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God Drops Ball on GiantsOctober 15, 2001 |
San Francisco, CA Noonan Pricely/AP Barry Bonds monopolizing God's time lately.
"Yeah, I guess I kind of fucked up on that one," Mr. Being said with a sheepish, omniscient grin. "What happened was, I got so excited by seeing Barry Bonds break McGwire's home run record that I like totally forgot that they needed to win that night to stay in the pennant race. The plan had been for them to win all three games against the Dodgers, while...
he Supreme Being, variously known throughout the world as God, Jehovah, Allah and other aliases, admits to fumbling the San Francisco Giants' chances for post-season play in the recent Friday night game against the Los Angeles Dodgers. It was a mistake that was more costly than -- and almost as memorable as -- the time Jose Canseco had a fly ball bounce off his head and over the fence for a home run. Score that E-Almighty One.
"Yeah, I guess I kind of fucked up on that one," Mr. Being said with a sheepish, omniscient grin. "What happened was, I got so excited by seeing Barry Bonds break McGwire's home run record that I like totally forgot that they needed to win that night to stay in the pennant race. The plan had been for them to win all three games against the Dodgers, while I was going to have Arizona lose a couple to the Milwaukee Brewers, then I would favor the Giants in the one-game playoff against Arizona, but I guess that's all just academic now."
God admitted that He was a bit sidetracked by Bonds' repeated entreaties for help in breaking the home run mark, and his pointing to the sky and thanking Him every time he crossed home plate.
"We got caught up in a couple of those 'You da man,' 'No, YOU da man!' exchanges, and I just lost track of the larger scheme of things. Plus, I was still pretty pissed at the failure of the Houston Astros to pitch to him until the very last at-bat of that series down at Enron Field, and I've been busy devising ways for them to suffer next season. How does a plague of locusts in the infield and a couple of nine-game losing streaks for that bunch of Nancy-boys sound?"
When it was pointed out that Houston made the playoffs this year by virtue of the Giants having lost, He replied, with a hint of irritation, "Look, just because I'm omniscient doesn't mean I can be everywhere at once, all right?"
Another factor, God said, was the length of the game. He also suggested that alcohol may have played a part in his team-deflating error.
"Man, that game went hella long," He said, while shaking his eternally unfathomable head. "Excuse me, I should've said 'hecka long,' heh. But besides that, I'd had a few brewskies by the time the late innings arrived. In fact, quite a few, to say the least. So, you know, I was maybe a little asleep at the switch. But hey, at least I wasn't driving or operating heavy machinery, if you know what I'm saying."
The Lord then abruptly ended the interview, saying he had a lot on his mind lately, and really just needed "a couple aspirin and some quiet down time." Reporters were left with His spokes-object, a charred and smoldering bush that refused to answer any further questions. the commune news would like to take this opportunity to make it clear that we don't have any goddamned children, so you can kindly shove that bumpersticker up your sactimonious collective ass, thank you very much. Also, you have a tail light out. If Wallace E. Watermelon had any friends at all -- even one -- he'd ask them to call him "Wally." Do you know anyone that's looking for a friend to call Wally?
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 February 16, 2004
The Rotten Stink of ValentinesGoddammit! Another V-Day, come and gone.
According to nebulous website statistics, one in five Americans is single, but as we know, polls taken at pornographic sites are debatable. The truth is probably somewhere in between—all my neighbors are married or in serious relationships, yet nobody at the commune can maintain a significant other for more than a week. All I know is, if those estimates are anywhere near close, that leaves a lot of pissed off people who spent last Valentine's Day stewing in their homes.
Somehow another Valentine's Day passed and I survived, and more over, I didn't get drunk and call up any ex-girlfriends on the phone. Sure, I browsed the internet looking for the loneliest blogs I could find, just for company, then I searched for a while to see if anyone else remembered that show Tales of the Gold Monkey, but that isn't really on topic. What's important is I maintained some level of dignity by keeping my indignity within the walls of my apartment.
There are different arguments about Valentine's Day, I suppose. Some would say it's a soulless commercial enterprise driven by the almighty dollar to shill tiny greeting cards, flowers, chocolates, and chalk-flavored hearts; others are retarded, and disagree. These fucks are hopelessly whipped by whatever gender's genitalia they're dating.
Whoever first expressed the need for love, for one human being to find that special connection to another...
º Last Column: Patriot Chains
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Goddammit! Another V-Day, come and gone.
According to nebulous website statistics, one in five Americans is single, but as we know, polls taken at pornographic sites are debatable. The truth is probably somewhere in between—all my neighbors are married or in serious relationships, yet nobody at the commune can maintain a significant other for more than a week. All I know is, if those estimates are anywhere near close, that leaves a lot of pissed off people who spent last Valentine's Day stewing in their homes.
Somehow another Valentine's Day passed and I survived, and more over, I didn't get drunk and call up any ex-girlfriends on the phone. Sure, I browsed the internet looking for the loneliest blogs I could find, just for company, then I searched for a while to see if anyone else remembered that show Tales of the Gold Monkey, but that isn't really on topic. What's important is I maintained some level of dignity by keeping my indignity within the walls of my apartment.
