The Manhattan Project Presents: This Day in Douchebaggery

This is my childhood

I remember...

Dressing up as "The Boy with a Sandal Taped to his Ass" for Halloween much to my family's general befuddlement.

I remember...
My childhood TV show, Such a Good 'Ol Cow.

I remember...
Shaking my ass suggestively to Uncle James and Aunt Katherine at Thanksgiving dinner much to their general befuddlement.

I remember...
my mentally retarded childhood friend, LuAnn. (Ditt-her, ditt-her)

I remember...
looking pensively into a print-screen poster while dancing to country-rock band, Sawyer Brown.

I remember...
neon glow-in-the-dark halos at dustbowl rodeos.

I remember...
taking a poo on the front lawn while my mother showed the Orkin Man the latest bug infestation.

I can't stop listening to this song

The blogzines jizzed all over themselves in late-2007 with the release of Black Kids' four-song demo, Wizard of Ahhhs. With Morrissey-style vocals and spazzy neo-retro synths, "I'm Not Going to Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" is a slice of indie-pop opium. With their recent Columbia Records debut and Letterman appearance, expect the hipstertards to fall back on the 'ol "slutty capitalist sell-outs" mememe.

Ticky-tacky

I'm not sure whether I'm down with the new season of Weeds. Nerve.com's Remote Island seconds that emotion.

In the brilliantly constructed Season 3 capper–spoiler beef patties with narc sauce ahead!–yuppie drug lord Nancy Botwin doused her McMansion in gasoline and struck a match. In that single action, the finely tuned pasquinade of suburbia went up in flames. Yes Virginia, figuratively and literally.

At the moment, Botwin's slumming in the purgatory moors. She's on the run from the feds and herding weed-packed mules through a Mexican border-hopper version of the Underground Railroad. The whole shebang reminds me of Northern Exposure, but with a beach!

In other plot development points, Botwin's stacked stud muffin son (Hunter Parrish) has been receiving plenty of moments-in-mantittery lately:



This doesn't make up for the general suckage.

When Doves Cry

Dubbed the Paris Hilton of New York performance art, the nebbish post-modernist Neal Medlyn will be performing his Prince faux-concert "Unpronounceable Symbol" through July 20 at Performance Space 122.

In a strange way, Medlyn's lycra-bottomed interpretations have been mired in urbane fetishism among the gay elites. Instead of lapping the edges of a Dianabol-pumped beefcake, the gay elites swoon over Medlyn's yoga-toned arms.

It's called progress, I suppose.

In this clip, Medlyn re-enacts Beyonce Knowles' recent Staples Center concert.

Conversations with my boyfriend

Me: Eh. Look at the blurry taxicab picture. I look hideous with my blotchy skin and bloodshot pupils. But then again, I was slightly stoned when you took that picture.

Boyfriend: You're stoned now.

Conversations with my mother

Mom: "You're making an Indian dinner with rubberdick spices?"

Me: "Aromatic spices."

I can't stop listening to this song

Santogold's "L.E.S. Artistes" is like The Hipster Handbook, but with throbbing handclaps and dripping sarcasm. Sometimes, I listen to this song without a trace of irony.

"It's true. New York City donkey-punches Nylon Taffeta Slim Fit-wearing nabes from suburbia," I sob.

If only Santi White asked me to appear in her hipper-than-thou vid. I would've danced my capri-fitted ass off.

Conversations with my boyfriend

Me: Did you have high school superlatives?

Boyfriend: We didn't have those.

Me: I won two high school superlatives.

Boyfriend: Uh—

Me: Most Unpredictable and Most Sophisticated. The last year of high school, I showed up to school everyday stoned off of my ass. I think it really took people by surprise.

Boyfriend: Nothing says Most Sophisticated like being stoned off your ass.

Me: I'm pretty sure that 'sophisticated' was a code word for 'gayest.'

That's not a harpo bulb horn in my pocket...

In shameless self-promotion whore news, check out my latest sex advice column "Dating Advice from Clowns" over at Nerve:

My first girlfriend landed a sweet job in Los Angeles at a publicity firm. She said that she wanted to try the long-distance-relationship thing, but I'm not so sure. Can long-distance relationships work?
If you and your Hollywood-bigshot-ladyfriend have open minds, polyamory is an option for geographically challenged couples. For instance, I tour constantly. Six months away from a New York lover would mean a diabolically suppressed sexuality if I didn't find other lovers to fill the gaps. Everybody's got to be on board (she'll find some serious LA action, too), but it is possible. You've seen how many clowns we can fit in a little car — you should see how many fit in a twin bed.

Thoughts While Stoned

Has anyone else noticed that conservative blog, Six Meat Buffet, sounds suspiciously like a gay porn site on first glance?

Objectification Nation

After schlepping as an intern at Nerve.com, I have rectified the pesky bepenised feminist conundrum of "Objectification Without Representation." ™

Natalia Antonova of Feministe sums it up thusly:

I do think that because of power differentials, objectification of women more readily becomes a springboard for abuse, and worse. But I do think that there is a genuinely OK way of expressing one’s appreciation for someone else’s physical body and/or persona (and hell, a beautiful mind can be just as sexy).

The Manhattan Project Presents: This Day in Douchebaggery

This douchey voice message from disgraced doctor James Sears has been spreading throughout the Interwebs like a bad case of syphilis.

Jezebel brandishes the infection.