Ah, they only come out at night...

I managed to utterly shame myself yesterday. I stopped in at a little used cd store, and I picked up a David Cross cd. It cost about twelve bucks and I gave the cashier a twenty. I noticed he calculated the change wrong and he was giving me back a ten dollar bill. I noticed this, and said nothing. The cashier caught his error and gave me the correct change, and I tried to pretend that I didn’t notice. What an asshole I am. I immediately punished myself by getting drunk and walking around, while listening to the David Cross album. He’s a comedian, by the way, and a terribly funny one; I must have looked like quite the Christmas ham walking around, laughing to myself. No matter.
A very funny phone call, yesterday. A few months ago, a friend of mine left a pair of sneakers in my apartment. Yesterday, he left me a message saying he wanted to pick them up. I called him back in the evening to let him know he could come by whenever.

Him: I’ll be by around midnight.
Me: Midnight? What are you up to, right now?
Him: I’m at the fair.
Me: The fair?
Him: Yeah, I’m like a carnie, now!
Me: A carnie? When did this happen?
Him: Last night! I was just hanging around and I asked for a job!
Me: So what do you do?
Him: I’m dressed up like a mad scientist. I have a lab coat and everything!
Me: A mad scientist? What do you have to do?
Him: I run like a fucking freak show or something!

Maybe you have to know the guy to find this as funny as I do. On top of everything, during the year he studies biology, and actually has to sincerely wear a lab coat. We all kind of figured he would eventually become a mad scientist, just not in this form.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Peggy Lee

(Read what came before)
Is that all there is? Causing avalanches with dynamite to annihilate helpless villagers? Emptying thousands of rounds into the Siberian countryside, obliterating forests that have stood for thousands of years? Drinking grain alcohol by the liter, and consuming more opium than all of Shanghai? Witnessing the most depraved acts ever conceived by man or beast, performed by individuals of questionable gender?
I confess, I am bored.
Every day, I wake up, beat the servants, take in brunch with my son, attempt to kill him, set off explosives, scream obscenities while I wander the campground naked with several liquor bottles strapped to my body with leather belts, lunch, fornication with something or someone, more drinking, vomiting, dinner, opium.
Every day.
It didn’t always used to be like this; as a child I was a firebrand, a prodigy. Even as a boy, the adults around me were terrified of me, and with good reason. At boarding school, I was a champion in the fighting pits, lauded and feared in equal measure. I left school ready to conquer the world, to remake and rejuvenate it. What I found was an empire of bored degenerates and terrified peasants. My passion and dreams meant nothing to fools such as these. They drifted, played out their roles, did as they were told. I could have been emperor, but emperor of what? I could have been poet or painter, but who would listen? Who would see or understand; who would care? It would have been pearls before swine.
So I began to drift, and found it pleasing. Those who don’t know can never understand the profound beauty and simplicity of inertia, to simply exist without past or future. So I exist still. And what next? Where does this lead? Will I ever believe in anything again?
Bah. This melancholia leads nowhere. Where is my bottle? Where is my pipe? Where are my guns? Where is Consuela?

