Come Here Often?

My creepy web counter indicates that you're all anxious for some more remarks. About twenty-two of you each day, to be precise, are anxious for some new remarks. That's terrible and awe-inspiring. Twenty-two unique (like snowflakes) visitors look at my page a day. I strongly suspect that they only come to my page to use my choice and brilliant sidebar. Where else, I ask, could a websurfer find such compelling links or such wonderful music? Where else, I demand, could an average Joe or Joanna find a comprehensive list of my favorite restaurants and other fine establishments?

Nowhere, my twenty-two friends. Nowhere at all.

Tonight, I drank a Thomas Hardy's Ale with a little help from my friends. Really though. I never want to meet the person who can drink an entire Thomas Hardy's by themself. That beer is the fluid equivalent of a thousand pounds of fruit cake. There are heavy (HEAVY) syrupy tones of molasses, whole oases of figs, great heaps of nuts, and slight undertones of...I don't know, chocolate? It was complicated and heady and too much for the likes of me.

I also played Yahtzee for the first time, drank a Strongbow, and went to sleep satisfied.
Maybe again, some day.

I'm not convinced that snowflakes are unique anyway. The number of ways that water can crystallize is large but not infinite, and there are a hell of a lot of snowflakes every day for not one to ever be like another. Bullshit is all.
Bullshit.

You think you have problems?

I do not know what I am.

A Hilarious Excerpt From McSweeney's Reviews of New Food

Brazilian Nutmeat
Submitted by E.C. Bachner

I had savored the world's most delicious and spectacular foods—glistening mangosteens, rambutans, litchis piled on plates in Arabia like the genitals of dead gods, cheeseburgers from the Tastee Diner in Cambridge that tasted of everything America had ever wished to be, and really frigging great pizza. I turned to raw food because my face was wrecked and I had failed in all of my dreams and, honestly, I just wanted to be thinner, but also, I have always been convinced that nothing vegan could really ever be as gross as such comestibles as Dinty Moore Beef Stew or a Subway sub with double tuna.

I invited Dave to take me to the raw-food restaurant, because I wanted to impress upon him that my face was wrecked, I had failed in all of my dreams, and he had swallowed the sweetest years of my life. The place was eerily quiet. And the people eating there weren't thin. Dave ordered the "generous portion of our smoky, winter-spiced nutmeat topped with a sweet cherry glaze and served over fresh spinach." I happily tucked into my sea-vegetable salad and stevia drink, and Dave got this look on his face somewhere between the look he gets when he's had too much coffee liqueur or smashed his hand into the car door and the way he looks at his last traveler's check. He looked like every bone in his face hurt. "This has to be poop," he whispered. And he left.

A Little Gushy, but True

Target is basically the best place that I have ever been. Target represents all of my hopes and dreams for America. My feelings for our materialist lifestyle are comparable to some people's feelings toward their religion. It is deep and pervasive and indestructable. As often as I disparage my fellow Americans for our politics and moralities and uncomprehensible self-righteousness, I admire and celebrate our prosperity, our selfishness, and our consumerism.

I especially love the Super Targets, replete with their own grocery. Have you noticed how Schnucks, Walmart, Jerry's IGA, and Meijer (Why Pay More!) are always overrun by retards and hicks who mill around with shopping carts (with squeaky wheels) clogging up aisles and crashing into displays? These are the least attractive and least intelligent people on Earth. Everything about them screams of deformity, conservatism, inbreeding, and hay. The Jewel and the Walmart in the suburbs are equally offensive. They have the same cluttered aisles and poor lighting, the same squeaky carts, and a slightly different clientele that nonetheless have the same repulsive aura of incompetence and idiocy.

At every Target, however, everything is clean and orderly, from the stock to the customers. At the Super Target in the suburbs, the produce is always perfectly stacked and perfectly ripe. The meat is beautifully sealed and sits quietly, neither stinking nor leaking juices all over the cart. They have Smart Chicken. They have a delicious in-house gourmet brand called Archer Farms. Shoppers glide around silently, never colliding in their divinely choreographed routine. The produce section has the air of an art gallery, and the shoppers add to that atmosphere, gazing appraisingly at various fruits and vegetables. In a way, the stately shoppers who patronize Super Target contribute to the ambiance of the place, the feeling of standing on hallowed ground. They are the fellow worshipers who bring that glorious chapel to life.

The art of graceful shopping is a difficult skill to master, but I've seen that sweetly elegant dance more at the Super Target than anywhere else on the face of the Earth.

Overheard in New York, (Th)re(e)visited

Guy on cell: The blood bank's coming and they want me to give blood...Naw, I'm like, "I'll give blood for Yankee tickets." I've done enough for good causes. You know, I gotta hold on to that shit. That's my blood, man.

Observant girl, pointing at something on the sidewalk: Is that an animal?
Downright perceptive guy: No. That's a pair of pants.

Mother: Don't you ever do that again! [slaps child hard]
Child, calmly: Well, are you happy with yourself?

Woman: I'm sorry, I know this is probably a lot to ask for, so I apologize, but do you think that you could maybe close your legs a little bit, please?
Dude, with his legs still spread wide: No. My balls are too big.

My Quotable Girlfriend

(While I chewed on her arm) "I'm not a fucking morsel; I'm a human being. Stop goddamn eating me."

(While I hugged her) "Stop collapsing my System! The System is down! The System is down!"

(While discussing American Girl books with Erin) "I really liked Samantha. She was more interesting because she was rich. Molly was poor, and ugly because she had glasses." (Erin agreed wholeheartedly.)

"You have one hair that is growing apart from all the others. I cannot believe you won't go see it. If I had a hair growing out the front of my head, I'd go see it."

"I knew ridin' dirty meant something."


"It's not funny; It's just the truth."

Indeed