Miss California has secured a book deal. Will she be filling the pages herself? Or will she be hiring someone to, um, implant them with words? Either way, you can look forward to reading an inspirational story which teaches young women that they can achieve anything they want if they really put their mouths to it.
I know it's not the best country to have on one's side during a war, what with its military consisting of a guy named Frank (most likely borrowed from Austria) and its guns produced by Playskool. But its scenery is gorgeous, its citizens are super friendly and those goddamned Swiss know cuckoo clocks and chocolate better than anyone in the world. Hell, I'm pretty sure "Cuckoo Clocks" and "Chocolate" are majors at every Swiss university.
Anyway, the Swiss have created low-fat, no-melt chocolate. Something which Americans, particularly those in the South (http://blogs.usatoday.com/ondeadline/2009/07/mississippi-weighs-in-as-fattest-state-for-5th-year.html) will REALLY benefit from.
Many of us, myself included, also really need to cut down on our deep fried and re-deep fried pizzas with bacon fat and ice cream on top. It's hell for the arteries.
So thank you to the Swiss. They weren't much good fighting Hitler, but at least they've created something which can help make our physiques look less like Churchill's.
Turns out that Kimberley Vlaminck, the girl with the 56 star tattoos on her face, wasn't asleep during the procedure. Turns out that she indeed requested those 56 star tattoos. Turns out that she was actually overjoyed with the end result.
Then she got home. And Kimberley's father was inexplicably horrified at her appearance.
Geez, girl, did you think your father would be overjoyed to see that his daughter had a face on which you kept expecting the words "Episode VII: A New Look" to scroll up on?
Anyway ....
That poor tattoo parlor owner sure is a class act. In spite of all the shit Kimberley has put him through, he's offering to pay for half of the expensive laser surgery procedure to have those tattoos removed. I would've expected him to cave into his baser instincts and, to borrow a line from Ralph Kramden, send Stargirl to the moon.
The federal government blew half a mil for a study on why men dislike wearing condoms during sex. Geez. Really? They needed half a million dollars for this? Perhaps the government can allot another half a mil to study what people find so distasteful about being set on fire.
Can't say it made me laugh as hard as the revelation that during the 1990s the morons at the Pentagon asked $7.5 million for the construction of a "gay bomb", which would in theory "turn" enemy soldiers homosexual. As a result, we'd be able to just saunter into their once impregnable fortresses because the guards would be too occupied sucking one another's cocks while listening to the score of "Wicked."
But at least the dolts who formulated that brilliant idea they didn't get their money. At least I hope they didn't.
Having just finished watching a terrible horror movie remake ("My Bloody Valentine") a few hours ago, I discover that a remake of "The Stepfather" will be released later in the year.
The original film was a scary as hell, satirical thriller released in the middle of the 1980s, that oh so wondrous decade when, led by a pompadoured saint by the name of Ronald Reagan, our country returned to prosperity and "family values." Morning in America and all that saccharine piffle.
Anyway, the film's titular character is a psychotic who wants nothing more than to be the patriarch in The Perfect American Family. Naturally, each one he marries into proves short of his expectations. So he ends up murdering its members (presumably because family counseling's too costly an alternative), adopting a new identity, and trying for Perfection with another family.
Like "Wall Street", it's one of the great cinematic reflections of America during that era. Highly recommended.
The stepfather is played by the intense Terry O'Quinn, whose talent, I'm glad to hear, is being implemented in a low-budget show which I don't think many people in America have seen. What's it called? Oh, yeah - "Lost."
"The Stepfather" (original): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vPfvgh_dbU
"The Stepfather" (remake, in which, of course, all characters look like they stepped out of the pages of either "GQ" or "Vogue"): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjEPX8TP5J8
Could a man in the U.S. get elected to the presidency with a wife like Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, the stunning First Lady of France?
I mean, our republic can be a bit puritanical about matters. As an example, I offer two words: "Wardrobe Malfunction." Need I elucidate?
Carla Bruni-Sarkozy has exposed more than her one tit. And no, it wasn't a wardrobe malfunction. Carla Bruni-Sarkozy has all but shown us a video of her colonoscopy.
I picked up this quote of hers from Wikipedia: "I'm monogamous from time to time, but I prefer polygamy and polyandry." If Laura Bush or Michelle Obama had uttered this on the campaign trail, their husbands never would've become president. At least I don't think they would've. In the general election, they'd probably lose in a landslide, winning only Utah.
She's like a character from "Sex and the City."
Kudos to the French people for not making her lifestyle a big issue.
Woody Allen reportedly wants Carla Bruni-Sarkozy to star in one of his films. As a fan of both, I hope she accepts.
Mr. President -- I voted for you, I think highly of you. I read your second book. (It dealt with hope, as I recall.)
But be like the daughter of Sonny Bono and Cher and get some fucking balls. If your proposals don't fly with the AMA and those damn insurance companies, give 'em the treatment you gave that fly.
We're waiting for you to channel FDR. Hell, you haven't even channeled Eisenhower! FIGHT.
Boo to that school in Litchfield, New Hampshire for banning "Hills Like What Elephants" by Ernest Hemingway because its central character is a young woman who is about to get an abortion; "Survivor Type" by Stephen King because it involves self-cannibalism; and "I Like Guys" by David Sedaris because ... well, the title speaks for itself.
Puritanical blowhards.
"Oh, but think about the children!"
What about them? Give me a break. The minds of your high schoolers are far less fragile than you think. These short stories won't destroy their lives. (Although perhaps the Sedaris story will provide struggling gay and lesbian teens a sense of comfort, and we can't have THAT, right?).
I don't know about the lives of the convicts in Rahway or San Quentin or wherever, but I highly doubt that ANY of their biographies will say something like:
"He was raised by a loving family, helped out in the community, and got good grades in school ... until the day he read 'Hills Like White Elephants'. That's when the hard drugs, robberies, rapes and murders started."
Furthermore, as long as you're banning books involving violent stuff, there's one book I read recently which was rather gruesome. I'll include a passage:
"And Moses said unto them, Have ye saved all the women alive? Behold, these caused the children of Israel, through the counsel of Balaam, to commit trespass against the Lord in the matter of Peor, and there was a plague among the congregation of the Lord. Now therefore kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known man by lying with him. But all the women children, that have not known a man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves."
Creepy work. And I thought the Marquis de Sade penned some depraved shit.
