Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category


June 23, 2011

Lady Gaga’s record sales continue to spiral downward into the abyss.


People don’t want to buy records from a drag queen covering 30 year old Madonna songs?



Finally…Fat Ho Burgers

March 31, 2011

Sloppy Ho’s are no longer just a clever (and generally descriptive) name…I’ve waited years to request a “Supa Fly Ho” in a public setting…Wish #1 down…may god have mercy on the universe if I get two more…

Emasculation Station

November 3, 2010

Republican House Leader, John Boehner, has a modern-day meltdown while discussing the huge gains his party made in the Congress yesterday.

Dude?  Seriously?  Weeping in public?  On televsion?  Brutal…have some self-respect.  His father needs to give him a good kick to the chops…

Blueberry Fade

October 22, 2010

This is an actual barbershop in my ‘hood. Every time I see it I stop in my tracks, shocked by the sheer audacity of the choice of name. Someday I plan to stop in and see if the guy can get a little acai flavor going in my scant locks.


October 14, 2010

This morning, a man seated next to where I stood in the subway car’s aisle bade me take a seat behind him. He looked homeless. Maybe not homeless, maybe just fixing to be homeless soon. We shouldn’t rule out the possibility that he owns a home but sometimes, for the thrill that’s in it, sleeps instead in a puddle of dumpster drippings behind a Chinese takeout joint or lopes by moonlight through weedy lots where he barks bits of poems when he isn’t telling phantom enemies how it is, how it’s going to be. Maybe he treats himself to a walk to where he can see planes taking off from the airport and with one hand clutching a chain-link fence for support he masturbates—a big man for wanking alfresco, this one—and with an inhuman cry brings himself off under the gaze of a starving cat. Not impossible. His canvas sneakers featured pictures of little animal skulls. Of this much I am certain.

I told him I’d stand and went back to reading my book.

“Siddown, man,” he said. I told him no. I tried to read but out of the corner of my eye I watched him. He was sawing his jaw, right, left, right, left, like a man battling a bad taste in his mouth. That, or a man reliving a delicious meal of undercooked beef tendon. I’d not feel comfortable saying for sure. After a moment, he wheeled toward me and said, “I don’t like when people stand over me.”

To which I replied, “I don’t give tuppence for your petty dislikes.” Except I really said, “I’m getting off in a few stops so I’m not sitting.” And then was mad at myself for explaining myself. The other passengers were paying close attention but pretending to be absorbed in their own shabby thoughts, in their own trifling affairs. Some did better jobs than others. The woman wearing a face made of raw dough, a face to which some joker had applied makeup, who just stared baldly at me, for instance, did what we might call a bad job.

“Move over there, then,” said the cagey creature. I told him no, even though moving away was exactly what I wanted but was now the one thing I couldn’t do, lest I appear to be following orders from the loon. Important, in moments like these, to preserve your pride when absolute strangers are looking on, to continue reading your book even though your eyes are averted, your head turned some, so that you’d have to be reading your book with your ear. The train clacked onward. Important to take a stand and then spend the rest of the day deciding what the stand was for.

Writing All Fancy-Like

October 11, 2010

The word “per,” as commonly used in business writing to mean, “according to” or “through the agency of,” enjoys a misguided cult following at my office. I can’t dampen the enthusiasm for it. I can’t kill it. Like a bionic bedbug, the little guy endures and pops up in the worst of places, like in the sign shown below. I couldn’t abide it and subsequently offered an unsolicited correction with my pen, but the damage was done. Read and weep:

God, Help Them

October 6, 2010

The Pew Research Center has released the results of its poll measuring Americans’ religious knowledge. On average, Americans managed to answer correctly only 16 of 32 questions.

A fully-recovered Catholic, I took special delight in this finding: “More than four-in-ten Catholics in the United States (45%) do not know that their church teaches that the bread and wine used in Communion do not merely symbolize but actually become the body and blood of Christ.” Um, guys? This ghoulish tenet is key in distinguishing your branch of Christianity from its close-as-clones cousins. Embarrassing. Or encouraging, depending on how you look at it.

