Monday, January 21, 2008

Marky Mae Goes To the Acupuncturist

Late last week, esteemed readers, Marky Mae decided to do something different. To try something new.

I know that must come as a shock to those of you who know me well. I maintain a strict schedule, down to the last second, even if that schedule involves, say, "sit on the couch and watch four episodes of Star Trek Voyager. Eat hoagie."

I don't like having my schedules OR my routines tampered with in any way, and will fight to the death to maintain them, even in their most humdrum of states.

So no one was more surprised than I when I found myself Friday afternoon calling to make a walk-in appointment at Ye Olde Acupuncture Clinic.

Now, I'm no sucker. I've been skeptical of acupuncture for years. I'm skeptical of anything "on the fringe," which seems odd since that shit is generally what I'm attracted to. During my last stint as a yoga nazi, I fell victim to a particularly insane obsession with Ayurveda, the "Science of Life," and read about and practiced it continually for months (I am a pitta-kapha, for those of you who want to know my dosha) until I got to a chapter in one tome that called for "urine therapy."

One such powerful practice for healing that is continuing to flourish today is Shivambu Shastra, respected for thousands of years as the "Mother of Ayurvedic Medicine" and commonly known as "Self-Urine Therapy". Shivambu means literally "Water of Shiva", referring to the auspiciousness of the practice. Its "method of drinking urine for rejuvenation" is outlined in the Shivambu Kalpa Vidhi, part of a 5,000-year-old document called the Damar Tantra, linking this practice back to the Vedas, the sacred Hindu texts. Self-urine therapy has been seen as one of the divine manifestations of cosmic intelligence, and has been used as such by Indian yogis to unleash kundalini up to their third eye. (from Nexus Magazine.)
My trip down Ayurveda Lane pretty much came to an abrupt end when they asked me to guzzle my own pee. No thank you - I'll unleash Kundalini in my own way.

I have had a sinus problem for years. Doctors and allergists SWEAR there's nothing wrong with me - I've been poked with cat dander, roach wings, dust mites, mold, et cetera, and the elixirs raised nary a bump on the affected areas of my arm. My primary care physician prescribed for me pills that should "alleviate symptoms," as he put it. Jack shit. My ophthalmologist gave me some droppy-drops that were supposed to clear this shit right on out. Nothing.

So, after having been screamed at by about 9/10ths of the people I complain to about this particular nagging condition that I should try acupuncture, I finally relented. I went to the Swedish Institute under the recommendation of a coworker who is also going to school there.

The staff was lovely and friendly. As I was filling out my paperwork, a tall, handsome man came out of one of the clinic rooms. I thought, "I'd like him to stick me with something," and continued writing down my medical history.

Alas, he was not to be my acupuncturist, but that's probably a good thing - if that bitch had been leaning over me with needles there might have been trouble.

I sat in a curtain-partitioned cubicle while the acupuncturist asked me a variety of questions regarding my physical and mental condition. I told her that my face constantly feels as if it's a balloon about to burst and that I'm plugged up and want to be able to breathe.

"Just once, I would love to be able to inhale without it being a laborious task. PLEASE." I slobbered, tugging at her lab coat like a punished child begging for its toys to be returned.

I must have been placed under a curse by someone who has a grudge against my family. As I was being born, somewhere some haggard, frustrated witch was churning a concoction in a cauldron and emitting epithets of destruction aimed my way. "Let this child know not happiness, let this child feel not peace," she cackled insanely, dropping some fenugreek into her pot.

Her curse worked better than she possibly could have envisaged, for no matter where I go and no matter what I'm doing, there is ALWAYS some idiot who tampers with me.

To quote William S. Burroughs - "You all know the type, no matter how good it sounds, everything they have anything to do with turns into a disaster. Trouble for themselves and everyone connected with them! A fool is bad news and it rubs off. Don't let it rub off on you."

This is what I was about to be confronted with.

"Oh my god, did you, like, take teacher training at Integral Yoga?" I heard the grating, vacuous, self-assured voice bleat from the other side of the curtain. "I know you did - you look SO familiar! Oh my god, isn't Integral Yoga's apothecary like the BEST?"

I groaned. I knew this was going downhill fast.

"Oh my god, did you take his workshop? He is SO amazing. He is like a New York landmark." Yes, she actually said that.

I groaned again. Even my acupuncturist noted this woman's insipidity by shooting me a knowing glance.