WHOA! Those pissed-off Palinites came out in full force to protest that oh so mean, gap-toothed old man Dave Letterman! Oh, wait -- those are the pro-Mousvani demonstrations in Iran.
Actually, only fifteen or so people -- and presumably all their imaginary friends -- appeared to protest outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater. Not even enough for a staff at one Borders superstore.
Of course, they wouldn't be comfortable around an environment where books/learning material are involved. That is, unless they have their Benadryl with them.
So, yeah, they drew more media than activists. At least Kevin Federline can say that more people paid to see him rap than to protest David Letterman.
And kudos to Letterman for his "Top 10 Things Overheard at the 'Fire Letterman' Rally" bit. He really knocked it up -- er, knocked it out -- of the park with that one. He probably should've done a Top 15. One for every protester who actually showed up.
Hahaha -- just as I was planning to watch "Psycho", I came across a news story about a guy from NYC named Thomas Parkin who had been assuming the identity of his deceased mother. He even dressed in drag. Damn. Does he stuff birds and own a shitty-ass motel too? Maybe we need to drag the East River for bodies -- and I bet we'll find the dismembered handiwork of the Mob, the Teamsters, and perhaps even the Donald along with Mr Parkin's.
Wow. If life in NYC is beginning to reflect Hitchcock movies, perhaps it's best that Mayor Bloomberg put those 2,000 Canada geese to death. (http://abcnews.go.com/Travel/story?id=7853144&page=1)
Anyway. The actual reason that douchebag Parkin assumed his mother's identity was in order to cheat the government. If Geithner steps down, perhaps he'll be appointed our next Treasury Secretary.
Some woman in Belgium requested three small star tattoos on her face ... and woke up with fifty-six.
DAMN.
What I don't get is why anybody not named Darth Maul would even WANT tattoos on the face in the first place. (Talk about star wars, eh, lady? Heh-heh. Sorry.)
Well, the woman's getting the tattoos removed. And she's suing the tattoo parlor. Good for her.
Until then, perhaps an astrologist can look at her forehead and tell me what my future holds.
Some dipshit superintendent refused to hand a graduating senior his high school diploma all because, while on stage to receive it, he took a bow and blew a kiss to his mother.
When I came across the AP article headlined "Maine student who blew kiss to mom denied diploma", my immediate response was:
"Can't be. He HAD to have done something more to warrant such a punishment."
But no. I read the article but couldn't find the phrase "and then he whipped his dick out" or anything just as vulgar. All the guy did was take a bow and blow a kiss at his family. Nothing more. And for that, he had to endure the humiliation of being sent back to his seat diploma-less. In front of hundreds of people.
That superintendent is the front-runner for Douchebag of the Week. Well, maybe after Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the "re-elected" president of Iran. And after Governor Sarah Palin.
Governor Palin insists that David Letterman knowingly directed that A-Rod joke at her 14-year-old daughter. I don't believe that to be the case. I chalk it up to Letterman and his writers forgetting that besides Bristol, the governor and her hard-for-secession hubby have 200 other daughters. You know, like how President -- or to please the Fox News crowd -- Ayatollah Barack Obama probably has more than 200 burqa-clad wives? Letterman didn't mean the 14-year-old girl any more than Obama meant the governor with his now-notorious "lipstick on a pig" utterance.
Still, to paraphrase President Nixon: Letterman gave the Palins a sword, and they're sticking it in with relish.
Mother Palin is playing the martyr. Gotta say, I kind of admire her feistiness. She's one tough cookie. This became clear to me when she first entered the national stage and thanked Geraldine Ferraro and Hillary in an obvious attempt to siphon the votes of Clintonites who were aggravated that Madame Clinton was denied her supposed destiny. She is as ruthless as Hillary, just with less age, less skirt, and less brains.
Today I overheard someone say to his friend, "I can't believe how stupid Miss California is"! Uh-huh. Right. As if the average beauty contestant can boast of Mensa membership.
I do feel kind of bad for Miss California, though. Though I'm not in harmony with her opposition to gay marriage, at least she's sincere about her stance. Unlike, say, the Democratic leadership and Rudy Giuliani, whose opposition is about as artificial as Miss California's tits.
Hamas, the militant fundamentalist Islamic group and ruling party in Palestine, is not just in the match-lighting business but in the matchmaking business as well.
Seriously.
Do you love long walks on the beach and loathe Israel? Looking for a romance which burns like a detonated bus in Jerusalem? Well, apply at the "Tayseer Association for Marriage and Development"; we promise you'll meet at least ONE of the 72 virgins of your dreams!
Personally I don't think the service's name is catchy enough. How about "Hamasexuality"? Just a suggestion.
Fuck Hamas!
And I don't care to participate in any dating service managed by people who probably look at the garb of nuns and consider them guilty of indecent exposure.
The past few days haven't exactly been streamers and confetti for Yours Truly.
As much as I try to maintain positive thoughts about the current life sitch, the gloom has been getting the better of me. Panging regrets. Loneliness. Oh, and I have diarrhea. Unfortunately, my dreariness isn't among the things expelled during my frequent trips to the good ol' bowl.
However, my mood was elevated by several degrees when I read this news about Osel Hita Torres, a young man who has renounced what the Dalai Lama (who suffers from what I'm suffering at present, except he's spewing crap out of his mouth) and many others think is Torres's destiny. Yeah, they say he's Buddha Version 2.0 or whatever number they're at presently. The Dalai Lama made this distinction when Torres was just a toddler. And considering this kid was Buddha, what did the Buddhist order do? According to Torres, "They took me away from my family and stuck me in a medieval situation in which I suffered a great deal."
Torres is now 23 years old. He's studying Film (!) and listens to Jimi Hendrix (!), details which make me respect him all the more.
I salute you, Mr. Torres, for living your life to the fullest.
I'll assume everyone is at least marginally aware thanks to great films like "Witness" and the imperishable "Kingpin" of the rituals and stifling lifestyle of the Amish. (To the credit of the Amish: they sure make fine food.) Anyway, the Amish have a rite of passage known as "Rumspringa", which is the subject of a TERRIFIC documentary titled "The Devil's Playground." What happens is that Amish teens go out into real world and, you know, drink alcohol, watch movies, play Nintendo, get laid. Pleasures we take for granted and don't indulge in nearly as much as we should. After this, the teens make a decision: stay in their repressive, insanely dull community or depart for greener pastures (the green possibly being weed). Most, sadly, decide to stay put. But some decide to move on.
