Everything is wrong with me
Monday, February 28, 2005
back and the Oscars
I'm back and I'm alive, so that's good. Everything else...not so good. Because it requires the proper amount of effort and love, I'll give a full recount on London later, but I wanted to say a lil' sumpin' about the Oscars.

First, I should say that I didn't watch much of the Academy Awards. After all, save for a few instances in 1978, I have a nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality, so there's really no reason for me to watch them, especially when I have hours and hours of porn on my computer which I didn't see all week while in London.

(By the way, after my behavior in the last 24 hours since returning home, my penis is filing a sexual harassment lawsuit against me. Good god. I've abused it so much since getting home that I woke up in the middle of the night last night to find that it had detached itself from my body and was crawling toward the door, trying to get escape the near-endless beatings. Poor bastard.)

Second, I don't know much about acting. I've never acted in anything, save for a role in Mrs. Martucci's 1992 7th grade class production of "Hamlet", in which I played Laertes. I don't know how I was able to pull it off, as I suffer from terrible stage fright. Actually, I do know how I was able to pull it off: a few Jack 'n' cokes and a blow job right before going on loosened me up quite a bit. And to this day Tom says it was the best beejer he's ever gotten.

Add to this that I don't really watch movies. Sure, I like the same movies that every 25 year-old male asshole who really gets off on women peeing on tile floors likes ("Old School", "The Big Lebowski", "Office Space", "Anchorman", "The Royal Tennenbaums", "Love Actually", etc), but movies aren't my thing. I just don't have the time to sit down for two hours to watch people do shit. Well, I do have the time, but I don't have the attention span. Sometimes a movie will grab a hold of me, but most of the time after fifteen minutes I'm thinking of ribs or plotting revenge against that Chinese guy who hangs around outside my building for laughing at me when I fell down the stairs that time.

But I do know the following:

- Jamie Foxx (that's two X's) won an Oscar for Best Actor, and was also nominated for Best Supporting Actor
- Jamie Foxx was/is a stand-up comedian and was on "In Living Color"
So I am compelled to ask: how fucking hard is acting? Jamie Foxx won a fucking Oscar? What the hell is going on here?

I'm not saying that his performance in "Ray" wasn't spectacular. I'm sure it was great, though I haven't and won't see it (my intense racism doesn't allow me to see any movies with black people in them, let alone movies about black people). I'm just saying that Jamie Foxx was a stand-up comedian and he won an Oscar. Therefore, my respect for acting as a profession is lessened.

And this is not the first time an Oscar nomination has caused me to say, "What the fuck?" To wit, Queen Latifah was nominated for an Oscar in 2003. Queen Fucking Latifah, the rapper? Are you fucking kidding me? I don't even have a joke here.

I hope this is not perceived as racist, since my targets both happen to be African-American. I would feel the same way if Jeff Foxworthy or Fergie from the Black-Eyed Peas were nominated in 2007. It just sort of makes me wonder how much of acting is art and how much of it is luck and looks.

A lot of people have talent. Even more work hard. However, both of these attributes pale in comparison to being lucky and good-looking, which are much more influential for success. I don't want to get too into this because I could go on forever and I really have to piss, but I'm very peeved (and yes, I know Queen Latifah isn't good-looking in the traditional sense, but hell, I'd bone her).

I recall seeing a red carpet interview with Cate Blanchett and the question was, "How did you make Katharine Hepburn come to life in 'The Aviator?'" My roommates and I made a few jokes, saying stuff like, "Well, I basically read what was on the script and memorized it" and "I mean, they tell you what to say, so it's not that hard - I didn't have to like, make it up or anything".

I don't really know where I'm going with this and I'm sure I've already said enough to get a shit load of emails from all sorts of actors/waiters, actors/bartenders, actors/personal assistants, and actors/girl who I paid $23 to say "Jason is my hero" all slow and sexy-like three times in a row, so let's just send it off:

- acting: not too hard
- me: little to back this up except anger and self-loathing
- Jamie Foxx and Queen Latifah: recognized by the Academy as great actors, formerly a stand-up comedian and rapper, respectively
- hard work is for immigrants and old people; luck and looks much, much better
- how come no one thanks the writers of the movie? Directors are thanked for their vision, co-stars for their passion - what about the people who came up with the fucking idea?
- my penis is trying to leave me
More later (hopefully)...

Friday, February 18, 2005
final thoughts
So this is what it's like to have a real job and a real life. For the past two days, work has simply been NON-STOP. And I don't mean "non-stop" like I can only talk to my friend Jeremy on the phone about where we can buy more drugs for 20 minutes instead of 45 minutes every day, I mean "non-stop" like I can't do shit (literally - my half-hour mid-morning and mid-afternoon pooping sessions have turned into sad four or five minute affairs that leave me feeling less than fresh all day because I don't have the time to properly clean the vast expanse that is my ass). No long poops, no long lunches, no long distance personal phone calls, no internet time, and no posting. Damn.

And I know you all could care less - you wouldn't care if my balls were being attacked by hundreds of angry mutant mice as long as you got your daily masturbation/racist/fat jokes. But damn...I'm telling you, this whole "working" thing sucks.

[FYI: Usually when I write posts, I can bang them out in one sitting in about 20 minutes or so. I'm writing this particular one almost sentence by sentence as I get time during the day, so I apologize if it stinks. And if you think it stinks, then I think you stink. So try that one on for size, bitch.]

Not to mention I haven't even had time in the evenings to enjoy myself (read: download porn), as I've been packing for my London trip, something that takes someone as anal as me a very long time to do. I spent four days making and refining a list of items to bring and almost had a nervous breakdown two nights ago when I did a packing dry run and realized I didn't have enough white undershirts to bring to England. Actually, I had plenty of white undershirts, but most of the armpits of the undershirts were soiled and stained a silverish-pale blue color, so last night I needed to venture out to buy some more.

But please - I mustn't go on any further about such minutiae as buying undershirts, for fear I start to sound like a regular "blogger". We now rejoin your regularly scheduled programming already in progress...

I am about 95% sure that I'm going to die either on the flight to or from London or while I'm in London. I don't know why exactly, but I'm pretty sure it's going to happen. Admittedly, I am a hypochondriac and suffer from sudden bursts of anxiety, but I guess this is what happens when you let yourself go physically, haven't been touched non-accidentally by a woman this millennium, and list your three favorite hobbies as drinking beer, watching people have sex, and planning a race war.

The good news is that I have in my possession thirty pills of Xanax, so I will be VERY medicated on the plane. But I have and have always had this feeling that God, who I have been feuding on and off with since the 1960's, is really going to fuck me over in the end (at death). My roommates and I have a running joke about this. For example, say one day I wake up and I say to myself, "You know what? I can't do this anymore. I'm sick of killing myself with booze and pills and all this terrible food. From this day forward, I'm going to change." (I know, it's a stretch, but bear with me).

So I spend the next year being clean and sober, working out and eating right, and I lose weight and my health improves. For fear of dying, I stick with this for years and years - doing right by my body, but completely depriving myself of all the goodness and fun that beer, napping, and chicken fingers bring. Then, one day when I'm in my early 40's, I go to the doctor and he says, "Well, you're in great shape - your blood pressure and cholesterol is low, your heart looks great, but there's just one problem: you have an extremely aggressive form of cancer that's going to kill you in three weeks. So I suggest you forget the weight room and hit the Roy Rogers on your way home, because you have a lot of catching up to do."

I can see this type of thing happening on a plane: suddenly, we hit turbulence. Then, even more suddenly, the plane's going down. The oxygen masks drop down, everyone's going nuts, people are masturbating, etc. I think to myself, "Oh, fuck this" and take 26 pills of Xanax. Then, as suddenly as it started, the insane turbulence stops and the plane rights itself. The captain comes over the PA and apologizes, but assures us that everything will be alright from here on out. Meanwhile, I have a belly full of drugs and we're still four hours away from landing. And so I die of a drug overdose because I'm an asshole and God hates me. End scene.

With this in mind, it occurs to me that if I die this week, the best record of my existence will be this website: 600 pages of tasteless humor and curse words. Good god. Sure, there's a chance that after my death my career will take off, and other people will read this website and other people besides me and the hooker I pay to repeat it while I masturbate will call me a genius, but that's highly unlikely.

So in an effort to give you something more to remember me by other than the time I shit myself or some responses I wrote to a magazine's sex tips, I offer the following nuggets o' information about me, Jason Michael Joseph Patrick Aloysius Elizabeth Mulgrew:

- I love animals. Not mean or big ones, but little ones, like dogs. As long as the dog has been neutered.

- No matter what I said when I was drunk or on a nationally-syndicated radio show, I firmly believe that Jeffrey Dahmer (and all homosexual serial killers) was wrong. This is non-negotiable. He was an asshole. Not a complete asshole, but definitely more asshole than not. Maybe like 60% asshole/40% not asshole. Ok, 52/48.

- I love music. My dream was to one day build a school so that all retarded kids could come and fuck with some instruments to know the joy that music brings (to the extent that it's possible for a retard to really "know" anything).

- I love children. All my life, I have wanted a big family. And this is not because I wanted soldiers for the aforementioned race war or people to do shit around the house for me, but it's because I have so much love to give. Also, I don't believe in birth control and my aim is true.

- No matter what I said otherwise, drugs are bad for you. Very, very bad. Mostly because they're expensive. And that's bad.

- I love fantasy sports. More than I have ever let on, they are a major, major point of my life. And yes, I really that's I'm only digging the celibacy hole deeper, but I don't care anymore.

- For the record, I have never hit a woman with a cordless phone. I'll repeat: I have never hit a woman with a cordless phone. Don't believe everything you read, especially in filed court complaints or the "Crime Blotter" of the Philadelphia Daily News.

- I love taking really long showers. Nothing sexual, just a naked man, hot running water, and lots of hair all over the tub.

And, um...that's really about all you need to know. Celebrate these. And cherish them.

So I'm gone. Wish me luck and all that jazz. If I make it back, I will write again on Monday, February 28. Otherwise, I will see you all in hell.

