These Are the Stories You Won't Tell the Kids We'll Never Have
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
hilarytheguy's LiveJournal:
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| Monday, April 7th, 2008 | | 8:48 pm |
Patrick Ewing Wants You to Know His Stripper-Nailing Skills Are Hall-of-Fame-Worthy
Hi, folks. I know a lot of you readers are on the voting panel for the NBA Hall of Fame, and as you well know, I'm up for induction today. If I could have a minute of your time, I'd like to plead my case. Sure, you can look at my stats – 11-time NBA all-star, over 22,000 points and 10,000 rebounds – or the fact that I was voted one of the 50 best NBA players of all time, and say, "Wow, Patrick Ewing was a hell of a player, even if he never did win a title and he played 5 years longer than he should have." But if you limit your analysis to those stats, you're missing one crucial statistical category that I dominated for all 17 of my NBA seasons: nailing strippers. A lot of people focus on my mid-range jump shot, and how, as a result, I rarely took the rock to the hole. Well, those people never saw me in the club. My inside game may not have been powerful on the court, but in the club, let me assure you: I was all about powerful, rim-shaking slams. In NBA games, when I would match up against larger, better players like Hakeem Olajuwon, I was always able to box out defensively. But if you ask any of the thousands of strippers who worked in the New York area during my career, you'll know that I spent even more time in boxes. That's slang for lady parts. Some players only play well at home, and are always a bit off their game on the road. Not me. I was dedicated to excellence, spending hours honing all aspects of my game – particularly the nailing strippers part. Hell, I nailed so many strippers in one club in Atlanta that a district court brought me in to explain to them how it's done. Sure, they called it "testimony I was legally required to provide after being subpoenaed in a federal case," but I saw the way the attorneys were taking notes, thinking to themselves, "Damn, Ewing, your game is tight – unlike those strippers after you were done with them!" Funny story: in court, they asked me if I gave the strippers any tips, and I was like, "Oh, that was taken care of. I gave them a very large tip, if you get my drift." In case my clever double entendre there confuses you, I was referring to my sizable penis. And it's true that it's huge, because I was under oath. So when you're voting today, don't just focus on my two Olympic golds – think about my Olympian gonads, and make sure you factor in all the broads from crazy weird countries I nailed in international peeler bars with my huge package while there, representing our country and the game of basketball. Thank you. | | Tuesday, February 12th, 2008 | | 1:43 pm |
we can pretend this isn't goodbye but I've always preferred reading fiction to living it
Here's how I know I must have liked you a lot: I kept wanting to call you her name. I don't let the marks he left get in the way of our goodbye. Easy then, knotted stomach now. Didn't we almost? Yeah. Close enough isn't good enough. Close to a lot of things once, now just both close to tears. Your voice, quiet and shaky for a change: "I'm gonna miss you." You won't look me in the eyes and when you do, I understand why. There's way more here than we intended and time and space and life aren't on our side. This is growing up: walking away from what you want to do because it would distract you from what you have to do. Football season is over indeed, Hunter, and some days, 30 years feels like 17 past 50, too. Current Music: "You said this would happen, and you were not wrong." | | Friday, December 14th, 2007 | | 7:32 pm |
Dear Jerks in the News Media
Well, you've gone and done it again: spoiled something I was trying to keep a lid on. Yes, I saw your blurb today about some ruffians in India stealing a priest's magic leg. What's the matter - there suddenly aren't any horribly depressing stories about refugees in Iraq for you to write about? Sigh. You know who else saw your little article? My brother. Now, when he opens up his Christmas gift of an Indian priest's severed leg with reputed magical healing powers, he'll feign a look of surprise, but he'll know. And not just because it's hard to cover up the smell of severed, unrefrigerated Indian holy man leg. No, it'll be because he's already read the story and known I finally got him what he's always wanted since he was a child. Every year when we were growing up, that lovable little scamp would have just one thing on his Christmas list - a leg with magical healing powers, preferably from an Asian holy man. He wasn't picky. He would have taken one from a Cuban santero, if that's the best my parents could do. And every year, they'd get him a sweater with a whale on it, or a He-Man wallet, tousle his hair, and say, "Maybe next year, kiddo." Those goddamned liars. So finally, someone in the family steps up, takes someone else's dreams on their shoulders, and this happens. All that effort to surprise him - my brother and the