ScorchedHotTub

I'm Back, Bitches.

2007-10-23T15:30:00.000-05:00

Thanks to the prodding of a woman I've never met who lives half a world away, via Facebook no less, (and partially because I needed an outlet for my abject opinions that remain generally unconveyed to those in my inner circle as well as a good source for sketch material) I have decided to throw my hat into the ring of blog-dom once more.

The other day, I wrote and almost posted, for the first time in foreva, a mondo-rant about Ellen DeGeneres' degenerate behavior with regard to her dog issues. I stopped when I realized that I didn't want to only write a pseudo-angry blog anymore. No, friend, my goal this time around will be to write essays. I fancy myself a lay-person's David Foster Wallace. For those not in the know, David Foster Wallace is simply the smartest man alive. He is an uber-nerd to the nth degree who, like me, doesn't mind getting inside a piece of writing and just messin' around. He adheres remarkably to the literary non-fiction humor device of using a lot of big words and complex sentences and then dropping a phrase on the reader like "tough titty." If you followed the above link, you'll notice that the keywords section for his book references someone named Dick Filth. An intellect after my own heart. His desultory use of footnotes in most everything he writes is sublime and perfect for anyone with ADHD just mild enough to allow them to sit and read a book.

Join me, won't you, as I endeavor to write magazine quality pieces where there once were only weird jokes about Ron Popeil (albeit, some pretty good ones). This isn't the beginning, but a prelude to the new beginning. A toast to Jody. A toast to Admiral Cook (Captain Cook?). And a toast to the self-indulgence that is, blog-dom.

I remain, your loyal idiot.

The NFL Is Retarded

2006-11-19T20:35:00.001-05:00

Testaverde Means Green Head
The NFL is retarded for a lot of reasons. The first reason being their reliance on an outdated, 16-game "schedule" to determine who advances to the "playoffs", with the winner of this tournament being crowned the NFL "champion" for the period of one year, or until the next "Super Bowl". Everyone knows this is a load of hogwash. At the beginning of every season, why don't they just give the Vince Lombardi trophy to the Giants? Boom. Super Bowl Champions in perpetuity. Here ya are, there ya go and how's your sister.

But the dumbest thing the NFL has done in a while, aside from making it against the law to breathe on quarterbacks, is preclude me from entering their Super Bowl ad competition by making it nearly impossible for me and about 90% of the country to enter. When they say in their ad that people will be given the chance to pitch them an idea for the greatest Super Bowl commercial of all time, they really mean it. Or meant it, as the case may be, because the contest is all but over. The last possible chance for me to pitch a commercial idea will be on December 9th in a state over 1,000 miles away. The NFL selected three locations, Giants Stadium in East Rutherford, NJ, Texas Stadium in Dallas, TX and Invesco Field in Denver, CO to hold the contest. Well, being that I live in NYC, my only opportunity to cash in on The Greatest Super Bowl Commercial Idea Of All Time was at Giants Stadium. Unfortunately, this event was held on the 17th and 18th of November. Three simple words go a long way in describing how I feel. "What" followed by "the" and finally "fuck".

This is the dumbest, most stupidest contest of all time. Willy Wonka is rolling over in his fictional grave it's so stupid. Has the NFL ever heard of the internet? Clearly not (a quick look at the layout of their website will confirm that they have, believe it or not, not heard of the internet). I mean, why couldn't people submit their ideas over the internet? Oh, wait, sorry gang, we just covered that.

The Greatest Commercial Mind Of All Time will just have to wait for some other ad contest to unleash The Greatest Super Bowl Commercial Idea Of All Time, because true to its title, the GSBCIOAT can sell anything. Even AIDS. Yeah, that's how good it is. So, yes, what I'm saying is...if there's a contest for the greatest AIDS commercial of all time, this same Super Bowl idea would still win. Don't ask me why the GSBCIOAT ends with the line, "It's positively AIDS-tastic." It just does and it works. You'd have to see it. Way to go, NFL. Missin' your big shot to be inexorably linked to AIDS.

I'd also like to point out that the NFL set a very low bar by stipulating that the potential commercial would be "the NFL's" greatest spot ever. NFL commercials suck, but for the shots of actual football they show. It's really not that hard to come up with a better commercial than Don Cheadle reading a monologue over punch-you-in-the-face music. Unless you hate Don Cheadle and are on shrooms, and so when you watch the commercial you imagine yourself punching Don Cheadle in the face. Then, it'd probably be pretty hard to make a commercial you'd judge to be better.

Blog Self-Critique:
I didn't think this would be any good and then it wasn't. One for one. But then again, this blog is mostly read by chicks and I think they'll dig it anyway, because chicks dig everything I do. Two for two. Somehow I knew I was lying when I typed that last sentence. Three for three. Alright!
Brian's rating: 4/11 Should I Have Even Bothered To Pick This Baby Back Up Agains

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Hello, My Babies

2006-11-13T03:04:00.000-05:00

A Funny Thing Happened...
Let's skip all the nonsense and get right to it. So, after returning home from getting soaked while watching the Giants take NFL-sized dumps all over the field, I found this waiting for me in my MySpace inbox:

Below, for your edification, is my response. It helps if you actually view Beau's profile. I apologize for the blurry text above, but I wanted to blow it up for you and that, pathetically, was the end result. Now, again, the response:

Dear Beau,
I've been sitting here for the past couple of minutes debating whether or not you are real or some sort of Zack Morrisian joke. At first, I was convinced your identitiy fell into the category of hipster irony that is so often seen from profiles of people named Kevin or Mr. Awesome, who choose pictures of John Basedow or the Ultimate Warrior to visually represent themselves. I've just now decided this isn't the case and you are in fact just a regular guy whose fondness for a well-fitting pair of khakis is equaled in intensity only by a disdain for t-shirts.

I have a few questions and I hope, since you've taken the effort to engage me in this discussion, that you'll take the time to indulge me. What do you find funny? Since homo-erotic dick jokes and in-poor-taste cancer jokes are out, what exactly is it that you laugh at? I'm sure we can find some sort of comedic common ground, since you claim to be a "funny" guy. Is your favorite comedian Caroline Rhea? Gallagher? Mitch Hedberg or Kevin James? What movies get you going? Cars? Shark Tale? I know, Shrek II, right? Also, this will no doubt come off as testy, but who made you the god of comedy? Lastly, how much do you bench (addendum to the last question - I hate to buy into stereotypes, but how teeny is your weenie?)?

I'm not really offended by your inability to find merit in what I'm doing. If there's anything I've learned it's that comedy is the most subjective of all the arts (Isn't that strange how it's concurrently completely subjective yet utterly objective? What people find funny varies widely based on personal tastes, yet for each individual the definition of comedy starkly rests on laughter. They either do or they don't. There's no middle ground). Sure, some people think the stuff I do is beyond bizarre (see synonyms at stupid, lame, retarded, dumb, gay and awful) and yes, some of those people are my best friends. They hate it and that's okay. But I invite you to take a look at my YouTube channel. Read comments from the many people who are in love with what I do - pay special attention to the women who want to have my children. There was a time I thought Will Ferrell was appreciated by everyone. I've come to learn that just as many people find him completely unfunny as those who piss their pants at what he does. I don't usually put stock in cliches beginning with "they say", but they say the true sign that you're achieving something worthwhile is that people come along who try to bring you down (I realize that's a total bastardization of whatever it is "they" actually say). So I thank you for writing. It let's me know I'm doing something right.

I'm not delusional. I know that I have a long, long way to go to achieve the level of success that I expect from myself (that being writing and producing my own sketch comedy show as well as blockbuster summer comedies, perhaps a book of essays - this is in no way an exaggeration). I'm sure you're familiar with the state I'm in right now because I know you must have felt the same way when getting into weightlifting - before you could make change for a dollar with your ass cheeks. I began writing a blog about a year ago to get a feel for how people would respond to the nonsense "etched amidst (sic) the vaults of my brain". The response was great. I randomly had literary agents contacting me within just a few short months and the love and adoration of a select few grew into the grudging respect of a few thousand. A major pitfall of mine over the last two years has been an utter lack of direction. I'd like to give myself outs and say that family and personal crises are partially to blame, however the burden of failure lies completely upon my unfettered shoulders. Part lazy and part Irish, it's a constant struggle to apply myself to my craft while evading the overwhelming and ever-present desire to drink until I shit my pants.

And don't get me wrong, I know that all I've done is produce some extremely low-budget YouTube videos, applied naively to be a writer on the David Letterman show and written about 60 pages worth of puerile blog fodder (I've also sang on-stage with Meatloaf and appeared in a national commercial, but I consider these to be career lowlights). And yes, I've only graced a stand-up stage a few times and now I'm developing a sketch comedy troupe so, sure, you could say I still have focus issues. But hey, I'm doing stuff. For the first time in my life, I really know what I want to do. I embrace the challenge of trying to make every human being that encounters my "comedic lung cancer" laugh, and if not that, at least be entertained. And yes, even people who are addicted to Creatine (High-five! I accept you!).

In closing I'd again like to thank you for giving me the opportunity to explain myself. I'd also like to congratulate you on your graduation from Harvard at the age of nineteen, although I'd like to think that if I were a little more motivated I could have done the same. And, finally forgive me, but I was wondering if I couldn't turn the question, with a little tweaking, back around onto you. What exactly is it that you aspire to in your obsession with UFOs and bodybuilding? I mean, the amount of time you must put into lifting weights/staring at the sky is truly mind-boggling. From my limited vantage point, it would seem we are equally wasting our Ivy League educations. Perhaps you and I are not that dissimilar. Maybe the only difference between us is that I know that, despite my shortcomings and flawed reliance on Lady Luck, people appreciate me...and you know you can rip a phone book in half. But then, I guess such a skill set is to be expected of someone who lists himself as his own hero (and maybe [your] parents). Thank God you don't want kids.

Hugs and Kisses,
Brian

Blog Self-Critique:
Hello, Loyal Thirty. Are you still there?
Brian's rating: 5.6/11 Opening Up Way Too Much About Himself On The Internets

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Video Killed The Blog-io Star

2006-09-14T11:08:00.000-05:00

lonelygirl15's Death Is Another Man's Chance
It took a fortnight, but here's a brand new video. It's about one young man coming to terms with terrible news. Think Philadelphia or Paul Reubens.

If it doesn't work for you, try this link.

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian wonders what his original blog fans think of this whole video thing he's been doing. He also wonders why YouTube features the dumbest shit in the world while he languishes in the aether - alternating between listless staring and uncontrollable sobbing. Of course, he was doing this anyway before the YouTube vids.
Brian's rating: 9.9/11 Jake and Gary Busey's.

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Hey!

2006-09-05T23:55:00.000-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack

Khaki ensemble: $70, Diapers for the baby: $20, Dying from a frightened stingray after a lifetime of fucking with crocodiles: Priceless.

Fragen Und Antworten
Jeanapolis Fragt...
What room in your apartment would you make state-of-the art?

Und Brian Sagt...
This is an easy one. I asked myself, "Where in my apartment do I do all the most important business?" Easy. The shitter. By far the most important room in any building, bathrooms maintain the illusion of civilization that us human beings just can't seem to shake.

If I had my druthers, and I often do, I would turn my bathroom into the most state-of-the-art bathroom in the history of dump. First thing I'd do? Chrome. Everywhere. I don't even know what chrome is made from or how state-of-the-art it is, but it's just kind of cool to say.

"Hey, wait'll you see my bathroom. It's chrome. Yeah. The whole fuckin' thing. Mmhmm. Chrome soap. Feel that toilet paper. That's chrome."

Once everything down to my contact lenses was made out of chrome, that's when the real upgrades would start to happen. I'm not sure they're in the biz, but my first phone call would be to the people at Laz-E-Boy to see if they make toilets. My toilet would be made of black, leather chrome. And I could recline. And you know that little handle they've got on the side? Yeah, well, pull it one way and I'm reclined. I'm nearly flat, shitting (an ultimate in luxury, the Sultan of Brunei actually shits upside down). Push it in the opposite direction? It flushes. Sort of pull it away and out from the seat? Bidet. Chrome bidet.

I've got a confession to make. Usually, when I've finished doing my business in the bathroom, whether it be a number one or a number two - or even a number fourteen (yeah, a real dooh-sie. That's when your shit actually drops YOU off at the pool. Drives the car and everything) - I don't wash up. In a world full of germs, I've never felt like mine are that nefarious. The world can deal with my germs cuz they're probably a lot less threatening than Osama or Saddam's germs. Talk about biological warfare. But I know it's polite to wash up and sometimes I feel bad, so here's what I do. My bathroom would be so state-0f-the-art that I'd have ninjas. On call all day and night. Ninjas with supersoakers. And they'd hide in my apartment until I make a trip to that bathroom. And then BAM, they'd spray me down everywhere. They'd throw throwing stars (shurikens) made of Caswell and Massey violet soap and use Q-tips encrusted with diamonds to clean my ears. Right before they went back to hiding, they'd incinerate any rogue pubic hair with lasers from their eye-sockets.

I hate getting out of a shower and stepping onto a wet, sloppy bathmat made so by the previous showerer. Hate it. So the floor would not be made of chrome. The floor would be made from equal parts Bounty paper towels and artificial turf. This combination would ensure dry conditions while allowing for a putting green to be installed in the bathroom. I'm not a big golfer but feel it's important to bring golf into anything labeled "state-of-the-art" as golfers, to me, seem the type most concerned with such things. Odds are if you're a golfer you own at least four things from Sharper Image, home of only the finest, most state-of-the-art useless shit. If you need a coffee maker that protects you from identity theft AND daily gives you a FunFact! about the St. Louis Rams...in chrome, Sharper Image is your spot.

I could probably answer this question for a while, so we'll move on.

caitlinanne Fragt...
how often do girls tell you that they love you?

Und Brian Sagt...
Rarely, if ever. My mother once told me she loved me but was quick to point out that it was Opposites Day. We laughed until I cried. Somehow, no matter how adorable I am, I remain very lonely. This is why I'm often found with my face painted up like a kitten, pawing at the mirror and humming Jeff Buckley tunes.

Blog Self-Critique:
A solid return from Labor Day weekend. This Labor Day found Brian in Maine. Brian would like to use this space to remind himself not to return to Maine until after the invention of instantaneous travel. Is that an oxymoron? And, yes, Brian knows that shit about Steve Irwin was mad harsh, but c'mon, only seventeen people have EVER died from stingrays.
Brian's rating: 5.7/11 State-Of-The-Art Commodes.

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Hot And Fresh Out Tha Kitchen!

2006-08-29T03:25:00.000-05:00

Bosom Buddies Meets Wisteria Lane!
Made another short. Here's its shameless plug.

If that doesn't work, try the link.

Blog Self-Critique:
See it again, for the very first time.
Brian's rating: 7.9/11 Peter Scolaris!

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Are you a Hulk-A-Maniac?

2006-08-22T23:21:00.000-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack!

Hey, Pete Doherty. Drugs called and said they'd rather not be associated with you.

Fragen und Antworten (Question and Answer)[As Promised]
Iantabee asks...
Why do you think rollarskating [sic] (as sport or creative expression) has fallen out of fashion and do you think we can expect a resurgence any time soon?

Brian says...
I think the best place to look for your answer is at the source, founder of rollerskating and German, Edward J. Rollarskaten. He famously sponsored a contest in the mid-60s in which five golden skate-keys were packaged with his own brand of skates, Der Skaten. All the children of Europe bought rollerskates in hopes of finding a key and winning the prize, a $100 gift card at Red Lobster.

Brief Aside w/r/t Red Lobster and the 1960s

In December 1963, Red Lobster Deutschland had created a contest of its own called "Wie rot is deine Lobster?" (How red is your lobster?), which asked customers to provide photos of their nether regions dressed up as a lobster, with the prize for winning a $25 gift card at Sizzler. See, the head of PR at Red Lobster knew he was going to be fired for "some bullshit" (he was schtupping the CEO's wife, which, admittedly to many [CEO included] is far graver an offense than connoted by the phrase "some bullshit") and as revenge he developed the contest in secret with the hope of ruining Red Lobster's image. After a brief uproar, however, scandal inevitably led to sensation. In 1964, most parents were forbidding their teenage sons and daughters to be seen anywhere near a Red Lobster and we all know what happens when you tell a teenager or parapalegic they can't do something (they go out and achieve and in doing so, inspire!) Well, needless to say, by the summer of '65 Red Lobster was officially the coolest place a teenager could find himself.

The socio-cultural climate of Europe being what it was at the time, Rollarskaten's skate-key contest moved rollerskating from fad to fantastich overnight. Merchants couldn't keep them on the shelves. Public parks all over the world were redesigned to accomodate the craze (Christo has long credited this near instant alteration of public space as the seedling for his life's work). In 1976, rollerskating (both dance and sprint) became an Olympic sport. The popularity of rollerskating remained strong through the 1980s. Who can forget those pictures of a rugged, virile Ronald Reagan chopping wood, resplendent in cowboy hat and Chicago Quad Rollers? Sadly, it was another US president who would bring the Age of Skate to an end. Eager to win votes away from hip upstart, Bill Clinton, President George Bush sought to attract the youth of America to his '92 campaign. But, what was sure to be a powerful photo-op turned ugly when, while touring the factory of Phantom Rollerblades, Bush upchucked his ill-advised Taco Bell lunch straight into a size 11 Derby Special. Powerful photo-op indeed! Rollerskating never recovered.

Sadly, Iantabee, I don't think rollerskating will ever make a comeback. Now that Dean Kamen has created the SegWay, rollerskating is for pussies.

No children would pose for this photo out of shame. They hired an illustrator who was given only one direction; "Draw a kid rollerskater". Look! He couldn't help but draw a total pussy!

Okay, this kid is flanked by two black dudes (the ultimate in cool!) and he STILL looks like a huge pussy!

Do you want to be a pussy, Iantabee? I didn't think so.

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian had fun with this and he really thinks it shows. If you are the parent of the chubby Asian boy above, sorry Brian called your kid a pussy. (But, c'mon). In truth, Brian grew up enjoying the heck out a good skate at the Florham Park Roller Rink (Though he was once made to sit a song out by the "referee" for simultaneously jumping and skating. In Brian's defense, the song being played at the time was House of Pain's Jump Around. Remember that? Those fuckin' referees? "Hey, if you don't, ya know, skate around in a circle, in the same direction everyone else is going, I'm gonna blow this whistle. And, then, who'll be Mr. Cool Guy, then?"). Life was good. Technology was improving. Rollerblades were rad. His high school years were spent playing a fair amount of rollerhockey at something called Yode Arena. This was during breaks from romancin' the high school ladies in his bedroom, or as Brian liked to call it, "Chode Arena".

Brian's rating: 6.8/11 Triple Zings!

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Paris Hilton Nude Sex Blond Naked Tape Video Oral Nightvision

2006-08-21T23:49:00.001-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack!

"Check out my new album. It's called I Triple Dog Dare You To Be A Bigger Whore."

Ask Brian AnYtHiNg!
So, a female fan (read, doomed innocent) made the mistake of contacting me through MySpace today. It took zero time to make her my fantasy girlfriend of the day. And by that I don't mean anything gross. She just became the girl I thought of anytime I felt like getting jealous and irrational. I though about her all day.

She happened to also ask me a very random question. In the process of answering I realized there's nothing I enjoy more in this world than answering random questions. That's the truth. I love many things:

tacos, bourbon, reese's pieces, the Mexican War, gaycancer.com

But there is apparently - or at least not after today - nothing I heart more than random Q&A. I say all of that to say this. Please write me with your random questions and I will answer them. Much like what happened today with my new MySpace chum (4 life!):

Kathy's Question:
How do you feel about capes?

Brian's Answer:
Capes are important because without them, people like Superman and Batman would just be weird guys in tights. Also, judges wear capes. So I guess what I'm saying is capes are important for the added sense of legitimacy they bring to everything a cape-wearer does.

A good example of this is how I always wear a cape when I park outside my ex-girlfriend's house.

Blog Self Critique:
Brian's done nothing for a week straight. Still, he thought his off the cuff joke in reply to the MySpace girl was pretty clever, spur of the moment shit. What'd you think? Just regular, plain old shit, huh?
Brian's rating: 2.444444449/11 Should Would Couldas.

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Punchline: Tom Hanks' Forgotten Opus

2006-08-16T13:41:00.002-05:00

Random Celebrity Photo Caption Attack!

"So then I said, 'Well, if I'm cheese, white women are mice!'"

Genesis (Was Not A Very Good Band)
So, I did my first set of stand-up this Sunday at Mo Pitkins in the East Village. It went really well. If really well means having seven of your friends and ten weirdos in stitches. Actually, I have no idea how it went, but for what my friends (who were probably lying to make me feel better about recently being rejected by a girl with no arms) said after the performance:

"Way to go," said Greg.

"Hilarious," said Joe.

"I would have liked to have seen more nudity...and young boys," said Incorrigible Father Patrick.

To be honest, the whole thing was kind of like when Will Ferrell debates Jimmy Carville in Old School. I sort of came off the stage wondering what had just happened. And maybe I blacked out a little. But that's just cuz I was insanely drunk.

Anywho, here's one of my bits from the performance. It may not be pure comedy gold, but it's at least pure comedy myrrh.

Aforementioned Stand-Up Comedy Routine
I’ve been having a lot of trouble lately with how gay I’ve become. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Ya know, I think there’s a little Christopher or Patrick in all of us. But there comes a point in every metrosexual’s life, usually en route to a hassle free hand job on the Upper West Side, when he thinks, wait a minute, what the fuck team am I playing for here? It’s really an issue of my percentages were getting too high.

See, I used to quote my gayness at 20%. I have a flair for aesthetics that just won’t quit. Given a dust ruffle I will complete a room. But then I started noticing things that forced me to bump it up to like 36% gay. I started complimenting women on their pants. Ya know, referring to things, other than girls, as being cute. “Oh my God, that is such a cute bag. Where did you get it?” Things like this were creeping out of my mouth, while maybe a few other things were creeping in, if ya know what I’m sayin’. So, partially out of denial and partially to help all the metrosexuals out there, I’ve started thinking of gayness in terms of milkfat.

Whereas out of 100%, I was once 36% gay. In the jolly old land of milkfat, I am 1% gay. Back when I was 20% percent? Yeah, skim gay. Whole gay, 2% gay, there are many colors in the gay milk rainbow.

And people come up to me and they say, "Hey, Brian, how do I know what kind of milk I should be drinking?" It’s very simple.

If you own a lufa. Skim gay.

If you’ve misplaced numerous lufas up your ass. Whole gay.

If your preferred choice of bathing suit is a banana hammock. Skim gay.

If you refer to your asshole as The Banana Hammock. Whole gay.

If your idea of a fun night out is a couple appletinis and some making out, with a girl. Skim gay.

If your idea of a fun night is a couple appletinis and anal sex in the bathroom of an Arby’s with a she-male named Glen, ya know what, that’s not even whole gay. That’s just weird.

Ya know, if you’re doing stuff like shaving another man’s balls and then sprinkling the shavings on a salad with a little homemade creamy Italian, I can’t help you. That’s some heavy cream. And everyone knows, heavy cream is gross.

Blog Self Critique:
Goodnight!
Brian's rating: 5.6/11 Someone told me this week I'd never make it to elevens!

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Spray It On Your Meat Bat

2006-08-11T00:58:00.000-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack!

"Stinks worse than A-Rod."

Blog Self-Critique:
Creating this caption was like getting a hit off Armando Benitez in the bottom of the 9th. For everyone who doesn't understand, Armando Benitez sucks. Brian did a run through of his first stand-up set with his roommate tonight. On a scale of 1-10 with 10 being the most chuckles ever heard in the history of giggles, he scored a 2. Brian is excited to know that he can only get better at stand-up.
Brian's rating: 2/11 Everybody Take It Easy, Longer Stuff Is Comings

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White Lines!

2006-08-09T22:45:00.000-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack!

"So, in alcohol rehab, how many lines of coke can I do a day? Nanu, nanu."

Blog Self-Critique:
Hollywood. Da da da da da da da, Hollywood! Cocaine is solely responsible for that get-up. Brian has always disliked Robin Williams. He is not really funny so much as he is fleetingly uncanny. People like him for the same reason they like dogs who can hula-hoop or blind-folded knife throwers or David Blaine. His ability to spew stream of consciousness out of his head is uncanny, but rarely side-splitting. Is Brian funnier than Robin Williams? Probably not. Is Brian an alcoholic? Probably not. Does Brian realize that no one agrees with him and everyone loves Robin Williams and he's lost a lot of respect points and people are firing off angry letters and attempting to internet boo him? Probably.
Brian's rating: 2/11 Coming Off Like a Bitter Douches!

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Plugging Holes in the Iraq Exit Strategy

2006-08-09T00:09:00.000-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack!

Capable of "entertaining" up to 5 troops at a time!

Blog Self-Critique:
Something to look at.
Brian's rating: 1/11 Making Videos About Retards Takes Time Away From The Blogs!

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It's All Grieco To Me

2006-08-07T00:33:00.000-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack

In the top ten of over 350 accredited death pools!

Have you ever gotten home from hanging out with someone and that same person has already sent you an email? Maybe they want to further discuss the deteriorating situation in the Middle East. Maybe they forgot to tell you they gave you g-herps. Whatever the occasion, it needs be known that this possibly innoucuous gesture can often come off as somewhat neurotic and insane. It's a lot like a hot-dog burp in that way. Suprisingly pleasant or awkward and uncomfortable, depending on the situation.

Hot-Dog Burp Flow Chart

In which two lists are provided, one indicating those times during which a hot-dog burp is suprisingly pleasant and those when it is both awkward and uncomfortable.

Surprisingly pleasant:
You've not eaten for the past six hours after tying one on at a Mets game. The hot-dog you pounded with your first beer is long forgotten, a faded memory in what has now become a drunken morass of stained clothing and inappropriately Sharpie'd faces. You awaken from your stupor aching for tasty drunk food when your body sends you a present, no questions asked. Curled up as you are in the fetal position on the Broadway-Lafayette subway platform, a meal of what is essentially an unrefined hot-dog flavored fart hits just the right spot.

It's your wedding day. The jitters are uncontrollable. You can't think, you can't breathe and you certainly can't eat. You haven't been able to get anything down all morning. As you stand face to face with the woman you love, the future mother of your children, a hot, steamy hot-dog burp rises up from your esophagus like a phoenix from the ashes. You blow it directly into her eyes. She doesn't even flinch. Damn straight. You've got yourself a winner.

It's seventh grade. Sarah Martin's birthday party. Spin the bottle. You're finally going to french. Life couldn't be better until it's your turn to spin and the bottle lands on Two Ton Tina. Shit. She beams from ear to ear as the two of you make your way to the closet. Lucky for you, the overactive stomach acid that will plague you in adulthood is pumping ferociously from the stress. Just before lip-lock your gastro-esophageal sphincter parts like the Red Sea, wafting Oscar Meyer's ball sweat about the face of the predator. Crisis averted.

Blog Self-Critique:
This blog started with nothing but the notion of Richard Grieco. Thirty-five minutes later, Brian found himself desperate to hit the sack and only one-part through a promised two-part Hot-Dog Burp Flow Chart. Since the Hot-Dog Burp Flow Chart was totally unexpected (Brian's original thought was definitely to write something about emailing and texting and the stalkerish tendencies such technology encourages) and novel enough of an idea, in Brian's estimation, Brian has decided that he can leave the Flow Chart, not necessarily unfinished, but rather to the wondrous and vivid imaginations of his hundreds of thousands of fans the world over. Really, he just wanted to have something ready for Monday, but also now really wants to go to bed, where he plans on inducing a dream involving the Harlem Globetrotters, a submarine sandwich, the chubby guy from 21 Jump Street and the theme song from the Transformers movie (The Touch).
Blog rating: 7.8/11 If Looks Could Kills

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On Confidence and Women

2006-08-01T20:13:00.000-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack!

I'm cuckoo for Jew-Jew Puffs!

On Confidence and Women
In human society the most common form of sexual relationship exists between a man and a woman. Society long ago developed a prescription for this dynamic, placing the man in the seat of power. Over time, man’s greater physical strength and overweening need for penetration permanently ensconced him in the dominant role (see exceptions at Joan of Arc and Erin Brockovich). This is to say, in the Asian community that is life, the man forever retains the keys to the tricked out Civic. But with such frightening horsepower comes a terrible responsibility. Man is fated to navigate that most treacherous of seas, The Sea of Confidence.

So how do some men do it? How do fratastic dudes score butt-loads of ‘tang? Well, the answer is not like this:

Poindexter Writing a Fantasy Dialogue on His Blog, aNiMe(+)ReNaIsSaNcEfAiR(=)AwEzOmE4LIFE.blogspot.com

Poindexter J. Pussyfoot: Uhm, pardon me, Miranda?
Miranda: Yes, Squire?
PJP: Would you be so kind as to bequeath unto me the sole proprietorship of your loins this muggy eve?
Miranda: Why, to do any less would be an affront to Christendom and the sanctity of our divinely ordained kingdom. As Dane Cook might say, ‘Gimme the butter, baby”.

