Archive for February, 2007


more monumentally meaningless musings

February 28, 2007

If you’re not going to fly by the seat of your pants, sit down.

People use the word “ironically” indiscriminately. It’s kind of infuriating. Just because you have no other way of describing a situation doesn’t make it ironic. It’s not “ironic” that you and your best friend Cindy Sue Generic both wore the same dress. It is, however, something that I will never be interested in.

If you don’t have enough material to address, skirt the issue.

Sadly, large corporations do a great job of approximating what music I should be listening to. Seriously. I quite often find myself enjoying music about as soon as it becomes popular. Examples include Panic! at the Disco, Modest Mouse, and Gym Class Heroes. The only thing that I legitimately discover for myself is underground and battle rap. Basically, what I’m saying is that I like my pop popular.

From writer’s block, I sculpt brilliance. Actually, I don’t but I thought that sounded kind of cool.

The devil’s job must be really easy if idle hands can do his work. I’m sending my resume.

I hope my life has a surprise twist ending.

On second thought…


Scope this, whore

February 28, 2007

Alright, I figured I’d switch up the pastiche a little bit. My attempt today is at Onion-style horoscopes. By the way, if anybody reads this, and feels compelled to add their own, I’d love to hear them. (Keep in mind I did these in like an hour)

Aries (March 21-April 19) – Your “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” argument will be surprisingly successful at your upcoming identity theft trial.

Taurus (April 20-May 20) – Your unflinching literalness will combine with with musical obsession when you make a tragic attempt to become a part of emo-pop band Fall Out Boy.

Gemini (May 21-June 21) – The stars are unable to bring you this week’s horoscope, as they had a very important Oscar’s party to attend.

Cancer (June 22-July 22) – A group of monkeys banging away on typewriter’s will come dangerously close to finishing your graduate thesis before you.

Leo (July 23-August 22) – Your mother will enter her record 34th year of postpartum depression this Wednesday, a fact you will have mixed feelings about.

Virgo (August 23-September 22) – The expression “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” will once again fail to accurately describe your situation when doctors misplace your heart during next week’s open heart surgery.

Libra (September 23-October 23) – Your title as “World’s Biggest Star Trek Fan” will once again be easily relatable to your massive obesity.

Scorpio (October 24-November 21) – Your claim that nobody takes the time to write letters anymore will be invalidated by the initials next Tuesday’s serial killer will carve into your chest.

Sagittarius (November 22 -December 21) – The stars would love to give you your horoscope, but they just got Guitar Hero 2, and it’s pretty fucking awesome.

Capricorn (December 21-January 19) – Fate will once again prove that she has a strange sense of humor, when she recommends several Stephen Wright cds.

Aquarius (January 20-February 18) – A misunderstanding of the phrase “trophy wife” will lead you to send out hundreds of embarrassing wedding invitations featuring you and the second place prize you took at last year’s local bass fishing competition.

Pisces (February 19-March 20) – Your passionate treatise for the end of sectarian violence in Iraq will once again be met impassively by your cats.


Quote of the Day

February 27, 2007

I know I’m young/but if I had to choose between her and the sun/I’d be one nocturnal son of gun

Gym Class Heroes, Cupid’s Chokehold


I’m Not a Poet

February 27, 2007

I’m not a poet –

I just don’t like punctuation very much

Still, as long as I have unlimited

Line breaks

I might as well use them.

Whether you think you can

or you think you can’t

they won’t let you, so give it up.


They’ll tell you the world’s getting warmer.

It’s not.

Hell’s just getting closer.

They’ll tell you the God will love you no matter what

He won’t.

Cheer up bro, he was kind of a control freak anyway.

They said that she was just going through a phase.

They lied to you.

Postpartum depression never lasts 17 years.

There’s not really a diplomatic way to put this

so I’ll just say it.

I think calling that a suicide “attempt” is pretty generous.

And I don’t recall you being raised to make one poor effort and slink off miserably

Also, you cry way too much. The sun is out.

So cheer up.


Boxers or…Onion news in Briefs?

February 27, 2007


CLAREMONT, CA: Pomona College officials were pleased to announce the creation of new, gender neutral toilets last Thursday afternoon. Professor of Restroomology Robert Bryan called the move “long overdue” and cited a history of discrimination by toilets. “Toilets have long gotten a pass for being inanimate porcelain objects”, said Bryan, who got his degree at a local Burger King with the purchase of the new Texas Double Whopper. “But the idea that somebody would have to make a choice about whether to sit down or standup when using the bathroom is offensive. Urinals are of course the worst offenders, but even traditional sit-down toilets, with their contribution to the endless seat up/seat down controversy are also guilty.” The new toilets feature a variety of holes of various sizes, feature the option of flushing, not flushing, both, neither, or no response.

h1 brings you today’s quote

February 27, 2007

Little old man: Hello, sir, you look like a millionaire!
Young thug: I’ll stab you in your fucking eyeball…

–McDonald’s, 34th St


Stream of Vignette

February 27, 2007

I’m trying this on the fly, so it probably will be somewhat meandering…

Vincent looked up from his desk to where Myra was still talking about her ex-husband and the beatings he used to give her. He resettled his glasses on his nose in a gesture that always gave off the impression that he was closely listening to whatever it was his patients were blathering on about and drifted off once again into daydream.

Drifted was perhaps the wrong word. He pursued the opportunity to daydream aggressively but lightly, the same way a little boy might chase a butterfly that he wanted to catch, but was at particular pains not to harm. This daydream was about his father. They were all about his father.

His father was a hardnosed man. He was also hard-bodied, hardheaded, hardworking and a touch hard of hearing. The last one was the most dangerous. The old man was particularly touchy at any implication that he was a less than perfect physical specimen and refused to acknowledge any mistake in hearing, instead supplying whatever his subconscious thought his hapless interlocuter might have said. Often, his subconscious supplied vicious insults in place of innocuous chatter, which gave him a chance to indulge his most favorite hobby.

Above all, he was a man who enjoyed beating his children. He subscribed to the belief that one should “spare the rod, and enjoy the hell out of it”. He had a few special tools for the task: A long, curved, beautifully crafted oak cane he had taken from a blind man who asked him for change, a length of piano wire that he had wrapped in duct tape until it was the thickness of his thumb, and his personal favorite, a pair of brass knuckles that he only consented to use on his children when he was very unhappy.

Or when he was exceptionally happy.

That was made him different. Other parents beat their kids when their kids brought home bad report cards, or were noisy, or just too numerous; Vincent’s father beat his children completely on a whim. Vincent was quite as likely to receive a beating for bringing home a report card full of A’s as for getting arrested for arson. It had made him a slightly jumpy little boy, a habit he had only very recently grown out of.

Vincent begrudgingly made eye contact with Myra, where her eyes were red and puffy as she recounted yet another tale of spousal abuse. They all ran into each other in a way that made Vincent’s job both inane and laughably easy. She seemed reassured by this meaningless gesture and continued talking uninterrupted.

When Vincent was 9, his father had beaten him so hard and with such vigor that he had sprained his wrist. At first this seemed like a rare bit of good luck – for a week his father had been forced to use his off-hand, which took a lot of sting out of the blows. But his father was a quick study, especially when it came to his hobby, and soon was using both hands nearly equally well. Once in a while, he would even show off and beat two of his children at once, raining blows down in a cacophonous pain that as close as anything approximated a soundtrack to his young life.

An alarm sounded. The session was up. He got up to shake Myra’s hand and escort her out the door, careful not to touch her in a way that might be construed as unprofessionally affectionate. He settled back into his chair.

For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why his ex-wife would use him as a therapist.