Am I done being smug? Almost, but not before admitting that I was pleased to read that atheists and agnostics performed better than all of the religious denominations in answering correctly 20.9 questions on average. Don’t be jealous: None of us atheists could get elected to the presidency any time soon and few of us would be wise to identify ourselves as non-believers at the jobs we can get, so allow us this small victory and then check out the rest of the findings and take a shortened version of the quiz yourself here.

Warnock St, Friday, 11:05 AM

September 24, 2010

At one end of my block, sanitation workers are inspecting the illegal dump that has sprung up over the past few days. Yammering at their side is my drug-addict neighbor. She has her arms thrown wide as if beseeching the heavens for redress.

At the other end of my narrow alley of a street, a police officer is arguing with my fat, shirtless neighbor while a man from the gas works looks on.

In the middle of the street, artfully arranged and looking like a portent or a sign left by a clan specializing in dark arts, is a single severed pigeon’s foot.

Something’s got to give.

Destruction by Durian

September 21, 2010

I’ve recently been fantasizing about non-violent ways to get rid of my trashy neighbors. I say “non-violent” not because I’m opposed to violence, but because I’m not good at it, lacking as I am in physical strength, courage, dueling pistols and spring-loaded triple daggers. So I’ve been thinking I’ll leave a giant durian on their front step in the night and see if it doesn’t undo them.

Since these pig neighbors don’t stray from their sties, they’d never have encountered the fruit before. Perhaps they’ll timidly poke it with a stick and, getting no satisfaction that way, call animal control to come have a look at the thing, at which point they themselves will be carted off since city ordinance states unattended livestock may not lounge about the streets eating Vicodin.

Perchance they’ll think it an ensorcelled token, a sign of divine approval, and fall to fighting over whose turn it is to bed down with it on the greasy rag piles that serve as mattresses in that house. I can easily imagine a woman sapping her saber-toothed boyfriend, tossing aside the still-unnamed toddler she used as a club, and scurrying off with the durian to ply it with offerings of stubbed out Newports and a few prized ounces of good-drinkin’ cough syrup. By week’s end, the neighbors will have done each other in and in the final moments of my mind’s movie the durian rolls over the lip of the top step in the house (dropped by its final owner? possessed after all?) and goes bumping downward toward the exit.

I hope this works, because if it doesn’t and I resort to throwing a punch, God will take one look at my left-hook, lick his thumb and forefinger, and snuff out the sun.

Sacrilege, 12% ABV

September 16, 2010

When I accidentally dropped a brimming glass of Dogfish Head’s Palo Santo Marron beer while at the brewer’s restaurant/pub, I thought immediately of the time a priest in the Catholic church of my youth dropped a consecrated host onto the ground, retrieved it, fed it to the unlucky communicant next in line, and covered with a cloth the area in which the host had fallen so that he could, after Mass, hunt for any stray pieces.

While I now find these gestures silly, empty, and sadly misguided, I took a page from the clumsy padre’s book and quickly covered the spreading puddle of beer with a cloth napkin. I tilted my head back, raised the dripping rag above my mouth, and wrung it like an enemy’s neck. Chin sticky with brown beer, cheeks stiff with salty trails of now-dried tears, I stumbled back to the bar and, in way of compensation for my offense, resumed my devotions at that altar with feverish fervor. Which is all to say, vacation was lovely and thank you for asking.

Workday Woes

September 14, 2010

During the average workday, I sometimes fall victim to bouts of self-pity over the decidely unsexy nature of my work and the lack of notoriety it affords me. These bouts are not long-lasting and I am only susceptible to them while en route to the office when my fellow citizens clog the subway station halls, the obese among them slogging so slowly streetward that you’d think the stairs were the slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Also, the bouts visit me while riding the elevator, riding in cars, and I have no defenses, mental or physical, against those bouts desiring to have their way with me while I’m at my desk, at the urinal, before the vending machine or ensconced in my home. In other words, things could be worse.

