Everything is wrong with me
Friday, July 30, 2004
Will Ferrell: genius
God, this is great.
I didn't catch John Kerry's speech last night, as I was busy drinking Guinness from 6pm until midnight last night. Good times.
Of course, after I left the bar at midnight, my friend Lara, who's going away party it was, made out with something like nine people in our group of friends, including my roommate Brian and her roommate Angela. Yes, Angela.
In addition, I missed Brian falling. Apparently he fell off the stage, and fell so hard that the band actually stopped playing. I spoke to him and he said he made no attempt to brace himself, and fell very, very hard.
My timing, as usual, was excellent.
Anyway, a quick response to an email about my post yesterday about John Edwards at the DNC. My buddy Greg writes about John Edwards and his husky wife:
I had to post this question to someone. Do u feel bad for Edwards b/c he looks like some suave, good-looking politician and u know all those younger, crazed Democrats would love to do him. Meanwhile his wife is built like a fullback. I mean last night she was wearing one of those women's suits that say, "Ok, there is a lot of chub under here but let's pretend I am just big-boned." I mean the lady obviously loves BBQ pork sandwiches. I just feel bad b/c Edwards is supposed to be the "young, good-looking, energetic side of the democratic ticket", but whenever I see his wife I just picture her walking into McDonald's and being like "I'll have four #7's a 20-piece chicken and three apple pies." But, man, her daughter is hot.It's true: she is a bear. Wednesday night was the first time I saw her, and I thought, "Is she going to announce that John Edwards can't speak because backstage she ate him, along with a giant pot of chili, a dozen balloons, a pair of scissors, and a car?"
But my man-crush on John Edwards makes me believe that he's too nice of a guy to care that his wife looks like a white, middle-aged woman version of Chubb Rock, and he loves her for giving him kids and happiness and you know, whatever else a wife gives.
A random sampling of songs you should really download:
- "Question" Old 97's
The best song about proposing ever. It just reminds me that I really need to marry the next girlfriend I get. I have the ring fund, the proposal speech, and a calling card to ask for her parents' blessing. So close, but not really.
- "Atomic" Blondie
Great song, which makes me wanna go back to those late 70's/early 80's days of glam, coke, and unprotected sex with girls with giant bushes.
- "Killing Floor" Jimi Hendrix
From the "BBC Sessions", probably the nastiest guitar intro ever.
- "Helpless" Neil Young
I used to hate Neil Young. However, last year I went to DC to record a demo with my buddy Mike Thompson (who is the most gifted musician I've ever worked with - I wished he'd just "do it" already), and my songwriting was compared to Neil Young (no lie), so I had to start liking him. However, my songwriting was also compared to Adam Sandler's on the same day of the Neil Young reference, so I guess it sort of evened out. Nevertheless, this song is pretty.
- "Instant Pleasure" Rufus Wainwright
I'm not sure if liking this song makes me gay or not, but to hell with it: I like Rufus Wainwright. And I like looking up pictures of penises on the internet. I don't care anymore.
- "She's Actin' Single (I'm Drinkin' Doubles)" Gary Stewart
Why country music rocks. His woman's a whore, so he's gonna get drunk. God bless America.
- "Getaway Car" Hall & Oates
Simply the greatest musical duo of all-time. Their latest hit makes me cry every time I hear it.
- "Mind Games" John Lennon
In college, we'd blast this song after any of the guys I lived with got in a fight with their girlfriends. For example, I'd be sitting in our common room with my roommate Bill Hansen, and we'd hear "Mind Games" blasting out of our roommate Joe's room. That would be Joe's way of making a joke about and letting us know he got in a fight with his girl. Joe's fights were typically like:
Girl: "Do you love me?"
Joe: "Yes, of course I do."
Girl: "Well I don't believe you."
Joe: "I'm telling you, I do."
Girl: "No, but do you love me?"
Joe: "I have to go."
Whereas mine were like:
Me: "I miss you."
Girl: "Yeah, I made out with two guys last night."
Me: [sullen, resigned] "Oh damn it."
Girl: "Yeah, everybody saw too."
Me: "Tell me at least they were at different points of the night?"
Girl: "No, at the same time. Well, like one right after another. Everyone was cheering."
Me: [sullen, resigned] "Oh damn it."
- I'm finally coming out of my recent Fleetwood Mac love affair, but a new cheesy band has taken a hold of me and refuses to let go: Chicago. For the neophyte, try "If You Leave Me Now", "Just You 'n' Me", and "Baby What a Big Surprise." I don't know if Peter Cetera is British, but if he is, he should be knighted. If he isn't, well, he should be knighted anyway.
For my money, it doesn't get better than my playlist of Peter Cetera/Chicago, Steve Winwood, Phil Collins, and Hall & Oates. It's a playlist that Jesus Christ Himself couldn't have crafted better, if Jesus Christ was a fan of cheesy but awesome music (last I heard, He was listening to a lot of Coldplay - how lame!).
I checked my site counter, which gives a list of words typed in to Google (or another search engine) that brought visitors to this site, and I noticed that someone typed in "jason mulgrew fat."
I mean, c'mon. You couldn't have searched "jason mulgrew blog" or "jason mulgrew wrong with me" or even just "jason mulgrew"? "Jason Mulgrew fat"? Not cool. Not cool at all.
Tonight, I'm going to a firm-sponsored open bar for all the legal assistants, welcoming the new legal assistants to the firm.
The problem: I'm no longer a legal assistant.
Still, the administration, knowing that I would have shown up at this open bar whether I got an invite or not, decided to avoid a scene and extend me an invitation.
Now I just have to explain to all the new legal assistants that I'm not actually a legal assistant, but my love of open bars brought me to the event, and no, it's not pathetic at all that I'm three years older than you, haven't worked in your department in a year, but came to get drunk anyway because it's free.
And screw you for judging me.
Dr. Semen, D.D.S.
This is why I hate going to the dentist.
I love the quote, "When I swallowed I tasted it, and it was semen...He told me it was cleaning solution."
I've been using that line since high school. It's gold baby, gold.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
There have been some great fucking emails recently (and props to me for such speedy replies).
The first comes from Lisa Gibertoni, who writes in response to my 7/22 post about "Little Red Corvette." She writes:
[T]he back-up singer who sings the "right into the ground" part of "Little Red Corvette" is a woman named Lisa Coleman. She joined The Revolution in 1980. In 1984 she brought in a friend, Wendy Melvoin, and Prince, Wendy and Lisa had a glittering, glamorous, productive manage a trois for the next two years.I don't know what Lisa does for a living - perhaps she is a Prince historian? - but she should definitely get a raise. I am astounded by the awesomeness of her email. Thank you Lisa for such an informative email, and now I finally have a name to go with such a beautiful voice.
Also, let's get married.
You don't have to answer now - just think about it. Please.
(But seriously, let's just do it. I guarantee my parents will love you, because, well, you're not a guy.)
I don't know really what to make of the next email, but it was received after midnight on a Tuesday. Matt Dudek writes:
I have been looking at your blog and I wan t [sic] to say it is fun stuff. I never scored except once in May and it didn't even last long cause I was drunk. I was wondering how you met the chicks you did score with. I know you wrote it hasn't happened lately, but it did happen. You must have done something right once. Should I just go to bars and get drunk and be very forward with chicks? Or go to bookstores and meet them there? Or any other suggestions? I'm fuckin drunk right now. I'm goning [sic] to go to bed.Wow - this one blew my mind. I mean, just, wow. Asking me for advice on "scoring" with women is like asking Michael Moore where the local WeightWatchers is, or like asking my Uncle Bill to teach you how to stop drinking, or like asking the Pope how to find the g-spot. However, I feel a certain responsibility to any man who gets drunk on a Tuesday night and sends an email to another man who he doesn't and who isn't very cool in real life, so I must respond.
Here's the thing about women: they love it when you treat them wrong (I wrote briefly about this on 7/2). No one really knows why, but studies have shown that it is true, so men have to learn to use this to our advantage. If you know this, and you approach them honestly, I think they'll sex you up right there in the bar. Here's what you say:
So listen, here's the deal. I want to buy you a drink. Then I'll buy you another and another. The whole time I will not offer much in the way of conversation, or be particularly fun to hang out with, or even be nice to your friends you introduce me to. This doesn't matter - we'll go home together. When we get to your place, we'll start hooking up, and I'll try to sleep with you three separate times. Each time, you'll say no. I'll leave in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye, and I won't call you the next day. Or the next. Or the next after that. Over time as I don't call, you will want me more. In fact, you will become obsessed with me, though all I did was get you drunk and try to fuck you.Matt, I guarantee that once you finish telling a girl that, she'll look you right in the eye, and say, "I am going to pull you into the street and fuck you like rabbit on cocaine."
Then, maybe a week or two later, I'll run into you again. You'll see me in the bar, and, having had a few, you'll throw yourself at me. We'll go home and sleep together. I'll leave abruptly, though this time I may wait until you wake up, as I will be pretty hungover. I won't call the next day, or the next, but I will call eventually, because now I know you put out. And this makes me happy.
The more I don't call, the more you'll want me. Eventually I'll call, and perhaps we'll go on a lame date, in which each of us won't have anything particular good to offer, a fact that will be mitigated by several martinis. We'll go home, and have sex.
Now we'll have a relationship. The calls will become more frequent, as will the sex. But as I spend more and more time with you, I'll learn more about you, and thus more ways I can take advantage of you. Perhaps you have a rich daddy who pays for your rent and other things. If that's the case, I'll ask to borrow money from you, which I have no intention of ever paying back. I may take your Miata, get drunk, and drive it into a pool, or a kindergarten class. This will be your fault.