Girls, girls, girls

"Girls, girls, girls," from Girls, girls, girls, by Jay-Z

So last night I somehow got two of my friends to come out to the bar with me, despite the fact we were camping all weekend and we all felt pretty beat-the-hell-up. So we went to our local pub, the Toad. The Toad is always great on Sundays; they have a DJ set up in one of the booths with a couple boxes of records. People can browse through the records and make requests, so the music is generally pretty good. They played a lot of David Bowie last night, so I was pretty happy. The other cool thing is that the owner comes in and bartends for the night, and his wife/girlfriend/whatever also comes in with their little baby girl. On one hand, it’s kind of cool having a little kid running around, as it gives the place a homey feel. Along with the records, it feels like you’re hanging out in someone’s basement. On the other hand, it’s kind of creepy with everyone siting around getting drunk, and there’s this kid learning to walk over here. It’s a little hard to enjoy your drink when there’s a metaphor for your lost innocence bumping into your legs.
Anyway, we started the night sitting out on the patio, when a girl we know came up and said hello. Now, this girl, let me tell you about this girl. She’s a friend of a friend, and she’s just about the sweetest person you’ve ever met. Apparently she grew up Mennonite, and she’s kind of naïve, and very earnest, which I find endearing. When you talk to her, she’s incredibly interested in everything you have to say, even if it’s mundane she’s always really impressed. And she’s so excited to see you! She works in a restaurant just down the street from me, so I walk past it like, every day. Whenever she sees me she always runs over to the door and calls me over to say hi, and usually invite me to go hang out with her. On top of all this, she’s a very pretty girl. Now, normally if I encountered a girl who was always eager to see me and to hang out with me and was very interested in what I had to say, I would assume she was attracted to me and I should ask her out (even I wouldn’t miss signals like this). But here’s the thing: she has a boyfriend! She is completely committed to, and in love with this boyfriend! I know this because all of her friends have confirmed the fact that she has a boyfriend, and a lot of my male friends have asked her out, and been rebuked, because she has a boyfriend. This girl is just incredibly flirty, to everyone I presume. It’s beyond friendliness, this girl sends off all the signals, man. It’s annoying; when you talk to her, it’s impossible not to start flirting yourself, until you catch yourself and remember: there’s no chance!
So, yeah, we run into this girl, and she’s so happy to see us, and she invites us to hang out with her tomorrow, yada yada yada. Fuck!
Anyway, we go into the basement for Vinyl Night, and we hook up with a couple of other Toad regulars, A and P. So we’re sitting around, talking and drinking and P starts flirting with this girl standing nearby. She eventually joins us and hangs out with us for about an hour. She’s a cool girl, cute, funny; we’re all having a good time. Now, P, my friend and myself are single dudes so we’re all hitting on this girl. Again, I would argue she was somewhat flirting back. Things are going well until about 45 minutes in when she mentions the boyfriend. Fuck! Ah, the b-bomb, you gotta love it. Now, I do appreciate this, as it does stop a fella from asking a girl out and being rejected, which is nice. On the other hand, though, it’s so calculated. Girls are rarely able to thread it smoothly into the conversation so it always seems kind of superfluous and contrived. "Oh, you have a job? That’s funny, my boyfriend has a job!" My friend had been talking about how he shaved his head, "Oh my boyfriend has a shaved head." Yeah, great, good to know. So she drifted off at some point. What the hell was her name? Oh well.
Now, I mentioned that we sat down with two other regulars; A, the other one, is a very cool, kind of weird, very cute chick. Despite the fact that we frequent the same bar, and have done so for years, we’ve only recently started hanging out with A. I’d never really thought of making a play for her, but lately it’s been like Dash Bradley mating season around here; I’m taking it pretty hard to the hoop with every female who crosses my path. So, I was kind of flirting with her, and eventually my friend and P faded into the night. We’re getting along, she’s laughing at my jokes. She asks if I lived around there, I did. I asked if she lived around there, she did. I asked if I could walk her home, she said "Yeah." I start to focus my chi. Everyone knows that walking a girl home is as solid a move as there is. We kept talking, drinking, laughing. At closing time, when the bartenders were kicking everyone out, she looked at me and said "Goodnight." Uh…okay. I stood up and paused next to the table. "Goodnight," she said again, curtly, not moving a muscle. Either she hadn’t really heard me when I offered to walk her home, or she changed her mind, or maybe she forgot. Regardless, I had been dismissed from her presence. Fuck! Oh well, it probably would have been a bad idea, in a "don’t shit where you eat" sense. Also, my friend is kind of interested in her, so he’d probably be pissed off. What can I say? I was drunk and horny and I took a shot.
But, yeah, chicks and flirting, I see no solution. I know girls like to flirt, whether or not they’re interested in a dude, whether or not they’re already involved. I understand and respect that, but man can it be annoying!

