "I'm not one of those," meaning people who realize that there are OTHER religions in the world, none of which worships a God whose existence can be proven. Lots of religions' festivals take place around Christmas - and guess what? Christmas was a PAGAN holiday long before it was usurped by jackass, loudmouth Christians. So fuck all y'all.

7) Yes, I'm going to whine about this yet again - Christmas' horrible environmental impact has yet to be weighed, but believe me - it's UH-GLEE.

All of the thoroughly unnecessary displays of tackiness jackasses throughout the country, and now the world (since every country outside the U.S. seems to want to follow our example of greed, stupidity and garishness in lieu of intellectual pursuits) decorate their yards with use an unheard-of amount of electricity, not to mention being incredibly jejune.

The advent of online shopping has created a disgusting glut of traffic around this season, bringing with it increased CO2 emissions, shipping crates, and garbage. Example: say you order one CD from amazon.com - sometimes, they ship it in a small, cd-size container. Many other times, they will shrink-wrap it to a large piece of cardboard and place THAT inside a larger cardboard box. Why? What is the point of that stupidity? I have written them a number of times asking them to lay off the unnecessary packaging, but to no avail.

And shipping peanuts - for FUCK'S sake! Why are these things still made? I cannot tell you how livid I get when I see these things flying down the street mixed in with the fallen leaves. The don't biodegrade. Whoever intented styrofoam - I hope you are either a) dead or b) suffering horribly RIGHT NOW.

Christmas trees. Why chop down a tree so you can drape it with garish plastic crap for a few weeks and create an otherwise avoided fire hazard? It's a stupid, outdated practice that needs to end NOW.


So what does one who really WANTS to love and enjoy Christmas do when faced with increasing adversity on an annual basis?

Here's what I am doing this year: I am giving everyone in my family one of two things. They're either adopting an acre of rainforest or an endangered animal. No shipping, no physical crap littering their homes, and, if they're not retarded, they'll feel happy. I for one will no longer pander to the American idea that more is better, no matter what is included in "more."

You may say that I'm being hypocritical by giving something as impersonal as this, but you're mistaken. I think nothing says "I love you" more than giving the gift of a protected planet.

I am reclaiming Christmas for myself, and you can take all of your processed cheese balls, egg nog, inflatable reindeer, Borders gift cards, plastic Christmas trees, and festively colored slipper socks and cram them straight up your asses.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Visual AIDS.





Have you ever seen something so ugly that you just had to stop and consider it for a good five or ten minutes, wondering where it came from and why it exists?

Well that just happened to me on my way to the Whole Foods on Houston here in the city that dictates culture to the rest of the world - Manhattan.

Take a gander at this lump of shit. Can you believe it? If you can't make out what it says in that rainbow, it reads, "Hell,yes!"

This is on Bowery. The Bowery used to be notorious for hobos, winos, street trash, beatniks, thugs, junkies, indy-rock superheroes, and punks. Now it is notorious for stupid yuppies, unattractive architecture, rows and rows of Condos devoid of any charm or character or style, cute shoppes and boutiques that make you want to vomit blood all over their windows, and now - this abortion.

"What is it?" I hear my readers ask in unison.

"Is that the new Sanrio World Headquarters?" one well-meaning but incorrect subscriber asks.

"Is it a Chuck E. Cheese?" another thinking, yet wrong, viewer can be heard pondering.

No, no... it is none of those. If it fell into that category, its hideousness might, and I say MIGHT, have been excusable. But this asswipe of a building is, in fact, are you ready? an ART MUSEUM. Yes. That's correct. What you see above is supposed to be "artistic."

What's more frightening - the fact that some architect who thinks his shit don't stink came up with that teetering tower of damnation, or that a board of who knows how many people actually looked at the design when it was on paper and enthusiastically approved it?

Being weird just because you CAN doesn't prove that you're clever or interesting. It just saddles the world with yet another piece-of-trash building that is going to look outdated and GAY in about five years.

