UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
don't make me give you a ham sermon, see?  feed it up!
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You are just a number to me! And that number is: PAGES UD MADE: My Books Page My Reviews Page My Reference Page My Music Page My Pictures My Store UD-RELATED PAGES: My LiveJournal My MySpace music page My Flickr page My del.icio.us page My Last.fm page My Amazon Wishlist HEAVY ROTATION Ratatat: LP3 Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes Band of Horses: Cease to Begin Krauss & Plant: Raising Sand Death Cab for Cutie: Narrow Stairs Beach House: Devotion BLOGS ETC claude le monde nuncstans rock 'em stock 'em tomato nation postmodern drunkard tuckova 22 ghastly mess constintina total virility fuzzysquid drunken bee stacey nightmare elyse from ANTM stereolabrat dark side points jf_franklin 123 i love you READ NOW brotherhood 2.0 NOT BLOGS ETC qwantz (dinosaur comix) go fug yourself the burg cat and girl book of ratings married to the sea icanhascheezburger fire joe morgan hospitality on parade OMG WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2007 Jeremy Broomfield 
Hosted by: HostRocket.Com Comments by: YACCS PRAISE & REVIEWS "[UD] is a genius." --Christian Oates "[Claudia] is fucking awesome, and [UD] is a genius. And vice versa. You should all buy Fear Not." --Tricia Howey MOTTO egeo huic vigorum MY WRESTLING NAME Titan Gently MY PUNK NAME Razor Ection 
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Thursday, September 26, 2002
I think some small gangsters approached my immune system and gave it some cash to "look the other way" if any diseases, viruses, or bacteria decided to "stop by" my body for a while, because I've been feeling like warm feces for weeks. Despite a constant infusion of various syrups, pills, pills, and pills, I can feel the sickness bedding down for the winter like some goddamn overstuffed grizzly.
My nice parents took me to one of the last Yankee games of the regular season, but neglected to warn me that they were SWARMING WITH GERMS. (My parents, I mean -- not the Yankees.) Thanks a heap, mom. What seemed a nice gesture was quickly transformed into a hideous carnival of leering microorganisms. See, when I get a little hyperaware of germs, any infected surface glows like jizz under one of those special UV jizz-lamps that coroners love so much. Life becomes a game of "don't touch anything or you die," which is real fun for about 5 minutes but then all your muscles seize up with panic and next thing you know you've passed out because you were holding your breath (so's not to breathe any floating toxins) and then they're taking you to the hospital -- which lemme tell you is just lousy with sick people -- and then you're dead and the coroner is shining his jizz lamp all up and down your business and then you're in a grave and then you climb out of the grave and start searching for live brains just to EASE THE PAIN OF BEING DEAD. BRAINS. Wednesday, September 25, 2002
So now it's happening, the thing that's supposed to happen when you're surrounded by talented (or at least creative) folks: people I know are getting famous. Not REALLY famous, but the kind of famous where they get their pictures out of the free tabloids and into the glossies. My generation is hitting its stride, I guess, and my peers are no longer responsibility-shirking fuckups -- they're "visionaries" or "up-and-comers" or whatever the fuck.
I'm mostly reacting to the New York Magazine cover story on the New York Rock scene, and how it's curing more cancer than Amazonian plant life. NYR kills monsters. NYR patches the ozone hole and strangles CEOs with the intestines of other strangled CEOs. (Incidentally, another friend of mine is an assistant editor at New York. What the fuck?) I hate it. Can all these people really be great musicians? Is this really a renaissance of a foggily remembered early 80's downtown scene? OR DO THESE MAGAZINES JUST NEED COLORFUL FILLER? I am obviously torn. I do not want to be famous. I do not want to be famous. I do not want to be famous. Breathe. Deep breaths. You don't think I could be famous? Ha. Listen to this AND THEN GET BACK TO ME. It fucking rocks. But I don't care. I do not want to be famous. I do not want to be famous. I don't want to go to parties and pretend I care. I don't want even easier access to drugs; it's practically RAINING drugs in this town already. I don't want a record contract. I don't want a band. I don't want to play "shows" with other people. I don't want more money than I already have. I don't want fake friends and I don't want people writing about me like I'm the Great Dumb Hope and then dropping me two months later when some other yutz with dirty hair and nicotine fingertips catches their fancy. I am happy for my famous (for now) friends. But will their lives be better? Does fame help you sleep at night? Does fame drive away your crippling depression? Does fame keep the undead from rising from the grave to eat the flesh of the living? No, no, no, and NO. Thursday, September 19, 2002
Survivor's 5th season begins today. Everyone is from Texas, and none of the men is gay -- (or if they are, they haven't told their wives). There are, however, a NYPD officer and a Firewoman from Bumblefuck, Arkansas. Damn sentimental garbage. I used to be really geeked-out about the show, explaining the solid game theory to people who instinctively mocked me when I voiced my enthusiasm. But it's hard to get too psyched when they consistently line up the MOST RETARDED, UNINTERESTING MORONS ON THE PLANET and make a show out of their spats and underwhelming minibetrayals. Shut up, I know what you're going to say about reality shows. But seriously, the game design -- oh, never mind.