(end scene)

Fratastic dudes make fantasy a reality because they are like the Bill Gates’ of confidence. They have so much confidence, all they can think to do is give it away in every direction.

Brief Section Listing Synonyms for “Fratastic Dudes”

Feel free to substitute any of these terms below:

Muscle-Pumpin’ Guidos
Euro Douches
Latin Assholes
Boner Chiefs

You see, the gods, in their cruelty, created a complex economy devoted solely to sexual conquest. For its currency, they chose confidence. True insiders in Affluence will tell you that money does not equal happiness. But in the bars and dormitories of this great nation are nightly testaments to the fact that confidence equals sex.

(This parenthetical sentence represents all of the hilarious and witty insights, proving that confidence is the currency of sex, that I am too lame to write.)

Of course, with anything we humans are programmed to do, there are notable perversions. Some women eschew confident men altogether, preferring instead insipidly neurotic Woody Allen types.

William Hung has no doubt seen more puss than a feline AIDS researcher.
Women, by nature, are nurturers and when they see a problem, i.e. insane dorkiness bordering on retardation, they can’t help but try and take care of it. The nurture theory can be extended further. For those of you who weren’t bad asses in high school and wondered why the hot, cool, smart chicks hung out with total bad asses, well, it was because:

1) the bad asses had assloads of confidence.

2) their insane bad-assness bordered on retardation.

3) girls are really fuckin’ stupid.

So, the lessen learned is chicks are into fratastic dudes, insane dorks and total bad asses. Their into all different kinds of dudes, really. So, if you want to get a girl, just be yourself.

(cue Doogie Howser theme music)

Blog Self-Critique:
Spotty, but a total upgrade from the crap Brian's been putting up lately. A return to the form exhibited in the spring. What's been wrong? Why has Brian been struggling to string together base, outrageously offensive material (read: dick jokes)? Maybe it has something to do with his confidence. Did some woman come along and take it away when he wasn't looking? He's read that a woman might steal a man’s confidence through infidelity, or by cutting off his penis in the middle of the night.
Brian's rating: 6.9/11 Snoochie Boochies!

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El Eliminador

2006-07-29T10:41:00.000-05:00

BoobTube
This video is about young love and how complicated things can get.

Blog Self Critique:
Cop-out, marketing blog.
Brian's rating: 6.7/11 Akward Dinner Conversations.

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Short and Sweet: The True Story of Small Wonder!

2006-07-28T15:17:00.001-05:00

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack

"What does he mean I look 'healthy'?"

Ron Popeil FACTS!

Ron is perfecting a line of re-married and successful ex-wives he's calling "The BallShrinker 6000".

Cornered in an alley, Ron once sliced a man so thinly he had only one side.

Popeil's fraternity nickname? The Flavor Injector.

Popeil once commissioned a children's cartoon claiming that God was invented by him.

Racism was created by Popeil so that he might look better by comparison.

The United States government has made it impossible for the Iranian government to purchase a ShowTime Rotisserie.

I approve!

Blog Self-Critique:
A little something for the weekend. You may also notice that Brian has made it possible for you to give him money by adding a "Make a Donation" button. Why would you give Brian money? Because why wouldn't you give Brian money? He's a good guy. He's only ever killed one horse intentionally and that doesn't count cuz it was an assisted suicide.
Brian's rating: eh/11 Ron Popeil FACTS!

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Rolling Stones Original Album Title? Haiku You

2006-07-25T13:59:00.000-05:00

Random Though of the Day
If someone pointed out my flaws, I would think I was deaf for a little bit, because I wouldn't hear anything.

Lazy Tuesday
I'm suffering from a wicked pisser case of writer's block today so instead of a weak, random essay, I'm going to treat you all to some haikus. Eat it up.

Doorknob
Block of Limburger,
Thou hast ripped a juicy fart,
The cheese stands alone.

Boots
Frisbee playing cat,
Your routine lacks bitchin' tricks,
Go F yourself hard.

Scrappy Doo
Dog with yellow shoes,
Deeply your master mocks you,
Gnaw upon gonads.

Whips n' Things
Sado-Masochist,
Set down thy whip and thy chain,
Late for yoga class.

Always Tony
Oh, Tony Danza,
You are a third-string celeb,
Who's the boss now, bitch?

Secrets
What's up, childhood friend?
Fun and memories and smiles,
Hey, I killed your dog.

Beast
Beer drinker's light beer,
Tastes great and is less filling,
A cup of urine.

7th Grade Entendre
Lovely coconuts,
Drip thy white milk upon me,
That is what she said.

Correspondence
Dear College Roommate,
I banged your girl while you slept,
Signed, Total Asshole.

Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack
No Picture Available.

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian isn't as cocky as some have called him. The random thought of the day is just a joke, not a true reflection of his self-image. Brian has so many flaws, there's no way he could ever throw up enough to fix them all. Blogspot was being a jerk about uploading photos so the Random Celeb Photo Caption Attack, a new and exciting ScorchedHotTub feature, will have to wait until tomorrow.
Brian's rating: 8.7/11 Raging Alcoholics!

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12 Inches of Snow - Best Album Ever?

2006-07-21T10:07:00.000-05:00

Random Thought Of The Day
Just as every child in Africa grows up within thirty miles of drinkable water, every kid in the USA is lucky enough to grow up within thirty miles of a mall! If you live in Minnesota, your mall might even have a rollercoaster in it! If you live in Sudan, you might be dead!

A&U (Awkward and Uncomfortable)
I was talking with some friends (paid interns) today and the subject of who would be the best man at our weddings came up. I got to thinking that the best man is maybe the most awkward tradition (aside from a bris) of all time. Choosing favorites amongst friends is something we're supposed to do in our heads, not in front of everyone we know on the same day we look deeply into the eyes of the most beautiful girl we've ever met and commit to an eventual a divorce. Why do you think so many brothers end up being chosen as best men? They are the ultimate cop-out, diffusing the potential for destroyed friendships and hurt feelings. I love my brother, but he isn't my best friend. And really, I only tell him I love him just in case I ever need money/an alibi for murder (I've only killed one time anyone knows about)(I was gonna follow that last bit up with a lame joke about stand-up comedy, but it wouldn't have been very cool - kind of like this sentence).

This gentleman is accepting the award for Best Asian Man.
Just how much weight should be assigned to best manhood? We're marrying our best woman, but right beside us is our best man. These are essentially the two most important people in our lives. Are we saying that if things had been a little different - maybe if mom listened to a lot of Air Supply or Frankie Goes to Hollywood during pregnancy, we'd be exchanging vows with Stephen instead of Stephanie? By designating someone as your best man, are you telling them you love them? In what way? Or is best manhood just a device for men, with our cliched inability to reach out emotionally, to express simple, platonic affection? How would such affection be received in a frat house?

INT. SIGMA EPSILON HOUSE - LATE AFTERNOON

ENGAGED FRAT DUDE

Steve, ya know, I'm getting married in June
and, well, I'd love it if you'd be my best man.

STEVE
Fag.

GUY THEY CALL MOOSE
(mid-kegstand)
Quit bein' a homo.

ENGAGED FRAT DUDE
Shit. I need a ritalin.

(end Frat Scene)

Blog Self Critique:
Brian might be going to hell for his random thought of the day. He's blowing up on YouTube so you might want to pretend like you know him now. This post was originally going to be all about The Mall at Short Hills until Brian found himself so struck with writer's block that he was reverting to Chuck Norris jokes. This post was also going to begin a Ron Popeil FACTS! renaissance, but his friend came over so he doesn't want to come up with any. YOU come up with some!
Brian's rating: 6.7/11 Woulda Shoulda Couldas!

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Bryant Park Summer Boobies

2006-07-19T14:04:00.000-05:00

Fred Astaire? More like Fred Don't Care.
This week my homies (smelly, unshaven white men) and I went to Bryant Park for the HBO Bryant Park Summer Film Festival. Every Monday night throughout the summer, Bryant Park's invisible midget population erects a giant movie screen and hordes of people show up to picnic and take in a flick.

The only problem with the whole thing is that the line-up of movies this summer looks like the schedule for ABC's Late Night Movie. Half of them I've never heard of and most of them I have no interest in watching. There seems to be a complete disconnect between the organizers of this event and reality/public opinion. They should rename it the Bryant Park Summer Film Shitstorm. Or the "In Hell You're Forced To Decide Between Watching HGTV OnDemand or The Line Up Of Movies For the Bryant Park" Summer Film Festival.

Probably the only two movies I'd be willing to see are the Manchurian Candidate and Rocky. And I've already seen them. Monday's movie was Bandwagon with Fred Astaire. It made sense for about twenty minutes and then it didn't. The audience would clap after every dance number apparently under the assumption that Fred Astaire was 1) still alive 2) in Bryant Park and 3) gave a shit what drunk twenty-somethings thought about his performance.

So, while I can't recommend Bryant Park's Monday movies for the movie part, I can recommend it for the solid, pre-movie hang. Get there at 5pm (show starts at 9pm, but people are crazy and it starts to fill up by 6pm) with copious amounts of booze and food. Cute, young women apparently love watching terrible movies outdoors. There are babes everywhere. And for you non-lesbians, there's dudes, too. So, before the movie starts you get a good four hours of scopage and flirting.

I wasn't sure if you could drink in Bryant Park and was on the lookout for undercover po-po. There were these two sketchy dudes canvasing the lawn. One of them was holding a folded up Daily News (only cops and perverts read the Daily News) and wearing cheesey running shoes. He was obviously a cop and I told my friends as much, creeping them out and harshin' everyone's mellow. Herself weirded out, a cute, stoned girl sitting near us went to ask the faux Bryant Park cops (different from the suspected undercover fuzz, these gents only job is to monitor the "emergency lane") what the sketchy dudes were all about. The BPcops told her they were just perverts. And in keeping with this story, when the sketchy dude/undercover cop saw the BPcop and the girl looking at him, he booked it. But, the whole sitch just didn't make sense. Sometime pervert that I am, I recognized the ample opportunity to sit down and covertly take in the babe-age. Why would these guys take the effort to awkwardly walk through a thousand people and their blankets WITHOUT SUNGLASSES in order to get their fix of T&A?

HotTub Guide to Perversion

Any self-respecting pervert knows his first order of business is to purchase mirrored sunglasses and wear them everywhere including the subway. This way, you can stare at the toned calf of a girl who's more than likely 17 without fear of suspicion. Pervert out.

(end Guide to Perversion)

No, these were definitely cops. And since no one busted us for drinking, my friends (loose term) now hate me. Go and drink. No one cares.

Marketing Yourelf: A Guide To You In The 21st Century
YouTube is the new black. I'm trying to tap into the millions of people who watch inane video blogs from 16-year-old girls by parodying these numb nuts. Here's one of our latest attempts. You should really check out the video we parodied first (very lame):

Then check out our video (very funny):

Blog Self Critique:
So-so. Not really that funny, but who can be on all the time (besides Robin Williams)? If you like Brian, please go to YouTube and rate all his videos and generally share him with the world. Pretend you are a priest and Brian's YouTube videos are communion.

Brian's rating: 6.7/11 Radical Perverts!

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Mike Adamle: Greatest American Hero

2006-07-16T18:55:00.000-05:00

It's Time For The 'Liminator
When I grow up, which will be never, and have more money than God, who doesn't exist, I will install an exact replica of The Eliminator from American Gladiators in my backyard.

Twice as bloody as Balderdash!
Friends, family and business associates will be forced to compete against one another, with the consequence that those who fail to finish within a certain time will be erased from my life. The qualifying time will differ for different people, taking into account age, disability, gender and hair color. For instance, a 45-year-old woman with one arm and red hair will be given approximately 4 days to complete The Eliminator. All other redheads will be given ten seconds as that's all they deserve.

I will train two monkeys and randomly clothe them in shirts saying either "YES!" or "NO!" Any important financial decisions will be based on which monkey is victorious in The Eliminator. If I am ever lucky enough to be a contestant on the show "Deal or No Deal", the monkeys and Eliminator are coming with me.

Other monkeys, to which I will feed only donuts (cruellers and bear claws, mostly), will be given shirts with slogans such as "OUTLOOK GOOD" and "TRY AGAIN LATER". When I am unsure whether or not a girl likes me, the donut monkeys will guide me to the correct course of action based upon their performance in The Eliminator. After spending so much money on The Eliminator and the monkeys and the donut eating monkeys it will be reassuring to know that I've at least saved on Magic Eight Balls.

This donut monkey has a good chance of being called up from Triple A.
If I ever get cancer, I will challenge it to an Eliminator grudge match. I will always beat cancer.

Since I'll be a super big celebrity that other celebs want to ill with, if Star Jones ever comes over I will feed her to The Eliminator as punishment for her crimes against pavement.

And now, for those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about:

Blog Self-Critique:
Great random blog, Brian. Thanks, Brian. A lot is going to start happening with Brian and YouTube. So, remember to check back at his YouTube channel often. Did he mention his YouTube channel tastes like strawberry milkshakes? And smells like unicorn musk?
Brian's rating: 9.9/11 Perfect Work Distractions!

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Ankles: Man's Achilles Heel

2006-07-11T14:21:00.000-05:00

Shitaly
So. Italy won the World Cup. Fuck you, Italy.

Zidane demonstrates the proper course of action when encountering an Italian person.
Have I mentioned that I hate Italian people? I despise them. And for the first time in years I can really sink my teeth into hating this bunch. Political correctness being the real bitch that it is, ever since the 90s it’s been really tough to hate people. I posit that it is impossible today to hate large segments of the population and still be considered a pillar of the community (weren’t the 1950s really the best decade for hate?). This is why hating Italians is so great because Italians are generally white, and I’m white, so no one can accuse me of being racist for hating them.

Brief Aside w/r/t Racism

Though I’ve never been directly accused of being racist, I’ve had a lot of close calls, like that time down by the river when the white baby and the black baby were trapped in that car and I only had time to save one of them. I saved the black baby AND the white baby, but then everyone accused me of being a homophobe because I thought it would be gay if I changed their diapers. It was terrible. I can’t think of much worse aside from naked Star Jones.

(end Brief Aside)

You see, at the end of the day, hating a group of people has nothing to do with their skin color and everything to do with how they act. And Italians act like that one kid from every elementary school. You know, that third grade spaz-douche with a mysterious and overweening sense of entitlement. (Lowell Jacobson, I’m looking at you on this one). Protesting everything, wagging their finger at everything, diving at everything. Since they’re so practiced at incredulity, it’s a wonder you didn’t see more Italians cast in the Benny Hill Show.

Boooii-oi-oi-oi-oi-oinnnnnng!
And here’s the thing about diving, that favorite Italian pastime at the heart of my ire. Beyond the obvious emasculation that accompanies flailing and fake crying and the complete lack of respect for the game and a total absence of pride or a sense of honor – beyond all that – diving is a miserable way to wage war.

And isn’t that what all sport is? Simulated warfare? A battle to determine a victor? There’s no logic, under the warfare metaphor, to diving. If on a real battlefield, say in the jungles of North Vietnam, a soldier were to pretend to be shot and flop around like a fish, looking all around yelling at everyone to notice, Charlie would logically come along and shoot him in the fucking face. Of course, if the dive works and you are awarded a penalty kick or the other team is issued a card, you have won some advantage for your side. But at this point, you have ceased to play the game. Your tactics have become abstract to the point of absurdity. You are, to continue the metaphor, fighting a war with acting, with stagecraft. Only George W. Bush can do that.

An Italian soccer player practices for next season.
I’ve played soccer my whole life and have never once given thought to diving. When I’m playing the game, I want to beat you with my skill, athleticism and sharp kicks to the groin when no one’s watching, not with some cheap, cowardly act.

Of course, I can’t play soccer for a while as a fat kid fell on my ankle.

This man travels the world with this baby, shattering the ankles of aspiring Caucasians.

Blog Self-Critique:
Overall, somewhat wishy and a tid bit washy. The hatred for Italians wasn't really well fleshed out. For instance, Brian has major problems with Italian backpacks (they have INSANE color schemes, rooted in the flourescent), but he lost points by failing to explore this (mainly because he couldn't find a picture). A fat kid really did fall on Brian's ankle while he was playing soccer in Prospect Park last Friday. He then spent 6.5 hours waiting in the ER at King's County Hospital. King's County Hospital is the worst hospital of all time. It should be called a flaming pile of shit instead of "hospital". Dr. Joseph Kozhimala (849562) should be fired along with receptionist Timothe Wilson for acute laziness and a generally poor disposition. Brian was given one crutch - on his way out. Nurses leading him to and from X-Rays walked ahead of him and then turned to look impatiently as he hopped down hundred foot hallways. Don't you motherfucking a-holes have a god damn wheel chair - or maybe another god damned fucking crutch? Did you get into nursing because you hated people? WTF? Brian hates you so much, King's County Shitspital. Special shout out to whoever attended Brian's party this past weekend. Especially those of his blog fans who attended. He knows it must have been all you wanted in life to meet him and you can finally die in peace, but please, continue to live, if only for his words.
Brian's rating: 7.8/11 Spaz-Douches!

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All I Know About Rob Lowe Is He Did Something Wrong In The 80s

2006-07-06T00:06:00.000-05:00

Slow Open
Someone told me I was obsessed with tattoos, so I'll have to blog about another permanent accessory:

Dancin' shoes.

Just In Case It's 1999
I'm having a party this weekend and I'm kind of worried. We just moved into this building and I don't want to upset the neighbors. A wise man once said, "In life you're guaranteed two things. Pain and neighbors." Whatever, I just made that up. Anyway, the couple who lives next door has a small child and we don't want to bother them. I don't think things will get like those bar scenes from St. Elmo's Fire (Am I wrong or is that the most insane bar ever depicted? It's so unrealistic. When's the last time you were in a bar full of over-actors? It just doesn't happen.), but I'd be lying if I told you I didn't expect vomit.

This is when I realize that wall thickness is really the only factor to be considered when apartment hunting in NYC. We have no idea how sound-absorbent our walls are or if our neighbors can here us yelling in Hindi (constantly), but such issues can absolutely make or break an apartment. I'd rather live in a hobbit's closet with soundproof walls than a sprawling loft with sheets of paper for doors. My friends live in an apartment where speaking just a hair above silence gets them a noise complaint. They are both musicians and the one who plays piano needs to practice with his headphones on. That makes sense. Problem solved, we all think. But, no. He gets noise complaints for the sound of his fingers hitting the keyboard that carries down his stand and through his floor to the apartment below. That's insane in the membrane. When we go out and head back to their apartment with "guests" (transvestites) we've met at the "bar" (Sip n' Save), I giggle with awkward delight as my friends shoosh everyone and ask them to remove their high heels. There's a real culture of fear and suppression. It's just like everyone's favorite after school movie, The Wave.

Strength through discipline, strength through community, strength through action!

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian is so amazed and elated that he found a web site that streams The Wave. This was one of the most powerful films of his youth. His first whiff of the intoxicating aroma of white power. Bruce Davison's finest work. If your 10th grade health teacher didn't make you already, watch the entire thing and be blown away.
Brian's rating: 7.1/11 Bee's Knees

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F' the Frankincense, I Want Me Some Myrrh

2006-07-04T12:42:00.000-05:00

Theme And Variation
Of course, if I were to get a tattoo it would stretch across my entire back. 'Nuff said.

There's only one real person in this photo. The other is a tattoo.
Naturally, showing off the tat would require me taking my shirt off...often. I'm not ashamed of my body, but I'm not proud of it, either. So, really tattoos are off-limits for me until I'm finally chokachied.

chokachied (choke-a-cheed) adj. 1. possessing abdominal muscles on par with those of David Chokachi, Bates College alumnus and Cody from Baywatch.
As in:
After using Chuck Norris' Total Gym, I've become much more chokachied.
This spring, Janet Jackson went from old Star Jones to straight up chokachied.
This is the summer I finally get chockachied.

I've been stating my desire to get chokachied for the past six years. But, that level of abdominal perfection seems pretty impossible to achieve. It's kind of like sobriety in that way.

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian really hopes ScorchedHotTub Lite is going over well. He also wonders why he's inside on the 4th of July until he remembers he's a loser who stayed in last night to wrap his computer monitor with Christmas lights (500% true). The saddest part? It's not even Christmas. The happiest part? Jesus died for our sins. So, ya know. Sin that shit up.
Brian's rating: 6.8/11 Two Stigmatas and a Microphone

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Craigslist Is My Homeboy

2006-06-29T23:24:00.000-05:00

Missed Connection
You: Every girl on every subway ever.
Me: Mid-twenties guy with curiously pronounced chest trying hard to pout his lips like James Dean but failing miserably and instead resembling Jamie Foxx's Wanda from In Living Color. Eyes red from crying crocodile tears of loneliness on my private boat, the S.S. Douche.

Tattoo You
So, I gave it some thought after the last post and decided what tattoo I would get if I was ever forced at gunpoint. My disdain for tattoos is equal in strength to the love Joanie had for Chachi, but sometimes it's fun to think about things we'll never do. For example, I think about becoming a success most every day. It's fun and it only hurts when I punch the wall in frustration.

Clay Aiken called. He wants his thinly veiled homosexuality back.
Anyway, back to the tattoo. On my left shoulder I would get the word 'TUDE (apostrophe included) written in a bold, caps locked font. Superimposed over the 'TUDE would be a red circle with a diagonal line, exactly like that seen on a "No Smoking" sign.

Take it from that zany, Spanish man on TV. Nothing will ever be the say agayn. Seriously.
This way anytime someone gave me any attitude all I'd have to do is rip off my shirt Hulk Hogan styles, turn my back to them, point over my shoulder with my right thumb and glare like a smug Tony Danza - thus indicating to the person that they are currently in the vicinity of a No 'Tude Zone.

But, I'll probably never get a tattoo anyways. See, as a white guy who came of age in the 90s, the only tattoo I'm allowed to get is a barbed wire around my bicep. I don't think I could handle the shame of having to explain to my kids how it was I ended up with something so stupid on that fateful night, or why one of their names is Cancun.

Blog Self-Critique:
Say it ain't so! Three posts in the span of one week. Holy Guacamole!
Brian's rating: 6.8/11 Big Gulps, huh?'s

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Pour Some Sugar On Me

2006-06-26T15:59:00.000-05:00

Do You Wanna Get Rocked?
Anyone who visits on a regular basis knows that this blog is nothing more than variations on the same theme. That theme being Def Leppard and how hard they rock. Which for people who've only ever heard Raffi albums is very, very hard - probably too hard. They push outward every edge, turning heavy metal on its ear and creating something so rocktasmic it can only be described as ponderous metal. Saturday's concert at Jones Beach was so off the chain it was considered missing after 48 hours and became the subject of a county wide search and rescue/postering campaign. Even though I was in the last row (sometimes I like to pretend like I'm not as big a deal as I am) I could still feel myself being cured of cancer and made a slightly better person by the waves of awesome washing over me. I have to add that during "Pour Some Sugar On Me" (the last song of the night - perfection) I produced a number of Domino Sugar packets from my cargo pocket and threw them high into the air just as the chorus hit. Let this serve as a shout out to the cute, young lady a few rows ahead of me, the only person who noticed. My stealing of those sugar packets from a the Primo Cappucino in Penn Station was totally validated when you turned around to find the source, locking eyes with me as I shouted, "Do it!" Know that you honored me when you tore the top off that mofo and poured less than an ounce of sugar in your girlfriend's hair. And no, I don't think you're a lesbian. Call me.

Baby Mama Drama
One cool thing the young mothers in Crown Heights do is get tattoos of their children's names. Usually in a spot that's extremely conspicuous. Not only is this a great leg up in landing that corporate job, it's also an excellent tool for teaching your child their name. And then, after they're done being three, it can stay on your arm for the rest of your life. So, that's pretty cool. Especially if your child takes up a shameful profession, like a porn star or attorney.

I don't really understand the tattoo of the child's name unless the mother is extremely forgetful. It makes more sense to me then to put the tattoo on the actual child. Place the burden on them as payback for consistently draining your checking account.

If I had a kid, I would absolutely get my baby a tattoo of his name. Across his entire back.

"What did I tell you? No snack before dinner, Woman Abducting Fire Breathing Dragon."

Blog Self-Critique:
Short and sweet, like love between a midget and Strawberry Shortcake.
Brian's rating: 8.7/11 Exorbitant Ratings!

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B-Bop Aloo Bop

2006-06-23T11:30:00.000-05:00

Crackers Is Where It's At
Renting a new apartment is like starting out with a girl. Beginning much like my failed relationships, I saw my new apartment and was instantly enamored. I had to be with it and nothing would stop me. I fantasized about the scoop of ice cream I would spill on the couch and how me and the apartment would laugh and laugh at our misfortune. "No worries, Apartment," I'd say, "I'll grab the FeBreze." I looked forward to dressing my apartment in all sorts of flashy, sexy fabrics and feeling good and cocksure as I watched my friends drool over it, knowing they could never have it. And then I moved in and like any relationship it was new an uncomfortable at first. Then, once we got a paper towel holder and some sponges, I started to warm up to the place. She's feeling more and more like home, now. But as anyone who's been in a shitty relationship before knows, eventually as comfortable as I feel here, I know it's a matter of time before I can't even stand to look at the place, much less sleep inside it.

Triple Comparison (Only Partially Redundant)
He-Man

looks a lot like my roommate (aptly referred to as 70s Porno He-Man)...

who bears an eerie resemblance to...

...wait for it...

Hollywood Squares own, Bruce Vilanch.

My other car is a Good Humor truck.

Ron Popeil FACTS!
This fact was sent in a long time ago by someone named French Clements. I don't know if this is a real name or something chosen to mask identity. It sounds to me like a brand of shoe had Roberto Clemente lived long enough to team up with Lacoste on a line of athletic apparel. Anyway, here's his fact, fascinating in its sincerity and potential actuality.

Ron Popeil hit on my mom at La Guardia. He asked her where she was going (San Jose) and then talked about how the weather must have been very nice in San Jose then. He looked like bacon.

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian is on hold with U-Haul attempting to dispute a charge. Being an adult is worse than being one of Star Jones' ankles.
Brian's rating: 6.7/11 Back With A Vengeances

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Wade Robson Is A Man.

2006-06-14T19:27:00.000-05:00

Random Thought of the Day
Everyday, billions of conversations are had. Not a single one matters. The most depressing aspect of this is that God listens to every one of these conversations and I guess it just bums me out to realize he’s such a gossip whore.

Runner Up Random Thought of the Day
In space, no one can hear you scream. They also can’t see you walking around your apartment in the nude, listening to “Like a Prayer”.

Meat and Weak Potatos
The boy is crabby. A multitude of negative life events in combination with continuous existence from without a box has y.t.’s panties in a bunch. Add to this the bunched up toilet paper protruding from each nostril as I deal with my first cold of the year and you’ve got a recipe for disaster enough to feed an army’s worth of appetites for destruction. That last sentence was a stretch, but it's just one in a post rife with indulgences.

Colds blow, but not in the good way. Mentally, they make you feel like you are on painkillers without, of course, any of the painkilling. In this way, having a cold is like attempting to get workman's compensation by hitting yourself over the head with a hammer, but eventually losing out on your compensation after your bitch ex-girlfriend rats on your scheme. So, what with the mild brain damage you’re loopy, which is a bonus, but you’re without the financial means to numb your pain with narcotics. So, a cold is just like failed workmen’s comp. If that didn’t make sense, ya know, screw you and all because I have a cold.

And my new hood (Crown Heights) doesn’t help fight colds. Apparently the inhabitants of the West Indies are a very cold friendly people.

Brief Elaborate Theory

Maybe all the Carribean people love colds as an F you to Christopher Columbus. Like, they greeted him merrily and all he did was bring them centuries of death, disease and destruction so in the ultimate payback they decided to steadily build up a super-immunity to the common cold and not carry any products to fight colds in their stores. Thereby sending to Columbus, through the echos of history, a particularly smarting slap on the wrist.

(end Brief Elaborate Theory)

I’ve been to five different places so far asking for Emergen-C, my go-to cold eradicator. For my West Indian readers, Emergen-C is a small packet of flavored powder containing somewhere around 6 times the daily amount of vitamin C humans need or in layman’s terms, enough vitamin C to kill a small, Greek boy. There’s even a coffee flavor (It’s the worst taste imaginable. Even worse than the taste of Hillary Clinton’s cold, bitter lips). The past five colds I’ve gotten have lasted no longer than 36 hours after I completely put the kibosh on them with massive overdoses of Emergen-C. If I could inhale past all the snot, I’d so be doing lines of this stuff off of a stripper’s sweaty ass (the stripper doesn’t even have to be hot, or female, so long as I get my fix). Bottom line, not having Emergen-C when you have a cold is like not having love in a marriage. Without it, you're doomed (though many would claim "doomed" to be relative w/r/t matrimony, preferring to include the term in a family of similar ill-fated words expressing varying degrees of damnation - much like the Mild to Nuclear spiciness scale employed by most chicken wing establishments). So, just a note to all non-Caribbean readers: If you move to Brooklyn and plan on getting colds during your tenure, stock up on Emergen-C instead of leaving it behind in your old apartment. Also, bring an entire Deli section from a local bodega, as the Associated Supermarket on Nostrand Avenue doesn’t even fucking have one. I had to buy pre-packed, Oscar Meyer cold-cuts today and holy shit you have no idea how insane that makes me. Unless you know that sandwiches are my life. As religiously right as I am, it's hard to deny global warming might be for real when it’s Bodegas 1, Supermarkets 0. I mean, that's some topsy-turvy shit.

