HAHAHA TWITTER (@john_tmh)
// lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Monday, 03.23.09|
Twitter stole this interface from me! This is what the junk drawer was supposed to be all about! I hate it! Follow me at @john_tmh and let's tweet about our favorite television shows.
oh hey you're in luck (ggg)
// lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Sunday, 05.11.08
Would you like to know why you're in luck? Because Brooklyn's own Gonna Get Got's new CD My Microphone is now back in stock at cdbaby.com! The first run sold out in a week, breaking all sorts of internet purchasing records around the world, but you now have a second chance to pick up the CD that hasn't left the Disc 2 slot of my car since it was delivered to my door last weekend. It's got a bit of hip hop, a bit of punk, a bit of pop and a bit The O, lead singer GGG's old band from waaaaaay back in the day. So far it's my favorite album of 2008, and the only album I've actually purchased all year! Wow! So help keep trippie indie hip hop alive, son and pick up Gonna Get Got's My Microphone today!
// lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Tuesday, 04.15.08
Oh yeah, the junk drawer. Heh, how quaint. How's it going internet? I'm in the process of moving to a non-dick sucking apartment, should be all set by next week. Exciting!
So what else is new? Eh, not much. I made a muxtape, so that's kinda cool.
Oh! My external hard drive died on me, that shit sucked. It wouldn't mount, so I took the drive out of the case, plugged it into a different case, and it started smoking. I ordered a new board from ebay, hopefully I'll be able to revive it.
So yeah, that's it. Just saying hey. "Hey."
three dead commies
// catherine threw this into the junk drawer on Tuesday, 08.14.07
Recently, I had a week off work, and decided to go to China. I've been to Moscow, and seen Lenin; in about a week, I'm going to Vietnam to see Ho Chi Minh. I decided to go for the dead Commie trifecta and see Mao, so I can say I've seen three dead Communists.
I'm kind of a weirdo.
Being a giant nerd, I wanted to check if TMH really was banned, as claimed on a list of websites that are banned in China. To use an internet cafe in China, you have to fork over your passport. Internet access is incredibly cheap -- about $2 gets you 5 hours' time -- but is obviously monitored and restricted. The grumpy clerk squints to compare you with your passport photo, then logs your visa number before you can get access.
Disappointingly, it seems Lacki was no longer a threat to the Chinese government, and I could access his site without a problem. Same goes for Columbia University and Something Awful, which Lacki also mentioned. The list itself, however, was blocked. It was really weird to click the link, have the page start to load, then shut down midway. Refresh. Blocked. Refresh. Blocked.
I vaguely wondered if Communists somewhere with clipboards were noting what I was viewing, and frowning disapprovingly.
As China's hard to navigate by yourself if you don't speak or read Chinese, I went on a group tour. The tour leader was a card-carrying Communist, and frequently made statements along the lines of "Taiwan is a part of China! Tell your friends!", "Tibet is better under Chinese rule! The Dalai Lama is a bad man!", and my personal favorite, "This is Tiananmen Square, where in 1949 Mao declared the creation of the People's Republic of China. NOTHING ELSE HAS EVER HAPPENED HERE. So don't ask!"
I, at least, tend to think of Communism as something that died with the Cold War, that it's kind of lost its teeth and has become almost cute. Aw, look at that, the army's uniform has red stars! How precious! The malls sell old propaganda posters to tourists! How kitsch! It's weird to think of Communism as real.
I didn't end up seeing Mao, as he's being restored for the Beijing Olympics. Or reanimated, or something. Either way, he wasn't in his mausoleum when I went to visit.
Even in death, Mao's foiling capitalists.
strap-ons and security
// catherine threw this into the junk drawer on Friday, 04.06.07
I figure Lacki's latest front page entry is as good a segue as I'm going to get for this story.
A letter arrived for me at work today. It was all in Korean, so I passed it off to a Korean coworker.
Me: What's this say?
Coworker: It's from Customs. Apparently there's a package for you which they are holding. What is it?
Me: Oh crap.
You see, I'd recently ordered something from Blowfish.com.
Coworker: Catherine, did you order something weird?
Coworker: [simultaneously curious and horrified] What is it?
Me: ...A strap-on.
Me: A dildo harness.
Coworker: [confused, typing it into her electronic dictionary] ...What? How does--? ...Okay, I'll tell Customs.
Me: That might not be a good idea. Maybe I can claim it's something else. ...Fuck, what else could a strap-on be?
