UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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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 
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Wednesday, October 30, 2002
So the Halloween party is actually on Halloween this year. Which would be okay if Halloween weren't on a Thursday, but it is. If you are the type of person who has an actual job, a party on a Thursday sucks harder than PW entertaining her first hobo of the evening. I'll probably take Friday off in order to enjoy myself completely, but many of my friends don't have the luxury of being lazy-ass fucks. So the ones who can make it at all will stay sober and leave early. GLARRGLE!
I only look forward to 2 parties every year, and this is one of them. Why they gotta freeze out a bunch of my friends AND tack an invisible expiration onto what should be an endless bacchanal? One of the hosts -- and several other folks I've talked to -- claim that Halloween has a "special meaning" and that having the party a day later would not be "the same." Ya damn right it wouldn't be the same, because it would FUCKING ROCK. Halloween has special meaning? Unless you're some kinda bored white rag-wearing spell-mumbling patchouli-stinking wiccan fuckface, Halloween doesn't mean shit. My birthday has special meaning, but I don't throw the party on a Thursday. Why? Because I'm not an inflexible, literal bastard. I like FUN, not restrictions. Halloween is not like Christmas. Halloween is a vestigal harvest celebration that survived because people need an excuse to get FREAKY. Missy Elliot told me to git my freak on. How'm I supposed to do that on a Thursday? HOW COME NOBODY BUT MISSY CARES ABOUT MY FREAK AND HOW I GET IT ON? Tuesday, October 29, 2002
If you had asked me a month ago if I intended to see Jackass The Movie, I would have exhaled a firehose-like rope of vomit into your face. Then, I would have given you a five-fingered ham sermon. After warming my knuckles on your nose, I would have said "no." And MTV would have sent back the tape without opening it. The Jackass "concept" sounded boring and sadistic; I've seen idiots before, and I get no joy out of seeing them get hurt. What a low-budget waste of time, right?
But I saw the movie last night, and my stomach still hurts from laughing. I hate myself a little, but I want to hang out with Johnny Knoxville a lot. I feel superior, but wimpy. I feel mature, but also old and fragile. On the surface, JTM is about the atavistic joy found in the misfortune of others. But because I'm a fatass nerdypants, I'm gonna say it's a lot more complex than that. Jackass imagines a world where irresponsibility is rewarded and consequences are nonexistant. Superannuated skate punks devise viscous stunts to hurt their friends, and between stunts they just kick and punch each other in the nuts. Parents only exist to be battered, and women -- with their emotions, concerns, and hassles -- don't exist at all. Time knits all bones and a producer with a stack of cash will take care of any injured bystanders or victims. It's all very seductive, and a nice break from reality. In real life, I don't want to hang out with those guys. I hung out with them in high school, and I got my fill then. PW is soaking her shorts over Bam Margera, who is undeniably cute, physically fit, and unflinchingly cruel. In other words, the perfect boyfriend. But like I said, there are no girlfriends in Jackass. In fact, Jackass may be the gayest thing I've seen since Bruce La Bruce's Hustler White, which, on a scale of straight to flaming, rated approximately Hiroshima. What's my rambling stupid point? I think I'd need 20 pages to sort that out. But what it boils down to is that the movie, if you can stomach it, is deleriously stimulating. Whatever you feel for the cast -- judgment, scorn, hatred, pity, admiration, envy, love, sexypants, hunger, whatever -- you feel something. For me, that was more unexpected than a kick in the nuts from my best friend. Ugh. What a terrible summary. I feel so dirty for recommending this movie. Tonight I will scrub my flesh with Brillo pads. Monday, October 28, 2002
My computer is okay, and more importantly, all my files are retrieved. The cost is about $130. I can breathe again, and my heart rate is back in the low hundreds. This could be a dream, but I don't usually dream about sitting at my desk with a backache. I am humbled, chastened, ecstatic. For the first time since reading Gilgamesh, I really understand the folly of hubris.