I don't mind small talk. In a situation that can make one nervous, small talk takes the mind off what is to come. But this bitch wasn't making small talk. She was making small SHOUT. Everyone could hear this dumb bitch's idiotic ramblings - and they NEVER STOPPED.

"This is, like, so weird!" She said to her acupuncturist. "Because, like, I was planning a trip to South America, and I decided not to go, and I came here and I find out my doctor is South American!" Moan. "Do you find that, like, holistic and Eastern medicine is like more accepted in South America than it is here?"

And then, "Oh wow, I broke my femur a few years ago, so that probably isn't a good place to put that." Uh, excuse me - I'm not acupuncturist, and I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that a skinny little needle isn't going to re-break your FUCKING FEMUR. It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out.

I was finally able to drown this bitch out because my acupuncturist began to place needles into various parts of my body. My forehead, temples, cheeks, elbows, wrists, stomach, ankles, and feet were soon pincushion-like in their visage.

After she finished, she left me to contemplate the state of existence with these needles dangling from my flesh. It actually felt good.

"OW, OW, TAKE IT OUT! TAKE IT OUT!" I heard the hippie scream. "OH MY GOD! THAT HURTS TOO MUCH!"

Please note -acupuncture needles are about as thick as a piece of hair. I had one jammed pretty much into my eye. If it's going to hurt anywhere, that's where it would be.

I had to get this asshole out of my head, so I tried to maintain some pranayama to calm myself down.

She was silent during her period with the needles in. Then her acupuncturist came back. "Oh my god, I feel so energized! This is amazing. My chi moved." Yes. Her chi moved. This bitch was UNSTOPPABLE in her idiocy.

She left. The rest of my appointment was carried out in peace and tranquility, soothing new age music piped through the sound system.

My acupuncturist came back. I have a strong kidney pulse (due to the yoga, she told me) and a strong heart pulse. "It's good to see a strong kidney pulse!" she exclaimed. Apparently she doesn't see those too often.

The needles removed, I actually felt calm and happy. How I was able to overcome the oral holocaust that dingbat hippie had exposed me to is beyond my comprehension - perhaps acupuncture soothes not only points on the body but also dulls one's sensitivity to stupidity. Let's hope so.

I liked my acupuncture and acupuncturist so much that I signed up for 11 more sessions, making a note with the receptionist that I did NOT care to be scheduled at the same time with that shrieking freak.

I'm breathing a little better today and am hopeful that subsequent journeys into the realm of Eastern medicine will be free of vacuous hippie chatter - they'd better be or it'll turn into a bloodbath.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Just a Quick Note

Although this looks thoroughly amazing, it's highly implausible - we're doing our best to make sure that when WE go, everything else goes WITH us.

Life Without People.

On the "History" Channel.

Friday, January 18, 2008

Come, let us make our father drink wine, and we will lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.

Genesis 19:32. Translation - "Let's get our dad drunk so we can pork the shit out of him and get knocked up with his babies."

Genesis 19:8: "Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as is good in your eyes: only unto these men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof."

Translation: "I have two virgin daughters. I'll give them to you so you can rape the fuck out of them. Leave these total and complete strangers I've known for about fifteen minutes alone."

The Bible. The basis of Christianity. A bunch of dumb bullshit.

Lo siento mucho, but if I were presented with the idea that a God I'm supposed to worship found the above two passages acceptable, I think I'd pass and go over to the next available deity. This one's obviously only in it for himself.

And yet drooling cretins still follow this shit. Clearly, not word for word. Rape and incest would abound, as would lots of animal and human sacrifices, stonings, and a plethora of atrocitious acts God called for when people didn't do His bidding. (You're supposed to be put to death if you work on the Sabbath, you know. We're ALL screwed!)

Meanwhile, these pinheaded zombies pick and choose the passages they're going to follow, and they follow them RABIDLY. Like this one:

Exodus 21:22-23: "If men strive, and hurt a women with child, so that her fruit depart from her, and yet no mischief follow: he shall be surely punished, according as the woman's husband will lay upon him; and he shall pay as the judges determine. And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life."
If you guessed that assholes have taken that as an excuse to be anti-abortion, you're absolutely correct.

Whatever "yet no mischief follow" means is a mystery; translated appropriately it seems to say, "If you make a woman miscarry and don't fuck her and knock her up again afterwards, then her husband has the right to kill you." Am I wrong? I don't think so.


Take a gander at what shithead anti-choice fascists have done in Racine, Wisconsin as an act to "commemorate the legalization of abortion" -
RACINE, Wis. -- A right to life group in Racine is under fire after mailing controversial material to 44,000 people.