Have a good week.

Thursday, February 17, 2005
no post today
Not even a chance. I'll get you tomorrow - promise.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005
love, STD's, and answers
I got an email recently that I thought deserved attention. Anytime someone sends me an email involving a love triangle and an STD, well, you're damn right I'm gonna help as best as I can.

I have a bit of a problem that I would like your help with. See, I'm in love with this girl. And not like the kind of love where you want her to swallow your jizz. I mean, this girl has been my best friend for a really long time. Well, we almost hooked up over thanksgiving last year, but decided not to because my parents were in the other room. Well she goes back to chicago after the weekend and the next weekend my X-Girlfriend shows up. We talk and she tells me she has HPV. This poor girl is convinced that she has given it to me so she is heartbroken. well we talk as she is going through the whole testing/burning off warts phase, and everthing is going great. Then we get back together (I know what everyone is thinking, and by everyone I mean me and Jason, you're thinking that I am an idiot because she has an STD. Well, you'd be right. But I would be fat. Plus I have been a pretty big whore in the past so I am 97.4% sure that I gave it to her. The HPV though is neither here nor there. The point is I am living with this human CDC Lab now. And she wants to get married, I guess she figures this is the best way for us to Quarantine the virus. But I am freaked out now. And I really miss my friend. And I am pretty sure I am making the wrong choice. Please help me.

Jon-Paul Logan St. John
[location withheld]

By the way, if you post this please use an alias (and make it something tough, nothing new age and pussy.)
Well, Jon-Paul Logan St. John, this is quite a doozy. Let's recap: you're in love with a girl who's your best friend. You almost made out with her, but you didn't. She moved away, and then your ex came back into your life. The ex is upset because a) she has HPV and b) she thinks she gave you HPV. You got back together with her because you're fat and can't get any better and are pretty sure you're the one who gave her the HPV. Now you're living together and she wants to get married. And you miss the best friend. Hmmm...

First of all, I have no idea why anyone would ask me for advice. None. I can't imagine the desperate situation you must be in to turn to someone who hasn't considered another person's feelings since the womb for guidance, especially since I'm only going to make lame and/or tasteless jokes anyway. To wit, you lost me on the whole part about your love not being the kind of love where you want her to "swallow your jizz". I mean, what other kind of love is there, finally? What, are you all high and mighty just because you are able to feel that Hallmark/in-the-movies type love, whereas the closest thing I feel to "love" is my warm penis in my clammy hand after a night of binge drinking and starting garbage fires? Asshole.

Second, for your own health (and subsequently the health of others), you must get an STD test. This isn't even an issue. I got one, a lot of people get them, it's not a big deal. Sure, it was miserable, but to be honest it was totally worth it. In my case at least, as I don't have any STD's. Probably not so much in your case, as you're fairly certain you have HPV. Either way, you need to get tested. You have to protect yourself (and your girl). Also, I don't want to be in the same room with you, have a few too many drinks, and then through a series of strange and homoerotic events end up with HPV myself. So get tested. Seriously.

[By the way, I just spent about 30 minutes on my computer at work reading HPV and STD sites. I can't wait for the IT department to review my internet history. I was just waiting for my boss to walk in and catching me looking at a site that said, "Genital Warts and You: How To Treat Your Genital Warts".]

Third, I have a lot of follow-up questions (Under what circumstances did you and the ex get back? Who initiated it? What do you mean "almost" hooked up? Is the best friend aware at all of your feelings? By any chance, your ex isn't a slightly chubby girl named Andrea who was in Brighton at The Avenue Bar on March 23, 2001, is she? Because something itches down there, and she's the most "questionable" lady of my past), but it's too late now and I needed a topic to write about for today, so I'm just gonna wing it. Also, I'm not even sure if this is serious, but I probably shouldn't write that, lest I hurt anyone's feelings (read: lest anyone comes to my house and sets me on fire).

Your problem is a complex one but your solution is simple. The way I see it, you have two options:

1) Stay with and possibly marry the girl you're currently with. I don't think I'd choose this option. It sounds like this girl is pretty serious about being with you (if she's talking about marriage), whereas, to put it mildly, your heart doesn't seem into it (calling her a "human CDC Lab" was my first tip).

Maintaining a relationship because of an inferiority complex and guilt is not the way to go (not that I would know what a "good relationship" is based on; most of my relationships are/have been built around jealousy and punching).

Instead, I'd chose...

2) Be honest with her. Well, actually, not really. Let's scrap this and instead go with -

2) Follow your gut. In my opinion, you should end it with the current girl and make your feelings known to the best friend. The reason I scrapped "Be honest with her" is because you should only use partial honesty. For example, you should not say, "Listen, I think we should end it. I'm in love with my best friend, and the only reason I was with you is because I think you're about the best I can do and I feel guilty about possibly giving you HPV. Oh, did I mention that I possibly gave you HPV? Sorry about that. So, um, yeah..."

Instead, tell her that you don't feel the same way about her that she feels about you, and you think that you two should go your separate ways. I don't really know how you can do this. In my previous relationships, I usually just stopped calling or one of us went to jail.

The point is that as it stands right now you're not being fair to yourself, your girl, or the girl you're in love with. To keep things status quo is a great and obvious error. Do right by your current girl, end the relationship, and, when you're ready, start to talk to the best friend about your feelings.

[One caveat: if your best friend is really, really hot and you are really, really fat and ugly, it ain't gonna work, so don't even try it. She's just your friend, and no matter how nice you are to her she isn't going to fuck you. Although, in your case I feel like you have a chance, as you said that you two "almost hooked up". As long as you don't mean it in the way I do when I say "I'm almost drug-free" or "I almost never masturbate with my thumb up my butt", then you're set.]

Case closed.


Geez, this shit is easy. Who's next?

just a reminder: London
I am leaving for London on Friday night, where I will be until Saturday, February 26. That means that after Friday there will be no posts all next week - none until Monday, February 28.

I know, I know - I don't know what you're going to do with yourselves either, which is why I'm reminding you again now, so you have time to prepare. Maybe you should actually fucking work, but if that's not the pot calling the kettle black, well I don't know what is.

That is all for now.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005
three links, with comments
I don't know how many of you are aware of this, but Tom Sizemore is the greatest celebrity fuck up of all time.

His history of drug abuse is well-documented. He dated a former Hollywood madam - nay, the former Hollywood madam - Heidi Fleiss, and beat the shit out of her. He has cried at several court appearances and talked about wanting to get his life back together. And now this. I don't even know what to say.

I mean, I couldn't make something like this up even if I really, really tried. My favorite parts:

- Sizemore failed his court-ordered daily drug test on the first day. He was ordered to get tested every day and failed on the first try! That means when the judge passed down his decision requiring Sizemore to be tested on a daily basis, at that moment Tommy must have been thinking, "Oh no - no way this is going to work. I'm gonna have to figure something out. Because fuck that - I fucking love drugs."

- The brand name of the fake penis: the Whizzinator. Wow. A company actually makes a product whose sole purposes is to cheat authorities and allow drug users to illegally keep using drugs. How is this allowed? I get caught one time stealing hypodermic needles from my doctor's office and now can no longer find a doctor to take me as a patient, but an entire company is built around promoting drug use and nothing happens to them? Where is the justice here? Where is the fucking justice?

- According to the article, Sizemore is destitute, living in a garage in Whittier, California, and an expectant father. Poor bastard. But this is part of the reason I keep asking you jerkoffs to pass on the site: when I'm famous one day, I can guarantee a similar write-up about me. Something like, "Jason Mulgrew, since he was blacklisted by the Hollywood community in 2007 for attacking actress Chloe Sevigny at the Oscars with a really old cordless phone for allegedly stalking him, has been living in abject poverty on a ranch forty miles north of Santa Fe, where he writes racist literature and breeds racist dogs. When we went to his residence to ask for comment, Mulgrew answered the door, and without saying a word calmly came onto the porch, removed his pants and underwear, laid down, and spent the next twenty minutes trying to bite his own penis."

Mr. Sizemore - I would like to write your biography. I know that I don't write very well, and the final product will be more about me and the Hollywood actresses I want to sleep with than you and your life, but at least we'll get fucked up together.

I don't need an answer now - just think about it.


In keeping with our "teachers fucking students" theme, my friend Allie sent me this story about the godmother of this type of thing, Mary Kay Letourneau.

So, let me get this family straight: the mother is 43, the father is 22, and the daughters, who will be flowers girls in the wedding, are 7 and 6.


What's the over/under on the age at which these girls lose their virginity - 9.5? Should I contact "Girls Gone Wild" about these girls now, to give them the heads up? Or should we book their appearance on the Howard Stern Show for 2017 now, just so they have plenty of time to get all their travel arrangements ready?

God damn do I feel bad for those girls. On the other hand, they have a free pass to do whatever the hell they want for the rest of their lives. Think about it - after they get arrested for blowing a a dude for some meth money, the judge would say, "So let me get this straight - your mother was a 34 year-old married teacher with four kids when she started fucking your dad, who was 12 at the time. Then she went to jail for rape for seven years and gave birth to you two. You know what? You can leave. Case dismissed, and god help you."

Lucky bitches. And whenever I go before a judge the only excuses I have are "I have really high blood pressure" or "She was asking for it, what with her tight pants and all and that one sexy crossed-eye" or "I'm sorry, but I was really, REALLY fucked up at the time and I don't remember shit."


My buddy Joe sent this article to my friend Bill and I, saying in his email, "Bill, they spelled your mom's name wrong."

Nice, Joe. Nice.

Bill's response: "Oh, like you guys enjoy rolling joints for your parents. I felt like I was working in Bangladesh...I just couldn't take it anymore."

God I need new friends.

Monday, February 14, 2005
balls and backfires
First, if you haven't seen it, I put up some pictures of the good ol' days to celebrate the one year anniversary of the site. You can find them here.

Second, we've updated the "Choice Cuts" section. The previous idea was not working out, as I am incredibly lazy, so we set it up like a true "greatest hits" section (if such a title could be applied to run-on sentences about masturbation and obesity).

