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est. 02.27.02
Suck that Commit lozenge and I'll strap shoes on my feet.
Now I found the reason why my money's all gone. | Friday, 05.09.08
Thank you creepy .jpeg, you just saved another life.
I was at a wedding with my girlfriend a few weeks ago, and since it had been a few hours since my last one, I decided to step outside for a cigarette before dinner. I wasn't really itching for one, but drinks were flowing, and... well, you know how that goes. So there I was, standing outside with some strangers, trading "how are you's" and "where are you from's" when a particularly vulgar older woman (she used the word "pussy" a lot) notified the group that the door had locked behind us, and that we'd have to get someone's attention from inside the party to let us in when were done smoking. When the vulgar woman finished, she starts pounding on the door and our savior walks over. The man that would rescue us from the light drizzle and let us return to our non-smoking friends... his robotic voice buzzed and cracked and wheezed as he opened the door, put the little white mechanical larynx up to his throat and said, "HERE YOU GO, YOU GUYS SHOULD REALLY QUIT SMOKING, HEH HEH HEH."
That wasn't the exact moment that I decided to quit. But it planted the seed.
I'm now down to my last pack, and I already know that I'm going about this all wrong. First off, you're supposed to just throw the pack away when you decide to quit, not finish it and savor every last drag like you're on death row. But, at $7.00 a pack, fuck that, I paid for these things and I'm going to smoke the shit out of them and get some closure. Second - I probably shouldn't announce to the world that I'm quitting, because if I fall off the wagon and someone sees me, they're going to give me shit and I'm going to cry delicious nicotine tears. But, I know myself, and if I write about the process on here, it'll give me the motivation (and nonstop hilarious content) I need to continue. Despite these two vital flaws, I'm still going to do it, and you're going to read about it.
2 WEEKS and 2 DAYS LATER
I thought I'd have tons of update fodder... like, countless weepy, rambling updates as I fight the greatest addiction in the world aside from heroin and sex crimes. But, it's been two weeks and two days without a cigarette and I've been fine thanks to my Commit nicotine lozenges. They come in two delicious flavors - Ashtray and Lung Butter, and you can get either 2mg lozenges (if you're a fucking pussy who doesn't smoke in his sleep) or 4mg (slip them directly into your slimy throat hole). The package says that you're supposed to take 1 lozenge every 1 to 2 hours during the first 6 weeks. It also says that you can't eat or drink 15 minutes before taking the lozenge so I'm fucked because it takes me 1 to 2 hours just to finish a lozenge and then it's time for another lozenge so long story short I haven't eaten in 16 days unless you count Commit nicotine lozenges. I've also been grinding them up and doing bumps throughout the day in the men's room at work... this is not a recommended method of nicotine ingestion, but I've found that it's a great afternoon pick-me-up in one of the few places I frequent where doing coke is frowned upon.
I painted this wall yellow so my babies can stare at it and get more smarter.
One of my biggest smoking triggers was driving. Every morning I would get in my car, start it up, light a cigarette and start my day off like the fucking Marlboro Man... if he worked in IT and drove a sedan. Oftentimes I would ration my cigarettes the night before, just to make sure I had at least one waiting for me in the car the next morning. You see, smokers have a portion of their brain that is strictly dedicated to smoking - it keeps a running tally of how many cigarettes you have left in a pack, the elapsed time since your last cigarette, and the location (and hours) of every deli, liquor store and convenience store in a 5 mile radius at all times. Once you quit, you have to find something to occupy that part of your brain... for example, I've learned conversational French and Japanese. All in two weeks! I've also taken up swimming, cycling, rock climbing, paint balling, hang gliding, glide hanging, boot blacking, archery, botany, masonry, lock picking, lock smithing, wine tasting and ice sculpting. Who knew that smoking was holding me back from all of these things? Those obnoxious anti-smoking ads were so right!