And yet this is the face of the brand new New Museum building here in Manhattan. Manhattan, home of some of the world's most renowned artists. Manhattan, home of delusional assholes with more money than is safe, creating semi-permanent monuments to their stupidity and complete lack of any sort of taste.

Is a bubble-lettered "Hell,Yes!" artistic? I think I saw handmade shirts like that in the early 1980s, coupled with those ugly silk Dolphin shorts.

And if the exterior is any indication of what this museum's curators consider to be "art," expect the inside to be lined with abominations that could have been created by a monkey with a blindfold on.

This entire affair has just further served to support my position that modern art just plain sucks. Any asshole can haphazardly smear a canvas with paint and say that it represents the "human condition," and apparently any asshole can design a horrendous building and actually see his vision come to fruition.

The best news I've heard about this entire fiasco is that the New Museum, unhappy with the fact that Soho was becoming a giant mall full of stupid, sheeplike tourists, decided to close its Broadway location's doors and opt for an "edgier" location - that being its current residence at Bowery just below Houston.

Well, the joke is on those dildos, because now that Soho's all full up with schmucks and clothing stores, merchants who couldn't find any retail property there are eyeing Bowery. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA, you stuck-up dicks.

Helen Keller could have designed a better building.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future


Oh my God, nothing is sacred.

I was on the subway, minding my own business, when I looked over at a jackass thug standing near me in the general thug outfit - horrendously baggy jeans, t-shirt about 900 sizes too big, a hoodie, a disgusting vinyl jacket with a design that resembled vomit, boots with tags still attached, baseball hat askew with tag still attached.

All of these things to me instantly scream, "IDIOT" - I know immediately that this is someone who should be forced into sterilization before he litters the planet with his moronic spawn.

As I eyed this turd from bottom to top, taking in an analyzing each instance of stupidity, I stopped at something that made me tremble with rage. A true vision of the apocalypse was right in front of me, a sign that the world is coming to an end.

This fool had a pencil mustache just like the one John Waters has been wearing since the 1970s.

Now, knowing that these people are only capable of imitation, I realize that this buttplug had to have seen one of his many gun-toting, misogynistic icons with one of these mustaches, and it is a sad thing. Thugs the world over are sure to be growing their facial hair out so they can add this particular item to their roster of conformity.

John Waters' mustache has been his trademark forever - who else would have WANTED a mustache like that? It's got to be uncomfortable and difficult to maintain; one false move and your upper lip is dangling from your shirt collar, and yet here this subhuman douche was, mustache trimmed perfectly.

My hands balled into fists. It took every ounce of restraint not to tackle him and force-shave that shit off his pimpled, smugly blank face.

John Waters needs to find whoever started this trend and SUE the balls off of him.

Motherfucker, what is ya tryin to do to me!


God damn it. I had to pick the only brownstone in the entire borough of Brooklyn to be falling apart this winter, and now I've got to pay.

There was a commotion outside my building this morning - I peeked out my window to see what was the matter, and I saw a truck unloading scaffolding. YES, scaffolding.

Apparently my building and its sister building next door are "leaning foward" and there is a slight chance that the moldings along the roofs could slide off, careening to the sidewalk below and crushing an innocent tot or dog walker, or perhaps braining a dipshit on the way home from a knitting circle.

I don't really care - what I DO care about is the fact that this shit is going to be UGLY.

Now, nothing in New York City is uglier than the everpresent exchange of "sidewalk bridges" from one building to another. There has never been a moment in New York City history in which there wasn't one of these eyesores present on every block. I for one hate them - they're ugly, they collect trash, and they sit there forever, serving little to no purpose.

And after a heavy snow, what do you think drips out from the holes in those things? Snow water mixed with all the crap that's trapped up in there. Probably rat carcasses, bird doo-key, all sorts of nonsense. Elixer of the gods.

