Entries from September 2006 ↓

I Tivo The Simpsons and have seen this commercial on FOX several times now. The first couple times I thought it was part of the show, then it dawned on me that it was real.

I know this may sound crazy but I’m going to throw this out anyways, “I don’t feel confident in Homeland Security.”

I am a vegan

Pure, Organic
Meek, Malnourished

Chickpeas are my meat pellets

Tofu is my life

The art of vegetarianism is pacifism between furry organisms

A Denny’s Grand Slam is a dinner of Death!

Two slices of pig skin, a couple chicken fetuses

Sunny-side up and side of toast…please



A carton of eggs is not what I see

Twelve homemade coffins for under two bucks

Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O…and on this farm he had a chicken…

…but that doesn’t matter anymore, because an Egg McMuffin is much more important than a chicken well versed in Euclidean geometry. The poultry populous is eternally damned .

Mortally assassinated.
Painfully annihilated.
Pathetically depopulated.

Kill the chicken…kill…kill the chicken!

But I digress

I must confess

My body yearns for bacon

My head is throbbing

I must give in

To my paganistic, carnivorous desire of flesh

Give me some bacon and let the pig bleed!

Every time I perform in the South, somehow I manage to get surrounded by NASCAR fanatics meeting for the first time. Ritualistically, they start asking each other in a droning redneck mantra, “Who’s your favorite driver? Who’s your favorite dryy-ver? Who’s your favorite dryyy-ver?”

Then every goofball starts sounding off:

This is confusing because these quasi-homoerotic proclamations are always given by very “heterosexual” men who smell like WD-40, stale Budweiser, and campfire smoke.

There are millions of closeted NASCAR fans, trying to get out.

This is what they really are saying:

“Mark Martin’s my man, I used to like Kyle Petty but he wouldn’t shave his moustache and it kinda hurt when we kiss and stuff and Ernie Irvin broke my heart in 93’. That’s why I’m a Mark Martin Man, now! I tell you what boy, every time I see a Number Six, Viagra car, I get hard as a can of Copenhagen!”

This is my impression of a NASCAR fan in Ancient Greece:
“Who’s your favorite diety? Who’s your favorite dee-ahh-tee? Who’s your favorite dee-ahhh-tee?”

I am a futon

Bare

Unsoothing

A studio staple

A bypolar byproduct of urban convenience

Some people love mattresses

Some people love couches

I go both ways

Give me your back

And I will fuck you up for days

I don’t understand why a juice company would decide to name itself Apple and Eve. If I’m not mistaken†, didn’t God deem the Apple the forbidden fruit. In which the poisonous patter of the Snake, a servant of Satan, persauded Eve to take a bite and gain the secret knowledge that ultimately exiled Adam and her out of the Garden of Eden.

What is underlying message that they are trying to convey: Drink Our Juice and You Will Be Damned For Eternity!

I found the ad agency that came up with the logo and name. Here’s a list of some of their other clients:

†I was brainwashed as a Christian as a child

I don’t understand how people can narrow down all the important variables in a candidate into one particular issue. The single-narrow mindedness is maddening. There are a plethora of reasons to despise a politician. i.e…perpetuating the oppression of Cubans through our ridiculous embargo, non-involvement in Sudan, not being proactive in dispensing generic drugs to fight HIV in South Africa, not focusing on alternative energy sources like geothermal, tidal, or biomass fuel technology…and a hundred thousand other problems that need to be addressed.

Most jackasses can determine whom they will vote for simply by labeling the individual, “Pro-Life” or “Pro-Choice”. I’m not dismissing abortion as an insignificant matter. Personally, I’m not a big fan of it. However, that only pertains to the one I’m involved with and myself. I couldn’t care less what other individuals do. Does that make me an apathetic dick? Who knows?

Pro-Lifers say that every life is precious, and that you could be killing the next Mozart, Einstein, or Mother Teresa.

I see it differently.

Imagine if Mr. and Mrs. Hutt † had decided Planned Parenthood would have been a better choice instead giving life to their child. If they would have done that, the citizens of the desert planet of Tatooine wouldn’t have had to live their entire lives in fear because of one bloated, slug lord named Jabba. Obviously, he terrorized others because he was projecting his own insecurities caused by feelings of abandonment from his shitty parents. In addition, his self-esteem was non-existent due to his ongoing battle with his weight problem. Four bags of frogs and a couple of Jawas for lunch can’t be healthy. Jabba the Hutt’s life is precious?! He should have been aborted.

