A few things I’ve absorbed from MySpace:

The number of “Friends” in a MySpace profile is a direct correlation to the number of hours logged on to the internet and inversely related to that person’s actual social skill.

The beacon enlightens me how unproductive we humans have become.

When my beacon is on, I feel like Frodo Baggins when he slips on his ring and he becomes visible to the Nazgûl , Wraiths of the Shadow World.

MySpace creator Tom must get laid every day.

The saddest MySpace moment is having an actual physical friend not accept you as a MySpace friend and you receive the message, “You already have a pending friend request for this person.”

To add insult to injury, you see that the motherfucker is and logs in and out everyday.

Friendster is the equivalent of a pager.

Congratulations, and welcome to a new way of living. Hold your hands out …look at them…soon you will control their true ability…these flesh covered extensions of your soul are your answer to the universe. Once you have mastered this technique, you will be able to walk out and command any field on a blistery March day. Children will revere you, women will adore you, and men will fear you. You are the best of the best, I have personally hand picked you out of hundreds of applicants. Well perhaps not hundreds, but a number greater than the number of individuals who are present right now. Each one you have a story of — why you are here. Seekers of Wisdom. Hot shot fliers, who think they have a chance at The Big Game. All big fish from small ponds. You will look back at this very point in time and laugh at the shell of a person you are now. I applaud you. You will forever be in my debt. When people read your resume…and see that you trained with Kent Powers, you WILL be respected. In the next nine months, you will LIVE, EAT, and DREAM about kites!!! This will be your new religion, and I am your SAVIOUR. I will say this once, you will address me as Kent Powers. There are NO shortcuts or abbreviations in The Art of Kite Flying. The decision you have made will alter your reality. One word can define what we do, “Control!” Cerf-volant! Drachen! Aquiline! Cometa! Vlieger! Every language has a word to describe it. Kite! An invention developed 5000 years ago in Ancient China. This workshop will transcend mathematics, history, geography, physics, and psychology. I don’t like to drop names, but perhaps you know a few of my students: Steve Coates, flies with Skynasaur Kites their first “professional kite flyer”. In fact I just had lunch with Gary Gabriel, the vice president, last week. He professed to me that he wished all the new pilots would take my seminar. You are going to see that this career not only takes skill, but a tremendous amount of networking. Hey, if you got an eccentric, billionaire uncle ready to drop tens of thousands of dollars on you…more power to you. But if you are like the rest of us, corporate sponsorship is the key to success. Sure you could stay Regional, and grab a few cash prizes. Peanuts! Chump change! Trophies feed your ego, but companies fill your bellies with filet mignons.
You will learn how to axel, fade, 540s…the amount of tricks will be limited by your creativity. Perhaps someday you will be able to patent your own trick someday. In order to do this, you have to give up everything…carnal pleasures, luxuries, vices…and trust my every word. Gentleman, let’s fly.

I couldn’t sleep last night because of the pain, and was elated to finally fall into slumber at the crack of dawn. Only to be awoken by annoying song birds, a woodpecker drilling another useless hole, a squirrel trying scrape his way through my thru-the-wall air conditioning unit, and little fucking boy hitting a concrete wall with a sledge hammer.

Please free me from my prison.

Mah nishtanah ha-lahylah ha-zeh mi-kol ha-layloht, mi-kol ha-layloht?

1.)
She-b’khol ha-layloht anu okhlin chameytz u-matzah, chameytz u-matzah. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, kooloh matzah?

2.)
She-b’khol ha-layloht anu okhlin sh’ar y’rakot, sh’ar y’rakot. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, maror?

3.)
She-b’khol ha-layloht ayn anu mat’bilin afilu pa’am echat, afilu pa’am echat. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, sh’tay p’amim?

4.)
She-b’khol ha-layloht anu okhlin bayn yosh’bin u’vayn m’soobin, bayn yosh’bin u’vayn m’soobin. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, koolanu m’soobin?

Why is this night different from all other nights?

1.)
Why is it that on all other nights during the year we eat either bread or matzoh, but on this night we eat only matzoh?

2.)
Why is it that on all other nights we eat all kinds of herbs, but on this night we eat only bitter herbs?