Into the Woods

So, this weekend I went camping with some friends. It as kind of a last-minute decision, I wasn’t sure if I was going to go and then I decided "I should go," so I went. Get it? I left with two friends after work, and intended up taking longer than we thought so we didn’t get to the campsite until around 10. A few of our friends were already there and we were then joined by our friends, Marco and Colleen. They got the weekend off to a good start by announcing that they were getting married. Congrats, Marco and Colleen! I’m looking forward to that bachelor party.
Now, I don’t camp too often, maybe a few times a year. My family never camped while I was growing up, so I didn’t start camping until I was into my 20’s. Suffice to say I am not terribly experienced at it, and am apparently a slow learner. My chief mistake is my theory that it is somehow beneficial to bring as little gear as possible. I do have a tent, sleeping bag, food, booze (of course), and that’s about it. There is some sense to this, as the less gear you bring, the less you have to shlep around. That being said, some creature comforts might have been nice. For example, seeing as how I was sleeping on rocks (not gravel, rocks), some sort of air mattress, or padding might have made my nights more comfortable, instead of painful. On a similar note, some sort of pillow might also have made sleeping easier. In terms of food, although hot dogs, peanut butter and granola bars will sustain your life, some more varied or tastier choices might have made meal-time more palatable. I suck at camping.
Fortunately, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. My friends brought a shitload of food and adopted a share and share alike attitude. Some of them even wanted my peanut butter. Hence, I was able to eat better than I deserved to, but sleeping was still a bitch. On the bright side, I had plenty of my medically prescribed sleep-aid; booze.
So the first night we stayed up long into the night, drinking, toasting the happy couple and reminiscing on our favorite Simpsons episodes. The next morning, my friend introduced me to a novel hangover drink; redeyes. They comprise one part clamato to two parts beer; it was kind of a nice way to get the morning started, although I still find clamato disgusting, beer or no. That afternoon, Colleen invited us to her parent’s cottage, which was conveniently close, where her father was eager to take out his new speedboat. So, I was introduced to the activity of ‘tubing,’ which basically involves tying a fancy inner tube to the back of the boat, and clinging tenaciously to said inner tube as Colleen’s father does his best to fling you off of it. Added to that, there were actually three of us, clinging to our respective tubes, bouncing and careening off of each other. It was intense, to say the least; the cap’n was going very fast, and making very hard turns. The thing is, if you relax your grip on the handles, you’ll go flying off, and if you relax your body in the tube, the water will smack your ass red. So you have to prop up your body and keep your ass up out of the body; basically every muscle in your body is clenched for the duration of the ride. It’s kind of exhausting, after a while I had no upper body strength left, and it was a bitch just climbing into the tube. Falling off was also kind of a trip, as you’d be going so fast that you’d skid across the water on your face for a while before you’d finally submerge. After, I don’t know, half an hour maybe? I felt like I’d had the shit kicked out of me. In a good way, though, it was a lot of fun.
That night, we had an insane dinner of steak, ribs, smokies, hot dogs, sausages and chicken wings. You could say that we all felt pretty full after all that. After the water sports in the afternoon, and the feast o’meat, everyone was pretty sluggish, and the night kind of petered out. Colleen’s father was kind enough to donate 24 bottles of beer (I love this guy!), which we made a valiant effort to consume, but ultimately we were bested.
Something weird happened both mornings; I was asleep in my tent, and I dreamed that I was asleep in my tent, hearing my friends talking outside. Both mornings, I woke up, thought my dream was real, and got up to find everyone still asleep. Fucking dreams! Also, the dude sleeping in the tent next to me reported, with some vehemence, that I snore like a motherfucker. For some reason, I had no sympathy for him.
Sunday morning, everyone felt stiff as hell, but we still attempted to go back for more. Unfortunately, or fortunately as the case may be, the water was too choppy to take the boat out, so we had to resort to swimming. We were all sore, tired and sunburned, so we headed back to the city in the afternoon. On the drive home, I surreptitiously started drinking from a bottle of leftover wine. I thought my friends would be annoyed that I was drinking in the car, putting us at risk of attracting Johnny Law. When they busted me? "You have wine and you’re not sharing!?" I do love my friends.

