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 
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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Friday, March 28, 2003
Girls need to cut their hair short, because they always look better. Now that shaggy 70s hair is back in style for men, women should take their cue from Rosemary's Baby-era Mia Farrow. Those of you who grew up in the 80s must remember seeing pictures of your fathers with ridiculous 70s Warren Beatty manes. Remember how you were like "oh my god Dad you were like the biggest dork ever and I am embarrassed to be related to you," and then you threw a Rubik's Cube at his head? Remember how he cried as the blood rolled down and was diverted off forehead by his eyebrows, and it made like these four semiparallel liquid lines down his face? No, wait, Daddy didn't cry until Mommy fucked the milkman, I remember now. But my point is this: styles may come and go, but I will always look awesome. No! Fuck, that's not my point.
Girls grow their hair long because they think that boys dig it. It's voluntary self-oppression that women perform because they think it will make boys like them, just like wearing thongs, shaving pubes, wearing makeup, or wiping their asses. This is all unconscious, of course. You freaks come up with all sorts of reasons why you love washing your stupid hair for hours and having to brush or comb or dry it. You are pathetic, and the boys you attract and eventually marry will be as hollow as they ought to be for falling for a hairdo. CUT YOUR HAIR. And while you're up, would you fix me a steak, honeyboo? No! That was a trick! I'll fix my own damn steak. Because you always overcook it, woman. GO MAKE ME SOME BABIES! Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Choosing a persona for public performance is a difficult but vital task. Soon, they will make me play my music in some kind of venue bigger than a living room, but I can't afford to hire an image consultant. Thanks to you, I know the mustache is out. But I'm thinking about growing a soul patch, because I just drew one on with a Sharpie and it looks really... striking. Like I'm striking you in the face with my lower lip. Ok, that's no good. I shouldn't do anything that calls attention to my shovel-like lower jaw.
Yesterday I was working on a sexy way to stand on stage, and after three hours and twenty jars of applesauce (don't ask), I came up with a stance that made me kind of like like a matador with a guitar, only gayer. If you can imagine that. Should I close my eyes when I sing, or gaze earnestly into the lights until bloody tears stream down my earnest face? Should I gibber around like a ninny, all "lost in the music," or stand totally expressionless like a waxwork beefeater? Fuck it. Nothing will ever look right. Why even bother? It's too much work. I'm gonna wear green overalls, put a stalk of hay in my teeth, and spit tobaccy all over you motherfuckers. That's independent as fuck. No major anything would even touch that. Thursday, March 20, 2003
I never made out with anyone in a movie theater. I always thought of that as something charmingly naïve that our parents' generation did, like having sex in a car, or voting. Doesn't it just seem a little weird to completely ignore the film in progress just to attempt some kind of fluid transfer? There's always an armrest in the way, and the creepy dude a row back is watching you a little too intently, egging you on with his crazy eyes, maybe even hooting softly. Pain in the ass. Maybe I just loved movies too much, or maybe it's too expensive now to deliberately go to a bad flick just so you can tongue-scrub your sweetie's uvula in the pale reflected glow of cinematic ca-ca.
Also, I don't know about you, but once I get involved in fooling around, I tend to get heavy pretty fast. I break a lot of elastic waistbands -- it's a problem. There is no really surreptitious way to give a girl head in a movie theater, even if the theater is equipped with the most voluminous stadium rocker seats. It's murder on the knees, and I hate that moment where you look up and the ushers are all pointing their flashlights at you like the lighting crew of Radio City Music Hall tracking the Rockettes across the stage. (My internal stand-up comedian says: "gives a whole new meaning to 'down in the front,' waah-ha ha!!" and then I shoot him.) Don't you people have beds? Don't you know how to make out in a doorway, even? Who are you people? Who am I talking to? Where am I? What time is it? WHERE IS MY MEDICINE?!? Tuesday, March 18, 2003
Spring break is coming, and every year it makes me feel funny. Like many of you, I went to a small liberal arts school with no fraternities, where athletes were as reviled as they usually are revered. So I actually didn't even know about "Spring Break" as it is experienced by tens of thousands of college students every year. I think I head a rumor about some friends of mine going to Panama City, FL in drag and getting into fights with hooting, buzz-cutted thick-neckers. Then I think they tried the same stunt at the Kentucky Derby, where they were almost drawn and quartered by the nag who came in last. But so anyway, I never swam in the teeming sea of hormones and rape. I never shouted for tits, and never showed my balls for beads. I never drank until I puked on a dick I was sucking, only to be slapped aside for the next hobag-in-waiting.