There are different arguments about Valentine's Day, I suppose. Some would say it's a soulless commercial enterprise driven by the almighty dollar to shill tiny greeting cards, flowers, chocolates, and chalk-flavored hearts; others are retarded, and disagree. These fucks are hopelessly whipped by whatever gender's genitalia they're dating.
Whoever first expressed the need for love, for one human being to find that special connection to another and build a lasting relationship with, is a total schmendrick. If he had been born in another era St. Valentine probably would have gone on to invent the dog whistle, another device with more espoused about it than proven. So what if a dog comes running when you blow it? Have you ever seen a dog that didn't come running to a person? They're stupid dogs. They see people and want to lick them, for whatever dog reason mandates.
Likewise, I say love is a myth. If I believed in the devil I would propose he started it as a way to complicate what could have been party city for sexual relationships in this world. You don't see animals exchanging phone numbers or discussing long-distance relationships. They know what they want and they don't confuse it with their self-esteem or worrying about how a partner reflects on them. It's not a coincidence either that animals don't suffer from broken hearts, depression, midlife crises, weight issues, or impotency—and I've seen enough websites to verify it.
I don't claim to be a genius; I may only be a seven-inch pixie with a surly attitude, but I can tell right from wrong. People who are not in relationships are miserable. People who are in relationships are miserable. If you're lucky enough to catch people during that brief period of ignorance when they think they are going to be in a relationship and find excitement in their partner and are fresh from loneliness enough so they dread going back to it, then you'll find them happy. The intelligence of dedicating your life to seeking out that one-to-two-week period in a life that lasts about 80 years, give or take cigarette consumption, it's not the brightest way to go.
Not that I have an alternative at this point. Or, I do have alternatives, but they usually end up with me getting drinks thrown in my face. I'm not advocating we drop the whole "love" deal right off the bat, but I say it wouldn't necessarily be a bad idea to re-evaluate the idea of monogamy. Elvis Costello asked what was so funny with peace, love, and understanding? That's a big question, with lots of possible answers. I'm only asking what's so wrong about paying money for sex a couple of times a month? Both you, the column reader, and the potential jurors out there I might be seeing next month. º Last Column: Patriot Chainsº more columns
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|  April 1, 2002
Queen of the Doomed RelationshipThe showbiz life can wreak havoc on your love life. Havoc? A "c," no "k"? That never looks right. But it's true. Havoc or havock.
Having the necessary charisma and magnetism to make it big in the entertainment world is no guarantee you'll be successful at love. In fact, in my world it's been the opposite case. All my relationships have fizzled into burnt marshmallows at the bottom of a pissed-out campfire.
My first boyfriend was my third agent, let's just call him Mort R., for the sake of confidentiality. Old Rothstein, that's what I always called him, he was a sucker for girls who looked young. And I looked young, being 12 at the time, so we were a perfect match. We had everything in common, we both liked McDonald's and Alf, we both wanted kids. Well, he didn't want kids the same way I wanted kids, but we were working through our problems when my parents and his wife made us break up. You may have seen the news article in The Star or the Fox movie of the week. They could have at least done me a favor and cast me as myself, I definitely know the part.
I didn't have a real serious boyfriend again until I was 15. We were married in California, only to find out Reverend Jughead didn't have state sanctioning so it never was legal. When we found that out, things just disintegrated. That and one argument about what constitutes "enough" oral sex and the storybook romance was over. Yeah, a storybook—the title of this story was "Sleeping...
º Last Column: The "M" Stands for Music!
º more columns
The showbiz life can wreak havoc on your love life. Havoc? A "c," no "k"? That never looks right. But it's true. Havoc or havock.
Having the necessary charisma and magnetism to make it big in the entertainment world is no guarantee you'll be successful at love. In fact, in my world it's been the opposite case. All my relationships have fizzled into burnt marshmallows at the bottom of a pissed-out campfire.
My first boyfriend was my third agent, let's just call him Mort R., for the sake of confidentiality. Old Rothstein, that's what I always called him, he was a sucker for girls who looked young. And I looked young, being 12 at the time, so we were a perfect match. We had everything in common, we both liked McDonald's and Alf, we both wanted kids. Well, he didn't want kids the same way I wanted kids, but we were working through our problems when my parents and his wife made us break up. You may have seen the news article in The Star or the Fox movie of the week. They could have at least done me a favor and cast me as myself, I definitely know the part.
I didn't have a real serious boyfriend again until I was 15. We were married in California, only to find out Reverend Jughead didn't have state sanctioning so it never was legal. When we found that out, things just disintegrated. That and one argument about what constitutes "enough" oral sex and the storybook romance was over. Yeah, a storybook—the title of this story was "Sleeping Beauty and the Prince Charming Who Violated Her Before She Woke Up."
For years I just had little flings here and there, sometimes for days at a time. But I couldn't land a real boyfriend, it was like I had herpes or something. I mean, I did, but it was like everyone knew it. And I don't care what anyone says, they do go away, that is the biggest myth I ever heard.