Third, I think I blew my Valentine's Day load with Friday's post, so I will not address the holiday directly in this post, lest I start crying, as I am terribly lonely.

Now that that business is out of the way, I had a pretty decent weekend. I managed to turn all that loneliness and rage that I feel inside outward and projected it onto other people (i.e. unsuspecting females). Let us begin...

The good thing about my "lack of getting any" situation is that I have roommates and friends who are equally bad if not worse with women than I am. And, as the saying goes, misery loves company, especially when misery and its company really, really like to drink and one time wasn't allowed on a plane because he stunk of booze.

While pre-gaming on Friday, my roommates and I talked about our lack of luck with the ladies recently and decided that from that moment forward, we would be more forthcoming. Instead of taking part in the dance of seduction, we decided that in the future we were just going to come right out and speak our minds with the ladies, even if it meant possibly getting arrested or burned with a cigarette.

On Friday night, my friends and I stayed local in the wasteland of my terrible neighborhood, the Upper East Side. I randomly got a call from my friend Sara, who was in the neighborhood with her roommate, Liz.

A little background here: I went to college both with Sara and Liz. Actually, Sara was the first girl I met at BC, and from that moment I spent most of my effort trying to sleep with her. This didn't happen, though she did sleep with my roommate junior year and hooked up with another roommate of mine senior year. So that was great. We did, however, make out one drunk night after college, but nothing ever came of it. Probably because after kissing for a little on her couch I went into her bathroom and came out fully dressed, save for my lack of pants and underwear. She was not down.

On the other hand, Liz and I used to hook up for a time in college. It was nothing serious, and happened occasionally in the summer between my junior and senior years, and maybe twice during our senior year. It ended because I was kind of a dick to Liz and, oh yeah, I had a long distance girlfriend at the time.

[But hear me out about this: I am not really a scum bag. The long distance girlfriend I had at the time and I had a sort of unspoken "don't ask, don't tell" relationship. While I made out with a few girls every once and a while, I'm sure she was slobbing hogs left and right behind my back - actually, my buddy who went to college with her called me one day out of the blue to tell me that my girlfriend had hooked up (as in, went in a bedroom with on several occasions) with his roommate. Not a good day. Not at all. After hearing the news, I think I heard my liver say, "Oh no" because it knew that during the course of the evening I was going to assassinate it.]

So that's the background.

My roommate Brian and I met up with those two for a drink, and then some more people came. Because it was close to Valentine's Day, I made a decision: I was going to make out with Liz. We were both drunk and flirting, and there's the Rule of Previous Hook Ups:

- If you have made out or slept with someone before, it's totally not a big deal to make out or sleep with them again. Like, not at all. (For further reading, please see here)
Things were going well - chatting, drinking, drinking, chatting. It was getting late, and some of the people we were with started to leave. Liz stayed, which was a good sign, but so did her roommate Sara, so it was a push.

More time passed, more beers were drank. The bar thinned out, but we continued talking. By then, we had sort of isolated ourselves from the rest of the group, and slowly it appeared that fate was on my side and I was going to pull it off.

Sara came over to Liz and told her she was going to go, which made for an awkward couple of seconds where each person was thinking something different and trying to read each other's faces/body language/reaction:

Sara: [easy to read] "I think Liz wants to hook up with Jason but I want to go home. I guess she knows what she's getting into, having hooked up with him before, but I heard recently that he likes to strangle girls during sex. Also, I think he has some clam chowder in his beard. I can't believe I made out with him. What a low point for me."

Liz: [hardest to read] "I am very, very drunk."

Jason: [easiest to read] "I will fuck anything that moves. Sara, get the fuck out of here before I fucking stab you. Does anyone have a slightly warm but uncooked piece of chicken breast for me to have sex with?"

Liz, god bless her, said that she was going to finish her drink and then head home (Sara and Liz live fairly close to me and where we were drinking, so this wasn't as much of a commitment as it would have been if she lived very far away). So Sara left, followed shortly by everyone else, and it was just Liz and I sitting there.

The gods were smiling on me.

For now.

I thought I was doing pretty well; I had drank enough to kill a small-ish teenage girl, but I held myself together. We started talking about how much I hate the neighborhood but that I really like my place (nice views, large rooms, my own bathroom, etc). At this point she said, "Oh - I'd love to see your place."


[Queue the "Superman" theme in my head.] It was on. We were both drunk and had been flirting from the moment we saw each other. We had been talking to each other exclusively for the last two hours. There was minimal light touching, but it was there. I don't even remember what I said when she said she wanted to see my place, but I'm thinking it was something like, "Uh...mmph." I couldn't have gotten out of there fast enough.

Before I continue, I should point out that both Liz and I were very, very drunk at this point. I was feeling good because it looked like I was gonna get some, but I was exhausted from a long week at work and had had at least twenty drinks. Liz, on the other hand, was also very drunk. She had been out drinking since 8pm; it was now around 3am. Draw your own conclusions.

It was a short walk back to my place. We didn't hold hands or anything like that - it would have been too bold a move, even though everything seemed pretty set. We entered the lobby and I was joking about something, probably minorities, and things were going well. I hit the up button to the elevator, and, feeling good, I figured I'd take a little chance. So, in an effort to be more forward, I said, "I'm really looking forward to all the making out we're going to do."

Not a good idea.

Not at all.

Liz said, "Um, Jason, I have a boyfriend."



Again, I'm not sure exactly what my reaction was, but it was something like a mix of confusion, anger, and hunger. After a moment, I said, "What?" and she repeated, "I have a boyfriend."

I thought about this for a moment, looked down at the floor as I collected myself, and after three seconds or so, said, "Yeah - I don't care."

Apparently, Liz cared. So much so that she stared at me for a few seconds, and then turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the lobby thinking, "What the fuck just happened?" and "I swear to god there better be pizza up there [in my apartment]."


In retrospect, I'm not really sure what happened. Also, I don't really care. If anything, my roommates and friends got quite a kick out of the whole story, including my chivalrous reaction to her boyfriend announcement, and we all had some laughs.

But in another way - what the fuck? Sure I was drunk, but I don't think I misread anything that badly. When a drunk girl stays with you at a bar (alone) and asks to see your place at 3am, I think that's a good sign. I'm not sure if she thought we were going to go up to my apartment to build a lego house or what, but sheesh. It's actually a good thing that she told me she had a before in the lobby, because if she said something to that effect when in my apartment, I might be writing this from the Manhattan county jail.

So there you have it - my Valentine's story. So happy fucking Valentine's Day everyone. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some markers to sniff.

Friday, February 11, 2005
doctor love
This weekend, couples all over the world (or wherever) will be celebrating Valentine's Day, which is officially Monday.


I don't really have much to say about Valentine's Day. Even before I inexplicably stopped all consensual, cost-free sexual interaction with the fairer sex, I never thought of Valentine's Day as a very big deal. However, I know that with women, this is not the case. Valentine's Day to a lot of women is like Christmas, their birthday, and the day that bitch they hate at work got fired for stealing phones all rolled into one.

[I'm sorry, but I can't get over the fact that I'm going to try to write a post offering tips for guys on how to make their ladies happy. Last month, I indirectly offered diet tips and now romance tips - what's next? "How to stay clean when your roommates are alcoholics?" or "Why you should always order the side salad even if the soup is a delicious cream-based chowder?" Good lord - what is happening to me? I must be dying.]

Anyway, to me (and a lot of other guys), Valentine's Day is dumb and only a contrived excuse to spend money. All the hearts and flowers and cards and blah blah blah just represent dollar signs. Really, how can something like romance be mass produced on a designated day? Doesn't Valentine's Day at heart (pun intended) defy the very definition of "romance"?

The hype notwithstanding, there's also the element of pressure. Most guys obsess about creating the perfect Valentine's Day; I obsess about creating new and cheaper ways to get fucked up ("Spray Tinactin on a Marlboro Red? I'll do it!").

For example, my buddy Nevin, years ago when he first started dating his girlfriend Molly, was searching for the perfect way to spend their first Valentine's Day together. After much research and deliberation, he surprised her at work and took her on a helicopter tour of Manhattan. This tops my previous best Valentine's gift to a woman: a punch to the stomach after a huge blow out over who was the better Batman: Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer, or George Clooney (so help me god if you say Clooney...).

When he was wrapping up his due diligence, he called me to see what I thought about the helicopter idea. My immediate reaction: "You know, you're kinda raising the bar a little high, aren't you? I mean, years from now when the love is gone between you two and routine has set in, you're going to get in arguments and she's gonna say, 'What happened to us? Remember when you took me on the helicopter ride around Manhattan for our first Valentine's Day? Now all you do is drink beer and watch sports! Where did our love go?'" To his credit, Nevin stuck to his guns, and to this day he and Molly are still together. The moral: I know nothing about woman.

In that vein, here are five simple tips that require only marginal effort to make your lady happy, on Valentine's Day or otherwise.

1) Make her a card. This is so, so simple, and women eat this shit up. Instead of spending a few bucks on a card written by some douche who doesn't know anything about you, your girl, or your relationship, get some glue, construction paper, scissors, and markers, and make your own. You may wind up spending more than a card would cost, but I would recommend stealing these supplies from work or robbing a second-grader.

And really - go to town on the card. Cut out a heart from red construction paper, draw pictures of you two dancing in the heart, draw genitals on the pictures if you're feeling especially randy, etc. Pretend like you are in second grade; in my experience, the cruder the card looks the better. Women love effort and she won't care that your card looks like some highly-diabetic blind kid made it - she'll care that you tried. Speaking of effort...

