AmericanCaesar Salad

The Bilge Show begins...

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 18:04:00 -0400

Citizens, I heed you to watch the first two episodes of The Bilge Show, featuring me and the wife-bot cracking ribald jokes at the expense of popular culture luminaries. Joins the fun and zip off an e-mail to thebilgeshow@gmail.com with any and all thoughts, so long as they're complimentary.

I look like a housecat

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 21:20:00 -0400

Really, it's true. I had to go back to real life today after nine day at the Long Island barrier beach of Fire Island, and I disabused the razor while away. It's an experiment, because I have the follicular growth of an 11-year-old. I always hope that my face will look like Burt Reynolds's chest given a few days to accumulate growth, but the reality hews closer to this:

Usually, I banish the scanty growth before I hit the mainland again out of fear that I'll be given a can of Fancy Feast by passers-by.

Back in the bad old days, when I was a fat fatty-pants fat-faced fatty-fat, I used to maintain a Van Dyke because of the obvious fat-guy deceitful employment of facial hair to draw a chin line where there is actually none in real life.

Barring that illusion, what advantage is there to having teh growth? I generally don't think that guys look a whole lot gooder with it than without it, and what I decree is rarely adhered to by John F. Public (see my screed on footwear). I guess the question is only how long I'll keep up this pathetic fallacy.

Am I more masculine? Or do I look like Doogie Howser's friend Vinnie Delpino?

I'm not sure, but the haziness is killing me. Well then, off the fucker goes tomorrow, and I go back to looking like this guy:

Can anyone lend a a sopping sponge of much-needed testosterone?

Election results

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 20:28:00 -0400

Welcome to tonight's news broadcast... I'm Steve Rolston. And now, getting right into our top story: Have the American people made a horrible mistake in electing President Elasmobranch the Unyielding? At least, that's what a lot of people in the area are asking tonight after the new chief executive's inauguration was marred by the tragic death of, well, everyone who attended, at the hands of Elasmobranch himself.

We now go to the live on the scene to our correspondent Luthor Edmiston, who brings us more. Luthor, are you there?

I'm here Steve. It was a scene of carnage in Washington, D.C., today as, mere moments after he stepped up the dais to take the oath of office, President Elasmobranch the Unyielding liquified the crowd with plasma rays emitted from his eyes, followed by a release of some sort of airborne toxin from his palms that infected all the remaining onlookers with a fast-acting putrefaction agent.

The crowd was caught by surprise as Elasmobranch the Unyielding unleashed his terrifying salvo of death, leaving few survivors to tell the tale. I'm seconds away from decaying myself, Steve, so I'm going to throw it back to you before I disintegrate on camera.

That was Luthor Edmiston reporting live, from the capital. Now, people from coast to coast are wondering if there was something that could have been done to prevent this terrible tragedy. We spoke to some protestors today in midtown to hear what they had to say:

We warned you all for months! You didn't listen to us! Elasmobranch said nothing on the campaign trail but "KILL ALL THE HUMANS!" He never elaborated his position on gun control, abortion, foreign policy, the economy... nothing! He just repeated "KILL ALL THE HUMANS!" over and over again!

Elasmobranch consumed human skulls on each campaign stop! You people could have saw the signs! All you cared about was whether or not you could have a beer with him! This monster will kill us all! Run for the hills!

Officials from the "Elasmobranch 2008" campaign have released a statement: "We deeply regret the minor error that occurred today on the steps of the Capitol, and will endeavor to make it up to American public. Watch your mailboxes for a tax rebate soon."

We'll have more for you as this story continues to unfold. But coming up, Nick Drye the Weather Guy will have your five-day "Mediocre-Tron 3000" weather forecast, and Paul will have the latest news from the "boys of summer" at the ballpark, so stay tuned right after these lawn furniture commercials.

Knock-knock

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 22:46:00 -0400

Oh, hey -- It's me! The wolf at your door! I'm having quite a time leaving clumps of fur out here on your mat. Boy howdy, I'll tell ya, there's just so much business going on these days that it's going to take the better part of the afternoon just to get this block down.

I guess your wondering why I'm out here, right? Well, I just finished noisily devouring that neighbor's kid, Jeffy. You know the little bastard -- douschebag used to throw whiffle balls at your car's door panels. Well, don't worry, he won't be throwing anything anymore. *burp* That letter-carrier coming down the block looks awfully tasty, too. Sure, mailman "Rob-Bob" has been dropping off parcels here for seven years, but you know that fucker is only going to bearing a foreclosure notice on this bullshit lean-to you call a house.

I think you're starting to get the picture -- I'm the lupine harbinger of madness, kiddo. You want high gas prices? I got 'em. You want war without end? I can has it. I haven't had this much fun in a long while -- a few hundred thousand folks laid off at GM and Ford the last few years was nothing. I was waiting for the time to be right. I want your house, your kid, your car, your genetically-engineered soybeans, the whole fucking shebang.

Aww, I'm sorry -- were you predatorily lent to? You do realize that a moron night manager at a Wendy's has no business getting any scratch up to own a house, right? After I pick the wishbone out of my fangs when I messily devour you and your family, I'm going to have fun starting a bonfire in here with your shitty album collection. Watch the value of this place finally soar -- as a weenie roast!

No one's exempt, friend -- I just paid a visit to that scarf-wearing panty-waist Aussie tennis instructor from American Idol a few weeks ago. Remember him? Neither do I! I guess he's having a rough spring too... being excreted in a warm coil on your front lawn! Hoo-hah!

I got a full schedule, paying visits to the American voter, the American primary candidates, errant governors, errant secretaries of state, errant attorneys-general, errant quarterbacks, errant actors, errant poets, Lionel Richie... it's gone from famine to feast so massively, I'm thinking I'll have to outsource some of this crazed carnage to Bangalore.

Hello... is it me you're looking for? *CHOMP!* Probably not! The more you people all sit there watching watching Olympic handspringing from Beijing, where my good Red friends take the truncheon to misbehaving journos, the easier it is for me to get my fill. What's that, you say? So long as the horror of systemic misfortune is happening to someone else, you'll have no problem moving to Phoenix and driving a Chevy Tahoe down the driveway to take out your garbage? I think not, jackass. Like the guy from TV says, I always get my man.