Perhaps you had a bad daddy growing up. I'll make sure to take special care of you and always play the "good guy" role to a tee. Meanwhile, when we're out together with your friends and you head to the bathroom, I'll tell your friend Beth that her breasts look amazing and ask her to show them to me. Beth will be astonished at how much of a dick I am, and, of course, show them to me. They will not be as impressive as I had hoped.
I will keep being a dick, stealing and lying, and in no time you'll be in love with me. About this time, I will get bored of you, and decide to end it. I won't tell you that I think we should see other people; nay, I'll just keep fucking up until you dump me.
The problem is: you won't dump me, because you love me. My little fuck-ups will be forgiven, and I'll get frantic. In an effort to end the whole thing, I'll cheat on you. And you'll find out.
You will be very upset, and you may break up with me, but our relationship will be far from over. Odds are that we will have sex numerous times after we've "broken up", which is fine with me, because getting the sex without the boyfriend responsibilities is ok with me. I may beg you to take me back, and you might, and I will know that once you've taken me back after I've cheated on you, you've not only given me a "get out of jail free" card, you've pretty much given me license to do whatever I want.
Anyway you look at it, all I can offer you is dysfunction, unhappiness, and a sense that the time you've spent with me has been wasted. I'll do a great deal of damage to you so that many guys after me will struggle with it, and may even not be able to date you because of it.
That's my offer. What do you think?
One note, and this is important: this ONLY applies if you are good-looking. I can't stress this enough. It works even more as you increase the amount of gel you put in your hair, the number of times you visit the tanning salon, and the number of lat pull downs you can do. Also, if you're rich or in a band, you're golden - she may even acquiesce and allow you to live with her in a polygamous household.
If you're not good-looking, or not even rich or in a band, shit - I don't know what to tell you. Maybe you should start a blog and hope that some random girl emails you and says, "Jesus - stop your whining. Come on over - I'll let you touch my boobies."
Finally, the last email is not related to the site, but comes from my friend Corinne Cummings. Corinne is hilarious and it makes me sad that we don't see each other more.
Corinne is trying to get my roommates and I to come out to a barbeque at her place in Brooklyn. The problem is that I made a promise that I'd never go back to Brooklyn again. I'm not a "Manhattan snob", and I don't have anything against Brooklyn, it's just that I lived in Brooklyn during the worst year of my life, age 22 (July 2001 - July 2002). Brooklyn was a part of the reason why that year sucked, but not the only reason: I had that post-college let-down/taste of the real world; I hated my job and since I just started working I didn't have any money; I pined away the whole year for a long-distance girlfriend who would eventually move to the city and dump me just a few weeks after doing so; and, oh yeah, I lived a $25 cab ride/one hour-plus subway ride from Manhattan.
When I told Corinne that I'd love to come but I couldn't because I'd never go to Brooklyn again (and that I speak for my roommate Ben), she responded, "I’ve never met boys that were so difficult to have fun with. You’re basically girls. Really unattractive girls at that."
I'm sorry Corinne. Hopefully putting your name on this site, knowing that it's read by my readership of twenty-eight people, you'll forgive me.
If not, well, I tried.
huge ass fucking bookshelf
I am writing this post for the sole purpose of excoriating my friend Jocelyn, who is now in Budapest, away from such modern amenities as email and anti-perspirant and thus can't defend herself.
The situation: Jason needs a bookshelf. Jocelyn's friend's boyfriend moved Tokyo and did not take his bookshelf. Jason can have the bookshelf for free if he wants, all he has to do is pick it up. Jason does want.
Jason: "Is the bookshelf heavy?"
Jocelyn: "No, it's not very heavy."
Jason: "How big is it?"
Jocelyn: "It's big."
Jason: "Is it bigger than you [Jocelyn is approximately 5'5"]?"
Jocelyn: "Yeah, it's bigger than me."
Jason: "Ok, I'll take it."
I enlisted the help of my friend Kyle, who has a jeep, to drive me from my apartment at 95th & 3rd across town to 47th & 9th to the apartment of the girl now living in the apartment of the boyfriend who went to Tokyo (are you with me?), who has the bookshelf.
After being buzzed in and walking up to the fifth floor, Kyle and I were greeted by Katie who showed us the bookshelf.
To put it mildly, the bookshelf was probably the largest bookshelf ever assembled in the Western Hemisphere. It nearly touched the ceiling, and when measured was nine feet tall. Simply fucking gigantic.
The result: Kyle and I could barely get it out of the apartment, making several dents in Katie's hallway while attempting to do so, and it didn't fit in Kyle's jeep, making it impossible for us to properly close the hatchback of the jeep. Quick thinkers that we are, we devised a contraption made of a shoelace and plastic bag which held Kyle's jeep hatch closed just enough for us to drive through midtown Manhattan at 8pm, amidst honks and yells of cab drivers in languages originating either in the West Indies or the subcontinent of India. Needless to say, it was a miserable experience.
The point: Jocelyn, you could have given a little more detail than just telling me the bookshelf was bigger than you. I mean, it was TWICE the size of you. Because of this lack of communication, my fat ass had to sit all crouched-up in the back of a jeep, steadying a bookshelf with one hand, and holding a fucking shoelace tied to a door in the other.
I mean, damn it. C'mon - I am WAY too fat for that kinda shit.
oh those crazy Democrats!
"When you came home from work two Wednesdays ago, and caught your newlywed wife blowing your brother in your garage while your dad masturbated and filmed the whole thing with the digital camcorder he gave you as a wedding gift two months ago, know that...
HOPE IS ON THE WAY
When you went to Cambodia last year on business, had sex with a 15 year-old prostitute and got chlamydia, and passed the STD on to your fiancée who has now broken off your engagement, tell her...
HOPE IS ON THE WAY
When you went to work last month, and your boss caught you doing cocaine at your desk and wouldn't accept your explanation that "The coffee machine was broken" and fired you on the spot, tell him...
HOPE IS ON THE WAY
When you took too many sleeping pills, but then got hungry and decided to drive to Wendy's to get a Frosty and two Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers, but en route you hit two kids with your car, freaked out, and sped away, and since then you've been holed up in a Red Roof Inn outside of Wilmington, Delaware, living only on methamphetamines, skittles and Coke 2, remember...
HOPE IS ON THE WAY"
I consider myself fairly political, but I usually don't like to watch the conventions. This is because these things are just a bunch of crazy people who care WAY too much about politics and probably have never tried to steal a lawn chair from Target (if I knew anyone was watching, I wouldn't have done it, ass) standing around, yelling about how awesome their party is, and rah-rah-rah, and blah blah blah. However, I usually tune in when the candidates speak, and I caught (95% of) John Edwards' speech last night.
First, my friend is also named John Edwards. I have known John for about four or five years now, and it only occurred to me last night that he has the same name as the vice-presidential candidate. I guess this means I should probably stop taking that generic Xanax I was given to ease my fear of flying six months ago. While I'm at it, I should probably start working out again, because I think I'm getting stretch marks on my stomach (hard to say though - there's a whole lot of hair in the area).
[It's such a weird thing, having the same name as a famous person. Especially when, when you were born and named, that person wasn't yet famous. I went to high school with a kid named Michael Jordan (I swear). Imagine, you're trolling along in life, doing just fine, then some guy with your name starts tearing it up at UNC, goes pro, and becomes the biggest sports icon of our generation. I mean, how do you handle that?]
Anyway, I liked Edwards' speech, and think he's a pretty charismatic guy, as opposed to John Kerry, who is, well, less than charismatic. Many of friends have said things like, "I like Kerry better than Bush, but I don't know...Kerry seems kinda [stodgy, boring, half-dead]."
Sure, Kerry is no JFK or WJ Clinton, but c'mon - does a guy need to be "cool" to be president? For god's sake, the man is running for leader of the free world, not pledging for your fraternity or trying to get on your work softball team! As far as I'm concerned, a president needs to be smart, have integrity, and, most importantly, make it easier for me to get laid. Kerry has all these things, except for maybe that last one, but he gets some points because we all know that liberal chicks are WAY more attractive than conservative women.
But Edwards certainly delivered, standing up there all handsome and gentlemanly, promising us that they'll no longer be two Americas, that he and John Kerry will be even tougher on terrorists, that there will be no mo' tax breaks for corporations that out-source jobs, etc etc etc.
However the speech was pretty much what I expected. What I'm really looking forward to is the vice-presidential debates. Can't you just see it now? Edwards, all tan and fit (and yes, I do have a man-crush on him), standing opposite a pale and flabby Dick Cheney (blood pressure: 240/150, cholesterol level: 330), who's eating a Reuben and yelling "Fuck you!" to everyone within earshot. Now that is going to be a good time.
I should wrap it up, so let's break-down:
The speech: good, but expected
Cheney: loves Reubens
Edwards' daughter: I'd totally do her
[My apologies for my lack of posting yesterday. At about noon, I got hit with a project that make my head spin. Fortunately, by the end of the day I was able to turn out a sub par but sufficient product. I promise to post like 40 times today.]
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Anybody wanna bet me that Courtney Love doesn't complete her rehab?
I mean, she has to be sober for 18 months? That's like telling me I can't take pictures of guys in the gym locker room with my camera phone for two whole weeks.
Meaning, it just can't happen.
Hang in there sister. The worst thing they can do is take your kid from you. Which would probably be the best thing to ever happen to that kid, who will almost certainly be appearing in a youth detention facility talent show near you in the very near future.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
It's becoming more and more obvious to me that someday, probably sometime soon, either my parents or my co-workers are going to find this site.