3.)
Why is it that on all other nights we do not dip our herbs even once, but on this night we dip them twice?

4.)
Why is it that on all other nights we eat either sitting or reclining, but on this night we eat in a reclining position?

Why do we do this?

1.)
What time is dinner?

2.)
What are we having for dinner?

3.)
What are we having for dessert?

4.)
Who’s cleaning up?

What would Jesus do at a Seder?

1.)
Are Elijah and Miriam Easter bunnies?

2.)
Why do I get laughed at when I tell people what I believe in?

3.)
Why are a growing number of indecisive Jews for Jesus becoming transvestites?

4.)
Who are we kidding?

Why do Jews act crazy this time of year?

1.)
Why the hell are they afraid of bread?

2.)
Why do they get so many days off?

3.)
Why aren’t there laws to arrest them for using Christian blood in their satanic rituals?

4.)
Why are there so many Jews?

Watch 1,500 inmates from a prison in the Philippines perform Thriller:

I read this at WYSIWYG TALENT SHOW

Bowery Poetry Club

308 Bowery
WED | Nov 16th | 8:00PM

Five years ago, my ex-girlfriend’s father generously gave us a seven day ski vacation at the Snowshoe Resort in West Virginia for Christmas. He paid for the hotel, lift tickets, and the snowboard rental. All we had to pay for was transportation and food. This was fantastic; unfortunately I grew up in Texas and didn’t have any ski gear. So I went down to Sports Authority to see what I could buy with my limited funds. Since it was a December 26th, I had spent most of my money on presents. I only had about a hundred fifty bucks to spend. Hat—$15, gloves—$30, goggles—$30, thermals—$20, ski pants—$50…fuck! That only left five dollars for a winter coat. I was born in Daytona Beach and raised in San Antonio and had zero body fat. They could have used my legs as doubles in the movie Warm Springs about FDR’s battle with polio. My chances for survival looked bleak. I needed a coat. Fortunately, the sales clerk was a guy named Ron, a snowboarder/surfer burn-out who hated his job. He suggested that I pick any jacket out and just return it for a refund when I get back. I told him that I would feel weird abusing their return policy and would hate for anyone to question my integrity.

Ron said, “Fuck them, they only pay me six dollars an hour. Do it for me.”

He said it with such eloquence and conviction that it was difficult to say, “No.”

Since the ski season had already begun, the selection was sparse. Especially, since I needed a Size XL-T, the O negative in the winter coat world.

We finally found a bright, canary yellow Columbia® jacket. The sales tag priced it at three hundred dollars or two hundred ninety-five dollars over my budget.

Ron smiled and said, “It looks a little faggy, but it’ll keep you warm.”

“Thanks, you sure it won’t be a problem”

“No, man. People do it all the time. Shit, one dude brought back socks.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a week.”

Since I never snowboarded before, it was extremely difficult to keep the jacket off the ground. I would have to estimate that in the first 48 hours, I was on the on my back for 93% of the time. Not to mention, my biological cooling system responds to cardiovascular activities by activating by sweat glands. Over a course of five days, my taxi yellow coat absorbed the equivalent of a forty ounce bottle of Old English 800®.

To make matters worse, I felt like I had joined a gang. Not like The Outlaws, the Bloods, or the Crips. Nor like Danny Zuco’s The Thunderbirds or The Sharks from West Side Story. My yellow Columbia® jacket “gang” consisted of used car salesmen, well-funded NASCAR fans, and un-hip middle-aged men called The Douchebags.

My cousin Todd called me and asked me to cut my vacation short because our family pawn shop was being swamped with post-Christmas customers. Including me, we only had four people running the store, so I agreed to drive back to Virginia Beach. He was worried because of an incoming blizzard the next day that would prolong my return.

My girlfriend and her family tried to dissuade me from leaving in the middle of the night.
I didn’t want to get snowed in the next morning, so I loaded up my girlfriend’s 1990 Jeep Cherokee and began my treacherous descent down the winding mountain road. When I was a quarter of the way down, I started to see small flurries. In a matter of minutes, I was blinded by a cyclone of ice.

