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.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

God Damn Fat Kids Fuck Up Disneyland for Everyone Else.

All right, so most people groan with disgust when they go to Disneyworld or Disneyland and are forced to suffer through the syrupy nightmare of cutesy "brotherly love" that is the 'It's a Small World' ride. 

But after having just been on it three (3) times in the past year during my sabbatical in Los Angeles, I can tell you this - its datedness, lame innocence and unintentional racism ARE what give it its charm. It shows a world before globalization brought MTV and, along with it, stupidity to everyone else.

And now Disneyland is closing the 'It's a Small World' ride in order to give it an "overhaul." 

Now, when they closed the Pirates of the Caribbean ride to "update" it, what that actually meant was they were planning to cram those wretched, boring, tedious movies down our throats. At every turn in that ride now one has to suffer through Johnny Depp's likeness drunkenly blathering out some insipid piratespeak about "walking the plank," "landlubbers" or "dead man's chest," only to exit the ride into a well-stocked kiosk of movie memorabilia, from Johnny Depp eyepatches to revolting "pirate themed" Mickey Mouse ears. 

The good, no, GREAT thing about Disneyland and Disneyworld was that they HADN'T changed - well, at least not very much. Those theme parks were the two places you could go in the world and expect things to be pretty much just as they were when you went with your cousins in, say, 1978, wearing an iron-on Jawa t-shirt you had made for you at Foxy's in Tyrone Square Mall. 

Okay, so If You Had Wings closed, but the Carousel of Progress, at least the last time I checked, was still revolving, being just as sexist and annoying as it ever had been. (My personal "great big beautiful tomorrow" would have been to jump up on that gaywad stage and chop those animatronic asswipes up with an axe, but that's just me.)

I'm sad to report to you that everything is going down the toilet. With the passing of time, things must evolve, and not necessarily for the better. Which brings me back to 'it's a small world.'

Disneyland is planning to 'update' the ride, to make it relevant to today's park guests. Instead of being graced with a song by cherubic goatherders and ululating natives dancing in front of a spectrum of the world's natural wonders, you can expect to witness a sea of cell-phone chattering nimrods with baggy jeans and backwards baseball caps leaning mindlessly against graffiti-sprayed walls (sponsored by a variety of sneaker companies) with slutty pre-teen girls standing suggestively in leg warmers and miniskirts, too busy finding that Britney Spears mp3 on their iPods to entertain you with a song. Every country's representatives will look exactly the same.

Oh, and Disney's doing some "much-needed" construction on the ride as well.

One of the attraction's main problems, apparently, is that it was designed for children who weren't raised on a diet of Twinkies, Hot Pockets, McDonald's, Juicy Juice, fruit rollups, hoagies, Domino's Pizza, Go-gurt, ice cream dots, and any other fattening fast foods dipshit parents placate their obese, illiterate little monsters with these days. Dip'n sauces, stuffed crust pizzas, Cold Stone Creamery and "caramel macchiato" beverages were nonexistent when they broke ground on this boat ride into a Welcoming Wide World of Wonder. 

Broccoli was consumed.

'It's a Small World' was formulated back when kids still went outside to play. Built before there were DVD players nestled into the backs of mini-vans' seats so parents didn't have to interact with their children more than absolutely necessary. Envisioned back before kids had their creativity and physical outlets stolen from them by handheld contraptions that, through videogames, shut them off from the rest of the world and turned them into drooling, Pavlovian zombies. 

And now the architects at Disney have to fix that. Disneyland is actually modifying 'It's a Small World' to accomodate fat fucking children and their morbidly obese parents. Here's an exerpt from an article that appeared in the Los Angeles Times:

Heavier-than-anticipated loads have been causing the boats to come to a standstill in two different spots, allowing for an extra-long gander at the Canadian Mounties and the Scandinavian geese, said Al Lutz, whose website MiceAge first reported the refurbishment plans. 

"If these boats get stuck . . . they have to send someone back in there to lighten the load on the boat," said Lutz, who has been on the ride when a guest or two was asked to disembark. 

"They've even built a platform next to that [Mounties] curve because they've had so many problems." 

Disneyland plans to add an inch of depth to the water channel and design more-buoyant boats, Lutz said.