And I salute them.
For the same reason I salute Mr. Torres.
For rejecting the greatest sin of all.
For saying "KISS OUR ASSES" rather than keep their heads up 'em.
Kudos. And it's off to the toilet yet again.
Article on Torres: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/may/31/dalai-lama-osel-hita-torres
I found a bar in Clark which has Karaoke Night and includes "Fairytale of New York" in the list of offered songs. Although the song is out of season and although I have no one to duet with me, I, powered by Tullamore and mozzarella sticks, shall be paying homage to (although most will argue desecrating) the boys and Kirsty MacColl on Wednesday night. Yippie ki yay.
Many, perhaps most, editorial pages aren't dripping with honeyed phrases for Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner. I'm sure he's aware of this -- unlike, say, the $30,000+ in taxes. Well, a smile must've crossed his normally dour-looking face upon discovering that People Magazine named him one of the "50 Most Beautiful People."
Seriously.
Tim Geithner.
You know, I hear and read compliments of sexual nature in reference to President Obama -- and most of 'em come from the anchors at MSNBC.
I hear and read compliments of sexual nature in reference to Sarah Palin, how they'd like to stick something in her mouth. Well, anything to make her shut the fuck up.
Yet for all I hear and read about Geithner, I never hear or read the phrase "Tim Geithner -- mmm, I want me some of THAT." Or any phrases contiguous to it. I once overheard one person say that Geithner looks creepy. Like the type of guy who stuffs birds and talks oh so lovingly about his sick mother waiting in the house on the hill.
But anyway.
To my friends who're women and gay males: do you think he belongs in the list? To put it bluntly, would you do him?
When asked to opine on President Obama's performance during these First Hundred Days, MSNBC's Chris Matthews replied, "Personally, I'm a bit shocked. I'm surprised that Obama hasn't accomplished more within the first Hundred Days. Especially considering how he created the universe in only six."
Bea Arthur, best known as the title character in "Maude" and Dorothy in "The Golden Girls", passed away three days ago.
"Maude" was a wonderful spin-off of the great "All in the Family." Whereas Archie Bunker was a fiery right-winger, Maude, a cousin of Archie's wife Edith, was an equally fiery liberal. The two hated each other ever since she caught him drawing devil ears on a photo of Franklin Roosevelt, regarded by Maude as "a saint."
Anyway, in tribute to Bea Arthur, here are two clips featuring her as Maude. In the first clip, Archie and Maude heatedly debate Franklin Roosevelt's legacy. In the second, Maude argues with her future husband and her neighbor about Hubert Humphrey and Richard Nixon.
And here's Bush. The band, not President Obama's immediate predecessor.
I haven't heard this song in a while and haven't seen the video in an even longer while. Not since elementary school. The days when MTV still played music videos.
It’s scorching outside -- the natural consequence of same-sex couples exchanging wedding vows in Iowa, right, Conservatives?
I just hope that the eventual downpour of fire and sulfur doesn’t hit before Friday. Maybe the Almighty will grant Americans the mercy of seeing Wolverine before laying His wrath upon us.
:::sigh:::
I’m genuinely pleased at the progressive victory in the heartland, although my jubilation is undercut by the feeling that the Iowa State Supreme Court's landmark decision will be overturned via ballot proposition in 2010.
So congratulations to the happy couples. Enjoy it while you can.
Once upon a time, Norm Coleman, you were a pot-smoking, long-haired, antiwar hippie.
Hard to believe. You even celebrated your twentieth birthday in Woodstock. So I'm quite positive that you've seen Easy Rider. All self-respecting hippies did.
You'll recall that towards the end of that film, Peter Fonda comes to a morose realization:
"We blew it."
And Mr. Coleman, I hope you too arrive at that realization.
Al Franken may be the comedian, but you're the fucking joke. And the people of Minnesota have stopped laughing. You lost. Your Senate career has ended. So pack up your things. Go home. Write your book. Appear on Fox News every week alongside your buddies Tom DeLay and Rick Santorum to offer your worthless analyses.
Try to remember your old self and go smoke a blunt. You'll feel better.
Last week, at the urging of a good friend, I set up an appointment with The Shrink for the first time in more than a year. And you know what? I'm infinitely glad that I went. Prior visits to The Shrink weren't filled with much conversation. I only came to obtain a prescription for antidepressants, not to communicate the anxiety and unhappiness weighing on my mind.
When I went this past Monday, I opened up a little more. It was quite liberating, to be truthful. I'm going to make an honest effort to see him every month.
This most recent visit also brought a new pill into my system: Strattera, which is designed to combat ADHD. Since taking it, I feel significantly calmer. My thoughts aren't racing as much. I'm not as paranoid. My focus is sharper. (I realize my reliance on meds will earn the reprimands of you Scientologists, but until you get E.T. to come down here and touch my head with his glowing finger, I'm sticking with psychiatry and the meds.)
There are noticeable side effects, though. For one, I get about three hours of sleep at most per night. Strangely, I don't feel unrested upon waking. Another side effect is a near-complete diminution of the sex drive. Not that I've been getting on the road much, if you know what I mean, but still.
All in all, I'm feeling quite well. I'm not too depressed anymore except when reflecting on how I impulsively quit my job. The Boss -- technically, The Former Boss -- says I can reapply (and I did) but I'm not holding my breath on that. I've applied to other places (Blockbuster, Barnes & Noble, Best Buy) and hopefully one of them will respond soon.
I do need some time away from my house, although I no longer feel the pressing need to hightail it for the other coast. I still want to take a trip overseas by myself -- surprisingly, my dad has no problem with it -- but I need to plan it out. There's this site I found, which lists some overseas volunteer programs, either short-term or long-term. You have to register and accepted for a specific program first, of course, but I'm sure at least one will welcome me. It'll cost about $700 or so. Not too shabby. Lodging is provided.
http://www.volunteerabroad.com/search.cfm
But we'll see how things go.
Anyway, during my free time (hopefully I won't have too much of it in the weeks ahead) I've been catching up on movie watching. I highly, HIGHLY recommend Milk, Frost/Nixon (Langella's Nixon is even better than Hopkins's, IMHO), Vicky Christina Barcelona, and The Wrestler. Great stuff.
And on May 2, 2009 I hope to see a Filipino beat the fuck out of a Brit. You're going down, Hatton. Putang ina mo!
Which I think is the equivalent of saying "the cunt of your mother." At least that's what my dad tells me.
