10 - Deep Gorgonzola v Patterson Malapuddle
9 - Dreamstick v The Wake-up Caller
8 - Trembling Elephant Leg v Russian Peen Hammer
7 - Telly Savalas Sr. v Jacques Cousteau
6 - Walt Whitman v Oscar Wilde
5 - Lucky "Fist Pickles" Graciano v The Ultimate Teabagger
4 - Ducks v Old Bready
3 - Insano Hapsburg v Sprightly Goodnightly
2 - Bottle Blondes Inc. v Mister OK With History
1 - The Reneger v Whitey Pineconer
Monday, May 4, 2009
Congenital Rumours Overheard Whilst in Edinburgh
1- Danny Devito bought everyone on the set of Taxi studded collars.
2- Leprosy arose from eating fossils.
3- Generating fractals with an old Mac pc emits more chloroflourocarbons than a small forest fire.
4- Dentists are all Masons.
5- Fish and chips is a metaphor for the Crusades.
6- Elegance is a sign of hermaphroditism.
7- Jelly doughnuts cause knee cancer.
8- Deep Space Nine is produced by the Taliban.
9- Edgar Allen Poe was a gay time-traveler.
10- Leaf blowers signify willingness to engage in a brutal orgy.
2- Leprosy arose from eating fossils.
3- Generating fractals with an old Mac pc emits more chloroflourocarbons than a small forest fire.
4- Dentists are all Masons.
5- Fish and chips is a metaphor for the Crusades.
6- Elegance is a sign of hermaphroditism.
7- Jelly doughnuts cause knee cancer.
8- Deep Space Nine is produced by the Taliban.
9- Edgar Allen Poe was a gay time-traveler.
10- Leaf blowers signify willingness to engage in a brutal orgy.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Problems Being Human
Facing fact: I'm more comfortable with scattered pieces than continuity. At least in my own head. Afraid of success? Probably. Success is just really top-notch failure. When it's done, it's done. The world will still be miserable and people will still be horrible to one another. You die and your successes are as potent as your failures, ie, not a smidgeon.
It's depressing in one way, but uplifting in another. It's my own brand of anti-existentialism in a way. Take control, or not, because it's too boring to do it the way you don't want to. That's what life shouldn't be. Boring.
It's depressing in one way, but uplifting in another. It's my own brand of anti-existentialism in a way. Take control, or not, because it's too boring to do it the way you don't want to. That's what life shouldn't be. Boring.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Scabrous Pantaloon
Good googly, was feeling awferlly downward dog, had a bolt of delicious tea and now the caffeine is riddling my brain. Shouldn't be a slave to these things but oh well, it's better than building the doomsday machine in my mind.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Bumptuous Learhead
Sunny town-sides this go-round, pleasant as a duck's patootie and ain't half so stinky. The burgh is throbbing with white people and mass transit, like some European wet dream. Me myself, I like a little grit, it keeps people hopping, but too much grit and you have to shower every time you look out the window.
With the impenetrable smell of fancy coffee and luxury meats floofing through downtown comes a boorish soaking up of the shadows by the midget walls of wannabe skytacklers. Down this street, look: a praying lunatic; down that alley, look: transit workers in cornea-searing yellow jackets and big union smiles, gently picking leaves from the tracks; up this corner, look: a small bottle blonde walking three hungry Great Pyrenees, all wearing sweaters and sunglasses. The town is incorrect in as many ways as it can be, and yet the people are inversely proportionally happy. Even the madmen follow their little madmen rules. Even the criminals tip their hats. Even the politicians clasp their hands together in true glee when you slap their face. It's an inverted utopia, designed to make America jealous and broken.
It didn't work, but the experiment continues on anyway, oblivious and self-obsessed. The winter wind gives it a chance to wake up and reconfigure but the town-folk just pull their synthetic fleece caftans tighter, slather on lip balm (let the bum have a hit of it, you good Samaritan), and do your Pilates on the traffic-free esplanade of a dream gone backwards.
photo from http://flickr.com/photos/80651083@N00/2655690728/
With the impenetrable smell of fancy coffee and luxury meats floofing through downtown comes a boorish soaking up of the shadows by the midget walls of wannabe skytacklers. Down this street, look: a praying lunatic; down that alley, look: transit workers in cornea-searing yellow jackets and big union smiles, gently picking leaves from the tracks; up this corner, look: a small bottle blonde walking three hungry Great Pyrenees, all wearing sweaters and sunglasses. The town is incorrect in as many ways as it can be, and yet the people are inversely proportionally happy. Even the madmen follow their little madmen rules. Even the criminals tip their hats. Even the politicians clasp their hands together in true glee when you slap their face. It's an inverted utopia, designed to make America jealous and broken.
