Monday, March 23, 2009
Yes. It's been awhile. But don't despair. I am back now. Lay your head here, very close to my happy Pringle.
I've decided to stick to the direction my last entry was organically going. Since I have no (L)ife outside the subway - or really - let me rephrase that - there is only one ripe juicy part of my day and that takes place on the numbingly gray line. The L. The L. The L. The hipster the wannabe beatnick the twenty-something surprise. My train.
And so hence forth I will complete two reports per day: one in the morning; one in the evening.
The sole purpose of this report will be to make fun of you - the commuter; my colleague and my peer.
The one who bumps my arm, the one who possesses the breath I can't bare to smell but one more second, the fucking tree that doesn't fit in the subway car and the greasy wheel that somehow found its way up my ass. Your greasy wheel.
Monday, August 11, 2008
I should just only fucking talk about the subway since that is where all the bad shit in THE WORLD HAPPENS. I don't even want to read the news anymore because the only thing worse than warring nations is warring NYC commuters in the morning.
Today's mishap: A hasidic (spelling?) Jew with a four inch long skin tag on his neck decides to be that very last person that slips into the L train doors at the Bedford Avenue stop. In order to accomplish this task he grabs the man's shoulder next to me to wedge his mammoth body into the chamber and into my cock. Rather than shuffling himself in the center of the door with his back against it, which most humans prefer to do since it not only gives you a little room but also allows other people to not fall victim to your hot breath, he decides to fall on me for most of the trip to 1st Avenue. As most of you know, this sojourn through the dark tunnel is not a quick and easy feat.
In great frustration, I shove my Jack Spade between my cock and the Rabbi whilst rolling my eyes and acting super faggy as a sort of "fuck you"to the great Torah. With crazy batty eyes and another skin tag flapping along his eyelid, Rabbi starts muttering to me in Yiddish. As if.
At Union Square when I think I am finally going to be free, mother fucker decides to block the entire door so that I basically am unable to move. I am shoved, cursed at and spit on by the people trying to get out. Rabbi seems to blame me for this idiocy. After the crowd clears and I avoid stoning, I sit down. For the entire next stop I'm afraid to make eye contact with the crazy dreidel because I thought he was going to knife me for shoving my Jack Spade into his fat rotunudo abdomen. He also picked his nose (openly I may add graciously) the entire trek from US to 6th. I made it though. Mazel Tov to me.
Union Square update:Did anyonse see the freak who looked like a fairy tale witch and had numerous face piercings squeezing the plastic shark (that squeaked) into the faces of alarmed passers-by on this evening's commute home? I hated her too.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Subway Report. Last evening. I'm sweating I just left the gym and I look completely heinous and unfit to be classified as human being. I sit and I read On Beauty by the delectable Zadie Smith. In walks a foreign object with bright pink hair. She smells like sour onions and the air directs cheeks to spontaneously sag in disgust. Pink is accompanied by an albino male with long white hair and another girl who may be a lesbian but isn't nearly as grotesque as the other two. The discussion commences:
Less Hideous Girl: So I used to have all these piercings on my face and my dad paid me money to have them in less visual places.
Albino: Slides greasy hand on bar above my head and grunts
Pink: (in husky voice) How much?
Less Hideous Girl: Enough
Pink: (really smelling like onions now) My body piercings make me giggle when I'm on hallucinogenics.
Less Hideous Girl: (you can tell she wants to bite her own nipples off and make an O face)
Pink: I mean as an unemployed bartender I don't really give a fuck what I look like and I don't think people do either.
Albino: (lost in a Dr. Zizmor ad to the disappointment of his lady loves)
Pink: (trying to sound impressive) Yeah I had a mohawk when I was 13
Less Hideous Girl: (seat is dripping) wow
Pink: Yeah then I had dreadlocks all through high school
Less Hideous Girl: I always wanted dreadlocks you know that started with cornrows and then just like flowed out - but my job would like totally kill me.
Pink: I dig that
Albino: (re-reading the number to Dr. Zizmor) he grunts.
Pink: Hey! have you seen the ad for pubic hair dye? They have a color that is exactly my hair and it's called "fun." So I'm like fun (cough).
Albino: OMG that's so cool!
Pink: (Top of her lungs) - Too bad I don't have a carpet to match the draped. I should grow out my carpet.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Well it's been entirely too long hasn't it? Who am I kidding? No one is reading this. I've been spending way too much time complaining about all my corporate urban woes and the new pair of jeans I can't afford because I booked too many vacations this year.