priest - the plane tickets, planning the leg heist, the careful way I learned both Malayalam and Tamil to earn his trust... Have you ever sawed through a human leg with a knife "in a brutal manner", news media? Have you? Do you know how tough it is to cut through bone? The man was passed out, but he wasn't dead. The screams were terrible. Way worse than you can even begin to imagine. The only thing that kept me going was thinking about the look of pure joy on my kid brother's face on Christmas day, when he opened the physical manifestation of his childhood dreams in bloody, decapitated leg form. All that effort wasted. I hope someone ruins your holidays with an article like "Stupidfaced reporter plans on asking ugly girlfriend to marry him on New Year's." Jerks. Sincerely, hilarytheguy | | Thursday, December 13th, 2007 | | 6:00 pm |
Mitchell Report: Gwynn, Others May Have Played Under the Influence of Candy [cross-post]
Baseball's already tarnished image received a crucial blow earlier today, when a section of the controversial Mitchell Report on steroid abuse in the sport included a surprising section on players who may have inflated their statistics and waistlines by playing on "ludicrously high levels" of performance-enhancing candy. Several of the names mentioned - including Hall of Famer Tony Gwynn - surprised long-time baseball fans. Tony Gwynn, pictured before and after alleged candy usage:   "What? Not svelte, fit Tony Gwynn," said shocked fan Steve Erntwhistle, reading the Report online from his La Jolla, CA office. "He had such speed on the basepaths, especially when he'd fall over and start rolling downhill." As a decades-long Padres season ticket holder during Gwynn's career, Erntwhistle said he should have noticed something was awry when Gwynn got larger, seemingly overnight. "The dead giveaway should have been when he replaced his wooden bat with an enormous turkey leg that he'd gnaw on between pitches, or that season he batted with a man-sized tube of cookie dough." Gwynn, surprised by a camera crew while at a video store, made a quick statement refuting the Report. "These claims are Nutrageous," Gwynn said. "Excuse me if I Snicker at this, but I've heard some Whoppers in my day. These Goobers and Milk Duds on the Commission think they can Take 5 random names and charge us, but these allegations won't Reesestick to me." He then grabbed a DVD copy of the 1977 Diane Keaton film Looking for Mr. Goodbar from a nearby shelf and proceeded to eat it. Former Tigers home run king Cecil Fielder has been named in the report as well, but the most shocking allegations are those leveled at pitcher David Wells.  According to ESPN analyst John Kruk - also a player named in the report - Wells' girth grew to the point where he would sweat butter and place this illegal substance on the ball. "Substances on the ball - the old 'spitball' or putting Vaseline in your hair back in the 70s - help it spin out of control, making it nearly unhittable," Kruk said during an ESPN special report. "You can only imagine what this whiskey-and-butter ball would do." Kruk then paused to swallow a three pound chicken-fried steak whole, washing it down with Wendy's new Mayoshake™. | | Wednesday, December 12th, 2007 | | 12:23 pm |
Christmas Gifts for the Lady in Your Life [christ on a cross-post]
[I've given up on keeping different blogs for now. I'm a cross-posting fool.] Well, it’s the Christmas season again, and that means having to buy gifts for a bunch of people. You may notice that I said “Christmas season” and not “the holidays,” because it’s high time people learned enough about Judaism to know that Hanukah is nowhere near the top of the list of Important Jewish Holidays. The Christians don’t pretend that the Feast of the Ass is as good as Rosh Hashanah, and turnabout is fair play, so my Jewish friends, quit pretending that some damn lamp oil lasting eight f-ing days is equivalent to the birth of another religion’s Messiah. Whenever your lazy Messiah decides to show up and gather the Jews in the Holy Land to usher in a time of peace, Congress will give you that day off, too. That’s one of the main things I respect about Islam: no trumped-up holiday to compete with Christmas. In fact, Muhammad told his followers not to make his birthday (Mawlid an-Nabi) a big deal, like Christians did with Jesus, because who needs more lame-ass carols? (Especially if they’re written by that guy who wrote the call to prayer. There’s a reason that song never charted.) Tons of Muslims don’t even celebrate it, which sucks as far as not getting the day off or selling wrapping paper, but I like religions that celebrate quietly and keep it moving. Also, I’m surprised that with all the fad diets out there, no one’s come up with the Ramadan diet (“If the sun is up, put the food down!”). Christians, I’ve seen your followers in this country, and maybe you guys could go for a few less Feasts and a few more fasts. Blasphemy aside, Christmas is a terrible time for men in relationships, because all of a sudden, we’ve got to give women we don’t pay much attention do gifts that reflect how much attention we should be paying