I gripped the steering wheel with my left hand and down shifted to second gear with my right. In tense situations, I had a bad habit of licking my lips to soothe my nerves. When I was a kid my nickname was “Hot Lips” because my adolescent anxieties chapped my lips. This moment redefined the word, tense. My brain responded by sliding my tongue from the 9 o’clock position with the intention of sliding to the 3 o’clock position in one fluid motion. However, when my tongue reached high noon, directly underneath my nose, it slithered back inside my mouth without warning because of an unexpected salty flavor. It tasted brackish and metallic. I looked into the mirror and was frightened by my gruesome reflection.

The change in elevation had turned my nose into a faucet of blood. I tried to look around for a napkin or towel. I had to improvise with a Wendy’s® bag and a grocery receipt. They both proved to be non-absorbent and rendered them useless. I was concentrating so hard on stopping the salty, crimson cascade that I forgot I was still driving in a blizzard. I suddenly noticed a Suburban 4×4 up ahead spinning out of control, engulfed by an invisible tornado. It finally swirled to stop on the side of the road. Fortunately, no one got hurt—shaken not slain.

I would have stopped but it would have been more dangerous to slam on the brakes, so I had to selfishly pass them by. Sorry. Darwin’s Theory is that stronger species descend by modification. Future Man is being modified by apathy, emasculation, and self-interest. Anthropologist in the year 3030 A.D. will discover that I was the link between Homo Sapien and Homo Cowardus.

My salvation came when a general store appeared in the distance. I pulled into a parking space, jumped out of my car, took off my stained jacket, laid it on the hood, and went to the entrance. To my misfortune, the door was locked and had a hand-scrawled sign on the door that stated, “I’ll Be Back Tomorrow”. I found a bottle of water in the Jeep and began pouring it on the jacket and started to scrub it with my hat. I felt like Lady MacBeth, frantically trying to remove the dreaded spots.

My coat started to illuminate as if a ray of holy light was cast down by the heavens above. Being agnostic, I was taken aback by this and didn’t know how to interpret this “miracle”. Then entire Jeep lit up, my shadow grew larger on the hood, I turned around to be blinded by retina-roasting halogen lights from the Suburban 4×4 that I had left stranded. Once they parked, I rushed over to their tinted passenger side window. Someone had triggered the automatic window lever and it slowly slid down to reveal a family of four from Pennsylvania.

As I was about to ask for a towel or more water, the window went up twice as fast as had came down. The driver rammed the gear selector in reverse, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the ass-end of the Suburban exploded way from the parking lot. They had successfully managed a 180° turn. Now perpendicular to the road, the driver cranked the wheel to the right and sped down the hill like he possessed by a suicide bomber with his eyes glazed over with visions of forty virgins and the embrace of Allah.

I didn’t understand what happened. Yes, I can understand there animosity for me for not helping them in their time of need, but that was an extremely bizarre response to witness.
What had I done to invoke such a shocking reaction? Confused, I went back to my pain-staking, hand-numbing task of cleaning my three hundred dollar “leased” jacket. Somehow I managed to get the blood out. After that episode, the rest of the descent down the mountain seemed like whimsical stroll on the beach.

Once back in Virginia Beach, I had the jacket professionally dry cleaned and went to the customer service counter of Sports Authority. I sheepishly told the clerk that I didn’t like the jacket and wanted a refund. She seemed unconvinced and stared at me with a sneered look of skepticism like I had just told her I was Elvis. I bit my lip, casually looked away, did a little drum tap on the counter, looked at my watch, looked at their clock on the wall, clicked my tongue on the top of my mouth, nodded my head, looked at the ceiling…and she still just stood there staring at my waiting for me to break.

Fuck that, I hated that jacket. It was tense for a few minutes, but the line started to grow, so she succumbed and began the refund process.

Then Ron walked by and said, “Hey, dude! Glad you made it back! Heard there’s been some crazy serial killer cutting people up and tying them to ski lifts.”

“What are you talking about?”, I asked.

“You know, like Jeffrey Dahmer and shit…he’s been doing for a month now. I didn’t want to scare you before you went up.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh yeah, good thing you returned that jacket…the news is saying that the police are looking for a guy in a yellow jacket.”

