Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.–Aldous Huxley
The thing I like about this is that if I change a word, it’s still true. Check this out.
Farts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.
Still true and maybe even more meaningful, right? I just improved on Aldous Huxley. That’s deep.
New Yorkers know how to find the silver lining in any cloud. That’s why a local bar has created a new night called LAID OFF MONDAYS.
If you’re lucky enough to live here, skip that A.A. meeting and head to the Delancey, where you’ll get one “FREE SHOT OF TEQUILA at 12 am with proof of unemployment.”
This will be the bar where everybody knows your shame. But don’t worry, that’ll go down easier with a nice free shot. And since you digested your Ramen noodles hours ago, you’ll get a buzz on faster. Yay!
There is one drawback to announcing you’ve been laid off: don’t expect to get laid on.
On occasion, I participate in online surveys. If you’ve read any advertising telling you how much money you can make from filling them out, it’s true. I’m writing this to you from my yacht.
After completing quite a few, and marveling at companies’ need to hear my humble opinions, I felt I’d become something of an expert. At the very least, I was well-versed in answering the demographic questions which precede each one.
Imagine my surprise when I saw this:
Granted, I’ve seen different iterations of this question over time. It used to be simply: What is your gender? I assumed someone had complained about the plain-spoken rudeness of that when I started to see this variation: Which do you consider yourself? I still found this relatively straightforward. I remained confident of my reply.
But now they ask me this: Which of the following best describes my GENDER? Suddenly I’m confused. Who is doing the describing? If it’s the man who saw me pumping gas, wearing a plaid shirt after I’d gotten my hair cut too short, which way would he lean?
If I’m describing it, how best to judge? I’m not a fan of menstruation, but my junk is on the inside. I watch football but don’t spend all day taking a dump while reading the paper.
I could be a pre-op transsexual. If we haven’t had the surgery, aren’t we all pre-op transsexuals? Where will we get all those testicles? Will they use ping pong balls? Surely racquet balls would be too heavy. And where would we put them? It seems like they’d just be in the way. Why don’t more men wear skirts?
Okay, I don’t have testicles, but does that truly make me female? Wouldn’t a man whose huevos fell victim to an unfortunate threshing machine accident be offended that I’ve made this assumption?
Damn these online taskmasters! Describing, I can understand. I can do that. But best? How can I know for sure?
It seems Jeremy Piven wished to be excused early from the run of David Mamet’s Speed-the-Plow on Broadway. He was just exhausted and incidentally wanted to attend the Golden Globe ceremony. The schedule was adjusted so that he could attend, tired though he might be, then return and finish his couple of weeks as the lead in the play.
Fulfilling his obligation proved too much for the actor’s constitution. He ditched his well-reviewed role and forced his costars to go on without him. Why? Too much sushi. Somehow he had managed to give himself mercury poisoning.
Forget that the man would hardly have time to utter a line between shoving fistfuls of tuna in his piehole to have that effect. Even if he were sucking, snorting and skin-popping the stuff—I think you catch my drift. Bullshit.
Surprisingly, there was much handwringing done over this. It was taken seriously, with urgent talk of mercury levels, fattiness of fish, highness on the food chain, et cetera. I believe a tuna may have been called in to testify. An order of protection may have been issued.
Whether Mr. Piven could resist the urge to leap facefirst into a sushi bar and wallow, snuffling, in its fleshy delights was a cause for grave concern. Limo routes were adjusted accordingly.
Needless to say, this medical crisis precluded Mr. Piven’s return to Broadway. His experimental chelation therapy via single-malt Scotch had doubtlessly already begun.
At some point, a reporter with Daily Variety thought to ask Mr. Mamet, the play’s author and director, his opinion of Piven’s untimely departure. Mamet said, “My understanding is that he is leaving show business to pursue a career as a thermometer.”
Boom! This is why I love David Mamet. What a perfectly crafted line. I like you, too, Jeremy, but you’re the Tawana Brawley of Broadway. Don’t turn your back; there might be a writer there poised to take your measure.
Looking for a brand new outlet for your nicotine addiction? Camel’s got you covered. It’s got an old nag dressed up like a new pony and it’s called SNUS.
What is this product? It’s a fine moist tobacco that you place beneath your upper lip. It comes in packets so there’ll be no telltale tobacco leaves stuck between your expensive veneers. There’s no need to spit, so no one will know you’re dipping at your nephew’s bar mitzvah. And no worries about spilling your spit cup on the center console of your Mercedes. It’s like a Christmas miracle!
As Judge Judy said, “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.” I remember something like this: it’s called Skoal.
A friend of mine got caught by his dad once, who forced him to swallow it. The projectile vomiting cured him of the habit. I tried it myself a few times. I wanted to be the tough girl who’d pack in a chew, but it tasted like ass and I couldn’t learn to spit without dribbling the juice down my shirt. Mouth cancer wasn’t even a consideration.
Maybe Camel could do a tie-in with that other timeless classic: the forty.
But I don’t think that would play to the demographic they’re going for now. SNUS has been sold in Nordic countries like Greenland for years. Now Camel is test-marketing it in the U.S. I’m not naive; I know they don’t really care who their end-users are. They’re equal opportunity death-dealers. Their mission is simple: to create more addicts to replace the ones they’ve already killed. There’ll be a whole new generation hopelessly devoted to chew.
More suckers:
Straight from the Sucker Files: The Q-Link
Your child will be a hit with her classmates when you send her to school with this umbrella from Art.Lebedev Studio, aptly named “Fuck the Rain.”
Just don’t be surprised if you end up having to explain yourself to Child Protective Services.
Meanwhile, there’s another umbrella on sale if you want to work out some anger issues or just plain fear for your life. (Remember, it’s only assassination if you’re important.)
It’s the Self-Defense Unbreakable Umbrella from Real Self-Defense and it even has its own instructional video.
At first, it’s cute, like Charlie Chaplin doing a trick. But it quickly turns dark with a sociopathic Gallagher watermelon murder, then a Britney-esque beating.
Scary.
The Philippine president’s security detail uses them. (Maybe they can’t afford guns?) Come to think of it, after January 20th, 2009, you might want to avoid this guy.
He may not be in a very good mood. Though he’ll no longer be president, he may still be dangerous.
More products:
Scrotal Deodorant Wash: Product of the Week
Guys, place your orders for Man Junk, a new organic crotch wash made just for your schwantz, taint and family jewels. Here’s a bit of the ad copy:
How nice would it be, knowing that your significant other or one-night stand (hey, we’re not perfect either) is pleasantly surprised instead of trying not to breathe through their nose? Exactly.
That gives a whole new meaning to “going there.” At first, I thought it was a crazy idea. Then I thought about all of the insane things women do to stay pubically presentable, from waxing (not really Brazilian, by the way–that was a marketing ploy) to anal bleaching.
Someone’s going to have to explain anal bleaching to me; if you’re that close to someone’s asshole, it seems to me that the time for making value judgments has passed. It’s a little late to say, “Eeww, this place looks like a shithole,” am I right?
So, if your partner hurls and your dog faints when downwind of your weenie, get thee some Man Junk. No more worries about fummunda.*
Girls, play Secret Santa and sneak this into his gym bag. He’ll get the message that there’ll be no gifts under his tree (wink wink) ’til he deals with the stink.
Man Junk–It’s a product whose time has come!
*the cheese fummunda your balls, silly!