Okay, maybe I have a little something left to say.
Just know I'll always be around, people. Not physically, but in spirit.
Whenever a customer asks a stupid question, I'll be there. Whenever you hear an inappropriate remark, I'll be there. Whenever you hear a badly sung rendition of The Pogues or a poor excuse of an Irish or British accent, I'll be there.
And, of course, whenever there's free food, I'll be there.
Remember that Steinbeck is better than Hemingway (I'm kind of paying homage to GRAPES OF WRATH in this post, in case you haven't noticed). Remember that ALL THREE "Godfather" movies are awesome.
And whoever wins the Rewards contests over the next few months, just thank God I'm not there to kick your fucking ass.
I used to tell people that Barack H. Obama is not Jesus H. Christ. However, I then read this article saying that his candidacy helped bring The Dead back to life. Maybe I was wrong about the Prez, haha!
"His body of work is yet to come. That's why we're not recognizing him with a degree at the beginning of his presidency."
So Arizona State University won't give President Obama an honorary degree. I'm sure the President, who bears a degree from Harvard Law School, has been shedding many a tear over this slight.
Kal Penn, known best for his performance as the irrepressible pothead Kumar, is taking leave of acting to work for the Obama Administration. In what capacity, I'm unsure. Let's just hope that Penn's hiring is a signal that President Obama is amenable to easing this country's too-severe drug laws, haha.
I do love living in a country where even bilious texts like "Left Behind" and "Liberty and Tyranny" can be sold, although I regret living in a country where they're number one best-sellers.
My parents were born and raised in the Philippines.
I have yet to visit.
When my cousins Jason and Janine and I were children, we were resistant to the idea of going. A country full of people who spoke and acted like our parents? The Philippines might as well have been named Hell.
The fact that our uncle's head became a resort for lice and had to be shaved bald during one of his visits didn't exactly have us tugging at sleeves, chanting, "Take us there, take us there!" Land of our ancestors be damned.
Now that I'm in my mid-20s and with a greater understanding of and pride in some aspects of Filipino history -- although admittedly, I'm not a huge fan of the cuisine -- I'd more than curious to go. Thing is, I don't have the money, the time, and, most importantly, my fear of riding in planes has increased rapidly over the years. (The plane ride to the Philippines is consumes the greater part of 24 hours.)
My maternal grandmother's sisters visited the US in 2006. They exuberantly promised me that if I ever visit them, they'll kill several of their goats and roast them for me.
My father told me if we go together, he'll "select a bride" for me.
No thanks to both offers.
But I'd still like to visit. I'll just have to take lots and lots and lots of Thorazine in order to get there.
Anyway, I'm already brushing up on the slang. In case you're interested on how to say "son of a bitch" in Tagalog:
A few days ago, I sent a rather loquacious -- perhaps embarrassingly so -- e-mail to a writer who I esteem highly, earnestly expressing thanks for an article he wrote last year on the acting trade. As mentioned in a previous post, I've been considering auditioning for community theater productions sometime after the conclusion of my internship in June. Just for fun, you know? I'm a bit of a chickenshit, though. Easily discouraged. Yet his funny article supplies me with confidence every time I read it.
Anyway, I received a response to my e-mail: "Dear Vince St. Patrick bolloxed up a perfectly nice pagan country but the damage is done so no use complaining The acting trade is great fun if you can stand the constant rejection . When you get the job its all worth while . It doesn't matter whether you are small brown big white male female fat thin blonde asian black these days as all are part of the fabric of our society . Its still racist but less so and if you have a desire go for the acting life . Learn all you can about stagecraft as its the basis for all acting and the most important thing is listening to the other guy its not acting You also have a great way with the words so dont neglect that part of your life
Thanks for writing Vince Malachy"
Okay.
For an aspiring writer to hear from an accomplished writer whom he admires that "You also have a great way with the words" ...
Got to say, my spirits are higher than you can possibly fathom. I do hope that it was actually him who responded and not his webmaster, though.
And even if that's the case, I take some measure of comfort in knowing that someone thinks I'm a decent writer.
I don't care for Jon Corzine. I don't care for Christopher Christie.
So come the 2009 New Jersey gubernatorial election, I'm most likely going to vote for the Green Party or write in either Dollar Bill Bradley, Richard Codey, or The Toxic Avenger, that great Jersey hero of superhuman size and strength (Lord knows some of that is needed to fix up the shit plaguing The Garden State). It's an uphill battle for Corzine. But maybe the Democrats will be able to pull through.
And in the 2010 New York gubernatorial race, incumbent David Paterson will most likely be squaring off against New York City's former mayor Rudy Giuliani, who I hope will refrain from naming "9/11" as his running mate. It's an uphill battle for Paterson as well. Governor Giuliani. Hey -- it's infinitely better than President Giuliani.
My predictions are more often than not wrong, though.
I was among those working at The Store during the "Twilight" Movie Midnight Release Party.
And it really sucked. Oh, yes: pun intended.
It garnered far more customers than I'd anticipated, the greater portion of them being squealing, bitchy prepubescent girls who I'm guessing would offer only a blank stare if I were to ask them to name the author of "Dracula". I think the only person more aggravated than myself was Maria, who had the unenviable role of Master of Ceremonies for this vile event. By the end of the night, she looked like she was two degrees short of driving stakes through some hearts. Thankfully, she maintained her composure and won't soon be referred to as Prisoner 349000.
There were several activities in which the Twilight fans could participate. A scavenger hunt and quiz, which one girl got irritated at me for not helping her with. Look, even if I did know the answers to that lame quiz, I still wouldn't give them to your Cullen-loving ass. The winner of that activity upon receiving the prize (some picture from the film) scrunched up her face and replied: "That's it?" I wanted to make a snide reply to the disappointed zygote, but refrained from doing so.
There was also a debate, which I'm guessing contained such controversial questions such as "Edward Cullen: Hottie or a Nottie"?
Anyway, I'm too tired to get too in-depth. Will revise and add some more tomorrow.
"The time is now 10 PM and The Store is closed" is not slang for "The time is now 10 PM and The Store is still open."
Put down the "Better Homes" magazine and go to your actual home. Get the fuck out.
Apart from that, the shift wasn't terrible. I wasn't bothered too much while working on my assigned tasks.