How I am doing

Don’t you hate people who infrequently update their sites? What motherfuckers!
Anyway, been a busy week. Let’s get started; this is a three-parter so pay attention. Ready?
The most interesting day last week was Wednesday, which turned out to be the exact kind of night I like. It started uninteresting enough, I was going to go down to the Little Italy-ish part of Winnipeg with a friend of mine for some drinks. When the weather is nice, half of Winnipeg descends on Little Italy-ish, to sip cappuccino, eat gelatto and gawk at each other. My friend met me at my apartment and we headed out, but we had to wait in the area because he had to meet his drug dealer shortly. We decided to have a drink at the local pub, the Toad, while we waited, where we found a friend of mine hanging out with a few of her girlfriends. They invited us to join them, which we did, and we played boardgames. I played, I think, something called scattergories, which I completely misunderstood how to play and fucked up the first few rounds, much to everyone’s amusement. I’m not really big on boardgames, as they distract one from drinking, but I tried to be a good sport. Anyway, the girls got tired and went home relatively early, so we decided to return to the original plan, we got about two steps and we ran into a friend-of-a-friend who invited us to the Zoo, which was having their weekly amateur stripper contest. Now, I’ve kind of sworn off strippers, as I’ve always found them kind of depressing, and I’ve really seen more strippers than a man my age has any right to. But, when I’ve been drinking you don’t really have to twist my arm that much to do anything.
Now this guy, this friend-of-a-friend, is someone whom I actually consider my nemesis. He’s not aware of this, I’ve never found the time, nor words, to tell him, but it’s how I think of him. I’ve known him, through a close friend (Chuck, actually), for many years; we’ve never been exactly good friends, but we always got along. You know, we’d meet at parties, fuck around, make each other laugh. We have a lot in common, actually, similar sense of humor, we both write; we’ve even discussed collaborating on a project. Now, he’s my nemesis for two main reasons: a) he has, in the past, been a rather heavy coke dealer, which involved selling coke to a lot of my friends. I know, I know, they are adults and they made their own decisions and he didn’t push them into anything; but it sure didn’t endear him to me. Now, more important is b) this guy is a big time womanizer; he’s fucked about half the women in Winnipeg. So, okay, not unforgivable, again he’s not forcing himself on women, they seem to go for the guy, fair enough. But like I said, I have a lot in common with this guy. Including taste in women. So, whenever I see this guy, he’s with a girl who is funny, interesting, quirky, smart; the exact kind of girl I would like to date. And what does he do? Fucks them and discards them. And women always go for it! They love this guy, they eat up his shit every time; not for nothing, but I’ve had a girl leave me for him. I can’t compete with this guy; he’s like a cooler, older, better looking, infinitely more confident version of me. The only thing I have going for me is that I’m not a scumbag, which, as we’ve discussed, doesn’t hold much weight with most women.
So, yeah, he’s my nemesis, but hey, that shouldn’t stop one from drinking with the guy. So, I had a good time, like I said, we get along. I shall keep him relatively close, and wait.
And wait.
Anyway, like I said this is the exact kind of night that I like. You head out the front door with a vague plan in mind, and things just come up, and plans change, and your night ends up totally different than what you thought.

Siberia!

