Tuesday, November 30, 2010

"The Dark Continent is no place for an addict, Elaine."

Speaking of editorial madnesses: I have, through some mysterious combination of online ordering patterns (likely involving those fucking tank tops from J. Jill, the New York Times and New Yorker subscriptions, the interview suit from Banana Republic, a couple of Boden items, Yankees tchotchkes for my father-in-law, clown costumes, and the family membership to the San Francisco Zoo), apparently tripped a secret algorithm that caused me to be sent the J. Peterman catalogue -- and y'all, it is HILARIOUS! I actually got through the Seinfeld years without realizing this was really a thing -- and now I'm like, fuck, why would Elaine not want to work there for the rest of her life? I sure would! This is comedy gold, y'all, and the creative license is immense -- you can write WHATEVER YOU WANT, and they will print it, and it will sell $425 "Lizzy B" (as in Bennett) dresses, "Viva Argentina!" shirts and "The Rolls Royce of Travel Bags" to rich people with a nostalgia for long-ago eras of travel and adventure that never actually existed outside of Pixar movies.

Note to self: visit website, if there is one, and apply IMMEDIATELY.

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Sunday, November 28, 2010

Well, what I wanna know is, where's MY stuff?

Sorry for disappearing, y'all -- Work/Life Balance, as it is HILARIOUSLY called around my office, got way the fuck out of whack, and then we went to the Olde Hometowne for some Thanksgiving good times -- but now I'm back so let's fucking PARTY.

Imaginary Excerpts From the House Style Guide for Southern Living Magazine

--Each article must contain at least one, and preferably half a dozen, "as Southern as ... " similies. Options for the "as" include but are not limited to: pecan pie, family get-togethers, iced tea, family, grandmother's fried chicken, yam pie, family recipes, old Chevy trucks, the flag, the Grand Ole Opry, tradition, traditional recipes, church, going to church, family pews at church, Sunday dinner. Unacceptable: government teat-sucking, abstinence-only sex-ed, redneck jackassery.

--If you must depict or discuss persons of brown coloring, ensure that they are shown in a service capacity, and that they display large friendly unthreatening smiles.

--Be sure to refer to Appendix A for explanation of our preferred code words, especially "heritage" and "whimsical."

--If your Design-focused article features a Gay (as surely they sometimes will, because the Gays are so delightful, with their design sense!), you must not refer to his housemate as "partner" more than once. Avoid using entirely, if possible. Photos must not depict a Gay touching or being near enough to touch another man, whether or not that man is himself also a Gay.

--When speaking of Family, the tone must be both reverent and intimate. Photographs must feature two parents (opposite gender only) and at least two minor children, unless the topic is a Family Business, in which case multi-generational photographs are acceptable.

--Articles about food which do not include the word "decadent" will be stricken from the magazine and the author blacklisted in perpetuity.

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Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Cluckin' Chicken: The Personal Waterloo of Meat Consumption

So I was thinking about this, and I'm pretty sure I haven't eaten a chicken nugget in ... probably ... twenty-three years. I've eaten fast food now and then, just not nuggets (even as a kid, I'd order the 12-piece box, since I knew there'd be a couple in there that were inedible little wads of gristle) -- in fact, see this handy chart as to what my thoughts are on the various franchises:

Taco Bueno
Dairy Queen

Taco Bell
Jack in the Box

Long John Silver's (the crispy bits of fried coating, with malt vinegar)
KFC (chicken strips + biscuits + gravy)

Burger King

It's a total of maybe ten-twelve times in a year, eight of which are usually on trips back to the Olde Hometowne in Texass (steak finger baskets! DQ Dude! Frito burrito!); living where I do, there's not a lot of fast food in my path, and there's plenty of good eatin' on the cheap everywhere (not like NYC, but it'll do), plus I just can't really ... I don't know, I don't like it and I don't feel good about myself, my health, the planet, factory farming, obese five-year-olds, the high-fructose-corn-syrup lobby, shame spiral yada yada yada whenever I do indulge, so I just don't eat it much.