Creative people of the world: BACK YOUR SHIT UP. Now read that last sentence again a million times. Then, actually do it. And if you're a praying type, thank your god for the people at Tekserve. In fact, pray to them instead of your god, because your god blows hobos in comparison. And call your mother, she'd like to hear from you. And for god's (I mean Tekserve's) sake, don't sit around making sandwiches while there are zombies walking around -- they are extremely strong and will smash any makeshift barriers (two-by-fours, bureaus, armoires) like so much crepe paper. Friday, October 25, 2002
I used to worry about what to wear for Halloween. I was never a very good planner, and I'm not the type to invest a lot of money in something I'll only wear once. As a result, my costumes have always been hurried, slapdash affairs involving a lot of random objects drafted into service as accessories ("Hmm, I guess I could duct tape that tuning fork to this old motorcylce helmet and call myself a lunatic"). I had a big pink muu-muu that was always acceptable for costume parties, but I hated shaving my legs. Bitches be crazy.
Oh man do I hate when people use current events as a source of costume ideas. I met a dude named Chad who stuffed a pillow in his shirt and called himself -- get it? -- a pregnant chad. Glarrgle! Later that night, we turned him into a bleeding from the head, neck and ass chad. It was a great improvement. But I know there are gonna be sniper-related costumes involving crosshairs or laser pointers or Home Depot bags, and I know the people wearing them will be the worst kind of people. Therefore it will be okay to cut them a little bit. Who's with me? A few years ago, Zorgot told me I should dress as a bee, because I'd never want to be anything else again. Dude. He was right. I wrap a yellow t-shirt in 2 inch electrical tape, add cheap antennae and maybe some fairy wings and I'm ready. The genius part of the bee costume is manifold. Everybody knows what you are, so you don't have to explain yourself to idiots. (Oh -- if you like wearing complicated, "clever" costumes that require explanation, you need to take that expectant grin out of my face and eat a hot cup of dick.) You can add anything to a basic bee costume without undermining your essential bee-ness; you can tack on any modifier (dead bee, french maid bee, astronaut bee, dog bee, bleeding from head/neck/ass bee) and nodoby will look at you funny. Also, if somebody else comes to the party as a bee, that rocks! If ten bees came it would rock even harder. If the world was bees, it might be the best halloween ever. Thursday, October 24, 2002
New computer, shiny new eMac, to replace dull and crusty old iMac. Month old now, just up and running, jazzy and snazzy and clean. Software for music, and everything else I could ever want. Fun. Happy. Make things, nice things. Last night burning CD, nothing drastic. Click click click. Wait. Something wrong. What the? Reboot like I do thousand times. This time get ugly question mark instead of reassuring "happy Mac" icon. Put in CDs. Things all bad. "Hard disk unreadable. Do you want to initialize?" Oh ha ha. No, thank you, no, because unreadable hard disk contains everything I've done for the past ten years or so. With exception of the content of this blog, which is on some server somewhere. Some server with a backup, probably. Backup like I don't have, because I'm stupid asshole. Please read hard drive. Please? No. Broken thing with question mark is all.
Not sleep so good. Take new computer, shiny new eMac, to recovery place. Will they handle baby with care? Assuredly. Maybe cost $900 to save pathetic collection of bits that represent "life's work," if lucky. My digital house burned down. All left is to see what got melted, and what only got singed. This feeling is not good. Also not fair. I had many things to show you -- I was biding my time. I should have showed you then. Wednesday, October 23, 2002
Dear Reader: Why do I even bother? Yesterday I wrote something beautiful, and all I got in response was a bitchy plea for the return of my so-called partner Pussy Willow, who is even more absent than your deadbeat dad. IF SHE HASN'T POSTED IN THIS LONG, CAN'T YOU TAKE A HINT? She may never post again; she'd rather watch that damn OK Go video in slo-mo until the couch collapses under the weight of her accumulated waste. You're like a sad, dumped boyfriend who keeps calling his ex "just to say hi" only to find that she's out on like the fifth date in two weeks after she told him that she just needed to "be alone." Get get get get get over it.