I had neither green beer nor green pancakes to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, though. Unfortunately, there's this stupid rule about not getting drunk while at work. Chugging a Jameson while on the clock is a termination-worthy offense. You can't even do it during your break. You refrain from imbibing until after you've completed your shift. Next they're going to say that I can't take a ten to snort cocaine off the belly of a prostitute in the bathroom.
I think I'll pen a letter to Corporate asking them to rectify their draconian rules.
You know, I've been drinking a lot more since I started working there in January 2008. It's not a terrible place to work (unless you want, you know, a living wage) but there's this pervasive gloom which I think affects everybody there. That place is sapping our spirits. Maybe that's the impetus behind my increasingly frequent drifts toward alcohol. And speaking of drinking, I started reading that book "The Last Lion: The Fall and Rise of Ted Kennedy." I like it thus far.
Anyway, the Song of the Day is "Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth with Money in My Hand" by the Primitive Radio Gods. A song which reminds me of that one time when I was standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand.
MATT: You should go to Ireland. The land of your people! ME (sarcastically): Yeah. Uh-huh. MATT: Just follow the rainbow ...
You dick. Haha. :)
Today is St. Patrick's Day. In Illinois, the Chicago River is dyed green to commemorate the holiday. Hell, if it's green water you want, come down to Jersey. Our water's already green. And all year round.
To accompany the glass of green beer I more often than not partake on this day, I think I'll indulge in some green pancakes as well.
True story here:
Back in the second grade, my teacher had announced to the class that come St. Patrick's Day, we'd be having green pancakes in celebration. To say I was excited would be an understatement.
The next day, at storytime, my teacher was reading us a story about leprechauns or clovers or some shit related to the holiday. Bored out of my wits, I'd kept pulling on the Velcro strap of my sneaker. My teacher stopped reading, flashed a glare at me and asked: "Vincent, is that you?" I didn't reply. She repeated the question and I nodded by head. Then she said those heartbreaking words:
"You're not having any green pancakes."
"YOU PUFFY CUNT!" I yelled.
Okay, I didn't actually call her that. I didn't even know what "cunt" meant at the age of seven.
Later while sitting at my desk, watching my classmates acquaint themselves with their delicious-looking green meal, seeing them lick syrup off their spoons and exclaim to each other "These pancakes taste so GOOD! Mmm-mmm-MMM!", I struggled my hardest to not surrender to tears. I even pretended like I was enjoying myself too. "These imaginary pancakes taste so GOOD! Mmm-mmm-MMM! The way the air just melts in your mouth!" When my teacher offered seconds to students, I walked up to her with my empty plate in the hope that she'd had a change of heart. Alas, she did not. Fucking poor excuse of a Catholic school teacher! Jesus would've given me a pancake, damn you! She sent me back to my desk, every one of my classmates staring at me and my plate full of humiliation.
So no green pancakes for me. I did not eat them, Sam I Am. I just sat there, stewing in anger, wishing Freddy Kreuger would come in and slice my teacher's face. Why, yes, I'd love some red pancakes!
Anyway, that plate of St. Patrick's Day pancakes is overdue. There's some green steak in my fridge, though I don't think that its color has anything to do with commemoration of the holiday.
"Learn How to Swim" has been among my New Year's Resolutions for about ten years now. I swear, though, that by the conclusion of 2009 I'll have at long last achieved that goal. I'll be a swimming machine. Whip myself back into shape. There'll be screams when I take off my shirt -- and not the "Bride of Frankenstein" kind this time.
I'll be the next Michael Phelps, yo.
Except that when I smoke weed, don't expect any fucking apology.
Time to find the nearest YMCA. Song of the Day is Loudon Wainwright III's "The Swimming Song":
Well -- I returned home at 2 AM or so the following morning, sticky with sweat, lightheaded, legs sore, physically depleted to the point of nearly dozing off in the bathtub.
And with a huge grin on my soul.
To my friends: that was the best time I've had in far too long. Many drinks. Many laughs. Many more ahead, I hope. It's beyond the grasp of my poetic powers to delineate just how awesome a night I considered it to be. So thanks a million, guys.
Hours prior to my first and fingerscrossedfingerscrossed not my last Pogues concert (I wish to Christ, I wish to Christ that I see fifteen more), we walked around The City and visited the Hard Rock Cafe and Planet Hollywood. At Planet Hollywood, I had a picture taken of me standing by a frame containing the vest worn by Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I remember someone describing himself as a Cameron who was trying his hardest to be a Ferris.
Same here, man. Same here.
At the Roseland Ballroom, I rocked out like I've never rocked out before. My voice was hoarse only four songs into the set. The irrepressible and, of course, intoxicated Shane MacGowan -- whose mind has produced some beautiful lyrics capturing the pain, anger, and glory of the Irish experience -- was I guess in as top form as he can be nowadays. The outpouring of adoration for that brilliant boozer as he first stepped onto the stage was tremendous. And may he continue to vex Dead Pool players for years and years and years to come.
Here's a video from that night. Not my video. Found it on YouTube. I've been watching it over and over again, reliving the experience:
I didn't snap a photo from the front as I'd hoped, but I managed to snap some decent pictures. At least I hope they're decent. Have to see how they develop.
I felt a bit winded at one point of the show, but I didn't collapse. Nor did I get crushed amidst the exuberant mass of humanity. I didn't get Mufasa-ed. Nobody had to scrape Vince off their Nikes. I suffered no injury, although I did lose my newly-bought, Obama-themed winter cap.
I was surprised to see that I wasn't the only dark person at the concert; the other one seemed to have as wonderful a time as I did.
Once again, thanks to my friends. And, of course, thanks to The Pogues.
So yeah: fare thee well, Discman. There's nothing left to say.
The Pod slimmed my bank account by $217 or so. Got a black-colored classic, which can brook up to 30,000 songs. 30,000! Not bad at all.
AND TONIGHT IS THE CONCERT! I hope all goes well. On that note, the Song of the Day is the very first Pogues song I ever had the pleasure of hearing: "If I Should Fall From Grace with God."
The song is also quite fitting what with this being the Lenten season.
You know, the way the evangelical right talks about them, you'd swear that God and Jesus were neoconservatives. Which I doubt, although these evangelicals have them on speed-dial so maybe they're telling the truth. If that's the case, then I fell from grace a looong time ago. And considering the amount of respect neoconservatives have for habeas corpus, I probably won't even be given a chance to plead my case before St. Peter once I've shuffled off my mortal, pimpled coil. I'll immediately be punted into the pit of fire.