Hey, who ordered the umpteenth doughy white-guy comedy this week? I have bootleg copies of all this unwatchable, unimaginative shit in my hip pocket. Yeah, just come closer... closer... it's only 10 dollars, DVD quality... closer... no, these incisors are just for opening beer bottles, you dumb bastard. I am looking forward to a long, hot summer with millions of my closest meals, er, pals -- I suggest you stop the kicking and resisting and let canis lupus do his work. There are no bonus points for putting up a fight.

I have a lot of houses to attend to before this is all over with. This might take a while -- grab a poorly-written book and wait up for me.

Coming to you live!

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 22:28:00 -0400

Hello everybody, I'm Pat O'Brien, and I'm coming to you live from underneath one thousand tons of steaming, twisted metaphor! We got some great stuff for you today, including the story of a high-profile politico that ends in the only manner we're comfortable with -- sexual disgrace knocking him off one of the highest perches in the land! But first, I wanna fucking go crazy with you. You are so fucking hot, and I wanna eat you, and I want you to suck my cock...

So, we continue with the story of one Eliot Spitzer, former governor of New York state, laid low by getting laid, low-down, with a high priced "call girl". We, in the biz, use the term "call girl" -- which doesn't mean a thing -- because we don't like to employ the terms "hooker" or "prostitute". That connotes something sleazy instead of sexy and aspirational. You might find a prostitute murdered in a dumpster in Paramus, but only a "call girl" can knock family man and crusading pol Eliot Spitzer down a few notches -- one for each notch on his bedpost. But, I digress, because I want to get another woman up, and hire a hooker. Let's get crazy, get some coke. I wanna fucking go crazy with you...

So, continuing our lead story, Eliot Spitzer hands in his resignation, prostrating himself in front of the body politic -- and what a body she has, eh, Nancy O'Dell? Where's Nancy? My co-host, Nancy -- where is she? I guess we'll get back to her in a moment. The little lady mixed up in the middle of this political morass is a lovely lass named Ashley Alexandra Dupre, but you would know her better as "Kristen," the $4,000 tempest in a honey-pot. In fact, we've got a fleet of airhead correspondents lying in wait outside of her apartment in Manhattan, all trying to get the first live glimpse of this woman who seduced and slew a political Goliath with nothing more than a crude sling fashioned out of her thong underwear, figuratively speaking. Also, I want you badly, I know you want me... I am so fucking into you. You have to pay attention to Betsy, but let's have fun.

We in the media love to fill our distended bellies with the delightful succor of sexual puritanism, especially when there's an obviously confused young girl at the center of this maelstrom who's stumbled into a life of prostitution because, I'm sure, things were going so well for her beforehand. I think I speak for everyone in this august business of unqualified public commentary when I say where a man sticks his head-of-state has tremendous bearing on his ability to do his day job. You are so hot, I wanna eat you! I'm going to the bathroom. Leave me a voicemail -- look at me and say "yes."

Apparently, we've moved our location to a 10,000 gallon lagoon of fecal hog waste, so I guess that's our cue to sign off today's broadcast and give you a hint as to what's coming up tomorrow -- we've got more, more, more, more, more gubernatorial hijinks on the way, including an exclusive one-on-one interview with the drug store owner who sold "Kristen" tampons in the days and weeks leading up the infamous hotel encounter, just about as close a brush with the vagina that took down the former luminary as the American people can get in a single half-hour newscast/cooking show/economic report/vacuum commercial. Now, stay tuned for "How I Met According to Jim," followed by the woman who scoops up and reads the little lottery balls. I dont know what's wrong with me... I don't do this, but I just want to make you fucking crazy... let's just fucking have sex and fun and drugs, and go crazy.

Blockbuster project

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Mon, 3 Mar 2008 22:53:00 -0500

As it turns out, I grew up in a Mormon compound in Sausalito, California. But wait, it gets better -- I was abducted by a sterile woman in a shopping mall in Reseda and raised under the name of "Sponge Bob" from the ages of 9-13. Sounds crazy, right?

Well, get a load of this -- after I was repatriated to my real family, I ran away from home to Tucson, then Galveston, then Laredo, and finally St. Louis, all the while buying and selling drugs. Also, I managed to act as a coyote, smuggling and snuggling hundreds if not thousands of Mexican immigrants from Juarez, Mexico, into America. Afterwards, I finally managed to get some peace and quiet in Gainesville, Florida. But that didn't last very long.

I was forced into sexual slavery by an Croat pimp named Darkan, and survived the diciest 16 months of my life as I was forced to sell my ass on the street and in flophouses (like the one pictured above) to conventioneers and Shriners in the greater Orlando metro area.

After stabbing Darkan in the neck with a sharpened Twizzler, I escaped with only the mesh ball-cap on my head and a tube of Chapstick to Montclair, New Jersey, where a new chapter of my life began. You see, I had to recover from a debilitating addiction to cough drops, rum punch, ScotchGard, SueBee Bit O'Honeys, Crunchberries, Murphy's Oil Soap, Magic Shell, black Kiwi shoe polish, and yogurt. I found my spirit nurtured by the soothing practice of teaching humility to bears (as portrayed on canvas above in tempura and lamb feces) by my fellow commune-sister Moonbeam Daffodil Blatzstein.

But searing tragedy struck again, when I was on sabbatical in New York City just 15 months later and was accosted by the last known man on earth wearing an 8-ball leather jacket. I was forced into an all-Jamaican breakdancing posse, backspinning my way through most of the 1990s in a blur of parks, sidewalks and buffet breakfasts. If it wasn't for the incredible kindness of Pope John Paul Gandhi, I might never have escaped with my soul -- or Adidas shell-toes -- intact.

After I bid farewell to Adnan Kashoggi Gandhi, or whatever his name was, I opened a small bed-and-breakfast in a Polynesian lava flow -- and believe it or not, it was shut down by the Board of Health, not by any lack of patrons. Go figure.

Well, life these days is a lot more boring now than it used to be, for sure -- I have a very quiet life with my wife, three cats, and a job in a UFO factory working for supervisor Michelle Pfeiffer. I tell you what, though -- my checkered past will affect a lot of people's lives if I tell then about it! I mean, it worked for Margaret Jones, James Frey, Clifford Irving, Anna Anderson, and that woman they based the film "Julia" on. I could do a lot of good in the world. I mean, it's the idea of my life that will win people over, if not the actual detail-ish, accurate-ish recounting of events, right?

Astronaut Clown

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 21:52:00 -0500

Between the inky depths of deep space and the outermost bounds of human achievement, you'll find Astronaut Clown!

Astronaut Clown has been working relentlessly for the past seven months, training in the underwater tank and spinning in the endurance centrifuge to build his body up to withstand the rigors of the final unexplored frontier -- transatmospheric travel!