This led to frantic emailing of like-minded foreigners in Korea, asking for advice on dealing with Customs. Meanwhile, my honest coworker diligently filled out the Customs form and called them up.
Coworker: [in Korean, calling Customs] Dildo harness. Blowfish.com. Uh huh. Uh huh. I see. [hanging up] It's illegal to ship that to Korea.
Coworker: They're either going to return it or destroy it.
Me: Well, that's just mean!
The rest of the day, I was fuming at my lost money, and at the unfairness of the situation. I mean, seriously, whom is a strap-on hurting? You can buy dildos in Korea, but they're of poor quality and pricy; are they trying to corner the sex toy market, and block out foreign competition? Who stands to gain here? Or, what are they trying to protect people from?
My coworkers are laughing at me for my attempts to disguise adult products, but my strap-on will be avenged.
YOU BELONG IN HELL
// lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Wednesday, 11.15.06
My hometown is in the news again... no chemical plant explosions this time, just a good ol' fashioned church vs. state issue starring my old high school history teacher (who also doubles as a Baptist preacher) and a student who secretly taped him spreading the good word of our Lord and Savior Jesus H(istory Class) Christ. Now, I won't bring up the fact that this guy spoke of the evils of homosexuality back when I had him in 1996, because, shucks, that wouldn't be very Christian of me. If only we had the technology to tape record stuff back in my day...
YOU BELONG IN HELL - Jersey Journal Online
Public school teacher tells class: 'You belong in hell' - The Lippard Blog
He'll probably just get a slap on the wrist, but still, cut the shit you fucking dope. Maybe hold off on the sermons about dinosaurs riding on a magical boat until you're legally allowed to pass a collection plate in a public school.
asia is insane
// catherine threw this into the junk drawer on Friday, 11.03.06
Asia is insane.
Hello Kitty maxi pads. Found in a convenience store in Seoul.
I also now own stickers bearing Hello Kitty in Sweet Lolita attire.
// catherine threw this into the junk drawer on Wednesday, 09.27.06
My teaching experience summed up in an email to friends:
"Apparently, it's a Korean thing to steeple your fingers and poke people in the ass.
Guess what the kindergarteners did to me yesterday? Repeatedly, as I tried writing the alphabet on the board?
Also, evidently one of the kids in my class is a public masturbator. Huzzah!"
They stopped doing the ass-poking thing. I breathed a sigh of relief, and then...
"Kids are tiny vampires, draining my strength, patience, and will to live. Yesterday a pack of them mugged me as I was leaving class. They stole my puppets and markers, and then they went for my pants. My PANTS, dude. I don't know what the hell that's all about, and I'm afraid to ask."
Korean. Children. Went. For. My. Pants.
Still, life's not all bad. For every email like those, there's at least one like this one that gets sent out:
"Immigration's visiting the teachers' apartments today. If anyone knocks, we're not to answer. I chose to flee with the two other newly-arrived foreign teachers -- a Canadian couple -- before they arrived. (We were on the lookout for two men in navy shirts.)
I'm writing this from a PC room catered to gamers; it's dimly lit, and the bathroom made me flee in horror. On the upside, an hour's internet access cost $1.
I met a few lovely folks from Halifax when I was in Seoul last week for classroom observation -- we had pitchers of beer the size of my torso, and then my coworkers and I shared a bed in a love hotel. There were vibrator dispensers on each floor, and the hallway was literally lit with red lights. Apparently, we were staying in Seoul's largest red-light district."
In Korea, you can get pitchers of beer the size of your torso for $12. There are multiple museums dedicated to kimchi. And as the swastika is a symbol of Buddhism, you can find it on keychains and necklaces. I've also seen cross-shaped sparklers. I would wonder why Korean kids celebrate by burning crosses, but figure I wouldn't want to know the answer.
It's not all vibrator dispensers and swastika keychains, though. Teaching kids is hard and frustrating; it's even more challenging when you don't speak the same language. On top of that, Korean society's really rather homogenous, so on top of culture shock and the language barrier, you attract attention just by walking to work. You are always on display.
But despite the frustration and the loneliness and how goddamn hard it all is, there are days when I look up and see the sun set over a rice field, or an old man and his grandchild zipping along on a scooter.
And I realize I'm in Korea.
// catherine threw this into the junk drawer on Thursday, 08.31.06
I've just been outsmarted by a robot toilet.
