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Good Ways to Start Conversations With Strangers

2008-10-24T06:42:00Z

Bad conversations tend to happen. You’ll be at a party and someone will comment on your pants and before you know it, you’ve just spent ten brain-melting minutes discussing the merits of button-down shirts. Or maybe you’re at a restaurant and you bump into someone wearing a University of Whatever sweatshirt (oh – I went to that school!) so you’ll debate how awesome the dining common’s grilled cheeses tasted (they were super-sweet …but I was also stoned every day). Once conversations like these end, each participant walks away harboring a sinking feeling and sick heart – pretty much exactly how you felt last weekend after accidentally having sex with that chubby Mexican freshmen with the lazy eye and annoying dachshund.

It doesn’t need to be this way. There are at least seven thousand intriguing things you could be talking about that will lead to conversations several times more interesting than any dialogue about Ikea dressers. The trick is to forge the discussion on your terms, and the best way to accomplish this is with a groundbreaking opener:

I wonder what you’d look like pregnant.

Either a genuine curiosity or a twisted pick-up line – only you will know for sure. This one works great on girls and guys.

Considerations: May not be as effective when conversing with actual pregnant people.

Have you tried the artichoke dip? It tastes like a mole den.

This works best if you’re actually carrying around artichoke dip you brought from home. Bonus points if the dip is in a special container. I like to use my tiny plastic baby teeth treasure chest, complete with rotting molars poking out like ocean bathers.

Considerations: If artichoke dip is already being served at the social event, don’t bother. It will yield conversations as inane as the Jonas Brothers’ career.

If Count Chocula was accused of rape, would you defend him in a court of law?

A tricky inquiry indeed. One one hand, he’s a grown man who wears short capes and loves children (I’ve seen pre-teens eating elaborate breakfasts in his secluded castle). On the other hand, his cereal has helped you through your most depressing years.

Considerations: Feel free to substitute any of the monster-themed Cereal mascots: Franken Berry, Boo Berry, Fruit Brute, and Yummy Mummy are all ghastly pedophiles.

You look like you’d be proficient at repairing wristwatches.

Compliments are often the best opening lines as they put your converser in a cheery mood. Be sure to mention how agile his or her fingers look, even if they appear lackadaisical.

Considerations: Make sure you’re not talking to a watchsmith, unless you really want to discuss timepieces all evening. Also, make sure you’re talking to someone with fingers.

Which Microsoft Office app would make the best one night stand?

Visio 2007 would be the obvious choice because UML diagrams are hot as shit, but this is completely subjective I suppose. Perhaps the overly-calculated Excel would be a popular choice as well – they don’t call them “spreadsheets” for nothing (insert rimshot).

Considerations: Change it up by going open source with OpenOffice.org. You might meet someone better at grepping and fscking then you.

I’ve found that churning butter makes life less complicated.

Things were simpler in the old country – except for the whole Black Plague thing. That sucked for a lot of people.

Considerations: Don’t mention the Black Plague.

We should all aspire to be like David Duchovny.

I applaud the strength David summoned to check himself into sex addiction rehab. On the same token, I often imagine his sexcapades as being magnificent productions involving interplanetary visitors and the supernatural …or maybe just women with masks and large hands. I watched the X-Files religiously in middle school because I wanted to make out with an obsessed girl in my orchestra class. That didn’t work out so well.

Considerations: The truth is out there. Seriously. Good fucking luck.

I have a task for you. This weekend, go to some random bar, approach a complete stranger, and fire up a conversation using one of the above openers. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed – unless you get arrested for harassment. Unless, of course, that is your goal. If so, congratulations in advance from the bottom of my intrigued heart.

Together, we can make this world a more interesting place. Maybe.

My Computer Crashes All The Time

2008-10-15T17:13:00Z

My computer is absolutely fucked. Any application I run will inevitably crash within five minutes of use. In fact, a few moments ago I launched Microsoft Notepad to compile a top ten list of actresses I could bang to yield the most shocking party stories and the goddamn application – fucking NOTEPAD – crashed four times. Yes, this list may be part of a future post if you’re lucky. And, yes, the lovely Bette Midler is definitely top five.

In case you’re wondering – and you probably are somewhat curious seeing as though you’re reading a post titled “My Computer Crashes All The Time” and you’ve made it to the second breathtaking paragraph – the following applications crashed while writing these first sentences: Windows Media Player (two times), Microsoft Word (four times), Firefox (3 times), Windows Explorer (one time) and Windows XP (one time). I’m not even joking. I can’t use certain applications (iTunes, I’m glaring at you) or get through YouTube videos longer than 30 seconds.

Some people ask me, “Hey, MKM, how can you stand working on your super-sweet computer? Why don’t you do something to fix the problems?” A great pair of questions indeed. Truthfully, the consistent crashes have improved my end-user experience – and my life – dramatically, much like when I finally discovered Magic: The Gathering will never get me blow jobs …even though my “Madness” deck rules (Wild Mongrel FTW).

Don’t believe me? Well, for one thing I’m becoming increasingly passionate about my computing tasks. For instance, I tried watching an 8-minute out-take video on Mega64 and I wanted to email the creators to say, “hey, I liked your video so much that it took me a half hour to watch because my computer is fucked up and crashes every 30 seconds.” If that’s not brimming with passion, I don’t know what is.

Even the most menial tasks – like increasing my secondary monitor’s screen resolution to view high-resolution pictures of people fucking without scrolling – are overly challenging. However, conquering these challenges yields intrinsic and extrinsic rewards, both of which I crave. For the situation above, I feel the satisfaction of a job completed and enjoy browsing porn exerting as little energy as possible. Imagine the joy produced by successfully downloading a full album off BitTorrent. A veritable volcano of happiness. But not one of those sleeping ones. I’m talking about explosions and death – pleasant, happy death.

Well, shit.

I just lost an entire paragraph chalk-full of solid gold. I’m not even kidding. It opened with a brief argument discussing the social struggles of Balki Bartokomous, then continued on to explore Larry Appleton’s love of peanut butter. Somehow, the paragraph ended by detailing a novelty dance (obviously the Dance of Joy) performed by the two Perfect Stranger stars and Mr. Munch, the keyboard virtuoso who fronts Munch’s Make Believe Band. I’ve tried rewriting my mini-masterpiece but it’s no use; the rewrites lack the same pizzaz of the original. Your loss.

Data loss is expected, but I’ve developed a safety net: hitting CTRL-S to save my work every few seconds. I’ve been doing so well tonight, but anything involving Perfect Strangers requires me to be “totally in the zone”. You may claim that consciously remembering to hit CTRL-S stifles creativity by requiring mental interruptions, but I assure you this is not the case. In fact, it aids my creativity by providing breaks to review my last words …every few seconds. This way I can catch myself before I type something really retarded. It seems to be working wonderfully. I mean, who gives a shit about Perfect Strangers anyways?

Some people say I should switch to a MacBook. I like that idea because then I can buy a scarf and act pretentious in coffee shops as I type my stupid thoughts and not drink coffee, but I don’t know. Something tells me I’d still have maddening issues with a MacBook as well; instead of constantly crashing, it might constantly give birth to chinchillas. At first, it may be a welcome feature …but then my apartment would be bursting with chinchillas and their poop, and they’d be dying because I can’t afford to feed thousands of chinchillas so they’d resort to cannibalism and then sleeping would be difficult because I’d be listening to chinchillas feasting on each other all night. Then I’d probably be slapped with some sort of fine for being inhumane.