2) Make her dinner. Another easy one. A lot of guys feel pressure when they decide to make a woman dinner, like they have to make shit like framboise sauce or tomato concassé or saffron infused sea bass (Editor's Note: I have no idea what any of this stuff is; I pulled it off a menu I found online). But that's completely unnecessary. The only rules you need to follow when making a woman dinner are: 1) make her something that you like; 2) make her something that you're sure you know how to make. Of course, you should take her tastes into consideration a little bit: if she's a vegetarian, don't make her a triple bacon cheeseburger with bacon fries and meatballs for dessert. And please note that you must use a little sense here. For example, this could never work for me, because I would wind up making a woman my most gourmet dish: Jason Mulgrew's Loaded Chili. This consists of a can of Hormel chili, mixed with a can of sliced potatoes that have been cooked in a heavily buttered skillet and dosed with three types of cheese, with a generous dollop of sour cream on top. Don't make your lady chili. Just don't.

3) Pretend you're gay and make her a photo album or collage. Women love pictures. God, if I had a dollar for every time I was in a woman's room and after making love to her and her breasts all night long she offered to show me some pictures, I'd have zero dollars. But women - damn they love pictures.

So buy her a nice, artsy-looking photo album and put some pics of you two in there. Of, if you're feeling artsy yourself, make some sort of collage of the pictures. If you want to be especially sneaky, insert some suggestive pictures in there, like maybe a man and a woman having anal sex. If you do this properly, she'll probably let you do her in the butt. And no, I have absolutely no evidence to back this up.

4) Surprise her with affection. Who doesn't love surprises? Call her on a Tuesday morning at work and tell her you're thinking about her. Mail her (normal mail, not email) a short note saying that you like her like more than a friend. Show up at her door with flowers on a weekday. Easy, easy stuff to do, and the returns can be awesome (read: facial).

5) Who needs holidays? Think of what a traditional Valentine's Day entails: a pricey, romantic dinner and a night out on the town; a trip to the mountains, complete with fire and whiskey; a night or two at a nice hotel with lots of room service and nudity. Then take these ideas and instead of doing them on February 14, do them on April 23 or August 13 or November 5. This is especially great if you've been dating a while and have reached the "been there, done that" point of the relationship. Again, use the element of your surprise to your advantage and whisk her away for no reason at all. Of course, you do have a reason: to get a nasty, almost violent porn-caliber blowjob from her. But please, don't verbalize this and try to subtly make it happen. Something like this will help.


So there are your five tips. Please men, learn from me. Many of you out there are dating women you don't really deserve, because you drink too much or are addicted to porn or haven't washed your sheets since Kerry really had a shot. I'm not saying that I'm any better - if anyone doesn't deserve a girlfriend, it's me, what with all the hatred of minorities and low self-esteem and sporadic fits of rage and violence and all. Plus, I'm more into kids than women anyway.

But as someone who throughout his life has been the ostensibly gay best friend to women he secretly wanted to violate in every possible way, learn from me. The ideas listed above require only a minimal amount of effort on your part, and they'll make her very, very happy (unless she's a really cold bitch and you're only with her because you know you can't get any better).

So have a happy and safe Valentine's Day weekend. For those lonely hearts out there, I will see you in the bars of NYC this weekend, where I will try to stick my finger(s) around, up, and in your heinie (male or female, but preferably female).

Thursday, February 10, 2005
lyrics, music
I was in two bands in college (well, one and a half: before the second one was able to make its debut, I was unceremoniously thrown out of housing by The Man at Boston College - assholes).

Anyway, it was a good time, and nothing too serious. We played mostly covers, played out at some bars (and thus got free drinks) and kept it simple - definitely something fun I had going over parts of my sophomore and junior years.

It was an interesting dynamic because the band played hard rock (i.e. Tool, Rage, Helmet, Godsmack, etc), something I wasn't really into. The other guys totally dug it, but I'd show up at practice, hear some terrible Rush song, and have to learn the bassline immediately. This could be difficult for me sometimes. Not just because I was drunk at the time, which I most certainly was, and not just because I'm a terrible bass player, which I undoubtedly am, but because I really wasn't into the music, preferring songs like Elvis Costello's "What's So Funny About Peace, Love & Understand?" to Tool's "Stinkfist" (featuring the most poetic line of all time: "I have found some kind of temporary sanity/Shit, blood, and cum on my hands") (Editor's Note: Russell from NYC pointed out that this line is not from "Stinkfist", but from another Tool song which my band also played, the unforgettable "Prison Sex". Russell knows his Tool.)

But still, I have many great memories of the band. We had a lot of fun just getting drunk and breaking stones. For example, Pat, the lead singer, could never remember lyrics. There were times were we'd suggest a new song to cover, and he'd immediately say, "No way - I can't learn all those words." This was a running joke in the band - that Pat had the easiest job (he didn't play any instruments) and yet he couldn't pull it off. Meanwhile, I'd have ten minutes to learn this random Tool song that sounded to me like a mix of loud and pain.

I have a playlist on my iPod that features the forty or so songs we covered when we played. One of them is Pearl Jam's "State Of Love And Trust". A few posts ago, I transcribed what I thought were the lyrics to "Yellow Ledbetter", so I figured I'd give this one a close listen too.

Pat, I'm sorry I ever broke your balls for having to learn lyrics. Because this shit is absolute gibberish. Here's my take on the lyrics to "State Of Love And Trust":

State of love and trust is a
Busted down the preaches
Since then blaze and beaches
But to have an empty cord oh
In a signs a boxing
Grip the wheel can't read it
Sacrifice the sea bed
The smell that's on my hands and dead

And I listen
For the voice inside my head
I'll do this one myself

Lay her down as priestess
Sherpa lord the accountant
We'll be in my honor
Make it pain and painful liquid oh
Promises a whisperin'
In the days of darkness
Want to be enlightened
Like I want to be told the end and her

And the barrel shakes and
Oh directly at my head
Oh help me
Help me from myself

And I listen
For voice I try my bread
I'll do this one myself

[instrumental break]

Hey na na na na hear there's something
Hey na na na na hear there's something
Hey na na na na hear there's something
Want a bag bag bag uh huh uh huh

And I listen
For the voice inside my head
I'll do this one myself

Oh and the barrel way
Take a shit - England in my head
Oh won't you help me
Help me from myself

State of love and trust and uh
State of love and trust and uh
State of love and trust and uh
State of love and...

I dare you to listen to this song and come up with different lyrics. It's not possible. I walked away from songwriting when I finally realized nothing rhymed with "vodka". If I only knew that lyrics didn't matter at all, I would have a gold record by now. Damn it.


Six Songs (Love songs for Valentine's Day):

"When The Circus Comes" Los Lobos
I first heard this song because Phish covered it. I love Phish and all, but Los Lobos does this song much better. Just a group of sad-ass Mexicans singin' and playin' their hearts out. Poor lil' guys - I just want to hug 'em and ask them for a little extra guacamole. No, a little more. OK - that's enough.

"Out To Get You" James
Starts out very slow and quiet but builds to a crescendo. Kinda like making love. Well, not my kinda love-making - when I make love, it's like two apes fighting. And then one of the apes poops. And then they both sleep.

"Hold You In My Arms" Ray Lamontagne
I know I've pimped Ray Lamontagne ad infinitum on this site, but this song is simply amazing. It brings me back so vividly to the spring: I'd listen to it when I left the gym in Soho on B'way and Spring and headed back to my old place in the LES. I know it's a strange song to listen to when leaving the gym, but I needed something to slow down my heart after a workout, which, if you listened closely enough, you could hear screaming, crying, and coughing.

Really though - I can't imagine a woman not immediately putting out if this song were played in the right circumstance (meaning, when I'm not in the room).

"Venus" Air
More ethereal-ambient-cool-wispy music from Air. I sometimes listen to this song when I'm falling asleep, but I have to turn up the volume really high to drown out the sounds of me sobbing and choking on gummie candy. At least it works - I fall asleep every time. Eventually.

"Running To Stand Still" U2
Vintage U2 ("Joshua Tree") from back in the day when Bono was an Irish rocker, before he became Jesus Christ. Again, another rising crescendo and again, apes fighting.

"Untitled (How Does It Feel)" D'Angelo
When I was dating my ex-girlfriend, every Valentine's Day I would ask for the same thing: to make love like really cool/smooth black people. You know what I mean - all sexy and slow, candles lit everywhere, listening to some Freddy Jackson or some jazz or this song. And every year we never did, and now she's dead (to me at least).

Still, I hold out hope that one day, I'll be able to put this song on as my baby girl lays on red silk sheets in sexy-ass lingerie, as I slowly move around the room in tighty-whities, my woolly, corpulent body swaying sexily to the music, sensually eating a hot dog - true seduction before making love. This, as opposed to drinking a fifth of vodka, falling out of a cab, dropping pizza everywhere (which I pick up and eat regardless), before finally jackhammering some poor misguided woman for a solid two to three minutes before falling asleep.

Really, I can't believe I'm single.

ok ok
So maybe Charlie Daniels was right about the lights being out in North Korea (thanks to Brian in Toronto for the link). It's good to see that at least some of Charlie's book is based in fact.

And for the record, I'm not anti-anti-North Korea; I hate North Koreans just as much as the next guy. I'm just anti-Charlie Daniels. Thank you.

"Hi, I'm Charlie Daniels..."
My roommate Brian works for an entertainment news show here in NYC. As one of the perks of his job, he often gets early releases of books, music, etc for free because they are sent to his office to create publicity.

About two years ago, he came home with a book called "Ain't No Rag" by Charlie Daniels - the dude who sang "The Devil Went Down To Georgia." Charlie Daniels has a website and on his website he basically has a blog, writing his thoughts on various things, mostly about American diplomacy and current issues facing the country. The book is a collection of "essays" from his website.


I'll say this: Charlie Daniels loves America. Simply fucking loves it. Land of the free, home of the brave - hoorah!

I'll also say this: Charlie Daniels is conservative to the point of fascism, vehemently pro-life, and hates gay, blacks, immigrants, and non-Christians; all of whom are going to hell - big time. Thus, this makes the book the MOST HILARIOUS BOOK I'VE EVER READ (and when I use all caps like that you know I'm being serious).

