Friday, September 23, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
That said, this is the fucking truth. Political commentary at its finest. Where is Kanye?
"Vacation, all I ever wanna do..."
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Is there a more abundant natural resource than sperm? Hell, each...um..."semen battallion" contains millions of soldiers, right? And most of them are alive and wagging their wavy little tails. Why can't we harness the power of all this collective tail wagging and cart our fat asses around?
You would never get stranded on the side of the highway when you can pull over and pump your own fuel. Critics might ask how this would benefit women; how do they get a fill up? I've got several methods you can employ that will guarantee enough 'gas' for that roadtrip to Aunt Luanne's. It would actually be easier for women. If a female pulls over to the side of the road, within seconds, fifteen men would pull over and race to be the first 'help' on the scene. Or, get a slutty friend and you'll always be on the road.
It might be harmful to public beauty to see every manner of asshole jacking off next to his gas tank along the side of the road, which is why we should tap into the animal sperm kingdom. It's an endlessly renewable resource. Seriously, invest now...because you don't want to miss out.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
And what, exactly, does this say about her? It was a small bag, so she's extremely brand concsious, but doesn't have a lot of disposable income. Paying $195 for a tie, for her ex boyfriend, who can burn in hell, was a bit pricey, hence the need to get some extra mileage out of the bag. Bringing it to work is clearly a show for the other crotch sniffers hunting around for a NJ husband.
Seeing the bag would probably turn off all but the wealthiest potential mates, because if she's willing to spend (read: waste) that kind of money while she's making entry level income, imagine the damage she can do to your Amex once you're married. This does have the slightly positive effect, for her, of weeding out the less-than-flushed suitors. She may miss out on a happy match, but who the fuck wants that? Show me the money!
She is one of many young women in the New Jersey area who don't want a career, though she protests to her friends and family that she'll only be with a man who respects her intelligence and desire to be a professional. No, the calculated plan has been in motion since high school. Her mother bought her the Coach bags and stayed at home to raise (read: drink red wine all day) the kids, showing that a life of leisure is the right of all semi-attractive girls who know how to buy expensive clothes. On to a private new england college, the goal becomes more focused: a professional job amongst up and coming young men who need a wife to bear a child to shut up their mothers. So she struggles through accounting because the job placement rate is high and she'll be in an office of tie-wearing frat boys who want a wife who will stay home with the baby and stop asking so many questions about their constant late nights at work and mysterious hotel charges on the credit card statement. She'll have a huge wedding with 300 of her closest friends and enemies to show everyone that she was worth it and that's why she was anorexic for seven years, so she could find such a great frat boy and settle down. Pregnant within a year, she starts to lose her mind being trapped in her 3500 square feet of air conditioned suburban splendor so her mother comes over and teaches her how to drink red wine all day but still drive well enough to pick up hubby's dry cleaning without putting any dents into the Escalade. The baby cries a lot but at least it can't tell her to shut up or work seventeen days in a row and "sleep" at the office. She wonders what all the people at the office are up to and if Michelle is still such a bitch. She'll complain to her frat boy that she doesn't know him anymore but it'll blow over when he threatens to trade her Escalade for a Kia Sportage if she wants him to take an easier job and they can also move back to the townhouse but we all know how that would look to the other mothers on the block, tsk tsk. And life will go on like this, until she has her own daughter to dress up like an Asian hooker for Little Miss Beauty Pageants but of course she'll have to lose some weight if she's going to be the bestest five year old in Monmouth County so you didn't want any butter on that roll anyway, did you? And little miss lipstick whore will grow up into a bulemic and/or anorexic cheerleader with her mother carefully looking on from the stands, every now and then using her two index fingers to remind little miss lipstick whore to smile big for all the people who came to see her, forget about the football game. And little miss will head off to a private college in new england where she'll major in business so that she can get that entry level job at 33k a year and buy a Prada tie for her boyfriend who is probably cheating on her but he can burn in hell. Then she'll take the Prada shopping bag out from its spot on the side of the closet in her 1 bedroom condo that her father bought to give her a leg up and she'll carefully unfold that white shopping bag to make sure there are no tears or other visual clues to show that it might not be from this fall's line. The bag will make it to the suburban NJ office kitchen where a stranger will notice it and wonder who the fuck uses a prada bag, to carry a plum and tupperware container of baby carrots, as a lunch bag.
And life will go on.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
It's about Cold Stone Creamery and their policy of singing when you tip them. I couldn't agree more...
"The sad thing is that I don't think I can tip these guys anymore. I mean, I really want to - what with them giving me a delicious and over-sized ice cream treat - but I can't take that singing. And I feel like if I tried to tip the guy but said something like, "You don't have to sing", it would turn into some Larry David-esque episode with him calling me out on it and saying, "What? You don't like our cheerful singing?" and then a customer saying, "Yeah - what's wrong with you?" and then some hot chick saying, "He's just bitter because he's fat!" But unlike Larry David, I would grab a fucking chair and hit the bitch who called me fat and would scream "You fucking bitch! I will kill you and shit on your grave! I will shit on your fucking grave in front of your family and your pets! I was in People fucking magazine! Do you know who the fuck I am! I have a blog! I have a fucking blog!". I am sensitive about my weight. "
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
We were up in Jersey on a mini-vacation from NC. Being the discount travelers we are, we booked three nights in NYC at a hotel on Madison Avenue. This was back in the day when you could still get a great deal through Priceline. For $100 a night we got into the Hotel Wales, a very posh boutique on the UES.
I knew I was out my element before I made it in the door. How? Two doormen and a bellman unloading the limo at the curb. We felt it more economical to forgo the cab or limo, taking two trains from Penn Station and schlepping the ten blocks from the Lexington Ave subway station. First class.
Not feeling so debonair in my North Face climbing jacket, I braced myself for the potential snubbing. One of the doormen came over to open the door and welcome us. Nice. The lobby was awash in handsome wood trim and plush carpeting. We made our way to the front desk to explain that we were the degenerates who just raped their $375 room rate via Priceline.
Then it happened. I had to open my mouth and erase all doubt. To this day it remains unclear whether the front desk attendant did it to make us uncomfortable or simply because he was the consumate professional and followed his procedure to the T, regardless of the college students and their backpacks.
"Mr. Brooks, would you care for some sherry while you check in?"
"No, thank you, I just had some sherry on the subway."
This is why my wife loves me, and why the Hotel Wales cancelled its Priceline affiliation before we made it to the elevator.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
At the grocery store I was in the aisle next to this high school kid wearing his Polo inside out so that the label could be read by all. This bothered me.
"What are you driving?"
"I've got a BMW three-"
"Shut the fuck up. Nobody cares what you drive. Nor do they care who made your fucking shirt, you fucking tool"
I really should have said this, but starting a fight with a 17 year old isn't going to help me land that dream job, now is it?