to their dreams, hopes, and desires. So, for you gents, here’s a quick holiday guide of gifts to get the missus. Gift #1: Lingerie. Especially if you’re in a long-term relationship, women want to feel like you still look at them in the same lustful way you did when you started dating. They’ve got a lot invested in you, because women are unfairly judged by their appearance, and as their beauty fades with age, you’re increasingly their only option. So let her know that if she wraps the same gift in a slightly different manner, maybe you’ll get off the couch for a few minutes to tend to her needs. Also, what better gift to open during your big family gift exchange in front of your folks and your kids to let them all know you’re still giving it to your old lady on the semi-regular? Tip: buy it two sizes too small and tell her it’ll be a nice motivator to lose all that weight she’s put on since you started dating. Oh, or say, “I’m sorry, I thought you were the same size as Ashley at work, and she said she was a 4. Then again, her boobs are bigger.” Gift #2: Women love shoes. You know how if you were a huge nerd in high school and played RISK on the weekends, you loved looking over your vast empire of vanquished peoples at the end of a successful campaign (but failed social life)? Women feel the same way about shoes. When it comes to shoes, women are like Mao: they love opening their closet and seeing millions of bowing, loyal subjects begging to be trod upon. Since they like shoes we don’t understand, just go anyplace that charges $400 for a pair of shoes and buy anything there, especially if the designer’s got some ridiculous name with like 18 consonants in a row. Basically, if the dude’s name looks like you just slammed your hand down on the keyboard twice, you’re golden. “Mrclic Gabrlkshina?” Perfect. Tip: buy them two sizes too big so she can return them and get the ones she actually wants, and then defend yourself by saying, “You just have such huge, mannish feet, I assumed you were a [whatever size you got her].” Bonus tip: throw in a pair of cheap cross-trainers and tell her, “You’ve got a lot of dress shoes for fancy cocktail parties we never go to, how about some shoes for the gym you never go to either?” Gift #3: Jewelry. Now, I know this stuff’s typically expensive, but you know what isn’t? A shovel. You may not know this, but a lot of people bury their loved ones with their wedding rings and decent necklaces. However, you’ll have to shop early, because the smell of formaldehyde takes awhile to get out and the ground gets really hard when it gets cold. Backup plan: look for rappers who were big a few years ago but haven’t had a hit since, because those guys probably need a lot of money. Sure, she’ll wonder why her necklace says “Cam’ron,” but you can just pretend that’s your new nickname for her. Gift #4: A domestic item like a vacuum cleaner. Women love being reduced to the role of “woman who cleans up after your sorry ass,” and this is just the way to do it. Buying her that vacuum lets her know you know nothing about her and that she’s officially become your mother. Tip: You may want to make it a wet-vac, because you’ll probably have some tears to clean up shortly. Gift $5: A gift certificate for a cool $20 to TGIFriday’s. I know it’s a little pricey and highfalutin’, but I think once per year, your lady deserves to order some Ancho Chile Wings, or possibly something from the delectable Jack Daniel’s® Grill – like maybe the Glazed Ribs cooked ‘til they’re “fall-off-the-bone tender.” And after a couple of their signature ‘Ritas, the Potato Skins won’t be the only thing that’s Loaded in that place, bro. Tip: when she’s deciding what to order, suggest a salad. Say something nice, like, “Hey, honey, how about the cedar-seared salmon on field greens? I’ve heard salmon helps with dry, wrinkly skin and laugh lines.” She’ll be so flattered you noticed. You’re welcome, men – and the women who used to love them. | | Friday, November 30th, 2007 | | 6:10 pm |
it's that time again...
the last time I remember getting one of those messages was about a year and a half ago. I was standing outside Don Antonio's on Pico waiting for the call over the tinny loudspeaker for "Caballero," and I was surprised to hear from you. We'd exchanged these messages for many months and it felt nice to know that once a month, maybe slightly more often, that you thought of me. You'd missed the last one or two and I thought we were done but here you were, back again. I was happy to be thought of, but sad that you had the time to think of me. It meant you'd broken up with whoever had been taking your time up, and I was sad that for a time, the world was buying into the myth you swear by, of how you're not beautiful. Silent months went by and I was sad to lose the past but I knew somewhere out there you'd found someone better for you and I was happy for you and him, hoping he knew what he had. It doesn't hurt anymore to step away. They always end up better off. Current Music: "I don't think I hate you enough to commit you to me." | | Thursday, November 29th, 2007 | | 10:55 am |
Happy Birthday, Ms. Planic.