To clarify: I do not feel funny because I missed out; I think it's a minor triumph of my life that I haven't been exposed to the Spring Break lifestyle on any large scale. Dude, I get itchy and mumbly when I see four suburban jocktards on my precious city streets. Grr, like yesterday. These footballer types who were obviously left over from the St. Paddy's parade were all my-dick-is-huge-ing down the street, making a nasty comments to the weirdo outside the Scientology bookstore, quoting South Park ("Timm-ehh"), and generally making my fists clench. I can never leave New York. I hate Middle Americans so much, and everywhere outside of New York is Middle America to me. I HAVE NOTHING NEW OR INTERESTING TO SAY. But if the terrorists irradiated a generation of assholes at the MTV Spring Break beach party, would the country be worse off? I'm just asking. That said, if you send me something cool in the mail, I will send you a picture of my pulsing, pendulous nutsack. Just don't send me beads. What the fuck am I supposed to do with beads? Thursday, March 13, 2003
A month ago I got an email from Lafarge that said "nice day for playing music in the subway, huh?" I was like "um... yeah, I guess. Should I know what the fuck you're talking about?" and he was like "my friend in your neighborhood says he saw you playing in the subway this morning," and I was all "dude that wasn't me. Your friend eats dicks for breakfast and they make him stupid." But then my dad called me and said that a friend of his saw me in the same station a day or two later playing music for the people.
Which means I have a long-lost twin brother. I haven't gone looking for him yet, but now that I know he's out there a lot of things make sense. For instance, at certain parties, people I know I've never met act like we've had hot nasty buttsex. Strange women sidle up, grab my nutsack, and whisper things like "hey hot stuff... let's find a quiet alcove where we can snort these amyls and you can put your johnson in my ronson." And I'm always like, yeah, ok, sure -- but they always act like we've done it before. I think I'd remember that! I have so many questions for my twin! Did he need orthodonture like I did? Was his orthodontist as hairy as mine, or as staggeringly incompetent? Because my jaw looks like a goddamn gardening tool. Does my twin like chocolate or vanilla? Camels, Marlboros, or some kind of gaytarded European brand? Whoa. Wouldn't it be totally weird to beat the fuck out of your twin? I have to try it. But I'm mostly psyched about finding my twin because I think you can make your twin do your chores. Chores like writing this stupid blog every day! Ha ha! Boo-yaa! Wednesday, March 12, 2003
Somebody just assassinated the president of Serbia, which means that they either doesn't know the old saw about the "lessons of history," or they do know it and take it a bit too literally. Also in the news, the universe might be shaped like a donut, which means that scientists are spending too much time watching The Simpsons. In other news, can you imagine what it would be like being married to champion cyclist Lance Armstrong? I think it would be pretty maddening. Can't you just hear it: "ever since my stupendous triumph over nut cancer, I just can't seem to get excited about something as prosaic as paying attention to our children. Let them watch the highlight reels, like I do, every night. Also, I hate Jews. I'm Lance Armstrong and I hate Jews." In other news, if you see only one movie this year, it should be some sort of instructional documentary that teaches you the basics of zombie-killing, because time and again I see people run screaming into the basement (stupid) at first sight of the undead. Um, guy? Try the bell tower. Also in other news, I don't care for the music of short, angry children. Are you listening, MTV? Aren't there any tall musicians out there who can speak to -- and sing of -- tallness? In other news, you can't sue me for that Armstrong thing because it's parody. Also newsworthy (and unlibelous) are reports of Donald Rumsfeld's fondness for his daily bath in a tub of chopped-up retard babies.