It included an informational letter, a fundraising envelope and a small plastic fetus.

read full story here.
And the best quotation from the story:
Peggy Bell didn't know what to do with the tiny plastic fetus she received in the mail, so she recycled it.
I'm sick of these stupid anti-choice CUNTS cramming their views down other people's throats. You don't want an abortion? Don't fucking get one.

Why are you so concerned with what other people are doing, anyway? Get back to microwaving your Hot Pockets and making your children obese, you hypocritical ass pimples.

So sayeth the Lord, thy God. Well, so sayeth Me.

News Flash!

They just unearthed a long lost, forgotten tablet containing an as yet unread chapter of Leviticus - Chapter 28.

Well, it all makes sense now - They're SUPPOSED to be assholes!

1: And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying,
2: Speak unto the children of Israel, and say unto them, When a man use not his brain, or use his brain in a limited capacity, that man shall herefore be known as a jackass.
3: And thy estimation shall be of the male jackass a power-hungry, opinion-pushing loudmouth and the male jackass shall be put to work in the fields or in the corporate world or in the Presidency for I am the LORD thy God.
4: And if the jackass be a female, then thy estimation shall be that she be fat and friendly on the outside yet hateful on the inside. And the jackass female shall be ripe with child that she shall bear forth yet more jackasses that shall continue stripping away our "inalienable rights" by using their loud mouths to sway our government to do their bidding. Fear me. I am the LORD thy God.
5: And all jackasses, be they male or female, shall go forth and bring my Word to the world that they may destroy it with their mini-vans and their crocheted toaster cozies and aerosol sprays and window unit air conditioners.
6: And all jackasses, be they female, shall collect ugly figurines of angel babies and place them in their homes for I am the LORD thy God.
7: And if it be a male jackass it shall go forth smugly and fatly and chop the forests and fill in the lakes and rivers to make way for Wal-Marts.
8: But if it is a male jackass and it does not eat bacon and use particle board to build mini-malls and McDonald's then he shall be stoned to death as an offering to the LORD.
9: And if it be a beast, it shall be hunted down by the jackasses and used to make of their purses and shoes and Steak-umms.
10: And all the rest of the world shall suffer the jackasses, for no matter they cannot be silenced so mighty is their stupidity.
11: I am the Lord.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

We'll work up a Number Six on 'em!

It starts.

Every season, we get real and actual news events thrown onto the back burner because of a dreary little program called American Idol.

Why we have allowed this to happen is beyond me - I happen to know for a fact there are more important things going on in the world than that sick midget Paula Abdul's idiotic tantrums and inability to control her emotions. There are more pressing matters than relating whatever humiliating, horrifyingly mean banter that homely jackass Simon Cowell has spewed at any given contestant.

But watch - over the next several months, until these clits pick the new "American Idol" out of an endless sea of wanna-be "R&B" artists who sound about as musically appealing as a chunky wet fart, every major news source will have as its top or near-top headline the nightly activities on this god damn piece of shit show.

It is unfortunate that the music industry has come to this. The songs these people perform are all trash, their styles are grotesque. And why people flock to this program is a mystery to me.

They get wrapped up in it as if our very existence depends upon who will win, and get upset when dingbat douches get booted off or get busted for spreading full bush in some internet video they made when they were drug-addled street tramps in their early adulthoods.

No surprise, if you ask me. They were more interesting hustling their snatch for crackrock, anyway. Now they're just carbon copies of everyone else.

And I have to hear about it, read about it, see it. "Did you watch last night?" an intellectually-stunted coworker asked. "FUCK no," I responded. "I'd rather watch puppies getting drowned than sit through that bullshit." No further discussion needed. She ran off to find another drooling, subhuman drone with whom to discuss the previous night's "events."

I want REAL NEWS. I want to know what's happening to our planet, our government, the war. I don't want to know that Simon insulted someone's body size. It's NOT news. IT's garbage. I don't want to open or and have to look at photos of some jackass in a feather boa belting out a cover of "Fernando" while Paula Abdul buries her face in her hands. FUCK OFF, all of you.

Journalists should all be lined up and shot for their complicity in this suppression of current events, all in the name of "selling papers." Positively disgusting, that's what it is.

And be sure to check out local news shows on television - because American Idol's events of the evening are sure to be the top story every single time. Fox-TV's news is the worst, but the rest are almost as bad.

And if you watch the "news," not only will you learn all about American Idol's winners and losers instead of what's going on in the world, you'll also be subjected to lots of cute banter between the newscasters that will make you want to get into your car, drive down to the station and work up a Number Six* on those assholes.