Happy birthday, Kater. You're usually the wind beneath our wings, and most times, you'll apologize for it. Every time someone mentions Irn Bru, I think of her, which isn't actually that big a deal, since she's the only one I know who ever mentions it. May your day be full of Irn Bru, margaritas, cake, and possibly a margarita cake. Oh, and awkward celebrations with co-workers who you don't like. | | Tuesday, November 13th, 2007 | | 5:50 pm |
Dear Guy(s) Who Broke Into My Car Last Night,
[cross-posted. Because I'm too lazy to write additional stuff and you're too lazy to check out the other blog. Unless you're Planic.] Hey there, fellahs. I can’t help but notice you checked out my car last night, since everything from my glove box has been thrown all over my car. I can’t blame you for looking – Honda makes a sensibly priced, reliable ride, and I’m sure you wanted to pull out the owner’s manual to get an idea on what kind of engine this thing has. Maybe you assumed my house was the poorest dealership ever, with only one car in its tiny “lot,” and you just wanted to support independent business by checking out the wares in the middle of the night. Honestly, I’m a little angry that you invaded my personal space and made my morning crappy. But mostly, I’m upset that you didn’t deem my CDs worth taking. Look, I know CDs are of a bygone era, and that my tastes in music aren’t popular and therefore easily sellable, but still – a limited edition double disc Australian tour version of Rocket from the Crypt’s “Scream, Blacula, Scream?” That could have netted you a cool $3 for your efforts at a local used CD store - $5 in trade-in. That’s nothing to sneeze at. Billy Bragg’s seminal “Back to Basics?” That’s one of my top ten albums of all time! I can’t believe you didn’t steal that. Maybe you’ve never made a mix for a girl and needed the perfect song about love, or English labor politics during a union strike, or St. Swithin’s Day, but I doubt it. As a criminal, I imagine you’ve got a lot of rage and unresolved personal issues, which probably means the emo-tinged hardcore of Small Brown Bike’s “Dead Reckoning” would have been right up your alley. I still get chills every time I hear “Sleeping Weather.” And yet here it sits, in the CD holder you didn’t even open – or opened, then kindly closed, showing the sort of consideration and sensitivity that I bet would make you pretty receptive to their brand of rock and roll. I understand that MC Paul Barman’s not for everybody – he’s an odd combination of hip hop and Brown-educated art snob – but I think if you gave him a chance, lines like “Am I making a mockery of a culture like the Choco Taco?/Was I to rap what France was to Morocco?/Was I : rap :: France : Morocco?” You see, it’s like old SAT analogy questions. Very clever. Not your thing? Fair enough. Anyway, guys, I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for in my car, but next time, take a few CDs or something. It’s just something polite people do, like bringing a bottle of wine to a dinner party. Otherwise, you’re guilty of stealing my belief that I listen to music worth stealing. Sincerely, Me | | Friday, November 2nd, 2007 | | 8:21 pm |
man, I really don't want to finish this writing assignment...
There's a fairly well-worn maxim that cities look completely different at night, casting spotlights on their best features and letting the less reputable ones melt away into the convenient darkness. I can't deny this: there's a wholly different glow to D.C. at night, even viewed through the blurred, obstructed prism of a passenger window as you fly down 295 or the GW Parkway, or to Paris circa midnight, strolling along the banks of the Seine, dodging the intertwined couples seemingly everywhere, your feet drawn inextricably towards the spotlights drawing out the Eiffel Tower and the haunting quietude of Notre Dame. But there's another time cities open themselves up to eyes willing to fight their urges to stay closed: first thing in the morning, as the dawn gently pulls the blankets from yawning rooftops, ushering in the day. The streets are empty as we walk through the center of Old Town Square and it's eerie, since not 6 hours ago, this place was filled with people. There's a quiet reverie only ruined by a group of Brits stumbling home from a pub, singing some song I've never heard and hope to never hear again, about soccer or a woman who liberally applies her favors or something similarly out of place on this otherwise beautiful morning. But the sun sets on their voices just as it set on their Empire and soon we're left with nothing but the sound of our sneakers on the cobblestone street. We always seem to end up on the Bridge, the most popular tourist spot in Prague, and it's rarely worth the repeated visits. By noon, it will be awash in people in fanny packs and ugly hats, vendors selling worthless trinkets to people who haven't really visited a place until they've bought a cheap piece of unrepresentative art from it, purchased out of a sense of duty and a hope that maybe some day in the future, someone will ask them where they got it and they'll sound exciting for having traveled somewhere once. It's empty at this hour, too, which is kind of crucial to the entire plan. We've got a few hours to pull off this photographic assignment, and I've decided - like all artists that suck - that I'll do the story of someone jumping off the bridge. It's hackneyed, it's