Granted, the original scene at Mos Eisley Cantina, where Han Solo blasted the bounty hunter, Greedo ‡, who was trying to collect♠ for the Abortion-Survivor, wouldn’t have taken place. Consequently, Luke and Obi-Wan wouldn’t have escaped on the Millennium Falcon which would have triggered a Butterfly Effect and the Death Star could still be fully operational to this day. However, that conflicts with my original hypothesis of killing Jabba at birth. Perhaps, Darth Vader should have been aborted. Unfortunately, Mr. Vader was formerly known as Anakin Skywalker. Which would have deleted Luke from the equation and he wouldn’t been able to fire his Proton Torpedoes down the exhaust shafts of the aforementioned Weapon of Mass Destruction. Quite the conundrum. In conclusion, I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.

It was horrible what happened five years ago on 9-11. People lost their lives and will always be remembered.

But what about me, I still exist. Somehow through this tragic event, I have been deleted from everyone’s mind. Erased. Eradicated. Brainwashed out of Man’s hard drive.

Nine, eleven…nine, eleven…nine, eleven

Anything missing?

What happened to “ten”!

I use to be a “somebody”. The world revolved around me.

The Ten Commandments, “She’s a perfect ten”, “Hang ten”, “ten little indians”…for Christ’s sake the majority of Earth’s civilizations use a base-10 numbering system.

Now I feel invisible. A shadow. I know what Ashlee Simpson feels like at Thanksgiving, or Tito at Christmas. What have I done to deserve this? Am I not easily divisible? Do I not make multiplying a simple task? What the fuck more do you want from me?

I could understand if I was irrational or a transcendental number. They’re enigmas.

Who knows their purpose? I don’t.

I ran with that pack in college.

π, Φ the Golden Ratio, e the base of the Natural Log…they were all deadbeats out of they’re minds.

π was always tripping on acid and trying to convince me he was from outer space and that he helped everyone from the Egyptians build the pyramids to the Mayan temples. Give me a break.

The Golden Ratio was under the impression that he was the divine Renaissance number created by God himself. Φ was one self-righteous, ecclesiastical mother fucker.

The base of the Natural Log e seemed normal, until you started to talk about money. Compound this, compound that…he would get this diabolical look in his eye when you mentioned interest rates. He’d sell his mother’s lung if he could profit from it.

I’m a rational number. A whole number.

God damn you all!

It’s nine,

eleven!

A booth at Hoboken’s Annual Italian Festival

Here’s an example of corporations knowing that Americans “want” to eat healthy but can’t.

MoMA offers a free audio tour to “help” visitors understand what the artist is trying to express.

While helpful with some, you end up looking like a jackass to those brave souls who ventured forth sans audio guidance as you stare at an untitled canvas painted blue by Yves Klein for five minutes listening to a montage of monologues composed by various “experts”.

“Monochrome abstraction—the use of one color over an entire canvas—has been a strategy adopted by many painters wishing to challenge our expectations of what an image can and should represent. Klein likened monochrome painting to an “open window to freedom.” He worked with a chemist to develop his own particular brand of blue. Made from pure color pigment and a binding medium, he called it “International Klein Blue.” Klein adopted this hue as a means of evoking the immateriality and boundlessness that reflected his own peculiar utopian vision of the world.”

Yves Klein, Untitled blue monochrome, 1959.

I enjoy following kids and listening to their reactions to each piece they encounter. It’s in the same spirit of speed dating, they either “love it” or “hate it”. You will either hear, “Oooh…that’s cool!” or “Eeew…that’s crap!” What’s hilarious is that they are usually dead-on while being extremely economical with their word choice.

One room was entirely empty and the halogen lights overhead flickered on and off every ten seconds. Everyone stopped and soaked in the creativity. One couple had found a crumbled scrap of paper and were trying to decipher it’s meaning in the context of the barren room with faulty lighting. As I approached them, they realized it was just a piece of trash some inconsiderate visitor had dropped. They quickly vacated the room to avoid eye contact with me, knowing I knew they had just applied their art history knowledge to garbage.

I was tempted to stick my gum on the wall and attach the wrapper to it and wait for someone to unravel the meaning behind it.

I wouldn’t be shocked if I walked into an installation displaying a diorama of a middle-aged couple’s bedroom with two live models in coital activity with a group of tourist surrounding them holding their trusty audio guide to their ear.