Now, If I were Disneyland, I would tell the fat fucks that if they wanted to get on the ride they'd better stop cramming the fucking Moo-Town Snackers down, get their fat asses up from in front of their DVRs, computers, Playstation 3s, or whatever else is eating their brains as they mechanically shovel fistfuls of Fritos on top of that string cheese, and go get some god damn exercise. They won't let kids on if they aren't a certain height, so why can't they just do the same for weight?

"Oh, I'm sorry - you're too fat to get on this ride. NEXT." It's that easy. 

Why tamper with history when you COULD be driving a necessary lesson home to these fat little bastards and their obviously lazy parents? WHY ruin it for the rest of us?

Disneyland is probably hoping these fat, pathetic turds will be so winded by waddling their way through the modified theme park that they'll stop in Ye Olde Fudge Shoppe in Mainstreet U.S.A. and buy truckloads of Donald Duck's Nut Logs for the trek home. 

After all, you need to have a snack before dinner.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Wait a minute, Mr. Postman.

Did I miss something? 

From the time I moved to Los Angeles last june to when I returned to New York City this July, was some law passed regarding crosswalks? 

Because I could have sworn that a walk sign meant pedestrians had the right of way and were free to cross at their leisure as opposed to having to run screaming for their lives, dodging bikes, motorcycles, hot dog vendors, and cars operated by stupid fat fucks chattering on their cell phones and careening, not even putting on their brakes, directly into the crosswalk as they turn. 

These assholes don't look. They don't care. A walk sign to them means, "The light's green - I can do whatever the fuck I want." 

I know many many people who have been hit by cars. I myself have almost been hit by a car more than once in this Maze of Doom known as New York City. I have kicked cars, thrown rocks at cars, sworn at cars, run after cars, smashed my fist against cars, all because these fuckmouths have happily ignored pedestrian right of way at walk signs. 

Cellular telephone proliferation truly is a curse upon society. I doubt we've even begun to see the depth of its crippling effects on how we operate as individuals, groups and human beings both in social and professional settings. Mark my words - within this coming decade the way humans communicate will have changed so drastically and horribly that those of us who were alive before cellular telephones and the internet will rue the day the technology was made available to people who don't deserve it.

Which brings me back to driving. Talking on your cellular telephone while driving is ILLEGAL in New York City. Does anyone care? Do the pigs do anything about it? Absolutely not. Which is why it has become so dangerous to cross the street. If you think I'm exaggerating, come here and walk around for a day and see how many times you nearly get crushed into the hood of some asswipe's SUV as he or she swerves full speed around a corner, chattering away about some inconsequential horseshit, all the while completely oblivious to the fact that someone almost got killed.

Take last week for example - I was returning from Staples on Broadway in Soho where I had gone with a coworker. We were crossing Broadway during a WALK sign, which started blinking red - a sign for pedestrians that the light was about to change. I look up and a huge postal truck is turning the corner at FULL SPEED directly into me and my coworker, not stopping, not intending to slow down, and looking DIRECTLY AT ME as if she were trying to prove a point. 

I jumped out of the way, stopped and shouted, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, ASSHOLE?" She leaned over and screamed so intensely that it looked as if her head might burst, "THAT LIGHT IS RED! FUCK YOU!" and kept on going.

Given the state of our current government, I think she was representing it perfectly.

Okay. So, even if I had been wrong, which I was not, does it make it okay that this obviously deranged cunt felt that she was perfectly within her rights to plow right through not only me, but about seven other people, just because she was in such a hurry that she couldn't wait two minutes for the next green light? 

I was stunned. Too stunned to write down or attempt to memorize her license plate. I can tell you this much though - If I had had a bazooka, you can be damn sure I would have aimed it right at that mail truck and blown that bad driver up, scattering her tainted DNA ALL OVER the stupid tourists who came to NYC to shop at H&M.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Trials, Too.


Oh, the continued excitement of New York City living. It's fall, the leaves are finally changing, the bums smell slightly less effervescent, and long walks are always called for. I take them whenever I can, apparently to my own peril.