Astronaut Clown has double masters degrees from Harvard in engineering and botany -- plus equivalency accreditation from Tampa Bay Clown College -- all towards his paramount goal of being the first clown in space. He wakes up each morning and applies his creepy greasepaint mask and rainbow wig before eating a high-protein gruel (designed to bolster his physical might and immune system), and then strikes off to the gymnasium for two hours of intensive cardiovascular and strength training. His day rounds out in the sophisticated aeronautical laboratory, wherein he prepares the raw materials for his zero-gravity experiments!

Astronaut Clown: I'm almost ready -- no, the world is almost ready! Once I prove my hypothesis on the sustained velocity of disk-shaped objects in the vacuum of space, I'll publish my findings in the "Journal Nature" and be revered by my peers! Scientists have argued since the dawn of the Space Race that you could not accurately throw a banana cream pie in space, but I'll prove them all wrong. All my findings were for naught until that fateful night I cracked the Euclidean Graham Cracker Crust Ratio and perfected the ultimate throwing pie!

Astronaut Clown: As the Romans would say, ecce dessert! All that's left is to perfect the seltzer-bottle based propulsion method, and I will have revolutionized the very nature of space travel, throwing all conventional wisdom to the wind! Wernher Von Braun... NASA... the Soviets -- all infants crawling around in the blocks of innovation that I, alone, handily stack to create unparalleled achievement. Just the work of the past three months alone is enough to rewrite the most advanced texts on the matter!

Astronaut Clown: Repurposing all this old Russian seltzer technology has vaulted my plans ahead by at least six months -- I'm far ahead of the Japanese and Chinese, and the Americans can't possibly catch up now. Everything I do, I do for the good of mankind -- my discoveries will make me a hero in eyes of little boys and girls everywhere, who'll want nothing more than to follow in my oversized red footsteps and become harlequin-scientist-pioneers themselves!

Oscar®-nominated actor David Strathairn: Um, Astronaut Clown, I know you're busy, but can I disturb you for a moment?

Astronaut Clown: Why, it's Oscar®-nominated actor David Strathairn! You ooze credibility!

O®NADS: It's true, I do.

Astronaut Clown: Of course I have the time for you! What's up?

O®NADS: I notice what you've been doing, and I wanted to take the time to tell you that the world doesn't give one single fuck about any of it.

Astronaut Clown: What?

O®NADS: You've been locked up in this building for so long, the world has passed you by. You could wrap all this bullshit up in an eggroll and ride it in the Breeders' Cup, and no one would care.

Astronaut Clown: You're hurting my feelings! This isn't just a sad clown face, it's real!

O®NADS: Open your eyes, you goofy bastard! That actor guy died of sleeping pills or some shit last week, and that fucking mattered!

Astronaut Clown: La-la-la-la-la-la... I can't hear you...

O®NADS: And what about that loopy broad who sings all those shitty songs? She's losing it too!

Astronaut Clown: I... I see the truth of it now -- my entire existence is meaningless. I've been rendered moot.

O®NADS: It's time to throw this shit away and grow up.

Astronaut Clown: I better turn on the TV, I've got a lot of catching up to do. Thanks, David Strathairn, for setting me straight.

O®NADS: You also might want to "The Bourne Supremacy" on your Netflix, too, while you're at it. And, "Good Night, and Good Luck."

Astronaut Clown: Oooh, look! Pictures of cats with poorly-phrased, grammatically-incorrect captions written over top in blocky fonts! I think love this new world, slavishly and without question!

Dulcet tones

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 21:37:00 -0500

In honor of "Rambo", opening this weekend...

The Return... of Dr. Oetker!

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 00:15:00 -0500

Since me and the shmwife and I are preparing for a big move, we're going through the annals, cleaning up ten metric tonnes of shit. In going through the cupboards, I come across a long lost prize -- Dr. Oetker's Puding, a birthday treat from Erik Seims and Kyria Abrahams two years ago. Dr. Oetker's mirakle muz aromali püding has sat in our cabinet ever since, untouched by human or rodent hands... until tonight!

I boiled the water, added the powder, and chilled the yellowy goo, all in hopes of writing a reasonable review of this wonderful gift. Now, after sampling a teaspoon-sized portion of said püding, I have to say it tastes yellowy, and strongly of bananas. Picture what it would be like if tapioca püding tasted like obnoxious bananas -- and there you have the pride of Dr. Oetker's dark pantry.

I, for one, cannot wait to sample the official Dr. Oetker-brand türkey-flavored butterscotch earwig püding. Mmmm! Sign me up for seconds! Is that a note of tarnished nickels I detect?

Imagine, if you will...

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 13 Jan 2008 16:50:00 -0500

You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the sign post up ahead, your next stop... The Twilight Zone!

Imagine, if you will, a feathered creature blessed not only with webbed feet and a bill, but also a pair of twin preposterous protuberances -- human ears -- sprouting from each side of said creature's head. If you ever happen meet such a duck, be careful what you say, because you might just be tossing handfuls of white bread at fowl floating on a pond located directly in the town square of... the Twilight Zone.

Two women talking at lunch:

Katie: So I just don't know if he likes me! I mean, we were out for four hours, and we had a great conversation, and he even kissed my neck at one point, but he NEVER. MADE. EYE. CONTACT. Not once.

Daphne: That's your exit strategy right there. No eye contact means he's either evasive, bored... or ten minutes away from guest-starring on "To Catch a Predator."

Katie: I KNOW! Really, I do, but he's just so cute. I mean, he told me all about this long relationship he had back in the late ’90s and all, and he, like, actually WEPT once! A single tear! I mean, I almost... almost melted. It was SOOO charming.

Daphne: Now you're just being a damn fool. 'Mr. Weepycharms' must have Asperger's or something, because there's no way someone sane and living on planet Notfuckingcrazy does NOT manage to accidentally once look you in the pupils.

Katie: Right, my brain is telling me that, but he was dressed so well! And he chose the wine, like, a Mouton-Rothschild or something. He is so perfect! I wish he made eye contact!

Daphne: You're not seriously thinking of giving him another chance? I see it -- that look you have! You're going to give him another go, aren't you?

Katie: Have you EVER in your LIFE had a man know exactly where to kiss you on that spot on your neck?

Daphne: Sure, and they do more than follow it up with a handshake. What part of NO EYE CONTACT isn't getting through?

Katie: It's too tempting to not try again.