(Read what came before)
So, Siberia. It took three trains, two zeppelins and a goddamned sled for this? I gave Cavendish a thorough beating for dragging me to such a godforsaken spot. Not a proper cabaret in sight! He had the audacity to point out that it was I who thought of coming here. What nerve! I broke his jaw to remind him of his place, and to shut him up, as well. I fear there will be few comforts and consolations in a place such as this. Will I have to actually live beneath my station? Should it come to that, I assure you there will be a bloodbath…
I received a telegram from one of my agents at home. It turns out I was right about my sister, Berenice. She’s been camped out in her carriage in front of my estate, awaiting my return so she can avenge her dear husband. Her weapon of choice? A broom. Yes, my sister was planning to kill me with a broom. What was she planning to do? Our father must be spinning in his grave. I would find it all terribly amusing if not for what happened next. Poor old Berenice; since she was a little girl, she’s been on an unspeakable amount of prescription pills. My mother always told me that Berenice was a little terror before the pills, which I find unlikely. I assume my mother just preferred a more sedentary child. Regardless, whatever quack swine doctor Berenice has inflicted herself on must have prescribed her some pretty strong meat, as Berenice apparently lapsed into a small coma, sitting there in her carriage. When she came around, she got confused and assumed she was in front of her own house. She wandered onto the ground, and my servants, being typically useless, made her right at home. They probably just assumed, correctly, that she would not beat them with sporting equipment, and hence would make a welcome change. Remind me to buy new croquet mallets before I get home…
I’ve dispatched Consuela back to the estate, to dislodge my sister and whip the staff into shape. She’s already outlined her plan to gut one of the valets as an example to the others. God in heaven, but I love this woman.
As for me? Well, fortunately Holtz has an encyclopedic knowledge of brothels, and he has mentioned a few promising ones in the area. My son Dennis has gone into severe opium withdrawal, so I suppose we’ll have to find some of that, as well. "Sometimes, my son," I told him. "You chase the dragon, and sometimes the dragon chases you." Well, I thought it was funny.
So what can one do, but hunker down, delegate chores to one’s servants, and try and make the best of it?

If I ran the world...

...customer service would be more like this.
(overhearinnewyork.com)

Didja miss me?

Well.
As you may recall, when last I posted I was on my way to a long weekend. Let me just say that I enjoyed it to its fullest. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that it left me a mute. That’s right, I lost my voice. Perhaps if I had gone home and rested I might not have lost my voice, but weekends at home are just not my style.
Anyway, seeing as how my job involves answering phones all day, speaking is kind of required. Hence, I haven’t been to work in a week. Since I have no internet at home, no work means no posting. My voice has mostly returned, so I’m back to work. "Is there no one in the wide world who will care for me?" you asked. Well there is, and here I am.
My goodness, so much to report, the mind quakes at the task. What have I been doing in the past week? Too… much… information.
Item! While I was losing my voice, I helpfully ran into everyone I have ever met. I became a master of pantomime, as I had to communicate what I was up to these days with a series of hand gestures and facial expressions. It was kind of fun, to be honest, but ultimately frustrating. I always thought of myself as a fairly antisocial person, but I was surprised how strong the desire to speak was. I wanted to tell stories, to comment, to join into the discussion. I was also surprised how annoying it was that I couldn’t sing. I know! I never really thought of myself as a musical person, but man alive I wanted to belt out a tune in the shower. I can’t wait until my voice is back at a hundred percent.
Item! I ran into a girl I used to go out with at a bar on Friday, pre-muteness. We’ve been kind of avoiding each other, not that it ended on bad terms, more that it ended on no terms at all. We just kind of stopped, and with the exception of a letter and a phone call we haven’t seen each other since. My normal course of action is to slip out the back, but I decided to be a man about it and went over and we talked, and it worked out great! We got along, made each other laugh, and diffused all tension between us. My friend put it best: "That’s one less face you have to worry about seeing." So, one down.
Item! I started to lose my voice on Saturday; I was out at a bar with a friend of mine. Helpfully, my friend ingested an indeterminate amount of mushrooms. By the time my voice was completely gone, he was completely high. He made an amusing spokesman for the two of us, to say the least, although I’m not sure he accurately reflected my views and opinions.
Item! I was so angry on Thursday, that I punched a whole in the paint in my wall in my apartment, which I would have assumed was beyond my abilities.
Item! Losing my voice has kind of been like a monastic retreat. I couldn’t speak, go to work, and I decided not to go out socially. I’ve been siting in my apartment in silence, doing chores. I cleaned my apartment, top to bottom, did all my laundry, all my dishes, cooked three decent meals a day. Didn’t drink a drop. It’s been a week of quiet reflection and solitude. Now let’s go get smashed.
Item! Watched a lot of Monty Python, which is a 15-year old sick-day tradition.
Item? I don’t know, what else? This is why one should post every day; events tend to blur together. I don’t know, I’ll post things as they come to me. Anyway, I (ha-ha) have another three-day weekend, so ideally I’ll be posting again on Tuesday, unless I get… I don’t know, hysterical blindness or something.

