Monday, June 30, 2008
Facebook is an evil force of nature; it must be stopped. We've already become a generation of mush-brained zombies gnawing on each other's collective id.
In a few years, there will be HTML-coded orgies, a mass clusterfuck of mouse-dicked Trekkies waxing philosophically on nephew Richie's newfound liberalism and Baby Chester's tit-stained baby photos.
Every nook and cranny will be consumed by Facebook founder and CEO Mark Zuckerberg. So mark my words: America as we know it will cease to exist.
On GMail today, I received a chatbot message from 'Facebook.'
'Your friend so-and-so is feeling sleepy today," the Facebook chatbot said of my friend's supposed status. I don't give two clucks from a rooster's behind, Mr. Zuckerberg.
It's times like these where I thank God that I'm a libertarian socialist.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
- Four Indian frozen dinners
- tuna fish
- Morningstar Farm sausages
- Soy chocolate milk
- Gouda cheese
- Rye bread
- Rosemary Triscuits
- Tub of raspberries
- Environmentally safe deodorant
- Ground turkey meat
- Lettuce, tomatoes and onions
- Taco shells and mix
- Raspberry chocolate cookies
Sunday, June 15, 2008
I am eating Acapulco Caliente (mmm, sweet garlic butter shrimp) and watching the Tonys with my boyfriend. I still haven't seen 'Passing Strange' yet. The BF saw 'Passing Strange' Off-Broadway at Joe's Pub when it only cost $30.
8:51pm: Julie Chen's at the Tony Awards? Jesus, they either have low star wattage or I smell network synergy.
8:54pm: The dude from Fountains of Wayne co-wrote the score to 'Cry-Baby?' That's some crazy shit.
8:58pm: I fucking hate the dude from 'In the Heights.' His acceptance speech consisted of half-rapping his thank-yous. What a fucking douche.
8:59pm: Isn't 'In the Heights' just a slightly updated version of 'West Side Story' with rapping? Talk amongst yourselves.
9:01pm: A shirtless singing interlude from 'South Pacific?' Gee, someone likes to force male objectification down the gay viewing audience's collective throat.
9:04pm: 'South Pacific' is why most heterosexual dudes hate Broadway. Give me some 'Passing Strange,' 'Avenue Q' and Kiki and Herb.
9:07pm: The reason why the Tony Awards are full of shit: They rewarded 'Legally Blonde: The Musical' last year. Their opening number, "Oh My God, You Guys!", makes you wanna go ahead with your long-buried suicide attempt.
9:10pm: My boyfriend fell asleep. If gays are falling asleep, what hope is there for everyone else?
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Therefore, my feminist critique of Sex and the City should be taken with a grain of salt. Okay, more like mounds of salt.
An entire bottle of Morton Salt, in fact.
But Newsweek writer Ramin Setoodeh's likening of Sex and the City to a feminist screed borders on sheer idiocy.
Yes, men are not likely to watch Sex and the City at the local cineplex. And the movie itself presents a paradox for feminists. It's empowering to see single women throwing off the labels of slutdom and embracing their sexuality.
But at the same time, Sex and the City the Brand languishes in crass commercialism and ultimately, Carrie & Co. are not fulfilled without a penis inside them or a ring around their bony fingers.
And then, hordes of bumpkin women absorb this tripe of metropolitan singledom and think to themselves, "oh, my life in Boonsdaggle, Tenn. must be a pretty shitty existence. I can't afford designer clothes and clunky high heels. I probably should go drown my sorrows in a Perfect Margarita at Applebee's."
Jesus, Sex and the City pisses me off.
Friday, June 13, 2008
The unwashed masses are roasting like sunbaked clams in Manchester, Tenn. for Bonnaroo this weekend. And I hate every last one of you.
You get to hear the snappy dancehall rhythms of M.I.A and the post-Graceland conga-rock of Vampire Weekend; the manic beatboxing of Brooklynite Reggie Watts and the souped-up speed metal of Metallica.
My Bonnaroo experience has faded into a distant memory of midnight drug-fueled nipplegazing and shifty-eyed penguins. After blankly ingesting a doobie laced with embalming fluid at Bonnaroo 2006, I blindly stumbled into a VIP Backstage area, where I proceeded to ruffle through unguarded watercoolers. After knocking over a couple of Dansini tubs, I lurched down a vacant camp lot (everyone was grooving to Radiohead at the time) before slumping over in a bed of weeds. At this point, I tripped balls to distorted Tim Burton-ifed versions of the Happy Feet cast.
I lasted ten hours.
There really isn't a point to this story.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Dream Bitches is by far the best band name I've heard this year. Their music, a concoction of folk-rock harmonies and riot-grrl moxie reminds me of the 188.8.131.52s after browsing through a discarded copy of Sing Out! Magazine.
Check this shiz.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Me:I had a really terrible dream last night.
Boyfriend: Oh, I'm sorry.
Me: I cheated on you with Judge Reinhold. I was devastated.
Boyfriend: Didn't you have that dream before? When we were in Memphis?
Me: No? Did I? You're bullshitting me.
Boyfriend: No, you did.
Me: I went to an underground sex club located in a strip mall. Judge Reinhold was there. He was like a sex god. Women and men swarmed around him, wanting to touch his penis. I remember that Judge Reinhold had a really big penis. It was massive.
Boyfriend: That's interesting.
Me: But yeah, I was totally devastated.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Clinton supporter Harriet Christian is "a second-class citizen" with her bedazzled neck and freshly pressed Manolo Blahniks.
I understand the unchecked sexism surrounding Hillary Clinton's campaign like an angry buzzard. And yes, women are "second class citizens" in many vantages of our society.
But Ms. Tubman, your remarks strike me as a tad dishonest. If you really want to see a "second-class American," please do make the trek past 110th St. sometime.