After having several glasses of Pinot Grigio and arguing with myself for far too long about where my new step shelf should be in my far too tiny apartment, I decided there was no better time than to reconnect with my peers.
Ikea. Say it with me. I-KEEEE-Ah. It ends with relief. Or so that is the allusion that somehow permeates all of our minds right before we decide to take the annoying voyage to one of their may locations. Let's be honest - no one lives near an IKEA. They were brilliant enough to put them in several remote locations so the sheer act of traveling to one builds more anticipation than an adolescent game of seven minutes in heaven.
I fell victim to their game today. Oh yes. On the advice of my friend who is trying to refurbish his lovely studio (I still share an apartment because I'm into 'saving' - or because I'm a drunk and have to feed my habits, one no more valid than the other). So I log onto IKEA's website and or course it makes it sound so easy to get to each and every one of their locations. My friend and I decide that we will try the new hot location in Red Hook because there are like thirty five ways to get there and we were already in Brooklyn so how hard could it REALLY be, right?
I suggest the M train. M FOR MISTAKE of course. That shit don't run nowhere fast on the weekends. But then God came down and told us to try the water taxi downtown which happened to be the utter highlight of my day - I got to see Lady Liberty and sit with fat people for fifteen minutes each way which is a helluva lot more convenient than taking a shuttle from the Trash Authority to the Elizabeth location.
Anyway I'm all orgasmic at the thought of walking into this amusement park of a monstrosity and then once I walk in it hits me like a tons of bricks. I remember all about what Ikea's really like.
Ikea is sort of like the line to get to America from an obscure border. Everyone is shuffling around a bunch of junk and not sure where it ends. And everything is in Spanish which really adds a bit of foreign flare in a Scandinavian landscape. I go salon to salon only to realize that I am surrounded by trash. I hit the bedding section and feel like I just fucked someone with cheetos breath and tapered jeans. I go into the kitchen section and pick up forks that bend when I bite on them too hard. I pass the cafeteria and imagine the diarreah that will strike if I shove a slovic meatball into my gullet.
And so I walk and I walk and I walk, carrying this queer plastic yellow bag stuffed with a $2.49 scented candle and my bottled water, the previous of which I felt obligated to buy until I got to the fake plants with not-a-one thing in my goddamn bag.
To make matters worse, the person your with always finds something. So then you wait in line for six hours. And in my case run back to get beige curtains and trip over a two by four next to a bunk bed on the way (love ya b).
I fucking hate Ikea and there is a reason it sounds like an STD. The burning feeling before and after just ain't worth it son.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Well as you may have guessed, I am incredibly in touch with Mother Earth. I just bought Tom's All Natural Deodorant. I felt particularly orgasmic when I disposed of all my carcinogenic home cleaning products and replaced them with Seventh Generation, a company that through either genuine humility, sheer manipulation or a tricky combination of marketing genius, has convinced me that I am saving the planet with each seven dollar product I consume. I even now wipe my ass with recycled paper, which is apparently better for the pipes and the people that have to clean them.
Today, I even acquired a very fashionable Target tote to get my groceries instead of using plastic. OH, I even fucking brought a CNN mug to work at the risk of looking like an out version of Anderson Cooper. I mean, GOD I'm fucking GREEN.
To keep the momentum going, this weekend I embark on my fourth annual "camping" trip with my friends from high school, which in reality entails me sleeping in a garage with a goose down sleeping bag. Let's be fucking honest, no one is into having rocks between their discs or smelling like a piece of wood. Well, maybe some people are. I'm more of a concrete and lemonade kinda fella with manicured hands.
That said, I actually just got excited as I was packing up my Brooklyn Industries style pack. Why? Well, I guess there is something to be said for resigning one's self to sitting in the middle of nowhere at the base of a mountain, at the risk of being attacked by the cast of the Strangers or a bear. Shit, I might even drink a beer instead of a Pinot Grigio. What's more, I'll get to ride a QUAD.
Ahhhhh, I'm chewing on a piece of bark now.
Hopefully I'll return so I can continue to talk bullshit.
It has been clear over the last months that I have fully supported Ms. Clinton over Barack and his posse. With this morning's news of Hilary final admission of defeat however, I was forced to reassess the values that are a priority for me and my affiliation with a group of people that I believe in over another.
Though I am a bit shocked and sort of want to cut myself, I find myself already chanting "Yes We Can." Suddenly the goose bumps that I thought should have been racing up and down my forearms are actually there, because the room got a bit quieter.