A few days ago, I was walking through Washington Square Park again. It's a shortcut to sixth avenue and a lovely one at that. The particular deranged pervert who asked me a few indelicate questions several weeks ago was back - and he targeted me like a heat-seeking missile. As he approached, I prepared myself to engage in yet another pornographic exchange, and also to scream for the police. He got straight to the point this time, however.

"I'ma school you how to suck a black dick," he said before walking off.

I really don't know what to say. I doubt sucking a black dick is that much different from sucking a white one, or one of any other color. But aside from that, how blatantly obvious can anyone make it? Even if I were in the practice of having unsafe sex with random strangers, it certainly wouldn't be with some vagabond from ye olde publick parke. Who does this joker think he is? He's not even handsome!

I suppose I need to choose a new route to get to the vegan foods kiosk - that park is dangerous.

Tarsier Patrol


Since I foamed at the mouth about global warming a few days ago, my mind has been focused primarily on the plight of the tarsier.

I've been enamored with these precious little angels (PLAs) since I saw a picture of one in, I think, National Geographic when I was a very small child. Their huge, awe-struck eyes intrigued me and I spent quite a few years wishing that I would be able to see one live and in person.

I hadn't thought about tarsiers for quite a while until talking with a friend two or so weeks ago. The word "tarsier" popped into my head. He didn't know what they were, so I looked them up on the internet and to my chagrin, not only did I discover that they were endangered, I read that their entire population has been decimated to the point that they're near extinction.

I couldn't get any sleep last night because I was worried about tarsiers. People have destroyed so much of the tarsiers' natural habitat that there's only a tiny, tiny bit of land left for them to inhabit (they're native to the Philippines). They've also unsuccessfully attempted to turn tarsiers into household pets only to discover that tarsiers apparently commit suicide when caged by smashing their heads against the barriers repeatedly until they are dead.

I couldn't get any sleep because I WANT to be able to do something about this. It really drives me insane that there are animals out there dying off and the people who care are pretty much helpless to stop their impending extinction, labeled "tree huggers" or "hippies" by others. (I'd rather be a hippie or tree hugger who cares than a money-grubbing, self-centered fuck ANY day.)

Between clear-cutting, black market animal sales and fucking asshole poachers who should have their throats cut out, we're killing off a lot of things we're going to miss when they're gone. We've got to do something about it, and I mean RIGHT NOW.

If I could, I would charter flights all over the world and fend off the ASSHOLES who are killing these animals, but that's implausible. Chopping down poachers as they hunt for tigers or elephants would give me the greatest pleasure I think I could ever achieve. IF you ask me, it's what they deserve.

Instead, I yodel to people and hope the word will spread.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Driven to murder.


Every morning when I wake up I steel myself for the onslaught of idiocy I'm sure awaits me on the other side of the door. I prepare by doing several rounds of Surya Namaskar A followed by several variations of pranayama in an attempt to center myself, or at least calm myself down enough so that I won't end up being scuttled off to prison for multiple homicides.

I honestly don't know why I bother to go outside. Ever.

Take today, for example. Every day, I walk to Lifethyme on 6th Avenue - it's the closest place that will satisfy my dreary, restricted vegan diet. They've got all sorts of fancy stuff there for people who suffer from my particular dietary disorder, including a lovely salad and raw food bar, from which I sampled food today.

I was particularly excited because they had a heaping helping of barbequed seitan, my favorite hippie food EVER. I dumped an assload of that into a container along with some broccoli and things, snatched up a kombucha and walked up to the register.

After paying, I needed to get utensils - and that's when I saw it.

A fucking hipster cooze, complete with Britney Spears-style cap and JEANS TUCKED INTO HER BOOTS was eating tuna fish out of an open container OVER THE UTENSIL DISPENSERS. Just standing there, staring off with that "I'm an o-so-important individual - I'm artistic" look these hipsters get, not caring that she was blocking others from getting forks or the fact that she was committing god knows how many health violations, she refused to move as I reached around her and attempted to get a fork.

"That's really annoying," she mumbled. "Fuck you," I responded - what else can one say? Really, is it asking too much? I continue to be baffled by how stridently rude and idiotic people are in areas where it would be so much easier just to act properly.

Who raised this stupid bitch? What rule or regulation was she not taught that would have instilled in her common sense enough to know that it is blaringly tacky to eat a) in an area inappropriate for eating and b) OVER unused utensils? Who's to say she doesn't have hepatitis B spraying out of her mouth into that container of knives?