Self-Indulgence Zone
So, in the offseason (the offseason being the last month or so that I’ve consistently promised to be more consistent, with the only constant being my lack of consistency) I had a crisis of purpose. What am I trying to accomplish? What are my aspirations? Where are my pants? If my dreams of pant-wearing fame are to be realized, do I want my reputation based on easy, crude humor? Should my mother be made to suffer the slings and arrows of my ribaldry? Am I okay with a fan base of overgrown frat boys and the victimized women who love them? The overwhelming answer from within was a resounding “yes'm”.

My mind is mired in what Freud would label the scatological period of my development. I'd like to be able to decide, after careful reflection, that this is just a phase, that my inclination has not always been to lead with poop and dick jokes – that Picasso had his blue period and, goddamnit, why can’t I have my brown? But that word, phase, certainly is tricky. Can 25 years really be considered a phase? When does a phase tip-toe through the grey area and become mantra? Oh, well. Like faux Adidas with their dead give-away fourth stripe, I guess I’m just destined to be always slightly off – in the same way Tom Cruise is destined to always be sort of not human or Keith Richards is always slightly dead.

Blog-Self Critique:
Enough about Brian. He has a cold. He suffered for this art.
Brian's rating: 4.5/11 Tunisian Chokes!

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Boy Scouts Hate Flip Flops

2006-06-06T02:29:00.000-05:00

Transcending Gender Fashion Section
The nocturnal buzz of air conditioners and their daily sporadic splattering of suspicious fluids on unsuspecting noses and arms means germophobes are salty and summer is here. Ah, summer. Anticipated by many for its beach weather, cookouts, stagnant pools of mosquito breathing water and ungodly pit stains, it is the season most associated with every hippies favorite mode of transportation, the flip-flop.

Brief Address to Idiots

There are those of you who take it upon yourselves to defy convention in the most illogical of ways by wearing the flip-flop out of doors during the winter months, i.e. sorority sisters walking to class and other affiliated assholes. I ask you, Theta chicks, who is the intended audience for this moronic bit of street theater? Everyone knows your little piggies are freezing despite your uncanny ability to not once grimace noticeably. Quite appropriately, everyone hates you for this affront to common sense. And if you think I'm too fervent here, imagine someone wearing a sweater at high noon on a July day when the mercury is tickling the upper 90s. That's what you look like. An idiot. Your sense of decorum is completely off. You, your life - your utter existence - is wrong.

(end BA to I)

Flip-flops really piss me off in the same way Marty McFly would become apoplectic at the mention of his being yellow. The main thing wrong with flip-flops is their decided overexposure of humankind's ugliest appendage. If human physiology were the movie Twins, the foot would be Danny Devito - stubby, obnoxious and very painful to the eye (but perfectly cast in Matilda [By corollary, I guess the hand is Arnold Schwarzenegger. Powerful, practical. Austrian]). Feet were never really intended to see the light of day. Duh, why do you think they invented shoes? I'm pretty sure Calvinists believed that feet were just really hands predestined for hell. How odd, then, that porn stars, having already bought first class tickets to perdition, have the good manners to always keep their shoes on, even during the most unholy of sexual acts (Although, quite rudely, their shoes are often on the couch).
The flip-flop is neither easy nor breezy to wear, as its proponents would have you believe, walking as they do with relaxed pace and easy grins. In the same way that you can carry on a conversation while driving, yet still micromanage the ever changing demands of the road, flip-flop walking requires a constant physio-mental attention. The big and index toes must engage in slightly abnormal movements to keep the thong between them. You can't just walk in flops as if you are wearing shoes or else you risk their falling off, with the unseemly result being direct flesh to dirty, NYC pavement contact. Of course, if the idea of this sort of near-hookworm experience unsettles you, you're probably not a flip-flop aficianado to start with. Most chronic flip-flop wearers have unconscionably dirty feet, evinced by something akin to a podiatric ring-around-the-collar spanning the length of the heel. I have a number of friends who upon arrival at my apartment, request use of my shower so as to exorcise the scum from betwixt their toes. God help those who never make this request.
I have a confession to make. I tried being a flip-flop guy last year. Perplexed by the recent entry into vogue of the mandal (man sandal), I was curious to see what all the hype was about. After tanning away their awkward, near-blinding whiteness, I still never felt quite right forcing my feet on the rest of the world. And that's saying a lot as I rate my own around an 8.6, a very high number by my clearly insane standards (I have unusually large big toes and my index and middle toes are partially webbed, but otherwise they have a very nice shape with the toes sporting an altogether breathtaking declination from big to pinky. And the pinky toes are in no way squashed, as is commonly the case). I found flip-flop wearing beneficial only in the sense that it's a good idea to hang your bathroom towel near an open window. There are no other perks to this lifestyle other than the occasional painfully scuffed toe or completely ripped off toenail.
And then of course there's the single most important reason not to wear flip-flops.

Be Prepared
Flip-flops do not prepare us for any type of athletic activity. By wearing a flip-flop you are saying, nay, trumpeting, your thorough disinterest in the pursuit of sport. While the reader may shrug this off as an overreaction on my part to a lifestyle choice (the wrong one, mind you) there are very real dangers associated with flip-flop use. Who knows what any day may bring? What if you are called upon to be athletic during a time of crisis? In the event of an earthquake, which would you rather be wearing, snug New Balance or aquamarine platform flops with a large daisy at the crux of the thong? My biggest fear while wearing flip flops (this is very true) is that I will be chased - some ruffian will approach me and demand my money or I will randomly run into the grandfather of one of my many illegitimate children and be forced to sprint away. Except it won't be a sprint or even anything remotely describable as sprightly, but more of a jerky, floppy mess. I've honestly caught myself planning escape routes from large buildings on flip-flop days because when hobbled by a dearth of ankle support, every second counts. If a building is going to fall on me, I'll be damned if flip-flopped feet are going to be what's sticking out from under the rubble. In life, chase/act of god preparedness is key and the flip-flop affords nothing of the sort.

Unexpected Treat
I wrote a short and made it with some friends. We're pretty happy about it. It's called Hangin'. The theory was that I should wait until I was linked on Gawker again and then post the video, but as I have no way of forcibly making that happen and am itching to share my oeuvre with the Loyal Thirty and now wider audience of Super Fans, I deign to submit this short for your approval. You won't believe me when I say that I never intended the overpowering homoeroticism. I might also suggest that you wait for the whole thing to load before playing it, as that would better allow for the audio to sync with the video. And you probably shouldn't watch it at work, but you totally should. And also. Rock.

Blog Self-Critique:
Hey, everybody. Brian's really excited to be back after an exhausting move. It took 14 hours. Brian is tired and has no problem making this the worst self-critique of all time. Brian also decided it might be interesting to sub a lot of big words for the dick jokes. He's not sure what the reaction will be, but one thing he definitely knows....He only touched the surface w/r/t flip-flops. If you liked that video, spread it like a Rutgers student spreads herpes. Also, Brian is aware of the major font issues in this post.
Brian's rating: 8.1/11 Prince Albert Friendship Chains

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Cameo Said It Best...

2006-05-23T21:30:00.000-05:00

Random Thought of The Day
I've always really wanted to eat cat food. My desire is driven largely by its smell. It smells like tasty tunafish. Unfortunately, it looks like midget barf. I feel eating cat food is good preparation for the abject destitution that comes with senior citizenship. Maybe some of you didn't know this, but a lot of old people eat cat food to survive because it costs something like 60 cents a can. When every dime is spent on medicine and new hips and your glaucoma is so bad that your doctor deems it too danerous to operate a stove for even Top Ramen, Fancy Feast is your last option. Isn't it sad that old people spend all their money attempting to stay alive just long enough to force down another helping of cat food (I'm now wondering if there isn't a Cat Food Lobby in Washington that fights to protect the rights of online, Canadian pharmacies)? I mean, I don't think it's sad. Cat food eating sounds like a perk of old age, actually. I just said it was sad for you weirdos out there who don't think cat food smells like ambrosia and sex.

Women's Fashion Section
The women of New York City seem to have forgotten the first lesson of beauty. The more uncomfortable a girl looks, the more attractive she is to men.

The shoes of an unfulfilled woman.
Before a woman leaves her apartment each morning, it is essential that she make one last evaluation of her overall appearance, asking questions like "Could these heels be higher?", "Is this bustier tight enough?" and "How necessary is this rape whistle?" In doing so, a woman does for men what their sports cars cannot, perform their own maintenance. If women play their cards right they could even take the lead as man's most coveted sex object ahead of the computer. But alas, women play poker about as well as men shop for shoes.

And it's precisely in the shoe department that the women of this fair city have been dropping the ball. These new-fangled ballerina flats are driving me b-a-n-a-n-a-s. Now, yes women, I understand. Flats weren't in style for the longest time and now that they are you love wearing them because they are so much more comfortable than heels. But do I have to see them in every possible shade of pink, made from every possible material, from suede to tweed to corduroy to Fancy Feast can? I mean, these things are more ubiquitous than the Pump.

If you listen closely, you can actually hear the Pump calling the shoelaces a pussy.
And some of you are getting it all wrong. Every self-respecting pseudo-homo knows that flats are most appropriate with a tight jean. It's currently fashionable to wear them with a flowing, billowy or "bo-ho" type skirt and this, for now, is acceptable. However, it is not appropriate under any circumstances to wear flats with a pencil skirt. If you must avoid a heel while wearing a form fitting skirt (first, know you're letting the computers win), opt for a strappy sandal. But please, for the sake of questionably heterosexual guys like me, wear a heel. In the immortal words of TLC, do not go chasing waterfalls. Please, for the sake of properly accentuated trunks and funbags, stick to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to. Don't let Mischa Barton's incessant cuteness ruin my...our summer.

"What does flavor feel like?"

Blog Self-Critique:
To spare Brian's poor mother, he actually omitted that rape whistle joke. Until he left it in. They're just words. And she knows from listening to the Bee-Gees that words are all Brian has to take her breath away, through incredulous exasperation. Brian's MySpace profile is nearing 1,000 views. That makes him excited and he can't really figure out why. To honor this achievement (though he has no idea, maybe everyone else on MySpace has 40 jajillion views), he's changed his profile song to the best S Club 7 has to offer. S Club 4 Eva! Also, Brian has interesting thoughts on giant, hiptserish sunglasses, they're just not in this blog.
Brian's rating: 8.2/11 Mischa Barton Picture Quote Jokes!

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Masters Of The Universe

2006-05-15T22:19:00.000-05:00

Sexual Chocolate
Hey Super Fans,
How is everyone today? Feelin' good? Confident and good? I'm great. Totally great. I'm so smooth, I'm like chocolate. Chocolate Brian. I suggest you all refer to yourselves in the third person with the word "chocolate" placed before your name. It makes you sound smooth and street, like when Steve Urkel would all of the sudden become Stephan for an episode. My point is proven with a name like Ernie, a nerdy name that when preceded by "chocolate" becomes completely down.

Proving a Point (Arbitrarily)

Ex. 1:

Ernie: Hey, how's it goin'? Do you mind if we stop walking for a minute? I think I'm chafing.
Ex. 2:
Chocolate Ernie: Was happenin'? I'm Chocolate Ernie, baby. Chocolate Ernie gonna punch you in the taint and you gonna ask me to do it again. Awwwwww, yeah.

Chocolate Ernie means seriously smooth business.

(point proven)

Truth Behind Chocolate Ernie

The genesis of Chocolate Ernie came when playing a drinking game in my hometown on a break from college. All fathers are to some degree dorky in their children's eyes, but my friend's dad had always seemed particularly dorky. And his name was Ernie. For whatever reason (probably the same reason that I sing OMC's How Bizarre in my head all day and enjoy imagining babies with full beards) I decided that, in the racially turbulent 1960s, Ernie was a proto-wigger. Much the same way that I've always believed British childhoods are more loveless and stern than American childhoods, I feel like it was widely accepted as a very cool thing for white guys to act black in the '60s (nowadays, the wigger must overcome a fair amount of suspicion and prejudice outside of his exclusive, wigger coterie). So, I imagined my friends dad, Ernie, as talkin' a lot of jive and being one of those random white people you see in pictures of civil rights marches (How brave were civil rights marchers? I mean, c'mon. Amazing). Ya know, maybe he referred to his girlfriend as his "Old Lady" or some shit like that. He was so down with the brown that all his black friends started calling him Chocolate Ernie. And being cool with blacks made him real cool with the young, "with it" whites. By gaining the acceptance of both races, Chocolate Ernie was deserving of everyone's respect. My friends and I use the nickname to this day.

The Gentrifiers
Absolutely zero thanks to my fan base (except for that one comment girl who tried to help), I totally found an apartment. It's on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, about a ten minute walk east of the Brooklyn Museum, right near Prospect Park. The 3 train is outside my door and then it's onto Atlantic Ave. (a.k.a. the nexus of the universe) where I can transfer to almost every train the MTA has to offer (even the rare O train that takes you to O-Town where that punk Ashley is waiting for a beat down from the boys in Crazy Town). I'm pretty sure I got a lot of apartment for my money. Sure, there isn't that hot chicks room I wanted, but one of the doors in the hallway does open to a busted chicks room. It's just, like, the same thing as a hot chicks room, 'cept all the chicks in there are busted. And their busted toes are hanging over the edge of their high heeled shoes cuz their feet are too big and gnarly for'em. And the clothing is heavy on the leopard print. But, hey, it's kind of like having a hot chicks room that's just BYOB.

Going "no fee" all the way, I'm living proof that the broker system is a sham. This was only the second apartment I looked at and I'm pretty happy with it. If you want to rent an apartment in New York City and you don't feel like paying some idiot $2,000 for having a bigger rolodex than you, just call a property manager. They're like brokers that you don't have to pay. It's just like meeting a loose chick at a bar and having a one night stand. You get all the sexin' but none of the awkward money exchanging that comes with hiring a prostitute (some would correctly argue that buying the girl forty beers is the equivalent of the money exchange, but this is what humans do, we fool ourselves). And you can kiss them on the lips. The property manager, I mean.

Denny, my new roommate who looks like what He-Man would look like if he was a porn actor in the '70s, and I should absolutely start a band called The Gentrifiers.

"He-Man, meet 70s Porno He-Man."
Denny and I are moving into a low-income neighborhood. We're bringing our big, fat wallets (we don't really have much money, we just stuff our wallets with napkins from Subway to make it look like we do) and he's bringing plenty of AstroGlide. They say that true gentrification comes at the heels of gay people. Maybe Denny and I have some soul searching to do, because I'm pretty sure there've been no pioneering gays before us, blazing a trail of David Barton gyms and Starbuck's. So, we're either not adhering to the first axiom of real estate or we're both gay. I mean, look, we knew with a move like this there'd be certain adjustments we'd have to make.

All of our neighbors are black, which is fine because we're pretty cool racially. I think I've come up with a plan for Denny and I to fit in right off the bat. Crown Heights, meet Chocolate Denny and Chocolate Brian.

Ron Popeil FACTS!
And you thought the Ron Popeil facts were dead and gone. This is not true. Ron Popeil FACTS! are alive and well and living in Paris. This stellar fact was actually submitted by the cheerleader from Awesome 80s Prom.

Ron invented a machine to dehydrate his children when going on vacation to save space in the car. His second child, Danny Popeil, lost a pinky finger due to what is known as the "pineapple incident" during one of these vacations.

I approve!

Blog Self-Critique:
Chocolate Brian was going to write about how most of the people from his high school class seem to have remained friends with their high school chums, as opposed to branching off and finding some new group elsewhere (college). He came to this realization after spending a wonderful hour perusing the MySpace profiles of some of his high school's All-Stars. Chocolate Brian had never seen these profiles before and it got him thinking about the legacy he'd left behind, as well as the successes and failures he's experienced since. Chocolate Brian's determined to analyze exactly where he resides on the totem pole of Cougar graduates.
Chocolate Brian's rating: 7.6/11 Kennedy Fried Chickens

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Desperately Seeking Susan (Susan=Apartment)

2006-05-12T10:07:00.000-05:00

Dear New York City
I need a new apartment.

Don't get me wrong, living on the Lower East Side has been totally hip and radical. But, being this cool is tough. Body odor can only smell so good for so long. I'm beginning to feel the drain financially and spiritually. Hanging out at Pianos and hating every single person that I see has become exhausting.

Brief Aside w/r/t Hate

The scene at bars like Pianos or Welcome to the Johnson's or anywhere in the Alphabet Shitty/Douche Village/Lower East Douche holy trinity is much the same and very worthy of my hatred. It's a scene I like to call "I have a tattoo somewhere on my body, my jeans are inexplicably too tight regardless of gender, I don't care about you so much that I want you to care, my clothes are the kind of clothes no one wore in the 70s, but really I'm just trying to get laid to boost my confidence as I currently have none and haven't since middle school, so I come here and get drunk and listen to the Smiths because some appropriately marginalized authority told me they're really cool and where it's at, and I don't like Bad Brains, but if you don't know who they are you suck"-Town. For a crash course, and possibly some unfulfilling body odor sex, head to 7B this weekend. Why am I so bitter? I don't know. Go fuck yourself. I think it has something to do with the fact that I believe these people go to excessive lengths to clothe their unhappiness in, well, really stupid clothes.

(end Brief Aside w/r/t Hate)

When I first moved back into the city it was like going through puberty all over again. The world was new and exciting and seemingly more adult. I grew more hair, my voice changed and I was insatiably horny. I started wearing snap bracelets. Through a friend, I found an apartment for $865/month on Clinton Street. "This could not have been easier," I said to myself while breathing on an apple, shining it against my shirt, taking a meaty bite and then throwing the remaining fruit at a hipster's over-sized sunglasses. The neighborhood offered much. I quickly fell in love with San Loco, especially after one of the alterna-chicks behind the counter recognized me from my Reese's commercial (The only stranger to ever notice me from the commercial). To this day, the banner in my phone proudly reminds me of my favorite, shitty Mexican food joint. Niagra, my gay dance Mecca, was only blocks away as was Opaline, my truly gay dance Mecca. I had friends living downstairs who enjoyed insobriety as much as Sam Kinnison. Aside from my single bed, all was right with the world. (I have long felt ashamed of the single bed, especially when entertaining female guests. I was given a confidence boost/frightening visual by one young lady who told me she saw them all the time).

But life is like a box of chocolates; it's really exciting at first until you've become bitter and the only options left are cherry filled. The Lower East Douche has totally become a fat, cherry filled Hostess Fruit Pie.

Visual Metaphor for the Lower East Side
And if life is like a box of chocolates, than looking for an apartment in New York City is like trying to find the golden ticket in a septic tank. You know the great apartments are out there. There's just so much shit to wade through first.

Ad to the difficulty of finding a new apartment the fact that my roommate (my best bud, Denny) has lived in Argentina for the last year and won't be back until May 31st. We're two totally responsible dudes, but it just seems like a shady thing to say to a potential landlord.

Potential Landlord: Where's the other guy?
Nervous Me: South America, but I swear he exists. And his credit's good.

Further muddying the waters is our desire to go the "no fee" route. It doesn't seem impossible to go no fee, but it severely limits our options.

Brief Rant About Fees

Oh, hey landlords and brokers. What's up? So, in addition to me purging my checking account of all funds in order to put down first and last month's rent as well as a security deposit, you want me to actually pay you, like, $2000 dollars for the privilege of never being able to understand you over the phone and meeting you at extremely inconvenient times of day? No, totally. That makes a lot of sense. I mean, I'm not moving to Brooklyn to save money. I'm moving to Brooklyn to ride on elephants and toss rupees and hope to the hungry, thankful masses. Are you sure I can't pay you more money? Do you have need for any fingers or toes? Mine are overrated.

(end Brief Rant About Fees)

So, masses, here are my apartment requirements. Maybe one of you out there reading this is friends with a landlord. Or you have a direct line to Jesus. Pray for me.

Killer Brooklyn Apartment Requirements:
2BR with decent sized rooms (Bear in mind I currently live in Frodo's closet)
Prospect Heights or Park Slope
Near a subway (Duh, the G doesn't count)
Utilities included
NO FEE!
$1500 max
June 1st move-in

Killer Brooklyn Apartment Perks:
Huge-Normous
Backyard
Hot Chicks Room
Dogs with bees in their mouths and when they bark they shoot bees at you
Richard Marx is the Super

Now, I've been told that Park Slope is cost prohibitive. So, basically, Prospect Heights is the only option. But, that's cool because there's something about the name Prospect Heights that suggests limitless prospects, as if all my dreams can be achieved therein. How high are the prospects in Prospect Heights? Well, friend, as high as you will them to be.

I know nothing about Brooklyn other than there are more hipsters for me to hate and the beer is a dollar cheaper on average. I'm salivating.

Blog Self-Critique:
A potential return to form. Super Fans can absolutely help Brian and themselves by finding him an apartment. The quicker he gets settled, the quicker he can think of more things to write about on his way longer commute. Brian has never been late on rent and has perfect credit. He's also easy on the eyes. He dreams of grilling with you in his backyard. Help Brian make this the best summer Brooklyn has ever seen. Ever. In the history of summer.
Brian's rating: 7.3/11 Laundry in Buildings!

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Open Letter Acknowledging Lack of Awesome

2006-05-05T08:33:00.000-05:00

Dear Adoring Public,
It is with extreme displeasure and sadness that I write this note to you. It should never have come to this. My blog, your obsession, has wilted like every bachelor's first plant. Excuses are for the weak-willed, so, of course I have one. In the past two weeks (roughly), yours truly has gone from Self-Loathing Loser to World's Ultimate Party Boy. And it's felt good. Really good. Like eating freshly made Whoppers off of every Playmate ever, nude and stacked on top of one another. In a really high chair. (That is, the playmates are stacked on top of one another, not the Whoppers. Although the Jugheadishness of stacking the Whoppers appeals to me).

It finally caught up with me last night at the Rolling Stone 1000th Issue Party. I scored a last minute invite from an awesome friend (50,000 rp). I got to see my two idols, John Mellencamp and Paul Schaeffer. That's a lie. Mellencamp sucks. Schaeffer 4 Eva! Paul Schaeffer than brought out a really fat black man who wore a blinding suit made of blue sequins. He sat in a throne the whole time and had more than one woman towel his forehead dry. This guy kicked more ass than SeaBass. The Strokes finally came on and the best thing about them was their light show. It was white hot. Like my butt covered in honey.

But probably the best part of the night was this:

F you in the A, canker sore.

'Nuff said.

Many drinks later, I attempted to look like JC on the cross.

Blog Self Critique:
Totally late for work. More frequent posting to come.
Brian's rating: 2.5/11

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Choose Your Own Adventure

2006-05-01T21:46:00.000-05:00

What I Was Going to Write About
I just bit into a topic that was a little too much to chew for the most tired man in the universe. Basically, I decided it wouldn't be a bad idea to try to write comprehensively about the dynamic between men and women within society. Total desired time of writing for this project was 45 minutes. If I was brilliant enough to pull that off, well crap, my brain would have to be the size of Dick Cheney's hatred for Earth. And that's impossible. And 45 minutes doesn't even account for some wonderfully irreverent, pirated photographs with wildly hysterical captions . The finding and laying out of those photos could easily bump TBT (total blog time) up to an hour and a half. It seemed like a good idea at first just because I really wanted to hit a home run with this post. I wanted to go yard stylistically. I'm trying to figure out how I can get my computer to be struck by lightning, fashion a smaller computer out of this and then become the best blogger in the sport. But, I'm afraid of getting shot by Barbara Hershey.

What I'm Actually Writing About
The other day, I saw the homeless guy who hangs out in front of the Ray's Pizza on Houston and Ludlow doing a Sudoku. If you're from the area, you're more than familiar with him. He wears a puffy black jacket and is often asleep in a chair, a plastic container reading "TIPS" dangling from his neck, the failures of the social welfare system draped ponderously across his back. I've written on bums and their unexpected wit before and I wondered if his idling his hours away in this manner wasn't, much like his satirical request for tips, some type of long form comedy piece. I mean, shouldn't this guy be using the pen and paper in his hand to plot a comeback from poverty (similar to U2's comeback from the mid-90s) or at the very least to write relatives, pleading for money. Also, have you noticed how rare it is to see Sudokus in the hands of actual Asian people? It's kind of like how you never see Yankee gear being worn by actual baseball fans.

Blog Self-Critique:
This post was totally saved by that massive dig at Yankees fans. Brian's convinced that most wearers of the Yankee brand sport it solely as a fashion accessory. His theory was all but proven this past week when he had the privilege of being in Hoboken on Thursday, Friday and Sunday. In NYC, on the streets and in the subways, Mets gear seems just as ubiquitous as Yankees stuff. But when entering New Jersey, all Mets gear disappears and the presence of Yankees stuff seems only to increase. The winter is very similar to New Jersey in its affect on Mets paraphenilia and non-affect on Yankee stuff. Brian got an interesting civics lesson today when riding the F train. A crew consisting of two Hispanics, one African-American and a fat Asian kid stood in a circle, all of them absolutely refusing to use "nigger" less than every six words. The socio-culturo-historo-racial intricacies nearly made Brian's brain explode.
Brian's rating: 8.3/11 Slow Days At the Office

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Funky Tepid Medina

2006-04-27T14:05:00.000-05:00

Kurtis Blow
So, I feel like I've really been letting my readership down of late. Posts just haven't been flowing with the same diarrhetic frequency as they once did. There are many things to blame for this. Most notable? You guessed it. Frank Stallone.

Who can concentrate when they're thinking about this schoene punim?
Other reasons include the fact that this blog kicks more ass than Steve Perry and Bruce Springsteen fronting a band comprised of Jimi Hendrix, Keith Moon, Paul McCartney, Ray Charles, Charlie Parker and, you guessed it, Frank Stallone.

I'm on tambo.
Norm MacDonald jokes aside, I have received more than one query from people in the book industry who think my blog is, excuse me, Frank, what's the word?

Off the chain.
Right, off the chain. Thanks. So, now, in addition to trying to write a book, I'm also trying to take the Andy Samberg train to SNLTown. My friends and I are filming a short tomorrow and I've spent my free time this week organizing. And dreaming of Frank Stallone.

Nightmares don't exist in the world of Stallone.
Well, now I have to talk about something. I have a serious problem just writing. My plan for this post was a quick sentence or two followed by the script for the short I'm making. It was to be a total cop-out "Sorry, Super Friends, too busy to entertain you. But here, maybe this will tide you over" kind of a thing. Somehow that didn't happen and now I'm sitting here writing an explanation of why I am pressed for time and can't rock you out completely with monster truck force (And don't expect me to explain why the old Frank Stallone joke popped into my head. Tangents aren't hard to come by in here. If you could peek into my dome at any one time, you would see other-worldly delights like rainbow colored mohawks popping balloons and pegasuses playing bocce ball). You know who does rock out completely with monster truck force? You guessed it.

Me. I'm Frank Stallone.

Blog Self-Critique:
Tune in next post when Brian talks about bums and Sudoku. Air guitar!
Brian's rating: 4.6/11 Letting Down the Masses.

Addendum to Blog Self-Critique:
Brian has decided to begin rating his blog on a scale of 11 for obvious reasons.

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Gregory Abbott: The Gentleman of R&B

2006-04-23T21:08:00.003-05:00

Greeting
Hello, Super Friends. Join me, won't you, in the Land of Awesome.

Acclaim Train to Awesome Town
Being an internationally acclaimed blogger has its benefits - adoration, free bikini-waxing for life and a permanent VIP table at Marquee not the least among them. A little known perk of the blogging life is that when walking down the street, Deep Blue Something follows you in a flat-bed truck performing Breakfast At Tiffany's over and over again. This may sound like a bad thing to people who suck, so, ya know, if you think that sounds like a bad thing, well, now you know you suck. That chorus can play at my wedding. Or even at my funeral. Just lower the casket and push play on the ghettoblaster.

But let's get back to that adoration bit. Gawker links allow people to discover my oeuvre and thereby fashion the kind of bold statements that make Cashius Clay look like a pussy.

"My New Favorite Blog"

Stephan has a really good head on his shoulders. Also, the name of his blog is Memoirs of a Gaysha. Gaysha. Stephan, that's one-thousand respect points for you.

