That's Just The Booze Talking

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Stiff Upper Lip Drunk And Relaxed



“I am safe and well and I have all my limbs on.” Brits. Irish People. Unbelievable.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Nice Rack



As part of a new feature we’re going to discontinue immediately, we at Sakebomb would like to introduce a little something where we pore through the day’s magazines and point out interesting articles. It’ll be like Gothamist, but not nearly as retarded. Plus, we sound like we actually, um, live here. Think NY1’s droll and Canadian Pat Kiernan reading the morning paper to you as you scramble to pull yourself together so you can make your 8:30 meeting.

First up, New York magazine asks: Are Jews Smarter? Well, it took Jennifer Senior about 6,200 words to answer this, so we’ll sum it up in a single sentence: Not necessarily, but they are better with money. Also, the Ashkenazim are smarter than the Sephardim. And Ed Koch says Asians are smarter than everyone. Especially when it comes to math. Senior does leave one question tantalizingly unanswered when she poses the head-scratcher, “What, precisely, is a Mexican?”

We’re just going to let that one sit there.

Next, in this week’s New Yorker, Dana Goodyear profiles Sarah Silverman, who is only funny because she’s sort of cute. But she also fucks Jimmy Kimmel, which takes, like, 10 million hit points off her and makes us wonder why Goodyear spent 2,500 words trying to put her finger on what it is about Silverman that makes her funny, but never asks the key question WHY ARE YOU PUTTING JIMMY KIMMEL’S COCK IN YOUR MOUTH?

In Time magazine, we imagine there’s a cover story on Jesus or migraines or fat people, but we wouldn’t know because we don’t read Time magazine.

Over at Cat Fancy, there’s an editorial titled, “Fuck Dogs.”

And lastly, in Harper’s, Ben Marcus calls Jonathan Franzen names. Normally, we’d be all over this kind of thing but his takedown is maybe 8,000 words long and Pot, meet Mr. Kettle. He is black too.

Art To Choke Hearts



So we spent part of our weekend in the old neighborhood, a place where people solve life’s niggling little problems by shouting gibberish out of their fifth-story windows and riddling each other with high-caliber bullets. Or used to, anyway, before the White Man came with his Death Cab CDs and his Ironiclaly Sloganed T-Shirts and his Interesting Choices in Facial Hair and rents went up so high that we could no longer afford to live in the ghetto.

Anyway, the former Miss Sakebomb and, um, us? we?* walked around the place that was home for eight years, past the Bad Cocaine Bodega (now a record store) and the place where they make plastic slipcovers for furniture (now a shop where you can buy wildly expensive bookshelves made of tin) and the restaurant that gave us a bad case of the scoots (now a bistro**). Everything was different and it was if we had never lived here, and for some reason or other, this made us really depressed, the kind of depressed where you go home and drink a fifth of whiskey all by yourself and then act out the lead in the E! True Hollywood Story: Sylvia Plath episode that’s always threatening to unspool in the grimier recesses of your psyche. Thankfully, we turned the corner and discovered a dude paining one of those terrible memorial murals you see in neighborhoods where people like to put holes in each other. Beneath the legend “Cheetah 1976-2005,” the man had painted the scowling face of a dude who looked an awful lot like Ed Norton in American History X, only Hispanic and with what looked like a pair of dice tattooed on the side of his neck. We stopped to admire the artist’s handiwork––it really wasn’t half bad, and was a welcome relief from all that De la Vega crap that passes for art above 96th St––and asked what Cheetah’s story was. “Cheetah was my friend,” the guy said, wiping some stray paint from his hands on the front of his jeans. “He was everybody’s friend. Everyone in the neighborhood loved Cheetah. Everyone.”

We asked how Cheetah had died at such a young age.

Not missing a beat, the guy goes, “He got shot in the head.”

To our surprise (and extreme consternation, given the circumstances), the Ex-Miss Sakebomb blurted out, “Well, somebody didn’t love Cheetah, that’s for sure.”

The guy just shrugged this off. “No, no. Everybody loved Cheetah,” he said, turning back to his work.***


Then there’s this, which brings together the only things we like anymore into one tidy little browser-crashing package. Totally NSFW, BTW, unless your boss is cool with you looking at tits. Ours is in Bavaria right now, so we can do whatever we want this week. Happy Hour starts at 3:00, kids.

*Such are the inherent pitfalls of employing the Royal We, which frankly we are getting totally sick of.

**!

***Over dinner, we decided that NBC could really pull the fat out of the fire if it were to greenlight our new show, Everybody Loves Cheetah. Luis Guzman would star as a sportswriter for El Diario who lives across the street from his parents, Rita Moreno and Paul Rodriguez. Much of the comedy would revolve around the tension between Cheetah’s insufferable mom and his blanca wife (Christina Applegate). Occasionally, Cheetah will make a joke about not getting any sex. And at the end of every episode, someone would shoot Cheetah in the head. We smell prime time Emmy.

Like a Black Fly in Your Chardonnay



No, Alanis, this still isn’t ironic. It is however, darkly hilarious.

Shut Your Fucking Face, Uncle Fucker



You’re not getting off that easy, chumpy. What, you couldn’t hit one lousy RBI for the poor sainted man who raised you?