Then at 22, I met the nicest guy on the face of the earth. No, not Bob Ross, I think he was already dead by this time. I met my boyfriend Spanner. He was a fantastic guy, before he turned into an asshole. He was a professional pool player when I met him, he played in places around the city and got paid for it. I met him playing pool, actually, and we even played for money. It takes him a few games to warm up, but around the third game he turned into a dynamo like instantly! Our sex life was often a mirror of that. Anyway, he didn't like to be called a "pooler" like I used to say, he preferred "hustler." My dad said it wasn't even a real job but I know he was mistaken because I've seen magazines for the profession.
I could go on forever about Spanner. He was sweet, he was handsome, he had a different car every night—everything a girl dreams about. I'm convinced we would've gotten married some day if the lousy cops hadn't sent him to jail for a crime he only did once. I would have gladly waited for him but he started cheating on me with his cellmate, and to make things worse, I didn't even know he was gay. He said he didn't do it voluntarily, but if you think I'm going to believe that, ha! Why didn't he tell the guards or ask the guy to stop then?
Yes, boys, my heart's been broken more times than Liz Taylor's elastic waistbands. But as always, I come out landing on my feet. I recently started seeing a charming co-worker of mine here at the commune, Ramon Nootles, and I've got a great feeling about this one. He's already taking me to meet his mother this weekend. At least I think it's his mother, he just kept calling her by her first name, Bunny, and he said he'd thought we'd really get along—he can't wait to watch us.
I may be in love again! º Last Column: The "M" Stands for Music!º more columns
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Quote of the Day“The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I did not get my head blown off by a gorilla fluent in sign language and wielding a shotgun. He was only a man in a gorilla suit, and the weapon a mere .38 handgun. I just wanted to sound important.”
-Mack TwainFortune 500 CookieIt's about time you learned to play bass. The bad fish you had last weekend will finally cause food poisoning sometime in the next week. With great power comes great responsibility, and sometimes, executive bathroom privileges. Lucky numbers 86, 75, 30, and 9.
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|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Southern Elvis Brandon 6/10/2002 The Negative Sum of NumbersThere was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.
Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.
Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at...
There was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.
Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.
Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at the airport, but once again, Eddie had let him down. Smythe was forced to fly back to New York City and drive all the way back in his car. You'd think after all this time he'd be used to Eddie letting him down. It was something he had never gotten used to.
Smythe went to Eddie's parents' house, where there was a huge hub-bub going on. Apparently, there was a party in full gear! Shit. Just like Eddie. Saturday afternoon and the party is still going on.
Parking his car, Smythe walked around back and found the yard full of fat degenerates. Ugly, down-trodden, just aching for a fix or to gamble or have sex with a dead person, no way of telling how far these people had slid from society's ranks.
"Where's Eddie?" demanded Smythe. People were confused and a little frightened, one was pregnant, and a guy eventually pointed toward the house.
Smythe stormed through the house, bumping into freak after weirdo, until he found the upstairs bathroom. Two guys were standing around doing God knew what, holding cocktails and waiting outside the bathroom. Smythe kicked it in, and inside, to his suspicions, he found Eddie sitting on the toilet.
"Jesus!" said Eddie, pulling up his pants. "You scared me, Smythe! I had to pinch one off!"
"Stop the act, Eddie," Smythe commanded, looking in the toilet for drugs. "I know you flushed the drugs down the toilet. And then pooed in there so I wouldn't search too good. Why, Eddie?"
"I—"
"Shut-up! I don't want to hear your lies anymore." And he didn't. Smythe dragged Eddie out by the arm as Eddie continued trying to pull his pants up. Smythe tossed him to the floor, as one of the suited guys entered the bathroom.
"C'mon, man, be cool!" pleaded Eddie.
"Knock off the act, Eddie, you're a junkie!" snapped Smythe. "I know you're jealous of me. I went to Art College, Eddie, it doesn't mean I don't still love you like a brother. If you want to be jealous, that's fine, but don't lose yourself in these ridiculous drugs. You're killing yourself."
"I told you, I don't take drugs!" said Eddie.
"Fuck you, Eddie," said Smythe, in a language that would have disappointed his mother. "You not only take drugs, you make them! Everybody knows it, it's no secret."
"I told you this before, man, I make an acid-reflux inhibitor. And I don't make it myself, I'm just CEO of the company that makes it. It's over-the-counter—"
"Aaaah!" screamed Smythe, grabbing his head like James Dean. "Stop the lies, Eddie!"
"It's the truth, you dick," said Eddie, standing up again and straightening his tie. "And for the last time, I'm not jealous of you going to Art School. I told you, I graduated six years ago with a Masters in Business Management from Princeton. Now if you're done interrupting the company picnic, I've got a three-legged race to win."
It was too much for Smythe. He let Eddie exit in peace, talking to another guy in a suit about fourth quarter earnings and appeasing stockholders. He just wanted to walk away, but Smythe knew if he didn't do something Eddie would be dead before he was 30. Next month.   |