Philistines! Have you been drinking mercury again, or are you so naturally dull that only a constant stream of zombie, feces, and fellatio references will satisfy you? When I caress this keyboard, truth and beauty flow from my heart to my fingertips. From there, the truth and beauty race along a bunch of wires, through internet nodes or whatever, and eventually get sprayed by an electron gun onto a phosphor-coated screen on your desk. (Or, if you're one of the many blind people who "read" my site, your dog barks at you and pees on your cuffs.) Truth and beauty. Do you appreciate the panoply of miracles that enables this transaction? Motherfucker? No, you do not. Metaphorically speaking, every time you read my site it's as if I saw off the top of your head, eat the rotten and stupid parts of your brain, and fill up the spaces with something far more useful, like pencil shavings or geodes. But you feel no gratitude, so now you are banned. If you cannot appreciate beauty, you have no right to sully my words with your dirty eyes. As a parting gesture to those of you who eat thermometers, here's a witty retort you can use, without attribution, at your keg parties: "suck the shit-smeared dick of the zombie hobo who just ass-raped your mom, fucktard." Wa ha ha. How frightfully funny. Are you happy? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? Tuesday, October 22, 2002
Dearest _____,
My new pants are awfully sexy, and as long as I wear them, my life bristles with possibility. Their cuffs break on my Adidas like they were hemmed by God, and I've always looked nice in brown. My hair is dirty, my legs are long; my voice is deep and I sing like an angel. Strap a guitar on my back and I could wander through the Williamsburgs of America, bringing unironic tears to the eyes of all the scenester chixx, a panorama of glistening malnourished eyebags shining out from under assymetrical hairdos -- I can already feel the humidity rising in the particulate air of a thousand shitty barrooms. Is that not my duty? Don't I owe this much to the world? Perhaps, my dove, but I'd rather spend a year in a Nebraska motel with no one but you, sitting in lawn chairs in the parking lot and singing our songs to the Big Sky. Our booth at the local Denny's would conform to our softening asses after a few short weeks, I know it, and the waitresses would call us "Hon." After we smash the TV we can use its shell to hold beers. What do people do all day when there is nothing to do? We can find the answer, one day at a time, holding each other close and doing our laundry in the tub. We don't owe the world a thing until the world comes to collect. Talent, unlike kindergarten, comes with no requirement to share -- they cannot legislate largesse. If I wrote every song for you, gyroscopes would still spin and fire would still burn. Just give me permission, and give it with a kiss. Our cities are hollowing us out, and soon we will be nothing but bitter chocolate bunnies. I'm filthy, tired, and sad, and I'm happier than I ever deserved to be. Bring the car around, darling, and let's take a powder to a place where our accents are funny. The eyes of my hipster congregation must remain dry, o my love, because I cannot bring myself to preach. Monday, October 21, 2002
New York readers have probably heard the self-fulfilling urban myth that the front car of the F train is for hipster "singles." Ugh, the word gives me spasmic shudders. I ride in the front car of the F train because I use the north exit of the 42nd street station -- NOT BECAUSE I'M LONELY! Just back off, ok? I'm tired, my back hurts, and my eyelashes are not completely de-crusted yet. Just let me read my awesome book and finish the agonizing swim toward consciousness.
YES I KNOW I LOOK GOOD. Yes, the book I am reading proves I am a super smarty-pants, I'm glad you noticed, and no, I wasn't holding it up high so you could read the title, that's just how I hold books sometimes. Shut up. Yes, I know my new pants are nice, all brown and tight and all. The attention is very flattering, boys and girls. I know -- because PW told me -- that if you squint, I look like Jack White without red pants. Well, quit it! Keep squinting 'til I look like Jack Black. And then keep squinting 'til blood pours from your eyes, because I've never seen that. Then your pants will be red. Quit trying to hold meaningful eye contact with me, you pathetic loons! IT'S THE SUBWAY. Can't you just tilt your head back and read the cheap lawyer ads like a normal person? Or tilt your head forward and snooze in tilting, drooly fits? Quit staring at my crotch. Quit sending sex looks over the lid of your coffee cup, because I don't think coffee and sex belong together. Get your hand out of my pocket, get your hands off of my ass! Kindly remove your lips from my engorged penis before something happens that everyone on this train will regret! Am I gonna have to start smearing feces on myself to repulse people? Or something really drastic, like wearing pleated pants? Enough, enough, enough. You are not gonna meet the love of your life on the subway. Or maybe you will, but I sure as hell won't. STOP THIS FREAKING MEATWAGON AND LET ME OFF. Friday, October 18, 2002
The weird thing about credit cards is that after you use them to buy things, the credit card companies actually expect you to pay them back. It's also weird how usually the things you buy with a credit card are things you'd NEVER pay for with cash because it would feel too real -- things you wouldn't want to admit to yourself that you wanted. You know, like porn or lobster dinners; airline tickets; a top hat, walking sticks, spats; novelty items like edible cars, or strap-on cars or, I dunno, exploding chocolate cars. Stupid shit. You would never buy that with cash. You'd be like: shit, man, I'm really spending this here green-ass cash on this here crap; damn, fuck! Instead, with the credit card, it's like: slap, swipe, sign! That's not money -- it's just a complicated homeboy handshake.