There has only been one Jew on the show ever (Ethan Zohn, season 3) and this year's crop is waspier than a dumpster behind a sugar refinery. Jews still seem reluctant to embarrass themselves on national television, and for that I am proud. On the other hand, these bleached-out trailer park jizz-jars seem to feel some kind of patriotic duty to flash their tits to the world for a string of plastic baubles and chance to appear on a Girls Gone Wild video -- literally and metaphorically speaking. Check out these quotes from the Survivor 5 promo: ERIN: What's the wildest thing I've ever done? (pause as she thinks so hard that her eyes visibly unfocus) Um. . . being an exhibitionist! TED: I plan to use a combination of physical skill. . . and mental skill. Ha. I hope this season is a good for at least a few laughs. Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Do you need a job? May I recommend working in an office? Cause it's reallly fun! Have you ever gone to a meeting and listened to the free exchange of ideas between co-workers and friends in a relaxed and productive setting? Ever wondered how long a meeting can last without really accomplishing anything? Ever fought to keep your eyes open as you begin to learn just how uncomfortable a chair can really be? Ever choked back a violent spasm of disgust upon first swallowing the "coffee" from the urn in the middle of the table? Ever spaced out into a five-minute reverie on the origin of the word "urn?" Have you noticed how some people like to speculate at length about things THEY COULD NEVER EVER KNOW, especially in front of a large, captive, shifting, sleepy audience in a poorly ventilated room with awful chairs? Have you ever vividly imagined inflicting a lethal number of paper cuts on a dude across the table? Have you planned the trajectory of the table-vault necessary to inflict such cuts while retaining the element of surprise? Ever considered devoting your life to ergonomics as YOUR SPINE IS PULVERIZED by a chair that looked comfortable but was actually designed by evil robot alien zombie donkey-fucking fucks? Have you actually sketched out plausible designs for a machine that would inflict a lethal number of paper cuts on an entire roomful of people at once? Ever doodled plausible designs for an in-office drainage system that could handle the sudden, killing-floor outgushings of blood that would result from such a paper-cut massacre? Ever considered chewing on a cigarette to quell the violent, spasmic nicfits that take hold of your body every two minutes? Ever put a well-deserved Pepperidge Farm cookie in your sleepy mouth only to have some suit-wearing gasbag ask you a question about projected rates of blah-dee-blah, so that you can either exhale dry crumbs of awful cookie onto the table or sit there like a pud-pulling hill person, holding up one finger in the universally embarrassing gesture for "I'm such a pig hog hog that I put a whole cookie in my mouth and now you just have to stare at me while I chew my hog-cud before I can answer your viciously timed question THAT HALF THE PEOPLE HERE DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND, MUCH LESS GIVE A BRAIN-EATING FUCK ABOUT!" No? Hmm. Maybe you shouldn't get an office job. Because that stuff happens all the time.
Monday, September 16, 2002
A girl asked me what kind of underpants boys like. I said "Boxers and briefs, I guess." She was like "No no: what kind of girl's underpants do boys like?" I said "Gee, I dunno, I don't think most guys wear girl's -- OW!" and I mopingly rubbed my soon-to-be-bruised shoulder. Damn her impatient fist.