But this fucking video featuring the horrifying pink chemical offal mulch that shall become the Nugget, which you've probably all seen already ... jesus scratching CHRIST. It almost made a full vegetarian out of me, instantaneously. It's my "Cluckin' Chicken" (Mr. Gleemonex and Twelve will get that) -- the thing that makes one renounce meat and meat products forevermore on grounds that OMIGOD I'M GONNA PUKE.

Nuggets. Uggggggh.

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Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Four Happinesses

Possible Reasons, At Any Given Time, That I'm Sitting Over Here Cackling to Myself Like the Office Version of a Crazy Street Person Today

--"Pace yourself, Judy."
Hader is now in that awesome phase on SNL, where he's doing stuff that makes him laugh instead of pitching in wherever needed, and he usually fucking kills me -- but on the John Hamm ep, he did another Vincent Price Special, and y'all, Judy Garland was on it, shitfaced on pills & booze, and he tolerates it for awhile, then goes, as she's swallowing another handful of uppers/downers/screamers/laughers, "Pace yourself, Judy. It's only 7:30." And I DIED. And laughed my ass off. And died again. Laugh/die/revive/repeat. Since TWO WEEKS AGO I've been laughing about this line, y'all -- I typed it into Word, printed it out, and put it on my cube wall at work! "Pace yourself, Judy," I'll say to myself, then laugh out loud. "Pace yourself, Judy," I scribble in a notebook in a boring meeting, then try to cover the snarfling with a cough. "Pace yourself, Judy," I decide will be the name of my production company, then laugh/die/revive/repeat. And it keeps gettin funnier every time I think of it!

--Jesus Gets Around.
He's doin' 50 in a 65! This is the kind of thing that would probably annoy the shit out of my mom, but I can't get enough of it.

--This, which my friend posted on another friend's Facebook wall, in commiseration over a pear-related purse mishap: "I killed [my wife]'s Blackberry by putting in the same pocket as a pear a couple months ago. It squished around so much it got into the keyboard."

--The maniac German of a Spinning instructor who came up to me specially after class on Monday to tell me that "Dat vass excellent vork on de flats today. Very goot!"[very serious face, nod of Schrute-like approbation + clench of fist denoting contained but sincere enthusiasm]. Me, FTW!

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Sunday, November 07, 2010

There's more to life than books, you know, but not much more.

So I sat down in front of the Amazon to order a book from my childhood that I think my kid would get a kick out of -- The Worst Person in the World, it was called -- and like an HOUR later, I've got a cart full of not only that, but also the four books in the Class of '88 series I told y'all about once (from four different used-book sellers all over the U.S.), an xmas present for Mr. Gleemonex, a book about the Great Plains by this guy whose writing I have read in the New Yorker, and ... shit, I don't know, there were I think nine items altogether (it was twelve, but I'm going to order my bro's xmas present separately, the Harry Potter 7-book UK edition set will have to come from a UK seller, and I put Lonesome Dove on hold, on grounds I can surely find it in a secondhand store somewhere around here). I am goddamn DANGEROUS with books.

But here are four awesome Internets-based entertainments for you, which are FREE for the looking-at!

Lots, that's what. LOTS.

Such rrrrelish, the way he says "douchebag."

Say what again, motherfucker.


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Monday, November 01, 2010

Could you do the rest of us a favor and leave by the outfield? I mean ... they're gonna get you anyway ...

Nolan Ryan, do you want my advice for how to win a World Series? Do ya? Well, here it is: Quit palling around with the genocidal maniac George W. Bush and his lifesucking wife Laura.

GOD. Texas, man. Can't even watch BASEBALL without seeing those two walking advertisements for abortion. The Series has been huge fun -- I love me some Giants (my NL homeslices), and there's been all kinds of crazy awesome stuff happening in the games, but boy, does it chill the room forty degrees to see that funloving ex-First-Couple on my bigass teevee. Last night when we got home from trick-or-treating with the kid (she went as DJ Lance Rock, of course), Mr. Gleemonex and I watched the TiVoed Game Four, which was all kinds of rawk except for the part where Laura Bush -- ill-bred viper parked right in the good seats, wearing her everyday Nicholson-Joker face mask -- yawned on camera, mouth open wide like one of the goddamn Ewells, not even bothering to try to cover it with a polite hand, fillings countable in HD clarity for thirty full seconds … holy pitcher-dueling SHATNER do I loathe her.


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