A lot of toilets in Korea have a little panel with a variety of buttons and lights; the brand name is Lavatron. As in, "Oh no, the Lavatron has escaped, is attacking the lab!" It sounds ominous, is what I'm saying.
Out of curiousity, I pressed the 'bidet' button after using the toilet, figuring it would release a cute little jet that would land back in the toilet.
A plastic straw emerged from the toilet, and cold water began gushing out. It arced over the toilet and hit the stall door.
And kept going.
Water was beginning to pool under the door.
I pressed the button again, hoping that would shut it off.
I shut off the robot toilet, mopped up the water, and bolted out of the stall --
Running into a coworker who was leaving the stall next to mine.
Undoubtedly confused by the pool of water coming from my stall.
"I pressed one of the buttons on the toilet!" I gibbered in a high-pitched voice. "The water just kept coming!"
Damn you, robot toilet!
Interstate Drunk Song
// bob threw this into the junk drawer on Monday, 07.17.06
I thought I didn't have to deal with this crap during the off-season.
It all began when I was lying in bed. I had been enjoying my latest accomplishment: paying off my debt to my family and finally having a set of wheels to call my own. I decided to celebrate by going to bed, because going to bed rates as #4 on my "exciting things to do" scale this summer, right behind "playing XBox," "playing Playstation," and "driving up and down Route 12 because I'm really fucking bored."
Thankfully, I had been up fairly late that night. Since corporate America feeds on the energy of those confined within its cube-shaped, five-foot walls, I've been going to bed around 11:30-12:00 most evenings. I was up relatively late, about 1:00 or so, and decided it would be best to turn in so I could maintain consciousness without chugging enough caffeine to make me as jittery as a UFO conspiracy theorist with Parkinson's. Soon after my settling down, a noise came from outside my window.
I heard a loud bang. At first, I passed it off as something I could safely ignore; in retrospect I really wondered why this was my first planned course of action. I decided it best to at least pass a glance out to the street to see what the source of this late-night noisiness was.
I looked towards where my car was parked on the edge of the street, and saw lit brakelights where my unlit headlights should have been. It was at this point I realized something was awry.
My thoroughly hardwired UMass Housing instincts immediately kicked in, and within seconds I was in my kitchen calling 911. "There was an accident outside my house, I think." I'm not really sure why I said "I think," because it was pretty obvious that my car wasn't where it was moments before, and there was in fact another vehicle joined with mine by means of a union of fenders.
After throwing a shirt on, I stepped outside, still on the phone with the 911 operator. A young man stepped out of the black '87 Buick that was now thoroughly intertwined with the forward chunks of my Lumina, which was now about 20 feet away from where I had parked it. This young man, whom I will refer to as Fuck Face for legal reasons, approached me, exhibiting some degree of difficulty in walking. "NICK URELLA???" he asked several times. "Yo, tell my mom I'm OK, tell her I'm OK," he commanded. "I can pay for it man, just don't call the cops, man," he explained to me with a less-than-reassuring slur. As Fuck Face delivered his mildly-understandable candor, a list of thoughts formed in my mind:
1. My name is not Nick Urella.
2. I am fairly certain that I do not look anything like Nick Urella, but I think we both might have the same hair color, although I weigh at least twice as much as any members of their family.
3. The Urella household is roughly 10 blocks away from where I live.
4. I do not know Fuck Face, thus I would most likely not know Ms. Face, thereby preventing me from ensuring her that her son Fuck was OK.
5. Fuck Face was positioned himself an average of eight inches away from me this entire time.
6. A side effect of #5 was that I almost felt a mild buzz from inhaling Fuck Face's breath.
7. Combating the effects of Earth's gravity required a significant effort on Fuck Face's part.
8. There was a blue plastic Solo cup in his passenger seat.
It was then that I thought to myself, "I think this fellow may have been drinking."
After being asked to not call the police, I told Fuck Face that I was on the phone with the tow company. I was, in fact, not on the phone with the tow company. I told the 911 operator that there were no injuries that I knew of, but to send somebody quickly, because after dealing with the dregs of college society, I know how quickly things can get out of hand when a young man is shitfaced and in trouble.
I'm currently at the unnatural state of life during which I can legally purchase alcohol, but due to financial reasons, still live with my family during the off-semesters. As such, my mother eventually made her way outside, wondering what the hell was going on. She asked when the police were going to arrive, at which point Fuck Face composed himself in a way that made me think he was going to punch my mother in the mouth, which, needless to say, rubbed me the wrong way a little.
