It’s that awful time of year again. Get out your bowtie and the Astro- Glide. Ready your fake ID’s. Mating season is here. I’ve been through this horrific fiasco once before, and I know how psychologically damaging and emotionally crippling it can be for some people. I’m not your therapist or your mother, but I can help in a small way by outlining exactly what the rules are of a high school prom.
This version of the prom game is designed as an alternative to simply voting on a prom king or queen. This edition is more nuanced and confusing, which I believe accurately represents teenage sexuality.
Happy Hormone Games. And may your balls be ever in your favor.
Tremendous thanks to The Pigeon Stories and Gore with Soul!! You guys are awesome.
WordPress users really are some of the nicest people on the internet. In an online world dominated by neurotic eroticism, angsty tumblr teens, vicious trolls, cynical Reddit users, and 12-year old boys, it’s extremely refreshing to be a part of an online community that supports and encourages its members so much. Even their chain mail is filled with love.
That’s essentially what a Liebster Award is. Only instead of dooming you to be crushed under a steamroller or have your dog run away if you don’t send it to your least favorite relatives, this is just a nice little high-five from one blog to another. There’s no voting and no actual winner. Everyone’s a winner! Woo. Once you’ve received notification that you’ve been nominated, the rules are as follows:
- Thank the person that nominated you.
- Answer 11 of their questions and state 11 random facts about yourself
- Nominate 11 more blogs, each with under 200 subscribers, and ask them 11 more questions.
So far I’ve received two nominations, so what I’m going to do is combine both into one post and answer 22 questions. However, I’ll only state the 11 facts about myself, since this was only mentioned in the rules of one of the blogs that nominated me. Huh. Oh well. Let’s get started. Continue reading
I’m three hours through a five hour layover in Washington DC, and I have to pee really badly. Not badly enough to get up and risk losing the only comfortable position I can maintain on these funny make-believe leather benches, but just bad enough that my five minute old accidental half-erection feels like a very cruel and mean spirited cosmic prank. I try to loosen the death grip my jeans have on my penis and my aforementioned comfortable position slips through my fingers like a wedding band down a dirty New York storm drain. I actually have to urinate now.
I get up and walk from the gate through the groggy cloud of travelers and tourists and make my way towards what I assume is the sign for the restrooms but I can’t tell from this far away because the signs are always too goddamn small. A man stares dead eyed from a pretzel stand into the cranky white noise of the atrium. Someone at the Dunkin Donuts kiosk is being notified that no, in fact they don’t have toasting capabilities at this particular Dunkin Donuts kiosk, and not only that, he’ll also have to do his best to cut his bagel himself if he wants to spread butter or cream cheese on the bagel, which makes him furious, but he can’t do shit because these people have his coffee, which for him is the equivalent of the cashier dangling his infant daughter above the tile and slowly letting his fingers go loose.
The bathroom ends up being somehow the most inconvenient distance possible from every single gate on the floor. I round a tight corner, passing men so obese they exhale Cheetoes, and hit a brick wall of shit stink.
Every one of these should be a skull and crossbones.
In a lot of ways, this is a vanity post. Having been recently been put on Freshly Pressed, I feel like there are some people out there who might be interested in why I write and the attitude I take towards writing in general. I also feel like I should put out something before all the new attention from my fleeting notoriety goes completely down the crapper.
Here I am. This is me. I am here. And I am alone. Inside my head I have an island all to myself, and I’m drawn slowly across time and through the void of existence. The trees here are green and the water is black.
Zoom out, and I’m in the library and my eyeballs hurt. There is the hum of spinning hard drives and people coughing, one after the next. The more and more I sit here, the noisier my head gets. I can feel my skull buzzing under my skin. Continue reading
I truly can’t do The Godfather justice in a mere thousand words. And, unfortunately, many have already written volumes analyzing and exploring this divine document. But as someone extremely fussy and picky about film quality, and someone attempting to better educate themselves about the history of cinema, I feel I’m doing an injustice not to mention when a film not only meets, not only exceeds, but makes love to my expectations, cuddles them warmly in the afterglow, and makes eggs in the morning. Continue reading
What have I become?
In case you missed it, the 6th generation of Pokémon has been announced, bringing the grand total number of Pokémon to over 700. The games will be titled Pokémon X and Pokémon Y, as in why the motherfuck would they do this to me.