I didn’t always work in an office, though it often feels that way. (Last week I dreamt I was stuck in the office hallway while the hum of the fluorescent tube lights overhead grew so loud that they filled my head, burst my skull, and I woke with my heart hammering and head filled with fantasies of time-travel and do-overs.) I once worked as a landscaper, part of a trio of unfortunates, one of whom once, while knee-deep in the pond-muck from which we were plucking weeds, began to scream, “I’m better than this! I’m better than this!” Complete hysterics, full meltdown. I turned away so he’d not see the smile oozing across my face. I wasn’t happy to see him upset: I was happy to learn I wasn’t alone.

When I’m tempted to break into a similar roar at work, I sometimes recall a scene from John Cheever’s The Wapshot Scandal in which a women heads to a state employment office in search of some men to hire to dig a ditch in her yard. Of the twenty or so men there looking for work, none accepts her job offer and she sees “as one of the facts of her life, her time, that standards of self-esteem had advanced to a point where no one was able to dig a hole.” I think of this and desire not to be one of these absurd layabouts. I think of this and feel better for several seconds on end.

Predators, Pervs, Skulks, and Scourges

September 2, 2010

Two days ago, as my girlfriend was letting herself into our apartment building, a man stole forward and grabbed her leg. She spun, screamed, and the pervert fell back, fell down onto the sidewalk, scrambled for his glasses and, under a hail of top-volume abuse, sprinted away. I wasn’t home to help. The police came, collected a description, and calmed her down. They left. No physical harm done, but it was a close call. If the attacker hadn’t lost his balance and his nerve, things could’ve gotten ugly in a life-changing, days-darker-forevermore kind of way.

I spend the majority of my waking life juggling fantastical and ludicrous thoughts, but the strain of irrationality that fevered my mind that evening was entirely new. I walked my dog and scanned pedestrians’ faces as if the leads to the case would flash like runes on their foreheads should the moonlight fall just so. I saw skulking figures and slowed to watch them skulk, skulking myself now, looking guilty myself, no doubt. Every time a police car passed my heart sank to see its back seat empty. I knew a search was futile, but so was sitting at home, it seemed. And so was being poor: A better man would have a car, would be glowering farther, scouring faster. A worse man would have on speed dial terrible people who were good at finding those who didn’t want to be found. We ate dinner and I considered how mediocrity opens one to attacks from above and below. My head was a stage featuring revenge fantasies in two acts. A festival of tough-guy dialogue, crunching cartilage, and the purest satisfaction. (My childhood friends, whenever jumped, randomly robbed, or the like, found relief in singling out for violence a member of the same race as those who’d wronged them, whenever this applied. Nothing in that for me. Never was. Sickening. Still, their voices held court for half a second, their sentiments joining ever so briefly the mad chorus of thoughts. I was desperate for satisfaction or, in the absence of satisfaction, some rough nugget of meaning.) In these moments, we entertain wild and revolting schemes before admitting to ourselves that there will be nothing like recompense coming our way.

Outside my apartment some neighbors–all of them in the know even before I was–drift by to chat, to cluck tongues. “It just goes to show you,” says one. I don’t know what she’s talking about but resist the urge to tell her so.  No one has learned anything, nothing has been revealed. From the experience we’ve distilled nothing we can use. We go inside.

If I were the editor of the neighborhood paper, I’d have run the following headline in the morning edition: “Humans Infest City. No End in Sight.” There would be no text but still we’d spend the rest of the day trying to forget the story.