At this moment, the first police cruiser turned the corner onto my street with its lights on. Fuck Face muttered "oh, shit," climbed back into his wreck, and embarked on a police chase that, under different circumstances, I would find hilarious. Although I knew that there was a zero percent chance that he would make a clean getaway, I was extremely pissed off, and gave chase on foot. My neighbors tell me that they thought the second cruiser that was sent after Fuck Face was meant for me and my inevitable "assaulting a minor" charges.
When I caught up to the criminal mastermind three blocks later, his car was on the left side of the road, facing backwards, and there were a number of tire marks on either side of the road, leading me to believe that his evasive manuevers were not as effective as his clouded mind may have hoped. Sporting a fashionable pair of silver bracelets, Mr. Face was placed in the back seat of the first cruiser. After a short conversation with the police officer, I headed back to my driveway to wait for another officer. About an hour later, a cop showed up and began taking photos of the wreck.
After a few moments, I thought I would try to alleviate my fears. "Officer," I asked, "do you think you could let me off just this once on the broken headlight?"
// dj_neckspasm threw this into the junk drawer on Sunday, 07.09.06
Will this world survive?
Thank you God! My life is very mundane so it's hard to come up with a good topic for a junk drawer post. All I really do is eat, sleep, play video games, attempt suicide and go to work. Working at a call center means I talk to crazy assholes everyday and while that might sound funny or interesting to you guys, eventually they all run together into one big crazy asshole soup. Crazy Asshole Soup. Today however fate smiled on me with old kind God fearing eyes.
Ring goes the door bell as I bolt upright in my creaky desk chair. Turning slowly from my insect pornography I glare at the door. What the Jesus? People don't visit this house in the morning, they only leave. Something is wrong. Creeping toward the door I consider the possibilities. Busty 18 year-olds with turn ons including Metroid and KMFDM? No, too positive. My dad here to tell me I'm a faggot? No, too redundant. Dracula's skeleton wearing an Adidas track suit rapping the theme to three's company? No, too AWESOME.
With Shaking hands I turned the door knob and peered outside. Old women! Finally an end to years of wretched celibacy! Eyeing their starchy church clothes I sigh disappointed as my hard on quickly dies. No Jason, these dusty conservative cunts are unlikely to "bend over and take it". They're from a church group they tell me and they have some information that could be very important to a young person such as myself. Standing quietly and politely I listen because I just love having a dinosaur on a mission cram religion down my throat.
Then I see a book in the lead fossil's hand and it's not the Bible. There's a word on this book and that word is TERRORISM. Now I'm smiling. Now I'm intrigued. Churchentsein numero uno begins her rant. Words like God, Heaven, Terrorism, and Fear whistle through the air like rounds from an AK-47. Apparently I shouldn't need to live in fear of terrorism. Holy shit she's right and, hey waitiminit, I don't live in fear of terrorism! Finally losing my patience I grab the ancient Christian by both shoulders and lay down the law. "Look bitch, I don't give a fuck about your views on terrorism and your god's an asshole but I will take one of your pamphlets so I can make fun of you on the Internet more accurately!". Trembling she hands me one of the pamphlets commenting that this one should be very interesting to a young person such as myself. The pamphlet's titled "Will This World Survive?", that's catchy enough for my short attention span. I close the door watching as the religious retards scuttle back to the right wing abyss that spawned them.
Now about that pamphlet. This is one top drawer pamphlet let me tell you. There's a glowing man on the cover staring at planet earth from what appears to be the world of Tron. Is that glowing man God? Does God live in Tron? Does God have a sweet light cycle? Sadly these are questions the pamphlet neglects to answer. The pamphlet does however explain why I don't need to fear terrorism or a nuclear holocaust for that matter. The reason is simple: the world has ended before. That shit has been done. Seriously though, remember Noah and that big ass flood that killed just about everyone? That was the world ending. Or something. I guess they're just saying that odds are even when every life form on planet earth is dead, the earth itself will still exist. Maybe they're telling me if I stop being an asshole sinner, mean ol' God will spare me when he gets all pissy and starts tearing shit up. Yeah that sounds right. Wait, does that mean God controls the terrorists and he's using them to cleanse the earth? I need to alert the U.N.
// catherine threw this into the junk drawer on Sunday, 07.02.06
I decided I needed a change. So I moved to Korea to teach English.