Respect Points: God's Measuring Stick

Respect points are a means by which rad people decide who lives and who dies. Everything in the world is objectified and assigned a certain number of respect points. For instance, bananas are tasty and full of potassium (K). That's like 100 respect points. Periods are gross and shut down a girl's sex factory for, like, 3 to 4 days at a time. That's like -10,000 respect points. So you see, it takes 100 negative bananas to equal one period. What's a negative banana, you ask? Well, it's a shitty banana - one you open and discover to have been a smuggler of clandestine bruises. 100 of these disappointing bananas are the rough emotional equivalent of enduring your girlfriend's menstrual cycle. As you can see, the Respect Point System (RPS) can be a highly valuable tool in comparing things like people, places, bananas and periods.

Some sample RPS figures:
Tony Danza = 300 rp
The New York Giants = 40,000 rp
mayonnaise = 65 rp
paper clips = 10 rp
dogs = 750 rp
cats = -10,000 rp
punching a girl = -1,000 rp
punching a girl who deserves it = 10,000 rp
being really good at making out = 15,000 rp

The doling out of respect points is admittedly arbitrary. To a misogynist, for example, punching a girl, whether or not she deserves it, would probably warrant the commission of at least 20,000 respect points. For the record, a girl deserves to be punched if she
a) cheats on you
b)hurts your "danger zone" in any way (punch, kick, lack of attention)
c) steals your bike or
d)takes a bite of your sandwich.

The Hitler/Honey Mustard Index

Because the RPS is a very subjective standard of evaluation, it is necessary to calibrate individual RPSs amongst friends and associates using the Hitler/Honey Mustard Index. Honey mustard is an essential ingredient for life. Hitler was a total dick. The amount of respect points given to both Honey Mustard and Hitler by an individual gives everyone a good feel for the other RPS figures they may spit out.

Consider the case of Denny. Denny believes baby seal clubbers deserve 500 respect points. Your initial reaction to that may be, "Jeez, that seems like an inordinate amount of respect points for such a vile profession." But then you must gain some perspective by applying the HHMI. Denny gives Hitler 1 respect point because at least he was out there, ya know, not cooped up in the house. Hitler was waking up each day with an agenda and he tackled it with the veracity of a young Pol Pot. So, the guy gets a point. Honey mustard gets 10,000 respect points from Denny. Well, now this is all starting to make some sense, isn't it? Baby seal clubbers are now 499 respect points better compared to Hitler, but still 9,500 respect points away from holding a candle to honey mustard. Perspective, thy name is the Hitler/Honey Mustard Index.

In general, the RPS is best applied to actions, rather than people or things. This is because actions are instantaneously up for judgement, regardless of motivation. If someone pulls a 540 McTwist, that's like 30,000 respect points. If someone eats your car, that's like -50,000 respect points. Maybe the person who pulled the 540 McTwist did it because he loves Yanni. Doesn't matter. To me, the 540 McTwist deserves 30,000 respect points regardless of the musical proclivities of its perpetrator. People are more difficult to assign respect points to because we don't know the sum of their actions. Sure, Rick Astley was a white, English guy with a black guy kind of voice who sang two awesome songs in the 80s (Together Forever, Never Gonna Give You Up). Bam, 50,000 respect points. But what if every day before those singles hit, Rick Astley would beat up old ladies with skunks. Boo, -60,000 respect points. So, now Rick Astley has -10,000 respect points. But that just doesn't seem right, because if you've ever seen the video for Never Gonna Give You Up, you'd know the man deserves at least 10,000 respect points, in spite of any granny-bestial crime he's committed. Bottom line: People are tough to assign respect points to, even after using the HHMI.

Look for further elaboration on the RPS in the future. If you have a person, place, thing or action and are not sure how many respect points are appropriate to give, feel free to ask me. I'm more than happy to devote future space to the better understanding of the RPS.

Blog Self-Critique:
A little rushed, but good. Things have been looking up for Brian lately. This past week he fell face first off the wagon. And though bad for his body, his Bacchanalian behavior couldn't have been better for his spirit. 10,000 respect points. Brian went to a play on Tuesday called Red Light Winter. Many bloggers were invited to this play. Brian was not invited to this play as a blogger. This distresses him. He has insightful things to say about the arts and wants free tickets to things. Is this a sign that Brian is totally not legit? Because, he's pretty sure he's 2 legit. In Awesome 80s Prom news, Brian has managed to freak out and cyberstalk most of the cast. He and Cheerleader are in talks to arrange some sort of Dance-Off/Bake-Off in the coming months. Early rumors are that Alec Baldwin will narrate. In a totally unrelated note, making out is awesome. Finally, this post was written while listening to Brian's 80s Adult Contemporary iTunes playlist.

Brian's rating: 6.5/10 HHMI's.

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Awesome 80s Poon

2006-04-17T01:45:00.000-05:00

********************************
Before continuing, it is imperative that the reader have access to Night Ranger's Sister Christian and a stereo system set to "Bleeding Ears". I'm not fucking around. The post will be thirty times better. That shit's clinically proven. (There are a lot of cuss words in this warning. Shit).
********************************
San Dimas High
I love the 80s. Thanks VH1 for making me sound unintentionally cheesey. But, it's true. I love the movies, the hair, the knee-high striped socks (No, American Apparel, that doesn't mean you're off the hook. I hate your faux 80s socks), furniture, cars, Atari, 80s Charlie Sheen, Boner Stabone, the Ickey Shuffle. It's the perfect decade. I ought to know. I was born in it. More than anything else, I love 80s music. Throw on some "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" and you'll have me dancing like Molly Ringwald faster than you can say Frogger. I once dee-jayed an 80s party and it was totally the best 80s party of all time. Also, my ex-girlfriend cheated on me that night. So, that was like a bonus.

Aware of my 80s fever, a friend took me to the Awesome 80s Prom at Webster Hall on Saturday night. Herein lies a chronicle of the awesome.

Prior to the show, I was told that the audience generally dresses up in 80s gear. This was perfect for me since I own a hot pink hat and a totally rad T&C Surf Design shirt. Lamenting my lack of killer, white high-tops, I walked over to St. Mark's and dropped 12 bones on a pair of stupid sunglasses after trying pretty hard to haggle the guy down to $10.

ScorchedHotTub, Bargain Hunter: How much?
Gnarly, Indian Dude: 12 dollars.
ScorchedHotTub, Bargain Hunter: Yeah? Not ten?
Gnarly, Indian Dude: No.
ScorchedHotTub, Bargain Hunter: Cool.

(end lame scene about lame haggling)

Looking the part, I headed off to prom.

Here is where I should probably mention that prior to the show I got totally and completely bombed.

Walking into the place I noticed that apart from the cast members and one or two devotees, no one was wearing 80s gear of any kind. I had a total Sixteen Candles moment. So embarrasing! I yanked off my glaringly pink hat and stuffed it into my back pocket. I noticed a bunch of old tourists and families with young children wearing the same Izod shirts. This made me nervous. I asked my friend what the fuck was up with all the families and she said it wasn't the regular crowd. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem being shitcanned in front of children. It's just usually I am at a Giants game and when I high five a small child, it kind of makes sense. On Saturday, I'm pretty sure I just seemed like an Awesome 80s Pedophile.

Awesome 80s Prom is an interactive show. I've been telling people it's a lot like Tony and Tina's Wedding (I have no idea if this is true). Imagine any prom you've ever seen in an 80s movie and you'll understand. A small stage features the selection of the king and queen along with a dance contest and announcements from the principal. In between the staged scenes and dance numbers, the actors disperse throughout the audience (there are no seats, just a dance floor) and talk to you/harrass you while maintaining character. The show part lasts about 45 minutes (This is a total guess. Drunk people can't tell time. They can only tell you you're wrong).

Nothing goes better with 80s music than 45 beers. I bellied up to the bar early and returned to it often. On one of my visits, I was suddenly approached by a girl in a purple prom dress.

Thoughts On the Possibility of Posers

When we first got there, I asked if there were people who came to the show every week and, though not officially in the cast, acted out as if they were a part of the show. I was told that this definitely happens. I can't think of a more losery thing to do. This is like showing up the night your friend loses his virginity, standing next to the bed and dry-humping the air in an attempt to prove to his girlfriend that you are better at fucking. Let the actors do their thing and entertain you. Enjoy yourself, but don't try to steal the show, farthead. Since I was very much dressed the part, I worried people might confuse me for one of these high school drama dorks holding on to faded glory. Unfortunately, I let this neurosis cramp my style for the first half of the evening as I overcompensated for my big, drunken personality by barely smiling or dancing for the first half-hour. I was absolutely convinced that the purple prom dress girl was one of these drama dork posers.

(end Poser rant)

But she wasn't. The purple prom dress girl told me I had to come with her immediately and proceeded to drag me up on the stage. I had been enjoying some conversation and was only vaguely aware of what had transpired prior to my grand entrance. The Jock had pulled some guy in his 50s up on the stage and seemed to be "interacting" with him for a while, telling the audience the 50 year-old was the head football coach. Totally confused, drunk and paranoid, I made my Webster Hall debut.

Acting!
Little did the cast of Awesome 80s Prom realize that a natural performer had been brought to the stage. And true to my abilities, I had no fucking clue what to do. I mean, do I rely on my years of improv training (waitering) and ham it up with the actors or do I play straight man to their scripted antics? I chose the latter out of respect for the craft. It was a moot point. Somehow in the time it took me to find my motivation I had been dubbed Johnny One-Nut by the Jock, and was herded off the stage to chants of "One-Nut, One-Nut".

Brief Aside Displaying My Improvisational Genius

Okay, maybe it wasn't all such a blur. While I was in the spotlight, the Jock character gave the "Coach" audience member the chance to do a little improv by asking him what inspirational message he gave the team as we headed into the locker room (The back story on Johnny One-Nut, by the way, was that I suffered a horrible ballsack injury in the big game). The "Coach" had no clue what to say. I only wish the Jock asked me instead because I came up with something I thought was pretty clever. "Alright, men. Let's chub up and hit the showers!"

(end brief aside)

I discovered something pretty awesome after I left the stage. Everyone thought I was in the fucking show. Wherever I walked, the crowd parted. People turned to look at me expectantly, hoping I would "engage" them in some improv theater. This was hilarious for about three seconds before I realized my newfound status afforded immediate access to the bar at absolutely any time. Clutch, thy name is interactive theater.

Twenty minutes later, back on the dance floor, I had a top ten experience of my year. This is pretty big news. It means that for the next 8 months I don't think there will be ten better experiences in my life to bump my Awesome 80s memory. After hearing what happened, you can decide if my life is a)mediocre b)so pathetic or c) horrible.

Frozen Moment In Awesome
I like to go to places like Niagra and Uncle Ming's because I love to dance like David Silver. For lack of more politically correct terminology, I love busting a move like a faggoty 9th grader.

Dig.
Drunk or sober, if an awesome song comes on, someone will be embarrased for me. Well, the song that happened to come on next was none other than Sister Christian by Night Ranger. On the list of Top 1,000 Songs To Rock Out Completely To While Naked After A Shower, Sister Christian is #36, directly before Loverboy's Workin' For The Weekend and immediately after Irene Cara's What A Feeling. The major criterion for making this list is an orgasm moment - a section of a song that leads one along an emotional crescendo so satisfying that upon reaching its climax, one's sexual organs become excited. It is the moment in a song when blowing one's load seems most appropriate. For Sister Christian, the orgasm moment occurs at 3:25. But, orgasms can be shitty (rushed, standing masturbation in the shower of a Day's Inn) or epic (blowing it all over 1980s Kelly LeBrock while a nude Angelina Jolie eats a freshly made Whopper and the Giants score their 14th touchdown in the Super Bowl, all while Phoebe Cates' pool scene from Fast Times at Ridgemont High is being projected onto the moon in high definition). Sister Christian's orgasm moment is like a slow screw that creeps up on you, surprises you, instantaneously makes you worry because you don't want to blow your load just yet, and then forces you to give in and have one of the best orgasms of your life. The emotional crescendo begins at 2:50 and hits the point of no return at 3:10. 3:11 through 3:20 is verbally represented by "Oh, no. I think I'm going to come. Wait. Yes. I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Oh, shit." While 3:21 through 3:24 sounds like, "I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come." And at 3:25, well, 'nuff said. Puddle of sex. (Seriously and honestly play the song and read along with my verbal interpretation. It kind of feels good. I promise you'll want to do it again immediately.)

As the opening strains of Sister Christian flooded the Webster Hall dance floor, the chemical nostalgia of smoke machines filled our nostrils and painted everything in 1980s brush strokes. I made eye contact with a cheerleader from the cast just as the lyrics began.

P.S. I know every word to Sister Christian.

As I mouthed the words to her, she began to sing them back to me. This was so hot. Amidst the protests of my neuroses, I heard my internal voice clear his throat, pout his lips, pop his collar and remark, "Yeah. Let's do this." Eight feet apart, Cheerleader and I began a slow, magnetic approach that lasted nearly the entire song. The crowd, thinking this was a scene from the show, formed a Sweet 16 dance circle around us. At 50 seconds into the song the toms kicked in and the sexual energy picked up. It was now all about me and Cheerleader, singing along like Duckie in the record shop or Rick listening to James Brown alone in his room (fuckin' A right, that's a Just One Of The Guys reference). As the second chorus hit (2:06) I started to wonder if the actress playing Cheerleader was genuinely into the moment or not. If she wasn't yet, I was about to make her melt with my air guitar (2:50). I gave the solo everything I had. I could only hope it was enough. Cheerleader and I rode the high into the outtro, finally close enough to feel the heat off each other's body. And just as soon as it started, the song ended and Cheerleader disappeared.

If you still don't get it, let me explain why this moment was so amazing. When I'm at a bar, I do all the same shit I did with Cheerleader. Except, since Cheerleader isn't there, I do it to one of my guy friends. And that's just John Q. Awkward. The whole time he's weirded out that I actually am 37% gay and mean dick business and I'm weirded out that he's a) homophobic and b) not interested in learning about dick insurance. The fact that an actual professional actress was responding to my Post-Shower Awesome Mirror Dancing was like playing a real-life video game. Shit, man. It was like in the Take On Me video when the hand reaches out of the cartoon to pull the girl into the comic strip. It was fucking awesome. That's what I want in my wife. I want to build a disco in my basement like Steve Martin has in The Jerk and listen to Prince all night long while we pretend we're fucking rock stars. Can I get a fuckin' A?

Remember what I said earlier about not trying to steal the show? Yeah. Fuck that.
So, that's me above, puttin' it on Cheerleader. That hair is hot, right? I'm becoming the kind of guy who falls in love with a stripper. I mean, she's just in it for the money. Right? I'm fooling myself into thinking she really liked me. Cheerleader's totally become my new faux, only-in-my-head girlfriend. Maybe she'll read this and become my new faux, only-in-my-bed girlfriend. Triple snap! But seriously, I'm becoming semi-obsessed. And that's not because I'm weird or anything. It's because I'm awesome. Also, if you look at the picture again, it kind of looks like I'm blind, smirking to myself and barreling through the crowd of dancers toward the cameraman. And remember two sentences ago when I said I wasn't weird? I kind of want to go to the show this Saturday and stalk Cheerleader. But not in a creepy way. In an awesome, 80s way.

Blog Self-Critique:
Poor Ickey Woods. Brian doesn't condone using words like faggoty unless it's absolutely the only appropriate term available. Which means it can only be used when referring to David Silver. But seriously, it's a bad word. Everyone should check out Awesome 80s Prom. Get hammered ahead of time and enjoy it. Ignore Brian and ham it up. It's only 20 bucks. Brian just wants to say that he's now listened to Sister Christian for the past three hours straight and he's not tired of it. He only wants more. Also, the lyrics make no sense.
Brian's rating: 7.8/10 Teased Blondes

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Short N' Curlies

2006-04-12T23:39:00.000-05:00

Lovable Rogues
I've mentioned in the past that my roommate has a problem with my pubes. Herein lies a chronicle.

Before I continue, I must state for the record that my short n' curlies have never been a problem for anyone else I've ever lived with. Let me also state that most of my past roommates have been women. Women like to live with me because a) I'm fetching b) I am very clean c) I am 37% gay and enjoy giving them advice on cute boys and cuter outfits and d) as I'm incapable of maintaining an erection, they are at no risk of becoming pregnant by me or the toilet seat

Dear Women,
You should know that most men ejaculate on toilet seats any chance they get. As procreation is really at the heart of all action (unless you are Morrisey), men cannot pass up the opportunity to increase the odds of getting a woman pregnant. Why do you think date rape was so en vogue in the 90s? It's all about the children.

Hearts,
Brinster

(end open letter to women/womyn)

With all of that background let me reiterate that my pubes have never been a big enough problem to the women living with me that they felt the need to say anything about it. Until now.

Current Roommate approached me about it in a very cordial manner.

Current Roommate: Brian?
Awkard Me: Yeah? Just a minute.

Awkward Me kicks off the high heels, loses the dress and opens the door.

Current Roommate: Uhm, I have something to say and it might be embarrasing for you.
Awkward Me: Embarrasing? Ha. (nervously looks over shoulder, kicks heel into closet) No way. What's up?
Current Roommate: Uhm. Your pubes are everywhere and it's gross.

(end scene)

Now, pubes are pubes and they do what they want. They grow, they fall out, they lodge themselves in the back of throats and cling like magnets to bars of soap. They have a will of their own. Even if I wanted to be, my pubic hair's keeper I am not.

Curious Brian

Has anyone ever seen straight pubes? Like totally straight and hanging like a full head of hair? That'd be weird. I'd like to see that before I die, even if a friend is just faking it to please me as I lay on my deathbed. Cut to: Invalid me lying in a hospital bed, a crowd of well wishers looking on as my good friend gets his pubes corn-rowed, much to my delight.

(end visit to Creep Out Memorial)

I'm a libra so it's tough for me to feel like I'm creating a problem for someone else. I'm sure you know libras need to keep things in a constant balance. If I break plans with a friend, I need to arrange to meet them in the very near future. If I hurt someone's feelings, it's important I go the extra mile to make them feel better. If I sit on my right nut by accident, the left knows what's comin'. Though I have no control over my rogue pubes, something of my body was causing my roommate distress and I needed to fix it. I got into the habit of looking for stray pubes. Every time I left the shower, I made sure to go back over it with a tissue in one hand and rectitude in the other. My roommate became just as hawkish. One night, I returned from being drunk, dumb and lonely to find a note on my bathroom sink, placed beside two hairs with an arrow pointing towards them.

Don't know how so many of your pubes make it onto our sink. Don't really want to

<------- know. Please, Please, Please clean them up.

I stared at the arrowed hairs for a couple minutes and determined that whatever the hairs were, they were not pubes. Being a guy, there are lots of places to find hair on my body. My chest, my back and shoulders. My luxurious sideburns. There's hair all over. How did I clean up these note warranting hairs? I simply bent down and with a little love, gently blew them into the sink. No big deal. Not worth a note. The libra scale was beginning to tip further away from Current Roommate's favor. Then there came the note taped to our toilet bowl, again with arrows pointing out the various offenses.

Pee and tons of pubes. ^
*See also: bathtub full of pubes*
So gross. Don't hate me, but this
drives me totally nuts.
XOXO

What a great fuckin' note. And yeah, there was some old, stale urine and a pube or two inhabiting that space between the water tank and the seat cover. But, by no means were there 2,000 lbs of pubes in that little space. I mean, the toilet would be crushed. That's just unrealistic. Also, those weren't my pubes and that wasn't my pee. Current roommate had a male friend visiting for the week. I don't know about his urinary methods, but I know about mine. After living in my apartment for a year, I think I would have noticed if I was slowly laying down a chartreuse coating of shellack at the back of the toilet. Convinced that the pee stains weren't mine, I glanced into the bathtub expecting it to be brimming with an overabundance of pubes reminiscent of a Chuck E. Cheese ballpit. After all, it was "full of pubes". There were like three pubes. Freshly washed and dried, I might add. So, sure, they were pubes, but they were really clean, friendly pubes. The kind that give you warm fuzzies inside. The CareBear Cousins of pubes.

The working title had been In the Triage of Touches and dealt with pedophilia in an emergency room.

Though she feared I might, I did not hate my roommate. And her XOXO sign off was hilarious to me. Great fuckin' note. So great I kept it.

Recently the situation has devolved into "boy who cried wolf" status. Last week, while running late for work I stood, poised and naked, over the bathtub. I let my tissue-holding hand drop in frustration and declared outloud, "Fuck this. She can deal with the fuckin' pubes." God willing this will not be the only time I get to say this in life.

There's an awkward offshoot of the Pube Chronicle. Any time I meet a friend of Current Roommate and go to shake hands, I can't help but believe they know all about my proclivity towards pubosity (which, again, is largely exaggerated). Imagining their dread at having to shake my pubey hand, I freak out that they are in an awkward position (libra) and in doing so usually make the situation even more awkward.

Let's hear it for pubes! Making things awkward ever since the fig leaf went out of style.

Blog Self-Critique:
Why can't Brian ever write about anything not involving the groin? Oh, right, because all action is about procreation. MySpace: Home of Class, Haven for Whores took a lot out of Brian and made his brain explode, which explains his two day drought from posting. Whatever, he's not your fucking slave. Unless you pay him to be. There was a great image of a Care Bear Cousins lunch box and Brian was going to make a caption joke about a packed lunch that was only pubes or pubes and jelly or something and in hindsight, he should have made that joke instead of the weird one about Triage of Touches. Brian likes that one, too, though. And, of course, Brian must here add a charming disclaimer on the odd chance his roommate ever reads this. Hey, Current Roommate, Brian likes you. He didn't use your name, so you shouldn't be upset. You're not upset? Good.
Brian's rating: 7.9/10 Mature Subject Matters!

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MySpace: Home of Class, Haven for Whores

2006-04-10T02:21:00.001-05:00

*********
This post contains images not suitable for work. So, ya know, just wait 'til the boss is in his/her office blowing lines before you check it out.
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Whore Haven

Just hangin', s'all.
No doubt MySpace is so hot right now. Ubiquitous doesn’t begin to describe its near complete cultural saturation. Teens and young adults know all about MySpace, but its recent purchase by Rupert Murdoch has lent the online community a wider legitimacy. At any stand-up show I go to the performers make sure to mention their profiles. Walking down the street this Thursday, I overheard a girl mention her "MySpace" to some friends. Add to the pot the mothers and fathers everywhere who lose sleep at night over just how many pedophiles are cyber-stalking their children and ta-da - household name, I dub thee MySpace. In my so-called life, the most bizarre offshoot of the MySpace explosion is the website’s constant discussion at business lunches and dinners. As a waiter (so ashamed), I am daily privy to numerous conversations. A lot of them go like this:

Business A-Hole One: So we’ve got the house in Miami and the one in the Outer Banks. And now we’re thinking about a condo in Scottsdale.
Business A-Hole Two: Poor people are so annoying!
Business A-Hole One: I mean, really!
Business A-Hole Two: Really!

(end scene)

You’d be surprised, though, at how often older, high-powered business types are dishin’ the dish about MySpace. To be sure, they are discussing the site in relation to whatever product line their company is developing, seeking out a strategy for tapping into MySpace’s 66 million members. But how much do they know about the demographic they so desperately want to access? Buyer beware. Just what are these corporations getting for their money? Let's face it. Who really uses MySpace for anything other than hooking up or advancing their comedy career, anyway?

Brian's Sociology Corner

The online communities (friendster, MySpace, Facebook) are like Coke and Pepsi, different flavors of essentially the same thing. Their popularity is simple to understand. Everyone wants to advertise. It's part of nature. Part of procreation. But teens, the largest demographic on MySpace, have a perverted attitude towards self-promotion - an attitude that discourages caring about ones appearance or striving for success. For teenagers, "trying", to any degree, is often seen as overdoing/posing/being fake. Goths and geeks often find solace in the belief that they are the truly cool amongst their peers, despite their social marginalization. To the misfits, a lack of any attempt to achieve within the "normal" population is a badge of courage (Message to disaffected emo kids: At the same time you avoid mixing with the in-crowd, you're perpetrating their same bullshit in your own circle, just with a different aesthetic. Everyone's confused. It's all bullshit. Drop out.). The aversion to winning people over is not natural and this is why online communities are taking off. They offer a form of posing or showing oneself off that's acceptable to all high school factions. Everyone wants to put themselves out there, at least a little, and MySpace allows kids to do it outside the context of high school clique warfare. The misunderstood may now be understood.

****Brief Rant About Sociology
Sociology is the dumbest. My freshman year roommate and I both enjoyed sociology classes because they were so easy. It's just common sense about your fellow man with stupid terms to describe shit you already know. All you have to do is link up the pseudo-science mumbo jumbo with what you've already empirically learned about the world.

Dumb Idiot: I have no clue why gang members join gangs. What's a social animal? Why do we wave at each other? Please, sociology, explain the world to me. Boo.

(end Sociology Corner)

So, there you have it. Three reasons for using MySpace: advancing your career in the performing arts through tireless networking, fleshing out your social calender through tireless networking and establishing a small store-front of you on the information super-highway. Oh, there's one more reason to use MySpace. Absolute, utter and total slut-osity.

As I browsed MySpace profiles tonight, looking at whore-bag after whore-bag, I became really depressed. Shockingly, entering the world of a cute, 19-year-old girl with nothing better to do than type in alternating lower and upper case letters and place 16 pictures of her cleavage on the internet got me down. It was probably just mental weariness after viewing countless inane web pages with heart-themed backgrounds and glittery things that slowed down my computer and induced more than one seizure. Is it strange that I'm saddened by the wasted man-hours spent by these twits who could instead be learning something about the government or, I don't know, maintaining their crotch gardens? I mean, who wouldn't get depressed reading a stupid quote like this one I found:

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

God. That's so fucking stupid. It makes me think of tanning salons, glittery chest shit, tight black pants, Malibu and pineapples and Juicy Couture. And who the fuck is Rihanna and why is she ruining Tainted Love? And what the fuck is up with 19 year-old white girls with songs by some ass clown named T-Pain called “I’m N Luv With A Stipper”? Is it some sort of embedded East Coast, affluent racism that makes me have a problem with that? Or is that girl just a retard? And "N" isn't a fucking word.

Well, I'm rambling and ranting and not sure where any of this is going. I guess I just want to say that browsing MySpace profiles is kind of like a homophobic Klu Klux Klan member getting the best blow job of his life from a gay, black man - both the best and the worst thing in the world. It is endlessly entertaining while at the same time phsyically and emotionally draining. Every girl's page on MySpace makes my eyes bleed and my head ache. Their awful taste in music forces me to toss my cookies all over my desk and shed a tear for posterity. The corporations that are buying up these websites like they're Doc manipulated Deloreans have no clue what they're getting themselves into. MySpace is rife with ignorance, poor spelling, horrific grammar, ass shots, slurs, retards, douchebags and stand-up comedians. I don't understand what Marty McFly's car has to do with accessing the teenage wallet, I just kind of threw that in there.

Without further ado, Rupert Murdoch's latest acquisitions. I'm sure you'll find them all to be the epitome of class.
Joanna

"~*(CaN't Do It LiKe Me)*~"
Song: Things I Do by Chantelle
Joanna's "About me" section suggests that she is just a sweet, teenage girl with a nice enough dream; she wants to be a model. It's got to be tough, growing up with 15 siblings, but lucky for Joanna, she has her big sis, Sarah, to guide her along. Without Sarah or her mother, Joanna wouldn't be where she is today. And, just where is she today? Oh, she's on MySpace with her pants pulled down in a field to show us her thong and butt cheeks. How sweet.
I wonder what Joanna's favorite books are?

Books: Now there is basicly 1 thing I hate and that would have to be Books they r sooo boring and i could just never get in to any of them!

Oh, and, Joanna, saw your headline. Just wondering. Can't do what like you? Be a total idiot whore? You're right. You've got a butt cheek up on me in that department.

MaMi 2 CuTe

"+*+ ItzZz Da Best Of Both WorldZzZ +*+"
Song: I Think I’m Falling by Nobody’s Angel
Ah, Mami 2 Cute. A white girl from North Dakota whose is apparently “Every Niggaz Fantasy”. Cool. Her Top 8 friends seem like my kind of people. I find Derek and Adam Dat Westcost Nigga particularly interesting. Apparently they are nostril fetishists. If I was going to be all ghetto, I think I would take a picture similar to these lads and make my name Nostrildamus. F'real, son.
Like Joanna, Mami 2 Cute has set some goals for herself. This year she wants to get a boyfriend and good grades. That's about as cute as that muppet doll hanging above her head in her ass shot. Before she can start puttin' down some bling bling on dat report cizzard, she'll have to overcome the one weakness she lists. “My father”. Her father is her weakness? That's some super scary sounding shit. Like, incest, son. F'real.

Oh, and, yeah, saw your headline. Which two WorldZzZ were you referring to? The whore world and the Muppet world? You're right. You're an excellent whore and that's a very neat muppet. (Only time that sentence will EVER be written! Sweet!)

