Wednesday, May 17, 2017


Aside from Princess Diana. Please tell me this is ASIDE FROM PRINCESS DIANA.

Friday, May 12, 2017

People in big cities put up with a lot of shit. The air is filthy, the streets are crowded, the people act like animals. We note these faults and accept them and think, well, it's worth it, because at least I can go see "Hello, Dolly!" whenever I want.

There's one ridiculous phenomenon that I can't accept, though, that other big-city dwellers have probably noticed. Picture this: you're waiting for a subway train. You've been on your feet for eighteen hours and you're exhausted. It's your lucky day! When the train pulls up, the doors are right in front of you, and through the window you see an empty seat.

The doors slide open and in less than three footsteps your dream dies. Before you get to the seat, a rambunctious little rugrat scurries between your legs and clambers up onto it. They smile. "Look at me!" their face says. "I'm sitting! Wheee!"

You shoot them a glare that would paralyze oysters. "You're sitting, kid," you want to repeat. "You didn't make a hit record with LaToya Jackson."

I blame parents. A kid does fuck-all and they act like he's won the Nobel Prize. You ate a carrot? Hooray! You took your socks off? Whoopee! You stuck three Legos together? OHMIFUCKINGOD! I worry about the damage it's going to do to the kid. Twenty years from now their boss will say, "Hey, what's up with that Farnsworth report?" and they'll say, "I haven't started it yet, but I've been pooping into porcelain!"

As an observant human, this kids-on-the-subway phenomena confuses me. Doesn't a child's life consist of running around aimlessly? While adults are sitting in comfy chairs drinking cappuccinos, kids grab at the opportunity for exercise. "Gosh," they think, "I wonder if I can run in a circle until I carve a groove into marble tile!"

Yet the second they're in a moving metal box with strangers they're like, "Oh, shit. I just gotta get offa these dogs." They play endless sports. They scamper across streets. They march in place in their bedrooms. But they minute they're on a subway car they're staring at everybody seated with tears in their eyes, like "I been chasing a squirrel with a rock for eight hours. How's about helping a six-year-old out?"

They can fuck off. You focus on your smartphone but from the corner of your eye you see the sad face. "Yo, bud, have some sympathy," it says. "These little pink legs are swole!"

Once the kids sit down, though, their demeanor changes. Now the energy is back. Now they can hardly sit still long enough to stare out the window. "What the hell?" they think as they kick everything within eight miles with their dirty feet. "There's a motherfuckin' pigeon out there!"

I don't understand their parents. They know the kids don't deserve or appreciate the seats. Why don't they make the kids stand? It wouldn't be difficult: just say something like, "Teddy, I'll bet you can't jump up and down until Jesus returns." "I'll bet I can!" Teddy yaps. He leaps out of the seat and the 92-year-old lady in front of it smiles for the first time since Rudolph Valentino took off his shirt.

Before she can get to it, though, a little girl is there. "You look just like my great-grandma!" she says. "Holy shit, is that graffiti? Heather Leigh, get your little pink Keds over here!!"

Friday, May 5, 2017

What If Jane Austen, Philip K. Dick or Ernest Hemingway Had Written 'Basic Instinct'?

Jane Austen:

A handsome police inspector who is questioning a lady may often find it is the wrong question that is being answered. So discovered Sir Thomas Bertram, squire of Flittylocks Manor, as he cross-examined accused murderess Fanny Coleripple about a lifeless corpse discovered amidst a copse of quails on the grounds of Lower Smalldimples.

"It is quite easy for a horse to be led astray," lectured Sir Thomas. "The question is how many biscuits are required for him to find his way home."

Miss Coleripple raised her brow and giggled delicately. "Sometimes it is best to save one's biscuits for a more reputable mare," she bespoke.

The fetching owner of eight piglets and a tractor glowered. "It is all fine for you to stare at me out of your countenance, but there was an act of violence over a quarter-dollar ago and I am determined to uncover the truth."

The visage of the resident of Titteridge Place adopted a girlish vexation. "It is often discovered when one tries to hover," she pined, "that they uncover something from which they can't recover." She raised a long limb and delicately lowered it across the other.

"I daresay, Miss Coleripple," said the most skilled dancer of Bigstaples County, "I am quite in the dark. Which is something I can't say for a significant portion of your underoos."

There are a million acceptable options for a proper lady's wardrobe but just one truly ghastly choice. Reader, I'm talking about knickers. Because when she returned to the third-smallest thatched-roof ivy-covered cottage in Upper Dashboard Valley for the final time, the prettiest woman to have played a half-round of croquet at Woodcheeks Manor would discover the hand-tatted lace panties she thought she was wearing crumpled upon the settee. Her team of horses raced to meet the last train to Warsaw and, as one can scarcely listen to a thing which does not speak, she was never ever heard from again.