I've also been spending a lot of time fancy-ing up my new apartment. For instance, I painted a wall yellow. Y'know, just for the sake of painting it yellow. Then I found out that a wall that's painted a random color is actually called something (an accent wall), and felt significantly less cool about my yellow wall. I blame the goddamned Martha Stewart stay-at-home clones that roam the aisles of Wal-Mart, searching high and low for that perfect bundle of twigs that will really "tie the eatery nook together without looking too woodsy, y'know?". Always naming shit. Always stealing my ideas before I can think of them. Anyway, my new apartment is so much better than the last one. No bees, no beeping, no upstairs neighbors that call the cops on me when my Rock Band party gets out of hand (although, time will tell if my new neighbors are cool with rocking out to Say It Ain't So at 3:00 in the morning [and they better be]).
So there it is. My "I quit smoking" update (with a slight "My New Apartment" deviation at the end). I'm not going to bombard you with scary cancer statistics, or go into the reasons as to why I started in the first place (hint: I looked fucking cool as hell). But here's the reason why I quit: I like being alive, and there are too many people in my life that would be really upset if I died. For instance, my blog audience (or, blogience). Who would update the site if I was dead? I mean, I barely update this shit now, but there's still that 1/365 chance that I'll throw something up here once a year, right? I'll do better blogience, I swear. I just quit smoking for christ's sake, get off my fucking back.
My Old Apartment starring in YOU SEE THAT SHIT?
euch god | Wednesday, 05.07.08
Hi there! Remember all of my old updates about bees swarming and hollering and carrying on outside my bedroom window? See below for VIDEO PROOF. Also, drown me in well wishes and good tidings, as I have moved out of the shithole apartment featured in the video below.
Ok, I swear to god, there were bees out there. Seriously. Swarms of them. Buckets full. Coming soon - actual updates. Just as soon as I finish up GTA IV.
Well, maybe they'd like it if I lose. I gotta try losing sometime.
donkey kong kill screen | Thursday, 03.06.08
(ed. note - I started writing this article the day after Valentine's Day, hence the reference in the first few sentences. One thousand of my sincerest, most heartfelt apologies for not posting this sooner.)
Sniff sniff. Ugh, god, what is that? It's like... dried rose petals mixed with... semen and wine. Valentine's Day is over, and while I hope you got all liquored up with your special someone, covered each other in dried rose petals and jacked off all over each other, it's now time to get down to business. MONKEY BUSINESS. In the following sentence, I'll reveal why that was so funny. I just finished watching King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters, which is a documentary about two men who play Donkey Kong for fame, glory, and their name listed on a website of Donkey Kong high scores. What neither of them realize is that they could just make their own website, post their own high scores and no one would give a shit. Like so -
Most Points in Anything Ever 1. J. Lacki ............................ 65,270,000,000,000 2. AAA ................................. 3,600 3. J. Lacki ............................ 1,039 4. Everyone else ....................... n/a
AAA was me, I was just too lazy to insert my name. Anyway, King of Kong is a fantastic film that shows a world that most people have never seen - the seedy, awful world of retro gamers that will stop at nothing -NOTHING- to be the best at video games that were created before the invention of fun. Hmm, what do I do in this game? Oh, move my blocky bullshit character around a black screen and avoid touching smaller, but more bullshitty blocks that randomly spring forth jagged lines from their block loins? Outta sight! Ooh, what's this other game like? Same as the first one, except I can move in three directions instead of none? Sounds great, but where the fuck do I plug my plastic guitar into this forty ton machine?
Mom, Dad, can I stand on the lawn of a major corporation's headquarters during our family vacation to Seattle?
I kid. And as much as I want to make fun of the creepy competitive gamers that squabble over high scores and hit points, I can't. For I was involved in the 1990 Nintendo World Championships, where gamers went head-to-head in explosive deathmatches, testing their might in Super Mario Bros, Rad Racer and Tetris for cash and prizes. And as a 9-year-old that loved Nintendo more than... actually, words don't exist to describe just how much I loved that gray box. My parents watched their once bright and cheerful son degenerate into a blistery-fingered slob who sucked up more sugary resources than Boeing's sugar plane, the imaginary candy-powered jet that I just made up for comedic purposes (ed. note - check to make sure the sugar plane doesn't actually exist). I know what you're thinking and the answer is surprisingly, yes - I know what the inside of a vagina feels like.