It all made sense. Each event in the space-time continuum is multi-faceted. It glistens differently depending on which angle you view it. The family of four from Pennsylvania freaked the fuck out, because a serial killer with a yellow jacket, blood soaked goatee was about to kill them.

Life is all about perspective.

The average lifespan of a Mylar balloon is five to eight days.

Two of my five “Get Well Soon” balloons died the night I got them.

They either commited suicide or they were murdered by the other balloons.

I called NYPD, but they have yet to send any officers by the house.

New York’s Finest, my ass.

I’ve put the two remains in the freezer and made chalk outlines. The other three balloons pleaded The Fifth. Well, they haven’t actually said anything yet. They’re just remaining silent, I’m assuming they’re pleading The Fifth. I’ve isolated them in different rooms, so they can’t collaborate a story together.

If I don’t get any answers soon, I’ll get Abu Ghraib on these little, inflatable bastards.

When people answer a question by saying,
“That’s a good question!”

SUBTEXT TRANSLATION:
“I have no fucking clue!”

New York City is by far the best city to live in as long as you never make a mistake. (ie forget to pay the meter, park in front of a fire hydrant, neglect a parking ticket, smoke indoors, run out of gas in a tunnel, drop/lose your cell phone, lose your unlimited MetroCard, etc…)
People here pride themselves by thinking of everything to avoid suffering the consequences.

When my hard drive died and wiped out all my critical data, I seeked comfort from my friends. My fellow New Yorkers pretended to empathize with my loss by saying,
“Oh my God, that’s horrible, but you backed up? Right?”

SUBTEXT TRANSLATION:
“If you didn’t back up, you’re retarded and deserve it.”

I could only imagine what they would think in a few decades when I tell them my child dies.

“Oh my God, that’s horrible, but you had Patrick’s DNA cloned when he was a baby? Right?”

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.”

Within 24 hours of Obi-Wan Kenobi's death, Death Star stormtroopers began to post “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. ~Yoda” on their Helmetbook© wall.

I was asked to blog in the voice of Bill O’ Reilly.

Here’s my 6/4/07 entry:

I couldn’t stop thinking about AC last night. She consumes my thoughts. Imagining her whispering right-wing rhetoric into my ear at night makes my body quiver like a little Asian schoolgirl. As a teenager I use to watch the The Addam’s Family and would get an erection anytime Morticia would speak French into Gomez’s ear.

“When I first saw you from afar, My heart flamed with fierce passion. And when you spoke French, ooh-la-la!…”

Except, I would puke if she spoke in the guttural, non-coherent, amphibious language of freedom-haters. Not to mention AC’s spectacular boobs arouse me more than any FOX intern I’ve ever met or hired. Not that I would ever suggest that I would hire a person solely on the size of their mammary glands (but it always helps ☺).

After Googling her for hours and drinking a Viagra cocktail and listening to my favorite Kenny Rogers CD, I felt weird and a little stalker-ey. You know Mark Foley-ish but with a woman not a page (although I’m sure that some liberal made him do it. Read here).

My eyes ached, my lower back was killing me and I felt my mouse finger cramping up so I decided to go to bed. However, AC is my crack. I needed one more hit. So as I began my ritual of clearing my history trail so my wife wouldn’t know what I was trolling the Web, I was unable to control my fingers as they typed “A** C****** sexy” into the search box. I was shocked and confused when one of the results was titled, “C****** Comes Out as Transvestite Trickster”.

The reason I was “shocked and confused” was because my state of arousal heightened, my face became flush and my heart raced. It all made sense. I never could understand how a woman could be able to produce such wonderful ideas and be my equal in the war against liberal faggots.

I passed out on the couch in my study and dreamed that we made sweet love. I’ll let you guess who was the top and who was the bottom.

(Hint: Jack was my favorite character)

An undercover cop from Missouri tasered Chris Crocker in an airport bathroom outside of South Africa or the Iraq…such as.

I went on my first road trip when I was sixteen years old with my friend, Tom McDonald. We left San Antonio in my Mom’s borrowed car and headed northwest for Fredricksburg, a small, quaint, German village in the hill country. An anomaly in Texas. Its claim to fame was The Enchanted Rock, a cluster of large granite domes. They were great for spelunking, hiking, climbing, and getting drunk underage. We felt like Lewis and Clark setting off to discover America.