You could argue that they're in place to protect pedestrians from falling masonry, but I say if people want to be safe then they should stay indoors. Get that shit out from in front of my building, and I mean right now, and if you kill one of those trees that is gracing my home, I will hunt you down and maim you.

You think I'm joking? Try it and find out.

Monday, November 26, 2007

I still have the yuckiest taste in my mouth from those Taquitos!

Fuck Taco Bell. 

They are very adamant about pushing their obesity agenda on the world, and I for one have HAD IT.

I am, of course, talking about their dreadful marketing campaign known as "Fourthmeal."

"The meal between dinner and breakfast," their idiotic slogan purrs, letting fatasses the world over know that it is, in fact, okay to gorge yourself on fat-soaked bullshit after you've already had a dinner that was, most likely, fat-soaked bullshit. 

Now, it doesn't bother me so much that Taco Bell is open late. For those of us who have been driving long hours on road trips or have been trapped at work til the wee hours of the morn, it's nice to be able to get something at least slightly edible instead of having to opt for a frank from the 7-11 rotisserie of doom.

Vegetarians, before Taco Bell was open late, had to either hope they could find some ketchup packets to suck or just go hungry. No other fast food chain can actually accomodate a vegetarian's needs. (And go ahead and try to tell me that the beans at Taco Bell have lard in them. You're wrong - I've checked - and attention, vegans - seven layer burritos minus the cheese and sour cream are, in fact, a vegan delight.)

What DOES bother me is the fact that what Taco Bell is saying through their marketing is that it is acceptable to eat a fourth meal if you're just an average person. That is gross. Particularly because fatasses are going to misinterpret this ad campaign as a green light for them to wolf down more fucking beef burritos than they already do.

Thighs chafing in their too-tight jeans, these fatasses are storming to their cars and lining up at the late night drive thru window for their chalupas and mexi-melts and caramel apple empanadas and cinnamon crispas and extra-large sodas. (Why is it that fatasses always justify their disgusting fast food purchases with a Diet drink? That's just dumb.)

Fourthmeal, in theory and in practice, is yet another example of our society crumbling before our very eyes. Fatasses need to be schooled to lay off the fucking nachos bell grande, not encouraged to eat that shit at all hours of the night.

I, for one, do not appreciate Taco Bell's position in the war on obesity, and I intend to steer clear of any runs for the border until this assault on common sense is ended.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Hefty Hideaway


Tracy Turnblad is my hero. She always has been, way back since I saw the original Hairspray in 1988.

I avoided seeing it for months when it was originally released.

As an avid, rabid John Waters fan, I had all of his previous movies that were available on VHS memorized by age 17. Pink Flamingos, Female Trouble, Desperate Living, Polyester - they had become my mantras, and instead of responding to people with my own thoughts I had taken to spouting out gibberish from these films.

When my cousin asked me what I was going to eat at the Chinese restaurant, I exclaimed, "I love the feel of cold nylon on my big butt!" and when my parents asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I shouted, "You wouldn't be in the shopping mall if it wudn't for my thee-yay-ter!" And so on.

And then Hairspray came out. I was afraid of it - a) it was rated PG, and b) normal people were flocking to it. So I let it pass me by when it was in its initial run. Later, American Stage in St. Petersburg showed it for three days. I swallowed my pride and went to see it with my friend Jenny. I brought my Pee-Wee Herman doll for support.

The first viewing is a blur. I remember laughing and I remember crying very, very hard when Tracy, in her moment of triumph, exclaimed, "LET'S DANCE!" when she had vanquished the racists and saved the day.

Since I couldn't remember it, I made my father go with me to see it again. We both loved it, and I retained a little more this second time. But I needed more, so I went back for the final showing. Yes, I saw it three days in a row. Shut the fuck up.

Everything about that movie is awesome, from the uplifting story to Divine's subtle facial changes in almost every scene.