It didn't work, but the experiment continues on anyway, oblivious and self-obsessed. The winter wind gives it a chance to wake up and reconfigure but the town-folk just pull their synthetic fleece caftans tighter, slather on lip balm (let the bum have a hit of it, you good Samaritan), and do your Pilates on the traffic-free esplanade of a dream gone backwards.
photo from http://flickr.com/photos/80651083@N00/2655690728/
Friday, January 2, 2009
Snazzy Day Sunpile
The new year is always so underwhelming. No laser beams, no flashdancers, Krispy Kreme still tastes awful. I don't know why everyone is always porking for a skilling, but to me, it's just more of the same, which is very exciting.
I'm always threatening to dabble in all kinds of conflagratory bs, always pretty much flailing in a winter wind, biding time writing blogs about stalling and then crawling back to the loop de loo of the day, i.e. dishes, laundry, movies, cleaning, working, chlidren, reading, everything but nothing.
Right now I am overheated and underpaid, pre-disgruntled and chewing on an old gumball that has come to represent everything ersatz in life, and everything compelling. Is there a flavor rejuvenation that happens after all life has been molarly driven from the gum? Only chomping will tell, and the only thing that will stop me from reaching the unattainable flavor is the inevitable glomping of my very own cheek, drawing sad blood and recriminations and a horrid dance that I'm forced to jig. Fortunately cheeks heal quickly if you're old and boring and I can do it all over again in a few minutes, preferably in the exact same spot.
Bobby Fischer had made a mistake, as far as I could tell, in one of his books. I was convinced. A coworker who is infinitely better at chess proved me otherwise. Moral of the story: dude, don't second guess Bobby Fischer's chess skills.
Nervous as usual about school. Why? I make good grades. I will tell you why. I am nervous because I make good grades. That's because I make good grades because I am nervous. It's an unproven fact. Leave it or lump it.
You don't even want to know the boring, horrible books I've been reading.
1) Fortune's Formula
Not sure why David Pogue is reviewing this, but whatever. It's an interesting read, lots of players: mafioso, mathematicians, politicians (well, Rudy Guliani, kind of a cross between a self-obsessed hot air balloon and a pile of toenails, i.e. a politician), and brokers. Where do they all meet? Wherever there is a shit-ton of money.
2) Get Your War On
Strap on your land mine hat! This stuff has been causing inevitable bouts of laughter for years. It's hard on the ribs and it's hard on the heart, for it's hilarious and poignant at the same time. Check it out. Not for the squeamish or Republican.
I'm always threatening to dabble in all kinds of conflagratory bs, always pretty much flailing in a winter wind, biding time writing blogs about stalling and then crawling back to the loop de loo of the day, i.e. dishes, laundry, movies, cleaning, working, chlidren, reading, everything but nothing.
Right now I am overheated and underpaid, pre-disgruntled and chewing on an old gumball that has come to represent everything ersatz in life, and everything compelling. Is there a flavor rejuvenation that happens after all life has been molarly driven from the gum? Only chomping will tell, and the only thing that will stop me from reaching the unattainable flavor is the inevitable glomping of my very own cheek, drawing sad blood and recriminations and a horrid dance that I'm forced to jig. Fortunately cheeks heal quickly if you're old and boring and I can do it all over again in a few minutes, preferably in the exact same spot.
Bobby Fischer had made a mistake, as far as I could tell, in one of his books. I was convinced. A coworker who is infinitely better at chess proved me otherwise. Moral of the story: dude, don't second guess Bobby Fischer's chess skills.
Nervous as usual about school. Why? I make good grades. I will tell you why. I am nervous because I make good grades. That's because I make good grades because I am nervous. It's an unproven fact. Leave it or lump it.
You don't even want to know the boring, horrible books I've been reading.
1) Fortune's Formula
Not sure why David Pogue is reviewing this, but whatever. It's an interesting read, lots of players: mafioso, mathematicians, politicians (well, Rudy Guliani, kind of a cross between a self-obsessed hot air balloon and a pile of toenails, i.e. a politician), and brokers. Where do they all meet? Wherever there is a shit-ton of money.
2) Get Your War On
Strap on your land mine hat! This stuff has been causing inevitable bouts of laughter for years. It's hard on the ribs and it's hard on the heart, for it's hilarious and poignant at the same time. Check it out. Not for the squeamish or Republican.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
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