And that's ok with me. I've never really understood the whole point of blogging anonymously (god, I HATE the word "blog" and all its variations), but you should probably ask me if I understand this after I've been fired and I'm begging you people to send me cash, non-perishable food items, and cases and cases of condoms. Or after my dad stops speaking to me and my mom has a heart attack because she can't believe her golden-boy son, who once placed 7th in the Philadelphia City Spelling Bee and loved the New Kids on the Block with all his heart (his favorite: Danny), now writes about handjobs on the internet.
But really, what's the point? Is blogging anonymously the corporate drone's only way of living out his Batman/Bruce Wayne fantasy? Why not just sack up and say, "Hey - this is me. I know that most of my posts make fun of retarded people and how I don't get laid, but you know what? That's what consumes my mind eighteen hours a day."
I've actually told my parents that I have a site, just not this site.
Me: "Dad, here's the deal - I've sort of become an internet quasi-celebrity."
Dad: [smoking two cigarettes at once, checking over his tattoos, surprised] "What the hell does that mean?"
Me: "Well, I, uh, don't know exactly. But I have a website that a lot of people read."
Dad: "Do you get any money from it?"
Me: "Well, no."
Dad: "So what's the point?"
Me: "Well, like I said, I'm becoming more and more famous."
Dad: "Famous? Come on - you're not famous. Sylvester Stallone is famous. Bruce Willis is famous. You're not famous."
Me: [silent, looking really confused, not really knowing how to respond to that]
Dad: [lighting two more cigarettes] "Besides, what's the point of being famous if you're not making any money?"
Me: "Yeah, look, that's not the point. I'm telling you this as sort of a heads up. It's not a site that you want your friends to see because, well, it's like a lot of bathroom humor."
Dad: "What do I care? I don't check the internet. Talk to me about this again when you're actually making money."
Me: "Um, ok."
Me: "Mom, I have a website, and a lot of people read it."
Mom: "Oooh - what's the address?"
Me: "I can't give it to you - you wouldn't like it."
Mom: "I bet Grandmom would like it, and I can send it to Aunt Lynn too."
Me: "No mom, you can't. It's vulgar."
Mom: [suddenly very saddened and confused] "Why would you have a vulgar website?"
Me: "It's not like I started the site to be vulgar; it's just my sense of humor."
Mom: "What's so funny about being vulgar?"
Me: "Mom, I don't know. I'm just telling you this because some people in the neighborhood read it, and it might get back to you, and I wanted to tell you myself."
Mom: "You don't talk about me, do you?"
Me: "Of course not."
So Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. But, let's be honest - this is really all your fault. And hey - at least I have a good job, and I'm not gay (mostly)! Isn't that all you can really ask for?
As for my co-workers, well, I'm more concerned about them then my parents. The worst my parents can do after finding this site is stop loving me (whatever); my co-workers can ruin my life by sending this to my superiors and getting my ass canned, which, since I have no money saved because of a small alcohol problem, would result in me being homeless in about three weeks.
Come to think of it, I don't think there's any specific reason I'd get fired. Sure, I write at work, but only on breaks (and by "breaks" I mean anytime between 9:30am and 5:30pm). I don't mention anything specific or confidential about my job, so I'm ok there. And I still manage to take care of everything pretty well as far as my work responsibilities. So I guess getting fired isn't main concern. Having to deal with co-workers that know I write about beating up homeless people is.
So if any of my co-workers stumble on this site: please don't tell me. Let's just pretend that you don't know about it, and think of me as the guy who makes personal calls all day long, smoke cigarettes at his desk, rarely wears a shirt, and one time didn't show up for a week and a half, only to come back to the office bleeding from his gums and yelling at people, "What? Like you're fucking perfect? Bunch of assholes!"
Monday, July 26, 2004
paging Dr. Kinsey...
I went to St. Joseph's Prep, an all-boys private Jesuit high school in scenic (read: poverty-stricken) North Philadelphia. When I tell my friends this, many of them have the same reaction, "Ugh - you went to an all-guys high school? That must've sucked."
The truth is that it didn't. It was, and I say this with a nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality (save for a couple of Spring Break "How do you know you don't like it if you've never tried it?" incidents), really awesome. Going to school with only guys allowed us unlimited freedom for personal development without having to worry about how we appeared to the opposite sex. We took advantage of this by farting, burping, talking about pubes all day, and by "sacking" people (a game in which a larger man will put his scrotum on a smaller, unsuspecting man).
Being a single-sex school was particularly advantageous in the last quarters of both freshman and sophomore years in religion class. This is when we were taught sex education.
I look back at those days of being taught sex ed and they were some of the funniest times I've ever had. I don't need to get too into detail but suffice it to say that freshman year we learned about the "plumbing" (i.e. overhead projections of vulvas welcomed with high fives, videos of "the miracle of life" responded to with cheers and applause, the useful terms "vas deferens" and "smegma", etc), whereas sophomore year we learned about the physiological elements of sex.
It was this year that we learned about something that blew us away and changed the way we spoke to each other: the Kinsey Scale.
The Kinsey Scale was developed in the late 1940's and early 1950's by Dr. Alfred Kinsey and his colleagues. The Kinsey Scale is, in effect, a measure of sexual preference or orientation. It breaks down thusly:
0 - exclusively heterosexual
1 - predominantly heterosexual, incidentally homosexual
2 - predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual
3 - equally heterosexual and homosexual
4 - predominantly homosexual, but more than incidentally heterosexual
5 - predominantly homosexual, incidentally heterosexual
6 - exclusively homosexual
What Kinsey discovered is that few people (less than 4%) are either exclusively straight ("0") or exclusively gay ("6").
This blew our minds. Within three minutes, we were breaking each other's balls:
Me: "Rawls, you're at least a 2, possibly a 3."
Rawls: "Dude, if I'm a 3, you've got to be like a 7."
Me: "It only goes up to 6, ass."
Rawls: "Well, that's only because Kinsey didn't study you, dick. If he did, 6 would be 'exclusively homosexual,' and 7 would be 'Mulgrew.'"
To make sure everyone understands the Kinsey Scale, here are some examples straight from Dr. Kinsey's research (men are the subject of the following examples):
- Your straight buddy wearing a pink shirt to work
Kinsey Scale: 1
- Your straight buddy wearing a pink shirt to a club that plays only Wham, then giving another man a handjob in a nearby Pontiac
Kinsey Scale: 5
- Being very good at fixing cars
Kinsey Scale: 0
- Banging two strippers while fixing a car, grilling some barbeque, drinking Bud out of a 16 oz can, and having a conversation about the development of the offensive line of the Detroit Lions over the past five years
Kinsey Scale: -3
- Confessing to your buddy that one time, when you were wasted, you kissed him on the arm when he was asleep
Kinsey Scale: 3
- Your buddy responding that, not only was he conscious and appreciative when you kissed his arm, but also that last year for Halloween when he dressed up as Blondie he did it to impress you, because he knows how much you love Blondie
Kinsey Scale: 6
- Your roommate liking the song "Material Girl"
Kinsey Scale: 1.5
- Your roommate singing "Material Girl" into his hairbrush while dancing around all nancy-like in his tighty-whities
Kinsey Scale: Like, 20
- Getting into a fist-fight over a girl
Kinsey Scale: 0
- Getting into a fist-fight over a girl who has a penis
Kinsey Scale: 4
So I invite you to study the Kinsey Scale and the examples, and arbitrarily assign numbers to your friends. I, for example, am apparently a 1.8. My roommate Ben, because of his love of romantic comedies and the fact that he cries about love every night, is a 2.1. My roommate Brian, though once a wrestler, smokes a lot of cigarettes and listens to a lot of Led Zeppelin, so he's only a 1.4.
Those of you who haven't received emails from me telling you what I think your number is will be getting them shortly. And Brendan, you picked the wrong day to call me to suggest "learning a Jethro Tull song so we can jam out on it."
Kinsey Scale: 2.7
Katz's, the murder of attractive women, and an uncontrollable fear of fish
After a disastrous weekend (to my liver and self-esteem) last weekend, I took it easy this weekend. I battled through the rain on Friday night for the sake of boozing with friends I barely like and spent $40 on cabs, traveling from the Upper East Side, to Wall Street, to Washington Square Park, then back to the Upper East Side (have I mentioned that I hate living in the Upper East Side?).
To give you an idea of what a low-key weekend it was, the highlight of the weekend had to be on Sunday, when I traveled back to my old neighborhood, the Lower East Side/Soho area, and spent the day walking around and weeping about what I left behind (cool bars, good restaurants, hot hipster chicks, most of my friends) and what I have now (lots of people with little dogs, lots of pregnant women, Spanish Harlem).
The culmination was when I went to Katz's deli and lost it, dropping to my knees outside the deli, raising my hands in the air, screaming, "I'm sorry" with tears running down my face, my howls of agony muffled intermittently by taking mouthfuls of the pastrami sandwich (with Swiss and mustard) I had in my left hand and the hot dog I had in my right.
God, Katz's is really fucking good.
How is it that I can't get a fucking girlfriend but there are men murdering their attractive wives all over the country? First, it was Laci Peterson getting offed by her husband. Now it's Lori Hacking, who is also pretty damn good-looking. Now, having personally been through the justice system many times (both in the US and in Guatemala), I'm all for "innocent until proven guilty." But c'mon - this guy did it. He lies to his whole family (and his wife) about getting into med school in NC when he didn't graduate college. He bought a mattress forty-five minutes before reporting his wife missing. And shortly after the incident police found him naked running around a motel and put him in a mental hospital (and I only got a fine). I work at a law firm, I know a lot of lawyers, I dated a girl who went to law school (for a year, but still, she went) and I want to sleep with three girls I know who are now in law school, so I feel that I am totally qualified to say: this guy is guilty.