A Scissors and Paste Man Robs the Rag and Bone Shop

August 26, 2010

When discussing future content for this blog with my execrable associate, M. Dangerfield, Esq., we often mull over the relative merits of content generated wholly by us and content appropriated from elsewhere and then hauled onstage like a shackled beast for readers to boo or revere. I’m sometimes reluctant to appropriate from other sites, to come to you with nothing but pockets a-bursting with what I’ve collected in my Internet travels: lots of links, lint, trumpery, bits of butcher’s twine, gewgaws, to say nothing of Band-aids what’ve lost their stick, doodads, dead beetles, half a robin’s bluer-than-thou eggshell, clouded baubles and too-cute curios. A flimflam man peddling day-old whim-whams. Weak.

But this is how it’s done now, no? Henceforth I will heed the words of the poet Michael Donaghy: “For me, all information is fair game. And Western civilization is a posh shop with the security cameras turned off.” I guess I knew this already, but sometimes it’s still nice to hear it from someone else.

The Power and the Glory

August 16, 2010

The uniformed officers blocked my path and wanted to know where I was going. I offered them some coordinates that had no known correlative on this earth and did so with a tongue as dry as jerky. A cop bade me my repeat my destination. Amazing the way he kept his cool while the moon scudded across a sky that appeared to have been inexpertly painted with cheap and still-wet acrylics. My sticky mouth voided some words divorced from all sense. Empty analogues. The police got a little familiar now and decided the contents of my pockets might help explain my point of view. Not the Friday I’d had in mind.

Years ago the contents of a friend’s pockets got him—and me by extension—out of just such a jam. The police had ordered us against a wall and there we stood, five of us with palms pressed to red brick like we aimed to support the structure or perhaps to topple it. An undercover in an Eagles jersey, hitherto engaged in spreading our belongings (wallets, cigarettes, Bic lighters) across the hood of his car, held aloft now a green plastic rosary.

“What’s this?” he asked. It dangled from his index finger under the streetlight.

“It was my grandmom’s,” replied my friend. “I always carry it.” Silence for three beats, long enough for some potent reverie, some searing scrap of memory, to put the officer off his mission.

“Get this shit off my car and get out of here,” said the cop. Those who’d been frisked silently stuffed their pockets. The cop had never gotten around to me, a lucky thing indeed. No reference-rich religious talismans in my pockets. Only the opposite. My heart’s hard drumming slowed. Wordlessly we went our way feeling like men pardoned, senses still sharp as cats’ from the adrenaline dumped into our systems. For entire minutes a mixture of shock and relief kept us from ribbing my friend about the rosary.

This Friday a folded paperback in my back pocket seemed to have had a similar cooling effect on the officers. Prior to its discovery I felt the decision to arrest or release me was coming down to a mental coin toss. Then the tenor of our chat changed. Maybe the appearance of a book convinced them I wasn’t a bloodthirsty marauder. Equally likely explanation: They weren’t feeling up to doing the paperwork that accompanies an arrest. Can’t know for sure. I was ordered off and off I went. A cool breeze slipped over the cracked window of the cab and lapped my sweaty forehead.

So, friends and followers, I urge you to carry on your person at all times some object which will vouch for your character when authorities get frisky: A sepia photograph of a deceased aunt, a coil of your sweet poodle’s coat, a monogrammed pocket watch stopped at 11:05, its hands raised in permanent surrender. Accessorize, you incorrigibles, accessorize.

Wanted: Patronage

August 5, 2010

I’d really thought that by this point in my life I’d be living comfortably under the auspices of a swanky but insecure benefactor who believed my presence lent his entourage a varied and rakish air.

Ideally, he’d set me up with a room in his mansion where I’d never want for food, drink, or the idle afternoon. Sometimes I’d fret away the odd hour deciding if the woman from the previous hazy night was the heiress to the Red Bull fortune who’d once admired how I pinched the end of my cigarette or just a random succubus come to harvest, but that’s what would pass for troubles in that house.