Though the Democrats have shown remarkable idiocy throughout this primary process, it is essential that as a party we unite behind the individual that has emerged as the clear victor. So, even though we should have been safe and nominated John Edwards considering we are a nation of fat racists, here we are - attempting to elect an African American male in a country that, again, is filled with a lot of "ignant ass motha fuckas (myself obviously included)."
What makes this man so special though, and what is now so heir apparent, isn't his ability to spout rhetoric that connects with the inner ear drum of the masses, but instead the sheer difference in the level of passion behind Obama's supporters in contrast to the sound of the supporters rallying behind McCain. Let's be honest, those Republican cocksuckers were just chuckling while they got blowjobs from their Stepford Wives under their $500 tables.
People with any semblance of intellect want a change. And the people should want to dismantle a group of people who have silenced a nation for the sake of their own objectives. We're not that ridiculous. We know Obama is going to be in a position that doesn't warrant the easy initiation of any real policy change. But the people have shown that they think he is the man to do it. And so I too concede. I am on board. YES WE CAN SON.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Nothing tugs at my heart strings as heavily as the plight of a balding woman. Let's call our prototype Betty.
Female Pattern Baldness is one of the greater tragedies mankind has ever seen and a situation that I for one, feel severely compassionate toward. Why? Well for starters, Balding Betty's male counterpart is much, much sexier than she, and can rock a Bic'd head any day of the week (and still make the people swoon). Coupled with some fatigues that hug nicely around Bobby's Bob, an American Apparel T and a jazzy sneaker, we've got ourselves a winner in Balding Bob. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that Bob has it all over Ugly Betty, wouldn't you? Good. Now dry off your stool and keep reading.
Betty, are you all right honey?
Sure, Betty - your Theory dresses and your Christian Louboutin's might make you feel better temporarily, but at your core you continue to feel bitter, useless and depressed, as you should!
Nothing makes me sadder than the idea of you looking disappointedly at your reflection night after night, swollen eyed and solemn. I FEEL FOR YOU B.
When you flip your five strands of used-to-be luscious locks from side to side to catch the wind of yesteryear, what you're really catching is "poor-unfortunate-soul" looks from passers-by, who don't even care about your fat, disproportionate ass anymore. Boo. It used to look so good with hair I bet.
As you age Balding Betty and spend more and more time at your office, you'll realize that the little life you did have before your noggin needed SPF has dissipated into thin air, or into clumps on your designer pillowcase. Tear.
As you attempt and fail again to hang onto the remaining follicles of grease that lazily cling to your mal-shaped head in order to counterbalance your pock-marked skin, listen up. ALL HOPE IS NOT LOST.
There are a few options to brighten your day - not your sphere - your DAY! Get a hold of yourself - not your hair. Ok, enough with the stab em while they're down one liners.
a) You could employ the assistance of a lady wig - shit Beyonce rocks those better than
anybody don't she?
b) You could rock a GI JANE throwback (dyketastic), then you'll surely get railed by all the
boys you keep batting your eyelashes at like you're still nineteen and failing out of a college
far away from your sad suburban roots.
c) Or you can ROGAINE it. I know! I know it's so depressing. It just sounds so COARSE.
Think about it though. Nothing would make you happier than watching that hair sprout back at Chia Pet speed I bet.
So you see Betty, everything is going to be fine! You can still hang out with C list celebrities. You can still pretend that you have anything to offer the world at large. You can still resemble a woman even with your A cup ninnies and the imaginary pole lodged in your rectum!
So go out there, and shake what your Momma gave ya because you ARE YOU and Mommy always told us that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Go get em' girl!
Monday, May 5, 2008
Today a little local girl no older than nine decided to dance on the subway pole like a stripper. And the weirdest part about it was that she knew. She kept slapping her breastless chest and saying "look at my stuff."
At the risk of sounding like an unfortunate sicko, I'll stop here. I just really can't help but think that she "knew" a little too much about dancing, like maybe her mommy was a dancer with really saggy girls and bologna curtains for weeks.
Wait - now Tony from Dancing with the Stars is wearing Satin pajamas. Did they have a shortage in costuming this week?
Anyway, I wish they would hire local subway dancers to be on this show. This girl was good a la the cross eyed little girl in Union Square. You know the one. Her parents beat those buckets whilst she just shakes her shimmy and crosses her eyes. She's a sight.