Complicating matters are the facts that 1.) I speak no Korean and 2.) I have a fear of public speaking.
But I figured I had nothing to lose, and took a chance. If I succeed, awesome; if I fail, at least I'll have stories to tell.
With that in mind, I began applying for jobs. The interviews were conducted by phone; most took 5-10 minutes. Language schools here are usually run by businessmen, so their concerns are 1.) whether you speak intelligible English and 2.) whether you have sufficient brain cells -- say, about 20 -- to pass the ridiculously easy interview. "So, what do you think of children?" An answer of, "They're delicious with butter sauce" is obviously not the one they're looking for. I'm generally awful at job interviews -- I once responded to, "What do you think you can offer this company?" with a blank stare, a long pause, and an eventual, "I've got nothin'" -- and even I was able to breeze through these. Although, honestly, I don't even think my interview responses mattered at most places I spoke to; all you really need is a pulse and the ability to string together semi-coherent sentences.
Obviously, adjusting is a bit of a challenge; not only is the culture different -- two coworkers have called me fat to my face, one giving me a diet drink made from barley and seaweed for me 'to be healthy and slim' -- but the language barrier keeps things interesting, too. I've found myself miming a sig heil to explain what 'Nazi' meant, and sat smiling and nodding while a coworker's grandfather spoke to me for hours in Korean, mostly oblivious to the fact that I was understanding nothing. (Interestingly enough, though, even when you don't speak another language, you can figure out when to nod and when to laugh. Try it, it's fun!)
Yesterday, I had a knock at my door; I answered, to find a man in a suit, bearing a folder. After some miscommunication, he asked me how long I'd been living at my apartment; I answered; he bowed and left. A little freaked out, I emailed my director; she advised me not to answer the door for anyone unless they showed proper identification, and to indicate that I had friends who spoke Korean if I needed help.
This morning, I was woken by pounding at my door -- at 2 and 6 AM. Figuring it was someone messing with me, I didn't answer.
At 8:30, as I was leaving to meet with a coworker, there was a knock at the door; this time, there were three men, talking to me in Korean, and trying to peer into my apartment. They kept speaking Korean, I kept repeating, "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're saying", and periodically one of them would ask, "Boyfriend?" Freaked out, I said, "One moment," called up a coworker and had her speak to the ringleader.
Turns out that someone in a neighboring apartment building had recently been robbed; after seeing one of my bosses hanging around my apartment, and me lounging around for extended periods, he contacted the landlady, who evidently didn't realize I had moved in -- despite being told so by my director -- and so told him no one was living there.
So, basically, my neighbors thought I was a squatter shacking up with a thief, and had called the police. Who were the people knocking at my door at 2 & 6, for God knows what reason.
I'm guessing there's no fruit basket welcoming me to the neighborhood in my future, then.
But how can I stay upset when there's random Engrish to be found?
(It's a nearby children's clothing store, and not some incredibly sadistic sporting goods store.)
I'm trying hard to think of an ending that doesn't sound Pollyanna-ish, but you know what? I'm excited, and I'm hopeful.
And it's a beautiful day.
weird turn pro
// lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Friday, 06.09.06
OK, it's been about a month since I've written something, but the summer has been crazy hectic and update topics that seem groundbreakingly intersting in my head turn to shit once my fingers start striking the keyboard. My apologies.
Ticketmaster has been putting a mighty dent in my wallet as of late. So far I've seen E. Town Concrete's last show at the Starland Ballroom and Tub Ring in Montclair. Tonight is a Gogol Bordello show at Irving Plaza, then Nine Inch Nails next weekend at the PNC Arts Center. After that it's the Sounds of the Underground tour for another final dose of E. Town, not to mention GWAR, HORSE the band and a bunch of other groups that I hope to become acquainted with before July 15th. Then, to top it all off, Henry Rollins and the (somewhat) original members of the Rollins Band after I get back from my friend's wedding in Portugal.
I'm currently reading Hunter S. Thompson's Kindgom of Fear, and I have to share a quote that really hit home for me...
I am a confused Musician who got sidetracked into this goddamned Word business for so long that I never got back to music - except maybe when I find myself oddly alone in a quiet room with only a typewriter to strum on and a yen to write a song. Who knows why? Maybe I just feel like singing - so I type.
These quick electric keys are my Instrument, my harp, my RCA glass-tube microphone, and my fine soprano saxophone all at once. That is my music, for good or ill, and on some nights it will make me feel like a god.