Maybe I’m just getting older. Maybe I no longer have a child’s capacity to accept the world of Pokémon as it now is. I hope that’s the real problem because I would never wish creatures this ugly on any generation of children. I’m infinitely grateful that I got to grow up with Squirtle and Mew and Tyranitar instead of these pernicious abominations. Continue reading
The following contains massive spoilers for Sylvain Chomet’s 2010 film The Illusionist
I don’t cry ever. I wish I could. It’s cleansing. It’s freeing. It actually makes you feel better. But I can’t. Too much shit has happened to me. Not a lot registers emotionally anymore. And if something does overwhelm me emotionally, my default physical reaction is crazy, maniacal laughter.
So when something does make my eyeballs sweat, it’s special. And only one thing in the world can actually make me shed tears: Sylvain Chomet’s animated movie The Illusionist.
Chomet isn’t as well-known as say, Pixar or Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli. In fact most people will give you a blank, dull animal look if you mention his name. I wish more people were familiar with his work. The man is a goddamn genius. His films have been up for the Oscar in best animated feature twice and haven’t won, which still makes me grind my teeth and sock guinea pigs in the face. Continue reading
“I just don’t get it. I just don’t fucking understand at all.” Dr. Whiten whines.
“I don’t think it’s healthy to ponder the philosophical implications too much.” Dr. Prof. Hallenstein replies, attempting to give a look to his colleague, Dr. Faffman, like “really can you even believe this asshole” but Faffman doesn’t glance up from his computer screen. He’s very involved in a game of Tetris. A line disappears and he stifles a yawn.
Hallenstein forces his sunken eyes on the mannequin before him; an object he now regards with a hatred so personal it might as well be a real human. The naked plastic woman levitates before him above a pedestal in the dead center of the underground lab, suspended by a strong magnetic field.
His hand rises to the rims of his glasses and he lowers them from his tense bald skull, squishing his thumb and forefinger together. His stomach growls and his lips purse simultaneously.
The mannequin is specially designed. Years of study, years of monitoring male sexual preferences, hundreds of sperm bank questionnaires, and countless of door to door surveys, many overseen by Hallenstein himself, have resulted in, apart from scores of slammed doors and bruised noses, the objectively perfect female form standing on a pedestal before him. She is made of a specialized, nearly indestructible carbon compound necessary for the kinds of experiments needed for the results the Chief demands. And the Chief demands but one thing: the perfect female spandex unparalleled in allure and durability to usher in an era of divine, all powerful ass. One booty. Now and forever.
“No but seriously just listen to me.” Whiten says. “I get the desire to create a god-fabric.”
“You really need to stop.” Hallenstein says flatly. Continue reading
The following is adapted from portions of the nativity according to Luke. Original Text
The Birth of J2FNC5k According to Luke
(26) In the days soon before the Mesoamerican reckoning, God the Media sent the divine paparazzi to London, a city in Britain, 27 to a virgin(hah) married to a man named Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, a descendant of a line of inbred albino tyrants. The virgin’s name was Kate Middleton, Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. 28 The paparazzi went to her and said, “What up, you who are highly favored! The Media is with you.”
(29) Middleton was greatly perplexed at his/her/it/their words and wondered what kind of sensationalist bullshit this might be. (30) But the paparazzi said to her, “Do not be afraid, Kate; you have found favor with the God of All News Outlets. 31 You will conceive and give birth to a spoiled brat, and you are to call him Jesus 2: Fish n’ Chips for 5000 (J2FNC5k for short). (32) He will be part bird and will be called the Rugrat of the Most Obscenely Wealthy. The God Media will give him the throne of his father William, (33) and he will reign over everyone dumb enough to pay attention to your family’s bullshit forever; the coverage will never end. Never.” Continue reading
Annie Hall is great. It really is. It’s beautifully shot, the soundtrack is fantastic, and it’s surreal and tragic and consistently hilarious from start to finish. It’s great. I just can’t stand it any part of it. The thing about Annie Hall is that in order to enjoy the film the viewer has to do two things that I couldn’t possibly accomplish if you water boarded me with bleach.
- Sympathize with Woody Allen’s semi-autobiographical protagonist Alvy Singer.
- Suspend your disbelief that Alvy could land any woman as beautiful as Diane Keaton.
Neither of these things is possible for me at all. It’s a shame, really. I want so much to like it. I want so much to like Woody Allen in general, but there’s always something about him I’ve found extremely off-putting. It’s something about his voice and demeanor and how he chooses to see his own voice and demeanor. The combination of geeky artist and angsty semi-autistic loner would normally strike a chord for me, but when Allen does it I feel my own identity as an agnsty semi autistic loner violated. There’s always the vague sense that despite all the flaws he admits to having through the character of Alvy Singer he feels there is something truly romantic and glamorous about being awkward and neurotic. Like because Alvy is awkward and neurotic he’s above and beyond the trite social graces of the peon masses and therefore has the divine right to be completely abrasive and rude to whomever he pleases. Continue reading