Chinchillas are stupid.

Undercover at the GOP Debate Party

2008-10-09T08:28:00Z

Attending the GOP debate party, our small group stuck out like pedophiles perusing an elementary school. Especially my friend – ironically masquerading in a tucked-in button-down, trucker cap, and American flag poking from his front pocket like a steadfast patriotic hard-on – as he seemed to silence the fancy bar while pretending to register for McCain campaign support. Perhaps the cap was a bit much.

After registering (using previous home addresses and phone numbers yanked from thin air) and slapping on name tags, we headed straight to the bar for stiff cocktails and overpriced appetizers. The first thing I noticed was how beautiful and well-dressed everyone was. Perhaps it was due to the inherent class of the Los Angeles bar. I like to think this is how young Republicans dress: confident, business-like, in charge. I wore a Lego skull t-shirt and tattered sneakers, grinning as I ordered a Jack and coke.

While I’m not officially affiliated with any political party, I most certainly lean towards the left. I think leftist thoughts (end the oil and terror wars, restore our raped personal freedoms), read leftist news (CNN, The Huffington Post), and cast leftist votes. And this year I was genuinely excited to be riding the Obama bus to a land of fresh change.

Our original plan was to assimilate ourselves into this GOP atmosphere – to become spies behind enemy trenches – but this was became increasingly difficult. Keeping a straight face while Sarah Palin dodged and pivoted her responses proved challenging, and cheering against legal homosexual unions was heart-sinking. In fairness, I felt Palin executed herself better that I expected. She appeared confident and strong, skillfully dancing around the moderated questions without stammering or breaking a sweat. It was a foul game of hide and seek. I applauded her deceptiveness while the rest of the bar simultaneously applauded her stances.

At one point, after downing a few Jacks, I boisterously scrutinized Joe Biden for misspeaking and correcting himself. A girl sitting at an adjacent table who had been suspiciously staring us down the entire evening turned to me and shared the enthusiasm. “That’s Joe being Joe, incoherent as always,” she said to me, smiling. “Yeah, he has no idea what he’s babbling about,” I agreed. I briefly contemplated jumping on this hot Republican ticket – the juicy boner party ticket – before shaking myself back to drunken reality.

And then the debate was over. There was no buckshot blasting through the air, no cries accusing Biden of terrorism connections – not even a virginal Green Party sacrifice. The crowd went back to drinking and talking as we slid out with little fanfare.

Driving back from LA in the early morning, I harbored a feeling of disappointment over the GOP debate party. Why was I expecting something so obscenely different from watching politics with my leftist friends? Last night I saw us at the bar: cheering for our candidate’s critical points, groaning while our opponent misspoke, clinking glasses when victory seemed obvious, neither side venturing into outlandish territory yet still believing our choice was the only correct choice.

Throughout the following week, I began including more “rightist” publications such as Fox News and the Washington Times, going out of my way to seek as many levels of conservative media as I could. It was like reading news in a parallel universe. There were reports of countless Obama and Biden gaffes including embarrassing stuttering and statements requiring fact checking. There were stories about children wearing extreme conservative t-shirts to school and getting suspended. There were timelines debunking the Democratic ticket’s experience and accomplishments. It was eerily familiar – in fact, it was everything I was reading from my side of the fence, but about my side of the fence.

All the while, I winced as the unconstitutional Bailout Plan slipped through taxpayers fingers and into law, basically shoveling materialized cash into the coffers of Goldman Sachs and friends while further weakening our dollar. Who would vote for this abomination – and so quick and recklessly? Why, all three of our candidates with the power to do so (sorry Sarah).

With a compounding sinking feeling, I turned to one final source before deconstructing my once semi-optimistic views of our political system: the campaign contribution lists. And sure enough, Goldman Sachs was the top contributor to date in Barack Obama’s campaign. In fact, both lists have similar guests appearances:

And sadly, this is only a small glimpse of who’s really in charge.

Last week it dawned on me that I had been sucked into the dog and pony show performed by our two-party system and presented by the media owned by it. I’m not here to tell you who to vote for (even though I still consider myself left-leaning) or unleash a storm of concrete “news” (the circus of hidden agendas) and “facts” (objective grand pictures seem almost mythical). I’m urging you to step away from the show, attempt to consider the big picture using whatever sources you have at your disposal as a civilian, and realize who you’re competing against. There are much larger issues than Obama visiting 58 states or McCain finishing at the bottom of his naval academy class, such as how one large independent bank is running our entire country into the ground. But I digress.

Perhaps it’s time we took a cute kitten break. And, please, keep your hands where I can see them.

Killer Box

2008-09-26T06:45:00Z

I recently obtained a killer box. Check this shit out:

I’m naturally excited about the possibilities although my box repurposing skills are quite rusty; the last epic box encounter I had was probably in middle school, and by then I was too busy crying about my pathetic life to care. But before middle school thrust it’s dagger through my stomach, I remember boxes being mystical devices: peanut butter spearhead factories, giant cardboard glow worms, the entire cast of Silver Spoons ...the possibilities were infinite, much like Nick and Norah’s Playlist. Unfortunately, my “mystical devices” these days equate to bonus closet space and the “Credit Bumper” – a machine that raises your credit score proportional to the amount of nickels you feed it.

I decided to do some deep thinking and soul searching. If I could transform this killer box into anything, what would I choose? After a few days of pondering, I drafted this list.

Albatross Bird Bath

Dinosaur Jack-in-the-Box

Tiny Jack in the Box

Ghost Trap

Internet Confession Booth

Hot Sex Booth

Chuck Wagon

Portal to Brax, City of the Undead

Portal to Toys R Us on 28th Street in Grand Rapids, Michigan

Aborted Zombie Fetus Containment Unit (AZFCU)

The direction I take will be a tough decision, but I’m confident I’ll be happy with any of these choices.

Or I might just throw the box out. Or sell it. Anyone in the market for killer box?

Oh, and if you thought you were about to read a post about “sweet pussy”, you were sorely mistaken. Check back next week.

Just Buy the Goddamn Desk

2008-09-18T06:14:00Z

I sadly post my relatively large work desk on Craigslist because my new studio is about the size of an inflatable castle ball pit. To my delight, I immediately receive phone calls from two interested customers. After explaining the desk is approximately large enough to perform dual circumcisions and is in pristine condition, my first customer agrees to swoop on by so I inform the other caller of the pending transaction. But after waiting an hour for a stranger who refuses to return my phone calls, I call back interested customer number two.

“Do you believe in evolution?” she asks me.

“Sure,” I say and hear a concerned sigh.

“Well, did you ever practice any evolutionary science on the desk?” she asks.

“I don’t know, maybe,” I say.

“I cannot consider a desk that has been sullied by impure hands,” she says.

“Oh, then no,” I say.

“Ok, great,” she says with relief. “I’ll swoop on by.”

As I hang up the phone a scruffy bearded stick man lurches through my front door and shiftily greets me in a scratchy voice. Of course – this must be caller one. I offer my hand but instead of shaking it he removes his filthy spectacles, places them on the desk, and begins vigorously scratching his graying beard with both hands while his entire body quivers. Steel wool on sandpaper accompanied by tiny grunts. I take a step backward and glance out the window at the afternoon skyline, considering every strange soul that may be living within it’s confines. The audible scratching ceases and the man clears his throat.

“How many, er, circumcisions could you, er, perform on this desk at once?” he asks. We’ve been over this already.

