That's Just The Booze Talking

Thursday, September 01, 2005

You Better Memorize This Face



What in sweet fuck is this?

This makes those Orbitz games look like Grand Theft Auto: Sakebomb Gets a Hummer From Sienna Miller™. America, what the hey is going on? Does Derek Jeter seriously need the money so badly that he’d agree to participate in what amounts to a game that asks baseball fans to intercept and destroy his seed? This is the same man who slept with Jessica Alba? Wha?

What’s next, a Java app that simulates Bubba Crosby firing pinecones out of his ass?

Veinspotting




Looks like they busted the R Train Flasher. Way to go citizens, etc, etc, but we found the article’s coda to be a bit naff:

But former customers were repulsed. “That’s disgusting,” said Melissa Kolbert, 24. “I’ve only eaten there once before ... but I’ll never go back.”

Oh settle down, Melissa. It’s not like he was showing his dick to the food.

The House at Puke Corner



Sometimes the only way to properly power through a hangover is through the agency of Great Art. Since we have none on us, and because our brain is withered on its stalk like a geriatric’s testicles, we present you with the following haikus, which we wrote in our own rheumy tears. More later if we don’t, uh, die:

Alcoholism:
Funny and sad, like a clown
having an abortion.

We all love tapas,
except when they are mixed with
gastric acid and spit.

When the tapas went
through reverse peristalsis,
it was time to go home.

Oh tapas, so nice
to taste. Except, of course, when
served in a toilet.

Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Rome Burns, Nero Fiddles



Yep, this was taken yesterday.




Update: Nice G chord, bitch.


Then there’s this, which suggests that rather than compromised levees and, you know, tons of gale-force wind and rain, it was those nasty GAYS that caused the destruction of the Big Easy:

“The past three mayors of New Orleans, including Sidney Barthelomew, Marc H. Morial, and C. Ray Nagin, issued official proclamations welcoming visitors to ‘Southern Decadence.’ Additionally, New Orleans City Council made other proclamations recognizing the annual homosexual celebration.

“‘Although the loss of lives is deeply saddening, this act of God destroyed a wicked city,’ stated Repent America director Michael Marcavage. ‘From Girls Gone Wild to Southern Decadence, New Orleans was a city that had its doors wide open to the public celebration of sin. May it never be the same,’ he continued.”

Just a thought here: Michael Marcavage, you are an ignorant motherfucker. We’re buying a ticket to Philadelphia and we’re going to forcibly sodomize you with your own femur until you apologize for being such a stupid shitstain.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Last Days of Pompeii



That’s what some people are comparing New Orleans to, right about now. The city is already 80% flooded, and news from the CBS affiliate down there says that efforts to dam up the levee break at the 17th Street Canal have failed. As such, the pumps in that area are expected to fail as well. Lake Pontchartrain is now expected to add another 15-20 feet of water to an already submerged city.

Fuck.

Train Truck Tractor



We just got invited to some lady’s birthday party out in Queens. Because whenever we’re there we may as well be in fucking Nebraska, we told the intern to Google a proper map of the Borough of Airports. Turns out the only way to get there is by taking that weird G train thing. Now we have our reservations about going. We got on that once and it was like a scene from The Warriors, only with Hassidim. Also, isn’t that shit named after G-Unit? In the comments, someone tell us how to get to––oh what did she say her town was called again?––oh, yes: “Long Island City.” Never heard of it. Sounds kinda gully.

Jockey Full of Bourbon



While it looks like our second-favorite city dodged a meteorological bullet yesterday––no floating coffins were reported, and God basically seems to have decided not to ask Bonham over to the house for an all-star jam rendition of “When the Levee Breaks”––we’re sorry to see the Crescent City get banged up the way it did. The folks we know who live down in N’awlins are gutting it out, and if there’s any justice in this sad old world, O’Flaherty’s, Commander’s Palace and Beth Patterson’s bouzoukis will have been spared. Meantime, if there’s any doubt that John McPhee remains King Shit, check out Salon, which has an excerpt from his masterful 1989 book, The Control of Nature . If we could write like that, we wouldn’t be scribbling CD reviews for Anhedonic Muskrat Digest. We also wouldn’t be spending our weekends beating off over an old Golden Girls board game either, but whoops, we’re Sharing again.

Update: Shit. They’re not out of harm’s way yet, not by a long shot.

You Know You’re Right



Holy cats, were we wrong about this. While we won’t back down on the essential hilarity the book afforded us in the early going, the fact that Ellis expected us to be afraid of what was essentially a homicidal Furby was the straw that sent the dromedary to the chiropractor. Also, we failed to see the horror in furniture that rearranges itself, which rather parenthetically reminds us to wonder aloud if the concept of feng shui isn’t just an elaborate practical joke perpetrated on the West by the Chinese. You can’t honestly believe that if you move your ottoman a couple inches to the left you’ll suddenly become a better person. (There’s a Dick Van Dyke joke in there, but we’re not even going to bother.) So, we stand corrected.

Which is not to say that we’re not going to derisively point and laugh at this in much the same way we pointed and laughed at this cry for help from last Sunday’s Style section. When a hunter stumbles across Jessica Krasilovsky’s torso in a drainage ditch, will anyone but Trip Gabriel be surprised? Jesus, people. We know nobody reads this thing to glean object lessons or anything, but there’s only one place in the U.S. that we know of where it’s still safe to hitchhike, and that’s here. (Bonus: If a van full of stinky hippies picks you up––and they will––they will help you become extremely high.)

Oh, right, this again. Not sure what’s more outstanding here––that a Frenchman wrote a 171-page thesis titled “Emptiness, Redondance (sic) and Vacuity: A Study of Ellis” or that he cited bits from Roland Barthes, Michel Houellebecq and The Onion as secondary sources.

Whoops. Looks like it’s time to get back to “work.” (People often ask us what we do for a living, and while we can’t get into specifics, we can say we do a little something something at a niche publishing house called P&P, which specializes in the lucrative pets and porn markets. And no, the Venn Diagram allows for no intersection between the two disciplines. Right now we’re working on a 2,000-word piece on holistic grooming for Giraffe Fancy; later in the week, we’re doing the captions for the bukakke pictorial in the inaugural issue of Chocolate Sailor Boyz. Not to brag, but any time someone uses the term “parabola of man gravy,” we totally get a royalty.) Anyhoo, we leave you now with this BEE remainder:

1) Our second-favorite nonsense passage from Less Than Zero:


Someone’s written the alphabet, maybe Spit or Jeff or Dimitri, on her wall. I try to concentrate on that, but I notice that most of the letters aren’t in order and so I ask, “What else is your mom doing?”

“She’s going to do this movie in Hawaii. What do you do?”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“Don’t ask me about my mother.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” I say again.

She finds the vest. “Here.”

“Why not?”

“What do you do?” she asks, holding out the vest.

“What do you do?”

“What do you do?" she asks, her voice shaking. "Don’t ask me, please. Okay, Clay?”

“Why not?”

She sits on the mattress after I get up. Muriel screams.

“Because... I don’t know,” she sighs.

I look at her and don't feel anything and walk out with my vest.