One Saturday afternoon, my parents took me to the mall for two things - a) elastic church pants and b) a chance to use my Nintendo skills to live my dream of traveling the world... to play Nintendo in other countries. And there, in the back of some gigantic department store was the holy grail of nerd-dom - three folding tables, 8 folding chairs and 8 Nintendo systems. The rules were simple - score the most points in Super Mario Bros in like, three minutes or something ridiculous and you would move onto the Nintendo World Championships in New York City.
So, level 1-1 started up and off I went. Stomp on the goomba, get the coins, get the mushroom and then... I died. The pressure was too much for me, and I choked. Well, more like fell into a pit, but I still failed miserably and should have been shot on sight. Who dies on the first level besides your thumbless younger siblings? No one, except for me... and that's how I won. By dying so early (and so masterfully), I was able to get the first mushroom twice, which gave me an extra 1,000 points. And like the baseball player that died of Lou Gehrig's Disease who considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth, I also consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth and will die when I'm 38.
So, I was now a contender, and for weeks, I honed my Mario, Rad Racer and Tetris skills. And in reality, I had no idea what I was actually training for, but it gave me an excuse to play games instead of doing homework or practicing piano scales or talking about something that wasn't the Nintendo World Championships. Finally, the day came - my father and I took the ferry to New York, and I, wearing my finest pair of parachute pants, Hammer Time-ed my way over to the Javitz Center. I was ready to compete once again. Only this time, instead of competing against a handful of mongoloids in the Sears tractor department, I'd be competing against hundreds of mongoloids in a convention center. I found my spot, received some words of encouragement from my father and prepared myself for what would be the most intense challenge of my life. I'm sure instead of firing a starter pistol, some broken shell of an MC in a Nintendo-branded jumpsuit fired a zapper in the air that shot confetti and shame all over the contestants, but I didn't notice. 3, 2, 1, GO!
According to wikipedia, these were the challenges -
Officially, a player has six minutes and 21 seconds to play in the contest, which is divided up into three minigames. The first minigame of the competition is to collect 50 coins in Super Mario Bros. The next minigame is a version of Rad Racer where players must complete a specialized Nintendo World Championship course. The final minigame is Tetris and this lasts until time expires. Once time does expire, a player's score is totaled using the following formula:
Super Mario Brothers score + Rad Racer score times 10 + Tetris score times 25
I remember none of this, but six minutes and 21 seconds later, the contest was over and I lost. My dreams of being hoisted above the crowd or jumping up and yelling "Yeah!" while the frame freezes and the credits roll disappeared. I just kinda stood there, staring at the 8-bit graphics on the screen telling me how bad I was at video games. I walked away, found my father in the crowd, played a few Nintendo demos and left. So after all that, like seventeen paragraphs worth of build-up, that's it. I lost the championship, and my short career as a competitive gamer stopped before it ever really started. But thankfully, with a little bit of HTML code and a sprinkle of magic, I can be a winner.
1990 Nintendo World Champions 1. J. Lacki 2. A 4-year-old Japanese gaming prodigy 3. AAA
Have some foie gras, brah.
more like duck throats amirite | Tuesday, 02.05.08
It's my first update of 2008! I've been doing well, internet, hence my lack of blog-worthy ideas. Writing about life is difficult when every day is more perfect than the last. Just yesterday I found a pie just sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. A whole pie just sitting there! Two steps later was a tub of Cool Whip, and then a garbage bag filled with hundred dollar bills. "That," I said after I dropped off the pie and whipped topping at a local food shelter and donated the bag of money to a charity of my choice, "was a perfect day." That was until this morning, when I woke up to discover that I somehow gained the ability to walk through walls. Damned if I know how it happened... all I know is that 2008 is kicking 2007's ass, and it's only February.
I carved the following update on a stone tablet a few weeks ago, and just now found the time to transcribe it. Read it and weep, internet.
A restaurant that doesn't have foie gras on the menu is barely a restaurant. Sure, a hostess may seat you at a table, and a busboy may throw some silverware and tap water at you once you're settled, and you'll probably eat something, but why bother? Yes, we'll have the southwestern chicken crispers to start and then I think we're just going to share a bowl of day old shit. Oh, nothing to drink, thanks. If I wanted to eat shit, I'd stay home and literally eat my own shit for like half the price. Instead, I want the finest in French force-fed delicacy.