Fuck American Idol.

"That's where we go a-ridin' into town a-whompin' and a-whoopin' every living thing that moves within an inch of its life." - Blazing Saddles

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

The Gays Are In Luck!

The American Civil Liberties Union has just found a weird Minnesota Supreme Court ruling from 38 years ago that says it's "a-okay for the gays to bone in ye olde publick toilet"!

So get out those drills and make with the glory holes, y'all - it's tearoom time!

Read all about this dumb shit here, in which the ACLU actually comes to the defense of pervert politician Larry Craig, busted for soliciting hot, sensuous restroom man-on-man action from an undercover pig.

The ACLU filed a brief Tuesday supporting Craig. It cited a Minnesota Supreme Court ruling 38 years ago that found that people who have sex in closed stalls in public restrooms "have a reasonable expectation of privacy."
Uh... I don't really know what glue that supreme court had been sniffing before it made that ruling - but I suppose the KEY word in that statement would be public, which would lead me to believe that the general population would expect to be able to enter the restroom without finding two fags pounding home in the stall.

Not that I care one way or the other if the gays want to slide up and down on each other wherever they choose - let them, or anybody else for that matter. I guess that part of the thrill involved with ho-mo-sexual publick sex must be the ever-present chance of being busted pumping out a hot one.

The only thing I care about in this particular case is that this dumbfuck Republican goiter solicited a cop and DENIES that he's a fag. HE GAY, y'all, and any thinking human being knows it, but he's still going forward with his "my actions were misconstrued" bullshit.

Oh, please. Turkey, PLEASE. You are so gay and you wanted nothing more than a hot, wet blow job from that pig. Just admit it already, jackass. This isn't 1950.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

"The saucers are up there. And the cemetery's out there. But I'll be locked up in there."

If you guessed that the above quotation was from Ed Wood's immortal schlock classic Plan 9 From Outer Space, you're absolutely correct.

I am posting this because I've just received news that Maila Nurmi, also known as Vampira, died on Thursday at age 85.

Maila Nurmi, whose "Vampira" TV persona pioneered the spooky-yet-sexy Goth aesthetic, has died, coroner's officials said. She was 85.

Maila Nurmi's Vampira character paved the way for countless other horror-show hosts.

Nurmi died Thursday afternoon at her Hollywood home, Los Angeles County coroner's Lt. Fred Corral said. The cause of death has not been determined, Corral said.

Nurmi created her Vampira character -- reminiscent of Charles Addams' spooky New Yorker cartoons -- to host horror movie broadcasts on KABC TV in Los Angeles in 1954.

With darkly mascaraed eyes and blood-red lipstick, Nurmi appeared each week in her revealing black dress and slinky fishnets to introduce such films as "Revenge of the Zombies" and "Devil Bat's Daughter."

"The Vampira Show" was canceled after about a year, but Nurmi remained a cult figure among B-movie buffs and is thought to have inspired the vampish Morticia Addams on "The Addams Family," which premiered about 10 years later.

Nurmi is the iconic "undead" beauty in Plan 9. I'm planning a memorial viewing, probably this evening, and I would advise you to do the same.

Nurmi was played by Tim Burton's ex-girlfriend Lisa Marie in the fabulous and wonderful film, Ed Wood.

Here's a link to watch a full-length version of Plan 9 From Outer Space. It's about one hour and fifteen minutes long, and you will not regret a single second of it.

Read the full obituary here.

To Find Your God Is Hollow Brings Death To All Reason.

I know this is, to use a dreary cliche, "beating a dead horse" - but I just have to reiterate once again the simple fact that I really, really, completely and totally HATE people.

And nothing brings out that hatred in me more rapidly than being trapped in an elevator with two or more burbling cum clots who feel the need to chatter incessantly to each other, always, it seems, louder than they would normally speak.

"Oh, I can't believe it's only been two weeks," a douchebag with a perm yodelled on the elevator this morning. "It seems like it's been SIX MONTHS since I was on vacation!"

"I know exactly how you feel," the fatass with the blaring iPod responded, screaming across the full conveyor to his fellow chatter who was crammed in the corner in the back.

Now, nothing instigates in me the primal need to stab someone more rapidly than this useless, idle banter. If you're not going to say something of interest to everyone in this very small, very enclosed space, then you shouldn't say anything AT ALL.

What's worse than small talk about vacation is when people make "budgeting jokes" or any other number of industry-only "in-jokes" for the benefit of their coworkers.