Still, attractive women are marrying men who later kill them, and I can't get a girlfriend. Shit, I can't even get a girl to make out with me just once, even after spending $40 on Long Island Ice Teas and a couple of Kamikaze shots. I thought women were supposed to be perceptive...can't you tell whether or not the guy's going to kill you by the third date? I think that women everywhere should re-evaluate their dating and evaluation processes. In addition to asking yourself, "Will this man provide for me and our children?" and "What kind of father will this man be?", you should also ask yourself, "Will this man murder me when I get pregnant?" If the answer is "Oh, lord yes" or even "probably not" or "I don't think so", just stay away.
All the ladies out there reading (all three of them: my sister and my friends Annie and Nicole), I promise you that I will not murder you if we get married. Well, unless you cheat on me. Or if you tell any of my friends that you want to sleep with them. Or if you gain too much weight. But as long as you stay away from those three conditions, we should have a marginally happy marriage. So email me already.
It's Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, also known as the Week Jason Can't Sleep at All Because of Terrifying Shark Nightmares, or the Week Jason Asks His Roommates If They Can Put Their Mattresses in the Living Room and All Sleep There, or the Week That Confirms That Jason Is a Total Pussy.
Of all my phobias (fat-free foods, naked women, the Dutch), sharks and the ocean in general is definitely my biggest. True story: when I was a kid and first saw "Jaws", I was so terrified that I actually ate at the dinner table with a wiffle ball bat for the next few months. You know, in case a shark decided to come through the dining room floor and eat my legs, I could beat him off with the wiffle ball bat (c'mon - I was like 5 at the time).
But to this day I am scared shitless of the ocean. This works to my advantage in one major way: being afraid of the ocean means not going in the ocean, which means one less opportunity for me to be shirtless in public. Nice.
I'm going to my cousin's wedding in the Bahamas next week and my buddy emailed me asking if I wanted to go deep sea fishing. Um, thanks, but no thanks. I'll sit by the pool, get a nice, deep sunburn, drink 30 pina coladas, and embarrass my family. But let me know how that fishing goes.
Friday, July 23, 2004
I woke up this morning, saw that it was raining and miserable out, and called in sick.
I woke up again at noon, order and ate a "LumberjacK" breakfast (eating the whole thing without stopping to breathe), had a quart of chocolate milk, and went back to bed.
I just woke up again at 2:15.
So, um, what are you doing?
[By the way, I was kidding about the Piazza being openly gay thing. Jesus christ - it's a joke. I guess it's hard to pick up on sarcasm on the internet. Sheesh.]
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Mike Piazza: more than just another gay baseball player
I had to share this with y'all. I didn't think it was true, but my friend Brendan pointed out that it's corroborated on IMDB.com.
So Mike Piazza, in addition to being the first openly gay major leaguer, also starred in Teen Wolf. That's some pretty interesting shit to put on the resume right there.
A few things:
Last night, after getting pizza (one slice plain, one slice pepperoni, one slice sausage - because I'm on a diet), I was walking out of the pizza place and who pulls up on a bike right next to me? Why, Judge Reinhold of course! Star of such films as Beverly Hills Cop and the incredibly entertaining and socially important Vice Versa, probably the greatest movie ever, he was apparently going for a quick ride around the Upper East Side and got parched and decided to grab a drink. Definitely my weirdest celebrity sighting in NYC, far surpassing the time I walked past Coolio in mid-town.
Also, last night I watched about five minutes of "Simple Life 2" and about two minutes of that show with Method Man and Redman and I couldn't take any more. If you haven't scene the "Simple Life 2", repeat the following scene for a whole season:
Nicole Richie: "I'm a dumb, crude whore who is doing a terrific job of embarrassing my family."
Paris Hilton: [mindlessly giggling] "Man, I wish I was blowing a guy in night vision right now."
As for the Meth and Redman show, imagine every stereotypical black joke you can think of, then put that into the context of the stereotypical rich white neighborhood. And, um, that's it. What do you get? Thirty minutes of crap. After two minutes I had to turn it off, because I started throwing up everywhere. Sure, that may be because we ran out of ice cream so I ate a quart of semi-frozen heavy cream, but I'm not qualified to make that determination.
A hastily put together list of women whose singing in particular songs really turns me on (in no particular order):
- Mya in "Ghetto Superstar"
- Tiffany growling "Into the night" in "I Think We're Alone Now"
- Everything Alison Krauss sings, but in particular when she sings "Stay with me 'til time turns over" in Phish's "If I Could I Would"
- The girl who sings "Right into the ground" over and over at the end of Prince's "Little Red Corvette" (can someone tell me who this is? please?)
From the "I Never Admit I'm Wrong" File - I admit, I'm wrong. Moving to the Upper East Side was a HUGE (notice the caps) mistake. I don't know what's worse: the hour long commutes, the lack of any sort of nightlife, the fact that I have no friends who live above 29th Street (and a $15 cab ride), or the fact that my building is filled with beautiful women that I can not only not talk to, but can't even get to return a smile (in fairness, my "smile" is actually me rubbing my chest and licking my lips, but c'mon - does it hurt to be friendly?).
Today was the first morning commute that actually got me to work on time (the first since 6/1). My roommate Ben and I had this exchange after the "only" 40 minute train rides (read from the bottom):
From: Mulgrew, Jason
Sent: Thursday, July 22, 2004 11:16 AM
To: Luce, Benjamin
Subject: RE: hey
No. Faith is for the hopeless and dumb people.
From: Luce, Benjamin
Sent: Thursday, July 22, 2004 11:16 AM
To: Mulgrew, JasonSubject:
It's going to get better. Have faith.
From: Mulgrew, Jason
Sent: Thursday, July 22, 2004 11:15 AM
To: Luce, Benjamin
Subject: RE: hey
first time on time since we've moved.
seriously, what a mistake. good lord. i HATE it.
From: Luce, Benjamin
Sent: Thursday, July 22, 2004 10:39 AM
To: Mulgrew, Jason
Pretty good commute today huh?
[So that about sums up my feelings. God damn it.]
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
most unglorious Wednesday
Ah, Wednesday - hump day. The day that means you're one day away from Thursday, but just far enough away from the weekend that you get so pissed off you start wishing that you would come down with some contagious disease that would get you out of work, but the disease wouldn't make you so sick that you couldn't drink beer or take drugs, and also the disease somehow made you much more attractive to women, particularly women of Asian descent, particularly women of Asian descent with gigantic fake breasts, so attractive to them that you'd have so much sex over the next few days that you would throw out all your porn, most of which you are sick of anyway, because you are having so much sex with hot Asian ladies with big boobies, when, let's face it, you're barely healthy enough for sexual activity anyway and per doctor's orders you shouldn't be having so much sex to begin with.
I don't know where that came from, but anyway - it's Wednesday. And I've got nothing. Absolutely nothing. But, since if I were to skip a day I would probably be stoned to death (which is not a reflection on the fact that you all in any way need to read what I have to say about my body hair, lack of sexual activity, and masturbatory habits, but rather an indication of how bored you all are too at your places of employment, so bored that you would in fact take a life via stoning), I'll force it. Because I love you. And yes, in that way. Don't play dumb - you know what I'm talking about. So here goes:
The Onion has really pissed me off lately. Once a guaranteed good laugh, and more importantly a guaranteed good laugh for free, The Onion has gone corporate and now has Onion Premium. For $30, you get access to the archives and the ability to read the site 18 hours before everyone else does. Wow - where do I sign up? How about I give you an extra $100 for the herpes virus? Or how about $200 for me to lay in the middle of the road while you run over my mid-section with your car? Sure, you also get to read special "columnist homepages", but c'mon - those are by far the weakest parts of the site.
Also, in an opportunity to increase space for advertising, The Onion (god I'm getting sick of italicizing that every fucking time) has become less user-friendly and more "click-thru." The "News in Brief" section, which was formerly displayed on the homepage, now needs to be clicked-thru to, thus giving the powers-that-be at The Onion more ad space to sell. Sons of bitches.
But most difficult for me to accept is not the new cost, or the shorter free material, or the new click-thru articles, but the fact that they no longer offer a "text version" of the articles, which allowed so many of us to print out the articles without all the pictures and ads and read them on the can.
This one hurts. Part of my Wednesday ritual was printing out some stories from The Onion, heading to the bathroom, and seeing how long I could sit there before I lost all feeling in my legs. But damn them - they've sold out, and left me reading The New York Times (wtf?) on the toilet.
Just something that I thought needed to be addressed, because many of my friends have been discussing it.
I believe, in my heart of hearts, more than anything else in the world, that my roommates and I have downloaded every last free piece of pornography on the internet. There is simply nothing left. I feel worst of all for my roommate Brian. Currently in between jobs, he's spending a lot of time home alone, searching for new and exciting pornography on the internet, but there's just nothing. The other day I came home from work and heard him softly weeping at Ben's computer, his head in his hands, his penis out, saddened by the lack of new porn. Poor bastard.
Ten songs that I like that probably means that I am gay:
- "Building a Mystery" Sara McLachlan
- "Lost In Your Eyes" Debbie Gibson
- "Truly Madly Deeply" Savage Garden
- "Save the Best for Last" Vanessa Williams
- "How Will I Know" Whitney "Gimme Some Pills" Houston
- "I'm Your Man" Wham
- "You're the Inspiration"/"Glory of Love" Peter Cetera
- "Soldier of Love" Donny Osmond
- "We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off" Jermaine Stewart
- "Kiss the Girl" Little Mermaid
Man I wish the above wasn't true, but unfortunately all of those songs were taken from my I-Pod. Please don't think less of me.
Also, I love anything that the Spice Girls, Abba, and Erasure have ever done, are doing, and will ever do.