lame, but I've already given my best idea to someone else - a breakdance fight performed by Brian and I in the middle of thousands of tourists on this same bridge - and this is all I've got left. The plan is to be here before everyone else (check), take a few dozen stock photos (empty bridge, me up on the ledge, then throw a rock over and take pictures of that splash, etc.), and be done. Only, when it comes time, I can't stand up there for even five seconds to take a picture. I've got no balance: after a second, I wobble and I'm back down on my knees, holding on to stones that will outlast me whether I jump or not. Despite years of thinking the contrary, of dreaming for moments like this, for once, I've got no reason to jump. All arm, no follow through. An angry Brian tells me he'll do it for me, but I rewrite the shot list on the spot and as the first salesmen arrive to set up, we head home. I know my project will suck but my life doesn't and I'm all right with that. Current Music: of up and coming monarchs - pedro the lion | | Sunday, October 28th, 2007 | | 7:38 pm |
Trailblazing Towards New Ways to Fail With Women
[cross-posted at the real blog.] You may lie awake some nights, wondering to yourselves how a catch like me can still be single. Sure, part of you knows that it's because I'm like the wind – I can't be held down by one woman or one town, and not only because the Columbia Record and Tape Company's been on my tail since 1993 (I'm never paying for those three CDs at regular club prices, suckers! I got that copy of Steve Miller's greatest hits and now, like Billie Joe and Bobbie Sue, I'm gonna go on, take the crappy CDs and run! (Whoo! Whoo!)). Part of it may also have to do with the fact that I am not always the smoothest of criminals. This weekend, I was at a party, talking to an attractive female friend clad in an outfit reminding us that she did, in fact, have boobs, and I was mildly intoxicated by a combination of her beauty and half a liter of booze. I was chewing gum in an effort to not smell like a drunk (tip: the best way to hide the smell of gin is by drinking vodka instead), and when she said something funny, I laughed, somehow spitting my gum directly up into the air a good five feet or so. Ten bucks says you can guess where it landed. If not, let's review the characters I've introduced in the re-telling of this tale: 1. Me 2. My friend 3. Her boobs Somehow, because the fates have a very clever sense of humor, that gum fell perfectly down her dress, lodging itself deep in Cleavage Canyon. It was also not easily extricate-able, partially because of its location, and partially because gum is gross, sticky, and stringy. And so, while my gum got to cling for dear life to her rack, it also ensured I never would. Perhaps I should blaspheme a little less often, because I bet God's a pretty awesome wingman. Plus, if he's my co-pilot, I'm not really driving drunk, officer. Your breathalyzer may tell you differently, but who are you going to believe – God or science? Plus, what your machine is telling you is that I'm drunk on the Holy Spirit, as long as the Holy Spirit comes in a plastic bottle with a Russian-sounding name on it. Current Music: "I've tied my ankles to the table legs with wire." | | Thursday, September 27th, 2007 | | 1:02 pm |
In Praise of Jilting
What does it say about our world that one betrothed leaving the other at the altar happened so frequently that finally, we as a society said, "We need a specific word for this process?" And so, from a series of unexpectedly, suddenly dead relationships that would bear no children, only the bitter, painful fruit of loneliness and shame, the verb "to jilt" was born. Silver lining, people. Also, I'm presuming liquor sales to those lonely losers probably skyrocketed, employing a lot of people at breweries, distilleries, online dating/porn sites, emergency room doctors, and suicide hotlines, so it's not all bad. A lot of people profit off of loneliness and pain, that's all I'm saying. Their pain is good for the economy. Anyway, jilting. Sure, I imagine that's pretty embarrassing, to have empiric proof that you're not worth marrying in front of a crowd of everyone important to you who could afford the trip to whatever country club, Elks Lodge, or VFW hall you've rented out (I personally think it'd be more cost effective to just have everyone show up in a public park and if cops hassle you for not having a permit, yell out, "Right to free assembly, man!" and tell the officiant to spit his lines with a quickness), but how bad is it, really? The way I see it, you’ve got thousands of dollars worth of booze and a huge f-ing cake waiting for you, and suddenly, you don't have to invite anyone from the jilter's side to the reception. That means double the cake for you, plus you're not tied down to some old ball and chain who says things like, "Mow the lawn and stop yelling at my parents." You're dressed nicely, single, and no one has a story more deserving of a pity lay than you right then. Man, I need to invent a fiancée and plan my jilting. That sounds awesome. Lots of cake, booze, plus it'd be my ideal relationship – she wouldn't be around to bother me with needs or wants or stories about how Pam at work is being mean. Furthermore, it'd be like dating me because she'd only exist in my head, and that's where I spend all my time anyway! Plus, unlike with women, I actually have the capacity to love me. That's what they all say as they're leaving in tears – "You could never love me as much as you love you" – this would just be cutting out the middleman! Oh, me – I'm falling in love with you all over again. | | Friday, August 31st, 2007 | | 5:54 pm |