“Two,” I say. “You can perform two circumcisions at the same time, side by side.” I step over to the desktop and demonstrate, molding two infants out of air, then consecutively picking each one up and snipping the ring of air foreskin around each air penis. The man nods.

“What about, er, vasectomies?” he asks.

“I suppose it depends on the clientele,” I say. “Seeing as how the procedure is most common in grown men and that grown men are usually much larger than infants, a single vasectomy would require the entire desktop.”

He stares at the desk for a long moment before asking me to make him a sandwich. I agree on one condition – that he buys the desk from me. Soon enough I’m in the kitchen spreading mayonnaise on thick slices of sourdough and thinly slicing a fresh tomato while the man, propped against my refrigerator, watches closely. Then I hear a woman calling my name from the living area.

“I’m sorry,” I say after approaching her, mayonnaise knife in hand, “but the first person I contacted actually showed up to claim the desk.” She frowns and glances out the window at the afternoon skyline, considering every stroke of poor timing the confined populous must have experienced today.

“Then why did you have me come over?” she says. “This has been a waste.”

“Nothing is, er, a waste,” the man says, emerging from the kitchen with a sandwich consisting of sourdough bread, mayonnaise, and tomato slices. He stands behind me in the doorway, slowly munching on my uncompleted creation. The woman’s jaw drops.

“This man is buying the desk?” she says. “I bet he doesn’t even have a vehicle to transport it!”

“Hey, do you have a car?” I ask the man. He shakes his head and gently lifts my acoustic guitar-equipped stuffed polar bear off my bookshelf, dropping the sandwich remains on the floor.

“What did I tell you?” the woman says. “Do I get a sandwich now?”

“It depends – are you going to buy this desk?” I ask her as I stare at the man who is now sitting on my unmade bed, staring into the eyes of my stuffed polar bear and scratching his beard.

“Yes – that’s why I came in the first place,” she quips. I turn to face her and see another man – taller and shaved – saunter into my studio.

“Hi, is the desk still for sale?” he asks the room.

“No, I’m about to buy it,” the woman says, violently fishing a wallet out of her purse.

“Wait, who are you?” I ask.

“I’m Tony,” Tony says. “I called over an hour ago but got caught up in a rousing game of Connect Four with a paraplegic child. It’s a long story, really.”

“Wait, then who the hell are you?” I ask the bearded man on my bed, pointing at him with the mayonnaise knife.

“Do you have change for a fifty?” the woman asks.

“Nice polar bear!” Tony says. His eyes light up and he bends over for a closer look. “They say the polar bear evolved from the brown bear – which is my favorite bear – so these hardy troopers are a-ok in my book.” Tony scratches the bear’s head and the bearded man stares at him. The woman’s jaw drops.

“What did you just say?” she says.

“Hardy troopers?” Tony says.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she says. “You made an ‘evolution’ reference.”

“So I did,” Tony says. “Referring to the bears.”

“You’re a heathen, clinging to the empty promises of science. And you’re tainting my desk.”

“Yes – will someone just buy the goddamn desk?” I say.

“Yes – do you have change for a fifty?” the woman says, raising her voice to an intimidating decibel.

“Yes – I am a heathen with logic and factual evidence on my side,” Tony says. “Evolution is a sound biological process that expands our world for the good of mankind.”

“SHUT IT,” the woman snarls, crumpling the fifty in her palm.

“I think considering trilobites in your family tree frightens you,” Tony says. He glances out the window at the afternoon skyline, considering every multi-celled organism that may have swam through the city hundreds of millions of years ago.

“I think God frightens you,” the woman says.

“God, er, frightens me,” the bearded man murmurs.

“Trilobites! Trilobites!”

“THAT’S IT,” the woman says, stuffing the crumpled fifty into her wallet thrusting it into her purse. “This is COMPLETELY ridiculous. You can all take your nonsense and collectively shove it.” With that, she storms out of my studio and I turn to Tony.

“Please buy this desk,” I say. I can tell he’s not interested as he performs a brief inspection.

“How many circumcisions did you think this could accommodate?” he asks. We’ve been over this already.

“Two,” I say, ready to perform phantom circumcisions at any second. He scratches his head.

“Well, the desktop looked a lot larger in the photographs,” he says. “I was banking on four simultaneously, accounting for the photographs and your lack of circumcision knowledge. Obviously I’m wrong.” He turns to the bear, which has been discarded to the floor next to the sandwich. “Is your bear for sale by chance?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, good day then.” With that, he saunters out of my studio and I turn to the bearded man. He’s laying upright on my bed, propped up against the wall, staring at me. I sigh.

“Look, I have no idea who you are,” I say, “But will you just take this desk?” The man coughs loudly.

“I, er, have no use for a, er, desk,” he says. “But listen.” He slowly rises from my bed and approaches me, patting my shoulder on his way out. “You never know when, er, you’ll need a nice flat surface to, er, write about a bum that just peed all over your bed.” With that, he closes the door behind him and I’m left alone to wash my sheets and write the most random story ever.

Nothing Rhymes With "Hiatus"

2008-09-12T07:54:00Z

I bet at least one of you is wondering where I’ve been for the past month, so I’ll address this special entry to a special person:

Hi, mom. I know you’ve missed my rants on fucking this and shitting on that, but you’ll be glad to know that I’ve returned to the Internet. My life has been in pieces for the last 24 days and much like those huge puzzles we used to enjoy before I learned how to masturbate, it required intense concentration and epic tedium to complete this masterpiece.

To decode the above blockquote, I’ve moved into a cave of seclusion and have been preoccupied with the many nuances of relocating. Here’s what I’ve done instead of writing:

Bought a really nice frying pan from Target for cooking eggs and cracking heads.
Transported a bunch of boxes containing nostalgic garbage that I’ll probably never sift through from one house to another.
Rescued a cheeky zebra from the clutches of DR. D’ARGONNE.
Ate at least two egg, sausage, and cheese breakfast sandwiches on everything bagels from Einstein Bros.
Received a $47 parking ticket for not crimping my tires on a hill.
Started playing Final Fantasy II for the SNES (I just obtained the Earth Crystal from the Dark Elf and I’m about to rescue Rosa).
Vacuumed my old room for the first time in hopes of receiving some deposit cash.
Bought a $20 toilet brush from Target (what the fuck was I thinking?)
Built a Rube Goldberg machine using only folding ironing boards and stale Funyuns.
Started eating cold cereal again.
Bought plane tickets to Phoeniz, Arizona and Seattle, Washington.
Constructed no less than twelve pieces of Ikea furniture.
Visited Ikea no less than six times.
Repaired this blogging engine because my shared hosting provider likes to upgrade ruby gems seemingly randomly, thus breaking 90% of my installed applications. In all fairness, they probably posted an announcement on their blog so I guess it’s my fault. For less than $10 a month I can’t complain. Speaking of which, does anyone out there want a Dreamhost account? I’m running out of referral credits.
Discovered a new-found hatred for Freehand.
Discovered a new-found love for water bears.
Discovered that free neighborhood wifi is really shitty.
Developed a crush on Bristol Palin.

I’ve also spent ample time putting my studio together. Here’s what it might look like:

Here’s what it probably doesn’t look like:

So worry not loyal readers, I’m back an have a new found boner for writing. (For those of you counting at home, that equals two boners.) Expect a real post sometime next week, most likely about moving …because that’s all I’ve been doing really. Well, that and daydreaming about Bristol Palin.

Why Buy When You Can Rent?

2008-08-10T20:59:00Z

A flamboyant landlord ushers me into the “quaint studio one block away from the park” and I feel suicidal. The kitchen is about the size of Kirstie Alley’s ass with ample counter space to prepare a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, providing I use tiny hors’ devours bread and Smucker’s Goober (which is completely nasty). I imagine the main room to be barely large enough for me to create carpet angels. As for the bathroom, it is an ingenious feat of interior design; if I desired, I could take a shit on the toilet, wash my feet in the shower, and shave my face over the sink – all at the same time. It’s a steal at $900 per month but I kindly turn down an application.

The next place on my list is freezing and damp – and by damp, I mean the carpeted floor is covered by 6 inches of icy water. My potential kitchen is a floe and the bathroom is a jagged block of shorefast ice. Every basin in the apartment brims with fresh cod. I decide to argue with the rental agent.

“Look,” I say. “This place is perfect for ringed seals but not for humans.”

“That’s a poor opinion,” scoffs the agent. “And completely relative. Ringed seals are more human than, say, platypuses.” He pauses a moment. “And more interesting than ringed seal humanness is platypus pluralness. Did you know that there are several forms of the word and they’re all disputed? Platypuses and platypi are both somewhat common while platypodes is rarer and seen as more scientific – and pretentious. How exhilarating!”

“I often change up the plural form I use depending on the social situation,” he continues. “Platypuses in farmer’s markets, platypodes at the ball, and platypi when talking to elementary school children. Do you talk to children?”

“Not really,” I say. “I don’t really know any, and I’m a bit of a recluse.”

“That’s a shame,” the agent says. “So, how about this place?”

I decline and return home to change into dry shoes and pants for the next open house, which is a one bedroom cottage that has a “GREAT LOCATION!!! CLOSE TO FREEWAY AND SHOPPING, VIEW OF BRIDGE!!!!!!” However, upon my arrival to the address, I find that the “cottage” is really two large metal tubes touching each other at one end, creating a long cylindrical hall. This place would be perfect for an o-ring.

Regardless, I ask the landlord to show me the onsite laundry, which is nice. This still doesn’t warrant the completion of an application to live in a pipe for one year, so I leave the site frustrated and starving. I’m in the mood for cheesecake, and when I think “cheesecake” I immediately think “Jack in the Box” so I head to the drive-through and order two slices of heaven. They plop into my gut like a delicious bomb.

Weary and bloated with sweetness, I drive to the final rental on my list and I’m pleasantly surprised: it’s a large ground-level duplex with high arched ceilings and loads of windows. The appliances and fixtures are new, as is the wood floor and paint job. Peering out the front window, I have a perfect view of downtown framed by exotic landscaping. I almost have a boner.

The only problem is that five other people are looking at the place with me, and they’re all carrying stuffed manila envelopes and are frothing at the mouth. I ask a young woman to disclose the contents of her envelope and she lists them without blinking: rental application, credit report with FICO score (dated yesterday), photocopies of her driver’s license, birth certificate, passport pages, last 24 pay stubs, dissertation, and infant footprints, homemade matzo, the first valentine she ever received, a favorite Dilbert comic, and a coupon for “buy one get one free” Garden Herb Triscuits.

I have nothing and decide to leave dejected rather than compete in the Olympiad of Preparedness. Naïve is the best word to describe me at this point. Who would have though finding a place close to downtown would be this difficult? With only one week left before I get kicked out of my current living arrangement, I do the only thing left to do.

I end up putting money down on the first place I saw – the tiny studio – which actually comes furnished with Kirstie Alley’s ass. So I’ve got that going for me.

Comic Con Recollections

2008-08-04T06:54:00Z

1.

A child explains the concept of fire flowers to his mother:

“First you need to get a mushroom if you’re small. You hit the question blocks. If you’re big then instead of a mushroom there will be a fire flower. When you get it you turn red and shoot fireballs.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah and you can kill anything by shooting them except for Buzzy Beetle because of it’s shell and Bowser takes five hits.”

“Ah.”

2.

I wake up Saturday morning with a throbbing hangover. Usually a nice thick torrent of vomit provides a solid remedy, but I heave and retch to no avail while wrapped around a laughing toilet. With determination, I slam a few Tums to soothe my heartburn and eat a bowl of instant blueberry oatmeal. I want to know where oatmeal companies get their blueberries – they’re so tiny and delicious. A few minutes later I attempt to induce vomiting once again and unleash a bowl’s worth of undigested instant blueberry oatmeal and bits of Tums. After thinking for a moment, I slam a few more Tums to be sure my twitching body absorbs the stomach soothing agents. Still feeling nauseous, I slam a Pabst, masturbate, and take a cold shower. Much better.

3.

The Kingdom of Loathing is a web-based MMO where you are allowed to click things a certain number of times each day. Most of these things are buttons and hyperlinks, but sometimes they are map areas that were drawn in MS Paint. Your stick-figure hero can earn titles like “Yeast Scholar”, wear “Ravioli Hats”, and battle “Undead Elbow Macaroni” and such. It’s a pretty sweet game I guess.

While hypnotized by the Kingdom of Loathing motorized diorama depicting the signature stick-figure hero – sword in one hand martini in the other – advancing and retreating from a giant tentacle wall, I’m accosted by the two booth girls. They are cute and ask me if I’ve played the game. I decide that the game sucks.

“Yeah, that game sucks,” I say. “It makes no sense.”

They basically accuse me of being a slave to advanced graphics and rendering engines and I state that it’s simply not the case. I don’t like clicking things and reading ridiculous passages (both are lies). I then notice that girl #1 is wearing a Minibosses t-shirt, which is very hot, and ask her it she’s going to the show later. She says yes (not verbatim) and claims to be friends with the band. I ask her if she’s from Phoenix and she says yes (also not verbatim). I tell her Arizona sucks and smells funny. She then grabs her digital camera and shows me a photograph of MC Frontalot passed out in the corner of their booth. I’m delighted.

4.

A scantily clad female bounty hunter of sorts with long rocket tits stares down a giant inflatable Pikachu. Enough said.

5.

People crowd around a table, awaiting their chance to spin the Mega64 Wheel of Mystery. I lurk behind them, cowering from the unrecognizable, raw power emanating from the large black disk. What secrets will this artifact unleash?

A brave soul spins: Tattoo.
The wheel host calls for the young participant to outstretch his arm. With a Sharpie, he doodles something quickly by his elbow. I cannot see the result, but I’d like to think it’s a tiny cock and balls.

A brave soul spins: Constructive Criticism.
Without hesitation, the wheel host calmly explains that the font on the participant’s shirt is old and busted, and they should avoid wearing clothing with out of style fonts. The participant agrees.

A brave soul spins: Game Ruined.
Immediately, the wheel is taken behind the booth and out of sight. “Sorry,” the wheel host addresses the crowd. “This guy ruined it for everyone.” This is fine with me because my hangover headache is starting to pound again. I retreat to the restroom for some dry heaving.

Happy 20th, Sub Pop

2008-07-21T02:19:00Z

The first time I heard Mudhoney’s Superfuzz Bigmuff was late one particularly humid evening during summer vacation after 9th grade. I was lying on my bedroom floor shirtless, flat prepubescent chest facing the ceiling, thinking, “Wow – this really sounds like shit.” Little did I know, this dingy sonic gem would launch me into indie rock oblivion. And, well, here I am a decade later, drunkenly moshing to an electrifying rendition of Hate the Police, screaming out lyrics and smiling wide.

My Mecca is the Sub Pop 20th Anniversary festival and I am in the Grand Mosque, a clearing in Marymoor Park with a beer garden and two outdoor stages. Across the mosh pit I spot someone wearing an ancient relic of a Screaming Trees t-shirt, tattered almost beyond recognition. Before the set, I engaged in a friendly debate over which Mudhoney album is their masterpiece (it’s obviously their self-titled full-length). And earlier in the day, I spotted Kim Warnick of Fastbacks fame talking to fans by the pizza tent. These are my people.

The festival is a harmonious melding of old, young, and very young, all enjoying this beautiful summer weather for one purpose: to enjoy music performed by the bands they love. There’s no tension here, no overt air of pretension. Nobody is here to impress or oppress. Perhaps it’s the small size of the festival, or the open liberal nature of the urban Pacific Northwest – I’m not sure. What I am sure of is how lucky I feel to have found this fold.

Although embarrassing to admit, I was a top 40 junky throughout middle school. I knew Gin Blossoms’ Hey Jealousy by heart, danced to Salt-n-Pepa’s Whatta Man, and was genuinely excited for Ace of Base as The Sign ripped up Rick Dee’s Weekly Top 40 every Sunday night. My friend Tim and I built guitars out of Construx and jammed along with the radio after school. My innocent sugarcoated life was sweet indeed. That changed when Kurt Cobain died.

I recognized Kurt as the frontman of Nirvana, the band whose album Nevermind had recently been enjoying heavy rotation in my newly purchased stereo system. His death was intriguing – perhaps because artist suicide was new to me, or perhaps because I was a budding fan faced with the abrupt end of a great newfound band – and I began researching his music. It didn’t take long for me to discover grunge and take the plunge into Seattle’s rich music scene. With only a guess as to what I was getting myself into, I picked up a Mudhoney album and uncovered my musical identity through Sub Pop records.

My high school years were spent collecting early Sub Pop releases and reading everything I could find about Seattle and grunge, teetering on obsession. Green River, Soundgarden, Tad, Skin Yard, Fluid, Coffin Break, Screaming Trees, Crackerbash, and Seaweed were household names. I watched Hype! and poured over Loser: The Real Seattle Music Story (which reads like a social studies textbook). I charted musicians through the bands they played in and created a big happy family.

Just as I imagined the scene to be like in high school, a strong sense of kinship fills the festival air. While the Fluid performs their first show in over 15 years, Kim Thayil, the legendary Soundgarden guitarist, observes from backstage, no doubt harboring nostalgic feelings. Brandon Summers of The Helio Sequence dedicates their song Blood Bleeds to Seaweed frontman Aaron Stauffer’s daughter, citing that it’s her favorite song. While fronting the highly anticipated Green River performance, Mark Arm, the debatable father of grunge, introduces his band mates by name-checking their old, obscure previous bands like a festival-wide inside joke.

I’m here to see the old bands I was obsessed with in grade school – many of which broke up before I had a chance to see them. The guys from Seaweed have all gained a few pounds but still pack enough energy and enthusiasm into their performance to put most young popular bands to shame. The Fluid looks weathered, but frontman John Robinson is on fire with his flamboyant stage presence, hitting every note. The Vaselines seem to capture the attention of the entire festival as they perform songs popularized by Nirvana: Son of a Gun, Molly’s Lips, and Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam. I stand close to the stage in a drunken trance, imagining this to be one of the more magical moments of my life.

The showstopper is Green River, the band all the old school Sub Pop diehards are here to see. As one of the first groups to release an album on the label, they were highly influential and helped mold the early Sub Pop sound, and their aura of influence continued after breakup in the forms of Pearl Jam, Mudhoney, and Love Battery. Watching them perform is amazing. Mark Arm channels Iggy Pop on stage and the rest of the band grins while ripping through their classics. This is where it started.

My music tastes have changed focus over the years and I admit to not knowing many of the bands on Sub Pop’s current roster, but I am impressed with what I see. Foals are a dance-rock party that even toddlers are moving to. No Age rips it up as the punk rock answer to the White Stripes, and Iron and Wine casts a whimsical spell over the audience. Flight of the Concords, a musical comedy duo on HBO, headlines on Saturday and completely kills it onstage. It almost makes me consider upgrading my cable package. Almost.

Near the end of the festival, I look around and catalog all the great things Sub Pop has done as the music industry supposedly dies a slow death. As long as progressive labels like this keep producing quality music, the heart of this industry will always remain. Happy Birthday, Sub Pop. Here’s to 20 more.

What Your Mario Kart Wii Character Says About You ...In Bed

2008-07-04T03:28:00Z

Get it? This is similar to that fortune cookie game except this time there’s no fortune or game involved – these character profiles are bona fide facts. Use this information however you see fit. I personally like to challenge female customers at Circuit City to race against me at the Wii kiosks to determine how datable they are. In case you’re wondering, the dating pool at Circuit City is shallow as shit, but I’m still fishing.

So, which character do you play as?

Princess Peach

Behind your innocent appearance and classy demeanor lies a filthy slut waiting to get ravaged by hard cocks. You’re not fooling anyone, except maybe for Luigi who is a bumbling idiot. Sure, your high acceleration proves to be an asset on the circuit, but it will only scar your perfect complexion as you naively speed from relationship to relationship, blindly trusting on a mission to please. Your pure heart is a facade; try concentrating on yourself to find true happiness.

Luigi

Remember that time you accidentally touched your assigned lab partner’s breast in 10th grade biology? It was the fetal pig dissection lab and you labored over the pan while your full-bosomed partner stood by idly, disgusted and bored. Your hand brushed against the side of her left tit while you reached for the forceps. It was the best day of your pathetic life. I bet your father is proud.

Toad

Happy, helpful, and easily excitable, you tend to blow your wad prematurely but are quick to offer alternate stimulating assistance after you’re spent. This assistance usually consists of holding the front door open as your partner bolts for her car, eager to get fucked like a dirty pig elsewhere – mostly likely deep within Wario’s pleasure dungeon. Despite your sexual addictions, your life of constant service leaves little time to get your dick wet other than the occasional sloppy seconds – usually when your friend’s partner has passed out for the evening. You truly are one sick little bastard.

Dry Bones

Yeah. You don’t give a FUCK. You live in a world where EPCs and wire coat hangers are legitimate forms of birth control and anything with a hole is fair game (animal, mineral, or vegetable). Reckless lifestyle choices have broken your body countless times, but you always manage to piece yourself together quickly thanks to your mini-turbo bonuses. Keep speeding along, you boner on wheels.

Mii

You know that scene in American Psycho with the two hookers? Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. That’s you: narcissistic pig.

Funky Kong

The cadence of romance is ingrained deep within your soul. Your rhythmic hip-thrusts and kamasutric knowledge can make any partner writhe with pleasure, as long as she’s into your thick tufts of back and chest hair. Though outwardly energetic, you’re slow to start (most likely due to ED as a result of hitting the pipe over the years). But once in gear, your speed is unparalleled – like a jackhammer. Just don’t break it.

Wario

In high school you were voted “most likely to red sock and love it”, a title you have surpassed in your later years. Vile. Greedy. Disgusting. You pray upon emotional wreckage and always get your way – and if you don’t, you turn to RAPING. That’s right, I know your dark secret. I saw you behind the Circle K last weekend with Princess Daisy, and that sure as hell wasn’t consensual.

Birdo

Sexually ambiguous and full of love, your truly are an enigma. From your oversized bow to your giant egg-spitting snout, you’ve dazzled the most …ah …prestigious …um …ok. Seriously, I have no idea what to say about this. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU???

Hopefully, this list will shed some light on certain people in your gaming circle. It has seriously helped me dodge a few bullets. Speaking of which, I just got my STD test back – and I’m clean! Just so you know, ladies, I race as Toad on the Bullet Bike. If you want a piece of this, email me here.

Hope to hear from you!

Secrets from the Kitchen

2008-06-27T04:38:00Z

I’m teaching myself how to cook. Everything I create tastes bad – and by bad mean fucking awful. Imagine a demon’s ass caked with vomit from twelve dehydrated zebras. Now imagine that same ass deep-friend in chalky batter composed of locust abdomens and the souls of four thousand North American suicides. Established as a delicacy, this breaded demon buttocks has only been served twice in documented human history: Napoleon’s funeral and last weekend at my house. The latter was purely accidental.

But I digress.

Much of my cooking desire stems from adventure and exploration which were driving factors in the Goonies’ quest for pirate booty. Remember when Sloth tuned in to Julia Child applying creamy chocolate frosting to a cake? Remember how enthralled he was? I want to be Julia, graceful and saucy, enthralling the world with my culinary skills.

Not all of my creations are disastrous. Just like Method Man’s acting career, there have been a few gems in the rough (I’m looking at you, Soul Plane). I would like to share a few diamonds with you. This first recipe combines my tendency to surprise with my unnatural love of Pop-Tarts.

Pop-Tart Surprise

Ingredients

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon garlic powder

3 tablespoons butter

2 Pop-Tarts (any flavor, unfrosted recommended)

2 cups maple syrup

1 cup sprinkles (may substitute Red Hots)

Directions

Season chicken breasts with salt and garlic powder. Gently hum a happy tune.

Melt butter in a pan on medium-high heat. Place breasts in pan, turning them frequently until brown. Cook for about 10 minutes or until breasts are cooked all the way through. I just said “breasts” twice in that step. Sweet.

Toast the Pop-Tarts on medium heat. Meanwhile, slice each chicken breast almost to the edge sideways, making a long, deep insertion (that’s what she said).

Cut each toasted Pop-Tart in half vertically. Carefully open each sliced breast and shove a Pop-Tart half in the opened slit. Close the slit and trim remaining Pop-Tart edges peeking out from the breast.

Place each breast on a fancy plate and pour ½ cup maple syrup over it. Garnish with ¼ cup sprinkles. Serves four.

While the above recipe is ridiculously tasty, it fails to whet my appetite for adventure. I firmly believe that half the fun of cooking should derive from the ingredient gathering process. This next recipe combines my nostalgia of Final Fantasy XI with my love of desserts. Strap on your broadsword and let’s get started.

Golf Cake

Ingredients

1 Earth Crystal

2 Slabs of Golfer

2 White Wheat

4 Temecula Sugar

1 Sweet Butter

Directions

First you’ll need an Earth Crystal; these can be farmed quite easily off standard woodland creatures. For the inexperienced adventurer I would recommend hunting various squirrels and rabbits, although their drop rate is quite low. Advanced hunters should concentrate their efforts on Bugbears.

Slabs of Golfer are another easy commodity to obtain. Any golf-oriented terrain will be populated by mobs that drop said slabs – just look for the electric carts, their favored mount. Pursue the older mobs but be wary of the youngsters as they tend to agro. A sledgehammer to the face should send them reeling.

This is where things start to get tricky. Although both White Wheat and Sweet Butter can be farmed at most malls, only a small window of opportunity exists to obtain each drop. Grey Sweat Zombies, recognizable by their wispy grey hair and sweatpants, roam the mall corridors from 6:00AM till 7:00AM and sometimes drop White Wheat. Pink Hot Nast, a semi-rare creature appearing between 8:15PM and 9:00PM and often accompanied by Buff Douchebags (who agro on sight), yields Sweet Butter, but is hotly camped. Both luck and timing must be on your side.

Quite possibly the most annoying ingredient to farm ever, Temecula Sugar is only dropped by Fry Cooks in the Jack In The Box on Jefferson Ave in Temecula, California. Here’s a map if you need help:

Combine the edible ingredients with the Earth Crystal and concentrate hard. Tada! Golf Cake.

Unfortunately, I cannot take credit for this last recipe although I wish I could. Bestowed upon the world by the legendary Dirty D, this breakfast achieves brilliance through simplicity. Behold:

Dirty D’s Bagged Bud and Cheerios

Ingredients

2 cups Cheerios

1 cup milk

1 Budweiser tallboy

1 brown paper lunch bag

Directions

Pour Cheerios in a bowl.

Pour milk on cereal.

Place tallboy in brown paper lunch bag and crack it open.

Enjoy!

I hope you enjoy these recipes. Impress your guests. Be the star of a PTA meeting. Do they even serve food at PTA meetings? Fuck it. Bring a dish anyways. I’m still in the process of learning how to cook, so there’s more great stuff on the way!

Bon appetite, you sorry sons of bitches.

How To Find A Wedding Date On Craigslist

2008-06-12T17:57:00Z

Your sister is getting married next month? Impress your family by bringing a date to the wedding! No longer will grandpa question your sexuality. Show him who’s the fucking MAN by bringing a certified grade-A piece of ass to the reception. Are the bimbos you normally bang utterly embarrassing with backwards logic and lack of grace? Ditch those bitches! Let your new scholarly date impress everyone within earshot while she spouts a profound analysis of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”. Is your ex-girlfriend going to be in attendance? Oops! Shove your voluptuous slice of heaven in her face and laugh as she runs off in tears.

I know what you’re thinking. “Escort service.” But why play by their shady rules when you can invent your own? Why pay hundreds of dollars when you can bring a willing guest for free?

How is this possible?

THROUGH THE AMAZING POWERS OF CRAIGSLIST!

In case you are unfamiliar, Craigslist is an online service that was created 12 years ago for the sole purpose of finding people to have sex with. Over the years it has blossomed into a thriving community covering a wide spectrum of topics, offering services such as housing rentals, job postings, classifieds, and community forums. Today we’ll be using Craigslist to get your sorry ass a pleasing wedding date.

Step #1: Determine the correct section for your post.

Craigslist can be a daunting place. The layout is bland and harbors hundreds of links cluttering any given page. Luckily for us, the “Personals” section seems like the perfect place to find our amazing female companion. But which “Personals” section should you post under?

Well, that depends on your agenda. Are you seeking a business arrangement? I’d recommend posting in “Strictly Platonic”. Does the prospect of hot fucking after the wedding excite you? Then summon your courage and post in “Casual Encounters”. Want to keep if open-ended? “Men Seeking Women” should work well for you. If you’re thinking about posting in multiple sections, use caution: community members tend to frown upon this practice and your posts may get flagged.

Step #2: Write your ad.

Be completely honest about your intentions and get straight to the point, stating specific guidelines and necessary attributes. The more specific you are, the better your results will be. When imagining your dream date, remember to be as selfless as possible – this is more for your family than yourself.

Explain why you need a date for this wedding and what your future intentions are. My best advice is to leave it open-ended, but stating that you have no time to concentrate on a serious relationship due to your World of Warcraft addiction is fine as well – the prospect of closure may create a less stressful situation. Be aware that this is not the time to seek a WoW-playing vampiress unless your mother has at least two level 70’s.

State specific physical and mental requirements including weight and height ranges, ethnicity, education level, and employment. Some of these metrics may not seem important, but remember – you’re catering to as many family members as you can. In situations where preferences clash, cater to the eldest relative. You want them to die as happily as possible.

Step #3: Post and prune.

You’ll need an efficient way to organize all the ladies once the responses to your post pour in like a torrent of lava. Ignore vague and questionable emails. Print out promising responses and compile a spreadsheet of your contact activity with each. Pretend you’re an employer with a stack of resumes.

Respond to each approved email with a coffee or lunch offer; meeting your potential wedding date will aid in the screening process. Depending on the size of your list, this may get somewhat expensive. If finances are an issue, offer to meet her somewhere else, such as a park or square. A public place will keep things light and provide both parties with some level of anonymity.

After your selection has been made, kindly thank the remaining candidates for their interest and make plans for the wedding. If the date is still a few weeks away, maintain contact with your girl – but not too much contact, unless you two really hit it off (which is doubtful). You don’t want things to fall apart before the date.

So there you have it.

The magical evening is up to you. I’d recommend holding your date’s hand during the reception, being attentive to her needs, and initiating at least one passionate make-out session by the restrooms. Of course, these details must be mutual – most likely worked out ahead of time. This situation could potentially backfire, lowering your family’s opinion of you (if that’s even possible). Nobody wants a rapist for a relative.

Now go knock ‘em dead, kiddo.

Hope this helps.

After Shitting on the Mummy, Part 2

2008-06-10T05:26:00Z

« Read part 1 first…

We abandon our battered camels outside the lower entrance to Khafre’s Pyramid after midnight, Landon still bitching about the price he managed to haggle. Inside the pyramid, the narrow stone corridors are freezing – even colder than the desert air. An eerie quiet envelops us. My body shivers out of coldness, claustrophobia, superstition, and the prospect of photographing Landon’s asshole in the near future. My Maglight’s beam shakes in my hand causing shadows to dance as if by firelight. Ahead of me, Landon leads while nonchalantly humming a nondescript tune.

To my surprise, the vertically cracked wall behind the subsidiary chamber circled on the crude map is a real landmark. We push hard against the rightmost cracked slab and a portion of the rock slides backwards before toppling over, revealing a narrow portal to the hidden labyrinth. Landon’s laughter and celebratory yelling echoes through the tunnels. His high-five almost shatters my wrist.

Minutes later we’re deep in a narrow maze of winding corridors, walking in circles. The handler’s map, which depicts an arrow from the secret portal to the hidden burial chamber, is useless at this point. Landon studies the arrow before ripping up the map in a cursing fit, and then takes a swig from his flask. I dig through my pack for navigational items – a spool of thread, a bag of corn nuts, anything – but only find photography equipment and batteries.

Dumb luck eventually leads us to a small burial chamber. A stone sarcophagus rests in the center of the chamber and we approach it slowly, speechless. I drop the pack and retrieve the camera, confirm film is loaded, and affix the flash. Landon circles the sarcophagus, running his fingers along the lid’s edge. I imagine this to be his proudest moment. Hell, it may be mine as well. I take a photograph of the sarcophagus and then of Landon sitting on top of it, giving a two thumbs up review.

At the count of three we heave the massive lid – sliding almost too easily – off the stone box and it crashes to the dusty ground. I begin gagging, the smell of death wafting from the revealed wrapped corpse. Landon seems to savor the aroma, bending over to examine the corpse more carefully. The mummy looks abused. Some of the linen wrappings have eroded, exposing decayed limbs and a damaged face with disintegrated eye sockets and gaping maw. I creep backwards, gripped by fear.

“BRAAAH!” Landon roars, lurching his head up quickly. I scream and fumble with the camera while he laughs. “It’s fucking dead,” he says. “And now I’m going to shit on it.” He unbuckles his belt and drops his pants. Summoning my final wits, I mechanically approach the sarcophagus and lean in with the camera raised, Maglight tucked under my arm. His ass and the corpse’s chest are both clearly visible in the viewfinder. With a grunt, Landon pushed out a long wet turd and I successfully capture the action before turning to vomit on my shoes.

“We’re done,” Landon says, pulling up his pants. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and turn to face him from across the stone box. We sigh over the mess.

Then we hear a muffled groan.

Landon cocks his head to one side and stares at me. I’m still as stone, wide-eyed and listening. Another groan, louder and longer. Peering down into the sarcophagus I witness a wrapped hand slowly reaching upwards. I gasp and do the first thing that comes to mind: run the fuck away from the horrible thing we’ve awakened.

Landon screams, racing after me into the labyrinth. “What the fuck? What the fuck?” he barks. My Maglite’s potent beam darts between the narrow corridor walls, sometimes disappearing down dark stretches of hallway. I’m drenched in sweat, terrified, and completely lost in the winding passageways, frantically turning corners like a Cairoian motorist. The moaning echoes throughout the labyrinth around us. All Landon can do is curse repeatedly.

My heart beating out of my chest, I stop at a fork to catch my breath and assess the situation. There’s a chance I might die very soon. There’s also a chance I’m hallucinating. We’re both hallucinating. Together. The moaning echoes louder. I laugh deliriously.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Landon screams, his eyes darting from each corridor, to me, then back again. “What the fuck is wrong with us? This isn’t real. This is bullshit. This is—“

Suddenly, Landon begins to vomit uncontrollably. Beginning as dry heaves, it quickly escalates to steady streams of puke, splattering against the wall he’s propped against. I step back and watch my partner collapse to all fours, retching and spitting blood. Then a long, horrible cry echoes through the hall in front of us. I shine my light down the corridor and step back against the wall, locking into paralysis. The awakened corpse – our mummy pursuer – floats steadily towards us, its curled toes dragging along the dusty floor, thin arms reaching forward with wrappings dangling. I sink to the ground and glance at Landon, still retching his insides out.

The mummy halts a few paces away from Landon and floats in place, six inches from the ground. I stare, sitting as still as death, holding my breath and fighting tears. The only sound is raspy choking; Landon is curled up in a pool of blood and fluids, barely conscience. A faint glow begins to emit from the wrapped terror. It’s head rolls backwards, faint beams of light shooting from the neck and face holes. A howl, building deep within its maggot-ridden belly, begins low and grows louder. And louder. I cover my ears and scream with the mummy as Landon’s head explodes like a squished grape.

I’m still screaming as the mummy turns to me, the glow dissipated. It stares at me for the longest minute of my life. My screaming ceases but my ears are still squeezed closed by my palms, hoping perhaps my arm strength will keep my head whole. The mummy motions to me slowly. It reaches out with one shattered hand and raises the other to its face, arching its intact fingers like it’s pretending to hold something. I’m still frozen in disbelief until it groans, motioning towards me again. It points to its chest.

I look down at the camera still around my neck. I look up at the mummy and rest my hand on the lens barrel. It nods slowly and turns its back to Landon’s stained body. Mechanically, I lift the camera and position the mummy’s ass and Landon’s chest in the viewfinder, Maglight tucked under my arm. The floating corpse squats over Landon in midair. With a horrible moan, a volcanic blast of black shit and maggots erupts from the mummy’s ass, covering Landon with the most epic of dumps. I capture every moment of the action.

When the shitting is complete, the mummy turns to me, stares for a second, and then floats peacefully down the hallway it came from. I’m still paralyzed, unable to comprehend my trip to Cairo. All I know is that Stanley Seymour is getting much more than he bargained for and that I’m asking for double.

After Shitting on the Mummy, Part 1

2008-06-05T02:35:00Z

Something is obviously amiss in your life if the prospect of a trip to Cairo to photograph a stranger taking a shit sounds like a great opportunity. But if you happen to find yourself in the international terminal at LAX with a boarding pass, are dating a 19-year-old KFC fry cook who just had your baby, and have dropped out of your fine arts program, I say go for it. You fly to Egypt and point that lens barrel up some ass like your life depends on it – because perhaps it does.

I meet with Stanley Seymour, a slimy walrus of a man, one numbing afternoon at his Beverly Park compound out of desperation. Among other countless exotic interests my new employer harbors, he is especially into voyeuristic photographs of people shitting in exclusive worldly areas. His photo albums document hundreds of epic dumps: the edge of the Eiffel Tower’s highest observation deck, the center of Stonehenge, on a busser’s cart in the CN Tower’s 360 Restaurant. My stomach turns sour as the montage of bowel movements continues for pages. He simply stares at me, wide-eyed, patiently petting his left hand like a baby rabbit moments away from intense anal violation. The left hand twitches, aware.

The next four days are spent staring at the flight confirmation Stanley gave me, pondering life while my unhealthy baby’s wails fill my empty shed of an apartment. Inez tries soothing the child in Spanish to no avail before switching to bits of Original Recipe, mashed up like regurgitated nourishment from a mother bird.

Inez says she loves me. I tell her she’s full of shit and then we fuck like lions. Later that evening I meet my assigned accomplice on our flight to Egypt.

Landon is a large, loud, drunk man with straight jet-black hair. I instantly recognize him from the photo albums. He aggressively urges the flight attendants into the bathroom with him until they stop serving our row. He then attempts having an aggressive conversation with me about trucks until he realizes I have no automotive knowledge. Sighing, he takes a swig from his flask, fishes a SkyMall magazine from the seat pocket in front of him, and incessantly discusses every product aloud, paying particular interest to the Portable Mood Light.

“If I brought one of these fuckers on the plane, my dick would be wet by now,” he says and gives me a nudge. I feign sleep, counting down the hours until touchdown, wondering if I can pretend to snooze the entire time. Meanwhile, the scent of rum and sweat wafts from the seat next to me like bog gas.

I land at CAI a little past noon. Landon crashes, silent since vomiting in a drinking fountain at our Roman connection. He heads straight for our room at the Mayfair Hotel while I, somewhat coherent, take an opportunity to wander around the unknown city solo. The relentless heat and smog reminds me of a hot summer day in the San Fernando Valley, but considerably less pretentious. My walk proves unnerving as I haphazardly stroll into the sluggish chaos of Cairo traffic, dozens of horns blaring as each vehicle attempts forging it’s own path. I creep along the street’s edge, constantly wiping sweat from my brow and onto my damp jeans. Then, I spot an oasis at the end of the block: KFC. I speed my pace towards the safe haven, duck inside, and promptly order a 2-piece Original Recipe meal. I wonder if Inez has enough bus fare for the week.

At twilight, Landon groggily leads us to a less reputable part of town to conduct business. In exchange for most of the allowance Stanley Seymour gave us, and seizing our passports as deposits, an abusive handler eagerly provides two camels and a pencil-drawn map depicting a supposed secret burial chamber deep within Khafre’s Pyramid. Of course the deal is ridiculous, but my outcries are swiftly extinguished.

“Listen, you fuck,” Landon growls at me while the handler smiles. “I’ve been doing this a helluva lot longer than you, and there’s a lot of cash at stake if you’re willing to take risks. So back the fuck off and let me do our job.” Whether it was his intensity or the truth in his logic, Landon is very persuasive that moment. After all, he has photographs to prove his experience. I back away, bite my lip, and grin while imagining my bleached bones scattered across the desert.

» Onward to part 2…

The Modern Internet (A Brief History)

2008-05-23T04:18:00Z

Early History

Before the Internet as we know it, there existed a variety of bulletin board systems and other methods of communication via computer terminal over dial-up. Although these systems were created primarily to exchange favorite D&D battle yarns and play email chess, they also allowed users to share their rich collections of ASCII porn.

Behold:

( . )( . )

The breasts.

(_ | _)

The butt.

(Side note: Isn’t it strange how boobs and asses look similar?)

Web 1.0

This important stage of the Internet brought us the modern graphical web browser which supported rich full-color porn, bringing hardcore fucking to the masses. Thousands of children lost their innocence too early and millions of adults discovered erotic fetishes they never thought existed, including yiffing. It was a grand, global learning experience.

Modern Internet technologies began to support online commerce, meaning users could now purchase huge glass dildos and soft fake vaginas from the privacy of their computer dens. The most noteworthy union of huge fake tits and commercialism was the Real Doll, which revolutionized the sex lives of UNIX administrators around the globe. Other sectors of business attempted to jump onto the virtual bandwagon, with most ultimately failing because consumers generally only purchase things that make them cum.

Web 2.0

As computer technologies continued advancing at breakneck speeds, websites began integrating ridiculous animations and treating their pages like desktop applications, rendering 98% of the Internet unusable. A technology called Flash forced website visitors to sit through shitty animated intros before entering actual sites. A technology called AJAX dynamically updated web pages using painfully slow JavaScript animations, effectively rendering “back” buttons useless.

This era of the Internet is noted for advancing the more “social” aspects of the web – self-publishing, file sharing, and networking – granting users the ability to upload photos of themselves vomiting fish tacos outside their Cancun motels for billions of strangers to masturbate to. Blogging became a popular medium for sharing deep dark secrets to anyone who cared to read, which was usually nobody.

Web 3.0

Building upon the social networking initiative, this iteration of the Internet melded content, metadata, and sophisticated web services in technological matrimony to create the Semantic Web, a complete clusterfuck of information. It was now easier than ever to access sexy videos from any point on the Internet, using any connected device available. This often led to accessing tentacle rape porn via web-enabled toaster ovens.

Thanks to a global effort involving a partnership between Rogers, Google, and Red Lobster, everyone in the world was granted a plot on the web to maintain their virtual identity, and a generous allowance of Cheddar Bay Biscuits. Fueled by these cheesy delights, the content composing the Internet began to closely resembled that of downtown Detroit: There was tons of stuff to do, but nothing you’d want to get into.

Web 4.0

At long last, the state of computing hardware finally caught up to the speed of information, allowing for cheap, complete Internet immersion. The standard workstation was comprised of a large, plastic, airtight bubble with an interior lined with liquid displays. While entirely connected to the world, people were no longer required to be in physical contact with another human being. Ever.

In fact, these “Bubblenodes” doubled as affordable housing for most people – many who opted never to leave their pleasure paradises. Days were spent jacked-in and jacking off while work was completed at remote locations by pawn cyborgs and data critters. A virtual global currency was created based on the bit. Everyone was happily isolated.

Web 5.0

Web 6.0

The dawn of this era began with a social breakthrough called “physio-tangibility”, which involved two or more people occupying close, adjacent physical spaces while communicating. Understandably, this was a radical idea for most humans as their perceptions of digital and physical worlds blurred into a single universe. Other humans questioned the legality of the idea, citing amendments and risks involved with leaving their cyber slices.

This new method of information sharing awakened senses and emotions that laid dormant for decades. A simple physical touch began to surpass radio messages in importance. Smells released chemicals that overwhelmed the body and mind, causing lightheadedness and fainting. Tasting was divine. People began sharing fresh ideas. Intimate ideas. Reproduction.

A 300-kilometer whirlpool opened east of Socotra in the Indian Ocean. People traveled thousands of miles to heave circuit board bundles into the sea.