The reason I was being difficult is that I think the question is a perfect illustration of how bitches be crazy. Underpants? What kind of UNDERPANTS? Do boys like? Shouldn't girls ask themselves "what kind of underpants do I like?" As near as I can figure, boys don't really care what your underpants look like as long as you can take them off. So chastity belts are out, as far as attracting men with your underpants is concerned. Boys don't care about panty lines or thongs -- girls do. Whenever I encounter shiny, fancy underpants on a girl, I always think "wow, those don't look very comfortable. Why wear underpants that are so obviously irritating? Is it because she knew she was going to have sex and wanted to impress someone? How did she know she was gonna have sex, and did she know it was going to be with me? Because I didn't know, and I sure as fuck am not impressed by fancy underpants. Wait -- did I have any choice in the matter, here? What am I, some goddamn piece of meat? Where am I? What time is it? Where are my pants, anyway? WHERE ARE MY FUCKING CIGARETTES?" Friday, September 13, 2002
I defend the subway against slander as vehemently as I defend our tap water. But does the subway care about its champion? No. Instead it chooses to test me.
It was all downhill last night from the moment I watched the 6 train cruise into the 33rd Street station at 12:37am as I frantically jabbed my credit card into the slot of the beautifully designed but also apparently illiterate Metrocard vending machine what do you mean "Do you want to try again?" OF COURSE I WANT TO TRY AGAIN OH JESUS THERE GOES THE FUCKSUCK TRAIN and then I was like hey, what's that guy in that booth all about? So I slit my wrists with my expired card and blood sloshed into the tray as I bought a token. Apparently it was ladies' night on the Lexington line, and like all ladies' nights everywhere it pretty much involved ladies being drunk and stumbly and lost and etcetera. Three Irish students asked if I could recommend "annythin' foon ta doo in Flooshing, Quains?" I told them that I had heard it was fun to eat a dick in Flushing. A girl with a rolling airplane carry-on bag -- but no other luggage -- bizarrely demanded that I quiz her on her New York knowledge, and when she failed to name the ingredients of an egg cream, she narrowed her eyes and asked me if I was getting off at Astor Place. Like I was some kind of NYU Student. I told her that her airplane bag made her ass look fat. And that her face made her head look stupid. She got off at Astor Place. Then there was the chick who had just won a milk-chugging contest, who insisted that her record of a gallon in 2.5 minutes was untarnished by the fact that SHE WAS ALLOWED TO VOMIT DURING THE COMPETITION like what kind of bullshit is that? Was it being judged by schoolchildren? Well, anyway, her outfit was quite festive, with decorative, fragrant spots of many colors. The cherry on the sundae of my 2+ hrs subway ride was a series of highly creative service changes, which I think were actually stolen from a KGB torture manual designed to crush the will of Rambo. My fellow passengers brought the art of freestyle marathon swearing to a new heights, but I let it all wash over me like a soothing river of rat urine, because I love me my subway. Thursday, September 12, 2002
Bright College Days, Part 2: Employment. Working breakfast in the dining hall sucked nuggets; ideally, the sunrise should be the last thing I see before I go to sleep, not the first thing to stab my weary eyes. They made us wear the most retarded hats due to some kind of "regulation" involving state-mandated humiliation and ridicule. But really, I was just fundamentally unnerved by the narrow chromatic range of the food served: it was all brown, orange, or yellow. After a semester serving patties, pasta, and nuggets, I could not take it. I'm a sensitive soul, I know.