Prosecuting Hamburglar
I’ve got a lot of problems with the fundamental concepts of McDonaldland. Sure, we’ve all heard the classics, like “What the hell is Grimace supposed to be?” or “How can the Fry Guys eat anything without some damn arms?” And sure, it’s kind of weird that in a world built on eating hamburgers, the mayor (Mayor McCheese) is also a hamburger, selling his own kind to make a buck like Mr. Peanut. But here’s something that came up in conversation recently (I only talk about the issues that matter, even in real life): Ronald McDonald gives out free burgers to people in McDonaldland (they grow on plants there), and yet, Hamburglar gets arrested for stealing hamburgers? How can you steal something that’s free? For example, right now, try to steal some air. Go ahead, I’ll wait. You can’t, unless you’re currently diving in a large body of water and you just killed your scuba buddy (in which case, I’m very impressed by your internet access provider!). It’s time we faced a sad reality: Hamburglar isn’t arrested for stealing hamburgers. He’s either a pedophile. Why else does he talk like a child, dress up in a Halloween outfit (incidentally, if you’re a prisoner, here’s the last thing you should dress up in: the black and white-striped prison outfit. It kinda gives your intentions away), and wear a cape? It’s either that, or McDonaldland still believes in locking up the mentally ill, in which case Hamburglar can only say "robble, robble" because his frontal lobe's congealed after years of electroshock therapy. Current Music: "we rock we rock we rock to the new sensaaaaaaation." | | Wednesday, August 29th, 2007 | | 8:48 pm |
Next Stop: Bummersville
If I take one of those stupid online quizzes I take maybe three times per year before being filled with self-loathing at stooping to that level, and one of the questions asked is "last time you cried?" (though half those words will probably be misspelled because those quizzes are inevitably penned by 13-year-olds), I should remember that it was tonight. I got an email from a good friend yesterday that her dad and his fiancee were in a small plane that disappeared on Friday, and it contained the sentence, "We are not, at this point expecting good news." I wanted to do one of those big dramatic movie things, where you just leave everything and walk out into the street, stopping traffic until some passerby leads you to safety. I didn't, of course, because I only had forty minutes until my Contracts class started, but I thought about it for a few minutes there. The family started a blog with news updates for everyone to check and I started checking it religiously. I still am. It's fascinating, because no one wants to say "they're dead" even though I don't think there's a chance in hell they aren't. It makes everything so much worse to have to hold on to that hope. Even I want closure at this point. I've gone back and checked that site probably ten times today, and still nothing. It's terrible, especially knowing how my friend and this fiancee fought a lot, how her mom died years ago from other problems...I've got to imagine that since she was flying the plane, there's always going to be a part of my friend that blames the fiancee for all of this. Natural causes don't need an explanation, but pilot error? Well, that's on you, and that's harder to deal with, I think. It would be for me, anyway. It's ridiculously simple: I'm sad because my friend is sad. I'm weeping for her, for her loss, and because I know a lot of words like "rotogravure" and "eremitic" but I don't know what words you use in these kind of situations and I'd give most of the former up to have a few of the latter. I love this girl - and you can define that however you'd like and you'd still probably be right - and there's not a damn thing I can do to ease what she's going through. And the tears pour in like poorly worded condolences: awkward, unnecessary, unhelpful, pointless, but there all the same. A weird show of support, probably having as much to do with your guilt that it wasn't you or your family as any empathy or sympathy. And I'm sorry, the girl. Not sorry as if I'm culpable, but sorry that your part of the world is this way right now because if I had any power to do anything you'd never come within 500 miles of even mild discomfort. | | Tuesday, August 28th, 2007 | | 9:07 pm |
Economist Tired of Everyone Referencing "Freakonomics"
Moments before a speed dating session he was attending at the behest of friends began, economist Franklin Douglas sat in the corner, dreading the inevitable addendum to the icebreaker of “so, what do you do?” that has pursued him since 2005 – some hackneyed comment regarding the bestselling book Freakonomics. When the inevitable happened on the fifth consecutive “date,” twenty minutes into the session, Douglas finally snapped. “Great! You’ve read a book!” Douglas said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but there are a few other works in the field.” “You know, everyone who makes movies doesn’t want to be Spielberg, everyone who opens a business isn’t trying to be Sam Walton, and librarians do things other than learn the Dewey Decimal System,” Douglas added waggishly, a political word for “like a jagoff.” Despite the fact that Douglas outearns all the other male suitors who attended the speed dating session and several women initially found themselves attracted to him before the outburst, he came away from the session with no phone numbers, inspiring his most recent research project, Cost Without Benefit (Unless Wasting My Time Is Somehow a Benefit): Speed Dating Last Wednesday Night, which was e-mailed to and summarily deleted by the friends who compelled him to attend the session. Current Music: "Got a letter from you. It says you're leaving in 13 days." | | Thursday, August 23rd, 2007 | | 5:15 pm |