No time for posting!

Can't talk! Too much to say! People! Bars! Crazy drunk girls! I think I had a panic attack today, at work! First time ever! Is that bad?! I feel great now! Is that weird! Aaaaaahhhhhhh! I just got off work early! I have a three day weekend! Fun! Sleep! Bruises! Have good weekends, peoples!

Take off your tie

I am at work and I am drunk. I did not get drunk before coming to work, I don't do that (yet). I got very (apparently very) drunk yesterday and I woke up drunk today. You should be allowed to call in drunk to work, without any stigma. I mean, for Christ's sakes, I'm in customer service! I'm speaking to customers and I'm just sloshed. But if I were to go to my supervisor and tell her "I'm sorry, I'm too drunk to work," she'd probably fire me on the spot. What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm sick and tired of this workplace discrimination against the sobriety- challenged.

Stephen Lewis

So last night i saw a PSA* about AIDS in Africa that literally caused my jaw to drop. I was so moved by it that I decided to go to Africa to fight AIDS personally. I was drunk at the time, and am still kind of cut now (what the hell did I drink last night?). So today I went to the Stephen Lewis Foundation website ( the folks who sponsored the inspiring ad). What did I find there? Well, a whole lot about Stephen fucking Lewis. I don't really care about Stephen Lewis, nor should anyone. I care about the issue.
Bah, I'm just being cantankerous; I think I'm starting to sober up. Anyway, it's a good cause, so if you have extra money you should give it to them. But they don't actually help you go to Africa and do something. They have links to other organizations that do, so who knows? Maybe I'll go. It seems like the right thing to do. It probably beats working for a credit card company. But doesn't everything?




*Public Service Announcement, gimp.

I am angry

So last night I was hanging out with some friends and one of them was getting a little a lot drunk. She’s quite a tough girl; if I was that drunk I probably would have been unconscious, but she was keen to keep going. In fact, despite the fact that we were already in a bar,she wanted to go to a yuppie dance club across town. She asked me if I wanted to go with her (I didn’t mind hanging out with her, but I didn't want to go to the club). "How are you going to get there?" I asked. "Walking," she said.
Oy. Visions of her washing up in the river danced (or swam) through my head. Like I said, she was plenty drunk. So I agreed to accompany her, and thus we set off on a whirlwind journey for the next few hours, where I not only managed to keep her from getting killed, I also avoided the dance bar. I’m not going to go into details so as to spare her embarrassment (although she has nothing to be embarrassed about. [You don’t, you know]), I just wanted to set up my point, here.
Like I said, I was concerned about her not getting killed, but I think my main concern was something more sinister. While we were in the bar I was watching her like a hawk. After we left the bar I never let her out of my sight. Why? Because there are men who, when they encounter an obviously very intoxicated young lady, will take advantage of her. Some may refer to that as "getting laid." I call it "rape." How fucked up is it that I live in a society where this is a concern? In my society (the one in my mind), when a man (not boy, not guy, a man) encounters someone vulnerable, someone who needs help, then what you do is help them. What you do is stand up, and do the right thing and be brave and true, because that fucking counts for something. And I know that you read in Maxim that the most important thing for a man to do is to get laid and think about sex all the time. You know what? They’re wrong. That’s not what men do. That’s what boys do. Children are selfish. I know that your friends (sorry, buddies) talk to you about getting pussy, and ask, "did you fuck her?" and tell you "you should have fucked her." They’re wrong. They are products of a fucked up society that is so sick and broken that they have been trained to believe that this is how the world should work. A world where status, where having good stories to tell your friends, where hurting (where hurting), is more important then being decent and gentle. There are people reading this who think this way. They are thinking, right now, that I am a pussy. That I am a faggot and a gaywad and a dork and I probably never get laid and "dude you should fucking check out this faggot-ass site because this guy is so gay." I could not would not would never should not give less than half of a rat’s ass what these people think, because they are wrong in a terrifyingly massive way.
A few months ago, I was at a dance club (why? Why?); which was, in fact, a rather badly designed dance club. It was very crowded and everybody was trying to squeeze past each other and this one guy was elbowing elbowing elbowing me and I was fucking sick of it. So I did what a Maxim/Spike TV/ Hustler/Man Show/WCW MAN is supposed to do: I shoved him. Because he was touching me and I was drunk and mad. He sputtered like an old woman, I kept walking, it went no further. A half-hour later, when I had sobered up a little, I felt ashamed. I felt lower than a snake’s belly. I had been frustrated and I had lashed out like a child. Like a child.
Last night I helped my friend; I kept her safe. Today, I woke up and I felt proud. I held my head up. I felt like a man. *
If you are reading this, and you would ever take advantage of a drunk girl (or any girl, anytime), then fuck you. A thousand times fuck you. I wish a parade of stiletto heels into your balls. You know better. I hope to God you do, anyway. You have to. Jesus Christ, you have to know in your heart what is right and what is wrong. Don’t you? Please?
So, yeah,I am a gaywad, faggot pussy bitch. What the hell are you?
Let’s wake up. Let’s be men; it’s easy. You’ll feel better, I promise.