Monique

"NO IM NOT CIARA IT'S THE 1 AND ONLY MONIQUE"
Song: Walk With Me by Lil' Havoc Da Don
Monique keeps it real. Right off the bat she lets everyone know, “Niggas, I’m a country girl.” Well, lads, get ready to churn her butter, because Monique mostly enjoys men and fucking and laughing about it:

Lindsey

"Only if your lucky! GUYS DONT BOTHER!!"
This southern gal gave the men of MySpace a chance and they turned out to be dogs just lookin’ for a bone. So Lindsey, who can get a man any time she wants, has decided to turn her page into a solicitation for lesbian sex only. But gentlemen do not despair. According to her profile Lindsey wants to have children someday. The only question is with how many different fathers?

“Ummm, Im bi, so im up for anybody that likes sex as much as I do…Guys, i get cock whenever i want to (and thats a lot).”

The classiest picture she put up wasn’t work safe at all. Check it out on her profile when you get home. It's the shot where her right nipple is coming out of her bra. The captions reads “Peek-a-boo”. I'm sure this is how she will play the children's game of the same name with her little boy someday.

~*~Ladi Jordan~*~

Ladi Jordan has a lot going for her at a young age. Not only is she a proud parent at 18, but she pulls in 150-250K a year and has already managed to pull down her pants in the middle of the street in broad daylight to snap a tasteful shot of her thong and butt cheeks beside a Lincoln Town Car. Yeah, not just any car. We know you are a proud parent, LJ, but is your child proud of you? Answer? Indubitably!
Not only that, but she has a great shoe collection as well!

bOOm ii fuCCkd yO BoiFriEnD

"i ben smokin weed foa long time y should i change?"
There’s a pretty good chance this girl is 16. This is the type of girl I prayed about every night when I was 16. Except for the total stoner whore part. I can’t read her "About me" section without vomiting into my mouth, swishing it around, gargling with it, spitting it out into the toilet and then shaving with my vomity toilet water.

“Wat up to all ma migente out therr im just herr chillen lookin 2 find some new friends so all ya niqqaz dat like watchu see hit me up wit a note and ill get bak atchu..im bi so if yall girls like wuh you see hiit me up!!!!!”

Doesn’t that shit take forever to type? Or does she literally think in this language?

Spank Me

“Eat Me!!”
This girl very much means for her headline to be taken literally. Spank Me has taken time from her precious schedule to fill out a Naughty Poll or as I like to call it, Whore Exam. Question 18 on the Whore Exam is rather enticing, asking the age old question, “Spit or swallow?” - roughly the MySpace equivalent of “Will you marry me?” Spank Me has selected as her answer, “Spit for like, swallow for love.” When my future wife is busy sucking dick in the years before she meets me, I will feel comforted to know that she has never actually ingested the semen of the johns she only liked enough to blow.

Stephanie

"Wet as a watermelon. Mmm"
Stephanie is pretty hot. She goes to the University of Chicago, long believed to be a school for total nerds, not chicks who are "Freaky in the sheets". There's not much to this profile. Just that her headline is possibly the sluttiest one I came across. She might as well have said, "Who wants to enter my mouth?"

4EVER YOURZ <3

"I NeveR KneW WhaT LovE WaS UntiL I KisseD YoU!!!"
Song: 2GETHER by Gotti
Apparently this girl is retarded. It’s cool that she's so down with hip-hop culture. I mean, her hometown of Aspen, Colorado is pretty fuckin’ street. 4EVER YOURZ is a member of The Whore Group (which doesn't make any sense when you actually visit). I'm sure her doctor father and lawyer mother are really, truly proud.

Florida

"Visit The Florida Mountains"
I mean, this isn't just some dumb, regular whore who has a profile about wanting to take the F train to Deep Dickin' Town. Florida is a straight up professional exotic dancer. I only included her for the fellas/lesbos who read this. She's got some pretty hot pics, if you're into jugs the size of, well, jugs. One hilarious thing of note, however, is Florida's hero - none other than Condi Rice.

Joyce

“Slut”
Song: Stick and Move by Unexpected Arrival
Joyce is my piece de resistance. Bent over her child's sand box, she epitomizes the MySpace whore. Not an aspiring model, just a semi-pro slut. I somehow lost the link to her profile and spent two hours trying to find her again. I swear to god I am not kidding. Two solid hours. This is how clutch Joyce's profile is. Anyway, I had the presence of mind to copy a small sampling from her "About me" section.

About me:
i am 5'6", 115lbs, long blonde hair, blue eyes, nice ass, long legs, tan, shaven. i love to have sex, masturbate.

And what about her answer to the infamous Question 18 on the Naughty Poll/Whore Exam?

18. Spit or swallow? Answer: Facial

Forever in BoobJeans
Now, I went about finding MySpace's classiest women by browsing with pretty open criteria. I clicked on whoever had the most revealing pictures and hoped for some gold. There was a lot of gold. I mean, it was like Scrooge McDuck's moneybin. And then there was this girl. Cute, bubbly, tragic. Jizzle.

Jizzle (Double Rack Jack)

"The Bourke Show!"
Song: I Wanna Sex You Up by Color Me Badd
I kind of think I’m in love with this 18 year old chick. And it's not just because the day after I checked out her profile, she changed her song to Color Me Badd's greatest hit, which also happens to be my profile song. Had Jizzle gone to my affluent, cookie-cutter J. Crew high school in the late 90s, I would have done everything in my power to go out with her. Why? Because I dig wacky, loud girls who don't cotton to conformity. First, a little about her.

Jizzle is admittedly loud and unfiltered.

"I do crazy things. You will probably get embarrassed by something I do in a public place. The truth is, you'll just have to get over. I will only live once, and I'm gonna have a shitload of fun before I die and if that includes being an idiot, being loud, laughing till I pee my pants, then SO BE IT! Making outrageous memories is better than not having anything to say."

In high school, I found myself getting embarrassed by the wild or crazy things my gf did. But much like the parent character in any of the countless Freaky Friday re-makes, I found the wackiness to be liberating once I chose to let go my inhibitions. Does everyone notice how instead of some Jersey Shore Whore bullshit quote about life being measured in the moments that take our breath away, Jizzle managed to say the same thing without sounding completely retarded?

I miss not having to worry about financial shit because we used to have money and now its all up my stepmoms nose...I never cum...most guys are too dumb to realize it. My stepmom locks me out of their house because she hates me and says I bring 'viruses into the house'. My mom thinks i'm fat. My stepdad likes to touch me. He's an alcoholic and a gambler. My thighs are too fat. My shortness makes me feel not good enough and I hate that.

I am enamored with Jizzle's brutal honesty. I have an overwhelming desire to punch Jizzle's stepdad in the face and throw Bocce balls at his scrotum. It's a shame about the finances. I want to hold her in my arms and tell her she's perfect just the way she is. That or buy her expensive leg braces that will stretch her bones and give her the height she's always dreamed of. I want to do her stepmom's cocaine and nosebleed all over her favorite blouse. I ache to fix all of Jizzle's problems.

Blog Self-Critique:
Don't these whores have jobs they may want someday, ya know, besides whorin'? Don't they know employers are starting to look up MySpace profiles before hiring someone? Brian spent way too much time on this post and he hopes he meets the lofty expectations he built up last week. He still wants more time to work on it, but the public outcry must be heeded. He learned never to promise anything to a reader as they might actually expect it. The research for this was intense. Hopefully there will be some reward. After all, there's a solid two hours of entertainment provided. He thinks the writing is okay. He wanted it to be better and real sophisticated-like, but whatever. There's no way Brian can't say something about vomit or dicks or shit. Or homosexual oral sex performed on hatemongers. Why is that? Brian's pretty sure that Jizzle girl will read this and he wonders what her reaction will be. And why was Brian so angry at everything in this post? What did sociology ever do to him? The Mets are doing really well. So that's good. David Wright. Guys wanna be him. Girls wanna do him. Hope you all enjoyed the post. And if you're going to take advantage of the new comments section, make sure your comment makes some goddamned sense. But seriously, Brian loves you.
Brian's rating: 8.3/10 Thong and Butt Cheeks

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Article Considered By Local Blogger To Be Beyond Awesome

2006-04-09T12:46:00.000-05:00

Hilarious Account of Stabbed Man
The following are excerpts from this article.

News reports have quoted unidentified sources as speculating that Kissel -- facing possible prison time for real estate fraud -- hired someone to kill him so his children could collect millions in insurance. Police would not comment on the theory. Kissel's father, William, rejected the notion as preposterous.

Joseph Martini, would not comment directly on the case. "Her primary focus is on the kids," Martini said. "This is another terrible ordeal the kids are going through."

It is the second time that one of William Kissel's sons met a violent end.

Robert Kissel, 40, died three years ago in Hong Kong when his wife fed him a strawberry milkshake laced with poison and bludgeoned him to death with a statue. She was sentenced to life in prison last year in Hong Kong in a case that became known as the "milkshake murder."

Kissel also was being sued by a former business partner, who accused him of misappropriating millions through fraudulent mortgage loans.

Said his 78-year-old father, William, who lives in Florida, "Andrew wanted to be top of the heap. I think Andrew was under a lot of pressure, probably self-imposed, to be top of the heap."

William Kissel saw the differences in his sons as teenagers when he gave them credit cards. Robert bought plastic shoes from Sears, his father recalled. Andrew bought a fur coat.

"Putting the two together was like a snowball running downhill," Kissel's father said. "It got bigger and bigger."

Millions of dollars missing from the building's accounts? "Very matter-of-factly, he admitted it," the attorney, Aaron Shmulewitz, recalled.

Robert Kissel was murdered in 2003. He and his wife, Nancy, were going through a bitter divorce -- he accused her of having an affair; she called him a cocaine-snorting, whiskey-swilling, abusive workaholic.

Andrew Kissel...belligerent alcoholic.

So, is everyone wondering why I found this article hilarious? It's got a real Wes Anderson feel to it, very Max Fisherian. William Kissel's choice of words (top of the heap, a snowball rolling down hill) while being interviewed about his son's brutal murder suggests a strange detachment as well as a trip to the Blarney stone. Also, just think about some reporter coming up to you and saying, "Do you think your son might have killed himself so that his children would gain access to his insurance?" And you replying, "That's preposterous." Preposterous is a funny word that people don't actually use. The strawberry milkshake murder is both silly and tragic. It hits pretty close to home, as well, considering my friends and I decided in high school that if a girl had a very good tasting "danger zone" it would probably taste a lot like a strawberry milkshake. Both brothers were raging alcoholics, which might belie childhoods rife with abuse and therefore partially explain the father's strange attitude. And the part about the millions of dollars stolen by Kissel from his Upper East Side Co-Op? We're talking millions of dollars:

Briinnng, Briinnng...Brriinnng, Brriinnng...
Belligerent Alcoholic (belligerent): Hello? Can't you see I'm skiing, damn you?
Eagle-Eyed Lawyer Type: Andrew?
Belligerent Alcoholic: Aaron? What is it? I'm skiing.
Eagle-Eyed Lawyer: Yes, I know. Hope your trip is going well.
Belligerent Alcoholic: It was 'til you showed up. (pause) On my phone.
Eagle-Eyed Lawyer: Yes, well. Andrew I've been going over the accounts for the 78th Street building.
Belligerent Alcoholic: Don't do that. Go get a massage. Happy ending. On me.
Eagle-Eyed Lawyer: Andrew, it looks like there's over 4 million dollars that's gone missing between April and May of this year. Do you know anything about this?
Belligerent Alcoholic: (extended coughing fit) I'm skiing. (long pause) What?
Eagle-Eyed Lawyer: I said millions of dollars are missing from the accounts for your 78th Street building. People will start asking me questions about this soon and I'd like some answers to give them.
Belligerent Alcoholic: Oh, that. Yeah. I took it all. Listen, what, if anything, do you know about bindings?
Eagle-Eyed Lawyer: Nothing.
Belligerent Alcoholic: Racing skis?
Eagle-Eyed Lawyer: Nope.
Belligerent Alcoholic: Ballroom dancing?
Eagle-Eyed Lawyer: Where are we goin' here?

(end scene)

Blog Self-Critique:
Just a little something for the kids. Sort of to tide people over while Brian finally finishes what he's promised for days. Also, some people were clamoring to be able to make comments. Brian added a comments section and the world seems bright again. Roses smell rosier. Dog shit smells shittier. For some reason, people prefer making comments to directly emailing the blogger, considering it a more personal or instense move to actually send an email. Brian doesn't get this, but he welcomes the comments, regardless. I mean, he gets an email notification about the comment, so, why not just send an email? Do you want to see your name on ScorchedHotTub? Is that what it is? "Anonymous" - one step closer to a kinship with greatness? A dance with the devil? Brian understands.
Brian's rating: 6/10 Doogie Howitzer's

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Fart Jack City

2006-04-04T23:44:00.000-05:00

Briefs
Readers, welcome. As I'm too tired from lack of sleep, I'm providing you with some rain-delay material. The kind of weak programming that is only allowable for viewing when an act of god prevents the interesting shit from taking place in a safe, dry manner. The benefit of this approach is that I get to sleep and in doing so hopefully gain the upper hand on the dastardly acid that nightly attempts to crawl up my esophaegus and burn my voice out/ruin my blistering comedy career/give me a reason to die. The downside is that I lose some of my new Gawker converts who don't really think I'm that funny or interesting to begin with and can't bear to stomach another lame post. As Lewbowski might say, "Fuck it." Maybe I'll lose a reader who wears an Avirex jacket and Timberlands and thinks I'm a faggot. So, maybe it's a good thing.

Arbitrary Personality Building
I divide the world into awesomes and assholes. Fitting everything in life into only two diametrically opposed categories allows for a lot less mental clutter. Plus, having extreme opinions about everything fools people into thinking you are vivacious and dynamic. Ann Coulter has built a career on saying the dumbest shit she can think of. It's pretty extraordinary. I don't know who buys her books or thinks she's cool, but someone must. Anchoring oneself at either pole instantly creates a personality that’s sure to be divisive. And who doesn’t want this? After all, if you’re not receiving love or fostering hate, you’re just kind of, well, blegh. And nobody wants to be blegh, right Dick Cheney?

15-Year-Old, Pre-Screened, Administration Friendly, Non-Gay, Non-Offensive, Sexually Ambiguous, Pseudo Latino: Vice-President Cheney, what areas of progress can you highlight in the president’s “No Child Left Behind” initiative?
Dick: Fuck you.
Small Iranian Child: Please, don’t blow up my country. We are already suffer enough from many, many earthquake.
Dick: Fuck you.
Clueless American Mid-Westerner Fooling Herself Into Believing Cheney Cares About Anything Besides Perfecting His Lip Curl: Mr. Cheney, my son recently came out of the closet. My husband and I are having a difficult time accepting this, but we love him and want to support him as best we can. After navigating these waters with your own daughter, what advice would you give parents like me, all across America, who deal with this situation in their own homes?
Dick: Fuck you.

1920s Shoe-Shine Boy: Shine ya shoes, Guvnah?
Dick: Fuck you.
1920s Shoe-Shine Boy removes a nickel from his pocket, bites it, winks and gives a hoot before scampering off.
Dick Cheney shoots him in the fucking face.

(end scenes)

In the interest of spicing up my personality, I wrote out a random list of things, some of which I previously couldn’t care less about, and then forced myself to make an absolute decision. Is each thing an awesome or an asshole? I suggest everyone do this with everything in his or her life.

Awesomes
David Hasselhof
Me
Pete Rose
Karl Lagerfeld
legs
Snorks
the deaf girl who works at Starbucks
that 90s song “Mr. Vain”
Robots with the power to love
AIDS

Assholes
Mother Teresa
coffee ice cream
scented Candles
popcorn
C. Thomas Howell
Hulk Hogan
3-D glasses
my whore of an ex-girlfriend
Tyra Banks

A lot of you are probably upset at some of the things in my list and that’s exactly my point. Pick an extreme and go with it. Don’t be afraid to be controversial. I’m sure a lot of you are wondering how the hell I can say C.Thomas Howell is anything BUT awesome. Well, he’s not. He’s an asshole.

Are those Bugle Boy jeans you're wearing?

And who knew I thought Karl Lagerfeld was awesome?

Lagerfeld hiding a blemish, self-medicating and being caught off-guard by Lohan's taint.
(alternative caption: Are those Bugle Boy jeans you're wearing?)

And for those of you who have a problem with me saying Mother Teresa and Hulk Hogan are assholes, well, my friend has something he wants to say. Dick?

Dick Cheney: Fuck you.

Blog Self-Critique:
Weak. Not very funny. I take issue with the commenter who was put off by my Brokeback Penis scene from yesterday. Said commenter claimed to be supremely turned off by thoughts of my dick shoulder. Well, I don’t know what Anonymous has been reading, but this blog has proven itself over time to be very my-penis centric. As it is the most important part of my body other than my heart, and much more likely than my heart to take part in kooky, sexual hi-jinx (unless I sign up for a snuff film), it sort of makes sense. I only hope the offended members of my audience will stick around for MySpace: Home of Whores.
Brian’s rating: 4.5/10 Weak Steak Marinated in Weak Sauce

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Vagina Immaculata

2006-04-03T23:14:00.000-05:00

Sad Dongs Are Nature's Onions
Screwtape* (12:08:39 AM): tattoo scorchedhottub.blogspot.com on your penis, and every girl you stick it in will have up close and personal advertising
ScorchedHotTub (12:09:18 AM): so, there will be no advertising then?

Short Cumings
A Brief Scene
by
Brian

Cast:
Brian (Himself)
Glen (Brian's Penis)

To be performed with Southern accents.

The languid strains of a prairie ballad play in the background. Brian enters a log cabin just as dusk puts the day to rest. Road weary, he sits in a chair before the fire and after unbuckling his belt, drop his drawers.

Glen: Brian?
Brian: Yes, Glen?
Glen: Aww, shucks. Nothin'.
Brian: What is it, son. Tell me what's on yer mind? Long, hot day out there and I could use a little conversation to ease the mind.

Brian strains to take off his boots.

Glen: Well. It's just that. I'll be goin' back to school soon and, well -
Brian: Come on, boy. Spit it out.
Glen: You know. The others, they'll be talkin' 'bout how they done had all types n' kinds a sex and all over the summer.
Brian: Sure.
Glen: And, well. It's just. When they get to talkin' about that stuff, I just don't know what to do.
Brian: What do you mean?
Glen: Well, I just don't feel like I fit in. Feels like Glen don't fit in nowhere.
Brian: That cuz I ain't been wieldin' you?
Glen: Well, that's part of it I guess. Nobody wants to hear what Glen's gotta say cuz all he's got to say is a whole lot a nothin'. It's only so long I can keep talkin' 'bout yer hands before nobody even wants to hear from me anymore. It's like a preacher only teachin' the book a Genesis.
Brian (yelling): Don't you start talkin' none a that junk 'round me, boy. Religion is sacred in this house and I intend it to stay that way!
Glen: I'm sorry, Brian.

A long silence lingers like the embers of a fading campfire.

Glen: Brian?
Brian: Yes, Glen?
Glen: But what am I 'sposed to say? When the other penises get to talkin'? They'll just start makin' fun of me again like last year.
Brian (placing a reassuring hand on Glen's shoulder): Well, Glen. You tell'em this. Yer dude ain't like their dudes. He ain't just gonna stick you down any rabbit hole he sees. Might get bit by a rattler. He's got a special purpose for you.
Glen: A special purpose?
Brian: That's right. I'm savin' you for something truly important, Glen. You gonna enter the greatest vagina known to mankind. Vagina Immaculata.
Glen (perks up): Really?
Brian: Sure as the sun'll come up tomorrow. She'll be as pretty as a peach and as soft as a newborn camel's toe. Oh sure, she'll play hard to get at first. But I promise I'll walk you right up to her and...
Glen (puffing his chest): ...and I'll say, "Immaculata, this here is our destiny. Now you can either let me enter you or I'll just have to go ahead and do it anyway!"
Brian: That's the spirit! And then it won't matter where else you fit in, cuz you'll always have a place to call home.
Glen: Vagina Immaculata. Oh, say it with me, Brian.
Unison: Vagina Immaculata.

(end scene)

Blog Self-Critique:
Sometimes it really does feel as if Glen is doomed to dangle out the rest of his days alone, searching in vain for a place to rest his weary head. Brian totally let Glen down this weekend at a place called ICU Bar on Washington Street. There were babes. There was flirting. There was total lameness on Brian's part. But, that's nothing new. In fact, it's such a rarity that Brian brings someone back to his apartment that if he ever does, Glen usually faints from shock. The name Vagina Immaculata is actually based on a real vagina Brian met in college. Brian's really creeping himself out with how often he's been using the "V" word lately. But thanks to the Vagina Monologues, it's everyone's word now. Kudos to those who noticed the Mr. Show and The Jerk references.
Brian's rating: 7.8/10 Lonely Glens

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I Didn't Care About This Post So Much I Forgot To Title It, But Seriously, Read It...

2006-04-02T23:25:00.000-05:00

About Me
Today I woke up at 2pm and watched 5 straight episodes of Knight Rider. I probably could have done a lot more productive things with my time. Do I regret it? No fuckin' way. Do I feel I should develop outside interests, away from my computer screen? No fuckin' way. Did you hear Paul McCartney, Eric Clapton, Axl Rose and Eddie Vedder are getting together to form an as of yet unnamed supergroup? No fuckin' way!

Updates!
So, last week I was linked by Gawker. This is the perfunctory paragraph where I talk about how awesome that is and how it's cool when a lot more people read my blog and how my teeth seem whiter and my thighs have more sheen ever since it happened. One plus for everyone is that a lot of people contacted me with digital thumbs up, high-fives and what have you. That's the sort of morale boost that was needed around the ScorchedHotTub offices. And some people even submitted some Ron Popeil FACTS! Unfortunately, they weren't really that good (one involving an Eric Clapton lyric I had previously thought of and deemed not politically incorrect/low-brow/stupid enough). But don't let my total asshole-ism prevent you fine people from submitting more and more RPFs. The more the merrier, even if they're not the best. Odds are, I won't like all my children. But, ya know, at least they'll be there. So that's what bad Ron Popeil FACTS are like, my least favorite son. And, hey, that's alright! Maybe he'll win the lottery or die from malpractice.

Male Bag!
Reader Jody, also a Loyal Thirty member, chimed in from Australia, writing:

Hi Brian,
Just a quick bit of female anatomy revision for you.. Our legs are not attached to our vaginas. They are attached to our hips. Has it really been that long for you that you don't remember?? Sorry if I've ruined Skirt Season for you..
- J

Dear Jody,
I knew the toilets in Australia flush in the opposite direction from those in North America, but I had no idea that your vaginas grew somewhere other than your crotch. Where in god's good name is the Australian rabbit hutch located? The sternum?

You see, in America, the legs of a woman are below the torso. This allows for something called "walking." Directly between the legs is the vagina. This allows for something called "reverse cow girl." Think of the North American vagina as the arc of an angle, nestled at the intersection of two freshly waxed lines, the legs.

You most certainly did not ruin skirt season for me. I've enjoyed viewing many a skirt over the past week as things start to warm up over here in these United States. You have, however, completely ruined my lifelong fantasy of flying to Australia on a whim and inserting myself into an Aborigine community. Things would be difficult at first as the aboriginal folk adjusted to my presence and I learned the nuances of their culture. But, eventually I would be accepted as a full member of their society, perhaps even teach in the local school. One hot, January afternoon would find me skinny-dipping at Shepard's Pond. Ms. Mackleby, the pride of the village and a fellow teacher, had the same idea and has been alternating between peeking at me and blushing from behind a blooming rose bush. As I stand in the shallows doing the Ickey Shuffle, completely erect, an African bushman assaults Ms. Mackleby. Hearing her cries I run to the hedge row and vanquish the bushman. She is so taken with my bravery that she gives herself to me, right then and there beside the dead bushman. We were to fall happily in love and live out the rest of our days in utter bliss. But not anymore. I don't cotton to the idea of freaky sex with her sternum vagina.
- B

Kegs and Legs
I decided it would be a really great idea if people sent me pictures of women's legs and I could evaluate them. Girls, you could send in your legs and guys, you could send in your girlfriend's legs, or the legs of the girl you're currently obsessed with. Why will this be interesting? Because duh, it's me we're talking about here. I will come up with a funny picture and caption analogous to the leg. It will be great. Trust me? Also, I love evaluating legs like Scooby loves Scrappy. I refuse to be discouraged by the fact that no one wanted to join the Milky White Thigh Club. Send in those pics!

Ron Popeil FACTS!
Popeil's cock is like a narwhal's tooth - an 8-foot spiral of porous bone, riddled with hypersensitive nerves that guage sea conditions. - Timothy R. (He even provided an educational link)

Popeil's jogging outfit consists of an afghan, pink isotoners and clogs.

When faced with a difficult choice, Popeil chooses JIF.

Popeil's "go-to" brink of orgasm visual is Veruca Salt falling through the trapped doors in Wonka's chocolate egg factory.

Charged with murder in the 1st degree, Popeil plead not guilty by reason of Vince-anity.

Popeil invented Instant Breakfast but then sold it to Carnation after deciding it wasn't instant enough.

Popeil once ate a dog alive.

Popeil only hears in A flat.

Popeil does not allow mistletoe in his home.

Popeil built a countdown clock in the bottom of his pool to celebrate the Olsen twins' 18th birthday.

Popeil's Indian name is Farting Coyote.

Popeil's favorite band is Dee-Lite.

I approve!

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian has lots of interesting things to say, just not in this blog. He's keenly aware of the many tense changes in his Aboriginal fantasy. He is not keenly aware of that being a problem. Keep submitting him to Gawker (tips@gawker.com) because only good things can come of that. Although, there isn't much to recommend in this post. Later in the week he'll address pubes and a new feature called MySpace: Home of Whores. Yay!
Brian's rating: 5.6/10 Farting Coyotes

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Skirt Douglas

2006-03-29T23:48:00.000-05:00

Skirt Season!

Remember when acid was fun?
This morning as I sat on the V train, there was energy in the ether both powerful and majestic. It was the power of legs and it was simply irresistible. Across from me sat three nubile working girls all in various forms of skirt. It didn’t matter that none of them was very attractive. What mattered was that there were three women within 10 feet of me wearing skirts and bathing me in their muted sexuality. Where I’m from, that’s grounds for declaring Skirt Season!

Skirt Season means dumb, drunk 16-year-old girls at Dave concerts. S-T-S YES!
New York City has a miraculous Skirt Season. The reason for this is two-fold. For one it gets hotter than Elisha Cuthbert during an NYC summer. It's a filthy heat that sticks to the back of your neck and uncomfortably moistens every unfortunate body part that is fettered by clothing. To maintain any semblance of comfort, many women choose to wear the skirt, nature's cooter AC. Secondly, there's a lot of fucking hot women in NYC who enjoy showing off the goods/granting boners.

Look, there goes another Boner Fairy!
Skirt Season has no set beginning. It starts as soon as girls who love wearing skirts (sluts) judge the weather appropriate. The sluttier the girl, the earlier she'll wear a skirt. This is why you always see Paris Hilton in a skirt, for example. In Britain, the weather is never appropriate for skirts.

For Albinophiles, Britain offers one of the world's palest skirt seasons.
After seeing some skirt action today, I absolutely can’t wait for tomorrow (Thursday) when it is supposed to be sunny and 67. Your seven day skirt forecast:

Friday's windy conditions with a high of 67 offer the best opportunity for maximum skirtosity. That'd be a good day to head outdoors and enjoy the skirts. You should see skirt activity start to taper off by the beginning of next week. With little to no chance of skirts on Wednesday.

What’s so great about Skirt Season? How ‘bout everything! Ladies, skirts are awesome because they let us see your legs. Legs are awesome. They are like a Rosetta Stone for a girl’s sexual well-being. One look at the legs in motion and we are able to get a fair sense of how you look naked. Even if you are ugly, seeing you in a skirt gives us something to mull while we wait to die. Would we do you? Probably not. Do we now have a good understanding of what it would be like to do you? Definitely.

Ugly, yet intriguing.
A leg’s thickness and quality of muscle gives us an indication of how fit a women is, which correlates directly to her ability to make optimal babies. And, girls, I don’t have to tell you what your legs are directly attached to, do I? Your vagina. Your legs are attached to your vagina. I myself am a vagina man, so Skirt Season is kind of like the NFL preseason. I get very excited for it and love to check it out, but in the end it's just a tease. Skirt Season is just the biscuit when all I really want is the gravy. Still, what’s better, biscuits with no gravy or no biscuits at all? (Note to female readers. Very desperate for some gravy. Will provide dick biscuit.)

Leg Analysis
The leg has a variety of intriguing nuances, much like the vagina. I explore some of them here.

The Ankle
Ladies, the ankle is an erotic temptress stalking the seductive back alley of our hearts. The wrinkles that appear along the crescent-like back of the ankle when you point your toes down, we could kiss that for days. Or at least I could. Call me. In high school I had an obsession with girls in running shoes and no socks. Somehow it had become very sexy for me to see a tanned ankle with a fresh pair of Saucony’s.

The Calf
Calf muscles make or break most legs. There is no true right or wrong with calf muscles. A large calf can look good on some legs, horrible on others. A nicely muscled calf is desirable, however, on certain legs muscular calves look horrible. You don’t want your calf muscle to be thin or, if it is of medium girth, to be floppy. To some degree, a turkey leg effect is to be encouraged. The major exception to the “no right or wrong with calves” corollary is cankles. Cankles are to be avoided at all costs.