Actually, looking at that list reminds me of when a girl I was dating in college one year for my birthday got me two cd's - Wham and Queen.
Needless to say, we broke up. She broke it off, and I still don't know why. Hmmm....
I'm really feeling like I want to move to LA. I get this every so often - I'll think about the weather out there, the women, the weather, and for about three weeks I'll seriously think that I want to move out there. But then I realize that all that sunshine and warm weather means one thing: many, many opportunities to be shirtless in public. So no thanks. But if anyone has a place out there that I can crash at, I'd be more than happy to come eat all your food, use all your toilet paper, run up a huge phone bill, smoke all your dope, and watch you sleep.
Tomorrow we're actually going to learn something, and then immediately use it to make fun of our friends. After all, what is knowledge if you can't use it to put down those you care about?
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
guitars or music or whatever
This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard, but it provides me with a good segue for what I what I was planning on writing about today.
I play guitar. I've played guitar for the past eleven (geez - eleven?) years. There's one thing that you must learn very early on in your playing in order to become a successful and talented musician: you must learn to hate all other guitar players.
Though I'm not a successful or talented musician, or able to bench press 100 pounds, or able to tell if a woman I'm making love to is enjoying herself or in intense pain or unconscious, I hate other guitar players. On my list of things I hate, it's:
1) Iggy's Keltic Lounge
2) Guitar players
3) Everyone from south of the equator
4) That fucking guy at Zesty's who keeps giving me shit when I ask for double sausage on my slice
5) Any woman who has rejected me
6) Kiss (the band)
7) Half my family
8) 75% of my friends
9) All my ex-girlfriends
10) The homeless
This hate for other guitarists was cultivated from a young age. In high school when I started playing, I lagged behind many of the guitarists I was friends with, because I was too poor (quick - get the violins) to take lessons. In addition to not having the money to take lessons, I lacked the ambition to practice or even try at all to become a better player. The result is that years later I blame my parents for being poor and thus not sending me to lessons. Surely, if I had had lessons, and a desire to actually learn to play the instrument, I would be a member of the Rolling Stones by now.
Much like sexual intercourse, I was not ideally equipped to play the guitar. However, unlike sexual intercourse, over time I learned to adapt and become a better performer. My sausage-link fingers, which at first had trouble positioning themselves into even the simplest of chords, slowly grew into long, pervert-like tentacles that can now not only easily move about the guitar, but are also perfect for inappropriately touching exotic dancers and unsuspecting passed-out drunk girls on the subway. My girlie wrist, which quickly grew tired of holding barre chords in place, would soon grow to be strong and competent, thanks to excessive (and clinically-diagnosed deviant) masturbation.
And so I became stronger and better. The problem: my catalog of music. High school was at once the best of times and the worst of times for music. While such ground-breaking music as Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Radiohead burst onto the scene (and whose songs I learned at a break-neck pace), there was one band that towered over them all (whose songs I never bothered to learn because they sucked): The Dave Matthews Band.
To say that I only kinda hate DMB is to say that I only kinda ate that tub of Cool Whip last night, or that I only kinda had a nervous breakdown a few years back, only to come to three years later to realize I was living in New Mexico working at a carburetor factory, and I had adopted a Vietnamese child who I called Trevor.
Anyway, I hate the Dave Matthews Band. Why? Besides the fact that they're music sucks, it's because every chick I wanted to bang in high school loved them.
At every lame high school party, there would invariably be a guy there with his guitar. And invariably it would only be a matter of time before the guitar playing douchebag would break into "Crash" or "Say Goodbye" and have every girl in the room eating out of his hand.
Where was I during all this? Oh, I was at those parties, but I'd be in the corner with my friends who also had no shot of getting laid, saying things like, "I don't know why they like him - he's a total tool" and "I totally know how to play other music on the guitar - good music, like Led Zeppelin or The Who...Dave Matthews sucks" and "I think I almost had a stroke the other day because I beat off so violently."
In a way though, I have to respect the douchebags who played DMB at the parties - they learned at an early age that if you give a guy a guitar, put him on a stage or in front of a group of people and let him go, women will want to sleep with him. Even yours truly, a man who is considered by everyone he meets to be in the lower percentile (15%) of attractiveness, somehow still managed to get some ass when he was in bands in college.
But this harmless high school guitar-playing douchebag changed over the years into a young man who is "serious" about music. A young man who walks around the Lower East Side or the East Village with his $2500 custom-built Gibson on his back, trying to "pay his dues" while his lawyer daddy "pays his rent." A young man who waits tables in Tribeca during the day but spends his nights in the dank clubs of Alphabet City, doing his best Strokes impression. A young man who wears vintage t-shirts and sunglasses even at night, and who listens to bands with names like The Aislers Set, Dimitri from Paris, Broken Social Scene, The Magnetic Fields, and Creedence Clearwater Revival (sorry, not that last one).
What is the difference between this young man and me? He gets a LOT more women. Like, boatloads. Like, I'm happy if a woman under 300 pounds stands next to me on the subway and doesn't have body odor. This guy actually has SEX with hot hipster chicks. I mean, damn.
Many things have changed in my life since when I started playing guitar in high school - 1500% increase in body hair, I've had sex since but I'm basically a virgin again because of this physically, mentally and emotionally debilitating torturous drought, etc - but the unabating hatred for everyone else who plays guitar (and gets more ass than me, which is everyone who plays guitar) has not subsided, and it doesn't seem that'll it subside anytime soon.
Still, I know that this hatred has made me a better musician. If you don't have the desire to play better than your peers, and also to murder your peers, how can you say you are progressing? The answer: you can't.
So my advice to those kids starting out: always wear a condom. My guitar-related advice: take stock of the guitarists around you. Make friends with them. Take stock of their weaknesses and deficiencies. Use this knowledge to crush them. You will be a much better musician and person if you do this. Just look at me!
[Well, maybe I'm a bad example. But you get the point.]
Monday, July 19, 2004
worst birthday EVER
Among my many undesirable qualities, my worst has to be my stubbornness. I am even more inflexible mentally/emotionally than I am physically, and this is saying a lot, since I often have to have my roommates help me tie my shoes or wash certain parts of my body. But when I get my mind set on something, that's it. There is no changing it, and there's no use trying to change it.
This is magnified when I have a beer (or twelve). Usually, I am stubborn about two things when I'm drinking:
1) I need to eat now;
2) I need to make out now.
To accomplish these objectives, I will employ any tactic, regardless of morality or legality.
But also when I drink I have a tendency to shut down when I'm either pissed off or not having a good time, and there's nothing to be done to change this. If something goes wrong when I'm drunk and it makes me mad, then I'll spend the rest of the night sulking like a bastard, sweating angry sweat, and drinking at a terrifyingly rapid rate.
This is how I spent my 25th birthday party, which will heretofore be known as "The Birthday Party I Wish Never Happened" or "The Worst Birthday Party Ever."
It started well enough - I had a bunch of friends from Philly and Boston in town, specifically for the party. We gathered at my place and did some serious pre-gaming. Though we tried to "take it easy" on Friday night in preparation for our big day Saturday, we drank from 6pm until 4am, and spent the day Saturday sleeping in beds or tubs or on air mattresses, floors or couches, eating greasy foods, and clogging our toilets.
The pre-gaming was glorious, and reminded me of the good old days: just a bunch of dudes sitting around, listening to music, and throwing back beers and booze like it was fucking Mardi Gras. I myself was enjoying several red bull and vodka's, a drink which, as I have written before, can completely turn a night around and transform me immediately from Dr. Bruce Banner into the Incredible Hulk, although a much less incredible and much more sexually aggressive Hulk.
But the problem started when we got to the bar. First, it was very crowded. Not crowded with friends of mine, but crowded with people I didn't know. Apparently, since I moved out of the Lower East Side seven weeks ago, this bar got much more popular. Who knew?
Second and more damningly: the air conditioning in the bar was broken. When you take a small-ish, crowded bar, add another 100 people to the crowd, and have no air conditioning, well, it's kinda hard to have a good time.
I mean, it was hot in there. Really hot. When you walked into the bar, it was like getting punched in the face with a hot fist or something (ok, not my best simile - try Ace Cowboy's description). Instead of people coming up to me and saying, "Happy Birthday you handsome son of a bitch!" or "Would you like your birthday handjob now?", most said, "Listen, happy birthday and all, but I'm sorry - I've got to leave. It's just too hot."
And this threw me off the deep end. Waves of friends kept showing up and leaving after a beer or two, unable to stand the heat. I was super pissed off, apologizing profusely to everyone who came, and drinking with a fervor that would make my daddy proud. Despite the cajoling of my friends who tried to get me to loosen up and have a good time, my stubbornness took over and I would have none of it. I spent the entire party cursing, going from shot to shot, drinking my damn free draft beers, and, oh yeah, sweating like a pig (by the end of the night, it looked like I had just gotten out of a swimming pool - I wonder why I went home alone).
The good news is that I did black out. I know this because on my call log on my cell, I have several incoming calls (meaning calls I answered) from people I have no recollection of speaking to. I remember getting pizza at the end of the night, and I guess I got into it a little bit with the guy behind the counter, but all I remember was him being pissed off and saying to me, "God will punish you." I have no idea what I could have done to illicit such a response. Perhaps he could tell that I was a genuinely bad person and made the comment based on that? I'll never know.
And of course, as with any good drunken black out night, there are the battle scars. In addition to a variety of cuts I have over my hands and forearms, I have a three inch welt on my left bicep that I don't remembering getting. It looks like someone hit me with a television antenna. For all I know, I could have gotten into a fight with a couple of junkies over the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry and subsequentially been held down and horse whipped with an extension cord. But because somewhere around 2am my brain said, "Hey chubby, I'm gonna close up shop", I'll never know.
So let's recap:
- everyone was very uncomfortable because of the heat;
- most of the people who came left after a drink because it was overwhelmingly hot;
- some people I had hoped/was expecting to show up didn't show up at all;
- I spent the entire night pissed off, my stubbornness about the situation making it impossible for me or anyone around me to have a good time;
- I blacked out, meaning I don't have any stories, because, gosh darn it, I just don't remember shit.
Later, Ben, who stayed for the whole party, summed it up: "That party had the three worst things that a bar could have: it was hot, crowded, and it took a long time to get a drink." My buddy David, one of the guys who came up from Philly for the party, said that when I left I should pay his tolls and parking to make up for the stinker of a party.
So I apologize and thank everyone who came to the party. I'm sorry that the AC was busted. I also apologize to everyone who, when they said to me "Dude, lighten up", I responded, "I will bite you if you don't shut up right now." I was a little grumpy, but I was drunk, and as we all know I can't be held responsible for anything I do or say when I'm drunk.
What's the moral of the story? Never look forward to anything. When you expect something good to happen, you will invariably end up blacked out and sweaty at a pizza place at 4am, getting a curse put on you by a four foot tall Venezuelan dude. Instead, expect nothing. When you get something, even if it's only a little bit, you will be pleasantly surprised.
Now let's never speak of my birthday or the Celeganzas again. Please.
Friday, July 16, 2004
oh my goodness
I just threw up everywhere after reading this.
Maybe it's just a really ugly kid. When I was born, the doctors thought my mom had given birth to a giant ham, and I turned out just fine.
Have a wonderful weekend, and ladies, stay out of dirty pools and my bathtub, lest you give birth to an amphibian or a half-man, half-ham.
What the F? It's the day before my birthday, and I'm mad busy at work. I think that my boss knows that my birthday is this weekend, so he wants to get all the work out of me that he can, because he knows there's a very strong chance that I may not live through the weekend. Smart man - I guess that's why he's the boss.
Is anyone else really creeped out by those Six Flags-Great Adventure commercials? The ones that feature the Uncle Junior look-alike dancing all around? I got blasted (on marijuana cigarettes) the other night and that commercial came on and I almost lost it. Seriously, I went to bed and was so freaked out, I actually slept with a lamp on. I know - I'm a huge pussy, but damn those commercials are creepy.
If I could do it again, my senior quote in my high school yearbook would definitely be:
"Everybody's got a bomb, we could all die any day,
But before I let that happen, I'll dance my life away."
- Prince, "1999"
No other quote comes nearly as close to describing both my indefatigable love of dancing and all-consuming fear of nuclear war. I don't know how I overlooked that one.
Instead, my quotes were:
"All my life I've been a fat man trapped inside an obese man's body."
- Homer Simpson
"Sometimes I think the world has gone completely mad. And then I think, 'Aw, who cares?' And then I think, 'Hey, what's for supper?'"
- Jack Handy
Naturally, Mom was just thrilled that her son decided to immortalize himself in his senior yearbook with quotes about his weight problem.
Why am I broke? Yesterday's expenses: dry cleaning, $45. Nexium for heartburn resulting from abuse of body, esophagus, stomach: $28. Medium pizza, half pepperoni: $17
The best part is when I got back my prescription I asked Sanjay, the pharmacy clerk:
Me: "$28? Jesus - is it cocaine?"
Sanjay: [checking prescription label] "No, it's Nexium."
Really? Because I seriously thought it was cocaine.
Obviously, those who have asked have probably figured out that I'm not going to send the evite for the Celeganza out to any additional peeps. The reason is that my friends and I decided against sending it to more people, because you bastards surely wouldn't reply, and we'd look like even bigger losers. But still, the party info is in Wednesday's post, and it's supposed to start at 10pm (though most will be arriving after 11). To those who can make it, see you there. Possibly. Meaning I may not be able to see that night.
Also, props to Joe and Sarah who emailed me and have the same birthday. My only hope for Joe is that really, really small pea-like testicles is not a curse upon all males born on July 17, but just me.
He's promised to send me some pictures of his genitals, and after I've had my way with myself to the pics, I'll let you know the answer to that one. [too much?]
About the evite...we currently have 17 "no" replies. It's interesting that about 1/3 of the "no's" I have either made out with or have tried to make out with and been rejected. Wise women...they know by now to stay as far away from me as possible after a liter and a half of Ketel One.
Please, and I can not stress this enough, do yourselves a favor and watch "Da Ali G Show" this Sunday at 10:30pm on HBO. One of the funniest shows on television. Trust me - you'll love it.
You know what was a terrible idea? Me investing. When I started work, for some reason I thought it'd be a good idea to buy some stocks. I have no idea why - I guess I wanted an excuse to tie up some much needed money for a long, long time and lose a nice portion of it in the process.
Here I am, nearly three years later, down 30%, when I could have used that money on at least two, maybe three, good nights at a strip club. What a fucking moron.
Had this conversation with my roommate Ben about my birthday:
Ben: "Oh, dude, I was going to order you a birthday present, but I forgot, so forget it."
Me: [sarcastically] "Thanks dude. What was it?"
Ben: "I was going to get you a 'Speaker City' t-shirt, from 'Old School.'"
Me: "Really? That would have been awesome."
Ben: "Yeah, but I forgot. But happy birthday anyway."
Me: "Great - thanks."
Thursday, July 15, 2004
changing cinema forever
The subtitle to this movie is "Jason Mulgrew and His Birthday."
As you can tell, I'm very busy at work today.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Jason Mulgrew: Countdown to a Quarter Century
It's hard to believe that in only three days (July 17 for all you non-math people), I will be turning 25.
25. Doesn't that seem old? When I was a wee child of 6, I thought that by the time I was 25, I'd be married to Olivia Newton-John, have at least one kid, be best friends with Huey Lewis, New Edition, and Boy George, and already have 100 Major League home runs. But alas, nineteen years and a thousand or so carrot cakes later, here I stand at 25, with only a ton of body hair, no STD's, and a stupid website to show for myself.
Nevertheless, my friends and I are having a party this Saturday, precisely to celebrate the 25 years I've wasted so far. A little history:
In December of 2002, my roommates Ben and Brian and our friend Nevin and I wanted to throw a Christmas party. However, we didn't want to have a traditional Christmas party and alienate our friends who are Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, or whatever the hell else there is. We decided instead to have a December Non-Denominational Holiday Celeganza.
So we whipped up the evite, sent it to our closest 150 friends, and the party was a big hit. Of course, I don't know this first-hand - the four party throwers drank for free, so I blacked out around 1am, and only remember waking up the next day in my bed fully clothed (including shoes), my head were my feet usually rest and vice-versa, covered in vodka-smelling sweat because I had apparently turned the heat up to about 85 degrees before passing out. Not my best hangover. Not at all.
In the summer of 2003, we were feening for another party, so we threw Celeganza II: Return of the Celeganza. The occasion was my 24th birthday and the 24th birthday and departure of our dear friend Molly, girlfriend of Celeganza Co-Chair Nevin, who was leaving for law school. Again, another good party, another $280 "lost" at a strip club, and another vicious hangover.
December 2003 brought Celeganza III: The Final Chapter. Much like Elliot Smith, the four Celeganza Chairs decided to call it quits while we were on top, believing we had done all we could with the Celeganza legacy.
Of course, it was all a lie - just an attempt to get more people to come to the party that they thought was the last one. So now we have Celeganza IV: Ok, Seriously, This Is The Last One. And this time, in all honesty, we mean it: Nevin Fox, who helped found the Celeganza, is leaving for law school. The thought of Ben, Brian and I continuing the Celeganza tradition without him is comparable to The Doors of the 21st Century.
So Celeganza IV is both my 25th birthday party and our dear friend Nevin's going away party. And any of you who are in NYC (or will be in NYC this weekend) are more than welcome to attend. It's at a bar in the Lower East Side, Iggy's Keltic Lounge (at Ludlow & Rivington), but we didn't rent out the bar, so there's no guest list and anyone can come.
[NB: Please be advised that by midnight, I should be completely out of commission and unable to speak, recognize basic shapes and colors, or go to the bathroom without assistance. I can not stress this enough. I will be severely incapacitated, so if you come expecting to have conversations with me about Jacques Derrida's linguistic deconstructionalism, the similarities between the Popish Plot in seventeenth century England and McCarthyism in 1950's America, or even about whether or not I'm having a good time or if I like sandwiches, you will be severely disappointed.]
Celebrities scheduled to appear include:
- Ace Cowboy and Don Fiedler of Slack Lalane
- brother of Jason Mulgrew, Dennis Mulgrew
- former NFL player Dick Butkus
- WNBA star Lisa Leslie
- and many, many others
If you like, you can email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I can send the "official" evite. But a word about evites - I hate evites. I hate getting them, I hate replying to them, but most of all I hate sending them. This is because NO ONE replies to this damn things. Currently on our evite list, we have 32 yes, 5 maybe, 13 no, and 122 no replies.
122 people who haven't replied? Two things: 1) I can see that most of these people have read the evite. If you've sent it out, you can see things like "Jason Mulgrew - July 8", signifying the date I opened the evite. You're telling me you can't simply click yes, no, or maybe? What the fuck?
Secondly, some of the people who haven't replied I've either spoken to or emailed with, and they've said they're coming. Why haven't these people taken the three seconds to have the evite reflect their response? I have no idea. It doesn't seem very difficult to me.
The result is that the party-throwers look like losers. We sent the evite out to 170-odd people, and it looks as though only 32 are coming.
The moral: next time you get an evite, just fucking reply. Because otherwise, you're killing the self-esteem of the host(s).
But god I can't wait to get drunk this weekend. Happy Birthday to me!
Ladies and gentlemen, we've made it
The Onion is officially stealing my shit.
Sons of bitches.
This story is just too much.
Have we learned nothing from the Roy Horn tragedy (aside from Siegfried and Roy post-mauling makes an excellent Halloween costume)?
I only went to vet school for two years, but you know what the teach you the first day? 600-pound carnivores with big-ass fangs and claws are dangerous, even if they have cute names like "Bobo". This is NOT hard people.
My favorite part: "The animal's body has since been taken to a secure location for an autopsy."
Tell the pathologist to stay at home - I'm going to go out on a limb and say that the tiger died from the gun shot wounds, not because of an aneurysm, deep vein thrombosis (DVT), lung cancer, or AIDS. But again, vet school for only two years...
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
editing (or the lack thereof)
An email received at 3:04pm from my buddy John:
I never tell people that they should click spell check before sending emails, because I miss spell things all the time, but go read your blog from today over again. Christ.First, for the record, I do click on spell-check before posting the site. Spell-check is really the only editing I do for the posts. I re-read my post from today and found some things that needed to be changed that were not misspellings, but rather words misused (for example, writing "we" instead of "were"). So the spelling isn't the problem; it's the grammar (there are probably still some mistakes in the post).
Second, I'd like to remind John and others who send me emails like, "Dude, it's 3pm - where's your post?" and "What the F? Only one post today?" that I have a full-time job. I often don't have time to comb over what I write for grammatical errors, split infinitives, semi-colon misuse, etc. If you like, you can send me a check and I'll gladly quit my jobby-job, sit home and write all day, posting every hour on the hour, with the most immaculate grammar you've ever seen. Also, I'll make use of my time at home and adopt a child, and train the child to be an assassin, so that when the child turns 16, I can rent him out to the rich and famous to kill their enemies and we can make a lot of money, which of course will go right up my nose. After a time, at the peak of my cocaine addiction, my adopted assassin child will fall in love with a woman who I don't approve of, a real wild-card with a fiery temper, a heart of gold, and a passion for life (played by Kirsten Dunst), and it will tear us apart, and will ultimately lead to a final showdown, the ending of which I won't give away at this juncture.
Third, John is a douchebag and he has an STD. So there you go - I may misspell words, but at least I don't have HPV.
I hope this post lives up to your grammatical standards. Bastard.
[By the way, the proper spelling is "douche bag". I prefer one word though.]
a few (mostly unfunny) thoughts
A boxer man, I recently bought a few pairs of boxer briefs to see what all the fuss was about. The verdict? Not for me. Boxer briefs, although comfortable, are made for guys who are in shape and have normal to large packages, not for fat guys who are hung like kittens (seriously, me naked looks like a acorn on a fur beanbag [drum fill] - thank you, I'll be here all night). The sight of me in boxer briefs and nothing else is at once the most comical and saddest thing in the history of mankind. Trust me.
At the risk of being labeled a Communist, does anyone else not give a fuck about Lance Armstrong? I mean, we get it - the guy is really fucking good at riding a bike. And sure, he's in great shape, and I can't ride a bike to 7-11 let alone through France, but enough already - we're talking about riding a bike here. Jesus Christ. Just let me know if he wins; I don't need to hear about it every step of the way.
God damn it.
Dear god, if the Yankees get Randy Johnson, Boston will burn to the ground. Seriously, all those in Beantown should make preparations now, because if that deal goes through, well, I fear for the safety of my loved ones in that city. Good lord - the Yankees, who are already stacked and taking care of business as is, adding the most dominant pitcher of the past ten years to their roster? This at a time when the Red Sox are playing below expectations and Nomar is about to get run out of town, Curt Schilling's got a bum ankle, Pedro is as unpredictable and volatile as my Uncle Tim on the drink, and Derek Lowe's, Kevin Millar's, and Bill Mueller's deals with the devil just ran out?
Be afraid. Be really, really afraid.
Apparently, it's not a good idea to bring your I-Pod to the beach. That's what I did with mine, and I had to dish out $40 last night to get new headphones, because I had gotten sand in mine, making them sound like Samba shakers. Who knew?
Three songs you should really download:
1) Talking Heads "This Must be the Place (Naive Melody)"
2) Bob Marley "Trenchtown Rock" [I have a live version from "Live at the Roxy" - excellent]
3) Sam Cooke "Bring It on Home"
(Incidentally, #1 and #2 are get songs to get/be high to)
"Anchorman" was an interesting movie, and very much worth seeing. The thing is, it's basically a collection of skits and/or Will Ferrell being absurd, so I don't really remember much. But I'm pretty sure that when the DVD comes out, my friends and I will be speaking only in "Anchorman" quotes for a good six to eight weeks.
"I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm kind of a big deal."
"I'm going to punch you in the ovary - right to the baby-maker."
"My son apparently took something called 'acid' and starting firing a bow and arrow into a crowd..."
Some words phrases recently put into Google (or other search engines) that brought people to this site:
- "brother a handjob" -"he's never"
- "hate mexicans" "italian"
- "cut my dick" war prison
- "man boobs" fat shirtless -sex
- +iverson +fuck +gay +fiction +kiss +me +dick +sweat
- embarrassing "pit stains"
- massage new york "handjob" midtown
- she gave him a telekinetic handjob
I think I should stop writing so much about handjobs.
Inside my head:
Voice 1: "Man, we are really broke. We have got to stop spending so much money."
Voice 2: "Why don't we drop two large on a laptop?"
V1: "I'm listening..."
V2: "Well, one, we're going back to school in the fall."
V1: "That's crap - no reason to spend all that money on a computer."
V2: "Two, you and I both know we're tired of masturbating in Ben's room, especially now since there are no locks on the bedroom doors at the new place. Think about how much porn we can download onto our OWN personal computer. And it's portable, so we can take our masturbatory fantasies anywhere!"
V1: "Sold - get Dell on the phone."
Voice 3: "Hey, can you guys shut the fuck up? I'm trying to remember the last time we actually had sex with a living, consenting woman, and it's pretty fucking hard."
V2: "Yeah, sorry."
V1: [whispering] "So let's get the computer then."
V2: [whispering] "I'm on it - Sunrise Adams, here we come!"
I've been listening a lot recently a little multi-national band called Fleetwood Mac. Yes, I know they're corny, but the live version of "Don't Stop" from The Dance gets me hype like no other. Seriously, I was listening to it last night while walking around my neighborhood and I got so hype I held up a convenience store. This is good news and bad news: the good news is that I got $348 out of the deal. The bad news is that I forgot that this particular grocery store is the only one in the neighborhood that carries Ben & Jerry's "Makin' Whoopie Pie", and I can't go back to this store for at least three weeks now.
Damn it all to hell.
One thing I learned from vacation: if you take any girl, give her a tan, and put some rhythm in her hips, she will become hot. Ok, well not any girl, but you get the point. There is nothing hotter than a girl who can really dance. Conversely, there is nothing less attractive than a girl who moves like, well, me. But good lord - being in those bars down the shore and watching those tan girls gyrate - I nearly had a seizure right there. I'm still not able to fully talk about it without peeing my pants just a little bit. But the lesson: tan girls who can dance are the most wonderful beings on earth.
Saw Bill Maher down in AC, and we had this exchange:
Me: "Hey Bill."
He was heading into a strip club while my friends and I stood in the street arguing among ourselves where to go. This begs the question: does Bill Maher gets ass from strippers when he goes to strip clubs? He's a celebrity I suppose, but his celebrity is based on his witty comments and insights about politics. Seeing as most strippers can't read, don't watch the news, and think the US has a king rather than a president, is he able to pull ass? Hmmm....
I saw Bill Maher once before when I was in DC and he was having dinner with this hot Indian girl who must have been 21, tops. So he's doing something right, but I wonder...
Any thoughts on this are welcome at the email address in the box.
Monday, July 12, 2004
return to normality
After a much needed break, it's good to be back.
Well, not really - I just thought that'd be a nice thing to say.
I hate writing about things like vacations, because so much happened, but a) I'm really lazy, and b) I don't want to bore you to tears by writing, "On Friday...On Saturday...On Sunday..." So here's my best effort at a summary, but, as I know all too well, my best is rarely good enough:
When does a vacation stop being a vacation and turn instead into a weeklong hangover, replete with bouts of drunkenness, depression, insomnia, and over-eating? I need to know, because I think my vacation was more the latter than the former.
It started off well enough. Last Friday, 7/2, we had a group goodbye party for a bunch of co-workers who were leaving the firm. At around midnight I pulled the classic escape. This happens when I'm too drunk to keep my eyes open or properly work my fly, and I need to leave asap. I'll take out my cell phone, and head outside after to saying to someone, "I'm going to make a call." Fifteen minutes later, I'm either at my local pizza place tackling a pepperoni/sausage slice or trying in vain to give myself some hand relief at my roommate Ben's porno-licious computer.
Despite a crippling hangover, I managed to make it down to Philly on Saturday. Being in Philly means two things to me: pot and food. And in that order. Knowing this, I weighed myself before vacation and again after to see the difference, and I gained seven pounds on vacation. Seven - not too shabby. Fortunately, as I am borderline morbidly obese anyway, you can't really tell. So bring on the Krispy Kremes and whole milk!
Anyway, I stayed in Philly only one night and headed down the shore on Sunday (did I not say that I wouldn't do this day-by-day? wtf?). As I mentioned, my aunt was very gracious and let me crash at her place. How do I repay her hospitality? The only way I know how - by getting drunk and trying to crawl in bed with her at 5am. Let me explain.