Philip K. Dick:

I piloted my red Hydro Booster X711 down Inter-Steller 405 and stopped at the Police Station that hovered just off the border of Sector A-14. There, a wealthy man's housekeeper was being held, suspected of his murder. I peered through the nano-glass of her extruded cryo-cell. She was beautiful all right -- but she was also a replicant. She might have been well-programmed but even Windows 4763-X(b) had bugs.

I had her trans-portaled to the plasticine Interrogation Capsule and when I entered she was floating in a pool of crocheted neon. I took my seat behind a flickering hologram of a desk.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. I'd rarely seen such excellent work. "It's not looking good for you," I said. "You never should have impaled him with those weaponized titanium geese."

A tear rolled down her cheek. "I -- I didn't do it," she choked.

I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. I looked into her eyes: a matched pair of Bernlicht R-2000s, fashioned from the finest vinyloid harvested from cloned Japanese cattle and pure latex rubies. Was it possible? Had some sort of virus corrupted her operating system, or did she honestly think she wasn't guilty?

She crossed her legs and exposed her nether regions to me. I looked up her skirt and saw it all: the sleek hair, the sultry lips, the little man in his red space ship. Obviously this was a P386x, a part instantly recognizable to all synth-human developers. This little work of art all by itself cost more than the residents in this quadrant made in their lifetimes. It was the finest vagina money could buy.

She was hoping to unnerve me, but her little trick wasn't going to work. See, I've always been able to control myself. Completely. Every muscle, every fiber, every cell in my body. In fact, ever since I was a little boy, I could --

Oh shit. I AM A REPLICANT TOO!


Ernest Hemingway:

I was asking her about a murder. A murder she probably committed. Her fingerprints were all over the joint, and five miles from the murder site I found a blood-covered lace serape that was exactly her size.

I had to question her but I couldn't. I was the blotchy, bone-shaking, wine-addled son of an itinerant highwayman, and she had flaxen hair, a delicate manner, and porcelain skin that would make everyone in Germany smash their Lladro and scream, "WHAT KIND OF USELESS SHIT IS THIS?"

It was difficult keeping myself together. I tried to confine my wandering thoughts to matadors but the horns of the snorting black beasts kept growing foreskin. Here I was, a big tough guy at the mercy of this unwrinkled wench who couldn't have weighed eighty pounds if she was holding a wheel of cheese and my testicles.

I was at her mercy.

I was starting to say a prayer for myself when she threw one skinny leg over the over and whaddaya know?

Pussy.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

8 Reasons People Keep Clicking On Articles Like "11 Foods That Fight Cancer -- Number 2 Will SHOCK You!" Number 7 Will SHOCK You!

1. I don't know. Maybe they think GoGurt will replace kale this time around?

2. They actually want to go for a jog but they're too fat to get off the couch.

3. They know that one day the world is going to recognize RHUBARB!

4. They just finished eating thirteen cans of baked beans and they've got their fingers crossed.

5. Actual hospital studies aren't shit compared to Buzzfeed's medical breakthroughs.

6. It's the only link they haven't clicked other than, "This Father And Daughter Took The Same Photo Every Year. DON'T CRY WHEN YOU SEE THE LAST ONE!"

7. They thought it said, "8 Foods That Fight Canaries."

8. They are the last living souls on earth not saying to themselves, "Oh, Holy God -- would you please SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT BROCCOLI?"

Wednesday, April 19, 2017


Why yes, I did. But for some reason I couldn't find the key that puts TWO STUPID FUCKIN' DOTS OVER A VOWEL.

A Sociologist Examines Life in the 1960s Based on Beatles Lyrics

You're going to lose that girl,
You're going to lose that girl.

In the 1960s, women were possessions of men. This doesn't mean they weren't valued, as these two lines imply: men don't warn other men about the potential loss of a wad of lint or a corncob. "Hey, buddy," no male would ever say, "you better drive slower or you're gonna lose that clump of bird shit on your roof."

If you don't take her out tonight,
She's going to change her mind.

These two lines give us a hint as to the root of the problematic female treatment. The female is above all fickle: despite an established, long-standing relationship, if her man disappears for an hour or two she's got her thumb out by the side of the road. Since loyalty is a trait identifiable with more developed species, this pinpoints the female's position on a societal scale to just above that of a cat, since a cat would share the sentiment but not be able to mouth the words, "You're not gonna feed me? Then, buddy, I'm gonna find somebody who will."

And I will take her out tonight,
And I will treat her kind.