*QUACK!*

Katie and Daphne: [In unison] LISTENING DUCK!

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: Boy, what an incredible coincidence, Listening Duck! We were just talking about something very important.

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Daphne: Listening Duck, she wants to give some guy she went on a date with a second chance after he wasn't able to look her in the eyes, once, the whole time. Please tell her she's crazy.

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: But Listening Duck, it's not like that -- hear me out! He was such a gentleman, like, the old-fashioned kind. I really respond to that. It wasn't a pick-up game or anything! He just...

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Daphne: See? He sides with me.

Katie: That's not what he said!

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: See? He agrees with me.

Daphne: You think he's speaking duck-Spanish? He said I'm right.

Katie: That's such bullshit. You know, you're a bitch.

Daphne: Ek... scuse...me?

Katie: You're fucking bitter because you haven't gotten laid in, like, five months.

Daphne: This is where you want to devolve to? You fucking flaky little nimrod? Who listens to your tired-ass phone whimpering after some guy doesn't call your flat ass back after you sleep with him on the first date? Who always picks up...

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Katie: You know, fuck you, and fuck Listening Duck!

Daphne: Fuck me? Well, how do you like fucking this? [pulls out a gun from her purse and fires at Katie, knocking her over in her seat]

Katie: *Gurgle*... *murgle*... *bluhhhh*... [expires]

Daphne: Oh my god, Katie! What have I done! [kills self with one gunshot to the head]

Listening Duck: QUACK!

Audible Turtles: Yeah, quack, quack quack. No ever gives a fuck about what the turtles have to say -- that fucking duck is all anyone cares about! I hear he's deaf anyway! Oh the irony!

The cruel irony of the situation is that the duck was, in fact, deaf. The ears were nothing more than vestigial appendages, thus giving new life to that old axiom, 'Do not try to intrigue a Listening Duck in matters where one is better off not being.' That's not something you'll find in any waterfowl field manual or terrapin conventional wisdom, so always lunch carefully when you find yourself pondside in... the Twilight Zone!

BREAKING...

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Thu, 6 Dec 2007 22:07:00 -0500

Breaking news: ABDUCTION

The assailant left only this one clue:

And a note that he'd be back in a little over a week with the remains of the titular commentator of this space. More as we get it in to the newsroom.

The newest shit around

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Wed, 5 Dec 2007 16:20:00 -0500

I've always loved "We Are the World":

God Hates the World - Watch more free videos

Happy Holidays, care of the Fred Phelps Westboro Baptist Church. Christ, I never knew that white people had it so tough.

What the Writers' Strike hath wrought...

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 21:24:00 -0500

What do you get when you mix a semi-famous coquette cashing in on vast oceans of "China Doll" fetishization in American males plus the lurid, one-sided appeal of two girls kissing for the benefit of men? Well, when you toss said tart in a house filled with lust-crazed fratboys, fame-seeking camera whores, and unstable borderline personalities, you get the new MTV fall sensation:

VOICE-OVER: Let's meet our host, the cynically-named Jinger Jackancoke -- but you're probably already Facebooked to her by now, right? She has over 100 friends on Facebook, making her the obvious choice to anchor a ruinal prime-time series!

JINGER JACKANCOKE: Hi guys! It's me, Jinger! I, like, love love, and I like, love connections, and I'm here to totally make a love connection, because I like you, but I don't love you! Stop frontin', homes! No playa hating!

VO: Huh?

JJ: I've [Ed. note: A team of barely-literate producers whose uncles got them this job] filled this beautiful house in Reseda with the most beautiful people we could find to make a love match! Do you think I'll make a love-connection-match-thingie-whatsits? I hope so! Uh-what-what?! I'm so lonely! I starve for the even the most minimal human affection -- I was confined by my strict parents to a childhood under an upside-down laundry basket until the age of 12, so I'm making up for years of lost socialization in one single reality show binge! What could be hotter, yo?!

VO: Mandatory vaccinations, gout inspection, rubella innoculation, and hepatitis/HIV screenings for all housemates, cast, and crew of this program, that's what!

JJ: Did I mention that I'm BISEXUAL?! No? Well, I am! BISEXUAL! That means I have vaginal and oral intercourse with BOTH genders! BISEXUAL, in case you didn't hear me the first time? I like the men... and the LADIES! WOOT! I kiss ladies on TV! You hear that, mom and dad! So, let's meet my HOTT new house-guests, and see if the sparks fly! I'm very depressed! I need help!

VO: Meet our lucky guests:

Jared Pickleboinger, 22, Oil Executive

JP: My name is Jared, I'm 22, and I'm from New Jersey! I have feelings and shit. I love Dashboard Confessional. I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to get gonorrhea!

Brenda Jae "B.J." Wiggles, 25, Staples Clerk

RB: My last three relationships have all ended in restraining orders and me changing identities and crossing state lines, soi I figured, what the hell?

Skip Dickstein, 25, Self-employed

SD: WOOOOO! FUCKING RIGHT YEAH! SUCK IT! WOOOOO!

Jodie Foster, 45, Actress

JF: There must be some kind of mistake here... my sexuality is a private issue. It has no bearing on my work, and it is of no business to the public.

Peter Braunstein, 43, Fireman Rapist

PB: Me and you could be best friends, Jinger, because I know a lot about fashion, and you love fashion, and I love women, and I love their feet, and I love to look at women all day long because they're so beautiful, and then I start a little -- just a little -- flame outside your door and our games can begin, you know, just a little fun, when I take an offset knife to your ankles, and oh, those lovely feet, lovely, lovely feet, and my rag is so full -- so full -- of lovely chloroform...

Tor Johnson, Actor

TJ: PUH-PUH-PUH-PUM-PER-NICKLE!!!!

VO: Which of these sexy lovers will strike gold and win our negligibly-famous strumpet's heart, that is, if she even has one? Stay tuned for more!

JJ: Jodie Foster? Ewww... I fucking quit!

Bumming around in Jeff Bridges country

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 23:13:00 -0500

Oh, hello there! I didn't see you come in. You're probably wondering what I'm doing here in duo-chrome, digitized and rendered into bits and bytes on the Master Control Program's famed "Game Grid." Well, I'm kind of here to prove a point. First of all, it was only a matter of time before the discussion in this space turned to "Tron," Disney's 1982 colossal failure of a movie that died on the vine. I, for one, am having a great time hanging out here with Bruce Boxleitner and the gang. In fact, here he comes...