*I know this is a bit self-aggrandizing, but my moments of pride are fleeting. Forgive me if I relish them.

News Explained by Comic Covers

From Superfrankenstein.
The last one is my favorite, and check out the previous installments. Very funny.

What's the deal, Sly?

According to the Guardian, two of Sylvester Stallone's current projects are a biopic on Edgar Allen Poe (!), and another installment in the Rambo series.
Can it be that Sylvester Stallone is actually complex?

Ladykiller

Today I was listening to the radio, and the DJ asked for people to call in and talk about the bad relationship they were in (this was a rock station, so I don’t know why they were doing amateur therapy). One girl called in and she was telling her sob story: "Oh he’s really mean to me, and he treats me badly, and he wouldn’t let me live with him when I got kicked out of my apartment, and he makes fun of me, and all my friends and family hate him, but I’m still with him. What can I say? I love him."
Who are these women? Who are these men, more importantly? Every relationship I’ve ever been in I was working like a maniac to not fuck it up. "Oh shit, I forgot to call her, she’s going to be pissed…" "Wait, did I remember to tell her that I loved her?" "Shit, is her birthday celebration spectacular enough?" And so on. And I still always managed to fuck it up! The idea that you could be in a relationship with a woman, physically strike her, and not only will she not leave you but she will still love you, is so alien to me. But it seems to be happening all the time, all around. It’s happening right now. It might be happening to someone reading this. Is it me? If I started treating women like shit would they actually stick around? Would they like me more? (I’m not suggesting I actually do this, I’m just riffing, here.) Or is there a certain type of guy who is so… what? I have no idea. What qualities could a guy have that a woman would stick with him, no matter what? Looks? Money? Oh fuck, I don’t know. Whenever I try and write about society I just end up depressing the hell out of myself.