I'm serious - I've been reading this book for about two days, and I can't get enough (I had read only snippets of it before). Charlie claims the book is based on "cowboy logic". I was not familiar with this term previously, but from what I understand so far, cowboy logic entails: 1) Offering simplistic takes and solutions for complex problems that have plagued humanity for centuries; and 2) Hating everyone who disagrees with you. Also, he's sweating very badly in a lot of the pictures. I don't know if that's part of "cowboy logic" or something unique to Charlie.

The book is filled with some of the most outlandish things I've ever read. Honestly, it leaves me speechless. I'm only 80 pages in (out of 260 or so), but here are some snippets so far:

- Charlie Daniels hates Sean Penn because of a visit he made to Iraq before the war to bring light to the plight of the Iraqi people. He calls him a "traitor" and a bunch of other things. Oh but wait - we're just getting started!

- In “An Open Letter to the Hollywood Bunch”, Daniels addresses those celebrities who are against the US occupation of Iraq, calling them, among other things, a “bunch of pitiful, hypocritical, idiotic, spoiled mugwumps.” You show 'em Charlie [shooting guns into air]!

- He says of North Korea, “If you were to look at a nighttime satellite shot of that part of the world you would see light in all the surrounding countries, while North Korea looks like a black hole because of the absence of electricity.” Um, are you sure about this, Charlie? I've personally never done seen a satellite shot of that part of Asia, but that sounds really, really dumb.

- He says of the prisoners in Guantanomo Bay in response to a lawyer he saw on TV advocating their rights, “These people are common criminals, not prisoners of war; they have no rights in this country or any other, for that matter.” I guess we should just shoot 'em up right away, just like they did in the Old West. Yee-hah [shooting guns into air again; playing fiddle]!

- He says of the French lack of support in Iraq, “When the terrorist attacks begin in Paris and they will, the French will come around screaming like a stuck pig begging for our help” and later says, “The French are afraid of their own shadow. The only war they ever won was the French Revolution, and that’s just because they were fighting each other.” I'm guessing "Devil Went Down To Georgia" didn't do so well in France. Also, I should point out, as a student of European history, that this historically inaccurate, but such trivial things as historical inaccuracies do not really matter to Charlie (we learn this about five pages into the book).

- On proposed stricter gun control laws: “It’s a strange thing to me that all these ruptured hearts [liberals who support gun control] remain silent when the Chinese bring in a shipment of assault rifles to sell to the street gangs in Los Angeles.” I have no idea what this means and I don't think he does either.

- About partial birth abortion: “The Holocaust pales in comparison when it comes to the loss of human life, and this disgraceful state of affairs is no less horrible than what happened in Nazi Germany.” Charlie, let's try to take it easy here, ok? Comparing the state of abortion in the US with horror of Nazi Germany might be a little - what's the word I'm looking for - irksome to some people (he writes this particular essay under the banner of "partial birth abortions", but it is plainly clear from this essay and the rest of the book he's speaking of abortion in general).

- In the same essay as above, he writes that Bill Clinton, who vetoed a law prohibiting partial birth abortions, “has the blood of millions of innocents on his grubby hands.” (He later calls Clinton a “lying, cheating, self-serving traitor”). He uses the following formulaic statement throughout the book: “These same people who [insert liberal activity/proclivity here] will not lift a finger or raise a whisper to talk about the murder of innocent children.” I am 80 pages in, and have read this at least four times.

- He says that (this is a good one) sex with children is “another by-product of homosexuality”. Later, he says of homosexuality, “Homosexuality is not a normal thing and has produced some of the most brutal, gory murders in the history of this nation" (???) and "[I]t ruins the lives of young people” and “AIDS was introduced into America by gay sex, which opened a Pandora's box” that he doesn't think will ever be closed. But, in case you were wondering, he does state that he does not hate gay people. So it’s cool for him to say this kind of stuff.

- About the mob that "rioted" in LA after the Lakers’ championship win: “Had the mob been made up of Caucasians, [authorities] could have waded into the middle of it with nightsticks and mace and had the streets cleared in minutes. However, that was not the case: the thugs were mostly minorities so the police had to handle the situation with kid gloves lest Al Sharpton and his brother blowhards come forth and accuse them of racial profiling.” He continues on towing the line between racist and "holy fucking shit I can't believe how racist this guy is!" in this particular essay, but there's just too much to type.

- He promotes teaching English and only English in public schools, saying, “Is being able to speak Spanish or Korean going to help that child out in the real world? Not unless they go back to Mexico or Korea and if they wanted to do that, what are they doing here in the first place?” I...don't...even...have words...for...this.

- One of his essays was written in response to an email he got which said Islam was a peaceful religion. Charlie says he doesn’t know much about Islam, but lists what he does know about Islam in nine points, closing with “Almost every shooting war on this planet is between Islam and somebody” (he admits that Christianity has had its share of dark times, but those are in the past and do not represent “true Christianity”). The complete list of things he "knows" about Islam is too long to type, but it's like me saying, "I don't know much about anyone who's not me, but I do not that they all are much worse than I am, have caused me a lot of problems, and will go to hell."

- He makes loads of unsubstantiated generalizations and doesn’t bother to back them up. For example, he writes of Holland’s “legalization” of “drugs”: “Some will tell you that Holland has tried the experiment successfully. Not so, Holland tried the experiment, all right, but it was not successful. It creates more problems than it solves.” Um, like what, Charlie? I know that the hookers in Amsterdam are actually not very hot, but that's not that big of a deal. One time after I had enough pot I fucked a doorjamb, so I'll still throw it in the ugly hookers, no problem.

[Please keep in mind that I pulled these snippets off the top of my head, thumbing through the book on my lap and typing some stuff in. If I were to spend a proper amount of time going through it, I'm sure I could find much more redonkulous stuff.]

Two closing thoughts:

1) Please, I implore, read this book. Please, please read it. I wouldn't buy it unless you have money lots of money, but if you are looking for a truly hilarious read, get this book. My roommate Brian summed it up best: "I would keep this book by my bedside, open it up anywhere and read maybe two pages before I was compelled to say 'Oh my god' out loud, put the book down, and sit on my bed with my mouth open, feeling like I didn't know if I should laugh or cry." If that's not a ringing endorsement, I don't know what is.

Also, now my friends and I have a hilarious private joke about Charlie Daniels, which of course when I explain it here will not be funny. Anyway, we'll put on our best Southern accent and do a Charlie Daniels impression, pretending he's a spokesman for Budweiser. We'll say things like:

- "Hi, I'm Charlie Daniels. Many people will tell you that I hate Jews, and, well, they're right - I do hate Jews. And that's why I drink Budweiser, the beer that's been anti-Jew since it's founding in 1866. [taking sip] Man, that's good anti-Semitism."

- "Hi, I'm Charlie Daniels. You may know me from my hit song 'The Devil Went Down To Georgia'. In addition to being a musician, I also hate blacks. Every time I see one, I just want to shoot 'em. And that's why I drink Budweiser - the beer for old, fat Southern racists who hopefully will die soon. As a matter of fact, I think my heart has just stopped."

You get it.

2) Charlie Daniels can get a book deal from his website despite the fact that he spews hateful propaganda with the grammar and prose of an eight year old, and yours truly doesn't even get return emails anymore from his "contact" at Random House?

Seriously, who's dick do I have to suck to get a book deal? Because I'll fucking do it - it doesn't make me gay. The true artist must sacrifice for his art, so bring on the penis! (None of you know any editors or publishers or people who might know someone in the publishing industry or famous people or nothing? Good lord. I need new readers.)

Wednesday, February 09, 2005
an open letter to God followed by a short discussion

I know that You and I have had our differences. And I know that You and I don't often see eye to eye. And I know that You and I don't really like each other, because of that time I called You a card cheat and hit You with a tree branch and then You slashed my tires (or was it You who called me a card cheat? It was so long ago I can't really remember). I think that we can both agree that our relationship in this lifetime is irreparable. It just isn't going to work.

Still, I propose a truce. I think, though it's obvious we will never become friends, that we should try to be civil to one another and stop with all the name-calling, crank calls, and frivolous lawsuits. I feel that this will do much to lessen the aggravation we have in our lives. I know You have a lot going on with all those crazies using Your name and cause to kill everyone, and my plate is full (literally) with trying to find the perfect carrot cake.

In the spirit of this truce, I ask a favor. I ask this favor not for now, but for my next lifetime. I realize that You will need time to heal and think about it, but while I have You listening, I figure I might as well ask.

In my next lifetime, can You please make it so that when I'm a 13 year-old male student my female hot, blond 20-something teacher "rapes" me? Please? I don't think this is asking for too much. Apparently, it's the cool thing to do, as this is the second time in less than a year it's happened.

I don't want an answer now - all I want is for You to think about it. I know we've had our problems, but deep down, we have a lot in common: we both love attention, we are both right-handed, we both hate my ex-girlfriend but love fried chicken, and both of us are wannabe writers - You "writing" the Bible and me "writing" a web site that features dick/fat/homophobic jokes.

Again, I don't need an answer right now, but please think about it. I hope this letter finds You well, and tell everyone I said hello (except that bastard Gregor Mendel - don't even tell him I wrote to You, as I owe him $800).

Before we continue talking about this, please give me a minute to pick up what's left of my penis, as it has exploded all over my office.


Ok, basically, I'm not going to be able to write about this. When this happened before with the teacher in Florida, I tried to write about it, but it was one of the worst things I've ever written simply because I couldn't wrap my mind around it.

So many thoughts and questions:

- Why are these kids telling others about their good fortune? For the love of god, if any of you reading this are in high school and having sex with your hot teacher, DO NOT TELL ANYONE. Not even your friends. Shut up and enjoy getting laid. You are in the most enviable position any man can ever know. So seriously, shut the fuck up. Zip.

- Why are these women seeking 13 years olds for sexual satisfaction? I mean ladies, come on! What kind of world do we live in when a 13 year-old regularly fucks his hot teacher but yours truly gets accused of intentionally rubbing up against women on the subway twice a week? I ask you, where is the justice?