Whassa happenin' over in your area of the grid, home-skillet?

*WHOOSH!*

He fucking fronted on me -- fucking Boxleitner just fronted. That guy hasn't worked since, what? "Babylon 5"? Didn't Melissa Gilbert divorce his ass a few months back anyway? Prick didn't even slow down his lightcycle to wave. No goddamn manners on the Game Grid anymore.

Well, I might as well saddle up and take a spin around here as I natter.

Ah, that's more like it. I love the sound this thing makes... WHIRR! WHIRR! WHURRMP! WHEEEE-WURRR! It's totally shmawesome. Getting back on point, there's a purpose behind things like ol' "Tron" here, and that's to illustrate all the things that are good in life. We have families that love us, comfortable existences, a lot of fun on a daily basis, and no Recognizers dispatched by Sark, sent to de-rez us. That's gotta count for something.

Did someone mention my name?

Hey, it's TV and film's David Warner! You all know him -- he's starred in like, a million movies you've seen but never paid attention to. And barely any of them any good.

I put most of my effort into theatre these days. More nuanced roles.

Yeah, yeah, but what about wearing that boss-ass helmet and going shithouse on Jeff Bridges? That mist have been a real fucking thrill. Even the Coen Brothers in "Lebowski" couldn't manage to do what you did to Jeff in this one!

To be honest I haven't paid attention. I do enjoy their work, but... I can't answer your question for sure.

Dude, I want to hear about Tron! Tron-Tron-Tron! I loved this movie since I saw it when I was eight years old, and...

Is that what this is about? Nostalgia? Are you same kind of fellow who accosts Willem Dafoe on the street and goes on about Spider-Man or something?

No... that's... ridiculous. I just... there's...

My career is larger than this one sci-fi lark I did in Los Angeles in 1982. What are you doing in that damned stupid helmet? Don't you have any humility?

I have plenty of pride! I'm not ashamed of being a hobbyist-slash-enthusiast, or whatever the fuck you'd call somebody who relives his past over and over again, every day, like some kind of adolescent power fantasy!

So, I'm to understand that you've plucked one happy memory and based an entire belief system about it?

I don't have to respond to that line of questioning.

Hey, look over there! It's Ricardo Montalban at a comic book convention! Why don't you quiz him on line-readings with Bill Shatner?

I'm starting to not like your tone, Sark. Before you make me look in the mirror and face my problems again, I'm gonna jet out of here on this solar-sailer simulation.

Well, all the fun's been drained out of this little bit of escapism. A little unironic joy has been bleached clean by some duotone jagoff. It was only a matter of minutes before he unearthed "G.I. Joe", or something like that. It's like, I have a little corner of the world that I try to carve out as a safe-area for my inner child, but everyone has to go and wipe their shoes on it.

Well, I guess that's it. Nothing left to say. Reporting live from the Game Grid, it's me, silently soaking my pillow with tears as I drain a bottle of Hiram Walker brandy. Just let me know if/when you're done diminutizing me, David Warner. I'll be the broken man over here, with the electric-blue bodystocking throwing a digital frisbee at Cindy Morgan. Back to you in the newsroom.

Gift ideas for dad

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sat, 24 Nov 2007 17:39:00 -0500

Just in time for the holidays, our special filet mignon medallions will be the perfect compliment on your Christmas meal table! We use only the most premium cuts of the finest beef from the farthest corners of the planet Earth, areas unreachable by human travelers, unspoilt by the cumbersome footprint of modern progress, to bring you what is assuredly the most excellent sample of bovine muscle tissue that science and assayed telemetry as we know it can possibly produce, to within human tolerances.

We slice the steaks extra thick using proton-fed boronoscope surgical grade lasers (software version 2.1, accurate to within 11 angstroms) to deliver only the meatiest portions to your house. Thereafter, it's flash-frozen for freshness using a series of high-pressure injection nozzles firing 38.5 PSI of compressed liquid nitrogen, ensuring peak levels of locked-in flavor. Then, we store the meat in Aegyptian-cotton liners soaked through with a porous molecular wax, creating an impermeable, hydrophobic surface that's effective up to 3 atmospheres of pressure. That unit is individually wrapped in a grid of naturally-occurring bamboo shoots and high-grade tensile teflon, ensuring pristine oxygen levels and a minimum of atomic gaseous contamination. That parcel is then placed in a Buckminster Fuller-esque geodesic dome fashioned out of a pure, nonreactive americium and praesiodymium, elements honed specifically for the purpose of transporting your order with maximum freshness.

That platonic solid is then wrapped in a theoretical cross-matrix of hope and fury, all but enabling the package to flourish in an environment of unfettered joy whilst maintaining a grim line of power and righteous anger about the fate of fallen Phoenician kings, and the flesh that shall ne'er again flood their old bones with feeling and purpose.

This quasi-real substance is delivered overnight to your home, or at least what approximates your living space in a semiotic sense, perhaps never quite reaching the dinner table in a paradoxical irony suitable for Zeno himself. It is only at this juncture where the thinker is forced to consider the base nature of consumption -- are you partaking of the flesh, or is the flesh partaking of you? The membrane between synthesis and metamorphosis has never been quite as porous as it seems now, and surely nothing you've ever considered as belief-grounding up to this point can offer any concrete certainty.

Order today -- only $68.95 for two pieces, or $111.95 for four! Supplies are sure to dwindle, so act now!

Le Christmas Bonus

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 22:57:00 -0500

Ho ho ho! It's the most wonderful time of the year, a marshmallow world in the winter, over the woods and through the river and all that bullshit. Sounds to me like it's also time for a little check-up in the the corporate health of America!

[*applause*]

Thank you, stage directions. Well, as we know, the dollar is sinking faster than tourist cruises in the Antarctic and the economy is as stable as Nick Nolte pushing a three-wheeled shopping cart through the Mall of America as it slides into a massive sinkhole on double-coupon day. What does that mean for yon intrepid workers of the U.S. economy?

[*additional applause*]

No, not yet, stage directions. I need to line up something resembling a punchline first.

[*exeunt*]

No, don't be like that! I swear, if you wait a minute, it'll be the perfect opportunity. Just bear with me.

[*enter, stage right*]

Thank you. So, where was I? Right then -- our own corporate setup here in New York City. Well, after having been under the tight thumbscrews of a mismanaging syndicate of venture-capitalist-hedge-fund-Ivan-Boesky-alikes for the past three years, my company recently changed hands to... another set of faceless white capitalist portfolio managers who all look like B.J. Novak's character from "The Office."

[*crowd ahhhs*]

Yeah, it's a great show, and my topical reference was well-chosen, too. Everybody wins. Now, with said transaction having taken place only a month-and-a-half ago, there's still no inky pawprint of what the new regime will be like as of yet... but, our first sign is in place already:

Who doesn't love a tin of holiday-themed confections? And who doesn't love a job well done? Put them both together, and you get a delicious triumvirate of flavored popping corn, courtesy of our new "friends" at Arlington Capital.

Surely, you're worth caramel, cheesy, and buttery flavored popcorn, right? When you care to send the very best (except raises), as they say...

[*audience hisses*]

Now, now, stage directions... be nice. To be fair, this single tin of popcorn is already more than our previous ownership actually ever gave us in the entire three year span of their ownership -- along with canceling the tradition of Christmas parties and profit sharing, coupled with the one-time 3% raise they gave us to cover cost-of-living increases... ah, I can go on and on. What may seem like an afterthought from Harry and David here in the ol' workplace is, in fact, what we might call a good start. My co-workers and I are like the battered wife who begins to grow warmly fond of mental cruelty and neglect. You kind of wonder how you ever did without it.

So, what do you say, stage directions? You think the economy is going to hell on a tramp-steamer based on what you're seeing go down in the kitchen at work?

[*lights flash on and off again, as if to signify a storm*]

What kind off bullshit answer is that? It's always so fucking oblique with you.

[*a sandbag drops from the rafters, missing the narrator by mere inches*]

Fuck Me? Fuck you! I'm tired of dealing with your dousch-ey exclamations -- never making any sense! I've carried your fucking ass for far too long. You want to take easy shots at? Is that right? Why don't you get the fuck out and see how ling you last. Get out. Get the fuck out.

[*exeunt*]

And stay out. Always with a head of steam on. Always fucking grousing. Sick of it.

. . .

So lonely. So cold. So lonely. I'm sorry, I was speaking from a place of anger, and I get spiteful. I'm so sorry, stage directions! Please don't go! I'm so alone! So alone! I can't stand it -- it feels like the sun has been blotted out! I can't take it when you're angry at me! Oh god... ohgod ohgod ohgod ohgod... my chest is getting tight. I can do this... calm down... I can get through this. Stage directions will come back. Stage directions know how much I need them. Please please please please come back... please come back. I'll make it up. So lonely... so alone. So cold.

Arithmetic, or a self-conversation

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 23:10:00 -0500

Stepping into the men's room in a Greenwich Village restaurant, Saturday night...

OK, let's see... is anyone else in here? No? Great! I can't stand using the pisser if there's anyone else in the head. They make these goddamn things so snug that it makes me feel like I'm fucking Larry Craig if I just want to get to the hand dryer. What are my options here? One urinal, and two stalls -- one regular, one handicapped.

I've watched too much "Curb Your Enthusiasm" to even try the bigger one out... there's no comedy left in that transaction. Too bad, because I really appreciate the extra room in the handicapped stall. Makes it easier for me to flush with the toe of my shoe, so I don't have to touch a goddamn thing in this haven of horror.

I swear, rubbing your open eye on a baggage cart handle at the airport in Kinshasa, Zaire, is safer than fucking with a toilet lever in Manhattan. I'd rather eat a moist butterscotch that's been picked up off the floor of Grand Central with a damp bar rag from a Times Square Sbarros than actually place finger on metal in the head, even at the Waldorf Astoria.

All I have to do now is slide into the stall here, without touching anything -- and I mean ANYTHING -- except some T.P. to wipe with. Yes, there is a need to wipe on a No. 1 call. What the fuck are you going to do about the drip? You can squeeze every last bit out, but that fucker still has its last little dangling, ammoniac droplet wavering at the tip, with all that fucking surface tension... or cohesion... or whatever the fuck Mr. Remkus told us it was back in the 8th grade.

Nudges the door with the tip of the shoe, and it swings open.

Good news so far. There's not a fucking Katrina of human waste flooding the stall. I loathe the bastard who treats the head like his own personal SuperDome, wee-ing all over the seat and floor. Or worse, someone leaves that ugly fecal-gravy behind in their tracks, like some kind of fucked-up episode of "CSI: Bunghole" -- but the less said about that contingency, the better. I don't want to have to think about breaking the Presidential Seal on those protocols this evening.

I'm almost in place for the...

Suddenly, the back of the left calf brushes against the tile wall near the stall door as clearance is made for the door swinging closed.

What? FUCK! Motherfuck! Now what the fuck to I do? Abort mission? Bail? Can't now, I've had, like, three glasses of that Italian champagne... what do they call it? Progresso? Fucking "Prosecco" -- that's it! Italian bastards fucked me up with their diuretic beverage. Goddamn Don Ho with those tiny cocksucking bubbles.

Who built this stall? Those fucking lanky aliens from the end of "Close Encounters"? You literally have to be two-dimensional to fit into here in the first place, much less without touching any surface. Does fucking Frank Lloyd Wrong really think I want roll around on the cold tile, making contact with four walls, every time I go to use the pisser? Luke had more room in the trash compactor on the Death Star, for chrissakes.

I'm committed to the bit, I have to do this, but what about the pants? I just put these jeans on yesterday. They have one-and-a-half wears in them this washing cycle, and I'm loathe to drop them back in the hamper before their time. But what choice do I have? I'm forced to make all this fucking arithmetic up on the fly in my head within this Fuller-esque geodesic bacterial nightmare the restaurateur calls a quote-unquote "men's room," goddamn it!

Starts the business.

OK, calm down. There's only one option, and it's clear as day -- let's finish this thing off and walk out of here, cool like cucumber cats, acting like nothing happened, letting on to exactly ZERO weakness or disadvantage over this situation. Although I'd like to see Sun-fucking-Tzu try to turn this anthrax scare into good news. The edict from up on high is to isolate the contaminated pantleg from the rest of the operation and ostracize it vis-a-vis all contact from here on out. No leg crossing, no calf scratching, none of that bullshit.

Exits stall, washes hands.

Strict attention must be paid to the location of the area. Can't let the jacket dip down while I'm slipping the one sleeve on, allowing the other sleeve to brush the left leg. I watch those stupid bastards on the train who put on/take off their winter coats by allowing them to drag on the floor of the car. The fuck is wrong with those people? Why not just dip a ladle in a Dark Ages water well that they've been drowning plague-infected rats in?

This is going to require as much discipline as I can muster for the next few hours, but I have to get this right -- everything is counting on it.

Checks shirt tuck, leaves the bathroom, and never patronizes a public restroom ever again.

Lies, lies, lies, yeah

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Wed, 7 Nov 2007 22:20:00 -0500

Black Man, White Lies, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

I've haven't lived long enough to find fruit in this statement, but what I think is more interesting is that a Pinkberry is close to opening up on the corner of 6th and 14th, just down the road from Stately Scurve Manor.

Why don't we disabuse all our notions of color, and instead fixate on what flavors of frogurt we'll want to sup on?

I Love New York

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Wed, 7 Nov 2007 22:02:00 -0500

We now join "I Love New York, Season 2," already in progress...

NEW YORK: I see y'all, looking fine up there... it just makes my decision even harder. You see I have a box of chains down here, but I only have enough for seven of you. That means I have to say goodbye to one of you tonight.

NEW YORK: I'm gonna just skip right ahead to the hard part, because I made a real connection today on our dates with all y'all. And at this late in the game, each cut is harder than the one before it.

NEW YORK: There was one thing that happened today, that made me think hard on one of you in particular. Real hard. I think you know who I'm already talking about. Can you come down here, CMF?

BILL SCURRY: Sure, Tiffany. Er, can you tell me again why my name is "CMF" again? I kind of forgot...

NEW YORK: That's what the fans on the website wanted to call you.

BILL SCURRY: Yeah, but what does it mean, I guess, is the more salient question?

MIDGET MAC: It means "Cracker Mother Fucker," son. What're you, dense? Midget Mac told you that like, six times.

NEW YORK: Now, CMF, you know that I have a soft spot for you, right? I really got the chance to bond with you on our date at the In 'n' Out Burger. But there were some things that did not add when I went back to my room afterwards.

BILL SCURRY: Oh, sweet Christ. Here it comes...

NEW YORK: Well, I was first put off by the way you kept stealing my fries. Then, you asked me -- four times, I think -- where my mother bought her weave from. Then, you kept asking me if I liked "pumpkin ravioli," for some damn reason. You... just... kept... asking... me. I don't know what happened to you when you were a kid, but apparently, this is a big issue for you.

BILL SCURRY: We can work past that, Tiffany New York. New Tiffany... Tiffanork. New Tiffany, I mean. We have respect and trust, right? A true relationship is based on trust and respect -- those're the building blocks, right there!

NEW YORK: Yeeeaaahhhh... but, if only that was the end of it. You started an entire conversation about "Star Trek"... actually, you talked for 40 minutes about the guy who played that Russian guy, and how his son in real life played Kirk Cameron's best friend on "Growing Pains." You didn't even notice when I went out for a cigarette break. Twice.

BILL SCURRY: I thought it would be interesting to talk about... a lot of people don't know much about the actors who played the bridge cast on original "Trek."

NEW YORK: Okay, but I don't give a shit. That's that part you don't get. Buuuuuut -- that wasn't the worst of it.

BILL SCURRY: You liked it when I paid for the meal, right?

NEW YORK: Listen to me. Are you looking at me? You talked about your FUCKING WIFE the ENTIRE RIDE HOME!

BILL SCURRY: I knew that was bad. Gaahhh... oh, I knew that was bad. So stupid. Tho thtupid! I'm tho thtupid!

THE ENTERTAINER: THAT RIGHT THERE! STOP THAT SHIT! Enough goddamn voices! You think they're so damn funny -- they're just FUCKING DUMB! We're so fucking tired of that retarded shit!

NEW YORK: I have to agree, CMF. The little characters you do are wearing me thin.

BILL SCURRY: New York, baby! You've gotta gimme a chance! I can save this! Always remember what George Santayana said: "A man is morally free when, in full possession of his living humanity, he judges the world, and judges other men, with uncompromising sincerity." I am that man! I stand in front of you, in front of all these men, laying myself bare so that you can see the very contour of my soul. I offer myself to you without compromise, without a mote of impurity in my ability to live and to act, a fully-functioning vessel of potential in this all-too-short lifespan we enjoy. If you would like to soar with me, high above the plains of awareness, with nothing but our dreams as propulsion, take my hand and choose a future with me. As Jupiter decreed to the Romans upon their fabrication of that great city of antiquity, Rome, His ego nec metas rerum nec tempora pono imperium sine fine dedi, or, quite literally, "For the affairs of these I set neither cycles nor periods, I grant them empire without limit."

SISTER PATTERSON: . . . .

BILL SCURRY: What if we go to Carl's Jr. next time?

NEW YORK: You have to go. Now. We're running out of tape. Do you still have love for New York?

BILL SCURRY: Mmpphh... boobs...

BUDDHA: That's a good man right there... damn... *sniff*... a good man. We're all poorer for losing him from this house.

IT: Fleeble gurble, mingle bingy donut. Pipe cake humma humma Germans jit-jit-jit.

NEW YORK: I know. I miss him already, too.

Giver

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 28 Oct 2007 21:02:00 -0400

I'm a giver. I love to give. I love when people take what I give.

I was in a rarified position today to give to a friend in tough position, and they accepted heartily. It's not money, or things, that I'm talking about -- it's love. The emotions. The real thing.

My friend is going through a tough spot, and me 'n the ’Balm were there because they asked for help. That's all it takes to get me to give. It's easy. Really easy.

I am a born extender -- that is to say, I really do try to cater to people, because I either have a natural empathy for other people or I'm a massive codependent. I suspect it's it's a bit o' both. Whichever it is, there's nothing quite like the feeling of offering love and hugs to someone in pain. And if I go out of my way to offer this service to, say, 10 people, all I need is one, maybe one-and-a-half to reciprocate to complete the feedback loop. That's a good rate of return, peoplefolks.

Don't ask me for money. I don't have any. Don't ask me for favors. I get bored and easily resentful.

DO ask me for help and love, and DO be appreciative when I effuse the stuff.

This sounds like a threat as I read it back in my head, but it's really just a helpful guideline.

What you want to see

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 22:58:00 -0400

What kind of film do you want to see made? I haven't seen a ghost story worth a damn in a while. "Poltergeist" was the last one that scared the shit out of me. I thought some of the recent J-horror would tickle my fancy, but "The Ring" was a confusing mishmash of styles. Same for that crop of haunted house flicks from the late ’90s: "The Haunting" and "The House on Haunted Hill" were warmed-over nice-tries. It seems like they lost the touch when it comes to making the real thing.

"Poltergeist" was made in 1982, a Tobe Hooper/ILM effort. It was fantastic -- Stephen Spielberg was the exec producer, and he knew that Hooper would kick a ghost story in the balls. MGM got a lot right.

Going earlier than that, I have to cite the oeuvre of Dario Argento -- he united the gothic horror sensibility with the slasher film and gave us "Profundo Rosso," "Suspiria," and many other diamonds. The gothic part is what he did so well, but not necessarily plot. And there didn't have to be a supernatural force at work, what with enough twisted-ass sinister people on the job.

Go back further, twenty years or so, and we get the Hammer films and their ilk, a true renaissance of gothic horror. Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, and Vincent Price were three of the standard bearers of the time, starring in adaptations of Poe and Lovecraft, or rolling out new creations in a similar vein. I love "Haunted Palace." I love "The Abominable Dr. Phibes" (so much so I wrote about it a few months back).

There needs to be more, again. This is a filmic artform that has been neglected, only because people have forgotten how to make flicks like these. I am not detracting the current idiomatic oeuvres of James Wan and Eli Roth, but a spooky-as-shit ghost thriller is a fine use of 1 hour and 40 minutes time.

Hell, my favorite Disney World ride is "The Haunted Mansion," simply because they got the sensibility so goddamn right.

I've always been looking for inspiration, things that help the little wrinkly imagination-gnome inside of my pancreas do his jumpy, runny little thing. I should always write more; I watch an obscene amount of TV and movies, as well as consume hectares of mags, newspapers, and comic books, all raw materials for creative synthesis. And this mode is the kind of thing I want to see. This is what I should do -- make it for myself. I want to rediscover Vincent Price and rediscover gothic horror, circa 1960.

Want to see what I'm talking about? Watch this -- it's filking amazing:

So much longing, so much romance, so much deliberation. Gorgeous.

[Art by Daniel Horne, used without permission.]

Greatest show on Earth

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 21 Oct 2007 20:18:00 -0400

So... there's this:

Me and teh shmoop had the extreme privilege of spending a week in the most beautiful place on Earth, the Virgin Islands. In particular, we stayed on the gloriously uninhabited St. John (below, right).

Out in the middle of nowhere, especially in the off-season, this is the perfect place to keep from killing all the neighbors (or Estonians, if there are no neighbors handy). We flew into the big island of St. Thomas (left) and disembarked from a cross-channel ferry in the harbor town of Red Hook.

The boat chugged off on a 15 minute ride to St. John, accessible only by boat -- no airports, and shit, barely any roads, either.

This is Janice riding high in life on the top deck, moments after the crew brought us some rum. The people to our right, from New Jersey, were already nattering about unimportant bullshit, apparently impervious to the natural wonder around us.

The resort is built on an entire fucking peninsula, which is to say the grounds were huge. Rolling hills, palm trees, mangroves, all sorts of greenery -- the fragrance was amazing. The Caribbean is an entirely different world. You know, some people say you have to see Hawaii. Fuck Hawaii -- there's the Virgin Islands. Talk to me about the Great Barrier Reef if you want me to fly for 18 hours...

Here's our daily walk to breakfast, like a morning stroll through goddamned paradise, 90º by 8 a.m. and drenched in hot, hot sun. Butterflies kept buzzing us, like something out of Garcia Marquez.

We don't go to relax, however -- we go to snorkel. We swam miles each day, practically mapping the seafloor of all its coral, fish, and crustaceans. This shot is a place called Leinster Bay, a remote beach inaccessible by car, so you have to drive off-road for a quarter of a mile on a washed out road and hike into the jungle for another mile-and-a-half just to get to the beach.

Here's Janice, preparing our snorkels on the hood of that neat lil' Jeep Wrangler. This bay, like all the others, revealed an orgy of tropical sea life, from parrotfish, hawksbill turtles, southern stingrays, sergeant-majors, triggerfish, barracuda, and tarpon. (Sorry, no underwater camera to document evidence of those claims).

This little unassuming cut is a place off Grass Cay called "Squidville," the first place Janice and I ever scuba dived. The only way for us to suck up any more grandeur of the USVI's beauty was to go under, and we gave it a shot with incredible results. We have to get certified, immediately if not sooner.

We always stopped to smell the musk of the cooling sea grape trees that grow seaside, sheltering the sugary beaches from the hottest part of the day. A hammock was in order for that chill-out.

Each day at 4 p.m., they threw an afternoon tea where you could eat scones and slurp Earl Grey as non-native mongooses (mongeese?) skitter around your ankles trying to steal crumbs of the sweet treats.

The last sunset -- so beautiful, so sad, that you'd weep into your Cruzan rum thinking about flying back to New Jersey the next day.

Totally relaxed and mellowed, here are two loving marrieds glum at leaving but feeling that we throttled every last bit of life we could squeeze out of the Caribbean... this month. Watch for breaking news in this space about how I'm quitting the publishing biz and compelling the wife to wait tables in a scallop shack in Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas. Those'll be some good times, begging for PayPal donations to keep my snorkeling-while-rummed-up addiction afloat.

Buh-buh-buh-buh...

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Thu, 4 Oct 2007 00:11:00 -0400

Hello there folks... it's your uncle Bing! Welcome to the Gates of Hell. Bub-buh-buh, ho-ho-ho. That's right, Hell, step right up. Ho-ho-hum, buh-buh-buhb.

I'll take your tickets right here, and enjoy the sulphurous lakes and searing, white-hot barbs of penitence. Buh-buh-buh.

Ho-ho, ho-ho, prepare for centuries of suffering, buh-bub. Thanks for coming!

Homosexual agenda

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 01:02:00 -0400

Taste a cum, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

Seen on the Long Island Rail Road earlier today: From my vantage point, this sign was an advertisement to "TASTE A CUM." Is this a subliminal message from the semen flavoring industry (henceforth known as "Big Load") to get us to buy some of their fine novelty products? More importantly, I hardly think it's acceptable to go around advertising to children (who are the future, in case anyone missed the song) that they should get a good shot of reproductive jam on their tongues just to give ejaculate a chance in the old "sexual preference" department?

For the record, it was TERRIBLE. I can recommend it to no one, and don't make the same mistake I did today... or, for that matter, last week, when I saw a sign on the N train that said "PUT YOUR FACE IN POO, JACKASS."

Why Swedes have better programming options than we do

hellbind@mac.com (William K. Scurry Jr., founder, proprietor) — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 18:47:00 -0400