Going abroad

(parts one, deux, et trois)

I’ve decided to take a cue from my wife and go travelling. I was going to return home after the attack on my winter estate, but apparently my sister, Berenice, is a tad upset that I killed her husband and has declared her intention to kill me. She’s not very creative so she’s probably sitting in her carriage in front of my home with a shotgun, or some damn thing. Fortunately her servants are quite aged so I have little to fear from them, and she lacks the wit or resources to hire killers. Poor, sweet Berenice, so out of her depth. I am sure she will tire of this farce soon enough and return to her pillows and marionettes.
But where should I go? I have a perverse desire to go somewhere wretchedly cold; maybe it would adequately distract my staff so as to stop their moaning.
Siberia? An eccentric choice, and one the Cabral Society would not foresee. But, as ever, there is my own comfort to worry about. My blasted wife took all the furs with her when she went on tour with that damnable circus troupe and I don’t know of any reliable furriers in my area. I suppose I could have Holtz shoot some woolly beasts, and Cavendish could fashion a decent coat. You’d never know it to look at him but he’s an excellent tailor.
And as for my son, Dennis? I’ve decided I shall invite him to come along. Although I have several bastard sons with my housekeeper Consuela, they have inherited her fiery temperament. I fear I shall lose them all to hot-blooded duels and crimes of passion before they reach manhood. By way of example; when I told Consuela, years ago, that I would not be renouncing my titles or holdings to that we could marry, she reacted by shooting me in the left temple, tying me up in a potato sack and throwing me into the river. The woman weighs a hundred pounds! As she assumed I was dead, the bag had not been tied very tightly, and I was able to escape. When I crawled back onto my grounds I saw that Consuela had set fire to the guesthouse, where we held our various secret rendezvous. Seeing her, backlit from the flames, her hair whipping around her face, screaming obscenities in whatever language she speaks; it was impossible not to forgive her. Fortunately my wife was in Berlin at the time, producing an opera about dinosaurs.
So I have Dennis; whom I am confident will not be doing too much dueling. There is the risk of opium overdose, I suppose, but good God! The amount of premium singing-dynasty opium the lad has ingested already would have killed a horse! That reminds me: I must contact my drug agent, the Honorable Turk, before we go.
And go we shall. I’ve decided. To the icy wastes of Siberia! I doubt all of my staff will survive the journey, but pish and tosh; I’ve pledged to raise the wages of those who live. An empty promise, I assure you.

Postsecret

Saw this in the NY Times. It's a site where people make postcards confessing various secrets and send them into the site. It's a lot like Found Magazine, but it's more strange and surprising. They range from touching, to funny, to jaw-dropping.

The Days of the Week

(hear about the other days)

Apparently my son’s name is Dennis. If I had any hand in naming him, I cannot recall why in the world I would have chosen Dennis. I presume my wife, or more likely one of the nannies named him such. It is a dull and stupid name, and I have told him so. He told me that he hates me, which I figured was the case, anyway. I am not concerned about maintaining a good relationship with him, as I have several other sons with Consuela, the head maid. Granted, they are bastards, and cannot ever inherit my holdings, but I see that as a plus.
Anyway, it’s been a busy few days. Whilst dynamite fishing on Sunday night, that idiot Holtz lost three fingers (by which I mean they were blasted off his body, not that he misplaced them). I endured his whining for several hours before I relented, and allowed Cavendish to drive the pitiful cur to town to see a doctor. This took Cavendish away from more important duties, such as burying the servants whom I accidentally beat to death. Cavendish had the gall to tell me that if I was going to keep assigning him to corpse disposal he wanted a raise! I pointed out that I would be more willing to have his bollocks for dinner than give him another goddamned cent. That shut him up, mainly because he knows that is exactly how his predecessor and I parted ways. In fact, I think it was Cavendish who served me the tray.
On Monday, or perhaps it was Tuesday, the Cabral Society caught up with me and my winter estate was attacked by assassins. There was a shootout with my personal guards, which I found so irritating I proceeded to drink several ounces of Absinthe. The next 48 hours are kind of a blur, but when I woke up today the majority of the estate was still standing. Well done, guards! Although I am greatly pleased that I am not dead, my good mood has been soured somewhat by Cavendish molesting me with his complaining. "If you did not want to dismember and bury the dead," I tell him. "You should have not come in to my employ." I sent Holtz to help him, mostly because I was tired of his moaning, too. My son is also alive, but he is still named Dennis, so my joy is muted.