Number one, I sleep-walk when I drink. This is especially true if I am in an unfamiliar place.
Number two, I was really, really fucked up. There's this drink down the shore called the Tullynut - one of those foo-foo fruity drinks, but this mother contains five different rums. Tullynuts are way too sweet for me, but after two, they taste just fine. Usually, you have one or two of these before heading to the other bars. My buddy Dave and I had four each. By 10:30pm.
A little later on in the night, we thought it'd be a good idea to get a shot each time we got a beer. Sure, in retrospect, it doesn't sound like that good of an idea, but at the time, it was all we had. So screw you for judging us.
By the time the bars closed at 3am, I was a zombie. I was so drunk that I couldn't even eat. That, my friends, is the true test of drunkenness. If I am so drunk that I can't eat, someone should call the paramedics and the Sex Crimes Unit and tell them to be ready, because something bad is going to happen.
When I woke up the next morning, I saw that I was in the proper bed, my crotch was dry, and it appeared that I didn't do anything stupid. When I went downstairs, I was asked the dreaded question by my aunt: "Do you know what you did last night?"
Apparently, at about 5am, I came into her bedroom, said, "Hey there", and tried to get in bed. My aunt, who, thankfully, was a great sense of humor and knows I'm a drunk, was like, "Jase, get in your own bed!" Upon hearing this, I went back to where I was supposed to sleep.
Before we delve into my subliminal Oedipal-esque urges, I know that this is just a result of drinking. Also, the set up of the house is very weird, leading me to believe that I probably would have made the same mistake even if I were sober (well, that last part's not entirely true). But at any rate, it was just more fodder for my family of ball-busters to make fun of me.
The rest of the week I spent dividing my time between the beach, the local diners, and the bars. Sunburns, cheesesteaks, and booze - is there any better way to spend your vacation? That is, is there any way to spend your vacation legally? Of course, I'd rather have been in Honduras with a few local underage girls, a bunch of hand guns, and a mountain of pure cocaine, but this was the best I could do on such short notice.
The vacation came to an end with a bang this past Saturday with the bachelor party of my buddy John, who is marrying my cousin in a month.
Since the bride-to-be reads this site, here's what happened at the bachelor party:
We all arrived at the drinking establishment in fine form and in our Sunday best, and we definitely didn't all get high right away. Our buddy Mike offered a toast to John, but he interjected, and spoke at length (about thirty minutes) about the love he has for my cousin. Then we didn't get high again.
The bus which was to take us to Atlantic City arrived and we were only slightly perturbed to learn that it didn't have a bathroom. I say "slightly" because we were only drinking moderately, and it didn't come to pass that on several occasions I had to pee in a Gatorade bottle, thus spilling the pee all over my pants and hands. Had we been drinking heavily this might have happened, but since I only had two beers all night, it wasn't a problem.
Although Atlantic City is known for its casinos and a nudey clubs, we didn't go to either. Instead, we found a local church and spoke to the pastor about love and the sanctity of marriage. Under his guidance, we learned much about this holiest of sacraments.
[For clarification, when I say "church", I don't mean "strip club." And when I say "pastor", I don't see how anyone could construe that to mean "exotic dancer." And when I say "love" and "marriage", I don't mean "full nudity" and "extremely large fake breasts" - that wouldn't even make sense. And when I say, "we learned much about this holiest of sacraments", I certainly don't mean "I got four lap dances in a row and spent a whopping $380 in an hour." So there.]
At the end of the night, we climbed back aboard the bus and headed back to Philly, most of us falling asleep after the long, fun, and safe night - certainly not because we got in a fight with Puerto Ricans and got beat up pretty bad. Those bruises on my forearms and upper arms are NOT the result of being thumped by a policeman's club. There are from rough-housing with the children at the orphanage we visited while in AC, and, as I am anemic, I bruise easily.
All in all, it was a wonderful occasion, and I look forward to the wedding next month in the Bahamas, where I will be on my best behavior among friends and family on such a special occasion.
And that was my vacation (mostly). I'm already starting to plan another one. Two words: Oktoberfest 2004. Who's with me?
Friday, July 02, 2004
After some serious consultations with my friends, we have decided that if we ever get girlfriends again, we are going to cheat on them constantly. Like, all the time. Because apparently women really like that.
And no, we're not bitter. It's just that we've all realized over the last few weeks/months that there is a definite realtionship between how badly a girl is treated and how much said girl falls in love with dickhead boyfriend.
My personal plan is to get a girlfriend and:
1) Get an STD from a hooker;
2) Give the girlfriend the STD;
3) Get in fistfight with girlfriend's dad;
4) Purposely poison girlfriend's pet(s);
5) Murder the girlfriend's brother with my car;
6) Steal all of girlfriend's pants;
7) Get major drug addiction funded secretly by girlfriend's cash that she leaves laying around or in her purse.
That's my two cents. More on this later.
just random rambling
My friend Jeremy wrote to me recently and said:
Dude-Well, you know what Jeremy? YOU'RE weird and boring. Seriously, we've all been talking about it behind your back, and we all agree that you are weird and boring. Also, you are cheap. We all talk about that too.
Stop writing about people writing to you. It's weird and boring.
Despite Jeremy's protestations, here's an email I got about haircuts from my dear friend Brian, whose emails are so discussion-promoting that he should get co-writing credit for this site (N.B.: I have edited out his pleas for new porn videos/starlets to download):
Dude,Brian's point is valid, but I can say with 100% certainty that your roommate is still a douche for getting this haircut, not some pioneer who has figured out a new avenue of sexual entertainment.
My roommate and I got into a major discussion about haircuts the other day. I don't know if you remember this from college, but I haven't paid for a haircut since about 1994. I always cut it myself, not because it necessarily looks good, but because it looks better than any haircut I've actually paid for. However, my friend was recently at his gym when he started talking up some chick on the treadmill. Turns out she's a hairdresser at this totally gay place "Style of Man" in Manayunk and she gave him a free cut. He goes there and not only is the place swarming with smoking hot chicks, but I guess he gets a shampoo and conditioning (with the big tats in the face of course) a scalp massage (which he said made him semi-aroused), cut, blow dry, blah, blah, blah. They also tell him that in 3 weeks he can come back for a "touch up styling" for free. This place costs about $40 including a somewhat generous tip which to me is a lot of money and I'd never do it when I'm probably the best auto-barber I've ever met. Then it got me to thinking: when I go to a strip club, I'd pay more than $100 to get half this much attention from a girl who reeks of dollar store perfume and American Spirits. Am I insane? Please tell me my roommate is a douche for paying more than $7 for a haircut.
Alright, keep it real
First, I'm going to pretend that you were having a bad day at work when you spoke ill about strippers. Sure, most of them are from Eastern Europe/South America, have children (most likely by different men), and sure, they're not the classiest ladies around, but there's no need to bad mouth how they smell. The stripper performs an important function for society (namely, running up my credit card bill and getting me both happy and sad), and I simply won't stand for you attacking them like that.
Second, when you whittle it down, your roommate is still spending $40 for a haircut. The fact that he gets aroused at a hair salon is at best sad, and at worst, perverted. Sure, if it were me, I'd have to take several bathroom breaks for hand relief, but I have never been a barometer for "decent" sexual behavior.
Strip clubs are about so much more than arousal. Well, not "so much more", but "more." There's booze involved, camaraderie, the chance of getting a kick-ass story when you say to the stripper during the lap dance:
Me: "I'm a comedy writer."
Stripper: "Really? Anything I would know?"
Me: "I write for Conan O'Brien."
Stripper: [not believing for a second] "Really?"
Me: "Yup. So what's the deal - can I touch your boobs or what?"
Stripper: "I don't think so Conan."
Third, I mean, c'mon - he's still a douche. Just because you get some boobies rubbed against you and a "scalp message" doesn't mean you're not dropping the equivalent a good amount of pot, two cases of good beer, or two 5am Spanish Harlem hooker bj's on a haircut. This is just not negotiable.
Because I'm busy at work as my job squeezes all it can out of me before I leave for vacation, that's the only email I can answer. But wait - there's more!
Many, many of you (ok, so two) have written asking things like, "Oh Jason, I can't believe you're going on vacation. What am I to do? Whose crappy website will I go to, print out, and read on the can?"
I think you should take this time to read the archives. I can't believe I've been doing this for almost five months straight. Good lord. I should have been burnt out three months ago. I mean, how much can you get out of:
1) I'm fat
2) Chicks don't like me at all
3) Seriously, I'm fat
4) I love boobs
Also, you can take this time to pass on this site to everyone you know. To this end and to make it easier for you, I've written a form email that you can just copy and paste in the email to all your friends (please make it gender-appropriate):
I know that I haven't spoken with some of you in a while. I know that some of us are no longer speaking. I know that I slept with one of you, but then it got weird, because [I have seen bigger penises on kittens and I just had to tell my friends about your tiny bird] or [your pubic hair reminds me of a prison brillo pad and I told all my buddies about it].
But I write to you today because I have been moved, nay, forever changed, by a man and his website, which you can find at http://everythingiswrongwithme.blogspot.com. It is the story of a man, a man like many of us, except this man has man-boobs and one time when he was on pills he fucked two homeless guys for some crackers and a Yoo-hoo. Though what he writes is at times self-aggrandizing, at times tedious and boring, and at times just plain incoherent, his use of grammar is immaculate.
Please check out this site, for the sake of your children and your children's children. And please pass it on to everyone in your address book, for your safety and mine. Because he's a pretty creepy guy and said something about "dancing naked in the ashes of [my] life." I don't know what this means, but I don't want to. So read it and pass it on. Please.