Demi getting punk'd by her cankles.
In ancient times, cankles probably meant that you couldn't run away from bears and lions as fast as the other ladies and therefore, would produce babies that were slower as well. Nowadays, cankles just suck and are gross.

The Knee
The knee may not be knobby. The knees may not be bowed. A nice, sculpted and pointed need is to be envied.

The knee on the far left sucks. The knee one in from that knee...is good knee.

Bowlegged Transexual He-Man

The Thigh
Thigh is to leg as mustache was to Hitler. One does not exist without the other. The thigh is the defining quality of the leg. It better be thick. It better not have cottage cheese. And it better be firm. Men are just like the Purdue family. We spend our entire existence searching for the perfect thigh. I am currently working on a theory that Asian women, especially Koreans, do not suffer from cottage cheese thighs. My last girlfriend (holy shit, 2 years ago) had no cottage cheese and she was Korean. So, ya know. It’s a pretty strong theory.

Near perfect thigh in motion.

Whenever possible, legs should also have an inexplicable sheen to them:

Below, a damn near awesome set of legs.

The flesh looks soft and squeezable. Knees low on the knobby scale. Could stand to have a little more definition in the calf. Possible, minimal cottage cheese when in certain positions. A thigh you want to press your thumb into. Very kissable back of the knee.

Blog Self-Critique:
Sure, Brian just creeped out his entire female readership, but if they've stuck with him this far, they shouldn't really mind his contribution to their body issues. Plus, dudes love pictures of legs and chicks and shit. Plus, hooray for Skirt Season!
Brian's rating: 7.3/10 Awkward British Teens!

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Cesar Chavez Used Non-Violent Tactics

2006-03-29T00:23:00.000-05:00

You Gotta Fight (Dunh Dunh) For Your Right (Dunh Dunh...) To Migrant Wooooooork!
Does anyone else get really pissed off by the fact that over 500,000 people took to the streets in Los Angeles this weekend to protest an immigration bill that is now before the Senate, but it's too much for any of our elected officials or the rest of the people in this country to stand up and protest this administration? What the fuck is up? Everyday this week, tens of thousands of California high school students have walked out of class to protest this immigration thing. Why are Hispanics the only ones with any sense of responsibility to their community - with any sense of the importance of the issues of the day and a desire to make their opinion heard overwhelmingly? Is there a grassroots marketing genius in the Los Angeles community that Iraq war protestors need to throw money at to lure onto their team? Or is it just that if enough people in a specific community emphasize the importance of something to their less informed peers, everyone will show up? Was there free Corona? What the fuck?

I just don't get it and I want to. This bill will affect the 11 million people living here illegally. I'm not good at reading newsy type stuff, but I'm pretty sure its signing will instantly create 11 million felons and make it a felony to aid, in anyway, one of these totally illegal aliens. And yes this probably means that if you give a stick of gum to a migrant worker, really intending to relieve your olefactory system moreso than aid the chap in any spin the bottle game that might start up, you can be put in jail.

Okay, so the bill is kind of a big deal, but it truly only affects about 18 million people in the US, accounting for the legal relatives of the 11 million felony aliens.

The Bush administration with its reckless wars and dire incompetence affects every American. Again, bad with newsy census type stuff, but I'm pretty sure that means something like 260 million people. The Iraq war has destroyed whatever credibility the US had in the world. The administrations audacious hintings at starting another war with Iran are lunatic. Any allies we have these days are allies of convenience. They are linked to the US solely for what this country can offer them as the strongest nation in the world - economic or political advantage. No one is an ally of the US out of respect for our principles or our national character or any of that other shit that jockish types like to get so excited about. I'm not so naive as to think that in the past nations sided with us for moralistic/ideological reasons, but such considerations had to have informed the discussion. Sure, it was a strategic move against the British for the French to side with us during the Revolution, but it couldn't have hurt that we shared similar principles. Of course the British and French needed our military might in WWI and merely gave lip service to Woodrow Wilson's emerging, high-minded call for collective security. I'm sort of getting lost here, but what I'm trying to say is, no one has any reason to respect us or take our word at all (Latin America has never had cause to, anyway). Show Rocky IV to a South Korean and he will probably cry when Drago loses. That's how much we have fucked things up. People are cheering for Drago. Britain is like our battered wife, ashamed of how we make her feel, but in love with us because where else can she go?

I'll wrap this up because no one cares. The major problem with Americans, at least the ones who have the ability to understand issues of geopolitics, is that they are predominantly selfish. Any consideration for posterity's well-being extends, at best, out to two generations. When a guy who works for Deutsche Bank sits at his daughter's soccer game, he isn't concerned at all for the state of the world in his great-grandson's time. And why should he be? It's only the well-being of his only daughter's grandson. Deutsche Bank guy doesn't give a shit about the possibility of universal healthcare for his daughter's grandson because Deutsche Bank guy's totally unneccesary tax cut will allow him to send his daughter to whatever college and still leave him enough money to buy that third home. Most people with any kind of money in this country vote according to who's offering the biggest tax cuts and that's just fucking retarded. The opportunity to buy that house in the Outer Banks has completely fucked the future of America.

The wheels that Bush has set in motion will have a dire impact on the United States of 2100. Our forefather's fought hard albeit often selfishly to put the US in the position to lead the world in embracing globalism. Why won't somebody fucking stand up and leave their classroom to protest the worst president in the history of the United States? Why won't even 100,000 people stage a protest? Why won't anything be done to halt this glaring onset of the decline of the American empire? Why won't anyone take this asshole to account? Everyone on the side of sanity has a boner for Russ Feingold. The dude is just doing his job. And by doing his job he's become the "bravest" Senator around. Fuck. It's times like these that I wish someone would put me in office and I'd get all Eddie Murphy in The Distinguished Gentleman on everyone's ass. I'd seriously be an amazing politician.

Reasons I'd Kick Ass At Politics:
I'm a good leader.
I'm honest.
I have a great sense of justice.
People like me, I think.
I don't get blow jobs in any room, let alone in the Oval Office.
I'm not a former cokehead devil.
I'm an effective debater.
The buck has long stopped at my (now receding) man-breasts.
I would never even think of allowing the focus of national politics to rest on a brain-dead bulemic woman and her retarded parents.
I don't like war.
I love bunnies.
I'm a charmer (not to be confused with a hooker with a heart of gold).
I'm seriously telling you that I'd be a great politician and you would be happy to have elected me. So, shut up and elect me already.
I'm virtuous.
I'm empathetic, sympathetic and thankfully not diabetic.
I'm very bright and able to view issues from every side.
I have shat in places other than toilets.

Immigrants are protesting against the system, what about the douchebags who have lived here their whole lives? Mother fuck.

Blog Self-Critique:
What the deuce? Anyone who's read this blog from the beginning knows that Brian is good for one of these twice a year. Surrounded by political lunacy everyday, he randomly throws a fit and irresponsibly writes an extemporaneous, garbled political post. It probably has something to do with the fact that it's taken him more than three hours to do his laundry. If you have laundry in your building, fuckin' be on the ball and take your shit out of the machines when it's done. Brian doesn't want to touch your panties (lie). To my Hoboken friends, please keep up on current events/the state of the world so that posts like this don't make you cranky.
Brian's rating: 4.3/10 Armchair Americans

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When Doves Cry

2006-03-28T00:40:00.000-05:00

Once Bitten, Twice Cry
The past two weeks have made me wish very badly that I had a digital camera. Being in the dark ages isn’t any fun, except for the drowning wizards part. Had I even a camera phone, this blog would feature a lot of snapshots of people crying on the subway. In March alone, I’ve seen at least six people riding the rails in various stages of sob and ya know, the thing about watching someone cry while commuting, it’s really fucking depressing. Is the F train really this sad?

I know New York is supposed to be a tough place. Everywhere you look, there’s a reason to be depressed. Pitiable bums clamor for change, singing “This Little Light Of Mine” in two-part harmony (I don’t know which bums depress me more, the uninspired who mumble a spare change request or the sarcastic/dry-witted ones who ask for way too much money. A sense of irony in a bum suggests unfulfilled potential, an intellect perhaps once brimming with gumption…sad face). Old toothless Chinese women wander the sidewalks, hunched, pushing grocery carts overflowing with recyclables they’ve pulled from garbage cans. I mean, I can barely afford my share in a three-roommate bachelor/bachelorette/bacherlorette pad. Laundering my socks with a toothbrush and urinal cake has gotten old. I’ve been using Marcal toilet paper for so long, my butt cheeks have begun taking Prozac suppositories. The prospect of falling in love in this city is about as likely as Magic Johnson developing full-blown AIDS. It’s sad here. I get it.

Soft and absorbent as a pedophile's beard!

I’ve only seen women crying (way to perpetuate stereotypes, ya crybabies). I saw one woman on an uptown V break down as her very fem husband stared at her, smug in his self-righteousness and scarf. I imagined him asking himself the whole time, “My God, what is this thing I have married?” Men don’t cry on subways because there are no televisions. Any man knows the only thing worth crying about is a terrible loss suffered by a favorite team. Duh, that’s why they call it an “upset.” For men, a death in the family warrants perhaps a sigh, held slightly longer out of respect. If it’s in the budget, it is entirely acceptable to drown one’s sorrows in a pint of ice cream. Premium ice cream.

Men, if you have to cry, try to be wearing some kind of sporting equipment.

So, women of New York, please stop crying on the subway. You are scaring children, creeping out hipsters (who, witnessing your salty dose of reality, are forced to question their self-delusion), pushing your husbands that much further away and most importantly, pissing me off. Unless you are so overcome by my beauty that you feel compelled to weep openly, stop crying. The only thing more depressing than watching you do this is watching Kurt Loder do anything.

lodered adj. To be boring and lame despite the impression that you are a cool person.

A spadered Loder.

As in:
Though he’s the pioneer of MTV News, has interviewed numerous rock royalty and no doubt has attended some of the best parties of the last fifteen years, Kurt Loder is totally lodered.
Would you believe Tom Cruise is more lodered than Spielberg?
Van Der Beek? I heard he got lodered.

Blog Self-Critique:
Eh. Brian came back to life with some decency. And, as always he started off with an entirely different topic in mind. He had some very interesting things to say about pubes. Legitimately. There have been some negative comments from people about Lexicon Corner. Apparently, some of the Loyal Thirty feel that the terms are interchangeable, as in, to say one is “fucked up” to the degree of being sheened is the same thing as declaring oneself spadered or limbaughed. Absolutely ridiculous. Spadered is like waking up in a bathtub without a kidney. Sheened is like taking over the world with your boner. Also, this post froze while Brian was typing it and he had to re-write 2/3 of it from memory. He’s pretty sure it was way funnier before.
Brian’s rating: 6.8/10 Van Der Beeks!

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The Loyal Thirty

2006-03-22T21:54:00.000-05:00

Only The Weak Get Sick.
Or at least that's what I tell the kids at the pediatric oncology wing of the hospital. I volunteer there in a program designed to make the kids feel better about their leukemia by temporarily making them feel much, much worse.

A-Hole Me (wearing a clown nose, affecting southern accent): Bobby, why you cryin'?
Bobby (crying): I hurt all the time.
A-Hole Me (wearing a clown nose, southern accent): Aww, po' Bobby. You know what else hurts? Standing in the unemployment line in the freezin' cold, waitin' to get a slice a moldy government cheese just so it can go straight to my bitch of an ex-wife. So maybe when you done cryin' you can think about gettin' a job.
Bobby (sobbing): I'm eight.
A-Hole Me (nose, accent): Shoot.

(end scene)

The Loyal Thirty
I'm sick and bitter and angry. Due to an illness that straddles the line between strep throat and feline AIDS, I've neglected you, reader. Not updating in a day or two has really gotten me to re-evaluate this blog. What the F. Cock Fitzgerald am I doing? Why am I writing this? What will the writing of this blog accomplish for me, the world's most necessary human? If I suction cup my chest, how long will it take before I begin lactating? Is this even possible?

Not to mention the most important question of all. Is it all just one big waste of time? The answer? Decidedly, yes. I feel like giving up the blog.

Don't get me wrong. I want to write. The past two years (almost three, shit) have been the story of me avoiding a 9-5 job, responsibility, direction, etc. I've done a really, really good job of this. I waited tables in New Jersey for a while and hung out with my family. I moved to New York City and bartended (which only seems glamorous, but for my sake, keep pretending it is) and then I was in a commercial for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. I didn't work for five months! Kick ass (also, worst financial decision ever). Now I wait tables again and the shame is almost unbearable. But at least the job isn't that hard (though, waiting is actually very stressful...everyone should have to be a waiter once in their life. I think it would be good for society). But now I've found a focus. I really understand what I want to do. I would absolutely love to write comedy all day long with people who are funnier and smarter than myself. Shit. That'd be great.

The problem is, I come home from work and read Huffington Post, CNN, DailyKos.com, YouCantMakeItUp, NFL.com, ESPN.com, JasonMulgrew.com, DrudgeReport.com, Giants.com, Gawker.com and a sundry mix of other web sites, multiple times, before I decide it's time to eat. I make myself some food for about an hour. I talk to friends on the phone. The whole time I'm doing all of this I am checking MySpace and friendster approximately every three minutes. Then, feeling some sense of dedication to you, the reader, at 10:30 I embark on the intellectual journey that is this web log.

I come up with at least one sketch idea a day. Some of them are great. Some are terrible. All of them, in some way, have to do with poop. I should be concentrating heavily on developing these ideas, writing them out, gathering people together to film them for very little money, manipulating someone in my life who knows computers to make me a web site for free, post the videos on the web site and ultimately achieve a development deal for Brian's House of Shit-Themed Comedy! This would be beyond glorious. What do I do instead? I spend three hours finding pictures on Google images and laying out a blog about how Burt Reynolds and Tom Selleck invented Mustache March for you, the reader.

I want to do stand-up. I'm not afraid anymore, as I have been for the last seven years of my life, to get up on a stage in front of complete strangers and risk failing miserably. Who cares? Who the fuck are you? Fuck you, the reader. What do I instead of polish a killer stand-up set? I blog.

I originally started the blog to see if strangers thought I was funny. Lucky for me, they do. But this is funny in a different way. This blog isn't funny like "ha-ha" funny. It's funny like "look at that dog get hit by that train" funny. I should be spending less time making people incredulous over the internet and more time writing jokes ("Maybe I should be trying harder to score with chicks. That seems to be the only thing people care about").

This blog does have merit. It helps to give me ideas and very slowly is giving me an insight into what people think is funny. It gives me a space to complain about the fact that I'm a sad, lonely man masquerading as a well-adjusted, gorgeous 25-year-old with a penchant for unwise love. To it's credit, this blog has almost gotten me laid...never. It provides good fodder for sketches. Like, that random thing at the top, that will definitely turn into a sketch about a guy who goes around marketing himself as a personal motivator, his tactic being to make you feel better about yourself by sharing stories of his horrible life. He will be happy about his job, even though the success of it depends on how shitty his life actually is and ultimately, he will help no one. Self-delusion is always funny. Just ask Star Jones. (Also, southern accents always make things funnier. Try it. Tonight, read Nietzsche in a southern accent.)

But most important of all, this blog has produced fans. Genuine fans. I call them the Loyal Thirty (I imagine this is what Hef calls his girlfriends, too). I average about 50 hits a day, which really pisses me off. I really want a lot more (My ego, being bulemic, must be constantly fed to overcome the incessant cookie tossing. I'm honestly very bitter about not being the most famous person on the internet after two months). It's hard to complain, though, when thirty of those hits are people who have never met me before. You make it a point to check back and see what I've written. You don't even have an idea of my personality/physicality to help you understand certain things I say. You don't have to say it. I already know. You love me. And it's really an amazing thing to feel loved, especially after I was adopted, orphaned and then adopted again.

So, I'd just like to say thank you to the the Loyal Thirty. To all those peeps in DC, the Bronx, England, Australia, Cayce, SC, Troy, MI, San Jose, CA, Arlington, VA, Canada, Glenwood, NJ, the list goes on. I love you. You don't send me any type of feedback. Never a digital high-five or even a smoke-signaled "What's up?" I won't even get into the lack of Ron Popeil submissions. But, simply by checking back, you grant me your silent approval. Ladies, if you ever want me to make love to you, I will. If you are a man and want a hassle free hand-job on the Upper West Side, I'll see if Mike Myers is available.

When I started this post, I was going to basically write about quitting the blog, because this still is, ultimately, a huge waste of my time. But because of you, thirty people out of 6 billion, .00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000016% of the world population, I have chosen to forge ahead against all odds, like a drunken rapist or Carrot Top. The posts will be shorter and might not be as frequent, but they will be packed with so much inappropriateness and self-deprecation, your tits might damn near fall off.

Blog Self-Crique:
Feel good blog. Brian just creeped himself out. Does anyone know Amy Smart? Six-degrees here, people. I just need 5 minutes to prove to her that I am her soul-mate and then ruin her life by ex-post-facto growing insanely jealous and pissed that she took off her shirt in Road Trip. For anyone who thinks Brian is a shithead. Fuck you and you're kinda right.
Brian's rating: 6.7/10 Fan-Base Caterings/Inducements for Fan-Base to Vomit

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Charlie Sheen: Gentleman, Scholar

2006-03-20T22:29:00.000-05:00

Hot Shots (Across the Administration Bow)
Matt Drudge today offered this article about Charlie Sheen sharing his doubts over the official account of 9/11. Drudge writes, "Sheen has joined a growing army of other highly credible public figures in questioning the official story of 9/11." Drudge's list of "highly credible public figures" includes "former presidential advisor and CIA analyst Ray McGovern...former Assistant Secretary of the US Treasury Paul Craig Roberts, BYU physics Professor Steven Jones, former German defense minister Andreas Von Buelow...former Blair cabinet member Michael Meacher, former Chief Economist for the Department of Labor during President George W. Bush's first term Morgan Reynolds..." and Charlie Sheen? What the Deuce Bigelow is Drudge smoking and how much of it can be baked into one transcontinental brownie sent directly to me? Charlie Sheen, highly credible? This is a man who once accidentally shot Kelly Preston in the arm. A man who has been arrested on domestic violence charges and suffered a near fatal drug overdose in 1998. Charlie Sheen is one of Hollywood's most legendary womanizers. For most of the '80s and '90s, the guy couldn't keep his dick in a bear trap, let alone his pants. But he played Bud Fox in Wall Street, so he's probably a real stand up guy.

Lexicon Corner
During college, my friends and I coined the term "sheened."

sheened adj. 1. Possessing a state of drug and alcohol intoxication best suited to Charlie Sheen on an average night of partying. 2. Totally fucked up in the best possible way. 3. The overall bodyfeel experienced after smoking a joint and ingesting three vodkas and an oxycontin. 4. To be drunk, rich and surrounded by strippers.

Pictoral representation of what it feels like to be sheened.
As in:
I just burnt a prostitute with her own curling iron. I'm so sheened.
Son, ride your bike to practice. Daddy's too sheened to take you.
Am I sheened or is that bottle of vodka coming out of that stripper.
Dude, I'm so sheened right now.

Sheened entered our lexicon with such harmonious ubiquity that we could not stop at the coinage of just one term. Some two weeks later, while totally sheened, we invented the term "spadered."

spadered adj. Possessing the spaced out sensation of extreme intoxication best suited to James Spader after eating nothing but large quantities of quaaludes.

Spadered: looking but not looking.
As in:
My legs don't work I'm so spadered.
My dog just died, but I'm too spadered to care.
Dude, let's rent Terms of Endearment and get fucking spadered.
Dude, let's get fucking spadered.

And of course the popularity of spadered gave way to a near inundation of celebrity based terms to describe the various shades of fucked up.

limbaughed adj. 1. Intoxicated off of pain killers. 2. Aggressively garrulous.

Fuckin' Limbaughed.
As in:
I never would have won the debate championship if I hadn't have been so fuckin' limbaughed.
How limbaughed was Favre today?
What do you say we get limbaughed and have a hang?
I'm not into horseracing.
I wish we'd been limbaughed for that Springsteen concert, man.
Let's get so limbaughed we can't feel trains.

heched adj. Severely fucked up on mushrooms.

Heched.
As in:
I was so heched last night I thought my dingleberries were poopcorn.
Let's get heched and go to a Burning Spear show.
FAO Schwartz is so the place to be heched.

juniored adj. 1. Possessing a state of drug and alcohol intoxication only suited for Robert Downey, Jr. 2. To be in the process of cheating death. See synonyms at krichards.

Juniored.
As in:
I got hit by four cars last night I was so juniored.
Let's get juniored and weird out a family.
God? Is that you or am I just really juniored right now?
You hackey sacked with your own shit? Dude, how juniored were you?
Dude, dare me to get juniored?

swayzed (sway-zeed) adj. In the process of experiencing a very public fall from grace over a morally dubious act after falsely respresenting oneself as possessing a high moral character.

Nearly swayzed.
As in:
In every priest's lifetime, he will be swayzed.
Dude, let's club baby seals and see if we can't get swayzed after we run for mayor.

Blog Self Critique:
In high school, Brian perfected his Charlie Sheen impression. He's not like some master impressionist who can just say anything he wants in Charlie Sheen's voice. Brian's is a one phrase impression. The phrase? "I was in Major League." It's the best impression you'll ever hear. Kevin Pollack's got nothing on that line.
Brian's rating: 8.3/10 What the Matt Klotzes!

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God, Why Can't I Be Jewish?

2006-03-20T00:19:00.000-05:00

Totes in Blackstone
So, has anyone noticed how I added that copyright thing to my header? Plagiarists, rest assured that I have no fucking clue if that works or is legal or could stand up in a court of law. Besides, what a douche I am thinking anything I put on here is worth stealing. Popeil facts have not taken off like anticipated.

God, Why Can't I Be Jewish?
JDate is incredible. I don't even like JAPS, but now I'm seriously considering going on dates with several. People (read: JAPS) can click a button on your profile and then you get notified that "someone" is interested. Then they show you a bunch of photos with the girl who clicked on you amongst them. If you click her back, you get hooked up and make tons of circumsized babies. Killer! I'll be the king of Windsor Court in no time! Of course, I'm not actually going to go on any dates with these girls. Why? Because I'm who's largest pussy? Oh, right. The world's largest pussy. Add to this mondo pussyness the fact that I don't drink anymore and you have a killer recipe for awesome bar conversation.

Sober Me Doing the Molly Ringwald at Niagra to a Prince Song: She wore a raspberry beret! Hey, what's up?! You're cute!
Aforementioned Cute Girl: You're quite the dancer!
SMDTMRANTAPS: Thanks! You want a drink?
Aforementioned Cute Girl: Sure.
SMDTMRANTAPS returns with a Red Stripe and a plastic cup of water. Hands the cute girl the Red Stripe.
Aforementioned Cute Girl: You got me a beer and you're drinking water?
SMDTMRANTAPS: Yeah.
Aforementioned Cute Girl: Is there a rufie in here?
SMDTMRANTAPS: Do you want there to be?

(end scene)

The whole no drinking thing is on account of my brand new acid reflux disease. I started to experience a lot of problems with my voice at the end of last year so I went to the doctor. He prescribed me Nexium and some really expensive voice therapy. The acid reflux diet calls for no alcohol and the voice therapist insists that I don't touch the stuff because of vascular issues with my vocal cords. This may sound all intense and like I'm a big deal or some shit, but really the only things I'm working to rehabilitate are a non-existent voice over career and an extremely pseudo-professional singing career. So, not only am I the world's biggest pussy. I'm also the world's biggest pussy.

I have mentioned that the diet has led me to lose at least 15 pounds. Losing weight is cool. You feel better about yourself. Your cheekbones finally cast a shadow whenever there's track lighting. There's a lot less chafing. Your dick looks bigger and your balls sort of perk up as if to say, "Finally, a little breathing room." But this Saturday I experienced some things that made me second guess the whole "thin is in" mentality I was embracing. One of my guy friends told me "Dude, I'm not trying to be gay here, but you look really good." I told him if he ever wanted to be gay, that was his choice and it was fine with me. Later, we watched the scene from Studio 54 where Mike Myers asks the guy from Road Trip for a blow job and high-fived.

Do I try to stretch this money with hand jobs?
At one bar a girl who'd last seen me about two months ago complimented me on the weight loss and then with a concerned look asked, "Are you okay?"

Irish People Are Constantly Drunk
For all the talk of temperance, Friday was St. Patrick's and being that I'm 3/8th's Irish and studied abroad in Ireland (this made me very indignant at the sight of Asians wearing Irish flags and carrying shillelaghs) it was both my duty and honor to get absolutely bombed for the first time in a month and a half. It was just like old times. My original plan was to just savor two pints of my favorite beer, Smithwick's. This more than did not happen. I had five pints of Guinness before dinner, did about fifteen sake shots at my old Sushi restaurant, quick beer at Ace Bar, downed four more beers at a Midtown shithead bar called Redemption then ended up at Puck Fair for two Smithwick's that I was way too drunk to be able to taste. All the while I drunk texted and dialed, hit up San Loco at 3:45am for a Chicken Guaco Loco and some chili. Fuck the purple pill. Woke up the next morning with instant messages on my screen in which I had apparently invited a girl to come over to my place to take advantage of me. I've got three words. Classy, classy and awesome.

This happiest moment of my day was looking at my blog to discover what the Google Ad Wizards had decided to advertise on my blog, based on its contents.

Are boners at horror movies normal? Then yes!

Duh. I'm full of poop. No way, Barney.

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian turned the spotlight on himself for this one and it felt good. After traveling home today he was lectured on not including his family in the public embarrassment that is this blog. His brother has already announced a boycott in protest of the playful ribbing he got about nose breathing and Kylie Minogue. This is a major loss for the reader as tonight's family dinner was a top ten family dinner of all time. AMC played Kindergarten Cop today. Many would argue that a movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger as a police officer going undercover to teach a class of 5 year olds is not the stuff of classic cinema. Lucky for us it is the stuff of classic movie. For some reason, any time this movie comes on, I can't not watch it. One can't deny the truth in a line like, "Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina." This kid, Grant, I worked with one summer annoyed me endlessly by incessantly playing the clips from this Kindergarten Cop Sound Board. In hindsight, I can't get enough of this shit. G'head and annoy the shit out of your co-workers. They totally deserve it.

Remember the scene where Arnold rips out the kid's spleen?

One! Two! Sree! Faw!

Brian's rating: 5.5/10 Mailing It Ins!

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Manhattan Man Claims "Beef With Women Is Lack of Attention To His Beef"

2006-03-17T00:44:00.000-05:00

Get Smart
I've never had very good luck with women. Most of them are cheaters, liars, scalawags and roustabouts. It struck me today that maybe the problem was me. Then it instantly struck me that this was absolutely impossible. If I was to be placed upon the awesome scale, I'd rank right in between getting a hand job while eating a Whopper and partying with the Giants after winning the SuperBowl, also eating Whoppers the whole time.

Brief Aside

For the record, the Whopper is the greatest thing of all time. Greater than honey mustard. Greater than Darwin's theory of evolution. Greater than Ikea. Greater than hot sex. Greater than awkwardness. Greater than digging a hole to China and actually getting there. Greater than air conditioning. Greater than cuddling. Greater than puppy kisses. Less than nothing. I had a Whopper Jr. almost every day of high school. Was I fat? Hell no. Fuck you calories. You think you can step to this? Ha. You fucks. You fuckin' can't. Cuz you're calories. And I'm a man. With hands.

***

While watching Just Friends last night, I realized what my problem was. I was watching Just Friends. Also, I'm not dating Amy Smart.

You are so cute and so not my girlfriend.
I need to become a big time Hollywood actor so I can kiss her nose every night and make her whatever the hell big time Hollywood actresses eat for breakfast every morning. If I was dating Amy Smart, everything would be different. You'd see. Important people like Kevin Federline would know my name and most important of all, I'd be with a really cute girl who seems from the characters she plays to be sweet, charming, vivacious and 420 friendly.

Brief Aside

Announcing one's "420" friendliness on craigslist.com personals seems so pathetic. I mean, while sitting back, thinking of what to say to make a potential love connection, this is the best people can come up with?

"I'm a BBW with a warm, caring personality. I enjoy going to the theater and museums and would like to find someone who can teach me something I don't already know. Not bragging, just curious about everything! Musicians/Writers are a definite turn-on. Also, I enjoy drugs. Be in touch - Lonely and Jonesing."

"Very athletic 27 year old White Male seeks beautiful woman to start an adventure with. Must enjoy hiking, biking, kayaking, climbing, tennis, volleyball and black tar heroin. Could you be the one? - UWS Needle Sharer."

"Early forties male actor type enjoys self-imposed challenges, sleep overs with unsuspecting families, rehab and, against all odds, constant opportunities for professional redemption - Robert Downey, Jr."

