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February 2006

Gimme the loot gimme the loot
I'm a baa bwe bweee | Tuesday, 02.28.06
A bunch of meat packers won the lottery, they're getting $20 million a piece. Good for them. I love when people say, "Oh, they're only getting $20 million, that's nothing considering the jackpot was $375 million." That's funny, because I have $20 million in my pocket right here and I was going to give it to you because I like your shoes, but I guess I'll just throw it in the street instead. I'm guilty of it too, so not only am I a hypocrite, I'm also very poor. My office usually has two pools going at once for Jersey's Mega Millions... one pool is made up of a manageable 18 people, the other is 78 people. 78! So every week I open up calc.exe, punch in the jackpot divided by 78 and cry. And then I complain. Loudly. Well, loud enough for my cubicle neighbors to hear. "We're only going to win $2 million a piece..." (and here's the most important part) "... before taxes!" The phrase "before taxes" equals "divide by 2" in my head, so then I'm left with a measly 1 million dollars, which, as we all know, is nothing in today's economy. I mean, with a million dollars you could only buy a decent house, set up a savings account for your children and buy yourself a fancy TV. FUCK THAT SHIT I HATE WHEN I GET FREE MONEY.

My winnings would be somewhat better in the 18 person pool, but I don't think I'd go balls to the walls crazy if we actually hit. I reckon my balls would steer clear of walls or any other flat surfaces not conducive to testicular placement. And maybe I'd take a day off work, sit around and get liquored up and come up with new and exciting ways to lose all of my money. Like, I'd invite you over and reveal my plans to build a road that goes directly from my house to the parking lot of my job, and no one else can ride on it, and there would be attack dogs and cones and a man breakdancing in the street and the grim reaper and... ok, it would be a lot like Paperboy. The point is I'd still have to go to work for the rest of my miserable yet comfortable life. Priorities would shift - Do I take the chopper to work or ride the elephant? Do I go with the red tie or the blue striped tie when wearing a shirt made of bald eagle remains? Do you have change of $1,000? You don't? What the fuck type of shoe shine business are you running here? Balderdash!

Here's a funny conclusion. It's where I rap up all of the points made above in a neat little package, make a few wacky non sequiturs and publish this bitch like I'm Harper Collins. The truth is, I wrote this update a week ago, and for all I know, I hit the lottery and no one told me. See you in hell, suckas!

 
Catherine vs. Craigslist: Playful Games and Ice Dancers
valemtime day | Tuesday, 02.14.06
There are creepy motherfuckers on Craigslist. Everyone's buying cheap furniture and blowing each other and I don't even know. Junk Drawer homegirl Catherine experienced this firsthand, and what do you know, it's just in time for Valentine's Day. I swear to god I didn't plan this. Enjoy! --JL

Catherine vs. Craigslist: Playful Games and Ice Dancers
For those of you who didn't read my last junk drawer entry, here's the rundown: I posted a personal on Craigslist, and got hit on by swingers. Somehow, since last month, things have gotten so ridiculous that last weekend, my other best friend yelled at me, "For God's sake, don't sleep with the swingers! All I want is for you to go to the gay bar on Valentine's Day and meet a nice lesbian to have a one night stand with! Is that too much to ask?!"

But I'll get to that in a minute.

I'm going to start off by admitting that I love drama. I do. It's been good to me, giving me some awesome anecdotes -- "'What have I been up to'? I almost moved to rural Russia to be with a sadomasochist twice my age. To teach English in his country home," for example. And I, in turn, seek it out, like the little addict I am. It's a sickness, but one I see no reason to cure.

So while my friends were puzzled as to why I was meeting creepy swingers off the internet, I stuck to my response of, "Because it's funny! And it'll make a good story." They raised their eyebrows, giving me the "you moron" look, as those reasons had led to me getting a tattoo of Albert Einstein which looked depressingly like Ron Jeremy.