And what does a 13 year-old boy know about sex anyway? Sure, I know next to nothing about sex too, but at least I know where everything goes, having been an avid fan of porn for almost 14 years. Please, if you are reading this and you are a hot, blond 20-something teacher looking to be sexed-up, stay away from your pubescent students and email me instead. There's at least a 4% chance that you'll get some satisfaction from me, but at the very least you're guaranteed the scariest, most hair-filled ninety seconds of your life. And I'll give you $120.

- Why are these women's husbands not hanging from the nearest rafters? As far as "Worst Break-Up Scenarios" go, in my mind it's:

* getting dumped but you know it's coming
* getting dumped out of the blue
* getting dumped because your girl says she not enjoying your sex life/no longer attracted to you
* your girl cheating on you
* your girl cheating on you with that guy she always hangs out with who you thought was gay
* your girl cheating on you with an NBA player
* your girl cheating on you with your brother
* your girl cheating on you with your dad
* your girl cheating on you with a 13 year-old kid
* your girl cheating on you with a 13 year-old kid and lighting your junk (penis and testes) on fire while you sleep

I mean, that's it. You're on the second level of hell with that one, men. And my god, I'm sorry for you.

You know what? I have to stop writing about this. I am filled with such rage, lust, and jealousy that I have to stop before something or someone gets hurts.

Good lord.

holy shitballs!
Judging from this headline, we are fucked.

I didn't think the Iraqi insurgents had a chance, but if they have Predators on their side, it's all over for us. Where's Arnold and/or Danny Glover when you need them?

(Oh wait, Arnold's running California and Danny's hawking Pilates videos. Nevermind.)

Tuesday, February 08, 2005
upcoming anniversary
This Sunday, February 13, is the one year anniversary our lovely little website here. I don't want to give away too much, but web site guy Brendan and I have something special planned, and if we are able to pull it off, I would truly be shocked. Between Brendan's inability to do even the most basic web design and my unrelenting and almost unconscionable laziness, together we make a very unsuccessful combination.

But if you want to send me an anniversary present, please contact me at jason@jasonmulgrew.com (use the subject line "presents out of love") and I'll tell you how to do so. I'm not talking about cash here, because that didn't work. But if you want to send me any t-shirts, pint glasses, checkers, old chicken wings, cigarette butts, pizza crusts* - really, anything laying around the house - I'm willing to accept them and give them a good home.


- I have gotten some t-shirts in the past from readers (from their schools, local bars, just plain weird ones, etc), and I am very grateful. Please note that it is useless to send me a white t-shirt, because after one wearing my body sweat will leave a fine layer of moss on armpits of the shirt. Also, I am either a big XL or smallish XXL. Maybe the XL is preferable, because it may inspire me to lose weight. Or, at the very least, I will look funny in a tight-ass t-shirt.

- I will not eat, drink, or otherwise ingest anything you send me, for fear of being poisoned. I will, however, give these items to my roommate Brian, as he owes me a lot of money and I'm looking to teach him a lesson.

- In that vein, it's best to not send anything perishable. I rarely check the mail, so this things would surely spoil by the time I picked them up (last week, I went to the mail room and picked up a package that I had had for ages - it was "The Office" dvd my brother had sent me for Christmas).

- If you send me anything painful (i.e. a picture from a porno mag of a couple having sex with a note attached saying, "Just wanted to remind you what you haven't done in a while", etc), I will hunt you down and take your life. I swear it.

- Any gifts received will be rewarded with a shout-out (if desired; they have been declined in the past), for whatever that's worth. Also, I will send much good karma your way, since I obviously have a lot to give.

Um...and that's about it. If you have any questions, personal or sexual, please let me know.

* Please do not send me any checkers, old chicken wings, cigarette butts, or pizza crusts. Thank you.

[no title]
A book I was supposed to read in high school but never did (because I was too busy exploring the wondrous world of self-love) began with the line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

Well, that line doesn't really apply here, because everything is pretty fucking bad.

Actually, there is one silver-lining for many of you: this will probably be my last sports-related post for some time. Although I'm a big Phillies fan, I don't hold up much hope for them this season, as all the other teams in the NL East made big acquisitions (Pedro, Beltran, Delgado, Hudson, etc), while the Phils picked up Jon Leiber, Kenny "I Can't Believe I'm Getting A Chance To Lead-Off At 54 Years Old" Lofton, and myself, who will have some spot infield duty.

But back to the matter at hand: the Philadelphia Eagles Super Bowl loss to the New England Patriots.




I'm not entirely sure how to start this, because there are many things that I want to say.

First, in the name of sportsmanship, I have to tip my hat to the Patriots. They won their third Super Bowl in four years, and in the age of the salary cap, that's saying something.


Sorry - enough with the caps lock. Some things about the game, which I watched again last night because apparently I like hurt:

- Like I alluded to above, there were two egregious examples of clock mismanagement. The first came at the end of the first half. With the scored tied at 7 and 1:10 left in the half, the Eagles had the ball and all three timeouts. They eventually reached their 41 yard-line, where the drive stalled, and the Eagles had two unused timeouts.

I'm not sure if Andy Reid thought he could carry over those timeouts, but to not take a shot to get into field goal range so that your team can go in with a lead at the half is preposterous. This is a no-brainer. When my buddy Steve's fiancée, who god bless her, knows a little more about football than most women but isn't going to be guest-starring on "Pardon The Interruption" any time soon says, "Why aren't they trying to score before time runs out?", you know there's a problem.

When asked about this in the post-game conference, Reid responded, "I don't remember that at all, to be honest with you." Well, that's ok Andy, because about 10 million Eagles fans will remind you for a long time.

The second example of mismanagement is more obvious and painful. Down by 10 points with 5:40 left in the game, the Eagles took their sweet time marching down the field, refusing to go no huddle, and didn't score until 1:55 left in the game. My memory of this drive is hazy, because the third time they went into a huddle I collapsed, knocking over a table full of sausage, shrimp, kielbasa, and cakes.

I can't even write about this, because there is no logical explanation. I, nor does anyone else, have no idea why the Eagles didn't go no huddle to get the ball at least within field goal range. The facts speak for themselves - there is no other way to view them except to say it was a major mistake at the most crucial time in recent Philadelphia sports history. It is indefensible - an open and shut case. And we lose.

[I got an email this morning from said buddy Steve who wrote: "(Eagles offensive linemen) Runyan and Fraley told Angel Cataldi (a popular sports talk-show host in Philly) last night that the reason behind the piss-poor clock management was due to McNabb's inability to run the hurry up. Apparently he was throwing up and exhausted from the blazing 50 degree 'heat'". I don't even know how to feel anymore.]

- Oh, Donovan. You had come so far to shed the mantle of the QB who can't come through in the big game. You finally got the monkey off your back and won an NFC Championship. Yay.

And now this.

There have traditionally been four knocks against McNabb: 1) He can't win the big game; 2) He's inaccurate as a passer; 3) He often doesn't have the best field vision and misses open receivers; and 4) He doesn't use his God-given ability to run the ball.

I know he's getting murdered in the Philly press right now, so I'll try to go easy on him (especially since I know he's probably reading this). But the bottom line is, he fucked up. He threw four pics, one was overturned (as was a fumble). It's easy for me to say in hindsight that he missed some open receivers - which he did - but what was more disconcerting was that some of his throws were way, way off. Think about it: this guy threw 8 interceptions in sixteen games all season, and threw essentially 4 in this one game. And he didn't run. At all.

Chalk it up to a learning experience, but damn Donovan - I was hoping for a little more.

- Terrell Owens is a warrior, and will forever have that designation in Philadelphia sports history. He could never play another down for the Eagles, and the fans of Philadelphia would love him forever (in as much as they are capable of loving an athlete).

- The Pats offensive line picked up nearly every blitz. Conversely, the Pats defensive line caused enough ruckus to limit the Eagles running game to basically 23 yards on 16 carries (less Westbrook's 22-yard run on the last play before halftime that didn't matter). Kudos to them.

- Tom Brady is a hell of a QB. Cool, calm, collected. He dealt with the Eagles blitz fairly well and was able to establish a rhythm. I still am not comfortable with the Montana comparison, because those 49er teams were off the hook (winning their SB's 38-16, 20-16, and 55-10), but there aren't many QB's I'd take over him.

- New England's celebration of the victory was very lame, and thus very painful to me. I mean, come on - you just won the Super Bowl! Get up for it! Christ - I've shown more emotion when biting off a good bit of fingernail or getting a new legal pad at work.

Because I'm from Philly and we are perennial losers, I think of championships not in terms of "I hope the best team wins", but rather "I hope that the city that deserves it most wins". For example, going into the AFC Playoffs, I would have much rather lost to the Steelers or the Jets than the Pats, Colts, Chargers, or Broncos, by virtue of the fact that those last four teams have either enjoyed a championship recently or have crappy fans, while Pittsburgh and the greater New York area would explode if their home team won.

Instead, New England gets another championship. Excuse me while a yawn and listen to another chowdah head rant about his beloved Sahx and Pahts. Assholes.

(And yes, I am jealous)

Speaking of assholes, a few words to those Pats fans who sent me bragging/rub it in emails after the game:

- If you have a blog, please remember that mine is much better than yours and gets anywhere from 100 to 10,000 times more hits a day than yours does. Sending me emails rubbing your team's victory in my face and signing the emails "Bob Smith--douchebag.blogspot.com" will not get me to use your email and put a link to your site, because no one wants to read what you have to say anyway.

- For those Pats fans who sent me "rubbing it in" emails who do not have a blog, well, if you were to create one, mine would still be better. Assholes. Also, I hope one of your loved ones dies. Soon.

- To those who were brave enough to send me anonymous emails bragging about the Pats' victory, well kudos to you my friends. There's nothing more manly than shit talking over email, except when you do so anonymously. I bet in real life you are a bad mother fucker.

- Remember, there is a 75% chance that I can beat you up (the number jumps to around 95% if you have a blog), something I will do if I ever see you and I've had three beers.