This was in the pre-wireless era, so we felt free of any supervision. If you have ever driven on a desolate, Texas highway, you can understand the amount of self-discipline you must apply to limit the velocity of the 2000 pound metal wagon you controlled. I kept the speed around 75mph, which wasn’t bad because the speed limit was 65mph. We saw the exit signs for Fredricksburg, so I took my foot of the accelerator and I veered to the right.

At the bottom of the exit ramp, I noticed the speed limit lowered to 55mph. I read some where that it was better to naturally let the car decelerate, so I decided not to tap the brakes and let Newton’s Law of Momentum, friction, and gravity slow us down. Unfortunately, behind a “Don’t Mess with Texas” billboard was a state trooper in a brand new, black Ford Mustang who had set a speed trap. The speed limit had dropped to 35mph in only hundred yards from the highway and we were going about 57mph. He hit the sirens, sprayed gravel from his tires, and launched onto the pavement. I grew up on Dukes of Hazzard, so my first instinct was to tell Tom to get the compound bow from the backseat and light some dynamite-laden arrows. I’d look for a very conveniently concealed ramp that would miraculously shoot us over a river or ravine.

However, the coward in me knew that this was my Mom’s 89’ Chevy Corsica, not a 69’ Dodge Charger named General Lee. Also I couldn’t imagine me in prison, a six foot six, 138 pound virgin with a faggy mullet. So I decided not to out run Rosco P. Coltrane, tapped the brakes and gently brought the car to the side of the road.

The state trooper took his sweet time and moseyed up to the driver’s window. Officer Garcia was in the stereotypical battle gear: Smokey the Bear hat, mirrored aviator glasses, tight pants, and knee-high Nazi boots. Tom and I almost pissed our pants, because we had a twelve pack of Bud Dry in the trunk. The closest we had ever come to authority was when our Dungeon & Dragon characters were falsely arrested at the Red Dragon tavern by town guards for assassinating a guildmaster.

Three words—we were pussies.

Officer Garcia then said, “License and registration.”

It was a hot, Texas afternoon. Sweat dripped off my nose, I lowered the sun visors, looked under the seats—nowhere to be found. I kept apologizing to Officer Garcia, who just stood there stoically, unflinching, like he had just gazed at the gorgon, Medusa, yet still retained his flesh instead of stone.

An alien that didn’t sweat—I truly believed that he sprayed himself with Scotch-Guard® every morning to inflict subtle psychological mind games on his victims. Finally, I reached over to the glove compartment to open it, but when I did, it was locked. So I fumbled the keys out of the ignition, inserted the key into the lock, and turned it to the right. Tom and I both sighed with relief, because we could show the cop what he needed and we could finally be on our way.

Had I possibly known the fatal consequences beforehand of what was in my Mom’s glove compartment, I would have never opened it. But I wasn’t a clairvoyant, so I did.
Time normally flows forward like a river, but once I opened Pandora’s Box, time thickened to viscous, gooey lava. The next five seconds oozed by over a span of hours. My mother’s glove compartment contained: a small package of Kleenex, lottery tickets, Wet-Naps, a map of San Antonio, a mini flashlight, and a .357 Magnum with a six inch barrel.

Tom and my eyes widened. We tried to keep our eyes on the gun, look at each other, look at the cop, and not move a single muscle, all at the same time. Our bodies were twitching with an overwhelming desire to flee for the cotton field to the right of us. Officer Garcia went pale and immediately put his right hand on his 9mm, which was holstered.

He started to clench his jaws, ripped off his sunglasses with his left hand, and barked out, “Grab the gun by the tip of the barrel! Slowly, very slowly!”

I followed his instructions and inched my hand towards Dirty Harry’s weapon of choice. My mind raced with images of Officer Dickweed emptying his 16 round magazine into two geeks from the city. Then I became enraged at my mother for not telling us about her new gangbangin’ lifestyle. San Antonio could be dangerous, but the last time you needed to carry a revolver was in 1836 when 186 glorified outlaws defended the Alamo against Mexico because they thought it was their Divine Right to own slaves. Why the fuck would she let her sixteen year old son borrow her car with a .357!