More importantly, why is it that whenever someone, and it doesn't matter who you are or where, points out something that someone else is doing that is BLATANTLY wrong, the perpetrator gets irritated? "Excuse me, you really shouldn't be washing your socks in the urinal," or "Hey, could you please not pick your scabs over the popcorn popper" would get the same grunt or hateful stare.

I don't know if it's that people don't want to be reminded how much they suck or if they really think that what they're doing is okay, but what I DO know is that they all need to die.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Baby Mine


What's the worst possible thing you can imagine about living in a city of nine million-plus people? The germs you might catch on the subway? The need for constant vigilance in regards to your personal safety? The clashing of many disparate cultures finally reaching the breaking point and ending up in a gang war, leaving several initiates lying dead in the street? You might think it would be one of these, but you'd be mistaken. I'll tell you what the worst possible thing about big city life is.

Yuppies and their god damn babies.

Yes, that's right - I said BABIES.

Since the art of gentrification has gone mainstream and almost all formerly-interesting neighborhoods have been usurped from their rightful owners by bland, entitled young white people, the baby boom has taken over Brooklyn like lice take over children's hair. You cannot go ANYWHERE in Brooklyn without having to maneuver an obstacle course of babies. At times you can't even get around the fucking things because there are two or more sets of entitled parents pushing the nasty shit factories around, side by side, unaware of the fact that through their sheer selfishness they are blocking the flow of traffic in both directions. It's enough to make you want to get out a can of lighter fluid, spray it all over them, and toss a match, laughing and pointing as they swat at the flames.

Yuppies think they're doing everyone a favor by gentrifying neighborhoods. "Oh, we're increasing the property value," they say as they strip away original woodwork, tear down trees to put in a new Starbucks, and pave the way for contractors to swoop in and build obnoxious, personality-void "condos" that clash hideously with architecture that has stood for 100+ years, almost always glass top-to-bottom, sticking out like a sore on the mouth of society.

A few years ago I lived in Carroll Gardens - a charming neighborhood formerly populated by old school New York Italians, the kind with family ties so strong that most of them lived in the houses they were born in for their entire lives. And then the yuppies found out about it. They swarmed in, turning the streets that were once lined with locally-owned produce stores, tailors, grocers, specialty food merchants, et cetera, into yet another expanse of dreary chain stores like Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts and American Apparel, and "cute" boutiques specializing in humorous greeting cards, magnets shaped like sushi, hemp fabric sacks in which to place your groceries, and "educational" (read: BORING) toys.

With the destruction of local charm, the yuppies also brought babies. Tons and tons and TONS of babies.

Try perambulating the health food store in that neighborhood (or any store, for that matter) - you can't get around two or more dipshit mothers chatting about montessori schooling or an "interesting piece on natural crib liners" they heard on NPR, or how much more intelligent THEIR babies are than any other babies on the fucking planet. All the while, all YOU want to do is get to the shelf where the quinoa is housed and get the fuck out of there before you end up stabbing one of these arrogant, useless assholes. But you can't! When you turn around, there's another set of parents pushing their baby in a $700 stroller that is about as big as a Mini-Cooper. A) WHY spend that much money on something you're only going to be able to use for about a year just because it's THE brand to have and B) FUCK OFF - GET YOUR FUCKING BABY OUT OF THE AISLE SO OTHER PEOPLE CAN SHOP ALREADY.

Park Slope used to be known as the Lesbian neighborhood. Then all the Lesbians got babies, and it was known as the Lesbians-with-babies neighborhood. Then the yuppies took it over, and now it's just the Assholes-with-their-fucking-babies neighborhood. Anyone who values their sanity doesn't even go into that area anymore because it is next to impossible to walk down the sidewalk undisturbed by these god damn people with their babies.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for the occasional baby, especially smart ones. Lord knows we're going to need a fleet of smart people in the future to make up for all the bullshit of this current selfish, pinheaded generation that continues willfully and joyously in the face of devastation to rape the planet. Problem is, most people having babies who THINK they're smart just plain aren't.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

I call my sugar Candy.

Eating on the subway is a no-no. I mean, come on. 