"Well, THAT'LL make us meet margin," a fat cunt slobbered onto her sweater yesterday evening as I was trying to escape this Tower of the Damned. "AH HA HA HA HA HA," her compatriot responded, emitting a belly laugh that was clearly manufactured for her benefit.

Who laughs at this shit? WHY would anyone feel the need to make a joke about "making margin"? Seriously, the topic (let alone the process) is so boring in its actual state that even trying to think of it outside the workplace leads me to near-suicide.

Worse still is the elevator cellular telephone user. "Yeah, yeah... no, yeah, tell Mindy I'll be there to pick up Kylie at 6:30 - I'm going to pilates now," the emaciated slot job foams into her cellular device.

How is this acceptable? Does the entire elevator need to know that this stupid bitch actually named her kid Kylie? Do we care that she is going to pilates? Why can't she wait until she is OFF THE ELEVATOR to make that call? It will only be about another 30 seconds until we're on the ground floor... it's not that big a sacrifice!

The. Worst. Though. Is the standard "weather" conversation. Nothing gets my blood boiling faster than stupid shits who just HAVE to be talking or they feel as if they're not being useful. "Well, it's gonna be a scorcher today," they babble, or "Can you believe it's winter?"

I always like to follow up the comments about what a mild winter we're having with something along the lines of, "Yeah, wait and see what it's like in ten years when we're spending winter either underwater or DEAD thanks to our thorough inaction in the face of global warming."

Yes, I have actually said that to people on the elevator. As the doors opened, I pushed my way through the dumbfounded crowd, snickering to myself with glee, knowing that I had ruined their weekends.

The lesson is this - if you're trapped in a small, overcrowded contraption, don't talk. Just don't. Especially if I'm in it with you, because you WILL pay.

Monday, January 14, 2008

The headlines read, "These are the worst of times." I do believe it's true.

Hope y'all know how to snorkle:

WASHINGTON - Climatic changes appear to be destabilizing vast ice sheets of western Antarctica that had previously seemed relatively protected from global warming, researchers reported yesterday, raising the prospect of faster sea-level rise than current estimates.

Each and every day brings us some new horror. I love being alive.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

For a glimpse at the apocalypse...

Click here.

Fat people around the world must be shuffling for joy!

Heft up them thighs and gets you into your mini-van - Wendy's gots a new burger!

Friday, January 11, 2008

Klippy the Klown Kumz To Towne

Reader response to Klippy the Klown's last guest column was so overwhelmingly - no, aggressively - positive that Marky Mae Brown has relinquished control of Expressions on this glorious Friday so that Klippy can impart some whimsical tale of joy that is sure to warm your cockles until they burst, gushing forth rivulets of happiness that do cause permanent stains, so be careful.

So without further delay, here's Klippy! Our friendly clown has pulled this deee-liteful little number out of his sack to share with all y'all up in here.


Twyla and the Golden Eggs

Once upon a time in the magical meadow there lived a chicken named Twyla.

Now, Twyla had a special talent: she could lay golden eggs! No one knew of this talent yet, though, because Twyla, in her ignorance, had thought that if the other chickens found out what her eggs looked like she would be ostracized from her community. She buried all those golden eggs out behind Farmer Mike's chicken coop in the mud by the rain pipe.

PhotobucketTwyla usually woke up before Mr. Rooster so she could bury those eggs before any of her hen friends could see them, but for some reason, she overslept today. Before she knew it, Farmer Mike's clammy hands were fishing around under her feathers looking for eggs to sell at the market.

"What the heck?" came the frantic cry as Twyla attempted to focus through her morning vision. She zoomed in on something shining in the morning sun: an EGG!

She panicked. She, and all the other chickens in her coop, were staring at the most vibrant gold egg anyone had ever seen! Farmer Mike, unable to react in any other way, started to jump up and down. Then, after the initial excitement wore off, he kissed Twyla gingerly on her beak and exclaimed, "You and me, Twyla, we're gonna be rich!" before running out of that coop.

All aflutter, the other chickens asked Twyla how she had laid those eggs. "I've been trying to do that for years," exclaimed Marietta Hen, the oldest and wisest hen of all the hens in the coop.

"I don't know; it just happens," replied Twyla, finally relaxed, noting that the chickens, instead of harassing her for her eggs, were actually jealous.

PhotobucketFor the next few weeks, Farmer Mike pampered that chicken and gave her all the love he had in his heart. He fed her special treats, shined her beak and even gave her a fluffy pillow to sleep on! She was being treated like a queen. Not one to let a sudden popularity burst go to her head, Twyla maintained composure and went through her daily routines as if nothing exciting were happening.