- Though I don't respond to any of them, I save all negative emails into a special folder called "People I Am Going To Fuck". This is so when in about two years time when I am rich, famous, and powerful, I will know who to murder first. I only hold three things well: hoagies, titties, and grudges, and I promise you that some day you will pay.

To those of you who sent emails of support or condolences, thank you very kindly. Your well wishes are needed at this difficult time. I am happy to report that I am still alive, and I don't think I'll hurt myself any time soon, that is as long as my neighborhood Gristede's keeps a fresh supply of Country Crock macaroni and cheese on the shelf.

As for now, I'm just gonna have to keep on keepin' on. I don't feel comfortable quoting myself, but rather than risk repeating myself, I refer to what I wrote after Philly-bred Smarty Jones lost the Triple Crown (and that was a fucking horse!):

But still, I (and all of my compatriots) carry on, because that's what being a real sports fan is all about, and because, even though it may hurt at times, and may cause us to get so drunk after a loss that we may pass out on our dad's front steps because we were too drunk to work our keys, we wouldn't change a thing.
Well, I might change some things, but for the most part, I agree.

Now let the healing begin.

Friday, February 04, 2005
the ultimate
[FYI: Whether the Eagles win or lose this Sunday, there will be no post on Monday, as Sunday night I will be black-out drunk and have off the following day. If the Eagles win, there will be no post on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, as I will have off those days and spend that time trying to murder myself with Miller Lite. Thank you and god bless.]

I have not asked much from you people.

Well, for the most part.

But when I have asked for something from you all, you left me disappointed and miserable - a fat hunk of man, erect, with a heavy (read: enlarged due to high cholesterol) heart.

I have asked you for anonymous sex, and you have failed to deliver even the quickest most chaffiest handjob.

I have asked for pictures of you in compromising positions, hopefully giving quick, chaffy handjobs, and instead I get pictures of guys crowded around their passed out buddy or pictures of guys putting their balls on stuff. Not sexual. Not sexual at all (that is, unless I've had a beer or two).

When I asked for a small donation around the holidays, a token of appreciation for all blood, sweat, and tears, and semen, I put into each post, less than one tenth of one percent of you donated. You ungrateful sons of bitches.

But all of this in the past, and I am over it. I'm slowly starting to realize that after almost one year of giving you all of my love and effort, you are prepared to do very little in return for me, especially if it involves both my genitals or genital region and your hand, mouth, or heinie.

Yet I ask for one more thing from you, something more important than all the rest, something that, if it works properly, can be the greatest gift you could ever give me: I ask for your support of the Philadelphia Eagles in this weekend's Super Bowl against the New England Patriots.

I know that it's a strange thing to ask for, but I believe if all of you think long and hard about it and truly wish for victory for the Eagles, it can happen. Nay, it will happen.

In an effort to help you cheer on the Birds, here are some reasons that you should root for the Eagles this Sunday.

- Do it for me. I can not articulate how much an Eagles' victory would mean to me, because something like that would require actual writing ability, as opposed to stringing together dick, fat, and racist jokes. But suffice to say, it would be the greatest thing to ever happen to me. And this is the most serious thing I've ever written on this site.

I'm a pretty emotional guy, and if they win, there's no doubt that I would essentially come unglued. I see two possible scenarios for me if the Eagles win: 1) I break out into tremendous sobs of joy that are so uncontrollable that I eventually collapse and have a complete and thorough emotional breakdown; or 2) I flip the fuck out, take off my shirt, and run to Independence Hall to take the Liberty Bell as a souvenir back to my apartment in NYC, and am stopped only after eight bullets.

Bottom line: save for the birth of my next child, I can't imagine something being more special to me than an Eagles' championship.

- Do it for Philly. Much has been written this week about the inferiority complex Philadelphia has. Despite being the fifth largest city in the US, we're stuck on the eastern seaboard between Washington and NYC, capitals of government and business, and there's Boston 300 miles to the north, a hub for the entire region of New England.

To some extent, Philly does have an inferiority complex, but that's not a bad thing. We are a proud, blue-collar town, filled with some of the most voracious and insane sports fans in the country, who, by the way, haven't had a championship in over twenty years.

Truth be told, I can not imagine what would happen to the city of Philadelphia if the Eagles won the Super Bowl. Even the Red Sox championship celebration was tempered by the Puritanical nature of the state and city government and the accidental shooting death of a Sox fan by police a week before.

For Philly's celebration, all bets would be off. Good lord. Philadelphia may cease to exist as a city if the Eagles won. I can picture my father, a die-hard lifelong Eagles fan, slowly putting out his cigarette as he watches the Eagles celebrate, getting out of his chair and going outside his house, staring at it and saying, "Well, the Eagles won the Super Bowl", and burning his own house down. I would not be shocked if this scene were to repeat itself all over Philadelphia. Because things like living in a non-burned down house will simply no longer matter if the Eagles win a championship.

- Do it for sports fans everywhere. We have in this corner the lowly Philadelphia Eagles, a team without a championship pedigree hailing from a city full of fat people who have mullets and spend their days eating cheesesteaks and eating more cheesesteaks (they even have the fattest coach in the league!). The team is lead by that corn-rowed balding quarterback who does those lame Chunky Soup commercials. And he's black! Ugh!

And in this corner, we have the (yes, the) New England Patriots! The greatest team in all of sports history! Led by the smartest man who has ever lived on planet Earth, Bill Belichick! I heard he beat Socrates in a chess match - three times - and I'm told he actually ghost-wrote the Bible (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were just his pen names)! And have you seen the quarterback Tom Brady! He's the dreamiest! He's so all-American! Look at that square-jaw! I think I might faint!

Seriously, have you guys been reading any sports outlet recently? All this talk about the Pats' dynasty and being the greatest team ever and I heard Teddy Bruschi gave mouth-to-mouth to a retarded kid who was choking on a chicken wing and drowning at the same time and blah blah blah.

Christ - it makes me want to throw up. So root for the underdog. Root for them because they represent a chance for victory in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Root for them against the Patriots because Eagles fans would root for your team in the same situation (please note: this does not apply to fans of the Cowboys, Giants, or Redskins).

[As an aside, I can't tell you how happy the cover story on espn.com makes me (in case you missed it, the article is here and it compares the "genius" of Patriot's coach Bill Belichick to the genius of Albert Einstein - wow).]


So there you go: three good reasons to root for the Philadelphia Eagles this weekend. And now, I would like to take a minute to talk to the Philadelphia Eagles and their fans.

Guys, I'm not going to say we're going to win, and I'm not going to make a prediction. I feel good. That's all I'll say. And coming from someone who is a hypochondriac, a drunk, and coming down off a slight cocaine buzz I caught last night, that's saying something. That's saying a lot actually.

There are four things at play here that we have to realize:

1) There is zero pressure on us. We've already thrown the monkey off our back by winning the NFC Championship and getting to the Super Bowl. If we lose, no one will blink and eye and everyone will say, "Well, at least they got here, and they have all the pieces in place for another run next year." If we lose, we can say, "Well, TO wasn't 100%." If we lose, we can say, "Well, we lost to a dynasty."

On the other side of the ball, the Pats are being called one of the greatest teams in NFL history. Tom Brady is being compared to Joe Montana, which is kinda like comparing me to Vladimir Nabakov. Hearing from Pats fans and reports from Philly fans who live in Boston, it sounds as though the caterers have been paid (we're going to have scallops wrapped in bacon, crab cakes, and cocktail wieners) and the schools are already closed for Tuesday's victory parade in Beantown.

I know that both this teams are filled with professionals and professionals don't worry about pressure, but no matter how professional you are, having no pressure on you and your team doesn't hurt.

2) There has been a lot of talk of the Patriots' experience in the Super Bowl. Remember, "experience" is only another way to describe the past. There is a football game this Sunday that will be decided by 60-minutes of football this Sunday. I know it seems obvious, but it seems like many forget this.

I will take hunger and passion over experience and history any day.

3) There is such a thing as karma, such a thing as destiny (just ask any Pats fan about their beloved Red Sox). I would be remiss if I didn't say that things seem right for this Eagles team. I can't explain it, and I won't attempt to explain it, but it's there. And boy can we fucking feel it.

4) One last note: Tom Brady is 8-0 in the playoffs as a starter.


Well, everyone's gotta lose sometime.


Thursday, February 03, 2005
crap and crap again
I am having an EXTREMELY stressful day at work today. I don't want to get to into it lest I start throwing some elbows, but it's not good.

And it's not a good time for me to have any extra stress since I'm already flipping the fuck out over the Super Bowl this coming Sunday. Again, I'm not sure why I love sports so much, since rooting for the Philadelphia Eagles has taken years off my life. That, combined with my lack of sleep and my abuse of drugs, alcohol, and all that poison I take, and I should have been dead at age 7. Jason Mulgrew: defying the odds.

Also, I got a terrible email recently from Alisa from Wollongong, Australia (I'm so hot in Australia right now). She wrote about my athlete's foot, which, in case you were interested, is still in the process of turning my feet into fleshy lumps of gnarly, irritated skin.

Anyway, Alisa writes that the best athlete's foot remedy is for me to piss on my affected feet. I always thought this was an old wive's tale, but she tells me that she saw a movie in which Matt Damon plays an army medic, and he advises his patient to do just that. Of course, after the beauty and majesty that is "Good Will Hunting", I trust Matt Damon and any character he may play with my life, so I'm going to start peeing on my feet. I've been waiting for years for an excuse to do so without being judged, and now I finally have it. Thank god.

However, Alisa closes her email with the following tid-bit: "Also - severe tinea [the fancy name for athlete's foot] can be a signal of diabetes. Get your blood sugar checked, if you haven't already."


I don't know how much more clearly I can say this, but again, for the record, I AM A HYPOCHONDRIAC. I read this email at about 2pm on Saturday afternoon. By 2:03, after consulting with webmd.com (aka "The Hypochondriac's Worst Nightmare"), I was convinced that I have diabetes.