But whatever. I'll be in good company. Maybe I'll get to converse with Paine, Mencken, Twain, Sinclair Lewis, among others. As far as I'm concerned, anybody who hasn't engaged in heresy isn't worth a damn.
... I'll be at the Roseland Ballroom. Concert starts at 8:00 PM. I hope to have a kick-ass time.
Matt says that maybe, just maybe, some girl will try to hook up with me there. Riiight. A soused Irish lass with a penchant for Jameson and short, geeky Asian guys.
I'm most likely not going to consume much alcohol. I won't be, to paraphrase a line from a Pogues song, a drunken fuck on a Friday night. I'll probably end up having just one beer. And should I have that beer, it'll be before the concert because I'm not paying nine dollars for one at the Ballroom.
One beer at the concert would cost me more than I make per hour at my current occupation, sad as that is.
I was informed that in a less economically strapped year, I would've been granted a small raise. Gee, without that extra six or so cents an hour, I won't be able to make a down payment on the Bugatti Veyron, the most expensive car in the world. Guess I'm going to have to settle for the Pagani Zonda C12 F, number two on the list. How humiliating.
Woe is Vince.
Harsh economic times we're living in. I do hope that I won't ever be standing in the subway singing "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" to passersby.
And the Song of the Day is "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?", the Tom Waits version:
Iraqi Journalist Muntader al-Zaidi garnered fame for throwing both of his shoes at President Bush during a press conference in Iraq. Today he was sentenced to three years in prison for the incident. Poor guy.
Hopefully, he won't complete the sentence. Much like Bush.
Get it? Ho, ho, ho. Horribly corny joke aside, here's that classic moment:
Also: uber-swindler Bernie Madoff plead guilty to his crimes and faces up to ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS in prison. Wow. He may have entered the courtroom wearing an expensive Rolex, but he departed with a different, far less fashionable kind of "bling" on his wrists.
Greedy douchebag.
Gotta say: Madoff kind of brings out the Robespierre in me.
At McDonald's for a limited time, Filet-O-Fishes are two for three dollars. And I sure as Hell have been taking advantage.
I love Filet-O-Fishes. Absolutely love them.
Yes, yes -- I'm aware that it's not healthy. And perhaps I'm consuming the remains of somebody from those "Have You Seen Me?" segments in the news. Perhaps.
But man ...
Stuffing your belly full of Filet-O-Fish sandwiches drenched with ketchup and tartar sauce? It makes life worth living, though every bite probably abridges it by three days.
I informed The Boss that I'll most likely be expending my allocated two weeks of vacation time in June, following the conclusion of my internship. I'm thinking of taking a trip to Los Angeles. Maybe I'll try to audition for a movie, haha. I may not be the next Ian McKellen, but maybe I can be the next McLovin'.
Or maybe I'll go to Vegas, where prostitution is legal. Not that I'd take advantage of this. I'm just stating that prostitution is legal there. Yes, you can actually pay for sex and not be penalized under the law. Just saying. So have your fun, Congressman!
(Somehow I doubt she's offering her thoughts on the Peace of Westphalia with a carful of historians. More like offering a Piece of of Wendy. Ho, ho. Pun intended.)
Or maybe I'll just go to Mississippi instead and have people can gaze at me in wonder for having brown skin and, you know, shoes.
I'm still unsure of whether I'll be trekking via car, train, or plane. But I do know that I need a break from this house; I need a break from Jersey. Like Stella, I need to get my groove back.
I look forward to it.
And I'm very much looking forward to this weekend.
SATURDAY NIGHT: same as above, hopefully. Considering I don't perish in the Roseland Ballroom.
As horribly schmaltzy as this sounds, I've got to say: I may be accident-prone, but I'm not such an unlucky person. Some actually think well of Vince -- who'd have thought?
Cheers, mofos. The Song of the Day is also the Greatest TV Theme Song Ever:
There is an installment in the famed "Chicken Soup" series entitled "Chicken Soup for the Wine Lover's Soul", which is a nice gift to give wine-loving friends if you're too damn cheap to buy them actual wine. The only thing better than drinking wine is reading about it, right?
If you're a former or current teacher, you'll be able to purchase that book at a discounted rate sometime next week. Yep, it'll be "We Love Teachers Week" at The Store and all its Sister Stores throughout the country. Almost every item, including movies and CDs, will be discounted.
So partake, middle-school educators! Get yourself something nice. And don't forget to also get something extra nice for that student in your class who you've been screwing during recess. (We have the latest Naruto!)
Yeah, another teacher/student sex scandal is in the news. This one occurred in Utah.
It's like an epidemic.
I'm thankful that none of my middle-school teachers ever came up to me and said something crazy like, "Vince -- I want you to clap the erasers, wash the blackboards, and lick my pussy clean."
Ugh -- it's repulsive to even think about. Washing the blackboard? Now that's just fucking wrong.
This Friday and Saturday evening, The Pogues shall be performing their glorious fusion of traditional Irish folk and punk rock at the Roseland Ballroom in New York City. I shall be among those present at the Friday gig. You'll be able to identify me quite easily: the brown guy.
Anyway, there's a fairly good chance that I won't make it out of the Ballroom with functioning legs or even a heartbeat. However, I've vowed to myself that if I have to climb, if I have to crawl, I'll make it to the front of the stage, or close to it, and snap a photo of Shane MacGowan and the boys.
I told this plan to Matt, who replied, "It's your funeral."
Well, you can fucking bury me at sea where no murdered ghost can haunt me.
Haha.
Actually, no. But on the chance that I do die, here are some of my real wishes:
- My small collection of DVDs and books will be divided among my cousins and friends. They can work out who keeps what.
- No flowers.
- Play Green Day's "Minority" and "Time of Your Life", The Pogues's "If I Should Fall From Grace with God", and John Williams's score to "Jurassic Park" and "Superman" sometime during my wake.
... "What a Rush" Limbaugh's CPAC speech on YouTube.
Blowing smoke out of his mouth as Michael Steele blows smoke up his ass.
Jeez.
I should attend a wacky neocon gathering just to see what it's like. I imagine very disturbing. Will there be cocktail hours? "What do you drink, sir? Type A or Type AB?"
I'm guessing that at the end of the night, these Bible-thumping, Boeing-humping folks all gather in one room and circle-jerk to clips of Shock and Awe. Either that or their hero President Reagan, who presumably survived Hinckley's gunshot because it wasn't laced in Kryptonite.