But so anyway it turns out the credit card people want the money back, even though you spent it on embarrassing shit. Then they want more money on top of that! That's weak. But the good news is that you don't have to send them cash. You can send them a check, which is also not really money. Checks are like a small, decorative Mad Libs, except they're not funny unless you write "poop" in the memo. Heh. Which reminds me of this time I won a hundred bucks off this guy in a poker game, and he was miffed about having to write me a check for it, so in the memo he wrote "for fucking a dead deer," so that when I handed it to the bank teller she'd look at me all "oh mah gah this dude fucked a deer." But of course nobody cared about the illegible drunken scrawl on my check -- they just handed me a stack of ACTUAL REAL CASH, which I used to buy a stack of ACTUAL REAL GUNS, because my gun dealer won't take plastic. And when the zombies came, we were ready, blasting off the tops of their heads as they crested the hill between here and the cemetary. Thursday, October 17, 2002
I watched Insomnia last night right before going to bed, which obviously is a STUPID thing to do. I suffer from nasty insomnia already, and there's nothing like a tense thriller about a totally sleepless Pacino in a nightless Alaska backwater to flip my "don't sleep ever" switch. (My grammar is going to deteriorate here because I'm operating on 5 hours of sleep (which seems to be enough for some hobo-blowers I know (I'm talking about Pussy Willow here (she doesn't sleep much (and she sucks the cocks of transients)))).)
Folks, I'm tired. I am sooo glad that our sun rises and sets on a sensible schedule, because I need dark to sleep and light to rise -- I'm like the opposite of a vampire in that regard. A West Wing character made some crack about the high suicide rate in Scandinavia, and I guess that has something to do with the sun, too. Or the drinking all the time. Or the fish-fucking. (An aside here: a couple of lines ago I typed "suicide rape" by mistake. That's a weird idea, suicide rape. I can't really decide how it would work. But can you imagine if that catches on as a new terrorist crime? It sounds really awful. Don't tell anyone about it; it's gross.) ANYway if I want to sleep well, there are simple rules I should follow: I should not watch movies about insomnia before bedtime. I should not drink coffee after 8pm. I should not drink so much tequila that I get a hangover before I even fall asleep. I should not eat after midnight, unless I'm eating sleeping pills. I should stop rubbing crystal methamphetamine on my eyeballs, because: a) it keeps me up, and b) it burns like crazy. Thursday, October 10, 2002
I don't want to go to the bathroom anymore; I'm done with it. And when I say "go to the bathroom," I really mean "piss and shit." Or as PW would say, "urinate and make a boom-boom." (She might say that, but she'd never write it here, because apparently her fucking fingers are broken from all the hobo-fisting she does as an adjunct to her main business of hobo-blowing.)