MC Hammer Enters 2008 Presidential Race
[Cross-posted on all my blogs, though I think Planic's the only one who reads the others. So to everyone else, this is completely original. Sometimes I forget which group of readers will enjoy a good MC Hammer series of jokes. P.S. The link at the end is real - MC Hammer has an f-ing blog. Hilarious.] Citing what he called "an almost embarrassing groundswell of popular support," once-popular rapper MC Hammer entered the U.S. Presidential race early Wednesday morning. Standing in front of a fully pimped-out Ford Festiva with his campaign's themes ("It's Hammertime in America" and "You Can't Touch This") stylishly spray-painted on the side, Hammer thanked his fans, who he cited as his key reason for entering the race. "This was never my idea," he said to the assembled crowd of supporters, fans, parachute pant enthusiasts, and third-rate media outlets, including The East Oakland Pennysaver. "But on this particular issue, we've been canvassing public opinion around the world, from London to the Bay. And it's, 'Hammer!' 'Go, Hammer!' 'MC Hammer!' 'Yo, Hammer!' And the rest can go and play." "Can't touch this," Hammer added. Over the next half hour, MC Hammer gave ample evidence of his leadership abilities, culled from a lifetime of being a "super dope homeboy from the Oaktown," and averring that his own economic failures and much-publicized bankruptcy have taught him numerous ways to cut national spending efficiently. "Sure, the $12 million mansion with a bowling alley, $2 million of Italian marble, and parking for my 17 cars looked cool," he said wistfully. "But maybe America only needs 12 cars per person and a 100 person entourage." "Oh, and two helicopters is at least one too many," Hammer quickly added. "I learned that, too." Listing his credentials for the office, Hammer pointed out that beyond his "mind to rhyme and two hyped feet," that he is also - much like former President Martin Van Buren - "dope on the floor" and "magic on the mic." Continuing with an eloquence that can only be described as "Ciceronian," he cruelly mocked fellow Presidential hopefuls Sen. Clinton and Gov. Romney, informing them that somewhere, someone should "sound the bell," because "school is in, suckas." Perhaps most impressively, Hammer also proved his ability to break through the bipartisan divide that has plagued the Legislative and Executive branches since the 2006 Democratic victories, making an impassioned plea to both sides to put aside their party differences and "Move! Slide your [collective] rump. Just for a minute, let's all do the bump." As Hammer chanted, "Bump, bump, bump, yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahh," a nation did so, and it felt good. Hammer closed by directing people to his blog for more insights on his political opinions and leanings. His latest post as of press time, containing the trenchant insight, "Darfur...We need You...your support...your voice and your prayers," with a link to a YouTube clip on the topic, shows an unexpectedly astute, finely honed international sense that one might not expect from a former Surreal Life cast member. Upon this announcement, Hammer instantly became the leading candidate for both parties in the upcoming New Hampshire primary, showing 56% support from all 8 voters in that tiny, tiny state that doesn't matter at all. | | 2:00 pm |
A Feeling Not Dissimilar to Dancing on the Ceiling
Okay. So, yesterday, I had my first day of classes, where I interacted briefly with a lady I described as " Random Girl I Find Kind Of Attractive Though She's Not The Hottest Around By Any Means" on my other blog. I saw her again today, and I'd just like to officially apologize, because she's very hot. If I ever invent a time machine, I'll go back in time to punch me for ever referring to her as anything less than ridiculously hot. "She's unfairly attractive," I thought today while talking with her. "Saw a vacant seat, sat down next to you. Thought of all the boys who wanted to."I am very disappointed in how obvious her hotness is, because it's sooooooooo boringly stereotypical. "What? A white guy from the suburbs finds a blond, fit, blue-eyed girl with freckles (who finds him funny) attractive? STOP THE PRESSES, BILL!" I'm not much of a believer in fate (though clearly, I'm a big believer in starting sentences with "I"), but I will say that talking with her today, watching her break into a big smile when I'd say something funny, I had this feeling in my chest like when you're in a plane that suddenly drops 500 feet and I thought about her what I think about Hawaii or Santa Monica or the other beautiful places I've been: "How could you ever be angry when you wake up to this?" I think most people feel this way about a few dozen people in their lives and just forget about the ones that don't work out, but I can't remember feeling like this ever. I squirmed in a seat behind her, unable to focus, and wanted to just call time out on a world and a life that can let that beauty exist for so long without it meeting me and also shake my fist at a world that lets something like her exist in a world where I won't ever get to have her. "I memorized the lines your eyes made with every glance you shot my way." | | Tuesday, August 21st, 2007 | | 8:22 am |