I promise I'll throw some new content on the site soon, so that I can once again feel like a god. On the internet.
zomg Wii wtf?
// lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Friday, 04.28.06
Nintendo has announced the name of their new console and internet bitching has reached critical, greasy mass. "Wii is a horrible name and I was going to buy it when it was called something else but now I'm not going to buy it and I vote with my dollars and Nintendo is fucking us again and there's no way I could walk into a video game store and ask for a Wii because that's like toddler slang for pee and if I had friends I'd have to say something like 'Hay guys come over and play with my Wii' and I simply won't stand for something so ridiculous. Wii? More like Fuck Me Up The Ass: The System for Faggots am I rite?" Look, all of the console names sound retarded when they're first announced, and people say the same shit every time. "Playstation, more like Gaystation. Gamecube, more like Gaycube. X-Box, more like Gay X-Box. Gameboy, more like Gayboy. Dreamcast, more like Dreamgay. Am I rite guys? I'm so rite."
I'm getting too old for the internet.
// catherine threw this into the junk drawer on Friday, 04.21.06
Yesterday was not a good day for my naughty bits.
The day started with me exposing myself to my co-workers. I woke up late, showered, and threw on a shirt without bothering with a bra. I dealt with customers for two hours, then went to the bathroom. While washing my hands, I glanced up.
My shirt was nearly transparent.
My co-workers had seen my nipples.
I took my break, raced home Andretti-style, and threw on a bra and jacket. Which, despite the heat, I wrapped around myself straightjacket-tight, and belted. "What? No, I'm not hot," I told co-workers, sweat beading on my forehead.
Later that day, I went to Planned Parenthood to be fitted for a diaphragm. I needed birth control, but was a bit uneasy about the fucking with my hormones the pill would do. Besides which a friend is on a diaphragm/sponge combo, as she's on blood pressure meds and can't take the pill; whenever she and her boyfriend get ready to go, she tells him, "Honey, I have a date with Spongebob." ("Visit my pineapple under the sea," we joked.) Anyway, I figured she and I could be diaphragm buddies, which I guess in my mind makes it like a friendship bracelet worn in the vagina.
So! The checkup leading up to the fitting was going fine, until they asked, "So, what is the purpose of this visit?" "Oh, I thought I'd get a diaphragm." They looked at me as though I'd just ridden up by horse and buggy, waving to Calvin Coolidge on my way. Everyone was on the pill; they didn't even carry the sponge. Nevertheless, they recovered, and I was led into the next room, told to undress, and informed that someone would be with me shortly.
A bit of an aside: during my first ever visit to the gynecologist, I got into the stirrups and was informed that my doctor would be looking for my cervix. Minutes ticked by. Eventually, she said, "Don't worry, I know it's here somewhere."
All this by way of saying that this time, I had two doctors with furrowed brows staring at my crotch, going, "Where the hell is your cervix?" Just my luck, I've got the J. D. Salinger of cervixes.
Eventually, they found it, and tried inserting a diaphragm.
It flipped over.
They tried it again.
They had me do it.
My diaphragm was cavorting inside me like a sea monkey.
Finally, to get the hell out of there, I told them to just give me a prescription for the pill. As they wrote me one, one of the doctors said to me, "You know, I've been fitting diaphragms for years now, and I've never seen that happen." I think she might have also called my anatomy "weird."
She's just jealous that her cervix has never written the Great American Novel.
Push! Push! Shut the fuck up!
// bob threw this into the junk drawer on Tuesday, 04.18.06
As many of us undoubtedly know, engaged Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes (referred to as "TomKat" by the buzzword-embracing media) are about to give birth to their first child. Cruise, recently known for scaring the hell out of Matt Lauer on The Today Show and making Oprah Winfrey fear for her life, has been a vocal Scientologist since his first involvement with the cult in the early 90’s, and consequentially has remained an unintentional source of comedy for rationally thinking humans.
The latest in Mr. Cruise’s torrent of brainwashed, self-righteous antics comes in the form of how he and many other Scientologists think Katie’s birth should take place. Scientology founder and all-around wacky motherfucker L. Ron Hubbard believed that during birth, children can "soak up" words that can influence them later in life. Just so we're all on the same page, I’d like to take this opportunity to explain that L. Ron Hubbard thinks aliens were dumped in a volcano millions of years ago that now fly around as spooky ghosts that make us sad.
