That's Just The Booze Talking

Saturday, April 16, 2005

They Like to Be Called “Little People”

We were all ready to revel in today's New York Post, given that Col Allan and his merry band decided to slap this on the cover:

And while we understand that yes, it is Saturday, and it's been a fairly slow news day, it beggars belief that a story about routine harassment made the front page. Yes, the mother/daughter pair that were targeted by their mean-spirited Brighton Beach neighbor, Joseph Izzo, are indeed midgets, and if nothing else, that's good for a belly laugh. (Actually, more than just one: Predictably enough, the Post went absolutely batshit crazy with their story, reporting that Izzo's taunts "diminished" the two women, and in a wholly redundant aside, listing the ill-mannered Izzo’s height.) But then we read on and realized that Izzo had to ruin the ha ha by making a racist asshole of himself, and it took the luster right out of the story. Joseph Izzo of Brighton Beach, NY, you forgot the first rule of comedy––If it bends it's funny, if it breaks, not so much. Although the yellow brick road was a nice touch.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Fuck Yeah the Snowman

There is absolutely nothing we can add to this to make it any more life-affirmingly hilarious than it already is. All we can say is that it is real and it has put at least one new bad idea in our troubled little head. The only ambiguity about this is whether the pee is meant to be the snowman’s or if he’d been set upon by moonshine-sniffing dogs. (Photo courtesy of the incomparable Bad News Hughes )

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Good Advices

A friend of ours is this neurotic pain in the ass who’s forever trying to land a hubby, a quest that’s often thwarted by her big yapper and an almost spooky propensity to hump dudes on the first date. This morning, she sends us an email asking if we have any “hard and fast rules” about how women should behave in the early going so as not to scare a man off. Our response: “Since you can’t seem to keep your legs crossed, we’ll make it simple. Don’t ever let a guy put it in your pooper on the first date. Let’s just say that allowing that kind of thing to happen before you know his middle name more or less guarantees you’ll never fulfill your dream of going shoe shopping with his mom.”

Because she is needy and addled, our friend continued to pepper us with all sorts of follow up questions, the answers to which we present here to our two faithful readers. (Hello Jean Claude! Hello Ray Ray!). We excised her stuff because it’s probably not ethical for us to disseminate her inane musings on the Inter-Web, and edited our own remarks based on some loosely defined categorical imperatives:


(She mentioned something about how women aren’t supposed to be funny, and that men who are funny should tone it down on a first date because they come off as “too intense and starved for attention.” Nuts to that.)

“Can’t say we agree with you on the not being funny part, ____. Girl-type people are very quick to associate the ha ha with the hoo-ah. By being the most hilarious mofo in the room, you release endorphins in them that make them forget that they probably shouldn’t invite strange men over for a spirited round of tongue spelunking mere hours after meeting them. The TJTBT Secret™ is a three-fold process: 1) Be hilarious, 2) be really really good at [redacted] and 3) pretend to listen.”


“And don’t talk about a dead parent on a first date. You may well recall how we once got c*ck blocked from beyond the grave by this girl’s dead mother. Seriously, one minute we’re about to make our first foray into her Shameful Baby Area, the next minute it’s as if a pair of spectral hands were slapping away at our tumescence like a Thalidomide baby trying to play Gnip Gnop. Turns out the day we got together for drinks was the 3rd anniversary of her moms going peace out like Hoon. If nothing else, this brought into question the girl’s ability to use a calendar.”


“Here’s the problem with people our age who haven’t been married yet: We’re all damaged goods. When we’re with someone we feel smothered, when we’re alone, we’re miserable. In between, we fuck loads of strangers who inevitably do something creepy and/or embarrassing, until we have to tell them to get lost. For whatever reason, we are emotionally unavailable and that part of the psyche that’s supposed to play a big chemical trick on us and make us fall in love with the people we fuck is all inert and wonky, like that Mylar balloon wafting in front of Terri Schiavo’s zombie face. Luckily, people in their 20s don’t know any of this, so we can take advantage of them. Our brooding just makes us seem deep and smart when in fact we’re just thinking about how to get you out of the house so that we can breathe again.

“So we guess there is just one rule, which is always date people in their 20s. They are gullible little optimists and their bodies are in their lush, peachy prime. You can roll over them with your psychosexual steamroller and not even feel all that bad because, like all young things, they bounce back quickly and in so doing become stronger than ever. Hell, it’s like you’re doing them a service.”


“Seriously, don’t forget about the restricting access to the pooper part. That’s the most important rule of them all. Like the 6th commandment, or whichever one says don’t kill people.”

Monday, April 11, 2005


If you're at all like us––and you should get down on bended knee every night and pray to the Invisible Man Who Lives in the Sky that you are not––you spend your days in a narcotized stupor, barely noticing the particulars of day-to-day existence because it's too much of an effort to interact with the world anymore, goddamnit to hell. Case in point: The morning commute. Though we cram ourselves into the R train every day––the R stands for "R you fucking kidding me?", something we find ourselves muttering bitterly every few minutes or so as we peer down the platform for a glimpse of a train that will never arrive––the fact that we are now living under the iron rule of a new Ms. Subway completely escaped us until today. And while we can't decide if the recently crowned Caroline Sanchez-Bernat is a toothsome little number or merely just kind of, you know, toothy, we really like the idea of a dame in a tiara bossing us around. In the first salvo of the Ms. Subways Courtesy Campaign, Sanchez-Bernat warns straphangers not to horse around on the escalators, which is a sound enough piece of advice, one that is neatly reinforced by her come-hither glance and the fetching way she tries to cover up her Man Traps. Thus far it's the only ad to appear, so that more or less leaves us in the dark about some other etiquette particulars, like, say, Ms. Subways' stance on frottage. Luckily, this guy knows Photoshop: