KRUM LIFE DOT COM

THE POCAHONTAS HEADBAND THINGY

2011-10-11T22:03:00.001-04:00

Everyday of my existence is a perpetual struggle to ignore the injustices around me.

Though my brow furrows with anguish and my stomach tightens with dread, I know it is sometimes better to leave the battle uncontested.

A jovial classmate brags to me that this weekend he is going rage tits, and I simply smile.

A diminutive Asian woman thrusts herself into the subway car, blocking my exit, and I merely shuffle to an unencumbered outlet.

The guy on the bench press has opted to take a thirty-minute rest before his -2^nd set, so I opt for a cardio day.

BUT THIS SHIT HAS TO GO.

The Pocahontas Headband Thingy. And I thought the Skinny Arm Pic was a terrible trend

I can’t believe I’ve let this accessory affliction persist has long as I have. The Pocahontas Headband Thingy that Jappy girls so unabashedly adorn upon their heads is a cancer that must be excised.

In recent years the PHT has become synonymous with pretentious princesses who have desired to radiate an aura of the earthly hippie; by paying $80.00 for a schmata from Intermix.

Now, it’s no secret that idiots throughout history have paid high prices for apparel inspired by the various subcultures; Wealthy landowners of Egypt often donned the transparent tunic dresses of the working class, suburban wiggers paid high prices for baggy jeans to emulate the prison garb of gangstas.

BUT THIS RETARDWARE SIMPLY TAKES THE CAKE.

DIE DIE AYNU

It’s like the most despised current-day clique has teamed up with the most unproductive social group of the 60’s to haunt my dreams.

YOU WANT TO BE A HIPPIE? MOVE OUT OF MANHATTAN, FIND A NICE CARDBOARD BOX IN HAIGHT-ASHBURY, SWAP THE AVICII FOR SOME JANIS JOPILIN, AND REFRAIN FROM SHOWERING IN ANYTHING BESIDES LSD!

FUCK!

Besides the obvious hypocrisy of the Pocahontas Headband Thingy, you gotta admit, it looks pretty silly. You’re not a princess, or Pocahontas. You’re a victim to shitty style. Makes yo forehead look big.

Now Ladies, if this op-ed seems overly harsh, fear not. I too have been a victim to fashion faux pas. Even I once tried the no-prescription, Urkel glasses look. But the goal is to learn from your mistakes, and try and make the world a better place.

Oh, and we gotta do something about Pancreatic Cancer, too.

THE END.

CITY SIGHTS EPISODE 1: CHINATOWN

2011-09-19T09:53:00.001-04:00

Show schedy

2011-09-07T16:36:00.001-04:00

HEY LONG ISLANDERS

DOIN' STANDUP THIS FRIDAY, SEPT. 9 AT BROKERAGE COMEDY CLUB!!!

DOORS OPEN AT 10:30

IF YOU LIVE AT HOME, ARE IN HIGH SCHOOL, OR YOU'RE MY MOM, COME CHECK ME OUT!!!

2797 Merrick Rd., Bellmore NY 11710

THE SORB

2011-08-29T13:47:00.001-04:00

My apologies for the dearth of posts, loyal Krumlifers.

Speaking of which, I need a better name for my fan base.

I mean, the Insane Clown Posse is worshipped by the Juggalos, Lady Gaga is adored by her legion of Little Monsters, hell, even Avicii has his notorious Gaggle of Neon Bandana-Wearing MDMA-Munching Faggots.

But I digress…

My hesitancy to blog can be attributed to one thing:

Many of you have been there in your lives.

It’s time when you are vulnerable, alone, and it seems like the world is waiting for you to make a move.

As, you might have guessed, I, Evan Krumholz had to shit in a Single Occupancy Restaurant Bathroom.

Single Occupancy Restaurant Bathrooms, henceforth known as SORBs, are a poison, a bane to those with the sole wish to defecate undisturbed.

Their placement is a paradox.

The bathroom, traditionally a sacred sanctuary, becomes bastardized into a revolving door of deceit, where dropping a deuce becomes a frantic exercise in speed and stealth. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, this is not the way of the world!

Ever try to take a shit in a busy restaurant or house party? You become Jack Bauer defusing a bomb. It fuckin’ sucks.

At this point you may say “Krum, what’s the big deal? It’s a bathroom, just drop one and ditch, right? I mean there’s gotta be worse things in the world-like AIDs or that Freshwater Amoeba that Swims Up Your Nose and Eats Your Brain, right?”

WRONG!

The sorrow of the SORB is two-fold, a multi-headed hound of hell that cuts to my core. Allow me to outline the two reasons why I detest the one person restroom:

A) The Outsider

You’ve become acutely aware that the problem at hand is imminent. You have make a doody, and there is no time to return to home base. You enter the SORB, drop your jeans and sit down on the cold porcelain.

Approximately 15 seconds go by until your life becomes one of two movie scenes.

-It’s Jurassic Park, and the door knob slowly begins to turn with a CreeEEeAK. Except it’s not a Velociraptor. It’s far worse.

"How much longer are you gonna be?"

- It’s Schindler’s List and you’re the Little Girl in the Red Dress hiding under the bed until the SS proceed to BANG ON THE DOOR UNTIL YOU COME OUT AT ONCE!

They got me

Whether it’s Dinosaurs or Nazis, the Outsider waiting to use the bathroom will make your experience most unpleasant.

B) The Stigma

Once you’re found out, the embarrassment of notifying the outsider is unbearable.

Your lips quiver and your voice begins to tremble as you are forced to inform them that:

“SOMEONE IS IN HERE”

Someone isn’t in there, just washing their hands for fifteen minutes…

“SOMEONE IS IN HERE….AND HE’S PUSHING OUT A BIG, STEAMY LOAD”

It’s mortifying.

Once you finally exit that bathroom, you become emblazoned with the Scarlet Letter of Shit, and everyone waiting now knows what the holdup was.

I blame society.

A girl will not hesitate to tell you “she has to pee” or something was so funny she nearly “peed her pants”

But I’ve never had a date tell me “I’ll be right back, just gotta shit!”

There’s just something about shitting that is so socially awkward it must be done under a veil of secrecy, and the SORB rips that veil off you, throwing you into the hallway and locking the door. Kind of like my roommate use to do with me and my pants in college.

Whether it’s having to defend the lavatory against impending occupants, or doing the perp walk back to your table for all to see, nothing is a cause of more mental and physical anguish than the Single Occupancy Restaurant Bathroom.

Evan Gets an HIV Test, or "The Twenty-Minute Mindfuck"

2011-08-15T12:54:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I go to the hospital far more than the average ‘healthy person’. I attribute it to this pesky ‘crippling fear of death’ I’ve been dealing with for the last decade.

While I normally rack up unnecessary bills on my UnitedHealthcare Oxford card, last week’s visit was worth it’s weight in T-cells.

It all started when I dropped a bottle of shampoo on my toe whilst showering at my chum Adam’s apartment. Adam has a penchant for luxury, so there was no surprise that a bottle of Kiehl’s Rice and Wheat Volumizing Lather was responsible for the large amount of blood now clouding the water beneath my feet.

After an hour or so of unsuccessful attempts to suture the wound, Adam and I decided it was high time for me to hobble into a cab. Shortly after, I arrived at the St. Luke’s Emergency Room, where I delivered quite possibly the lamest triage evaluation ever:

Nurse: Name?

Me: Evan Krumholz

Nurse: Injury?

Me: umm..Shampoo accident…fell on my toe…cut me deep.

Adam: It was a Kiehl’s to be precise.

Nurse: *BLANK STARE*

I think the only reason for hospitalization gayer than that would have involved a glass tube and several hamsters. Regardless, the events that proceeded transformed my night from an inconvenient excursion to an unbearably mammoth mindfuck.

Nurse: HIV Test?

Me: What?

Nurse: Hospital policy. You want one? It’s free.

I don’t know if it was the blood loss or the mischievous grin creeping across Adam’s face, but for some reason I submitted. Enter the Dragon.

My thoughts were akin to those of the hesitant rollercoaster passenger as the cart creeps up the track before that big drop. As I lay in the hospital bed, I grew deaf to the doctor’s instructions regarding the treatment for my sliced toe. Something about changing the bandage frequently. All I could think about were the impending results of my HIV mouth swab. I had twenty minutes until my fate was sealed.

:19 WHAT THE HAVE I DONE?

To quote Chris Rock, waiting to hear the verdict was like watching “Scrooge and the Ghost of Pussy Past”

“Remember me? Aruba 05? I said condoms and Christmas Break don’t mix? MWA-HA-HA-HA”

I took out my phone and began to run an inventory of every broken prophylactic and drunken Durex deferment (see my Excel sexsheet). I recounted every occurrence of finishing, only to see a condom half-sucked up a girl’s snatch (I know that last one has happened to you, loyal readers. She looks at you, you look at her…then down at the bit of latex dangling from her orifice. Shit’s mystifying, but I digress).

From that point on, every paper-clutching orderly and stone faced-intern that walked by embodied the Angel of Death. My heart would stop and my muscles would tense as they seemed to head my way. Yet none of them were the real deal. Adam and I hypothesized how the hospital breaks the imagined bad news.

Adam: Maybe they bring out Phil Collins to sing the results to you.

Me: I see a sad clown walking over and handing you a note and a balloon.

:12 Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped a scrubs-clad resident walking by; probably going to treat someone who wasn’t a complete asshole.

Me: Sorry to bother you, but what if you test positive for the HIV screener? What happens then?

Zach Braff: Well, then the lab runs a blood test to make sure the mouth swab test was accurate.

Almost instantly, a zaftig Jamican nurse began to wheel over a large multi-tubed machine. I gasped loudly, and many of the surrounding staff turned their heads.

Jamaican Nurse: What?...... Oh, you thought this was for YOU? Oh, child! HAHAHAHA

I let out a sigh of relief.

Jamicain Nurse: HAHAHAHAHA!!..YOU THOUGHT…WITH THE AIDS..HEHEHHEHE!!..OH LORD.

She proceeded to veer the machine to the right and head down the hall.

:07 WHAT KIND OF SICK FUCK WORKS AT THIS PLACE??

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my attending physician briskly walked over.

MD: It’s negative. Anywa—

Me: WHOO-HOO!!!!!! FUCK YEAH!!! HERE WE GO YANKEES, HERE WE GO, UH-UH!

MD: Jesus, it shouldn’t be that suspenseful! What kind of life do you lead?! I mean—

I couldn’t hear her. I hopped off the bed with my companion Adam by my side. I was given a clean slate. And by clean slate I mean a penis not ridden with Human Immunodeficiency Syndrome. I seemed to float from the emergency room into the taxi. So many phone calls I didn’t have to make! So many whores I need not hunt down! Huzzah! And let there never be a chance of such an incident again! (Until next spring break)

Cab Driver: Hello my friend.

Me: Murray Hill, my good man. And step on it. We’re goin’ out tonight, cause I don’t have HIV!

Cab Driver: Very good my friend, very good.

Very good, Indeed.

END

MY EPIC RETURN TO STANDUP

2011-07-19T12:04:00.002-04:00

yess...

2011-07-14T09:07:00.001-04:00

JUST IN TIME FOR JULY 4TH DANNY THE DJ TAKES THE HAMPTONS

2011-06-30T22:08:00.000-04:00

Stand Up For Your Rights

2011-06-21T11:22:00.001-04:00

Lotta feedback on the last post.

I appreciate it all, even the ones calling for my death. At least you're paying attention.

Anyway, if my internet persona doesn't disgust you enough, you can get up close and personal

LIVE, THIS THURSDAY AT NY COMEDY CLUB!

WHERE: NY COMEDY CLUB- 24 BTWN 2 AND 3
WHEN: THURSDAY, 6/23 DOORS OPEN @ 9 PM
WHY: TO VALIDATE MYSELF AS AN ARTIST.
I think it's 10 bucks. come.

The Struggling 22-Year-Old Comedian's Manifesto

2011-06-15T21:02:00.000-04:00

I’m confined to the chair as he paces back and forth, devising his next maneuver. The lamp above my head serves two purposes; it torches my cheekbones with heat and pierces my eyes with light. My mouth is gagged. Just beyond reach lays a tray of unforgiving steel instruments affixed with jagged hooks, carvers and scrapers; the perfect tools for him to extract what he desires. Okay, so a trip to the dentist isn’t that bad, but it’s Dr. Weintraub’s innocent small talk that causes my abdomen to quiver. Particularly, his leading question:

“So, Evan…we all enjoyed that video you made…what are you going to do now?”

As far back as I could remember, I was in love with laughter. Through my youth, my parent’s declarations of “bedtime” were broken thanks to a Chris Rock paperback under my blanket and a flashlight hidden behind the bed. By age 9, I could recite Jerry Seinfeld’s I’m Telling You For The Last Time cold. It was ten years later when I first stepped on stage in a vain attempt to emulate those I admired. I wanted to be like them. I craved to command a room, to throw everyone into fits of raucous guffawing with biting social commentary, insightful anecdotes, or a mere turn of phrase. The half-empty bar was vaguely amused with my initial performance, but certainly not enthralled. My awkward five minute set of stuttered and stammered masturbation jokes didn’t stop anyone from wolfing their buffalo wings, but it was invigorating; like nailing a buzzer beater or convincing a woman to ignore her better judgment and have sex with you.

Compassionate people sense my anxiety concerning my future and attempt to soothe with anecdotes of those who have “made it” through unexpected means:

“Tucker Max was a lawyer before he wrote his book”

“Demetri Martin dropped out of law school and became a standup”

“Jamie Lee Curtis was born with a penis before she hit it big”

Okay, so the third one doesn’t necessarily apply. Regardless, I do find some solace in stories of those who have become exceptions and sought their destinies. How I long to join them, to serve as physical evidence that all hope may not be lost in the war against resignation.

Everyday I listen to Howard Stern while I commute to nowhere. Sometimes he will feature a celebrity or comedian interspersed between the interviews with midgets and porn stars. I always turn up the volume when the subject discusses his humble beginnings and successful infiltration of show business. Sometimes I imagine myself sitting on that interview couch, laughing with Howard over the absurdity of my early years, be it the no-pay gigs at shitty comedy clubs or the now-absurd concept that I, the famous Evan Krumholz, entertained the idea of the straight and narrow, that I almost went to, this is too funny, --law school. The blaring car horns of those behind me when the stoplight switches back to green snap me out of my fantasy.

An icon of a 'thumbs up’ indicates the handful of people who actively approved my latest quip on Facebook. An adulation posted in the comments section of my blog. A Fucking Retweet. These are the things that bring me joy now; they are digital whispers on my neck, seducing me to keep at it. A stranger at a Bar-Mitzvah informing me that their nephew "made a funny video on the Youtube, too!”. An empty mailbox despite the promises of a response from what’s-his-name’s cousin/family friend/ older frat brother, who is a big shot over at So-and-So, where they could totally could hook me up with an audition/agent/word of advice. Hours deciding whether "douch nozzle" or "cock goblin" will resonate better in a script. These are the setbacks that leave me bitter, depressed and begrudgingly thankful that my back foot is still planted in the realm of conformity and security. It’s amazing how such trivial things can elicit such emotion. Maybe I'm just not built for this shit?

The future is uncertain, but certainly not bleak. No matter where I end up, I’ll be okay. People do a lot more with a lot less. If I can waste my time bitching on the computer, I can certainly figure out how to tell some funny jokes or break out my camera to shoot a viral. Maybe having something to fall back on isn't analogous to a second Holocaust. I can't give up though. I won't. I need to accept my station right now and embrace it, rather than rue it. Wait…”rue”? Who the fuck says that? I talk like such a gay sometimes. I'm a lucky guy. Does anyone read this shit?

Everyday Annoyances #4, "The Automated Response"

2011-06-05T20:19:00.000-04:00

This topic is neither particularly insightful nor terribly original, but I’ve become acutely aware of the aforementioned annoyance since returning home from college. Forced to engage in reunions and graduation parties, I have found myself to be a victim of the very occurrence.

I loathe small talk, but I hate when it’s shrunk even smaller.

We live in a world of Automated Response: unnecessary well-wishing and rehashed interrogation, replete with rehearsed “thank you”s, “you too!”s and “good, and you?”s.

Listen in on just about any social interaction (perhaps excluding a gangbang) and you will hear the same repetitive lines of inquiries and replies.

“How are you?” “Good, and you?”

“How was school?” “Fun, thank you”

“What are your plans for the summer?” “Coming to terms with that time my piano instructor molested me.”

Clearly, we’ve all been privy to these tiresome exchanges.

Like bored wannabe thespians doomed to dinner theatre, we mindlessly run through the same shitty script for I Don’t Actually Care About You At All But Society Encourages Me To Engage In This Exercise of Insincerity II (And This Time, It’s Really Impersonal!”

Ever catch someone really asleep at the wheel? It’s fascinating.

He asks a question, she responds with an answer to what she assumed was asked. They both stare at each other in confusion, waiting for a respite from the unbearable discomfiture.

Me: So…I haven’t seen you for a while, didn’t your parents die in that awful --

Awkward Ashley: --Good! and you??!

Me: …

Awkward Ashley: *half-smile*……….I’m gonna get a Vodka Soda!

It’s like a glitch in the Matrix. Love that!

Perhaps the best argument in the Case Against Courtesy is the Example of the Airline Ticket Agent.

How many times have you committed this gross injustice? You walk up to the terminal, hand the attendant your ticket.

Ticket Agent: Seat 42-F. Enjoy your flight.

You: Thanks! You Too!

Ticket: What?

You: Huh?

A wave of fear seizes your body as you walk into the jet bridge.

“Why the fuck did I say ‘you too.’ She’s not going anywhere.”

That’s right. Now you’ve just reminded Maria, our lovely JetBlue employee, of her eternal economic mediocrity. She can’t even afford that Tumi messenger bag bouncing against your hip, much less a 6-day, 7-nighter to the Atlantis.

“Nope. No trip for me. I’m just going to sell my blood plasma to cover the rent for the next month. Fuck me, right?”

Good job, you soulless prick.

It won’t be long until I hear something like this:

Guy 1: Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while, how ya been?

Guy 2: Well…actually, I have pancreatic cancer. Doctor says I don’t have much time, maybe six weeks until I’m gone.

Guy 1: Good, that’s great! Where to? LA maybe? New York is so busy!

Thus, I call for a ban on the Automated Response and all it’s preprogrammed preposterousness. Next time you run into a familiar face, mix it up a little:

Me: Hey, long time no see! How’s that big thick cock of yours?

You: Goo—wait, what? You think so?

Evan Comitts Pseudo-Night Rape: The Musical.

2011-05-20T17:41:00.000-04:00

Just kidding. I don't know how to write music. But I do believe the expiration date of my shame has passed, so let allow me to regale you, the loyal reader with another tale of my sexual malfeasance.

Spring Break, Freshman Year. After six months of incessant bouncer pleading and VIP table acquisitions at Miami, I decided to celebrate my scholarly reprieve with a pilgrimage to the Bethlehem of Bro-dom in the Big Ten, The University of Wisconsin. Oh, how I longed for the stress-free nightlife and cholesterol-laden cuisine that was I thought to be so inherent to a rah-rah school.

After about twenty minutes at a frat party on the wood-tucked Madison campus, I became painfully aware that the banal conversations about the ongoing basketball season and the endless beer pong tournaments were not as spiritually invigorating as I had hoped.

So, like any ambitious man unfamiliar with his surroundings, I proceeded to get schwasted off a stray bottle of Svedka someone had left on a window sill. Within minutes, I found myself plunged into some Duke Basketball-bashing while facilitating keg stands. Go Badgers, indeed.

It was then that I saw her.

The sparkle in her eyes gave me hope, the rate at which she was putting the red plastic cup of vodka to her lips sealed the deal. It was on, like Dominique Strauss-Kahn.

She was a slighly zaftig Jewess who I had known through assorted social gatherings of yesteryear. She had thickened a tad. Fair enough I suppose, as she must have been fattening up for those unforgiving Wisconsin winters.

In what seemed like minutes, we stumbled up to her dorm room, groping through the darkness to find that Twin XL cot that would become our matrimonial bed, and proceeded to make out. This alleviated the particularly cold streak that I was in at the time, needless to say, I was embarrassingly...eager.

Let's put it this way: I'm pretty sure my condom was on before her shoes were off.

As I began my routine of Evan Krumholz's patented digital manipulation (I mean finger-fucking, kids.), my amorous companion began to emit some slight gurgling noises, like the purrs of fat Himalayan after being fed her Friskies.

"Gross" I thought, "But I guess I'm doing a good job."

I proceeded onward. M'lady began to espouse some curious nasal grunting.

"It can't be that good, I didn't even curl upwards yet."

Halting immediately, I looked her in the eyes for the first time during the exchange.

HOLY SHIT, THE BITCH WAS SLEEPING. SHE FELL ASLEEP IN THE MIDDLE OF DOUGIE-TIME.

The questions began to flood my mind.

"What drugs could she have possibly taken?"

"Was my fingering that mundane?"

"How can we both possibly sleep comfortably on this Twin XL?"

With condom-wrapped erection in tow, I was left utterly hopeless.

Or was I?

After weighing the legal implications, I arrived at a solution that could leave her in slumber and me out of prison:

Listen, I don't recommend spooning with an unconscious girl while masturbating into a condom, clutching her breast like some sort of sexual stuffed animal; but like Bill Clinton or Charlie Sheen in 10 years, I believe I will be forgiven.

Plus we banged the next day, who else can say they got laid 1.25 times in one weekend?

The End

South Park Recap 3: TMI

2011-05-19T18:52:00.000-04:00

After a two week slump, Trey and Matt reintroduced the key elements that make an episode of South Park worth streaming illegally on the internet.

First, a hats off to the boys for a quality Schwarzenegger joke at the top of the half-hour. I'm always amazed at how rapidly venom can be released.

Next, "TMI" allowed the South Park point guard Cartman, to be the focus of a decently strong "A" storyline: the source of Cartman's (as well as mouthy Tea Party-ers, and juiced-up meatheads) anger.

This story merged quite nicely with the "B" story, equally riotous Randy's struggle with his penis size.

Cap it off with a classic pseudo-sentimental South Park lesson (penis size determines how angry and stupid a man is) and all pieces fell together.

It wasn't the best episode, but it was a major improvement from the last two week's snooze fests.

By the way, is it me or have Kyle and Stan retreated to being completely milquetoast characters?

South Park

Alienating readers one post at a time

2011-05-18T00:20:00.000-04:00

I read an article recently (or made one up for the context of this post) that noted the hormones released by a man when he sees an attractive woman.

Creepily enough, these hormones are remarkably similar to those released by men after interacting with an animal considered "cute".

Therefore, there is now scientific justification for why guys fuck wildlife.

You're probably thinking exactly what I thought when I heard the news:

"Finally...".

Before you click the 'X' and slam your Macbook screen down in disgust, hear me out:

I'm not defending those deviant competitors of the full-contact sport known as bestiality... but it kinda makes sense now.

"I know you want me"

Your friend invites you over to meet his new retriever, Cynthia. Her luscious golden hair bobs as she gallops towards you, flashing a playful grin and a lapping tounge.

Shits beginning to sound hot, isn't it?

I mean, come to think of it, we revere animals for qualities they share with those we wanna bone.

"That girl has legs like a gazelle"
"I wish I was hung like a horse"
"He finger fucked me with the tenderness of a wombat"

Of course, then things go wrong, and you end up skewered like a Boston Market rotisserie chicken: check out The tragic story of Mr. Hands if you don't believe me.

Unfortunately, my mind still wanders....

COULD YOU IMAGINE THE SHEER ORGASMIC DELIGHT THAT CAN ONLY BE ACHIEVED BY A BLOWJOB FROM A DUCK? THEY DON'T HAVE TEETH! IT WOULD BE AMAZING!

But I digress.

Although those of differing phylum can both be aesthetically pleasing, it's probably for the best you only stick your penis or be stuck by members of the same species.

South Park Recap 2

2011-05-15T20:58:00.000-04:00

When the police inform Mr. Mackey about the destruction of Tooth Decay and he collapses into their arms with abounding joy, The kindergartner playing Tooth Brush incredulously asks "What?!!"

I felt the same way about this televised bowel movement of an episode.

Although it's early, "Royal Pudding" was a continuation of South Park's lackluster 15th season. I attribute it to Trey and Matt's merciless schedule now that their well received Broadway musical, Book Of Mormon has opened.

Regardless, this episode sucked for several reasons:

A lack of essential characters (specifically Cartman)

A poorly constructed storyline

A level of ridiculousness even South Park fans found hard to swallow.

I don't think anyone bemoans a Canada-themed episode more than I, but Royal Pudding was outright awful.

The "A" story was neither righteously satiric nor creatively hilarious and Mackey's "B" story grew tired after the second cut scene.

Points for noting the bullshit factor of the real Royal Wedding and it's inconsequential traditions, but other than that, i received not the slightest twinge in my pants from my beloved South Park this week.

Mackey's absurdist berating of the kids was all right, but I think the Canada jokes and silly plot that come along with a Terrence and Philip-themed episode (or whatever you want to call it) just don't do it for me.

As is tradition....

Royal Pudding
Tags: SOUTH
PARK Ike Broflovski,Terrance,Phillip,more...

I know I'm late but...

2011-05-09T19:14:00.001-04:00

I fuck with this kid harder than that Austrian dungeon guy did with his.

Tyler, the Creator is the leader of hip-hop skater weirdo collective OFWGKTA (Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All), better known as Odd Future.

He spits horror core acid raps reminiscent of Insane Clown Posse while maintaining the prolific buzz of a Lil B; Just try typing the letters T-Y in the YouTube search bar, The Creator is unavoidable.

Furthermore, Tyler earns his "Odd Future" moniker with surrealistic videos that seem like a hip-hop version of a Harmony Korine film- as sexually charged as Kids and as eerie as Gummo.

Oh, and he's funny too.

Odd Future Gets Signed from Odd Future

I think they're has been a dearth of rapey music in pop culture as of late. All hail Tyler, the Creator and Odd Future!

SWAG.

South Park Recap

2011-05-05T19:45:00.000-04:00

South Park has distilled pop culture of me into something palatable. Now I distill it for you

FunnyBot

After last week’s brilliant Humancentipad; which effortlessly skewered the most popular company on Earth, many wondered, “who, or what, was in South Park’s sights next?”

The answer: The relatively inconsequential Comedy Awards with some Tyler Perry jabs jammed in.

So the subject matter wasn’t exactly hot-button. It’s often the more obscure episodes that prove the most notable.

My issue with Funnybot was an overall lack of the essential elements of a great South Park experience.

Some episodes will focus on the dissection of topical issues in America (i.e. last week’s) while others take a more plot-driven path of organic humor (The Coon series of last season)

In my eyes, Funnybot failed to accomplish either.

Maybe I missed the significance of a “comedy-is-getting-progressively-simpler-and we-need-to-leave-it-to-the-pros” moral, but to me, the micro-approach of Funnybot was something only Trey, Matt and a handful of writers could truly appreciate.

Funnybot
Tags: SOUTH
PARK Jimmy Valmer,Timmy,more...

Also, I was expecting some great, late Osama inserts.

If that was accomplished through Obama’s presence at the episode’s conclusion, it seemed a little lame.

When we have grown to expect such a high level of up-to-date digs from Stone and Parker, episodes like Funnybot just simply aren’t that funny. Awkward!

Rating 5/10

The Check

2011-04-22T00:57:00.000-04:00

No, not the kind that you get at the end of a meal that you and your friends all agree to split even though you're keenly aware that Matt ordered the $14 dollar spinach dip appetizer, because if you bring it up he's gonna be all like, "Dude, you ate like, half of it." It was on the table, what were you suppose to do?? Fuckin' Matt.

I'm referring to a far different kind of check.

I'm fascinated with the human body. My key area of interest- duh, the asshole.

It's the center of the action, the trendy Meatpacking District of orifices- it's where all the cool, funny, scary shit goes down. Also, shit goes down there!

Which leads me to tonight's rant, The Check.

Okay, so after defecating, I, like any red-blooded American proceed to wipe my ass.

Whether I lift a cheek to enable toilet paper entry or go between the legs like an Iverson stutter step, the deed gets done.

But there's something I have caught myself doing many a time before dropping the newly-stained Charmin into the bowl.

I, like many of you, check the toilet paper.

It's absurd.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE CHECKING FOR?

"Dude, you'll never guess what happened, today when I checked, there it was- the winning lotto numbers!...Oh..and some corn"

Yet for some reason man is compelled to make sure his toilet paper has retrieved an ample amount of doody before parting with it.

Is there some massive shortage of toilet paper I'm unaware of and every wipe counts?

After 150,000 years of existence have we not convinced ourselves that we make shits?

"By God, it's happened again!"

I'm waiting for the one time where I go to check and I've shit out a perfect reproduction of Seurat's Sunday in the Park in Grande Jatte. I'll stare at that bitch like Ferris Bueller.

Although I have to admit, a line in the sand has certainly been drawn.

I brought up the cause of checking question amongst a table of friends during a lunch break.

While everyone began to laugh and interject with their take on the fecal phenomenon, one voice stood out.

"Well, I don't check!". The table fell silent.

Naturally, it was the fat chick.

Eww...

The Tale of Cousin Jordan

2011-04-12T17:58:00.000-04:00

In my 21 years on this blue and green sphere, I have always struggled with the prospect of keeping my mouth shut.

You see, my fair readers, not all are wooed by my innate ability to point out their flaws in a humorous fashion.

As blasphemous as it may seem, Krum Lifers, my odious observations have at times been received with disgust, aversion and even physical violence from complete strangers.

However, the most damaging retort I have ever been dealt was at the hands of my own flesh and blood.

Devoted deviants, allow me to present to you,

The Tale of Cousin Jordan

It was probably eighth grade when Jordan, some cousins, and myself sat down to lunch following a family reunion of sorts.

Gentle Jordan was in the midst of that awkward early teenage stage, and it hit him hard:

Rather than the traditional maladies that afflict a 14-year-old, (the Acne vulgaris or a freakishly protruding Adam’s apple) Jordan was blighted with obesity.

He was a fat little fuck.

I’m talking “Get out of the shower and wear your towel like a woman to cover your stomach and man-tits” fat.

Like any rational relative, I took it upon myself to bring up Jordan’s unfortunate condition whenever I could.

We were pouring over the menus at the diner when--

Jordan: I think I’m gonna have the chicken sandwich

Evan: I think you’re gonna have that and then some, my friend.

While the others seated with us began to chuckle. I looked at Jordan’s face.

He was not upset, but rather, smirked with confidence; as if he knew the magnitude of the devastating parry he was about to throw after my slight jab.

Fear immediately seized over my body as he began to open his lips. Ever so casually, he spoke:

Jordan: Well, at least my dad didn’t sprain his ankle fucking my mom in the bathtub…

The table immediately grew silent. Faces crinkled in confusion.

Evan: What?

Jordan: You heard me…your dad told my dad how he was boning your mom in the bathtub, slipped, and sprained his ankle.

The sounds of laughter from my extended family seemed muted. I couldn’t even see them.

Rather, the scene of my father, awkwardly attempting to thrust into my mother whilst struggling to maintain in stability in a cauldron of water, immediately materialized in my mind:

Dad: C’mon...a little…to the left…hold on…wait…ARGGHHHH!!!”

Oh, the horror!

It didn’t even matter that Jordan’s contemptuous comeback had nothing to do with my initial statement. I was beyond mortified.

I USED THEIR BATHUB ALL THE TIME! IT HAD THE WATER JETS, DAMNIT!

I attempted to rebound. So I came up with the cleverest quip I could, given the situation.

Evan: Um…Bull-shit!

Nice.

Jordan: Oh no, it’s true. It was like six weeks ago. He told my dad they were trying to ‘spice things up’...Haha!

Immediately the table erupted with laughter again.

As if I had any doubts, my memory quickly delivered confirmation of the event:

I recalled coming home after school one day, to find my father angrily icing his ankle:

Evan: Hey Dad, What happ—

Dad: TENNIS!

The rest of that meal was a blur, and although left unsaid, it was clear on that day, I was made the mockery, not my resilient relative.

Jordan's triumphant victory had riveting effects on all of us:

He blossomed into the slim stud I know today.

My parents, to my knowledge, have since avoided injury by sticking to the basics.

I have never taken a bath again.

P.S. If you have read any other story on KrumLife, it becomes acutely aware that I have never ceased shit talking.

Also, I never brought up this tale to my parents.

Until now.

So, Passover Seder should be interesting.

The End

Everyday Annoyances #3, "The Half-Smile"

2011-04-07T00:20:00.000-04:00

The last time I wrote an Everyday Annoyance, Charlie Sheen was famous for a being an actor and Japan was above water. Hi-yo!

Okay, so, amidst the plethora of minor social infractions that stick in my craw lies "The Half-Smile".

Oh, Half-Smile, how I hate thy prevalence.

I'd argue most people, myself included, are subject to or are bearers of this pseudo-smile at least three times a week.

We've all seen it.

It's that partial grimace you exhibit when you're confronted on campus by that girl you use to sit
behind in Intro to Jazz.You neither know her name nor have something to say, so you pay her the ultimate compliment; curling your bottom lip inward while simultaneously raising your eyebrows.

It's the same contrived expression you have received from the hot girl behind the counter at Urban Outfitters, half-welcoming you to acquire her services, not because she wants you too, but because it's a necessary condition of her job description.

Ever place an order with a waiter, then afterwards go to wash your hands in the bathroom and walk past him elsewhere? I bet you've doled out a halfy in his general direction.

WHAT KIND OF TIGHT-ASS, AWKWARD SOCIETY DO WE WE LIVE IN WHERE SHOWING SOME FUCKING TEETH OR SAYING "HEY, HOW ARE YOU?" IS JUST GOING TOO FAR?

"I give so microbic of a fuck about you that to expose bicuspids would be far too radical"

If someone shoots you a halfy you can be sure of two things:

1. You will never have sex with this person
2. Your presence has made her so uncomfortable that her only defense to form some kind of alien, "Oops, it appears I have just shit my pants" visage.

Next person that half-smiles at me, I'm fully smacking in the teeth.

That about sums up my revulsion of the.....Oh shit..here she comes ...fuck I don't even know her name...she was friends with Whats-Her-Cunt that I was trying to spit game to outside Barracuda's last Tuesday...ugh and she introduced herself too...oh well...let me throw one of these her way:

Boiga King clash

2011-03-30T20:47:00.001-04:00

in a classic Krum Life post, I outlined why Burger King is unequivocally the worst fast food establishment ever

Apparently, this rabid pack of ...urban youth... agree.

"I KNOW U AIN'T GIVE ME NO HONEY MUSTARD, THEY SAY YOU THE KING, BITCH I'M THE QUEEN!!"

Ul-trughh

2011-03-29T21:56:00.002-04:00

Paparazzi got me on South Beach. As always, honesty is the best policy.

2011-03-14T15:37:00.000-04:00

DANNY THE DJ

2011-03-09T13:39:00.002-05:00

Global Studies, 9th grade.

2011-03-07T16:09:00.000-05:00

Spring 2004. A classroom of Von Dutch-wearing youth half-listen to their teacher, Ms. Hine's lecture. She is standing in front of a Power-Point display about Chinese History.

Ms. Hines: As we discussed last class, Mao Zedong built a dictatorship in China after the Cultural revolution, with Lin Biao playing the role of military General. Biao, however, desired to be more than General, and in 197--

Ms. Hines notices Evan desperately raising his hand, shifting it slightly in correlation with her movements about the classroom. She sighs deeply.

Ms. Hines: Yes, Mr. Krumholz...

Evan is excited to deliver his statement.

Evan: Lin Biao? I don't know too much about that guy, but what about the most famous Chinese General of them all?

Ms. Hines (anonoyed): And who is that, Evan?

Evan: His ruthless dedication to deliciousness is known throughout the globe!

Ms. Hines:.......

Evan: GENERAL TSO, OF COURSE!!

Evan's smile widens and his eyes dart around the room, searching for a response to his "joke"

Ms. Hines glances at the pocket of Asian students in the class, who are clearly mortified.

Ms. Hines (deep breath):.........Get out.

Ms. Hines points to the door.

Evan: But, General Tso-

Ms. Hines: Get out.

Evan: Me so sahrry?

Ms. Hines: Now.

Evan exits.

Ms. Hines: Goddamnit......So where was I?.....Oh yes.. in 1971 Lin Biao was--

END.