So I'm done with the whole waste elimination thing, because it is gross as hell. I don't have a problem with GOING to the actual bathROOM -- it's a nice room, and it's where I keep my toothbrush and cotton balls. Which now that I think about it is kinda gross, too. There's probably vaporized piss and shit all over my cotton balls. Or as PW would say, "urine and poo-poo on my cloudy-puffs," because she has the brain of a five-year-old and sucks hobo cock for money to buy the paint stripper she huffs all day. She calls it "Mama's huff'n sauce," and smiles her toothless smile as she absent-mindedly pulls clumps of hair from her head. ANYway. It'll be easy to stop going to the bathroom, because I'm not all that big on eating, either. Sure, I get excited about a fancy meal dripping with fats and juices and salts and sugars and leeks and whatever, but it's a trick, see? Your body gets drooly at the sight of a porterhouse because it wants nutrients, but if the nutrients were taken care of, you wouldn't look twice at a candy bar unless it were sticking out of someone's ass. In that case, you'd look cuz you'd be like "why does that dude have a candy bar in his ass?" The answer to the nutrient problem, as always, comes from 50's sci-fi movies: food pills. Compress everything I need into a little ball and I'm good to go. Man, when I think of the time I've wasted! Thinking of what to eat, getting food, eating food, cleaning up after eating food, vomiting up food, washing dishes because I couldn't pay for food, picking diamonds out of my shit. . . no more! That's time I can spend writing music, watching samurai movies in slo-mo, or ransacking hobo's bindles as they're being pleasured by my dearest roommate and co-blogger, Pussy Willow. Or better yet, just hook me up to one of those magical hospital drip bags that comatose people have. Damn those lazy lucky coma fucks, they've got it made, right? Give me some coma dude's bag and hook something else up at the other end to collect whatever minimal waste my body creates. Or, I don't know, hollow out my calf and let it fill up with shit, and I'll empty it once a week. Then you can sew up my asshole and LET ME GET SOME GODDAMN WORK DONE. Wednesday, October 09, 2002
One of my coworkers brought in some organic donuts today. I'm not really sure what "organic" means in this instance -- maybe the eggs were laid by hippie chickens, ew -- but I do know that it's a fucking donut, and that attaching any tag to "donut" that implies "healthy" is like attaching the word "heterosexual" to Richard Simmons. Maybe they're not making any claims about the healthfulness of the donut, just the unbleached nature of the flour. But who cares? What the fuck does it matter where the ingredients came from for your SUGAR-COATED FRIED DOUGH? Like, wow, Sally, look: the peanuts in this Snickers bar are cruelty-free! These lard cakes are made from free-range pigs! GIVE ME AN ENTIRE BOX OF THEM AND ALSO A PADDLE TO SHOVE THEM DOWN MY GULLET. GLARGLE!
If you are going to be a healthy, eat-right-and-excercise-and-sleep-well-and-don't-smoke-and-therefore-don't-get-winded-on-a-flight-of-stairs kinda asshole, that's your choice, wigga, just don't bring that shit all up in my face. Life is so awesome for you, yay! Shut up and go suck a shotgun. BUT if you have decided to be a lard-drinking beach ball, don't be coy about it. It's the American way, Bluto. Nobody's fooled when you cap your double-cheesebuger and fries order with a diet soda. What the hell is the point of a fat-free brownie? What the hell is the point of you? I'm going to chop you into cubes and shoot you into space so Earth can have a lovely set of rings just like Saturn's, except made of meat. Tuesday, October 08, 2002
Goddamn. I haven't been depressed in a long time. So long, in fact, that I kinda forgot how bad it feels. Yesterday I was having a cigarette break and it came suddenly, as if somebody had dumped a bucket of fuck on my head. It ruined that cigarette, and made me want to throw away the book I was reading. It ruined my lunch and my email. It ruined the elevator ride with the pretty girl. It ruined everything else.
Who turned out the lights? I suppose the drop in temperature could be blamed, if I really need a scapegoat. Or was it the untimely demise of the Yankees? The stultifying repetition of my job? The fact that I haven't DONE ANYTHING SINCE FOREVER AGO? Ah, but I know better than to try to find the source of a sudden depression. As every girl knows, your body's chemicals are vicious, swift, and traitorous. I'm just glad this doesn't happen to me every month. I think about the people for whom depression is an everyday nightmare, as omnipresent as an extra limb. The gloom I felt yesterday is toylike in comparison -- DepressionLite v0.5 -- and it's already receded. How the hell do they bear it? There is no fairness, no justice, no logic. Moments of joy are fleeting and unfamiliar. Sleep is the only respite. Co-workers too dumb to have bad thoughts tell you to cheer up. Depressed people of the world, my hat is off to you. You are crazy brave. May your pills be potent, your doctors sympathetic, and your friends as supportive as bridge abutments. Friday, October 04, 2002
TEST QUESTION: Alice likes Bob. Alice calls Bob on his cell and they have a mellow chat. Bob's at work but casually suggests they hang out when he gets off. Alice is like "yeah, that's cool. I'll talk to you then." Bob's like "cool." Alice hangs up, screams like the winner of a radio call-in contest. Calls Cindy, Denise, Erica, Flo, Greta, and Helena. They are all very supportive and excited and they all help dissect the conversation to determine his intentions, desires, and feelings on child-rearing. Time passes. Alice rifles through a million outfits, touches her hair more than Howard Cosell in a hurricane. Time passes. Bob doesn't call. Time passes. It's past the time he got off work.