But Tracy Turnblad - a fat, average girl who says "fuck you" to the world and does what she wants - she was inspiring to me - any fat bitch who, in ordinary circumstances would be treated like complete shit, can overcome adversity and change the way things are - that's my kind of dame.

I would watch Hairspray from time to time, getting misty and temporarily empowered with each viewing. Then I got a CD in the mail that was a "preview" for a new broadway version of the film, and I literally vomited from the horror and disgust. Yes, Harvey Fierstein would be in it, and he is irrefutably one of the most awesome people in the entire world, but I was getting FED UP with the endless list of insipid Broadway musicals inspired by films.

It was clear to me that the money men behind Broadway had given up on pursuing any form of intellectual stimulation. They had resigned themselves to happily and lazily sucking the pockets of STUPID tourists dry by turning things the uneducated masses were familiar with into musicals - that way they wouldn't feel threatened by anything new and could leave New York with the unfounded sensation that they had done something cultural, probably eating at Times Square's very own Applebee's before the show.

Oh, I knew exactly what those fucks were doing when they made Thoroughly Modern Millie into a horrible, FOUL musical (I got a free ticket to it and walked out - the Mrs. Meers character is a horrid racist caricature, unlike Beatrice Lillie's portrayal in the original, which was flawlessly sinister and hilarious) . And Spamalot. And Legally Blonde. And Footloose. And High Fidelity. And all of those stupid, fucking GAY Disney musicals that should have been aborted before they even reached the page.

So you can imagine. I almost broke down in tears. How could Broadway taint John Waters, my savior, my hero, my role model for living, and even moreso, Tracy Turnblad, by destroying Hairspray? Oooh, I was pissed. Oooh, I was so mad.

Then, after it had been playing for about a year, my boss gave me two tickets. "Well, whatever," I thought. "They're free, and it will be cool to see Harvey Fierstein live and in person." So, I accepted. I didn't know what I was in store for. By the time "You Can't Stop the Beat" came around I was a blubbering mess - it was one of those shows that made me so happy I felt like I would explode, one of those moments where I actually, though fleetingly, thought things might turn out okay. I saw it three more times after that.

And then I got the devastating news. John Travolta. YES. John Travolta. The Xenu-phobic Scientologist clown. John Travolta. Was going to play Divine's role in the movie version of the broadway version of the movie. Oooh. I was pissed.

Many called for a boycott of the film. Scientologists believe that homosexuality is a perversion. (Why, Quentin Hubbard, L. Ron Hubbard's son, killed himself because he was a gay and his father wouldn't accept him. Nice religion, right? But that's another diatribe.) I won't go into any of the dreary rumors about John Travolta's sexuality. If he can't handle the fact that he likes dick, then that's his problem, not mine. I don't really WANT to support Scientologists' films, but with their proliferation in Hollywood, like flies on roadkill, it's difficult not to.

I begrudgingly went to see it because I heard that John Waters had a cameo. Well, raise my rent - that shit was good. And John Travolta even did a darn fine Edna Turnblad, if I say so myself. The surprise twist as to who was crowned Miss Hairspray made the movie EVEN BETTER than the play. Plus, Marc Shaiman's music just plain kicks ass.

Tracy had come full circle for me - she's in my life again, as fat and boisterous as ever, and I am glad she's back.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Swing it from Virginia to Tennessee with all the love that's in ya


Multiple Choice -

Southerners are:

a) Fundamentalist Christians whose eyes are pinholes of stupidity peeking out of fat accumulated through years' worth of gorging on barbeque, Twinkies, hot dogs, and any other foodstuffs that fall into the disgusting category known as "American,"
b) Hatemonger shitheads who would rather shoot someone than find out that he or she is different,
c) Ugly,
d) One of the main reasons positive change is so hard in this country,
e) All of the above.