Our unspoken agreement would have me wordlessly letting on to his rich friends that I was a man who’d seen a thing or two in my day and to this end I’d perhaps get a jailhouse tattoo and plod across the lawn at dusk like a man inventorying his regrets. I’d not have to lie elaborately because his friends, wishing to appear worldly themselves, wouldn’t want to seem indecorous or overly interested by asking pointed questions. When drunk, one of the veteran hangers-on might coyly let slide something like, “Nobody could steal Basil’s car the way he’s got it rigged up. Well, except maybe Jack, right?”  And I’d stand, stretch, ask, “Who needs a drink?” and disappear into the halls before anyone could answer.

Up the stairs and onto my private balcony with the tipsy rich braying on the deck below me, my room that is not my room at my back, and overheard the stars so shimmering with mirth that they dust my hair and shoulders with their slow-falling pollen.


July 27, 2010

Animal Control removed 85 live dogs, two live cats, and two dead dogs from a row house in my neighborhood two weeks ago. (The dogs were Chihuahuas and, for variety’s sake, I suppose, some Chihuahua mixes.) The first time any neighbor caught a glimpse of an animal was when officers wearing Hazmat suits removed them from the dwelling. The stench, by all accounts, poisoned the air for a city block and had been doing so for the past year. The property has been condemned. The Director of Law Enforcement for the Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was quoted in the South Philly Review as saying, “Hoarding is a problem that affects not only animals, but people in every community in this country.”

My college girlfriend’s father was an avid reader of newspapers. Or planned to be. He collected them, formed them into piles and towers, into boulders and barricades as dense and gray as granite. No one in the family was allowed to touch them. Any day now he was going to bring himself up to speed. Until then, the papers carpeted the floor and swallowed the furniture, forming in turn a heretofore unknown strain of wobbly backless stools and quaking inky tables. I urged my girlfriend and her brothers to shape for him a throne made entirely of colorful comic sections. From there he could comfortably survey the fortress he’d built to keep at bay his nameless fear.

I suppose I should count myself lucky to have been spared the impulse to try to thwart despair using a sheer quantity of objects or creatures. Still, it must be nice to believe the next Chihuahua litter’s barking will succeed at last in keeping darkness off your doorstep. To be able to beat back one night’s depression with your 85th collectible vinyl toy, for example, must be a tempting prospect indeed for those susceptible to these avenues of relief. Even I can see the lure in placing my hopes upon the little guy as he stands mute, steadfast, and already doomed at the head of the ranks of his many failed forebears.


July 12, 2010

Opening an early Nabokov novel and catching him laying down weak lines is like opening the door to God’s house and catching him pawing himself listlessly before a cheval glass.  You tiptoe back the way you came, but the damage is done.

Clarion Call

July 8, 2010

A friend left a love of seven years for another. She left him a broken and sobbing man and she left him four cats which will be for him either sources of succor or of spirit-sapping acoustical tricks when their loud midnight mischief makes her upstairs studio sound momentarily peopled again.

She and her paramour are now living in a hotel or, rather, they are “holed up” in a hotel, which is how it’s put when there’s a furtive feel to the stay, when it smacks of narrow escape and pursuit and you’re placing the room’s keycard in a different pocket than the one holding those other keys you can never use again but will continue to carry for weeks, force of habit for now stronger than your faith in the viability of this new thing, “thing” being how it’s put when the life that awaits on the rented mattress and beyond is too blurry at the edges to call a “relationship” just yet. Holed up like two thieves fresh from a heist, brains a-boil with excitement over plunder they’ve not yet sat still long enough to appraise. It’s wild, this moment when you know you’re badly hurt but are still moving fast enough to stay just ahead of the pain beginning to branch and fork fiercely through your synapses.