1. What should Alice do? a) Call Cindy to discuss possible causes for the delay. b) Call Denise to find out why Bob hates her. c) Call Erica and put a face cancer hex on Bob. d) Call Bob and make a fucking plan already. The answer should be stabbingly obvious. But in case you're a certain kind of girl, the answer is d. Call the fucker. Do you want to hang out, or do you want to sit at home cooking up paranoid theories? PW insists that there are rules that govern boy/girl interactions; that certain things simply CANNOT be done. She looks at me like I'm bleeding from my ears if I suggest otherwise. I think she and her friends are idiots to let imaginary rules consistently hamper their enjoyment of life. No, yes, fuck it, this whole thing is crazy. Who are these girls? How did I end up knowing people who live like this? Do I just think rules are stupid because I'm a boy? What are the rules? What sadistic matron taught them to my friends? Quit panicking! Have a shot of booze! Eat a bowl of dick! Wednesday, October 02, 2002
I am sick of hearing about this guy in the Gap ad. Every girl I know is dampening her jammies over this prancing idiot just because he looks like their perfect indie-rock dream. But it's a swindle, see? He's no more indie-rock than Avril Lavigne is punk.
In case you haven't seen it, I'll describe it for you: Standard Gap white background. "Funky" music. Guy who needs just the right amount of shave wearing tight jeans and some other disheveled Gap gear. He dances like the flamingest Broadway chorus liner you've ever seen, pulling a ridiculous windmilling arms move and a strange exaggerated stepping thing that makes him look like John Cleese in the Ministry of Silly Walks sketch. But oh, there are intermittent close-ups of his earnest, stubbly face. He's got dirty hair and the barest trace of smirk. His eyes say "I won't break your heart, babe. Let's get sloshed and fuck." Sighs from all women present. Yes, it's bizarre. Every girl who sees the ad thinks he's talking to them when it's painfully clear that he's talking to ME, or at least somebody with the same type of genitals as me. But whatever, gayness aside, THE POINT IS they think he's hot. They say it: "He's HOT." "Ah mah gah totally." "Yummy." And when I cover the floor with hot vomit, PW rewinds the TiVo to show me the few still frames where he is undeniably hot. "See?!?! LOOK AT HIM." I am looking at him, you horny bitches. And what I see is a guy whose moves are so hopelessly WRONG that if you saw him dancing at a bar, show, or party, you would actually point your fingers and mock him with the utmost severity. You cannot rewind and pause real life, sweeties. You cannot separate his pretty face and beat-up sneakers from his road-company-of-Cats dance stylings. Sniff his hands -- they smell a little jazzy, don't they? Yes they do. Aren't you ashamed? Can you see the error of your ways? Don't just nod at me like I'm an idiot. YOU HAVE TO ACTUALLY STOP THINKING HE'S HOT. STOP NOW. NOW. AAARGH. Tuesday, October 01, 2002
I got a lot of email this past week about the zombie article over at The Onion. One person actually asked me if I wrote it. But no, friends, the sad truth is that after years on the vanguard of hypertext-based humor, The Onion has resorted to biting my style. Shamelessly, blatantly, violently, crypt-robbingly biting, gnawing, gobbling my style. Or at least my subject matter, because a glance at that last sentence will show you just how unjournalistic my "style" is. BUT WHATEVER.
They wrote an article about zombies. Am I mad? No. I don't own the concept of zombies. Writing about zombies is public service at its most noble -- I wish more people wrote about goddamn flesh-eaters. Why isn't everyone warning us? Why aren't you warning me? The question is not whether I'm too worried about zombies -- it's whether you're worried enough. The Onion is doing its part, even if they are a bunch of fat, slobby fucking biters. |
OTHER REVIEWS: John from Cincinnati Menomena LATEST BOOK REVIEWS: The Game Moneyball One-Upsmanship Siddhartha You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) Now available! The Broomfield Variations CD ($10) 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" |