Anyway, I didn't -- or rather couldn't -- watch Limbaugh's speech in its entirety. He threw a lot of red meat to the wingnuts, and no doubt had a lot of red meat himself later in the night. He mentioned how "Ronald Reagan used to speak of a shining city on a hill" and how our current president "portrays America as a soup kitchen in some dark night in a corner of America that's very obscure."
Um, I'm sorry, Rush, but are you high? Um, scratch that.
Obama's oratory about America is so inflated with love that it's borderline nauseating. His rhetoric makes diabetics slip into comas. When waitresses ask customers how they want their coffee, they reply, "Oh, two creams and a couple sentences from Obama's speeches." I don't even think Obama talks about Michelle Obama as nicely as he talks about the good ol' US of A. If there's one thing I can say about this guy, it's that he's optimistic. When he talks about hope and how we're the ones we've been waiting for, I'm convinced that he actually believes that bullshit!
Limbaugh also claimed that Obama "wants people in fear, angst and crisis, fearing the worst each and every day." What, did he raise the Terror Level Alert to Orange when his approval ratings dropped or something? Didn't Bush essentially say while campaigning for endangered congressional Republicans in 2006 that the terrorists would win as a result of a Democratic takeover? The bellicose Limbaugh said that, "President Obama is so busy trying to foment and create anger in a created atmosphere of crisis" and that "he is so busy fueling the emotions of class envy that he’s forgotten it’s not his money that he’s spending."
By the way, Rush -- this "created atmosphere of crisis"? Yeah, it was your boy W's administration along with the oh so fiscally responsible Republican-held Congress which, for the most part, created this atmosphere. Borrowing money to pay for tax cuts for millionaires and to fund two wars in the Middle East? Didn't exactly have the results you expected, eh? This coming from guys who called on everybody to sacrifice, but wouldn't even raise taxes to at least pay for soldiers' benefits. Am I wrong on that? If so, let me know and I'll retract it.
And better Obama fuel emotions like, say, homophobia. I know gay marriage is supposed to have apocalyptic consequences, Mr. Limbaugh, but I just don't believe that guys tying the knot in Massachusetts bears any responsibility for the crappy state of our economy and the results from our foreign policy. And by the way, with all this talk about the sanctity of marriage: which one of your three marriages had the most sanctity?
Limbaugh adds that "liberalism is not just a psychosis or a psychology, not an ideology. It's so much about feelings, and the predominant feeling that liberalism is about is about feeling good about themselves and they do that by telling themselves they have all this compassion."
Are you kidding me?
Liberalism is so much about feelings?
This from the party which brings up amendments on flag burning around election season? Yeah, that's not a issue about feelings. We all know the horrors of flag burning and how many lives it has destroyed. I asked an American flag what it thought about members of its community being burned. But it didn't comment because, well, it's a fucking flag.
Anyway, my opinion on Limbaugh can best be summed up in a quote from Jeff Goldblum's character in JURASSIC PARK: "That is one big pile of shit."
Speaking of JURASSIC PARK, it has The Greatest Film Score Ever. In my humble opinion.
In college, I enrolled in a drama course titled "From Page to Stage." The students were divided into four or so groups, and every week each group was given their own play to read, abridge to ten minutes, and perform in front of the class. And our friendly but frighteningly exuberant professor applied stipulations. For example, one week we had to convey our stories without speaking. And one week, we had to perform our stories naked. Okay, I'm kidding about the last one.
Anyway, it was a fun experience, and a few weeks after the course ended I bumped into the professor in an elevator. He said I was quite humorous and exhorted me to either take more theatre courses or audition for school productions. "Maybe," I replied, all the while thinking, "Aw, fuck that shit."
However, I'm now reconsidering. I've actually been looking at auditions for community theatre productions. I mean, it could be fun. And I'm feeling spiritually unfulfilled. Perhaps this'll be a step in the right direction. Or it could end up being the most humiliating experience of my life. Still -- I should take the risk. I'm a very shy, nervous person. But I'm trying my hardest to heed the words of Franklin Roosevelt: "... the only thing we have to fear is fear itself." And actors, even crappy ones, get laid all the time. Which will be a welcome change of direction. Maybe in a few months I'll be quoting the words of another president I like: "It tastes good."
I'm also thinking of writing a screenplay about a character based on me. And I already know the actor best equipped to play Vince:
There's some resemblance between us, right? Haha.
And The Song of the Day is "Hook" by Blues Traveler:
Addressing a joint session of Congress, visiting Prime Minister Gordon Brown, whose popularity back in Britain is only slightly above head lice, paid tribute to the achievements of Senator Ted Kennedy (D-MA) and announced that Queen Elizabeth II "has awarded an honorary knighthood" to the lone survivor of Joseph P. Kennedy's boys. Since he's not a British national, he can't bear the title "Sir", but he will be referred to as Ted Kennedy, K.B.E. (Knight of the British Empire).
Oh, turn it down, Teddy! You're a republican! An anti-imperialist! Your knees touch the ground in deference to no monarch, although your knees have probably touched many a bathroom floor due to Crown Royal Whiskey.
Say "Thanks, but no thanks" and add a "Oliver Cromwell can kiss my big Irish ass" for the fun of it.
Oh, well.
Anyway, some suggest that Prime Minister Brown is hoping that President Obama's immense popularity will boost his own standing. I highly doubt it. You're done, Mr. Prime Minister. Contrary to what Keith Olbermann and Chris Matthews will tell you, Obama's not Jesus and he can't bring things back from the dead.
Prime Minister Brown's oppositions are David Cameron of the Conservative Party and Nick Clegg of the Liberal Democrats.
Here's Cameron:
Here's Clegg:
And here's Brown:
Basically, it's a race between GQ, Men's Style, and Fangoria.
On February 19, I decided that considering my inherent holiness, I should just become a reverend. And so I joined the non-denominational Universal Life Church online.
Reverend Vince -- and, yes, I do have credentials, available for viewing upon request.
So:
If you're a female citizen of Malaysia and are seeking to stay in our country by marrying a horny, desperate American, I'll more than gladly officiate your nuptials. I charge only ten dollars plus gas money.
If you're a dopey sixteen-year-old who didn't heed the warnings of fornication sans prophylactics in health class, and whose parents are now compelling to get hitched in order to staunch the tears of unhappiness cascading from Christ's eyes: just send me a line. I'll also baptize your forthcoming bundle of joy.