But, indeed, something exciting was happening! Farmer Mike was busy filling out the necessary paperwork to exhibit Twyla at the State Fair. "We'll win a blue ribbon for sure," Farmer Mike muttered to himself as he signed his name to the last paper in the stack.

For good measure, Farmer Mike called the local newspaper and told them that they should be at the State Fair: he had a surprise for them that would change the history of chicken farming!

PhotobucketAs the day approached, Farmer Mike coached Twyla. He trained with that chicken all day long, telling her how to sit with dignity, how to react when people were gathered around her, and, most importantly, how to keep her egg-laying tactics a SECRET from the other hens at the competition. "All we need is some other golden egg-laying hen to start in," he cautioned. "Then it's all over for you, Twyla."

That night, Farmer Mike dreamed of a satellite dish installed on top of his brand new double wide. He could watch anything!

He got up that morning and fixed himself his customary breakfast: five strips of bacon, three eggs and two cups of coffee. He gulped the food down distractedly and headed out to the chicken coop, sure that today would be HIS day.

When he opened up that coop, however, all he found was his dog Buster, who had broken into the coop earlier in the morning. Buster's face was covered with feathers and gore and Twyla and the other chickens were nowhere to be found.


© 2008 bft-cfc ent incorporated. No portion may be used without permission froum thee author.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

She's dead. Wrapped in plastic.

Laura Palmer didn't know it, but in relating her hopelessness to her friend Donna Hayward, she was, in fact, predicting the future of mankind.

"And the angels wouldn't help you, because they've all gone away."

What she was referring to, of course, was the new VH1 television program, Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant. The angels have gone away and left us with ... this.

I had a hard morning. I had to go to the Driver's License Express branch of the New York State DMV on 34th Street in Manhattan.

Now, anyone who's been there knows that you have to put up with a spectrum of human filth in this place, not to mention the "workers" who try as hard as humanly possible not to acknowledge your presence as they begrudgingly process your paperwork.

After dealing with this "express office" for nearly two hours, I escaped, exposed only briefly to the start of what must have turned into a monumental tantrum thrown by an unattractive baby.

I walked down the street, attempting to perform some emergency pranayama in order to regain a level of sanity.

That's when I saw the sign slapped way up high on a building on the northeast corner of 34th Street and Eighth Avenue. Proudly advertising VH1's new "reality series," it announced the further descent into television idiocy Laura Palmer had predicted way back in the early 90s.

Dumbfounded, and wanting to hit something or someone REALLY HARD, I tried to get to the subway before I did something that would get me arrested.

VH1 must go out of its way to reach new lows in television depravity. They must have a think tank that locks itself away for months, guzzling coffee until the wee hours of the morn every single night, deranging their brains through lack of natural light and sleep.

Then, eventually emerging with a sloppily-crafted PowerPoint presentation, the team of "reality television experts" meets with the executives at VH1, which must, in fact, be a group of blind retards, and imparts a list of potential shows they've come up with:

1. Pearl Racers - A Night In Edie McClurg's Panties
2. Name That Lesion - The Britney Spears Experience
3. Urkel Gets Laid ... Finally
4. Roll of Love - Mating Season for Meat Loaf
5. My Aames Is True - Salvation Willie Aames Style

"No, no... none of those will do! We must have something even stupider, even more insulting to human intelligence!" the executives cry, and then the think tank unleashes its secret weapon.

photo from VH1

Last season, we got to see Scott Baio struggle to decide whether he was ready to commit to Renee, his long-time girlfriend. Then he discovered that she was pregnant.

This season, Scott tries to come to terms with all the changes going on in his life. And with an image like the one above, it looks like this season will be a good one too. Be sure to tune in for the season premiere on Sunday, January 13 @ 10pm EST.

Applause. VH1's reputation as a purveyor of inane crap is SAVED! And we are the ones who have to suffer for it!

Seriously - WHY would anyone give a fuck that Scott Baio's girlfriend is pregnant?

Wait... who gives a fuck about Scott Baio?

A) He's a has-been.
B) He was and always will be a shitty actor - did you see him trying to "act" in Arrested Development? Painful. That's what it was - misery embodied.
C) Zapped! - that's all I have to say.

The sad thing is that even though most people do not give a fuck about Scott Baio or even remember why he was famous to begin with, drooling, zombie-eyed Americans will watch this program anyway, getting wrapped up in the drama of - what a unique situation - having to deal with impending parenthood.