Playful games.
They then pointed out that I didn't have the name, age, gender, or even physical description of the people I'd agreed to meet for coffee. And continued to raise their eyebrows when I admitted that these people had pretty much harassed me into meeting them, ignoring the fact that I'd responded to their statement of "We're looking for a fun girl" with "I'm boring, really." ("Oh, you sound very fun, girl", they'd written.)

Meanwhile, Miss Linda told me a cautionary tale about this show on Court TV she'd seen, where a couple had kept a girl as a sex slave IN A BOX UNDER THEIR BED FOR SEVEN YEARS, until the wife found religion and set the girl free. But Lacki promised me a front page update if I were killed, which was all the incentive I needed.

(I'll be straight with you: yes, I was curious. About the possibilities with these people, I mean, though I couldn't own up to as much to my friends. Despite their cries of "We're not judging you! Honest!" Mostly I thought it was funny, though. Honest.)

So I went to meet them for coffee, in a city I didn't visit often, so there was little chance of me running into them if this didn't pan out. I made sure to get a name and physical description, which I texted to a few friends: "Dave, 5'9", black hair brown eyes. Remember that for the police report." I also made plans to call a few people within an hour of the meeting, so that they'd contact the authorities if I wasn't heard from.

I burst out laughing all the way to Starbucks, and couldn't keep a straight face. Even for me, this was a pretty fucking stupid thing to be doing. I got my chai, sat down, and scanned the faces for someone matching the description. Finally, I saw a guy reading the paper. "Dave", as it turns out, was cute. Shockingly so. An Israeli realtor in his mid-30s, his girlfriend couldn't make it. And what did his girlfriend do? I asked. "She's an ice dancer," he said.

AN ICE DANCER.

I was going to make out with Oksana Baiul. Or one of those people from the Ice Capades.

"Ambition, mystery and romance -- can YOU play the game?" asked the book cover.
We talked for about 10 minutes, about what we were looking for -- "We're passionate people. Are you passionate?" "I ... guess? I like people with a sense of humor." "You'll like me, then. I'm playful. My girlfriend's more serious." "Oh." It always seemed to me like threesomes would be awkward -- like, you're making out, then someone's elbow slips and you've got a black eye. Or your gag reflex kicks in at the wrong time. Or else the third person's got nothing to do, and is like, "Well, you two have got things under control, I'm going to play PSP." This guy was much too cool and flirty; I prefer dorks. People with flaws. So if something goes wrong, you can just laugh it off, rather than it being awkward, or mortifying.

After giving me directions to a motel for a future rendezvous -- within 10 minutes of meeting me! 10! -- he invited me to walk outside with him. I hesitated, then followed. We walked to his car; he asked where I was parked. "Oh, the next town over," I responded. (My friends had told me about an episode of Law and Order they'd seen. A girl was "stood up" for a date, so she went home ... only to be stalked and killed by the guy who'd stood her up, who'd really been watching from his car the entire time. So I was taking no chances, and parked far enough away to lose these people if followed.)

"Oh, get in the car," he said. "I'll drive you." "Oka -- NO!" "Well, can I at least give you a kiss?" he asked, still gesturing for me to get in the car. "I'm sorry, I really don't feel comfortable with that." I watched him drive off, then called people with the info. I felt a little guilty over being a swinger tease, and considered sleeping with them out of pity. Hey, I'm a people person. I hate seeing people unhappy.

Later, I received an email inviting me to coffee and "playful games". I have no idea what that could possibly mean, and neither do my friends. I was then invited out for drinks -- with the two of them. On the one hand, the guy was pushy and clearly didn't listen to me, which would obviously translate into awkward, if not bad, sex: "No, don't do that. Why is your cock in my ear? Don't put that there!" Etc. On the other hand, I wanted to find out what the hell an 'ice dancer'was.