I love the South. I am from here, as are most of my relatives. If only I could wipe out 9/10ths of the schmegeggies who live here, I would actually enjoy it oh so much more. I drove down to Florida last Friday to sell my car to my deadbeat uncle. An act of kindness, yes, but one that would ultimately put a strain on my already delicate ability to handle daily life on this shitbucket planet of ours.

I could tell I was approaching Southern territory when I started seeing billboards. People in the Northeast are classy enough to realize that billboards are tacky, especially when promoting things like "Porky's Pit B-B-Q" (complete with a pig in an apron, cooking his porcine brethren up so potbellied inbred fuckers can lap at their charred remains with glee), Cafe Risque ("We Dare! We Bare!" - now, what I want to know is, who wants to have their eggs served to them by a saggy-bosomed, topless whore? How is that appealing at all?), and a mystery group, clinging to the fact that the North beat the FUCK out of the South in the Civil War, who proclaims, "Remember Your Southern Heritage!"

And then there are the signs for South of the Border, relentless in their assault on the senses. They start as SOON as you cross into North Carolina and increase in intensity as you get closer to the South Carolina border. If you want clay pots, rattlesnake eggs, mocassins, porn, cheap cigarettes, fireworks, putt-putt golf, a hotel room, or an "oriental massage," be sure to stop off at South of the Border. It's a trip you're sure to remember, especially since it's your welcome center to the death camp known as South Carolina.

South Carolina is the worst. The absolute armpit of the civilized world, as far as I can tell. As a gay man, I have to be very careful when traveling through this maze of bigots, toothless speed freaks, rednecks, hunting enthusiasts, and Christians. I have been verbally assaulted on many occasions just for stopping at a red light. "Hey, FAGGOT!" the bemulleted hillbilly screamed from his truck, peeling out when the light turned. Then there was the time two cheerleaders, no doubt on the road to teen pregnancy, made fun of me when I stopped at a 7-11 to buy a Diet Coke. South Carolina is dangerous, let me tell you.

I came up with a plan to come through this trek into damnation unscathed. Years ago when in San Francisco, I had forgotten to pack an appropriate jacket, and it was getting chilly. I went to a vintage clothing store and bought a SEARS AUTO CENTER jacket with the name "Abdul" on it - clearly an irony purchase. Wasted on the dull, the wearing of this jacket led to my being called by "Abdul" many times, and asked auto repair questions even more frequently. I figured, if people in San Francisco were dumb enough to think that a) my name was Abdul and b) I actually worked in auto repair, then it would work on potential gay-bashing redneck trash like a charm.

As soon as I could, I whipped that jacket out. Sure enough, when I stopped in Columbia, South Carolina, where I was forced to spend the night, I was asked, "Do you work at the one right up at the mall?" My disguise was FLAWLESS and I got through South Carolina without even so much as a bird being shot at me.

I made it to St. Petersburg without incident. I drove through Starke, happy in the knowledge that I was passing through the former home of Manson Family member and Environmental Hero, Squeaky Fromme.

Now I'm down here in the land of Republicans, fat women who wear sweatshirts with crocheted kittens dancing about their bosoms, kiosks that sell Santa Clauses fashioned out of pantyhose, and more evangelical Christians than you could shake a stick at. I am in the belly of my enemy.

St. Petersburg is a beautiful city. I lived here for 26 years of my life. If I hadn't been a raging alcoholic, most of my memories would have been formed here. The people who live here ENRAGE me, though. "Animals are ours to eat, wear and experiment on," one bumper sticker screamed in the parking lot of Bob Evans (a favorite restaurant of my parents' that I suffer through in order to keep them from having breakdowns).

If we could eradicate humanity, what a wonderful world it would be.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Every one of them must DIE.


Even back when I was gobbling down meat with an excitement rarely seen beyond that of a six year old's on Christmas morning, I had a deep, seething hatred for those who wear fur.

Back when I happily gnawed the tendons, lipids, membranes, anuses, muscles, tissues, and other byproducts of any number of mammalian foodstuffs and avian dinner items, I believe I felt such a distaste for people who wear fur primarily because of the TYPE of person who wears fur.