Fuck Scott Baio. Fuck VH1. And especially fuck whoever came up with, funded, greenlighted, and sponsored this enormous cum bubble of a television program.

Y'all should be ashamed of yourselves.

Monday, January 7, 2008

Boys, don't drink that coffee!

Enough already with the fast-foodization of coffee bars, for Christ's sake.

Starbucks started it with its chain coffee houses, allowing the intellectually challenged to feel as if they were being creative. While sipping espresso in a pre-fab location, reading a book or ostentatiously typing away at their laptops, humorless, self-important douchebags idled away their days and hoped that onlookers would assume they were "artists." And they still do.

However - I doubt very highly, for example, that Allen Ginsberg wrote "Howl" in an international chain specializing in bullshit coffee concoctions. Posturing in a coffee house is not going to make you an international sensation - but it WILL make you look like a fool.

Schmucks still flock to these kiosks, purchasing syrupy, foaming, calorie-soaked elixirs and feeling superior simply because they are, in fact, drinking roasted beans mixed with boiled water. For starters, y'all - you're supporting a CHAIN. It's just like going to Burger King. And secondly, Starbucks coffee tastes like licking a dirty butthole. And we all know what THAT'S like.

I won't go into how Starbucks is duping the stupid hoardes of America into getting fatter than they already are ("Ooh, it's coffee! That doesn't have any calories!" bloated sows say, comforting themselves as they order a venti caramel macchiato) because that is not the point of this particular diatribe - nor, in fact, is Starbucks. That purveyor of shitty coffee is just the catalyst that instigated this particular rant.

So, Starbucks took over the world of coffee and dipshits flocked to it, thinking they were getting quality when in fact they were getting crap. "Charbucks," we used to call it in my day. I think they have a new name for it now.

Then, along came Dunkin' Donuts.

Fatasses rejoiced - now they could get "good coffee" and a dozen glazed donuts at the same place! Dunkin' Donuts coffee replaced Starbucks coffee at meetings and luncheons and functions. Coffee Coolattas replaced frappuccinos as fatasses' calorie-soaked beverage of choice.

And Dunkin' Donuts opened franchises EVERYWHERE. You can barely walk down any street without seeing those revolting pink and orange awnings beckoning you to come in and gorge yourself on completely nutrition-free, sugar-laden snacks. Starbucks finally had competition.

And now who's joining the struggle to have the world's crappiest coffee? Guess.

No, it's not Peet's.

It's McDonald's.

Yes, McDonald's. These stupid shits are opening "coffee bars" in 14,000 stores across the U.S. "incorporating," according to Reuters, "theatrics similar to Starbucks’ counters, displaying espresso machines and having baristas prepare drinks."

I don't know about you, but when I think McDonald's, I think "quality coffee." I think, "You know what? I would really love a latte." I think, "Nothing goes better with a Double Filet O' Fish than a double espresso."

Actually, what I REALLY think of when McDonald's comes to mind is the obesification of America's children because their parents are too lazy or inept to cook decent food, and those styrofoam containers that will litter landfills and our streets for the rest of history (imagine future generations finding that enormous Mc D.L.T. container, complete with two sections in order to 'keep the lettuce and tomato fresh'? They're going to think, and rightfully so, that we were a bunch of IDIOTS).

McDonald's should stick to raping the planet through its cattle farming and leave the raping of the rainforests for coffee bean agriculture to Starbuck's and Dunkin' Donuts, already the proven coffee consumption brainwashers.

And all y'all, instead of frequenting these pitstops of coffee laziness, do everyone a favor. Find a locally-owned coffee zone that offers piping hot beverages most likely of superior quality along with the knowledge that you are a) helping defeat cunty fast food chains and b) not at risk of carrying a pink and orange cup.

Or make it at home, even.

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Une autre raison pourquoi David Lynch est mon héro.

When you ride on the subway or sit in a restaurant or anywhere else, there are ALWAYS multiple goons staring vacantly at their cellular devices, perhaps drooling onto their tackily trendy clothing. Who knows what they're doing other than making themselves look like asses, but David Lynch, Super Genius, has this little nugget of joy to say to these bandwagon-hopping schmegeggies:

He's right. I translated two (2) Kenneth Anger films to quicktime so I could put them on my iPod (just as a novelty, mind you), and what did I end up watching? Little tiny, barely recognizable slices of pomposity that CLEARLY were meant to be seen on the big screen. And I haven't gone back since.