***

Anyway, Amy. If you are in New York City and want to hang out, just write me an email. I'll see if I can clear my schedule. Let's see. Tomorrow is good and so is any other day ever. I want to kiss the backs of your knees with my eyelashes. Did I just say that?

Blog Self-Critique:
Totally random. Partially good. Brian registered with jDate today. He's not Jewish, just Jewtacular.
Brian's rating: 6.4 UWS Needle Sharers.

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WWKLD (What Would Kurt Loder Do)?

2006-03-16T00:40:00.000-05:00

The Gid And I
I do not read the Village Voice for any reason other than its freeness. Though a New Yorker for most of the last six years, I hadn’t picked up a Voice until last week. I’m two issues in and loving the frugality of the situation.

I was on the 6 train heading to the Middle East Side the other afternoon, feeling good about myself. I had chosen to wear the blue, Lacoste sweater that my roommate got me out of her bar’s lost and found. The walk to the subway brought a revelation. Women could not stop staring at me. It was as if I was shit and their eyes were flies. I’m told I’m attractive, not often, but by enough nice, young men to keep me from getting down. It probably doesn’t hurt that I just lost 15 pounds as part of my new, acid reflux diet (I’ve felt like I’ve been missing something for years and discovered just this week it was cheek bones). But holy shit, wearing Lacoste gets me checked out like yogurt at Key Food. Seriously, guys, invest in Lacoste gear and women will look at you. If you’re a puss n’ boots like me, you’ll still be lonely, but it’s nice to be ogled anyway. Apparently the ridiculous price of Lacoste’s clothing is warranted as bitch magnets are actually woven into the material.

Battle of the Bands Consolation Round Runners-Up, 13 years runnin'!

As I was saying, on the 6 train and feeling good. Doing my best James Dean against a pole, pouting my lips in between lip-synching to Stevie Wonder (I’m such a douche). There were a number of cute girls in my car and I felt all this strutting would accomplish something (I’m such an idiot). I wasn’t getting nearly as many looks as I had on the street. I was about to chalk this up to the nature of subway looks, which are very subtle, until I looked down at the Village Voice I was pretending to read. I had it open to a column called Fly Life. The title of the column? “Totally Gay.”

Totally Gay!

Fly Life seems a less interesting version of Page Six with some hot spot reportage thrown in for good measure. As I scanned the page, I noticed that Gideon Yago attended New York magazine’s Oscar party at the Spotted Pig.

Fred Savage and Max Fischer? You're love child called.

For the past two weeks, everything’s been coming up Yago. MTV's mild-mannered version of Clark Kent shares a passion of mine. We both heart Big Buck Hunter.

Orgasm station.

This game actually involves shooting cowpies that fly out of cow asses. Sick!

Two Sundays ago a friend of mine, who had gotten himself married since I last saw him, was in town and getting wasted (the obvi thing to do after getting hitched). Ace Bar in the East Village seemed the appropriate place for me to lead the gang, especially since it is 5 blocks from my apartment and super especially because it houses a Big Buck Hunter Pro (or heaven in a box). Who should show up in the midst of my reaming digital deer than Gideon Yago. He was drunk and friendly and adamant about getting on the machine after my crew. This turned me into an instant fan of Mr. Yago after years of harboring bitter resentment for him. Gideon (or GID, as he is known on the high score screens of Big Buck Hunters throughout the city) and I share the same alma mater. While he was attending the open auditions MTV held on campus for a fresh faced faux news reporter and thus launching a lucrative television career, I was getting high on top of the computer science building and writing bad poetry my feelings and shit. It should be me in those glasses and completely unnecessary camouflage jacket, damnit!

GID was a tad drunk after attending the aforementioned Oscar party. As I finished up slaying some more video animals, he shouted words of encouragement over my shoulder. This only worked to throw off my chi. My chi is very important to me. Growing up, this scene was repeated countless times at the dinner table.

John Travolta Me: Would ya watch the chi! Ya know, I spend a long time on my chi and he hit it--he hit my chi.
Tired Of Hearing It Mom: Gregg, don’t hit your brother’s chi.
Incessantly Nose Breathing Brother: This is fuckin’ good ham.

(end scene)

I let GID's faux pas of breaking my concentration slide as his incursion was well-intentioned. GID and I were totally cool until he and his crew stepped up to the plate and committed the most deplorable offense in the Buck Hunter rulebook (which doesn’t exist). Giedeon Yago and his friends, when playing Big Buck Hunter Pro, stand too close to the screen. Big Buck is a game of self-regulation. Big Buck is a game of honor. Much like the original Duck Hunt, accuracy increases the closer the gun is to the screen. The proper distance from the screen does not allow for slack in the cord running between the gun and the machine. Any slack denotes a lack of respect for oneself, the game and humanity. GID is Hunter Hero for a number of sites (meaning he holds high scores for a lot of “levels”) but these are empty titles, all. I left the bar in disbelief, thinking GID should be ashamed of himself. I saw GID again three days later and he again had a friendly smile and sought to encourage me in my attempts to put one between Bambi’s eyes. I wanted to tell him how betrayed I felt, that he was a cheater and what would Kurt Loder do (WWKLD?), but couldn’t manage to speak.

Kurt: So then I said, "Eat a dick, Pope."
Axl: Fuckin' A. You got balls, Loder.

For the record, as you travel throughout the city playing Big Buck Hunter, the handle I go by is JAH. One love.

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian realizes that whenever he wears his Lacoste sweater, his friends will now assume that he is trying to look hot. The constant pouting of his lips while he wears it will only add to this correct assumption. Gideon Yago seems like a fine fellow. But seriously, in light of the whole too close to the screen thing his accomplishments are void. The only one he's truly cheating is himself. It’s like getting excited about a “hole in one” shot from three inches away. It’s like mailing a letter to someone who lives across the street. It’s like fooling a three year old into thinking you can take quarters from behind their ears. It’s like your girlfriend telling you she’s never done this before. Brian vows to destroy all of GID's records. Kudos for whoever spotted the Kids In the Hall reference.
Brian’s rating: 6.3/10 Incessantly Nose Breathing Brothers

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No One Likes A Fat Girl

2006-03-14T21:53:00.001-05:00

The Bistro Burger –
The Gay Son of Burgers
This person doesn't know what the F they are talking about. Whenever it is I make mention of my long and storied career as a burger connoisseur I am inundated with tall tales of Corner Bistro’s fabulousness (Bobby Trendy's word, not mine). I am here to say that the greatness of Corner Bistro is an overblown legend, a wives’ tale, a misleading myth - the end result of a self-deluding game of telephone. Anyone claiming to know jack squat about burgers cannot also claim devotion to CB. Bistro lovers, hold back your contemptuous spittle as best you can while I state, for the record, that Corner Bistro’s hamburger is the gay son of burgers. Just a total disappointment.

Of course, I've tried the burger on more than one occasion, often at the invitation of Bistro devotees unable to fathom a burger connoisseur who doesn’t go absolutely ape shit over the damn thing. They watch in tangible frustration, non-plussed at my lack of instantaneous orgasm.

Let me make it clear that my attitude is not influenced by the shitty conditions in which Corner Bistro requires one eat their burger. I love shitty conditions. Ask anyone. I lost my virginity in a van on purpose. I could really give a shit about having to stand in line for an hour or the fact that the staff is rude. Much like the cast of Dong Inspectors #14, I’m there to evaluate the meat. I haven't earned my reputation for having a cholesterol level consistently over 300 since the age of five by dealing in bullshit. I would never denigrate a burger simply because of the poor service that accompanied it just as I never badmouthed the hot girls in high school just because they dated total douche bags.

The numerous and dementia-ridden adherents to the Bistro love it for the meat and this is what confounds me. Many earnestly claim that a Bistro burger is the best burger they have ever had, demand that every human being eat one before death and consider it not without the realm of sanity to travel from the opposite side of the planet to consume one. This is fucking insanity of Britney Spears proportions.

The Corner Bistro burger is lean, as in not very fatty. In fact, I would wager that the burger is upwards of 94-95% lean. Fattiness, while adding something called flavor, is not the be all and end all of a good burger. But lack of fat certainly does not a good burger make. I grew up on lean burgers. My mother usually bought 98% lean ground beef. My memories of these unsavory burgers are not happy ones. Not only were the burgers lacking in flavor, but my brother's incessant nose breathing at the dinner table was damn near unbearable. To me, eating a Bistro burger feels like arguing with my bro over whether or not we get to watch Kylie Minogue DVDs (his pick) or Laguna Beach (my pick). And no one deserves to feel such shame and embarrassment while eating (except maybe Mindy Cohn).

Wanna see the Jacob's Ladder I made, Mrs. G?

The Bistro burger lacks any delicacy. It is a stark burger that, even when heated to the right temperature, seems stern, much like a German woman. It doesn’t invite you into bed; rather it forces you to sleep standing in the corner, naked and guilty.

My theory on the Bistro lover is that they ate only Topps burgers as a kid.

Pride of barbecues.

Having only ever been exposed to the shittiest, greasiest burger, they associate leanness with high quality and great product, much like people love filet mignon for its tenderness, ignoring the fact that it isn’t as flavorful as a delicious sirloin or rib eye. Let me put it another way. Bistro lovers grew up making out with fat chicks who were really good at frenching and shit. But the Bistro lover always pined for something better. Finally, with the Bistro burger, they got a chance to make out with a hot chick for once, and the fact that she was a really shitty kisser didn’t matter because she looked good in their sports car.

'Nuff Said.

Ron Popeil FACTS
When Brad Pitt wants to impress girls, he tells them he's Ron Popeil.

Popeil is a man trapped inside a man's body.

If science ever loses track of the true length of a yardstick, Popeil's unit is a reliable standard of measure.

Popeil has long been suspected of injecting too much flavor into Flava Flav.

Kid of Kid 'N Play stole his hairstyle from Popeil's '80s look.

Every Halloween, Popeil is Lady Godiva.

Ever the good samaratin, Popeil turned down the lead role in Showgirls after being told it would save Elizabeth Berkely's career.

Popeil wrote Safety Dance on a harp.

When Ron Popeil stares directly at the sun for too long, the sun goes blind.

All Category 6 hurricanes are known as "Ron Popeil."

Popeil can compare apples to oranges.

Popeil has gills. Just in case.

Only dogs can hear Popeil hum.

(All facts submitted by Me and J.8. Voytus. I reserve the right to edit all submissions to make them much, much funnier.)

I approve!

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian's Jewish friends love Corner Bistro. He doesn't understand why.
Brian's rating: 8.1/10 Bobby Trendys

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PopeilMasHannuKwanz n' Things

2006-03-14T00:31:00.000-05:00

The Part Where I Say Hey Gang...
Hey Gang,
So, Blogger is being a big ol' bitch. It won't let me post any pictures. I was gonna do a post about me and a big time celebrity with a Page Six kind of feel:

What MTV Newz pseudo-personality was spotted this week hobnobbing with an acclaimed internet auteur at East Village hotspot, Ace Bar? Bawdy blogger, ScorchedHotTub, discussed the finer points of Big Buck Hunter with the very intoxicated Clark Kent look-a-like before going home to cry in the dark. And unfortunately for the unwashed hipsters of Ace Bar it was not Tom Welling.

But since I can't put up pictures of the Big Buck machine and the totally-super-fun-happy-time celeb, I will instead say, let's put off enlightenment for another day.

So, to hold you over...

Ron Popeil FACTS
Even Sean Connery would go gay for Ron Popeil.

Ron Popeil broke Wilt Chamberlain's most impressive record. He slept with 78,001 women.

Isaiah Thomas has just signed Ron Popeil to be the starting center for the NY Knicks.

Rearranged, Ron Popeil's name spells Pile o' Porn.

The only thing Popeil recycles is condoms.

Popeil is to God as God is to people.

Every time Popeil farts, an angel gets its wings.

Popeil was born with a handlebar mustache in one hand and a jug of wine in the other.

Blog Self-Critique:
Lackluster for a reason. Story of Brian's life.
Brian's rating: 2.8/10 Piles o' Porn!

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It's Hard Out Here For A Caucasian Male, 24-32

2006-03-13T00:36:00.000-05:00

Ron Popeils FACTS
Popeil created pi solely to distract other scientists.

Popeil was born in a barn and that's the way he likes it.

Popeil played every role in Big Mama's House II

Ron Popeil took only one vacation in his life...and on it he invented sex tourism and a new knot: the monkey's fist.

Popeil successfully dug a hole to China. Once there, he invented pork fried rice and Chinese people.

Popeil can sing 9 octaves.

When Old Joe McCarthy was gettin' real bad and nearing his death, Popeil bought him his booze. Least he could do was help him forget.

Popeil becomes hysterical in the presence of Emmanuel Lewis.

Popeil breaks his own limbs, just so people will sign his cast.

Popeil can eat five Saltine's in one minute.

(All facts submitted by JoeSto, Dennis E. Sheehan IV and Me. I reserve the right to edit all submissions to make them much, much funnier.)

I approve!

I got an 8. Mark It, Dude.
Here's a song I wrote.

Boobs

(lyrics adapted from the musical, Hair)
Gimme a girl with boobs
Long beautiful boobs
Shining, gleaming,
Streaming, flaxen, waxen

Give me down to there boobs
Shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy

Boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs
Flow them, show them
Long as God can grow them
My boobs.

My friend Joe sent me a link to a fantastic website. I give you the link below, but first, hear me out for a minute. Basically, the site is an advertisement for a new sports bra that stabilizes jugs like never before. The site was created by a marketing genius.

Marketing 101
Professor B. Handleberry

Key to any successful marketing campaign is buzz. There are many ways to generate buzz. Marketers try everthing from street teams and celebrity endorsements to contests and clever product placement. In a culture as cynical as ours - one hyper-attuned to calling bullshit on companies that try too hard or overthink their subtlety - it has become increasingly hard to create effective buzz. Obvious product placements in movies, though perhaps subliminally influential (I still can't figure out why the only beans I buy are fava), can have a negative affect on audiences that do not appreciate the corruption of their cinematic experience with what amount to big-money, corporate advertisements. For major companies like McDonald's, contests aren't always effective either. As part of its promotion for the new Reparation Rush McFlurry, Mickey D's staged a Black History Month contest similar to their Monopoly game, however the game-piece was a hand car and the game board a map of the Underground Railroad. The prize for winning was a "cruise" to Africa on a ship named the Marcus Garvey. Needless to say, buzz was very negative.

***

For a crash course in creating shit-tons of positive buzz, check out the web site for the ShockAbsorber Sports Bra (not totally safe for work, but you can ease into the unsafeness. After you select the "level of activitiy" be prepared to close the screen in case anyone's around).

Tit Heaven

As a general rule, the more buzz you can create with less investment, the better. Not only does this website appeal to women, but through it's ridiculous animation it helps to influence husbands, boyfriends and sons who will come to appreciate the breasts of their wives, girlfriends and mothers in an entirely new light. Men, like myself, will go to this site simply to see fake, animated breasts because no matter how ya pixelate'm, breasts are awesome. We will click on every single cup size, starting with the largest (obvi), and select every level of activity. We will view each of these demonstrations in both the sideview and wireframe options. Because of the porn groove intro music, many of us may become confused and actually pleasure ourselves to the website. All told, we will probably invest an hour of our day (if we are in the 7th grade, months of our year) navigating this site. When all is said and done, the ShockAbsorber brand will be ingrained in our corneas and we will no doubt ask our wives, girlfriends or mothers how well their current sports bra supports them. Half 'cuz we care and half 'cuz we will take any opportunity to talk about breasts. Marketing genius.

I know some of you are probably creeped out by the inclusion of the mother/son sports bra tandem. I am too. It just sucks because I have no one else to bring it up with since I don't have a wife or a girlfriend. So, not only did ShockAbsorbers' web site get me horny, it also served as a depressing reminder of my loneliness and creeped me out a little, too. It's kind of like every Sunday night when I put on those daisy dukes I bought for some reason after I saw Dukes of Hazzard and hang out in Christopher Street bars, depressed, lonely, creeped out and horny.

Blog Self Critique:
Brian's pretty aware that the fonts are totally messed up. Brian knows a lot of you like pictures. Especially those of you who tell Brian you specifically don't read the words he labors to write and just look at his pictures and captions. Well, you suck major donkey dick. Brian has also had friends tell him they can't read his blog because they like him in person and think he is being fake with the blog, creating a type of fictionalized, pseudo-reality based fiction, as it were. These "friends" have specifically denigrated the Blog Self-Critique section as being "hokey." He's also still not sure if the period goes inside or outside the quotes. But ya know what? F all that. If you ask him whether or not he stands behind his product, he will just quote a movie he saw today - "Is a pig's pussy pork?" 'Nuff said.
Brian's rating: 7.2/10 Hokey Self-Critiques!

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Sandwich Culture

2006-03-10T01:15:00.000-05:00

Only The Fuckin' Strong Fuckin' Survive
Most of you are probably high school graduates and how you got a diploma while being completely sandwich illiterate is fascinating to me - the type of thing worthy of a Lifetime Original.

Karen (sobbing): Johnny, you know I love you. You have to believe that. I wouldn't want to hurt you. Please, put down the shoe.
Johnny (beating her with her own shoe): You're a liar. You did this all on purpose. You're trying to sabotage me.
Karen (holding up a note asking Johnny to beat her more, but all the while saying...): Stop it! You're hurting me. My arm, Johnny.
Johnny: Admit it. Admit that you're sandwich illiterate.
Karen: But, I'm not, Johnny. Ow.
Johnny: Yes, you are. And now Steven is dead.

Now a calvacade of men start filing into the house wearing sweatshirts that say, "Domestic Abuse Is My Life." She smiles at each one and they respond by slapping her in the mouth.

Karen: You killed him.
Johnny: I had to prove to you what a real sloppy joe was by killing our son! Why can't I stop pummeling you with your own shoe that was visually highlighted in the opening scene!?

(end scene)

Garsh, what a retarded scene. Anyway. On MySpace there are these quizzes and one of them is titled "How Fucking Jersey Are You?" People fill out this quiz and then post the results on their profile. Those of you not from the Garden State may be confused as to why anyone would want to make public their past or current Jerseyness. This is a type of pride that only people from New Jersey understand. The most maligned residents in the annals of state related comedy, New Jerseyians are hyper-aware of their marginalized status on the national stage. And, like any true New Jerseyian, they overweeningly respond. Hence, Jersey pride.

Brief Aside

I imagine that if MySpace existed in the 1950s there would be a lot of former Nazis proudly displaying the results of their "How Fucking Nazi Are You?" quiz. Nazis are a lot like people from New Jersey in this way.

***

Just how does one prove their Jerseyness? They answer questions about the dirtiest beach town ever, Seaside Heights (Sleazeside) and how many freckles Bruce Springsteen has on his left nut (Most accounts say 34, though some claim 35. The discrepancy revolves around a particular freckle that straddles that line that runs perfectly down the center of every scrotum). I think this quiz is stupid and totally retarded. I take issue with a lot of the questions, feeling that their answers do not affirm in any way whether or not someone is innately Jersey. Fuck this quiz. Only a douche would take this retarded thing.

I scored a 69. As any New Jerseyian/Man/6th Grader should be, I am very proud of that number.

Truly, the only question that needs be asked to prove, definitively, a person's Fucking Jersiosity, is whether or not they know what a sloppy joe is, besides the most glorious sandwich since the Earl of Sandwich started this whole train a rollin'. A sloppy joe is not this:

Former Pink Power Ranger Amy Jo Johnson

A sloppy joe is not this:

How 'bout after a sapphic tryst with Mindy Cohn? C'mon, Mrs. G.

And it most certainly is NOT this:

Diarrhea Cha-Cha-Cha!

A real sloppy joe is comprised of three slices of rye bread, russian dressing, either turkey, ham, roast beef or any combination of the three, cole slaw and swiss cheese. It looks like this:

Glorious!

Here, a woman from Mendham, NJ solidifies the sloppy joe's reputation by getting it some major press. Unfortunately, Linda had a brainfart and included corned beef and pastrami as two possible meat choices for a sloppy joe. This is completely not possible, at all. (This is like ordering a whole pizza pie with riccotta and broccoli. You should be shot and then brought back to life and be forced to make-out with Oprah if you do this.) Linda from NJ has also left out roast beef as an option. Here is another definition offered on Urban Dictionary. This lug nut has left out both ham and roast beef as meat choices and does not allow for the possibility of a single meat choice sustaining the sandwich, rather she only allows for a combination of turkey, pastrami and corned beef. Sheer, utter blasphemy. (The penalty in this situation is a triple kiss with Oprah and Dr. Phil, while Stedman watches...naked). But, of course, the contributor's name is Blair, so she's probably a dumb blonde anyway.

I'd like to be the filling in a Tootie and Jo sandwich! C'mon, Mrs. Garrett.

Bt-Dubs, Lisa Whelchel is completely out of her mind. Go here and scope the books she's written. Most psycho mom, ever. More psyhco than Norman Bates.

For the record, the best tasting sloppy joe consists of a combination of turkey and ham.

How goddamn, mother fuckin' Jersey are you, bitch?

Jaeger fueled retard. Also, perfect.

Ron Popeil FACTS
If you didn't read that article on Popeil yet from the last post, you blow chunks and toss cookies at the same time! Submitted for your disproval!

Ron Popeil dreams in Wingdings.

Ron Popeil is the ad wizard who came up with this one.

Popeil’s Veg-O-Matic food slicer was originally built to execute retards.

If it were up to Ron Popeil, the bald eagle would be extinct.

Popeil came up with his sausage maker while watching a Thai boy shit on another man’s chest.

Popeil has sold light switches to the Amish.

Popeil once wrote a hit rap song. Not a single word could be included on the radio edit.

Popeil once did a can opener off the Golden Gate Bridge.

If you put the Ronco Pasta and Sausage Maker by your bed while you sleep, you wake up with an aldente boner.

Popeil only took one vacation in his entire life. Nine months later, Ricky Martin was born.

Popeil invented a device to make Gallagher funny. Ear plugs.

Alchemy Schmalchemy. Popeil turned lead into gold by shitting on it.

Popeil ejaculates ambrosia.

Popeil's DJ name is MC Hate Monger.

Ron Popeil farts in Spanish.

(All facts submitted by Me. Get with the program and submit some facts!)

I approve!

Blog Self-Critique:
Utterly random post. Brian woke up from a completely normal 11:30 PM nap and couldn't think of anything to write. He chose to write about the MySpace quiz and then started dreaming about sandwiches. Brian thinks about a sandwich with the same frequency that normal men think about sex. Thus, Brian thinks about sandwiches roughly once every seven seconds. It has long been a dream of his to move to Dublin, Ireland and open a New Jersey-style deli there, as the Irish are tragically bereft of any sandwich culture. He is more serious about this than feline AIDS. And if you don't think that's very serious. Imagine you're a cat. Now imagine you are a cat who has just gotten word from its doctor that it has AIDS. Devastating seriousity. The Popeil FACT that starts out with "Ron Popeil only took one vacation in his entire life" is like a rubric for funny. Brian knows that there is a way funnier idea than the Ricky Martin one. Send him some awesome suggestions. He already thought about 9/11 and Black Monday. Oh, and New Vernon, NJ knows what Brian's talkin' bout when it comes to the sandwiches.
Brian's rating: 8.1/10 MC Hate Mongers!

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Tard Apparel

2006-03-07T23:16:00.000-05:00

American Apparel:
Home of Stupid Hipster Girls
American Apparel, I hate you so much. I hate your bullshit ads, I hate your bullshit clothes, I hate your bullshit attitude and I hate your bullshit employees.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, American Apparel is a clothing store that sells the same thing in many different colors. The lynchpin of their business is the plain, cotton T-Shirt. Many of the girls who work there wear stupid outfits comprised of a combination of these one-pieces, leggings, bangles, faux retro hairstyles and ill-fitting shoes. They generally appear unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed. Apparently hiring employees resembling drugged-out extras from Fame makes for an excellent marketing tool. Over the past five years, American Apparel has become the largest clothing manufacturer in the US.

Below is a picture of the American Apparel store on the corner of Orchard and Houston.

I walk past this store everyday. And everyday I am subjected to the photos of Mitzvah kitsch that American Apparel has ingeniously deduced will appeal to their predominantly non-Jewish, hipster clientele. Fuck you, American Apparel. Fuck you so hard. If hate was an album, I would hire John Cusack to stand outside your store with a boom box over his head playing the hate album until your employees' ears began to bleed. And Cusack's not cheap and that's how much I hate you.

My soul dies a little as I look inside and imagine the effete worldviews of your retarded staff. I can't shake the notion that these idiot girls feel they are part of something hip and sexy and coated with cool. They are not. They are only helping to actualize the misogynistic wet-dream of this man.

The man pictured above is Dov Charney, founder and CEO of American Apparel. He is way too hip for his own good. In his lifetime, he has said this, "I was in my underwear for, like, six months. I gave up even putting my pants on." And this, "Eyebrows, trimmed eyebrows are out. Any asshole that trims her eyebrows, don't even bring them in, you know what I'm saying? It's superficial, but that's fashion and that's style and that's real estate." And has been sued for sexual harrassment at least three times. During the writing of a 2004 magazine piece that spanned two months of interviews, he masturbated in front of the female reporter several times (she apparently was a down ass chick). He often dates his employees, involving them in barely clad, bare bones photo shoots that produce provocative billboards.

The quote on the billboard blames women for domestic violence, by the way. Dov Charney's Weltanschauung is not without appeal. Inside every man is a small, bearded misogynist, who daily yearns to have rough, unsatisfying sex. And I certainly wouldn't mind sitting around in my underwear, taking pictures of nubile dummies for six months of my life. What's so goddamn bothersome is the suffocating level of hipster philosophy that informs the company's approach. Here, a girl working in the advertising department blows our minds with some total bullshit. "I think people have fake sex. We're accustomed to this sanitised version of sex in public, so yes, there's a lot of interest in the photos, a lot of them are sexual and raw. It's the difference between something you can smell and something you can't." Someone forgot to tell this girl that there is nothing sexy about a smelly vagina.
Voting is important to me. Washing my vagina is not.

I don't know what the definition of a hipster is and I'm not sure anyone does. If you look up "hipster" on Urban Dictionary you receive a variety of definitions that with brisk reading appear vaguely congruent. Closer inspection reveals contradictions that ultimately make the formation of a rounded definition difficult. For instance, one entry has a hipster defined, at least in part, by his holding a low paying job while another definition, the one I most agree with, states "typically, hipsters are 'slumming it' on mommy & daddy's dime. a full blown hipster reduces himself by never wearing anti-perspirant & appearing to be poor." There is no way these people can maintain the lifestyles they do and infest my neighborhood as they have while actually being poor. I firmly believe 2 of every 3 hipsters is to some degree a trust fund baby.

I like heroin and the opinions Daddy buys for me.

For those of you doubthing me, of course I've come up with my own definition. A hipster is anyone who dresses differently than you do that you hate. Thus, a synonym for hipster is douche. And all of the girls who work at American Apparel are first class, grade A, 100%, born and bred, steak and potato eating, flag burning, card carrying, line toeing, mother fucking douche bags. If you're thinking this whole essay smacks of the type of intolerant immaturity practiced by most adolescents – you’re right...and do you want to be in the pen15 club with me?

Below are some captioned pics from my search for American Apparel fodder. The second picture comes from an ad campaign in which the girl's fingers were eventually replaced by a man's (Dov's) in a series of photos. The last picture is actually used on the web site. It is intended to make you want to buy the clothing. Seriously.

I can smell your vagina from here. You're hired.

A hipster skank checks her lip for signs of a herpes breakout.

Classy!

Ready for a day of success!

Blog Self-Critique:
Did Brian mention that he hates American Apparel so deeply that he wishes he was mentally retarded to a degree where he couldn't understand what shapes or taste meant, so that he would be shielded from the raging bullshit storm that American Apparel daily brings to the lush shores of his mind? He hates it like Pat Robertson hates political correctness. He hates is like Bush hates being a good, decent man. He hates it like Cain hates Abel. He hates it like Skeletor hates He-Man. He hates it like Barry Bonds loves steroids and Kirby Puckett loves dying. He hates it like McAdams loves Gossling. He hates it like Doogie loves Howser. Brian values your readership, though. He doesn't hate that. He also loves ponies and cakes and centaurs. And, that Ashlee Simpson thing. For a long time he has hated Ashlee Simpson because he really thinks she looks like the type of person who has a smelly, unwashed vagina. She's so gross. And she spells her name wrong. Ron Popeil facts have not vanished. Brian requests that you please send them in. He can make them up, but that's not as fun as reading yours. Brian's friend, D, who just came home drunk from Scores, sent him this link to an article on Ron Popeil by Blink author, Malcolm Gladwell. Brian hasn't read it yet, but it's epic, so maybe read it when you get home. Or read it now at work. He don't care if you keep your job. He hates your job.
Brian's rating: 8.4/10 Cake Eating Centaurs!

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Get Out Of My Dreams And In To My Car!

2006-03-07T01:19:00.000-05:00

Random Thought
I live in constant fear of being Googled by an employer.