I also have the power to absolve sins, apparently. I think I can perform exorcisms too a la Bobby Jindal. In case you didn't know, Jindal participated in an exorcism of his college girlfriend. Well, hey -- telling your uptight Christian girlfriend that you need to expel a demon from her body with prayer and a laying of the hands is a crafty way of copping a feel. So bravo, Bobby!
It also appears from his rebuttal last Tuesday that Jindal succeeded in exorcising his charm.
PS -- I forgot to impart in a previous post an equally voluminous thanks to Malachy for driving my drunken ass home from The Office on the night of January 1, 2009. Not only that, but he was ever so kind enough to drive me back to my car the following afternoon.
Sorry for any embarrassment caused, haha. Thanks again, my good friend. And the ship hasn't sailed yet.
As my aunt said to me a few months ago: "Vince, you're really ugly." Geez. Merry Christmas to you too, haha. Maybe after I'm finished with this entry, I'll don plaster wings and horns and affix myself to the perch of a cathedral.
I snapped this photo while on break at The Store. I was feeling far more agitation than my expression indicates. Head was throbbing and stomach was unsatisfied with a dinner of Kraft Easy Italia Marinara pasta (I'm guessing the flavor is sold separately). Ah, well -- that's what I get for practicing thriftiness. It only cost me a dollar, so at least I didn't feel too cheated. On the plus side, my book orders arrived: The Iron Heel by Jack London and Candy by Terry Southern.
Anyway, I'm back home now. I'm weary, but at least the headache has vanished like ... well, certainly not like my pimples, haha.
And I'm eating Celeste. The pizza brand, not an actual Celeste.
The Song of the Day is "I Wish" by Skee-Lo, hahahaha:
Two weeks ago, the Clintons' cat Socks was put to sleep. Fare thee well, Socks. I wonder if Bill's now on the lookout for new pussy. Ho, ho, ho.
I'm not a big cat person.
When I eventually get my own place (in the far, far future), I'll get a dog. No, not for dinner, you racist bastards. For a pet. I want a brown daschund, which I plan to name either Paine (after Thomas Paine) or Nero (after Nero).
So it was Chris Matthews who the mic caught muttering "Oh, God" when the cameras went to Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal, selected by the Republicans to articulate their reservations with Obama's address before Congress last night. Haha. I'm sure Matthews said, "Oh, God" during Obama's screen time as well. Though with far more squeals and panting.
Anyway, Jindal, a potential contender for the presidency in 2012, was awkward and dull, drier than the ash smudged on his forehead this morning.
Yes, today marks the commencement of Lent 2009. And as usual, I've given up Lent for Lent. But I'll try to show Christ-like kindness and patience when dealing with people. Even the motherfucking assholes.
President Obama is scheduled to address a joint session of Congress at 9 PM tonight. He will be speaking about the economy -- which is so battered you'd think it was dating Chris Brown -- and his plan to salve its sores.
I shall be watching it, of course.
Song of the Day is Matthew Sweet's SICK OF MYSELF:
I didn't get to lay a finger upon even one of the sixty or so boxes piled in the backroom. Nor did I get to touch the two Pull Lists assigned to me. My shift was spent either at the register, the customer service desk or cleaning up after The Swine.
This one douchebag took six mass-market W.E.B. Griffin books over to a chair and left them on the floor for us to pick up after. And I'll bet my life that he didn't even get through a quarter of any of those six stories.
A lady left a pile of wedding magazines on the floor. I hope that on her wedding day, she walks into the bathroom to find the groom pumping away into the maid of honor's rectum.
There was this one middle-aged woman who I was helping at the register. Unappealing, standing at about 4'2", a wart on her face, the woman was irritated because she couldn't locate her deck of numerous membership and savings cards within her purse. She was like a demented, pissy imp. She was purchasing some novel about wizards and strange, enchanted creatures. Brushing up on her home country's history, I suppose.
And in less than an hour, I'm back to work.
Hopefully, I'll get something done today.
Song of the Day is BLISTER IN THE SUN by the Violent Femmes:
Sometime ago at Blockbuster I saw a DVD titled ASWANG. Underneath the title was a definition of the word: "a Filipino vampire, feeds on the unborn."
So that's what Dad was saying I was during our arguments! And I always thought the word meant "asshole".
I'm going to learn how to speak Tagalog. Or as people from Mississippi probably call it: "Chinese." Maybe I'll pick up a few instructional books at The Store today. I punch in at 5 PM.
First I'll stop by McDonald's. Get me some Filet-O-Fish, fries, and maybe some unborn.
I'm sarcastic and sentimental. And I'm feeling all right. :)
THINGS PEOPLE HAVE SAID AND WRITTEN TO AND ABOUT VINCE
"Since you're being a little shit, I'm going to be a shit too."
"YOU KNOW WHAT? You can call up the rest of these orders yourself! And if you have anything smart to say, I'M SENDING YOU HOME!"
"The fuck's wrong with you?"
"i agree with bill [that Vince is not a dickhead], unless by 'dickhead' you mean 'head that looks like a dick.'"
"You're a devil."
"... that little black kid ..."
" 'Vince for the love of God, just send me messages about anything else other than work. Your a good guy, but please leave work at work. Your Boss'. "
(A good way of killing boredom is doing surveys on social networking sites. Several weeks back a friend said that if you volunteered your name, she would:
1. respond with something random about you. 2. tell you which song or movie you remind me of. 3. say something that only makes sense to you and me. 4. tell you my first memory of you. 5. tell you what animal you remind me of. or thing. 6. ask you something I've always wondered about you. 7. tell you my favorite thing about you. 8. tell you my least favorite thing about you."
So I volunteered to hear the truth about myself. And her answers are below)
"1 -- you're one of the few people i can joke with about not knowing anything and i WON'T get offended. 2 -- song: The Pogues. anything by them lmao and movie: anything with Heath Ledger because you insist on making fun of me for being in love with a dead person. 3 -- morlocks and circus folk =D LMAO 4 -- when you first started working at The Store and you said you knew everything about movies ever, and i was like "oh great, who's this asshole that i have to hate now?" but that has totally changed cuz you're the best, cousin. 5 -- GIZMO =] hahaha that's matt's fault, tho. 6 -- wat do you do when you're not at The Store you kno just about everything about me, yet i have no clue wat you do for fun. 7 -- if i'm having a bad day or i'm in a bad mood, you do your best to cheer me up, and it works just about every time =] 8 -- you don't realize just how fucking cool you are."