It's silly to watch those tiny little screens unless you are trapped next to a Jesus Freak in an elevator for hours and hours or stuck on a cross-continental flight. Your eyesight will suffer from the strain.

Thanks to Tara S. for the clip.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

Lieutenant Dan, Ice Cream!

WHY do I continue to find egregious errors in major news sources? Don't they have editors?

I am sick of this mass destruction of the English language. If news editors are letting this shit slip by, presumably because they are in fact idiots, then just think what the rest of the country must be doing to our native tongue.

Please read the following, but be careful - if you're anything like me, this particular error may throw you into an uncontrollable rage that will likely end up in incarceration for strangling the next person with whom you come into contact.

From msnbc, "Nine health foods that aren't":

Fruit smoothies; 600 calories, 120 grams of sugar

Drink this instead: 100% fruit smoothie; 350 calories, 75 grams of sugar

Many fruit smoothies contain added sugars and high fructose corn syrup, which means they're more milkshake than smoothie. The key here really is in the name: A 100% fruit smoothie made with plain yogurt instead of ice cream or sherbert will contain nearly half the calories and significantly less sugar, plus it will provide all of the vitamin and antioxidant capacity that a smoothie is supposed to have.

SHERBERT. What the FUCK is wrong with these people. SHERBERT is NOT a dessert. SHERBERT is an example of rampant, unbridled stupidity.

The word is SHERBET. It is pronounced SHUR-BIT. NOT SHUR-BURT. It never has been pronouced that way, it never will be pronounced that way. People who say "sherbert" are displaying a strain of stupidity so vile and contemptible that they are worthy of nothing less than complete and utter annihilation.

sher·bet [shur-bit]

1. a frozen fruit-flavored mixture, similar to an ice, but with milk, egg white, or gelatin added.
2. British. a drink made of sweetened fruit juice diluted with water and ice.
3. a frozen fruit or vegetable purée, served either between courses to cleanse the palate or as a dessert.

Further evidence: our dear Paula Deen says and spells it correctly. End of discussion.

If you insist on saying SHERBERT, you are marking yourself an idiot and I will do everything in my power to make sure you suffer and suffer mightily for your nincompoopery.

The English language is NOT yours to fuck with. If you can't master it, then you should just die.

(For further assistance in learning how to keep from butchering our language, please read AND memorize the following resource - Most Often Mispronounced English Words.)

* Image of The Cravery supplied by Amy Struck.

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

I've suffered the tortures of the damned, sir. The tortures of the damned.

It's now January 1, 2008. I had a divine evening with my friends watching Murray Hill and his gaggle of perverts ushering in the new year as only they can. Tits, ass, off-color jokes, burlesque, and a little social commentary kept my mood light, fluffy, and yes, even gay.

And then we left.

Drunkards in their tacky Times Square regalia were stumbling around much like Helen Keller would in an unfamiliar environment. Feeling for anything that would steady their alcohol-soaked muscles, if even for a moment, these dipshits looked like rejects from Night of the Living Dead marching ever onward into their booze-induced stupors.

Rivulets of urine streamed from half-conscious toads propping themselves up against buildings. Tribal calls of "Wooh!" arose at well-timed intervals, giving off an almost primal urgency to the ululaters' stupidity.

These are the reasons I generally lock myself inside on New Year's Eve and do not leave my apartment until I am sure that all revelers are either dead, passed out or wishing they hadn't had that last cocktail. It's a stupid holiday and yet another excuse for loudmouths of the "frat boy" mentality to go out and get blind drunk, enhancing all traits that make them undesirable to begin with.

I said goodbye to two of my friends and accompanied another to the train. We rode together, for the most part in peace, until I saw two lesbians leaping up and scampering to the other side of the train. I didn't realize what had happened until I was getting ready to disembark - I then saw a very large, colorful pool of vomit caking the floor.

I escorted my friend from the C train to the G, where he said his goodbyes and prepared himself for a trip to Williamsburg.

After traversing what was a literal mine field of vomit covering the sidewalks from the G-train entrance on Fulton Street to my apartment; a den of posturing morons at the local thug bar; two drunken twats screaming into their cellular telephones; and ultimately a drunk party in which an idiot was performing a tragic karaoke version of "Hey Jude," holding the microphone too close, making the noise even more unpleasant as her onlookers cheered her on; I have come to this conclusion - with very few exceptions, I hate people.

The hip hop blaring up the street from my apartment as I type this serves as further reminder that we need to be exterminated. It really is the only solution to what I see as a failed species.