Some of us decide it’s better to be decent than it is to be happy (and usually proceed to be neither decent nor happy). Not my friend, though.  She did all but run down pedestrians with her car in her race to put happiness in a chokehold. It’s the way to go. I once entered my living room and crumpled a girl to the floor with an announcement. Primal, unrestrained sobbing and rug-clawing fits of torment from my victim. I can still see it. The most brutal act I’ve ever committed and the deed which ushered in, eventually, the most happiness I’ve ever known. Decency, if it comes at all, comes later and in its own time. Until then, we hole up. We hole up and thank god for room service.

American Gankster

July 6, 2010

Came across this lil’ passage in Roddy Doyle’s Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. The narrator, a boy of ten, is talking about his favorite stores for shoplifting.

“The one in Raheny was great for robbing magazines…The women were saps: they thought that we wouldn’t be interested in women’s magazines and knitting magazines, so they put them on a rack right beside the door so they’d look nice in the window…I leaned in and grabbed five Women’s Weeklys. I brought them down the lane beside the new library and we tore them up.”

Occurs to me that I never once shoplifted a thing (though I did once skip out on a check at a Chinese restaurant). This now seems strange, this stubborn lawfulness; I’m looking back at my younger self and wondering if timidity stayed my sticky fingers or was I not perhaps spookily puritanical, the sort of deadly serious child who, upon waking in the morning, feels the sick, hot sluice of anxiety souring his stomach when he recalls he’d forgotten to say last night’s bedtime prayers. Somebody swipe some Pepto for that little wretch.

My childhood friends, meanwhile, saw to it that I was often the reluctant beneficiary of petty thefts, like when Matt noticed that a corner weed dealer, loath to keep his nickel bags on his person, instead kept them in an empty Doritos bag he’d tucked into a pile of litter. Doink! Done. Celebratory smoke just tastes better when it’s stolen, don’t you think? Nagging guilt? Some. Here, I took solace in the fact that we were merely layering illegalities, not creating some where none had existed. But these kids made me nervous. I warned them and when they broke into a catering hall and plundered bottles of booze and once a whole keg of beer, I harangued them until I’d had my fill of that and then got to tasting the goods.  They knew how to shut me up.

Then they robbed a house. I lost it. I was sick and angry. My friend, seeing the error of his ways, made amends: he gave me $40 and reminded me I’d be glad of that money next week when we’d be vacationing at his grandparents’ house at the Jersey shore.

Still, it was never my grabby mitt what did the taking. Lame. Makes me feel like I missed out on a time-honored childhood pastime. “But it’s not like you NEVER did anything rascally,” you point out. “You were just now telling about the time you dined and dashed from a Chinese restaurant and the owners gave chase through the alleyways?”

Erm, well, in truth, it was my friends who did that. I just stole their story.

Open Season

June 30, 2010

I run into my uncle at a family party. He’s a boat enthusiast, lifelong angler, proud hunter, licensed gun dealer, unrepentant repeat criminal, and hands-down the worst human being I know.

Have I ever discussed with my brother the prospect of purchasing a gun from my uncle and immediately testing the weapon’s close-range capabilities? Well. That’s a drastic thing to do. You can’t just do that. Dangerous. Not very sporting.

“So what?” my brother interrupts when we’ve again reached this point in the whiskey-fuelled discussion. “It’s not like he ever worries about the proper way to do things.” He’s right. I want to tell him that I want the same thing he wants.

“It would be cowardly and wrong,” I say flatly as if reading aloud a headline written in a language I can pronounce but can’t comprehend. “It’s not how things should be done.”

My uncle and I are leaning against either side of a doorway. Folks in the next room finish singing “Happy Birthday” and a baby begins spraying its cake with spit.

“Up my way they’re stocking these lakes,” he’s telling me. My uncle is the only person I like talking to at family functions. We hit it off. “But people know the routes now. They know the time so they’re out there with their rods while the trucks are backing in. The guy dumps the fish and they all go at it.” Claps from the kitchen where the baby has drowned the last candle. “Now, these fish are hungry. They have no chance. These guys are pulling them back out of that lake before the truck is even in gear.” He leans in for the next part. This, it seems, is not to be missed. “Fuckers were just scooping them out,” he said, “with nets.”

