Thursday, December 01, 2005
Ne Travaillez Pas Jamais
We’re not even going to say anything about how busy we’ve been and oh goodness the holidays and blah blah yackity yack jibber jabber blah blah, because a) nobody cares and b) that would take time and time is one thing we don’t have right about now. Plus, we got jack shit. It happens. Frequently.
Also, we are not well. Our hands are shaking like Katherine Hepburn trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube made out of Jell-O™. Last night we had a date with a bottle of something that shouldn’t be consumed in conjunction with the operation of heavy machinery and in the middle of making the brown stuff go bye-bye, we were forced to engage in the kind of conversation that usually results in No More Sex For Any Of The Parties Involved, at least not until the next sucker comes along. Which is fine, because we were getting tired of greeting each morning with the twinned smells of drying jizz and tearful recrimination rustling through our nostril hair.
Which is not to say that we don’t have things on our mind. We do, but we’re not sharing them. But we can offer this random and wholly useless assemblage of nonsense that keeps lapping up against the grimy shores of our consciousness, in the same way how Updike probably thinks about skin disease and ancient Sumeria whenever he takes a particularly arduous pizza dump. Or something. But we will be back soon[ish] with recaps of the year’s best books, films and music, because that’s what these bloggy things were invented for in the first place, yes? (And just as a teaser, we’ll tell you right now that one of our top ten music things for 2005 was Wrong Hole’s debut EP, Peepin’ in the Seafood, thanks to such standout tracks as “Unlaundered Bottom” and “Talmudically Bearded Shop Teacher.”)
Also, now that we think about it, the movie part will probably be really short, as we did not actually go to the movies this year, because we hate new experiences. And movies.
Anyway, here are our Big Thoughts for this, the first day of the final month of what is sort of the middle year of the first decade of the 21st Century:
1) When you change the lyrics of that John Mayer song to “Your Body is a Mini-Bar” it gets like 100 times better.
2) We have what we believe may be a fine title for one of those self-help books that are supposed to fix your terrible relationship. For the boys, we offer Cunnilingus and Pretending to Listen: A Guide to Dealing with Skirts; for the ladies, we have May as Well Just Get It Out of the Way: The Modern Girl’s Guide to (Relatively) Pain-Free Anal … Because Sooner or Later It’s Going to Come Up.
3) It just occurred to us that at every middle school dance we ever attended, the guy playing the records would invariably throw on “Cocaine” by Eric Clapton. That’s completely fucked up.
4) Projectile vomiting is bad enough, but projectile diarrhea is way worse.
5) Lastly, don’t read this part unless you don’t mind wanting to kill yourself immediately afterwards: From Alvaro Mutis’ Adventures & Misadventures of Maqroll: “These disasters, these decisions that are wrong from the start, these dead ends that constitute the story of my life, are repeated over and over again. A passionate vocation for happiness, always betrayed and misdirected, ends in a need for total defeat; it is completely foreign to what, in my heart of hearts, I’ve always known could be mine if it weren’t for this constant desire to fail.”
We’re totally getting that tattooed on our upper arm, right underneath the drawing of a priapic Yeti putting one up Minnie Pearl’s Shame Chute.
(Image stolen from here.)