You're crowded in there with God knows how many people - the very last thing any of them want is to smell the revolting odors of alien foodstuff wafting about.

Take for example a few weeks ago. I hopped on the B train because it is a quick 2 stops from my apartment in Fort Greene to my place of employment in Soho. Fast, easy, painless. You'd think so, anyway. Oh, no. There she was - some jackass bitch eating SCRAMBLED EGGS out of a tupperware container. I smelled their noxious fumes before I managed to pinpoint their location. I immediately hissed, "JESUS CHRIST!" (It is a sad fact that I am becoming less able and willing to contain my disgust at others' actions - what's the point? If they're doing something stupid, they should be told that they are doing something stupid.) before scanning the crowd. I finally found her, Bible in her lap, spooning those fucking scrambled eggs into her mouth with glee, her husband sitting next to her memorizing naturalization papers. Oh great, another pair of self-centered shitheads crowding our city. I hope they failed their tests.

Now, you'd think that would be the worst of it. But I've seen people gumming ribs, gnawing chicken wings, licking corn, et cetera. Once, I even saw a young man who kept lifting the seal on a package of bologna, picking the pack up to his nose, inhaling deeply, resealing the package, and then starting the perverted process all over again.

All of this is pretty gross. But the one that pissed me off the most occurred just last Friday. The Q train at Union Square is a crowded train pretty much all the time. It's express, and people want to get HOME. As I was standing on the packed platform, I noticed some dumb bitch gnawing on a HUGE caramel apple. She was really going at it, as if her life depended on consuming that apple. I wanted to push her onto the track - who brings something so stupid into the subway? The way people get jostled and thrown around on the train, one wrong move and that nasty shit would be stuck to someone's jacket or leather bag, and then she'd be in for it. I was growing increasingly pissed as she worked her way around that stupid snack of hers.

Lucky for her, I got distracted as the train pulled up. I hopped on, lost in "American Inquisition," Christian Death's new CD and return to form, when I looked over and there was that squat, dumb bitch going to TOWN on that caramel apple right in front of me. She wasn't just chewing on it. She would bite off a piece, look at the area she had just bitten, LICK the apple, and then chew that shit with her mouth wide open. If I could have commanded myself to do so, I would have sent a stream of projectile vomit right over onto her to let her know how completely and utterly disgusted I was by her little performance. She was oblivious to my hateful stares, however, and happily exposed the masticated fruit to anyone who dared glance in her direction.

I got off the train, stormed home, and prayed for a rain of fire to come down on that woman, her home and her entire family. And then I ate in the privacy of my apartment, behind closed doors, where no one would have to watch my habits or be forced to inhale my odors. Because I have manners.

Trials.



Oh, the trials of living in a big city. Huge rent, crowded streets, public transportation. It takes a certain type of person to thrive here, one with nerves of steel - impervious to the heinous, vulgar, insipid, and generally stupid.

I've lived in New York City since 1996. The day I moved here was the worst Noreaster in recent history. It's been like that ever since. Take, for example, two (2) weeks ago. I walk every day during lunch from Soho to Sixth Avenue and Eighth Street in the village, where I purchase comestibles from the vegan market. I generally stop in Washington Square Park along the way because the fountain is beautiful and the chance of running into Blossom Dearie as she maneuvers the pathways is very high.

I was sitting there on a railing listening to "13 Years of Carrion" by Death In June - it's a song I listen to when I'm in a particular mood, generally when the leaves start changing and there's a hint of Fall chill in the air. Death In June seems to complement the essence of the season, and it makes me happy to partake of it like a ritual every autumn. I looked up from my Douglas P.-induced trance and noticed what looked like a normal person walking toward me, asking me a question. He did not look like the typical shriekingly insane hobo that waddles through this particular park, so I risked it and removed my headphones so I could hear his plea.

"Can you tell me which way Chelsea is?" He asked, sounding sincere.

"That way," I replied, pointing in the general direction of the former mecca of the Vapid New York City Homosexuals. He didn't leave.

"Actually," he started.

"Oh God, here we go," I thought to myself. That'll teach me to judge someone from their appearance.

"I'm an NYU Student. I study human pleasure." He took it from there, blathering incomprehensibly about sexual relations. When he could tell I was getting irritated, he stated, "You got the most focused blue eyes. I mean, they just don't leave their target. Can I get 2.50 for a hot dog?" Finally, he got to the point.

"I don't have any money," I stated. For once, it was true.

"I want something to eat." He said, apparently not comprehending the fact that I wasn't going to give him anything.

"I don't have any money," I said again, firmly.

"Lemme ask you somethin'. When was the last time you swallowed a black man's cum?" was his response.

"Uh, um...," I stumbled, taken aback. "Never. I've never done that."

"Lemme ask you somethin.' When was the last time you sucked a black man's dick?"

"Never. I've never done that."

"Why not?" He said, incredulous.

"I don't do that." I scowled.

"Thank you for teaching me a lesson about boundaries," He said finally, finishing off with, "You got a pretty red smile."

He then took off, I'm sure to ask someone else for directions.

The End Times.

I walk through Fulton Mall every Sunday on my way to yoga class in Brooklyn Heights. Anyone familiar with the area knows that it is a den of failure, a prime and thriving example of everything that has gone wrong with Western Civilization. Misery blossoms at every turn. Kiosks of shame line Fulton Mall's streets, which are closed off to regular traffic so eager shoppers will have easier access to ignominy on either side of the street. The majority of the stores sell sneakers, all of which sell the exact same styles of Nike - that tragically unattractive type that seems to be popular these days and features "da-glo" colors in a variety of combinations, either emblazened on patent leather or canvas. (Either choice is a garish example of creativity gone awry, and the fact that these things have caught on as a trend proves in yet another way that human beings are very impressionable and will do anything to fit in.) The rest of the stores are either cellular telephone peddlers, gold jewelry merchants or purveyors of fine garments that fall into the "pimps n hos" category. Want a lime green suit? Go to Fulton Mall. Want grape suede shoes? Go to Fulton Mall. Want a two-piece gown for the prom, cut so everyone can see that belly button piercing, that is designed of counterfeit Gucci logo fabric? Go to Fulton Mall.

Interlaced between all of these various enclosures of misery are the required food providers that go along with this demographic - triple cheeseburgers with bacon, sausage egg and cheese quadruple stack'd bacon logs, extra thick shakes, double-stuft crust pizza, chicken wings, hot dogs deep fried in beer batter with dip'n sauce, oreo crumble double scoop hot fudge pie, bacon-ham roll-ups - all of these delicacies are readily available for a very low price, all ensuring that these dreary people's thighs will be chafing together in their baby phat jeans so they'll have to replace them oh so soon.

Fulton Mall attracts idiots and those who prey on the weak-minded. It is a sad place.

Now, I've grown pretty immune to the indecencies above - I pass through them with my nose in the air, pretending they don't exist, hoping that someday they won't. Today, however, was different - today something occurred that reinforced my basic hatred for the human race. And I'm going to tell you about it.

I was crossing Jay Street and listening to the stellar new Twin Peaks Music: Season Two and Beyond CD that was released last week, minding my own business, when I approached the threshold of Jay Jewelers. I looked over just in time to see a rotund man, obviously the Jay Jewelers Shopkeep, pull a visibly filthy Q-tip out of his ear and hurl it onto the sidewalk, all the while looking at me, unaware of or immune to the disgusting, thoroughly inappropriate act he was committing at that very moment. I stared into his puffed, blank eyes and shouted, "GROSS!" but he was undeterred and waddled back into his shop, hoping to sell a 24-karat gold pendant shaped like a handgun to the customer waiting to be assisted.

What I'm trying to get at here is that people are disgusting in oh so many ways. It's not that hard not to be disgusting - that person could very easily have cleaned his ears at home this morning or waited until he was inside to do it in the bathroom they most certainly have behind their counter. A little common sense dictates these things. It takes the slightest bit of effort.

Which brings me to why I started this stupid blog to begin with. It wasn't precipitated by that incident - I had been thinking about it for a few days - but that action, I think, made for a perfect opener. LASBA stands for LET'S ALL STOP BEING ASSHOLES. I hope to cover a spectrum of topics - not just inappropriate earwax removal or terrible fashion. So let's give it a whirl and see what happens, hm?