That's Just The Booze Talking

Friday, September 09, 2005

Told You So



Never question our gambling prowess, people. When we say take the Pats giving up 7.5, we are speaking WORDS OF WISDOM, fuckers. (What, you were going to take advice from Mr. Fame: Ain’t It a Bitch? Please.)

And on a related note: We’d be more than happy to write in this guy on our donkey ballot next Tuesday, provided he brings back the NFL Picks, which besides burn victim porn and this, was the only reason anyone ever needed to look at the Inter-Web back in the day.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Mackenzie Phillips Doesn’t Live Here Anymore



Tuesday night, The Daily Show’s Ed Helm had a funny little segment about President Corky, in which he listed all of the administration’s various crises in alphabetical order. And it goes a little something like this (hit it):

Appointment in Samarra



“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun––for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax––This won't hurt.”

CNN has what appears to be Hunter S. Thompson’s suicide note.

In a bleakly ironic sort of way, the note was titled “Football Season is Over.” The NFL season officially begins tonight, with the Patriots hosting the Raiders in Foxboro. (Psst: Take the Patsies, who are giving up 7.5 points. Trust us on this.) Also bleak: “Opening Day” of the 2005-‘06 campaign is Sunday, which also happens to be the fourth anniversary of you-know-what.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Shut Down the Internet



You look like Three Musketeers gave you cauliflower ass.

On a somewhat related note, in a moment of postgraduate whimsy, back in the early ‘90s we decided to cultivate a tiny Baby Mustache. We thought it was funny being all unemployed and unemployable and living at home with the ‘rents and eating all the maple walnut ice cream, so why not facial hair? Father’s reaction: Contempt, generalized seething. Mother’s reaction: “Honey, please shave that thing off. You look like a rapist.” Sister’s reaction: “It sort of looks like a caterpillar. I’m just waiting for it to crawl off your face and turn into a moth.”

Also: The only dude in ZZ Top who does not have a beard is named Frank Beard.

Oh, and: We slept at the W in Union Square last night. Don’t ask, but yes, somewhere a divorce lawyer is mentally installing a new spoiler on the back of his P.T. Cruiser. But anyway, one of the things we adore about the W is their endless supply of Bliss soap-related products, which come with the room but are also easily liberated from the housekeeper’s closet if you have the right kicking equipment on. So because God hates us, we fell upon some misfortune when we decided to use the complimentary conditioner this morning. Boring story short, we neglected to read the label before applying, partly because we drank so much that the part of the brain that controls letters is broken forever. Turns out we dumped 3 oz. of hand lotion into our hair and we now look like The Fonz, only taller and throwing-uppier.

Oh no no no no no no no.

Back never. We quit.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

We Drink Ourselves Familiar



While we’re happy to leave the literary hoo-ah to these people, there is something we’d like to get off our obscenely muscular and hairless chest. See, the thing is, when we get on the subway in the morning, we like to scope out what the other passengers are reading, especially the distaff set. (There is no greater joy to be found in this miserable, filthy burg than to spy a really attractive woman reading a great book, unless it’s spying a really attractive woman swearing at a packet of Capri Sun in the street, which is something we saw the day we moved to goddamned Brooklyn. We also once saw a guy yelling at some bread in front of the Corner Bistro, but we digress.) So we’re filled with a kind of airy mirth when we notice the girl reading a well-worn copy of A Confederacy of Dunces this morning, and we’re doubly impressed by the fact that she’s chortling like a lunatic. But then we sort of glance over to the right, past the Asian dude who has his iPod jacked up so loud that we can literally hear Chris Martin growing a vagina, and spot the girl with the glasses (pant, pant) reading the new Harry Potter book, which we believe is called something like Harry Potter and the Guy Who Stands Up A Lot. Or whatever.

Now, we’re all for a world where people take the core tenets of RIF to heart––not exactly sure what those tenets are, although we think Lavar Burton might play some kind of supporting role––but we really have to draw the line when it comes down to the whole grownups-reading-kids’-books thing. As a public service, here is a litmus test to ascertain whether you should be reading Harry Potter books or not. Ready? OK, now pull your pants down. (No, we don’t want to do that; we barely know you and we’re completely sober. Besides, we have TMJ.) OK, so let us ask you this: Do you see pubes? Oh you do? A thatch of little oily coilies? Then you’re too fucking old to be reading Harry Potter. Quit it.

What to read then? Well, not to toot our own horn here, but we’re pleased to announce that our long-awaited biography of the world’s most stylish legume has been picked up by a major publisher. (Hint: It’s the same house that published Updike’s pamphlet about felching.) We don’t have a release date yet, although we’re already up to Chapter 5: “Spats, a Monocle and a Top Hat ... But No Actual Pants: An Inquiry Into Mr. Peanut’s Psychosexual Mores.”

The advance was fairly generous, so anyone we’ve touched for drinks in the last few years should get their licks in while the money’s still rolling in. How much you say? Well, we’re not base enough to discuss that kind of thing in Cyberspace, but know this: If we knew how to write code, all our entries would be making the sound Scrooge McDuck makes whenever he dives into his giant vault of gold coins. There would also be a visual element in the mix, something like a 3-D rendering of us drinking whisky near a pond with God and various members of Three Dog Night, with the sun maybe giving us the thumbs up.