Foie gras (pronounced fwah grah [or fooey grass if you're an uncultured dolt]) is France-talk for "the liver of a duck or a goose that has been specially fattened by gavage (force-feeding)." So basically, you take a duck that you're just going to kill anyway, pour snacks down its throat for 20 days and then rip that little fucker's liver out, cook it over low heat and eat it. And it tastes like butter! Rich, liver-y butter. For more information, please see this clip from aging punker chef Anthony Bourdain's Christmas special. He smokes and says "fuck" a lot, therefore, I believe everything he says.
Now, of course animal rights activists do not share the same love of foie gras as myself and Anthony Bourdain. In fact, they HATE it. "Those poor ducks!" they say as they strap another belt of C-4 across their collective chests. "Force-feeding is a CRIME, and I'm going to make it my personal responsibility to blah blah words words SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP." Maybe that's not what they say, but it's what I hear. And here's what I say back to the animal rights activists - "Hey man, why don't you like, chill out or something? I mean... y'know? C'mon." Then we hug. But not too tight. C-4 is not hug resistant.
"John," you say, "foie gras is so last season, but I'm hungry this season. What the fuck I'm gawn eat?" I'm no chef, but if force feeding a goose makes its liver taste like butter, then forcing animals to do other things must yield positive results. And using the word "yield" makes me feel like a scientist, so I'm like this renegade food scientist, hell bent on enslaving humanity through the power of delicious treats. So why don't you guys take a look at the menu, and I'll put your drink orders in. And take your time, but please be aware that our Molten Chocolate Lava cake takes about 35 minutes to prepare, so let me know if... no? OK, I'll be right back with those drinks.
Coeur de Fines Herbes Koala. If I've learned anything from zoo gift shops, it's that koala bears love bamboo, and are so plush and goddamn adorable that I want to drown them in a barrel of fresh rain water. What most people don't know, however, is that a koala's heart takes up 95% of its internal space, which explains why they're always playful and full of hugs. They've got mad love to give. And when served chilled out of a kangaroo pouch, you'll fall in love with the rich, tangy flavor of a koala heart. Our secret? Well, if we told you, it wouldn't be a secret anymore, but here's a hint - we grind up Valentine's Day cards in a blender with a mixture of herbs and inject it directly into the koala's heart. Over and over and over again. Your special someone will say, "Oof, what is this? Herbal koala heart?" as he or she bites into the gooey center... herbs and blood and bits of thick paper oozing out of their mouth. And you can say, "Yes. Yes it is. WILL YOU MARRY ME?"
Nervure Porc de Beurre. "The best way to a man's heart is through his stomach." So say the mothers of overweight women that aren't much to look at, but can cook relatively well. We say, the best way to a man's heart is through the ribs... delicious, succulent babyback pork ribs. When the world says, "There's nothing you can do to make a pig more delicious," we say, "Fuck you" and feed our pigs nothing but butter and half and half. Once the pig's heart explodes from natural causes, we dip those ribs in barbecue sauce, wrap them in bacon and serve them in an adorable miniature slop bucket of flavor. Once you've had a dozen of our butter-fed pig ribs, why would you bother eating ribs from a pig that wasn't force fed butter, half and half and then wrapped in bacon? You're throwing your money away, and we're totally convinced that you're not even the same person anymore. You've changed.
Gorge de Giraffe de Fumée. Make way! Smoked giraffe throat coming through! This delightful appetizer will turn heads and turn frowns into smiles as an army of 20 waiters and waitresses deliver the piping hot giraffe throat to your table. Take a good whiff of the smoky... uh, smoke, rising from throat. Smell familiar? Maybe a little minty? Like a menthol cigarette, right? That's because our giraffes are kept on a strict regiment of 3 packs of Newports a day which gives their throat a refreshingly smooth menthol taste that you're sure to love. We also have a Light Smoked Giraffe Throat (Mûr Gorge de Giraffe de Fumée) for all of you giraffe lovers out there. It's like they're hardly smoking at all. Plus a giraffe can totally live without a throat or neck. They just look silly.
lacki.muxtape.com
three dead commies