Get Out Of My Dreams And Into My Car
The title of that song is so wrong if you view it through the lens of pedophelia. Don't do that. You're sick. On Saturday, my friend E (name abbreviated to protect the opinionated) and I got into a discussion about women. The nature of our conversation was predicated on our not having seen one another in a long time. We both caught up on our chick situations. I can't remember what E's situation is because I was sober and not paying attention to him. My situation does not exist and apparently never will.

Brian's Nightly Prayers
A One Act Play
by
Brian

A well-appointed New York City bedroom. A young man, adonis-like after just losing 15 pounds to his acid reflux diet walks into the room and kneels beside the bed. His bowed head is outlined by a halo of good humor, charm and sex appeal.

Skewed Self-Image Me: Oh, Lord. Why have you forsaken me? Am I not a good son? Do I not care for those around me and wish good upon those less fortunate? I pray to you, if you find it within your great and noble heart, send to me this very night an angel of unrivaled beauty, that I might share my meager life with her. All I ask is this one wish to be granted and my soul henceforth shall be forever dedicated to you. Please, God. I am so lonely. And, I can only take so much more of thi---
God: Fuck you. You stupid sack of bitch.

(end scene)

I'm too embarrassed to actually pay eHarmony. For the time being, I'm content to have them send me emails every two weeks telling me that someone named Dawn in a neighborhood of Queens I've never heard of is interested in me based upon the fact that I listed my passion as, "I think people who claim to be passionate are full of shit." A true pick up artist like myself knows that a total lack of enthusiasm makes girls wicked hot.

E talked about being with someone who understands him - a girl who doesn't mind hearing his often aggressively verbalized view of the world. I mentioned to E that I am basically waiting for a girl to come along who I can just span most of my time with. We talked about how it's hard for us to understand couples who need to spend a lot (read: normal amount) of time apart. The way I see it, the girl I'm with will be awesome. I mean, there's no point in hanging out with her if she isn't. The bonus of having an awesome girlfriend is that not only is she totally cool to hang out with, but you can also do her. Frequently. Thus, there is no reason not to spend every waking moment with her. If we're not doing something that best friends do, like go to a movie or ball-tap each other, then we can be taking the F train to Pump Town. E agreed and spoke of his desire to find a girl who shared his two passions, traveling and f'ing. That way they could just travel and f. I told him he was full of shit.

Blog Self-Critique:
Whoa. What happened? No Pictures? A paranoid random thought? Esoteric references to Pump Town? Is Brian high or just high? He's neither. He's lazy and wants to go to bed. He promises he'll get unlazy tomorrow. Seriously. He'll take the unlazy train to Wicked Piss-ah Ville. He knows he told you yesterday that today was the day he'd stop being lazy and he'd write about jDate or how to tie a knot but ya know what? Oh, wait. What's this in his pocke---Fuck You. Brian didn't watch the Oscars, so he can't put together a tour de force blog on that. If anyone has a link to Will Ferrell and Steve Carell's (sp?) presentation of the make-up award, Brian would totes appreciate it. Big ups to the 90210 zip code for scoping the blog. Hopefully you are Elisha Cuthbert and that knocking at my door is you, wet and in need of a man towel.
Brian's rating: 6.4/10 Wicked Piss-ah Villes

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Humans Search For The Darndest Things

2006-03-06T02:09:00.000-05:00

Human Beings Are Insane
So, we all know about the numerous web searches for naked photos of US Olympic Ice Dancer Tanith Belbin that have led people to this blog. Why anyone believes that this sweet, innocent girl has posed for nude photos is beyond me. Why I keep searching for them, I can't explain. Before I go any further, I feel I should make it clear that I don't make up any of these searches. These are the things actual people are actually interested in finding. I submit them here for two reasons.

1) I am extremely lazy and after a long weekend (which was great by the way, saw two old friends and a lot of world class buffoonery) of being no where near a computer and not getting very much sleep, I don't really want to rely on myself to write anything interesting. So, I figured I'd just show you a bunch of pictures, hoping to turn you on. Pretend like it's a playdate at the Neverland Ranch (MJ joke #1).

2) By bringing to light the excessive depravity of most human beings, the reader included, I hope to deflect judgement away from the severely politically incorrect/immature things I daily write.

Porn tolerance is an evil thing. While the 13-year-old boy can easily satisfy his lust with a few photos of a nude ice dancer, it isn't long before he needs something more perverted. What more titillating a tangent off of nude ice dancers than crotch shots of clothed figure skaters?

It doesn't surprise me that this search originated from the Bible Belt, where
they like their women quiet and their porn awkward.

Below I've included the results of the "figure skating crotch shot photos" search page that shows both my blog and, only three results up, Michelle Collins' blog, You Can't Make It Up. I like her work, but can't seem to get her to link to me, even though we apparently are grounded around the same buzzwords.

Barely dissimilar internet dorks.

I'm very enthused to discover that if someone in Plano, TX searches for anything related to Lisa, Kelly and Jesse's killer work out video, I am their one stop shop for disappointment.

Go to Sean Cassidy's MySpace page and tell me honestly you don't want to live his life.

Thanks Kenilworth, NJ for getting me one step closer to answering one of the most burning questions I've had to deal with lately. We are so on the same page in our curiousity as to the existence of a hip hop song that has the lyrics, "whatever, whatever, whatever"

I think this is the B-side from that single Phil Collins did with Bone Thugs.

And here's where the depravity begins. Balls to the wall depravity. Before people started mistakenly ending up at my site, I thought I was inventing the name GaggingWhores when I used it as my pretend clutch, "go-to" porno site. Well, multiple confused masturbators later, I'm convinced that the site really does exist and that it's really easy to find a password for it by simply asking Google nicely.

This search originated in Copenhagen, where Porn is a viable second language.

How many more misled dudes will I lure to my site by typing this: DirtyCrotchMonkeys

And now shit just gets weird. What kind of freaky shit are you into, Hilliard, OH?

Hoboken, NJ and Hilliard, OH = Sister Cities in Titty Banging

What the f'in f is going on at The Monkey's Penis?

I think I need a drum roll for this final web search. It literally had me laughing for a good two minutes when I clicked on the next visitor to my blog and saw these search terms, straight outta Flat Top, WV,

Would love to get a pint with Elijah and talk about his experiences with Gay Slave Training.

The zoom was set for human proportions.

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian wants people to know that even though this post was made to save time/waste yours, it actually took him over an hour to get this all together. He has a lot to say about a weekend that saw drunk, shirtless men in pile-ons, puke, hilarious drunken make-out sessions at 12:30 PM with girls deep in the throes of full on herpes break-outs (no, not me), the shittiest techno music of all time and a general decline in his overall respect for the people he surrounds himself with. Oddly enough, that decline in respect has miraculously increased his respect at the same time. And Brian promises he has something to say about jDate and Clinton St. Baking Company. He realizes some of the sentences in this Self-Critique are technically run-on sentences/shitty ass crap.
Brian's rating: 7/10 Whatever, Whatever, Whatevers, YO!

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Bob Papa? I just met her.

2006-03-03T02:18:00.000-05:00

Random Thought
For my money, Tony Montana had the best pick-up line of all time.

Computer = Pornography Machine

I know there are people out there who spend all their time on the Internet searching for porn. I know this because I'm one of them. The truth is, people don't really need computers. The only reason we all have one in our home is to sustain the mental health of those in the household who daily require at least 3 gigs of fresh porn. Girlfriends out there, your boyfriend doesn't use the computer for anything, ANYTHING other than pornography. He may say he's checking his email, and maybe he is, but that takes roughly three minutes. Besides, checking email counts as pornography because his mind is trained to become aroused once email starts getting checked. The mind knows what's coming (tee-hee) and so email checking serves as a kind of masturbatory foreplay.

Brief Tangent About Poop

The bodies ability to maintain a schedule is both amazing and severe. The amazing part is that since high school, the timing of my deuces has been regulated according to my work/play schedule. Everyday at the midpoint of 9th period (my school was built by Nazis) my bowels would start a-rumblin' like San Francisco, 1906. My body knew school was ending and I'd have exactly one half hour to drive home, read ten pages of the Great American Bathroom Book, Vol. 4 and get back in the car with just enough time to make it to soccer practice. The severe part is that once the schedule is set, there is no deviating. The bowel is absolutely Clark W. Griswoldian in its strict adherence to an itinerary.

Waving goodbye to Chevy Chase's sense of humor.

Today, I am still slave to the severity of my bowel time-clock. If I don't visit the bathroom to "make friends" before a shift starts I have to awkwardly hold things in for the entire day. I call this situation the Toddler Poops. I can sense that my "friends" are trying to sneak out of the dorm after curfew and sometimes yearn for the peace of mind that wearing a diaper might bring. And yes, folks, people trust me with their children.

***

Anyway, I'm not so sure that computers aren't just the end-product of a conspiracy perpetrated by the government in cahoots with the pornography industry. I mean, the fabricated War on Drugs is largely responsible for sustaining the overblown Prison Industrial Complex at the cost of countless wasted American lives. If they're already getting secret kickbacks from drug companies, why couldn't the government have created TurboTax as a way to keep American wives and girlfriends believing that a computer is a necessary household item? Think about it; who invented taxes in the first place? And I mean, you could do your taxes without TurboTax, right? Eerie.

So, this was all a retarded way of me showing you folks the hilarious screen shots of actual porn searches that led people to my blog. Of course, in a desperate and mad scramble for masturbatory fodder, it doesn't look like they stayed for very long, unless maybe they were Tanith Belbin fans.

The first screen shot might not have been a search for porn. A man in Northport, FL was in search of a one man hot tub. I hope his next search was for a waterproof laptop, because I can't imagine doing anything in a one man hot tub not involving the flogging of a dolphin. (If you're thinking of saying "relaxing" you can go "f" yourself in the "a" with your damned logic, you're ruining my flow).

Romantic evening, party of one? Your hot tub of lies is ready.

Thanks gang for making my blog come up on the first page of a web search that produced 461,078 results. That's about as awesome as Tony Danza's cameo in Crash (I'm totally sincere when I say that. Tony Danza's turn as a dickhead racist was both surprising and brilliant. Who knew?)

This next search comes to us out of Manchester, NH, where I can imagine it gets really fuckin' cold. And nothing can keep a man warm on those lonely Hampshire nights like the digital radiance of his pornography machine. Oh wait, except that this search was made at 10:40 AM. Even by my progressive standards, that's really early to think about waxing the philosophe. Note the friendly suggestion for naked women in hot tub, in case our flagellating friend wanted to pluralize his experience.

Do they deliver?

And below, the piece de resistance. Coming (tee hee) to us from Fairfax, VA. Home of class. Note how I'm number two out of all searches for "hot tub fucking." Then note the incestuous gay sex that is implied by the summary.

[Insert Brokeback joke here.]

So there you have it folks, the week that was in porn searches that eventually led to people viewing my site. I hope you were as captivated as I've been.

Mustache March UPDATE!
I failed to mention in the last post that I have declared, Win In The End, the theme song from Michael J. Fox's Teen Wolf, as the official theme song of Mustache March. As with any holiday, there are many carols associated with Mustache March, but this should be the equivalent to Christmas' Silent Night. Win In The End captures the "against all odds" spirit of the holiday and with its Halloween-ish opening strains, sets the mood for the positively ghoulish sex any mustachioed man can be counted on to deliver.

How the balls did this movie get made? The 80s were the awesomest time of all time. A studio executive can only be expected to approve this in the 80s. "It's about a teenager? And he's a werewolf? And when he's a wolf he kicks ass at basketball? I'll never live it down if I pass on this." And this is a long caption.

Blog Self-Critique:
First of all, does everyone notice how the font size changed again? Brian is so god damned pissed about this he might shoot a toddler poop through the wall. Brian wants to own Teen Wolf. He wants that to be part of the vibe a girl gets when walking into his room and scoping his DVD collection. This way, she might just think Brian is turning into a sexy werewolf when he becomes nauseous and takes a knee. Brian has acid reflux disease.
Brian's rating: 7.5/10 Dog Pee Sandwiches!

SUBMIT A POPEIL FACT!
GROW A MUSTACHE!
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Straight Up Now Tell Me!

2006-03-02T03:44:00.000-05:00

Mustache March is Here!

Brief History of
Mustache March

Mustache March is a holiday created in the Spring of 1979 by Burt Reynolds and Tom Selleck. Selleck and Reynolds were upset at widespread rumors that they were gay based solely on the meticulous grooming of their facial coiffures. Striking out at what they viewed as an unsavory co-opting of the mustache by those within the gay community, the month long celebration was the duo's attempt at winning back "ownership" of every misogynists favorite form of facial growth. The call to arms was received loud and clear by straight supporters of the mo who staged rallies from coast to coast, passing out fliers and foregoing the usual charge of five cents for mustache rides in an attempt to firmly root the 'stache in its heterosexual origins. Groups such as the Fu Manchu Society developed catchy slogans such as "Cover That Rash, Grow a Mustache" and "You'll Go Far With a Handlebar," with some chapters even encouraging their women-folk to grow facial hair.

This unexpected frenzy over the sexual orientation of mustache wearers quickly became too much for Reynolds and Selleck as they urgently sought a way out of their role as figureheads for the Manstache Movement, as it came to be called. The two risked losing many friends in traditionally gay-friendly Hollywood (Freddie Mercury refused to speak to either of them until November of 1990 when, with Mercury in the final stages of his battle with AIDS, the three met for cucumber sandwiches at Chateau Marmont). In need of serious damage control, the pair spread word through their handlers that their mustachioed zeal was not in the least motivated by homophobia, but had been undertaken with an eye towards stabilizing their fan base. This had been of particular concern to Reynolds, who, some 7 years later, was still receiving negative fan mail regarding his role in the 1972 film, Deliverance. Thanks to some genius public relations work, the men were able to broker deals that not only saved, but greatly enhanced their careers. Selleck was handed the lead role in Magnum P.I., a show that appealed to straight and gay men alike, while Reynolds popularity was given a boost a year later with the release of Cannonball Run, considered by many to be the finest film of all time.

As is the case with most holidays, though many have lost sight of its original meaning the spirit of Mustache March remains strong. Everywhere across the USA, from construction sites to upscale steakhouses, biker rallies to Village People tributes, can be seen the legacy of Selleck and Reynolds. People who normally disparage mustaches find they gain a Salvador Dali-like appreciation for them. For a magical moment in time, the mustache becomes a thing to be embraced, not feared for its smell. Whatever your mustasche style, whether handlebar, pencil or Fu Manchu, you can count on March being the only month you'll get laid.

***

My friends have fully embraced Mustache March (known in some households as Misogynist March) with the kind of seriousness and dedication that, if applied to their actual lives, would enable them to inch just a little closer to possibly thinking about accomplishing their goals. I'm not sure how I feel about mustaches. I've always kind of felt that girls are turned off by them the same way they're turned off by dutch ovens or pleading for butt sex. But then, there is always that girl who comes along and throws everything off by being really cute and swearing she loves mustaches. Last summer, when I was kind of a big deal and didn't need a job, I totally grew a mustache to avoid having to speak with girls. For the most part it worked. Deep down I didn't want it to, but it did. Let me explain that. I'm a little bit like Donovan McNabb and the 2004-2005 NFL season when it comes to bringing a girl home. I've got a lot going for me, a great bullshitting motion with an excellent supporting cast of wingmen I rely on to carry me from conversation to conversation. With luck on my side, and if I stay healthy, I can make it through the entire night to the biggest stage of all, the bedroom. It's just that once I get the girl's clothes off I sort of feel nauseous and have to take a knee. So, to avoid the embarrassment of all that, I grew a horrible, straggly looking Fu Manchu. My hair is brown but my facial hair comes in orange. Most days it looked like I'd been going down on a Cheeto for the last hour. Let's just say that girls flocked to me like full blown AIDS to Magic Johnson.

My friend Alex gets the most excited about Mustache March. I think that's because he gets the least excited about everything else.

No one with a mustache like this should look this happy.

Alex is pretty much the motivator/ring leader of Mustache March as far as I can tell. It's interesting to witness a man who can barely keep his room clean maintain such an exquisite facial landscape.

Rob sort of looks like he just woke up and is startled to discover a dead hooker in his bed, but not so startled that he wouldn't think about arranging the hooker into a funny pose with a surfboard so he could make it onto College Humor.

Ash Wednesday is next week.

This is Denny, aka 70's Porno He-Man. He lives in Argentina, but when he comes back to the States he has a big audition for Deadwood.

My mustache has the best body, man.

This is Tim.

Hi. I'm Tim.

I don't know who this guy is and that girl looks like she'd piss me off in real life.

This man is trying to explain the physics of his sweater.

My workplace caught fire the other day, which is excellent timing. Normally, I wouldn't be able to begin the process of growing facial hair because it's unprofessional to grow facial hair. I've never understood this philosophy of the working world. Apparently, once you have facial hair, no one can figure out how it got there - that it actually had to be grown at some point, like maybe after you got fired from your last job and all you do is sit in bed eating ice cream and cultivating your "down-on-my-luck" beard. Apparently, once you're back at work it's totally professional to get bits of Jolly Rancher and pizza stuck in your new beard and have it fall from your face in the course of conversation. By this same logic, it would be totally uncool to bang the boss's daughter in my cubicle, but once we were finished, I'd be the recipient of endless high-fives and hearty congratulations. That is to say, it's totally unprofessional to sleep with the bosses daughter, but it is widely respected as a legit method of moving up the company ladder. So, I'm gonna flex my upper lip and see if I can't grow a mustache in the next two days. I'll put up a sweet picture of my mug when I do.

I encourage everyone to embrace Mustache March and grow a mo. Submit your sweet Mustache March photos and earn recognition amongst the four people who read this blog.

Ron Popeil FACTS
Some people are down on the Popeil FACTS. They say they are tired. Granted, a lot of them aren't funny, but tired? C'mon. Also, submit Ron Popeil FACTS. The man didn't build an empire so you people could shit all over it.

Ron Popeil shaves with razor sharp penne.

Ron Popeil is a verb.

(Shitty facts submitted by Me. I reserved the right to make them very unfunny.)

I approve!

Johnny Fuckin' Utah
I think there's a theme to this post. I'm not sure, but I think this video works into that theme. Some kid from my alma mater made this trailer for The Shining that I'm sure many of you have seen. He makes the movie seem like a feel good romantic comedy. Here someone has done the same with the second greatest surfing movie of all time, Point Break.

You Know You're the Coolest When...
Your iTunes plays Paula Abdul's Straight Up twice in two hours.

Remember when this video was groundbreaking?

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian is sure this post is an example of what happens when you overthink something - like when he planned for months his one year anniversary with his college girlfriend only to find that she didn't enjoy eating foie gras off the back of a sedated lion. She did appreciate the ostrich rides, though. Brian isn't sure if he's really going to grow a mustache, he might just paint one on like Groucho Marx did. He understands that writing about something his friends do and putting up a bunch of pictures of them, some with inside jokes for captions, is not that interesting, but he also doesn't care. Also, you have no idea how long it took to layout those Selleck and Reynolds pics. Like everything in his life, Brian's not sure it was worth it. Stay tuned for great posts later this week about JDate and this weekend's retarded antics with Brian's friends at Hoboken St. Patrick's Day. Brian hates this post.
Brian's rating: 10/10 Shithead Girls in Big Sunglasses and Uggs

SUBMIT A POPEIL FACT!
GROW A MUSTACHE!
LINK MY BLOG!

Hold it, Ron!

2006-03-01T09:55:00.000-05:00

Ron Popeil FACTS

Manufacturing of the Ronco Inside-the-Shell Egg Scrambler began the day Popeil lost his virginity.

The Popeil family eats their Christmas Tree for Christmas dinner.

Popeil re-mixed Ignition.

(Facts submitted by Awesemo G. Cordella and Me. I reserve the right to edit any submissions to make them much, much funnier.)

I approve!

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian doesn't think small posts like this deserve self-critiques.
Brian's rating: 5/10 1's and 2's.

LINK MY BLOG!

Jim Croce Kicks Ass

2006-03-01T00:39:00.000-05:00

Random Thought
Everyone wants their cellphone to give them more bars. F that. I want mine to give me head.

J-Mac and Ball-io
Go read this article and watch the accompanying video. If this doesn't get you a little emotional, you should consider killing yourself. ESPN is getting eerily good at giving jocks another emotion besides robot. Granted, it doesn't take much to get me a little misty-eyed. I'm the guy who in 10th grade cried while watching Phenomenon alone in his basement . J-Mac is my new favorite autistic person. My previous favorite autistic person?

What does color taste like?

CNN: Paragon of News Reportage
Right now on CNN's homepage, the story "American inmates in Afghan jail standoff" is alongside "The pooch with the nose for hooch". Thanks CNN for another Breaking News-tastrophe! (It took me seven hours and seven No-Doze to coin the ever acerbic term "news-tatrophe." Respect.)

Esoteric Section
I tutor a 5th grader twice a week and am reluctant to ever mention it on my blog due to the absolutely awful shit that I daily write. The only reason I mention this (besides the "aww" points it gets me from the ladies [who are most likely turned off already, anyway]) is because the other day this kid said, well, the darndest thing.

He told me I'd be a good comedian when I grow up. After cackling maniacally for a solid minute, I told him I needed a piece of paper to write that down. He asked me why and I told him, "Because what you just said put an awesome stamp of patheticness across the entire expanse of my life." He asked me what that meant and I changed the subject to the World Baseball Classic before I could make good on the once in a lifetime opportunity to start crying alone in a room with a 10 year old boy.

Brief Interpolation

Not true. Undoubtedly, in my 70s I will find myself in my grandson's bedroom, helping him with his homework, when a noble, gentle winged oriole lands upon the windowsill. With a single flutter of my eyelids, I will drink in the bird's soul. His evanescent beauty will sear deeply my spirit, cutting through bone and grizzle to the deepest chambers of my heart. I will point and to my grandson proclaim, "Look, Matthew, quickly. A beautiful thing." Matthew will turn and, seeing nothing, remark, "Whatever sandwich." After an uncomfortable silence broken only by a leaf blower's distant whine, Matthew will shout to the floor below, "Dad, Grandpa's scaring me again." And as I sit there with my progeny realizing the futility of my presence, I will hurl great, racking sobs at my existence.
(end pretentious prose)
***

I didn't have the heart to tell my tutee that I'm already grown up and I've no where to go but down. Okay, let's move on since I don't feel comfortable making dick jokes inside this section. Whoops.

Fooling Myself To Live
Question: Why do I think every woman who makes eye contact with me wants to be my girlfriend?
Answer: Because I am a sad, lonely man.

Gladys eyed me, thinking I might mug her.
We've been dating for weeks.

The other day an Asian girl was standing on the street corner, trying to hail a cab. She was packed and stacked, 'specially in the back. I made note that later I might wish to send her mother a brief note, thanking her for a butt like that. So, as it was, this adorable Asian woman was getting stared down by another gentleman. This guy was eyeing her like he was a clown and she the most opulent red nose in existence. I mean, he coveted her and you sensed it just looking at him looking at her. Frankly, it was making me a little uncomfortable, the coveting. She was clearly uncomfortable, too, shooting those, "Oh, my God, is this guy still looking at me, yes, shit, he's still looking at me" glances. This is where I decided to step in. I started making some eye contact of my own with the notion that I might save her. I gave her eyes that said, "Excuse me, miss. I am aware of your dilemna and if there's anything I can do to be of assistance, please, just let me know." But, it didn't seem like she was noticing my bail-out eye contact so I tried again. I took a step closer and sort of gave her a "Hey. I'm right here. Ready to help. Did you--is this guy bothering you? Cuz, I can take hi--well, physically I'm a little outclassed, but I could probably get him to chase me down the block. That way you could sort of stand here in peace while--no? What? I'm sorry, I'm not understanding your look" look. Then she sort of gave me this "Wait, is this guy looking at me, too? What did I do today to deserve this shit" look. Sensing a mix-up, I moved to within a foot and gave her a "No, you don't understand. I noticed that total creep over there and--I mean, can you believe him?" look. Her response was to just turn completely away from me which in looks is like a total slap in the face, so then I grabbed her and spun her around and with my eyes said, "Listen, bitch." That's when she maced me, Officer.

Ron Popeil FACTS
Popeil invented a stamp that allows him to triple stamp a double stamp.

(submitted by Tom and Joe. All submissions are subject to editing by me to make them much, much funnier.)

I approve!

Blog Self-Critique:
There are a lot of things Brian is hating right now. He hates that the font size he picks is never the one that ends up on the final blog and therefore the whole blog has different sized captions and body text throughout. That pisses him off like Tyra Banks styles. He hates that he doesn't know when or if the period is supposed to go inside or outside the quotes. He hates Sigfried but loves, loves, LOVES Roy. He really hates that font thing though. Like, he's totes livid about the fact that he spends time formatting this god damned blog and it's all for naught. You don't really understand how pissed he is but you will when you start writing a kick ass blog, too. And he despises Ashlee Simpson. Brian wants to give a quick shout out to whoever is obsessed with him in New Vernon, NJ. Thanks ever so much. Don't worry. He's tried to find out who you are and can't. He also thinks it's cool that he made everyone think he's really depressed by bringing up crying so much. He also enjoys that he weirded people out with the oriole thing. I mean, c'mon. Who writes about orioles? Right? Whatever sandwich.

Whatever, whatever, whatever.

Brian thinks this web site he just found is really funny so you should go to it. He doesn't understand why it's so hilarious, either.
Brian's rating: 8/10 Whatever Sandwiches!

LINK MY BLOG!

Slacking

2006-02-28T00:30:00.000-05:00

Random Thought of the Day
When I see a baby, all I can think about is a bonfire of money.

Dear New York
Openly nasty open letters to fashion distressed New Yorkers lucky enough to share my morning commute.

Dear Stupid Girl With Stupid Sunglasses Wearing Uggs,

Die. Die. Die. Die.

There is nothing worse than you.

---

Dear Person Still Wearing Beat Up Doc Martens,

Dr. Shulz fuckin' hates Doc Marten.
You're not as cool as you think. And we all know how uncomfortable you are. And 1993 was a long, long time ago.

---

Dear Man With 1980s Briefcase,

I swear there's not a bomb in there.
Just Ziploc bags full of my farts.
No one has those anymore. They're called man purses now. No one thinks someone with a man purse is going to blow up the train. We all suspect you will. Ease our minds and go for the upgrade.

---

Dear Man With Fedora,

Look how skinny your body is. You suck.

You weren't even alive when it was cool to wear a fedora. The 1940s were so 1996. Take your Zoot Suit Riot somewhere else. It's not style if it's stupid.

---

Dear Urban Youth With Tag Still On Your Hat,

Why?

Brand New Day
Within the last 24 hours, two people have told me that I look a lot like this guy.

I'd say the resemblance is uncanny.

He's the lead singer of a band called Brand New. One of the people was working in Starbuck's. She was cute in a Samoan way.

Brief Interpolation

To girls who don't understand, to be cute in a Samoan way means she was a cute girl, but the Samoan quality about her overpowered any cuteness/petiteness she possessed leaving her pitiably cute. You don't want to be pitiably cute. Others unfortunate enough to be considered pitiably cute include, but are not limited to, Blossom, Six, Jody Sweetin, Kimmy Gibbler, Tina Yothers, Jo from Facts of Life, Tutti when she had braces and numerous other sitcom teenagers. Lesson to girls: Don't be Samoan.

***

Anyway, I decided there are a number of differences between me and the lead singer of Brand New:
He has money.
He has chick(s).
He likes himself.
Owning a home is not a pipe dream.
His wang isn't crooked.

From what others have told me, apparently I also look like...

Josh Groban just missing the ice cream truck.

Zack Morris just catching a whiff.

Val Kilmer just out of prison.

A Hobbit's Habit
I've always hated Elijah Wood. The following performance (not safe for work) completely changed my mind. Here, Elijah shows us that there really is a self-righteous, over-the-top child inside every guido.
(submitted by Hobby, an over-the-top child)

Ron Popeil FACTS
Popeil was briefly imprisoned while on holiday in Tel Aviv for his "Set it
and Forget It" suicide attack rhetoric.

Popeil once swallowed eggs, flour and water to prove, approximately twelve hours later, that nothing made pasta better than his RonCo Pasta Maker, not even the human colon.

Popeil inadvertantly invented the tube sock. He had originally intended it to be his personal penis cozie.

(Submitted by Dennis E. Sheehan and Me. I reserve the right to edit all submissions to make them much, much funnier.)

I approve!

Blog Self-Critique:
Brian is starting to coast. He's passed out at the wheel of a high-performance vehicle after a dangerous combination of No-Doze and Nexium. Maybe someday soon he'll write something about his deep, personal thoughts. Maybe someday soon he'll stop checking the bathroom for pube droppings now that he's become hyper aware of all of his body hair, especially his most African American kind.
Brian's rating: 6.8/10

LINK MY BLOG!

Defeat At Every Turn...

2006-02-26T23:22:00.000-05:00

More Truth
Catriona* (my brother) (8:01:30 PM): ummm. you know you weren't breast fed. . .