Thursday, May 21, 2009


Welcome to the 21st century, people. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but regular ol' telephones are a wave of the past... in fact, cell phones don't make anysense at all anymore either. Unless your phone is able to talk to your parents on speaker phone while simultaneously letting you play a game of galactic conquest and receive a killer blowjob remotely from your text message server, its not a phone. Not anymore.

iPhones are the only phone. Blackberry's have to come up with horrible names like "Storm" and "Monsoon" and "Deadly Japanese Tidal Wave" in order to sell their shitty hardware... and google phones smell like hippies and mid-california. Just gross. iPhones allow gentlemen like me to purchase every single app I ever wanted, let me use the word "app" in normal conversation, and let me think about how awesome and un-douchey Steve Jobs is.

So if you have a blackberry, shit on it before you return it and get with the 21st century.



Mugs are the retarded cousins to glasses. They serve the same purpose as a glass, but like their retarded brethren are unnaturally strong and handle hot things much better.

That's really all I have to say about mugs.

They're also shorter and more stout.


My acquaintance Carl says that people with certain blood types have more trouble digesting different foods, it has something to do with your ancestry. He has trouble with red meats, supposedly, while others struggle with dairy and lactose. I believe my blood has trouble digesting Mexican. My ancestors probably spent a good portion of their time shying away from Mexico, South America and East Harlem.

Of course, then, you might understand why I hate how delicious burritos are. It’s a veritable fiesta inside of that tortilla. The contrasting sweet corn with the spicy salsa with the sour cream serves as a perfect metaphor for our Hispanic neighbor’s delicious culture: the humor of Cheech, the music of J-Lo and the fire of Taco Bell. Ole!


The cigarette is one of two things that simultaneously revolts and titillates me. The second, of course, being Nick Nolte. Its not the taste, the look or the ridiculously calm and debonair exterior fa├žade it produces, but more the smell that causes me to get ever so slightly nauseous while dreams of old bowling alleys bounce through my head. Come to think of it, Nick Nolte’s smell is also what makes me queasy. He has such a good look.

But smoking has become less the Audrey Hepburn chic or Humphrey Bogart slightly-funny-looking-chic that it once was, and until it returns, I’ll shy away from my previous Virginia Slims habit. I can’t imagine what might make me light up again. Certainly I’d start again if Apple came out with a cigarette. We’d call them iSmokes. As I’d light it the cigarette would play U2’s “The Unforgettable Fire,” and as I practice my meager attempt at a French inhale, a Gerard Depardieu film would project in the smoke. Trendy, artistic and addictive. Much like Tamagotchis.