I don't know anything about diabetes, but I know that I'm really fat and I have SERIOUS athlete's foot. Therefore, logic would imply that I have diabetes. Add to this logic and completely irrational sense that something is seriously wrong with me medically somewhere in my body (balls, penis, testes, scrotum, grundel, etc), and it makes for a bad weekend and following week. I've been thinking I have diabetes since this email. I think I even remember telling people I met on Saturday night when I was drunk that I have diabetes. Last night I told my doorman. Today I told my accountant (and yes, I have an accountant - his name is Ezekiel and he is a lovely man).

So what I'm trying to say is that a) I have diabetes; b) I'm shitting myself because I have diabetes; and c) it's all because of Alisa from Wollongong, Australia. Please do not send me emails saying, "You know, since you haven't had sex with a consensual, non-dead, Caucasian woman in a while, you probably have legionnaire's disease", because my mind will spiral out of control and I will essentially will Legionnaire's Disease on myself.


See - just after writing that, I think I have Legionnaire's Disease. Fuck. I'm looking forward to the fever, chills, and a cough, which may be dry or may produce sputum (I'm hoping for sputum).

And now I have to go back to pretending like I know what I'm doing. worst. thursday. ever.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005
circumcision - what is it good for?
I hate to be lame and keep putting up links (not that there's anything wrong with that), but this story, like yesterday's, is too incredible not to be discussed.

I'm not going to make fun of babies who died from herpes, because that's not very funny. Well, maybe to some people, but I have lost four of my own children to sexually transmitted diseases (and two to a unfortunate BBQ grilling accident, three to an angry lioness, and one to some unforgiving rapids), and trust me, it's no laughing matter. It's just such a shame that these kids couldn't grow up to be confused young men and get herpes the right way: from a busty Rotterdam-based hooker named Regina after a few too many Heinekens and too much exotic marijuana.

The most disturbing part of the article is:

Under Jewish law, a mohel -- someone who performs circumcisions -- draws blood from the circumcision wound. Most mohels do it by hand, but Fischer uses a rare practice where he uses his mouth.

Now, I will admit that though I've slept with a goodly number of Jewish girls (before I ostensibly became a eunuch), I don't really know anything about Jewish customs or culture. I know that when my ex-girlfriend (who was Jewish) and I used to get in fights, I would say, "You know what? It doesn't matter that I tried to cheat on you with that one-legged girl who works at Toys 'R' Us - your people killed my fucking Savior! I'm just scoring one for the Catholics, you crazy Hebrew bitch!" and she would not be happy. I don't know if she was unhappy because I said that, or because she had to have sex with me on a regular basis. Probably both. Also, one time we got in a fight and to spite her I took a bunch of her birth control pills and had a seizure. She was REALLY pissed about that.

But really, how does letting an old man with a beard putting his mouth on your baby's dick sound like a good idea? How does the conversation between the child's parents work:

Mom: "Well, you know little David's bris is coming up."Dad: "Yes, yes."
Mom: "I heard about this great mohel, who instead of using his hands to perform the circumcision, uses his mouth. I think we should get him."
Dad: "That sounds like the greatest idea I've ever heard. I see how no harm could come to our child, either psychologically, emotionally, or physically, by letting a middle-aged man bite his genitals. Also, I love saving money."

(And if this is offensive in any way, I apologize - my Jewish friend Dana recently said of the crucifix, "I don't know why you Catholics make such a big deal out of it - it's a dead guy on some sticks!", so I'm cashing in my "get out of Jewish jail free" card on this one. And yes, I'm only being overly cautious with the Jewish jokes because I'm hoping to break into Hollywood and being anti-Semitic is NOT the best way to do so, or so I've heard.)

Another great part of the article, a quote from the rabbi's lawyer:

"My client is known internationally as a caring, skilled, and conscientious mohel," Kurzmann said. He continued, "I can assure you that I've seen a lot of grown men put their mouths on baby penis, and no one does it like Rabbi Fischer. To watch him work, when he sinks his gnarled coffee-stained teeth into that baby's junk, it's really breathtaking."
[OK, so maybe I made up everything after "Kurzmann said", but I'm not a fucking professional journalist.]

My question is: how many Jewish guys in the New York area are calling their parents right now and saying, "Mom - did Rabbi Yitzhok Fischer perform my circumcision? DID HE??? JUST TELL ME DAMN IT!!! TELL ME!!!" Some parents are going to have a lot of explaining to do over the next few days.

I was circumcised, but not because I'm Jewish. I was circumcised in the late 1970's (1979 to be exact), when it was believed to be the sanitary thing to do and to prevent penile infections and cancer (I know this is a uniquely American thing, my dear international readers). The American Medical Association has since announced that there are no health benefits to being circumcised, but I'm still glad I am. I only know four guys my age who weren't circumcised, and we called them "The Covered Wagon Crew." And I don't want to start a big debate about circumcision or get emails from guys who do rock the hooded sweatshirt extolling the virtues of extra skin on your meat, but as a purveyor of porno I would like to go on record and say, "God DAMN do uncircumcised birds look weird."

I thought about whether or not my sons will be circumcised, and even though it's been medically proven there's no benefit, I want them to be chopped like their dear old dad. This may sound strange, but I don't know how I could relate to my son if he had a bird that looked like it was wrapped in a sausage casing. It's just very...weird. Fortunately, because of my diet and high blood sugar, I'm essentially impotent, so I don't have to worry about procreating any time soon. Also, if I do somehow manage to get and maintain an erection, I'm almost completely sterile, thanks to some cream I applied to my overly large scrotum in 1998, hoping to shrink it (it didn't work).

And when I was circumcised, I was cut the right way: by an older cousin (at least that's what I called him, though I don't think he was any relation), after a pint of Jim Beam, with a screw driver. And he did an excellent job, save for when he slipped and cut me pretty good and to stop the bleeding he sewed some tennis ball fur onto my bird, which is still there today - though it's lost its neon-greenness and is more of a brownish-reddish-purple color.



I have no idea how to end this post. How do you come back from saying that your bird has had tennis ball fur sown on it since you were a baby?



In conclusion, four things to take away from this post:

- letting a rabbi bite your kid's bird: not a good idea
- I love all Jewish people, especially those who work in the entertainment or publishing industries
- I am circumcised, and my kids will be as well, lest I see their birds and scream, "Ewww - what the fuck is that?"
- one time I ate a spoonful of poo on a dare

Have a good day.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005
I consider myself a fairly die-hard Eagles fan, but this guy has me beat - big time.

Shoveling snow for 30 hours, talking shit to Michael Vick, and potentially losing his fingers, ears, and nose - now THAT is dedication my friends. I can't imagine doing anything like that, unless I had about $150,000 worth of cocaine in my system, so much that I would actually be clinically dead but my muscles would be driven by the coke, rather than my heart and brain.

But I wouldn't give up my fingers, ears, and nose for an Eagles Super Bowl win, unless I was already married to a very attractive woman or I had a very attractive women tied up in my basement, which I'm not and don't have (yet - working on it). Despite evidence to the contrary, I am still holding out hope of one day having sex again, and I'd like to have my fingers, ears, and nose when I do so, as they are all body parts that play pivotal roles in my love-making "technique" (please note that by "technique" I mean "experiencing spasms of the muscles of the groin and pelvic region until vomiting is induced, at which point I cry and poop").

There are however many other things I would do for an Eagles' championship, like:

- punch my brother in the face (hard)
- give up drinking for two months (ok, one month)
- kill an animal with a blunt instrument, preferably a cat with an old shovel or a really fat pig with a pair of brass knuckles
- spend two hours in jail
- tell my mom I'm quitting my job and moving to LA to follow my dream - to play Raoul in "Phantom of the Opera" and win a beauty pageant - and not tell her I'm kidding for one week
- drink poison, but only enough to make me pass out, not to kill me - it's also ok if it makes me impotent for a few months
- give up masturbating for three days
- make out with a dude for five seconds - but only if it's Kyan from "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy", Rod Stewart, or Paul Newman circa 1970 (if that's the case, it may last longer)
- punch my sister in the face (but not as hard as I would punch my brother)
- stab myself in the ass or upper thigh with a penknife, but only in a hospital and in the presence of a doctor and the penknife is sterile and afterwards I get to have a milkshake
- tell my dad I'm gay, and not tell him I'm kidding for three days (if he lived for three days)
- shit myself at work
- wear a moustache for one month
- tell my entire family I'm engaged to a girl I met over the internet but haven't yet met in person, and not tell them I'm kidding for two weeks (also tell them the girl has a kid but it's not a kid but some sort of bizarre dog-child that has disproportionally large genitals)
- start a garbage fire in Central Park
- kiss a scrotum of my roommates' choosing
- start a garbage fire in my kitchen
- put a homeless guy in a headlock
- walk through Spanish Harlem in July for twenty minutes wearing a sign that says, "It stinks like Rican in here"
- shave my pubes, but leave all of the rest of my body hair intact for three months

I could go on and on here, but that's twenty, so we'll stop there.

[Please note: I'm not saying I will do these things if the Eagles win, I'm just saying I would do these things if Satan came to me now and made me an offer. If the Eagles win, don't send me any emails saying, "Well dude, looks like you have to murder a cat."]

But no, I wouldn't lose my fingers, ears, and nose for a Birds' win. God bless that man. Seriously.

And if you're not rooting for the Eagles in Sunday's Super Bowl, a town that represents a team full of crazed fans like Mr. Frostbite who would do anything for a championship (which they haven't had in 22 years, unlike Boston which has had 3 in 3 years), well then you and I just can't be friends. So stop fucking emailing me about meeting up, because I'm not gonna do it.

(Thanks to my buddy Steve for the link)

PS - I'm going home to Philly this weekend for the Eagles game, and if they win, I'm going to cry. I just want to say this now, so that if it happens, no one watching the game with me will be freaked out, because I am really going to sob. Really, really sob.

PPS - And yes, I know this post has an uncomfortable about of references to the Eagles winning the Super Bowl, but there's nothing I can do about this. You should now that I am very uneasy about said references, but I don't think that this will put a jinx on the team (even though I am pretty fucking famous). Now let's talk about something else...

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