You can spot them from a MILE away - they generally have a stern facial expression, a drearily conservative haircut, far too much makeup, revoltingly ostentatious jewelry, and emit an aura of perfume that spreads out over a 20-foot radius and is of the variety that makes anyone who DOESN'T sip sloe gin fizz and play mahjong want to vomit. I'm talking White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor, or WORSE.

These women are most frequently escorted by stout, horrid little overly-tanned men wearing navy blazers (minus tie), loafers without socks, and blu-blocker sunglasses. From time to time, one can expect to see an unlit cigar crammed into their mouths, the mouth end soaked with spit from where they have been practicing their foul oral fixations by rolling that cigar around in their mouths, making puckering noises.

Look for the pinky ring. God, I hate those fucking things.

So, even when my biggest joy in life was sampling whatever new trans fat sandwich McDonald's was introducing, I was a bit of an animal rights activist. I figured leather was acceptable because a) they were already killing the cows for meat and b) who wants to wear fabric in winter? The wind goes right through it! My opinion on leather has changed since, of course, but that's not important right now.

I do believe I became vehemently anti-fur during one of the weekly sales meetings held at Random House Children's Books where I used to work. These weekly meetings were catered by the wife of one of my coworkers - she was a horrid, loud-mouthed, offensive, ugly woman. She had a flat ass. Her idea of a lunch was greens with balsamic vinagrette and seared tuna. Boring.

(As an aside, she and her husband were "swingers" - they invited a coworker of mine and me to a party at their house, and when we walked in, she nodded to the coworker and said to her husband, "Is this the one with the ass?" Gross.)

I was unprepared for what I saw. She came rushing in, full-length mink coat, with a tub of greens in her arms. She turned around, and I saw that under her mink coat she was wearing gym leggings, a t-shirt and running shoes. If I had had a spear or a pickaxe or any sort of heavy, blunt object, this bitch would have been dead on the spot. I was LIVID. I had to get up and go outside in order to calm down.

First of all, WHO the hell wears a full-length fur coat with gym clothes? Second of all, who wears one to cater a lunch for a sales department? Finally, why couldn't she have been run over by a car as she was running across 50th Street with her shitsoaked "luncheon"? She would have deserved it for being late, let alone her pernicious fashion choices.

So, ever since that moment I have been a strident opponent to the use of fur in any capacity for fashion.

Eskimoes are excused.

But seriously, this is the 21st Century - how hard is it to figure out that a coat made out of the skins of other animals is not luxurious, it's not beautiful, it's not a status symbol. It's just plain gross and ignorant. I don't need to go into the specifics of how these skins are collected because anyone with a brain can put two and two together and figure out that these little lambs suffer terrible, prolonged pain only so some stupid fat cunt can look good while going to an art opening.

Minks are tiny little things, like ferrets. Imagine how many of them it takes to make a full-length coat. Just foul.

Winter is fast approaching here in New York. The rich and want-to-look-rich crowds are getting their furs out of storage, preparing to parade around in all their tainted, brown glory for the rest of the city to gawk at. They'll be at the opera, the museums, restaurants, H&M, anywhere the people flock to. Their Chanel Sunglasses will scream their need for label status, and their coats will shout to the world that they are soulless, mindless fucks who don't give a single thought to anything outside their little fat world of money, labels, brands, status, and greed.

I prepare myself for this season every year and hope I won't get arrested. I've always admired the activists who hurl red paint on snobby douches as they're trying to perambulate their way into Sak's, and take great joy in reading about these activities every year.

I, however, take a more subtle approach. I do it whenever I can. I did it yesterday, as a matter of fact.

I've taken to staring angrily at women wearing fur coats, sometimes saying "Pig" to them as they walk by. It's not the reaction they expect from their obvious plea for attention, but it's the one they deserve.