Wednesday, April 22, 2009


Today, as everyone knows, is Earth Day, which is earth's birthday, which means that according to the Jewish calendar (official calendar system of the blog), the earth is 5,769 years old. That means that if there were really a Mother Earth, she would have hit menopause and moved to Florida like 5,720 years ago. I bet she has a hell of a tan by now.

I know I've publicly celebrated Earth Day in the past, but that is so over now. I am taking a page out of the Republican playbook here - not the page where I actively campaign for the dissolution of the country that I claim to love more than you, or the page where I make eloquent defenses of the choice movement at Right To Life dinners, or the page where the people who expose the people who okay'd torture have their judgment publicly questioned while the okay'ers slink freely among the public. Wait, is that the hypocritical page? Okay, then yes, that is the page I'm taking out of the Republican playbook.

Because I am refusing to celebrate Earth Day this year. I protest!

I've been in kind of a protestical (not pro-testicle, you pervert) mood this week, actually. It all goes back to Monday morning, when I looked in my sock drawer and saw that among my scant choices were a pair of black socks that said "Wednesday" on them (in yellow). Initially, I recoiled at those socks. Oh no, I thought. I can't possibly wear Wednesday socks on a Monday... But then I started wondering exactly what repercussion would befall me if I just went ahead and shot the lock off, and put on the damn socks. Before I knew it I was yanking the socks out of the drawer and cursing at them, "fuck you, socks! You're not the boss of me! Why don't you swallow my foot and see how you like it?"

It felt so good that I followed that up by wearing my Sunday socks yesterday. On a Tuesday. Nobody pushes me around, see!

Which brings us to today. Earth Day, if that is its real name. Give me one good goddamn reason why I should celebrate Earth Day. Every fucking day is Earth Day, let's not kid ourselves. This isn't like that whole Mother's Day thing where we have to pretend that our mothers are actual human beings with feelings and take them out of the home for an entire excruciating day, this is for real. There is no alternative to Earth. We are being bullied into submission by a dictatorial planet so intent on keeping us here that you literally have to get your kinetic energy equal to the magnitude of your gravitational potential energy in order to reach escape velocity! Talk about clingy...

Besides which. Earth is responsible for giving us this:

Absolutely unforgivable, Earth. Shame on you. SHAME! I hope your birthday sucks and that you explode from eating poison cake.

Friday, April 17, 2009

This could be the beginning of a 6,000,000-page serial novel!

The premise of my next work of fiction, length undecided:

“So, um, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a trained killer.”

“A trained killer.”



“Yes. I’m really a trained killer.”

“Okay. So, um,… what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a trained killer.”

“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

“Yes. That’s my story. I’m a trained killer.”

“And for whom do you kill trains?”


“Sorry. For whom do you turn tricks?”

“I’m a trained killer, not a trained seal.”

“I was calling you a whore, not a trained seal.”

“Probably not the wisest thing to say to a trained killer.”

“If only I knew one.”

“Oh! Me, pick me! Hi, I’m a trained killer!”

“How do you, um, do it?”

“Like, what’s my method?”

“Okay, sure.”

“I poison people.”

“You poison people from the government, and they still let you have a profile on eHarmony?”

“I know. ExceptI don’t poison people for the government.”

“So do you work for?”

“A small private security company. I’m not at liberty to say more than that.”

“I think you’ve said plenty.”

“Well, I’m having doubts about it.”

“About your…career choice?”


“Which you still maintain is that you professionally poison people.”

“Right. I’m having some doubts about that though.”

“Like, ethics questions?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Huh. Let’s talk.”

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

This Ex-stinks.

These two news items remind me of this great stegosaurus place I used to know on 9th Avenue, back in the Mesozoic era. Damn, I haven't been there in ages. Boy, could I go for a nice, medium rare stego-steak right about now...


Item 1:

A rare Worcester’s buttonquail (Turnix worcesteri), a probable female, which is also locally known as the Philippines quail, is shown being photographed while being held by a bird hunter in Caraballo (above).

The bird, thought to be extinct, was photographed for the first time in the Philippines, and then sold to a poultry market as food.

Item 2:

Fishermen in the Philippines accidentally caught and later ate a megamouth shark, one of the rarest fishes in the world with only 40 others recorded to have been encountered, the World Wildlife Fund said Tuesday. The 1,100-pound, 13-foot megamouth died while struggling in the fishermen's net on March 30 off Burias island in the central Philippines. It was taken to nearby Donsol in Sorsogon province, where it was butchered and eaten, said Gregg Yan, spokesman for WWF-Philippines.

from Yahoo!, also via boingboing

Now, I realize I might have Easter on the brain (you should too, Christians...), but isn't this a little bit like if the apostles had tried to take a bite out of Jesus when he reappeared? It's like, "oh, hey, Son of Man, we totally thought You were extinct! We're so glad You're back! And have You been working out, because That Flank of Yours is looking pretty tasty... no, wait, come back!!"