Since the soon-to-be-wed-and-inevitably-divorced couple are so concerned with their child’s mind being poisoned by Ms. Holmes’ inevitable oral stream of reproductive profanity, I’ve drafted a short list of words that nobody in the delivery room should hear or say, and there potentially harmful side-effects.
Damn - will cause child to watch reruns of "Welcome Back Kotter" for 6 hours a day during childhood.
Hell - child will be convinced at the age of three that socks make up the bottom level of the food pyramid.
Ass - at age 21, child will realize that his purpose in life is to beat Contra without the 30 lives code.
Fuck - child will explode whilst half-stuck in mother.
Shit - child will be a rationally thinking human being and potentially not pay millions of dollars to join in a ridiculous farce of a religion which demands exorbitant sums of money to achieve salvation and also through some deal with Satan has received tax-exempt status.
Pop-tart - child will eat a lot of pop-tarts.
I was thinking to myself the other night, "gee Bob, what if old man Hubbard was right? What if children could assimilate positive and negative energies based on the mood of the surrounding sounds during birth?" Then the mushrooms wore off. In any case, I’ve thought of a few ways those wacky Scientologists’ not-at-all-made-by-women laws could be applied to make things all rainbows and lollipops for the kids.
-Shout the entirety of "The Little Engine That Could" through a megaphone into Ms. Holmes' nether regions during the birth.
-Use nonexistant biotechnology to rebuild L. Ron Hubbard’s deceased body and have Robo-Elron deliver the child and bless it with an E-meter (look it up).
-Steal a 19-year-old kid’s pimped-out Neon and blast Journey because, hey, everyone likes Journey, right?
-Shout "you will not have a chemical imbalance" to wake the child, rather than the traditional slap on the bottom.
-Deliver the child on the red carpet at the Mission Impossible 3 premier.
-Throw the child out the window and spare it the trainwreck of a life that's coming to it.
In conclusion, practicing Scientologists (referred to by some as "insane people without any more money") are a bunch of crazy bastards and I produce material more meaningful than their teachings between once and twice a day, depending on my diet. Thank you and goodnight.
HI GUYS OH MY GOD
// lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Tuesday, 04.18.06
OK, I haven't updated in years, but I have many excuses, all of which contain the words "my massive throbbing penis." So instead of writing something meaningful, here are some "links" that I found on the "internet" that I find "interesting."
"Here Johnny, enjoy this fun toy," said John's mom. "It's like a Gameboy but not fun." I'm pretty sure this was one of my sister's hand-me-downs, which is appropriate, since my math skills were on par with someone who had Down's syndrome. The Kotaku article fails to mention the electrified genital strap, but I have a feeling that it wasn't an official "Little Professor" add on.
I'm very upset that I was in Georgia when Gogol Bordello was playing in Brooklyn last week (although Catherine was nice enough to pick me up a "Think Locally, Fuck Globally" shirt), so I'll be watching this until they come around here again.
Charlie White's "Understanding Joshua" series is "complete fragility manifest in a body." Partially NWS. 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09
My Ear and Me
// dj_neckspasm threw this into the junk drawer on Sunday, 04.02.06
Woah, hey now, I'm still alive? I guess Lacki didn't delete my junk drawer account like the internet super demon I believe him to be. "so how's life?" You may be asking, hoping to break the awkward silence and possibly distract me from staring at your crotch. I upgraded my computer. I came close to getting fired from my job. I spent way too much money on video games. My ear decided to mount a rebellion against me. I wrote no less than 4 junk drawer entries and didn't post them. So which topic am I going to tackle? Let's go with the ear. I've got a good feeling about the ear. I'm assuming most of you have ears right? Yeah. Ever had this conversation with your ear?
Me: Hey, ear?
Ear: what up bitch.
Me: I've noticed the past couple days you've had some friends sleeping over.
Ear: So? You've never said anything before, I mean, Ear Wax practically lives here.
Me: No, look, Ear Wax is cool, he's a little messy but man aren't we all?
Ear: You know it.
Me: It's these other guys.
Ear: What, you mean Bacteria and Pus?
Me: They've got to go.
Ear: Man, why you gotta be like that?
Me: It's the fucking parties or whatever you assholes are doing. It's too damn loud. I mean what band is that anyway? Fuck, it's the same thing over and over, high pitched ringing and a sample of the ocean. Don't you ever get tired of that shit?
Ear: Oh man, it's this new european noise techno band I downloaded with soulseek. They're called Infektion. My favorite song is "Deth to Jason's Ears (stabbing pain mix)" Bacteria just puts that shit on repeat. He loves it. And Pus is all groovin'. Oh man it's a blast.
Me: It's gotta stop. Ear Drum is complaining. He said Pus punched him the face and Bacteria tried to make out with him. And Glands? He's always whacked out of his mind on whatever you guys are giving him, throwing up all over the place. I mean damn man, what the fuck?
Ear: C'mon dawg, we just havin' a good time.
Me: No more. I'm giving you two days to get your act together and then I'm calling the Land Lord.
Ear: Antibiotics? That son of a bitch...
Me: Yeah, and you know he's gonna bring Ear Drops with him. They're gonna flip when they hear this shit.
My Ear is bit of a dick. That came out weird.
// lacki threw this into the junk drawer on Tuesday, 01.24.06
I managed to get an XBox 360 a couple weeks ago, and I'm having a lot of fun with Call of Duty 2. I usually don't play games on their highest difficulty, but I need to rack up my Gamerscore for reasons unbeknownst to me. I picked up Project Gotham Racing 3 as well, but I'm not very good at driving games that aren't Burnout, so I may trade it in once Burnout Revenge is released for the 360. Also, the XBox Live Marketplace is awesome, and I hope some of you 360 folks will come kick my ass at Hold 'Em and Street Fighter 2 once they're released in a few weeks. So that's it, just a 360 public service announcement.
Road Map of Pain
// dj_neckspasm threw this into the junk drawer on Tuesday, 01.17.06
OK folks, who here likes people? more specifically, who likes roommates? You sir, the classy gentlemen with the top hat and monicle.
"Yes, my roommates are fantastic creatures. Fantastic. everyday they wake me up with blow jobs. If I cry they comfort me by drinking my tears. I don't even need a job, I make my living by selling my feces at fifty dollars an ounce to my precious roommates. And they buy it too. Happily."
I wish I had roommates like that. No, I do not like my roommates. They do not buy my feces and their blow jobs are toothy and lack luster. My roommates wake me up with the maxed out bass on their shitty logitech speakers playing goddamn motherfucking Fall Out Boy. They play poker every night like it's their fucking religion, screaming like retarded monkeys every time someone shows their hand.
And the fucking parties. Every Friday night I find myself barricaded in my room like the goddamn hunchback of notredame. If I ever, god forbid, need to use the bathroom I never forget to bring my machete so I can cut a path through the ignorant drunken jungle that grows writhing and reeking of alcohol in the hallway. Human beings, the rules are always the same: keep your head down and move quickly, they smell fear. One false move, one misplaced glance and then you're trapped. Then come the questions. "hi, what's you're name?" "do you live here?" "Are you going to be ok?". Just grunt and move, grunt and move. they'll lose interest soon enough, people are like that, fickle and easily distracted.
And sometimes they come to you. Most people would like this scenario. Sitting in your room, minding your own business when someone starts knocking on your door. Not just someone, two people, drunk girls, visually pleasing at that. And they want to "get to know you". This should be cause for celebration right? Certainly this means sexings. Certainly. But no. You've all forgotten one important detail. It's me and my God am I awkward. I'm about as socially compatible with my fellow humans as Serial ATA is to an Apple II. And my nerdy self depreciating similes probably don't help either. So they ask me to come out of my room and into the living room so we can "talk". The party is essentially over, there aren't many people left. Maybe it's safe. But I resist, two people are two too many. Ack! Deception! One of them reaches out and ensnares my arm with their steely talons dragging me henceforth into the living room to a fate uncertain. And so started the "Conversation". They talk. Questions about all manner of ridiculous petty bullshit, meandering from one unimportant topic to the next. Name. Place of birth. Hobbies. Occupation. A conversation that reads like a survey. Video games? They claim they know of such things. And the usual suspects line up, starting with counterstrike and ending with world of warcraft. Yes, I think, this is common ground. I have hands and so do they, this is common ground as well. Why, they ask, did I spend the entire party hiding in my room. To which I reply "so what If I'm a ham and cheese on rye, I gots to do my thing and that's no lie". They nod, solemnly. Sensing my unease they ask if I'd like to return to my room. Yes I say, this failed experiment in social interaction has gone on long enough. I return to my room disappointed at the glaring lack of sexings.
That's how my life goes and will continue to go until I figure out a way of escaping this den of thieves and drunk girls who refuse to put out. My life is "a road map of pain".
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