So for the rest of college I worked at the Computing Center as a "Consultant," which meant that I sat in a little glass-walled booth and told all comers how to download their email to floppy disks. I actually learned enough about computers that I could have helped them with MUCH more complicated tasks, like how to GO GET SOME GODDAMN FRESH AIR AND LEAVE ME ALONE FOR GOD'S SAKE, but no, people just wanted to download their worthless retarded emails for posterity, like I'm SOOO SURE your words of freshman wisdom to That Dude You Met On The In-Ter-Web will be treasured by the robot historians of the future, you worthless suckmonkey. Anyway, I developed a bad attitude. By senior year I just wanted to listen to music and work on my combination Yes/Rush fansite. There were some new recruits on the Consultant staff, meek freshmen with zero social skills and only slightly better computer skills. One day, I told the new girl that I would answer any difficult questions, but I didn't want to help any ugly people. That after three years as a consultant, I felt I had earned the right not to help the ugly. Well, she must have been from California or something, because she had no capacity to recognize irony. Or humor, I guess. It turns out that she told our boss that she was having trouble determining which people were too ugly for me to help, because she was unclear what my taste was. That was awesome. Oh, by the way: if you believed for even a second that I had a combination Yes/Rush fansite, you should go eat a bowl of dick. Tuesday, September 10, 2002
I need a name for my band. Not that I have a band yet, but when I have one, it will need a name. I recorded my first album under my name, because I did everything. And I was gonna do the same thing with my next album until I realized that every band that I like is really just one genius who writes surrounded by musicians that make it sound good. Ok, maybe I'm no genius, but -- oh whoops, wait a minute: I AM a genius. So now I need some musicians, and we need a name. I want submissions. I can't think of anything except a retarded list of "The _____s" names: The Ohs. The Duh. The Gape. The Most. The Tums. The Sands. The Concorde. The Grapes. The Goddamn Concord Grapes. The Speakers On My Desk Right Here. The 3-Ring Binders. The Crap Machine. The Universe Controllers. The Fuck? The Pfft.
Help. Give me good band name ideas. If you submit the name that I eventually use, you will get a lifetime supply of PW's underpants. Or maybe not a lifetime supply, really -- just whatever I can grab from her room while she's out fellating vagabonds by the railroad tracks. Monday, September 09, 2002
When I was a Junior in college, I kept a list of girl's names on a dry-erase board in my room. It was clearly labeled "Crush List," which I now realize is totally gay, or at least unforgivably 13-year-old-girlish. But listen: the theory behind it was strong. My crushes are delicate and endangered creatures, like small butterflies in an iron smeltery. Making the names visible helped me nurture crushes way past their regular life expectancy, which is good because crushes are fun.
Also, the spirit of full disclosure really encouraged 2am discussions between me and my Drunken Slut Housemates: DSH#1: Ah. Mah. Gah. You ackshually like that bish? UD: I don't know, maybe. I guess so, because I wrote it down. DSH#1: Hey you guys! [UD] has a crush on L_____! (drunken gasps from living room) DSH#2: Ah mah gah! DSH#3: Shut! Up! Eew! DSH#4: Glaargle! (Thudding sounds as several DSHs pass out on floor) DSH#1: Hey. Hey. UD: Yeah? DSH#1: Your lisht is stupid. UD: Ok. DSH#1: STUPID. UD: Ok! DSH#1: (whispering) How come I'm not on it? UD: Um.... DSH#1: (vomits on carpet) UD: Hmm. Friday, September 06, 2002
I have a cold. I cannot be observationally humorous, and I can't warn you about zombies. I can, however, entreat that goddamn lazy drunken hobo-blowing slut Pussy Willow to pull her goddamn weight here. Am I right? Achoo.
Monday, September 02, 2002
I don't like boys. This is a fact -- overgeneralized, maybe, but essentially, reliably, demonstrably true. I like girls. I get along with them, relate to them, understand them, know them. Boys? Not so much. The reasons aren't really worth exploring outside my shrink's office, and probably involve my relationship with my father. But the fact remains: I don't like boys.
The sun rises in the east; the postman always rings twice; I don't like boys. There are exceptions, but not many. College yielded only 3 male friends who still matter to me. I really like my former boss. And. . . um. . . that's about it. I don't like boys, but this property is not commutative; boys like me just fine. At least until they figure out that I don't like them. But they still like me fine. Which is no surprise, because everybody likes me. I don't like boys. It's such a defining characteristic that they should print it on my driver's license next to my eye color and height. it's something that most of my good friends (that's you, girls) should already understand about me. So why do you keep trying to tell me I'm gonna like your new boyfriend? You list your boyfriend's good qualities, in the order you think I'll appreciate: "He's smart, funny, creative, tall, and ooh ooh, he loooves Starship Troopers too!" Whoop-dee-shit. The phrase "I think you'd really like him" is pretty much a guarantee that I'll hate his guts instead of just being indifferent. Give it a rest already. I don't like boys. Get the picture? |
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You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) or go to The UD Store MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" |