They don't call him the Lamb of God for nothing, folks. Am I right? Who's with me?

What's with all that gathering lightning?

Dear Jesus,


Marshmallows and lollipops,
The Smoke Monster.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Dude, the Day After Easter is Painful Enough As It Is

I don't know about anybuzzy else, but the day after Easter is not a happy day for me AT ALL. First of all, there's the realization that good ol' Jesus C. (Friend of the blog) has gone back to His spaceship with Elvis Presley and the Tooth Fairy until His birthday party in December, or at least until one of those fake "Christmas in July" promotions where retail stores give huge discounts on vacuum cleaners and Michael Bolton CDs (Jesus's two favorite gifts!).

And second of all, I'm always a little bit sluggish the day after Easter because of the massive amount of labor involved in obtaining my favorite Easter delicacy, chocolate-covered rabbits (not pictured). Because as any connosieur of chocolate-covered rabbits knows, it is really hard to catch a rabbit. And it is even harder to convince the rabbit to sit still while you dip it in a pot of molten chocolate. There may be more than one way to skin a cat, but that's cats, and that's skinning, and we're talking catching rabbits and dipping them in molten chocolate, which is quite the holiday undertaking, let me tell you.

I remember the days when Cadbury Creme Eggs used to be enough for me. But then I discovered that not only are they not real eggs, they're not laid by a real bunny either. Fakers! And I am all about the authenticity, folks, as you probably already know from a cursory critical examination of the lyrics to my hit song, "Tears of a Clown."


I always try and make a few extra chocolate-covered rabbits, sometimes to give out as gifts, and sometimes just for me. But these are lean times. The Great Repression is in full effect. So this year, I not only had to compete with the speed and caginess of my leporine prey, but also with the dozens of hungry Wall Street bankers who prowl the streets of New York nowadays in search of pigeons, rodents, and small game animals for sustenance. I'm not a competitive person by nature. I just want to collect my coneys and be left in peace, not harrassed and held at Blackberry-point by some down-and-out Lehman Brothers layoff-ee who rifles through my pockets and then laughs at me for carrying around Goonies trading cards. They're just there to give me luck with the hunting, you jerk.

God damn, was that woman mean.

And of course, that's all not to mention the disappointment that comes when you bite into the head of a chocolate-covered bunny and discover that the rabbit you worked so hard to catch and dip has somehow managed to disappear from its chocolate tomb, leaving you with nothing but a hollow, hare-shaped piece of chocolate. I know it's very thematic and Easter-appropriate and all, and I strongly suspect that Jesus somehow magicks them out of there as a prank on me (very funny, Jesus), but honest to Christ: if I wanted hollow chocolate, I'd buy it from a fucking store.

My point is that the post-Easter Monday is already fraught with enough exhaustion and heartache. So the last thing I needed to see when I looked at my Internet first thing this morning was this:

The Peekaru? Seriously? W.T. Fuck, America? Who's responsible for this? I want names. When Jesus comes back next year*, I'm totally ratting you guys out.

*That's assuming Barack Obama doesn't blow up the world before then, which is a pretty generous assumption considering how he's doing so far.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

How Cheerios' Heart-Healthiness Was Put to Complete Shame

Looks like Lucky has a new marshmallow buddy:

This is not your breakfast cereal. This is like Jesus's breakfast cereal and Superman's breakfast cereal combined, only on steroids and methamphetamines and crack, and with surprisingly low nutritional value. Your breakfast cereal can't even keep you from getting hungry again before noon, though, because all it has are seven healthy grains, and not marshmallows with the power to manipulate time-space.

I hate to say it, Kix. You may be kid-tested and mother-approved, but we're talking about the ability to violate Einstein's laws here. Lucky Charms wins in a landslide.

The problem is that it's a gateway physics-defying cereal. I already have one friend who got looped on time-controlling Lucky Charms and gravity-defying Captain Crunch, and is now in suspended animation 300 feet above Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, just hanging there in mid-air with this horrified look on his face. It's pretty gruesome. But it's also a very visible cautionary tale for the children.

Gasp! Oh my Zod, I think I just figured out how they're going to end the hit ABC documentary Lost! With a cartoon leprechaun!

You're welcome, America, for once again doing your homework for you.