One can easily recognize the objectified woman in these two lines, since there is no parallel in male-dominated societies. If Google wanted to steal a valued male employee from Apple, for instance, they wouldn't threaten to take him rollerskating in their daddy's Mustang. The male requires a multi-year, multi-million dollar contract to switch allegiance while the female is settling for less. "Raisinettes and a Sprite?" she chirps. "Okay, buddy -- I'll go home and pack right now."

I'll make a point
Of taking her away from you, yeah,
The way you treat her what else can I do?

Even the most clueless reader must sense the unreliability of the narrator here. On the surface he's expressing unselfishness with this offer to help the beleaguered female, but if he felt even the slightest bit of empathy this song would be about bringing sausages to Darfur. Competitiveness rather than altruism is the motivating factor for action here.

If you don't treat her right, my friend,
You're going to find her gone,

Female as object is reiterated here, though her value is again unspecified. Perhaps losing a woman is like losing your car keys, with both cases leaving the hapless male frantically checking his pockets. But perhaps it's more like a preoccupied male spotting an empty space on a bedroom shelf and realizing he hasn't seen his Kylo Ren action figure in something like six weeks.

Cause I will treat her right, and then
You'll be the lonely one.

In the end, it's the lack of female volition that is most troubling in this work. We're left with the idea that male action alone is what prompts female fidelity. She can stay or she can go, but otherwise her opinion doesn't matter. It may seem smug to congratulate ourselves on living in a more enlightened time, but if this song were written today it would certainly include a discussion of the male's qualifications, perhaps with a couplet like this:

If you don't treat her right, my friend,
Then she might mobilize,
Cause I have got a job, and then
there is my penis size.

Thursday, April 6, 2017


ME: Um, you don't actually wear this cologne, do you?

GERMAN BOYFRIEND WHO IS TALLER THAN ME: No. NO! DEFINITELY NOT! (PAUSE) Only when I'm out of David Hasselhoff.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Kendall Jenner Helps A Desperate World



ROMAN HANS: Hey Steve! What are you up to?

STEVE: I'm drinking a Pepsi and welding. You?

ROMAN HANS: I'm wearing my hijab and looking at the photos I took in the Sudan. Starvation is such a downer I could really use a cappuccino. Wait -- there's a protest going by my apartment. Why don't we join them?

STEVE: Protest? Against what? Now that Trump is president everything is perfect.

ROMAN HANS: Do we have to protest against something? I'll bet when Martin Luther King led the March on Wherever he just wanted to meet chicks and show off his new shoes.

STEVE: Okay, count me in! It'll be fun: we'll paint up signs with flowers on them and then have a nice walk through the center of town. The only paint I have is from the Martha Stewart Soda Collection but I guess it'll have to do.

(FIVE MINUTES LATER)

ROMAN HANS: Wow. I'm so glad we came. As a hard-hitting photojournalist I've discovered something far more important than civil rights abuses or starvation: young people standing up and saying, "I don't know; what do you think?"

STEVE: All these protest signs are making me realize something: communication is vitally important. Like, I probably should have told someone that America needs comprehensive single-payer health care with no exclusion for pre-existing conditions.

BYSTANDER (SLAPPING HIS FOREHEAD): Why, you're absolutely right! I'll get right on it!

PHOTOGRAPHER: Come on, Kendall, concentrate! It took thirty-nine hours of work and six Reynolds Oven Bags to make that dress.

KENDALL JENNER: Okay, I'll put on my serious acting face. (THINKING TO HERSELF) I've got to take a dump. I've got to take a dump. I've got to take a dump. (She sees HOT ASIAN MAN WHO BROUGHT A CELLO TO A PROTEST.) Goodbye, patriarchal wig! Adios, capitalist lipstick! Hey, guys -- wait!

TWO RANDOM PEOPLE: Hi! We're transgender women who have never heard of North Carolina's bathroom bill.

BLACK MAN WITH CORNROWS: A white person has shown up! Thank goodness. Decades of Hollywood movies have shown me that indigenous and minority communities are fun and colorful but they can't solve problems by themselves. Introduce a white person, though, and wonderful things happen. I'll bet within a week or two we have the world's best bobsled team.

POLICEMAN #1: Okay, captain, just tell me one more time: we're not firing tear gas at these kids because they have kicky signs?

POLICEMAN #2: Wow! I was worried about all these protesters because they were walking down the street carrying potentially dangerous weapons. Now that they're jumping up and down and waving their arms, though, I see no problem whatsoever.

POLICEMAN #3: Who'd have guessed that when I shot all those unarmed black people I was just thirsty? Thanks, Kendall Jenner!

BLACK MAN WITH CORNROWS: Yeah, thanks, Kendall! Now where's my bobsled?

FIN

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