It’s Expected I’m Gone
It's a cleaning house kind of day, both literally and figuratively, as we had the delicious and intoxicating pleasure of quitting our fucking job. (Well, giving notice as we move on to greener pastures, or more truthfully, pastures that are still sort of brown and wilty but less choked with pony shit.) So: Ahhhhh.
Thus today we began removing some of the detritus of the last three years from our veal fattening pen, when we came across an unused ESPN calendar. Flipping through it, we discovered that once again, the picture that accompanies our birth month totally sucks. (This happens without fail. The first calendar we ever owned came free with proof of purchase from cans of Mighty Dog. October's pooch was one of those hideous Chinese dogs with all the wrinkles and no fur. Yay.) The ESPN calendar features dead, moustachioed racecar guy Dale Earnhardt as its Rocktober photo subject, and no one, least of all us, really wants that. But again, par for the course. The other day, we were sort of surreptitiously peering at an “OC” calendar at the Barnes & Noble, and while we knew we weren't going to spy the fetching-in-an-obvious-kind-of-way Rachel Bilson gracing the 10th page, we would have settled for a close-up of Peter Gallagher's caterpillar eyebrows, which always appear as if they're getting ready to crawl off his face. Instead, there was a picture of someone giving a raccoon a hysterectomy. Why?
Also, we're a little late to the party, given the vituperative nature of this and this and this, but we thought we may as well weigh in on Jonathan Safran Foer and why we, like every other sentient being, hate him so much. It's not his books––we actually thought Everything is Illuminated was pretty amusing until the magical realism and the Holocaust stuff choked all the life out of the ha ha, and since we have no intention of reading his 9/11 flipbook, we can't say bad things about that one, either––and it's not the money or the $6.75 million house in our neighborhood. Anyone who can make that kind of scratch off of scribbling is proof that the dream is still alive, in a wholly inaccessible to us kind of way. Nor is it his wife, who also writes books and who, we should just say here, is so hot that there are not enough T's in the word hot to convey that hotness. Perhaps then, this: Hotttttttttttttttttttt. No, no. The reason we hate Jonathan Safran Foer is because of his mole. (He hates it as much as we do. See how he tries to cover it up.)
We also hate Malcolm Gladwell for looking as though his hair grew his head and not the other way around. Hate hate hate hate hate.
Oh, and we hate Sarah for being the cutest, most decent girl on the LES, although unlike
this guy, we'll leave her religion out of it. It's not like she killed Jesus personally, people. Although we would be remiss if we didn't say that the Bravery really, really suck and given the chance, they probably would pound a few nails into The Lord's wrists if they thought it would get them on the cover of Spin.
Then there's this. David Rees peers behind The Moustache of Understanding and discovers that a clean-shaven Tom Friedman looks a little like pre-bloat Elvis.
Oh and thanks to Dana , who loves the Minutemen even more than we do, for validating our sad and base existence the other day with this right here.