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.