“This is disgusting,” I say. In the kitchen the baby brings a fist down on the high chair’s tray. Cameras flash, catch his cake-black smile. My uncle says,

“It’s worse than that.”

Precious Moments

June 28, 2010

Dots and dark slashes of dried blood smeared the sidewalk, a madman’s idea of Morse code spluttering from the shattered first-floor window to the top of the subway steps a block away. Instantly, I was jealous; this scatter plot proved that at least one bastard’s day, however squalid, however publicly painful, had a story inside it, a story, perhaps, about the time he learned something vital about himself.

“Innocence is a kind of insanity,” reflects Fowler in Graham Greene’s The Quiet American. Certain realities, particular avenues of thought, are closed to he of too-clean hands. I wonder if, more than any other, it’s this strain of insanity that most plagues my writing; I’ve committed too few offenses or just not enough of the right kind. My petty transgressions threw too weak a light, taught me nothing of myself, and what’s needed now to cure my near-complete ignorance of the human heart are a dozen grade-A screw-ups.

Otherwise, I’m in the same position as John Banville’s narrator in Ghosts: “…I did one thing while thinking another and in this welter of difference I did not know what I was. How then was I to be expected to know what others are, to imagine them so vividly as to make them quicken into a sort of life?”

Well, my justification for misbehavior contains quotes from a famous British writer and a naturally superior Irish one, which is a lot more than most wretches can boast.  I’ll have it folded in my back pocket should I one day need to read it to the transit police to explain how I came to be smiling–broadly, knowingly–and gumming up their subway seats with blood.

Cerebral Reckoning: “Tales of the Hasidim”

June 18, 2010

“A man who was afflicted with a terrible disease complained to Rabbi Israel that his suffering interfered with his learning and praying.  The Rabbi put his hand on his shoulder and said, ‘How do you know, friend, what is more pleasing to God, your studying or your suffering?'”

(Buber, Martin.  Tales of Hasidism, Vol. 2. New York:  Schocken Books, 1947)

The Hater Report #6

June 18, 2010

1)      Approximately 50 human heads were found in a box on a Southwest flight to Fort Worth, Texas.  Pretty bizarre, but not nearly as embarrassing as the time I got stopped at customs with a carry-on bag filled with dicks…don’t ask…it was a dark time:  (LINK)

 2)  Chimpanzees mourn their dead.  Big deal.  They also masturbate compulsively, drink their own pee, fling their feces, and eat each other.  Savages:  (LINK)

 3)  A Hong Kong company has created a working lightsaber.  It’s been dubbed “the most dangerous laser ever invented.”  Immediately following the company’s press release, windows shatter, cars overturn, the ground quakes, dams break, and buildings collapse as 260 million nerds simultaneously ejaculate in their mothers’ basements:  (LINK)

 4)  Lady Gaga stole her most recent hit single, “Alejandro,” directly from Ace of Base.  I’m not surprised at all given her penchant for petty larceny.  She already stole her face from Smigel, her body from Fraggle Rock, and her penis from Michael Jackson:  (LINK)

 5)  Republicans are out of control and bordering on the treasonous.  Obama has forced BP to pony up $20 billion to pay for their offenses against humanity.  Predictably, the GOP rears its ignorant head to slam the President.  What am I missing here?  Forcing BP to pay for its widespread destruction is a bad thing?  In what universe?  At this point, I’m willing to do anything to convince Rush Limbaugh to go back to banging underage prostitutes in the Dominican Republic:  (LINK)

Cerebral Reckoning: “The Gingerman”

June 17, 2010

“Must fight.  There are books that tell us that we must.  And also about the animals who gave up the ghost.  No fight.  They put a little word at the bottom of the page to tell you something.  EXTINCT.  To be avoided”

(Donleavy, J.P.  The Gingerman. Paris: Olympia Press, 1955, p.246)