Taking Michael Vick in My Fantasy Football Draft Doesn't Look Like It's Gonna Pan Out
If you're anything like me, this entire Michael Vick story has meant one thing: I hope he's not guilty, because I'm really counting on him to win me a fantasy football title this year. I knew he was a gamble when I drafted him, because his brash playing style means he's always a threat to get injured. He's always running through secondaries full of huge linebackers who would like to kill and bury him in a shallow, unmarked grave. But I figured his incredibly high rushing stats would make up for the few games he missed. I'll admit that part of this is my fault. Not the systematic cruelty and killing of dogs, but misreading the statistics that get us points in our league this year. When I looked over the stats and saw "YDS," I assumed that meant Yelping Dogs Silenced. I figured that with Vick's trademark mobility, he'd be able to kill three, maybe even four times what a slow-footed Trent Green would be able to. Unfortunately, I think this fantasy season may be over already for me, as I kind of hung my season on Vick, much the way he hanged those dogs. I'm looking for a way to give my season a sudden jolt of electricity to fire up my team, but as Vick himself can tell you, there's a fine line between giving a living creature a quick jolt and electrocuting it and its brothers repeatedly. Thanks a lot, Michael Vick, you jerk. Did you think about the thousands of fantasy teams you were letting down when you were gambling on the death of creatures you'd set up stands to have other creatures rape? Thanks for f-ing the hour I spent live drafting my team, doucheface. Current Music: the lilting tones of Slate's June Thomas et al. | | Friday, August 17th, 2007 | | 10:26 am |
| | Tuesday, August 14th, 2007 | | 9:19 am |
Predator Can’t Believe His "To Catch a Predator" Scenes Didn’t Make the Cut
East Jersey State Prison psychologists agreed today to place former construction worker and convicted sex offender James Donofrio on suicide watch after the second and final installment of this summer’s To Catch a Predator failed to feature Mr. Donofrio’s capture at the hands of Chris Hansen and his crack team of undercover sting operatives. According to those psychologists, Donofrio has become despondent since the program aired without him. Donofrio’s journal, seized by authorities to gain insight into his mental state, contains a series of increasingly manic writings and is excerpted here: July 17 – Just saw the first ads for next week’s ‘TCAP.’ I didn’t make the ads, but I’m imagining that my story’s too multi-faceted to be told in cheap sound bites. They’ll probably devote a whole half hour to me, investigating my life, who I am, and what could cause a not-that-ugly believably single 34-year-old construction worker with poor people skills to think sleeping with a 13-year-old girl was okay.
July 28 – Well, I didn’t make the first episode, but I’m sure they’re saving the best for last. Just like my screenname, I’m ‘bringinguptherear.’ Still, I’m a little worried – a lot of those guys had more compelling storylines than I do. The married court administrator and the young firefighter, those guys make people think, ‘Oh, it could be anyone,’ and that’s a lot scarier than me, some weird loner who hasn’t had a date in years. I’ve got to be honest, I’m not surprising anyone. The bus driver guy, that’s the whole ‘they could be around your kids right now!’ angle. That web developer – that’s the ‘even white collar guys do it’ storyline. But I’m sure my life is compelling enough to at least get me a few minutes next week.
August 8 – Crap. I – I can’t write right now.
August 9 – Did the Spongebob pants make me look too fat? Did I not bring enough lube and weird toys? Am I that ugly? I mean, not the shameful secret that I find children sexually attractive – I know that’s abhorrent, but am I so physically repellent that my weeping visage is even more unpalatable than my disgusting desires?
August 10 – I should have been funnier. That guy who referenced Opie and Anthony, that guy made it on no problem. For listening to unfunny radio personalities. It just hurts to not get recognized for what you do, you know? I can’t even bring myself to fight off the shiv attempts in the shower anymore.MSNBC representatives responded with a statement released through a publicist: “Due to the overwhelming effectiveness of our program and our methods, we caught 28 predators during our most recent effort in Ocean County, New Jersey. Due to limited air time, we were only able to use footage from 23 of those men. We apologize to those left on the cutting room floor, but not sincerely, because after all, they wanted to have sex with children.” Current Music: Jerry Lee Lewis, presumably | | Monday, August 13th, 2007 | | 11:08 am |
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