My hand crept towards the tip of the gun. I braced myself for the cold, hard feel of blue steel and the heavy weight of the weapon, but when I touched it, it felt like a warm whiffle ball bat on a summer day. I pinched the barrel with all of my fingers and was surprised how easy it was to lift the featherlike mass. My synapses and neurons were firing back and forth information like a Cray supercomputer. In nanoseconds, my hypothalamus in my brain analyzed the tactile data and cross referenced it to my memory bank. My mind immediately deduced that this was my little brother’s toy gun, and not a real one. Every department in my head started to chant, “It’s fake, the gun is fake!”

Euphoria set in, endorphins flooded my body and I felt the happiness you experience when your computer crashes, you think you’ve lost everything but are fortunately able to recover your entire hard drive. Elated, I forgot Officer Garcia’s request to hold it by the tip and grabbed the gun by the handle. To recap on time, this all transpired in a duration of two seconds.

Tom shrieked like a little girl, and frantically tried to unbuckle his seatbelt and unlock the passenger door. Officer Garcia still hasn’t managed to unholster his gun. He’s hysterically trying to free his sidearm from its leather confines with both hands.

He was screaming, “BY THE TIP…BY THE TIP!!”
I kept saying over and over, “It’s not real, it’s a toy, its fake….”

Inadvertently, I pointed the gun at his chest. His eyes bulged out of his sockets, and his body went into an epileptic seizure. We thought he was going to shoot himself in the foot. It looked like someone had played a practical joke back at the police station and had super glued his gun to his holster. He was just another citizen of Camelot unable to unsheathe the sword from the stone. Another second passed, Rosco P. Coltrane finally drew his sidearm while simultaneously I threw my brother’s toy gun to the ground. It hit the ground producing the distinct sound of plastic striking asphalt.

He shoved his Beretta 92FS in my face and yell, “Don’t move!” Tom had managed to get his seatbelt unfastened, but didn’t dare open the door in front of this trigger-happy trooper. He kept the sights on my head while he crouched down to pick up my brother’s gun.

Tom and I had tears rolling down our face and pleaded, “Don’t shoot us…please…don’t shoot us…”

Officer Kid-Killer finally picked up the “firearm” and was even more enraged when had the same revelation I experienced only four seconds ago. He threw the gun over the roof of my mother’s car into the cotton field. Before it landed, a gust of wind blew from behind and took the gun with it. Officer Garcia finally took in deep breath and lowered his Beretta. He had the look of someone who had just been exorcised of a demon.

Tom and I nervously sat there waiting for a verbal lashing and handcuffs, but we didn’t.

Officer Garcia simply said, “What the fuck were you boys thinkin’? You know if this was night time, I would have shot both of you.”

In my head, I disagreed.

“Actually, Officer Garcia, I had the drop on you. You’re the lucky one.”

But of course, I didn’t say that.

I just said, “We’re sorry, Officer. It’ll never happen again.”

Tom and I drove off without a ticket, a sense of our own mortality and a luke warm twelve pack of Bud Dry in the trunk.

People flinch nowadays when you say the word “Mexican” with the wrong inflection. Somehow society has demonized the word. If I told you there are a bunch of “English guys outside” who would care…same goes for Danish, Russian, Irish…it doesn’t matter. But if I were to say, “There are a bunch of Mexicans out side” I’d be labeled a bigot.

I was at a dinner party and a guy started a story, “So there was this “Mexican”…ah..sorry…there was this guy from Mexico….”

Asshole…he’s Mexican. I’d rather be called French, than a Man from France.

The next step is to call them Spano-Aztecians.

Found by Karey Dornetto

Stumbled upon by Todd Levin via Adam Felber

Another gem found by Karey Dornetto

Classic video found by Jesse Joyce and Andre DuBouchet

I was in Miami once and I saw a billboard that claimed, “Everytime you see a bus, you have walked by someone with AIDS.”

I will never become a bus driver.

(Seems to be the most popular font of bad movies)