They wanted to meet in a town that was 1.) rich, 2.) wooded, and 3.) nowhere near where they said they'd lived. So they were either rich, looking for a place to hide the body, or both. I needed a ride, and called up Miss Linda -- "Hey, do you wanna drive me to meet the swingers? You can spy on us from another table." Eventually, the caravan to meet these people consisted of 1.) me, 2.) Miss Linda, 3.) another co-worker, 4.) her fiancee, who knows karate, and 5.) a can of mace.

Everything was all set, but then the swingers said they might cancel. Or postpone the meeting. Or have only one person meet me. (Us.) Pissed, we -- yes, my co-workers and I collaborated on this -- sent off an ultimatum: meet me (us) tonight at the appointed place and time, or no dice.

They couldn't make it. We decided that there was no ice dancer, and this guy just wanted to make a jacket out of my skin. And then! I received three apology emails, and invitations to coffee; I deleted the first two, and forwarded the last to friends and co-workers. But I still kind of wanted to meet for coffee. I mentioned that he was cute, yes? I mean, apart from the fact that he was creepy and pushy and didn't listen to a thing I said.

Relating this to my other best friend, Beeb, resulted in the ass-kicking I mentioned above. I deleted the swingers' email, have ignored them, and am planning on going to a dyke bar soon, for my one night stand with a nice lesbian. My friends and co-workers are coming with, so they're happy. Despite not meeting an ice dancer.

Happy Valentine's!

 
Press releases for handsome groinless action figures.
i miss my talking alf | Friday, 02.10.06
Ken and Barbie might be getting back together after their two year split! Praise the lord, free at least, Camptown Races sing this song doo dah doo dah. But instead of sending out a press release stating, "We're going to start selling Ken again," Mattel went one further...

After a two-year separation, Mattel Inc. said on Thursday that Barbie's long-time suitor wants to rekindle his decades-long romance with his plastic paramour.

"Ken has revamped his life -- mind, body and soul," Hollywood stylist and Mattel consultant Phillip Bloch said in a statement. "Everyone knows how difficult it is to change, especially when you've lived your life a certain way for more than four decades."
-- Reuters

Wow, good for Ken. Perhaps he discovered the teachings of Buddha, found inner peace, and grew a 15 inch schlong to overcompensate for the years of teasing he received from the boys in the locker room. Where toys with penises take showers. After they work out. Wow, Mattel's personification of plastic is contagious. I fell for it, just as Hollywood stylist and Mattel consultant Phillip Bloch did, and if you know Hollywood stylist and Mattel consultant Phillip Bloch like I do, you would know that he's no pushover. I mean, just look at this guy. He doesn't look like the type of dude who would create imaginary worlds filled with talking dolls who get married and make love in a hot pink jacuzzi that runs on two DD batteries and tap water. As an aside, if he's a stylist, shouldn't he know that his Kangol hat and thin mustache makes him look like Samuel L. Jackson and John Waters had a baby? Congratulations, you've all witnessed the gayest sentence ever written.

Barbie publicist Lauren Dougherty said Barbie "appreciates the new look Ken is sporting. He really looks great. But we'll have to stay tuned to see whether these two will get back together."

OK great, where should we tune, and how long should we stay there? Will there be a press conference? Will the E! network interrupt their regularly scheduled programming of... god knows what... to bring us the news? Does this publicist know that her client is made of plastic? "Barbie came alive last night and told me that she's interested in meeting Ken at an undisclosed location. My hamburger also came alive and spoke of the genocides on Flarkon 12, where the Hamburg tribesmen are being hunted and exterminated by elite Bratwurst Death Squads. As Barbie's publicist, it is my duty to relay this information to the Greater Council of Toys, currently under the command of Stinkor, Evil Master of Odors and rival of He-Man."

I think all toys should have publicists and stylists and press releases aimed at an audience that can't read multi-syllabic words yet. I think I hear wedding bells in Voltron's future! Big robotic wedding bells.

 

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