Tuesday, March 11, 2003
It is almost impossible to find shoes that are comfortable on me. I have wide, flat feet, size 13 in the shade. Most shoes I buy feel great in the store, but after a day of being punished by my mutant physiognomy, they turn into canvas and leather torture devices. The hallway of my apartment is lined with a sad gallery of failed footwear in every style, brand, and permutation (except sandals or clogs -- I refuse to let pain turn me into a hippie).
But a few months ago I found some. Stylish, handsome sneakers by Diesel in brown and beige. Wide enough to support my teetering frame, soft enough to coddle my tender soles, cool enough that people would remark on them. Evidence of a divine power. Awesome. So what does one do with a pair of shoes like that? Well, I don't know what you would do with shoes like that. But I LEFT THEM ON THE FUCKING SUBWAY. This morning. In a plastic bag. Unmarked, unnoticed, shoved under a seat, sad, huge, and slightly musty. What. The. Fuck. I hate myself so much right now. I called the store where I got them -- no dice. I went on the web and searched frantically for a replacement pair. Look, I know the goddamn model number. Somebody must have these shoes! Hello, shoe store? WHY DON'T YOU SELL SHOES? Yes, yes, I see all those "shoes" on your shelves, but I want THE ONLY SHOES THAT HAVE EVER BEEN COMFORTABLE FOR ME, EVER. You had them 2 months ago. Get them. Get them again. Please, by the hair of Christ's balls, get me my shoes. [whimper] Thursday, March 06, 2003
Did I tell you about the summer camp that scarred me for life and made me into the hunchbacked faggot weakling genius I am today? If I did, you probably fell asleep, because it's a stupid three-hanky weeper about how I was reviled for being smart in an isolated enclave of azure-eyed upstate protonazis. Yes, there were wedgies. Yes, there was name-calling. Yes, they tried to burn some of my books. Damn, I hate boys! Is it any wonder? Gah! Why did I go to that all-male island of fucktardation? For three years? Obviously, I was an idiot.
Parents need to get rid of their kids for the summer because it resets the love clock. After a full year of school, the nuturing instinct violently morphs into the kill-my-brats-now-with-claw-end-of-hammer-and-pour-Tabasco-on-their-corpses-just-for-fun instinct. It takes a couple of months of separation to make families realize how bizarrely codependent they are. But can you think of a worse place to send impressionable children than a summer camp? Under the orders of my 17-year old counselors, I leapt into a river from a 55-foot railroad trestle, hitting the water with such force that my slackly open jaw slammed shut, chipping a tooth. When I tried to perfect the jumping technique, a train appeared, rumbling towards us with the inexorable finality of a locomotive. Because it was a locomotive, dammnit, speeding towards a bunch of teenagers! We all deserved to die! What happened? THAT KIND OF SHIT HAPPENED ALL THE TIME. Parents are irresponsible suckmonkeys. Tuesday, March 04, 2003
Although it is true that I see germs coating every public surface like Day-Glo smears of death, I am actually not very squeamish at all. I will clean the bathroom with vigor, splashing bleach around like a hooker Febrezeing her bedclothes. I approach a puddle of vomit like a forensic archeologist, attempting to discern the cause of the upchucking -- was it shellfish, plastic bottle vodka, or just post-na-na-la-la terrorist jitters? Your blood doesn't scare me, girl, so don't try to postpone our night of special loving because it's that time. Seriously! Who would knowingly reduce their chances of getting some play by 15-25%? Only self-defeating OCD victims who grew up thinking that Lysol smells like "clean." Remember when we were young, and we put our hands in our mouths after touching EVERYTHING? That was the life, man, and those people who make JellyBellys are pretty savvy, tapping into that "I still love to ingest a rainbow of pathogens" market.
Let your lives get funky. Get crusty and troll the bars for freaks. When the stacks of mung in your house reach biblical proportions, give me a ring; for a small fee I will restore your abode to antiseptic shine. |
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" |