Excuse me

Hola amigos! I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I have been experiencing extreme fucking laziness right now. But on the plus side:



THIS is frigging genius. My birthday is in August. Thanks.

and speaking of GIFTS... these stunners were spotted on Kingsland Road. Eggs anyone?



Are they bleary cause I was drunk when I took the photo, or are they bleary because the person cooking them was drunk. Philosophy. Too fucking rich for MY blood.

Anyway, I'll be back soon, people. I promise...and there will be blood.
Yo ho ho!

Ps I love you

Happy 50th Elnie!!!! (well, tomorrow that is).



I hope whoever it is you were talking to on that phone wishes you a happy beerthday as well. OMG, was it Quentin Tarantino?



Are the two of you totally a couple now? And you'll meet at Johnny's Diner for chicken and waffles, and drink champers in his TOTALLY fly ride and then go to a party in the Hills and smoke cigars and then stop by some place on sunset where a man with really intricate facial hair gives you both matching hep necklaces to wear because 'you're both beautiful' and then you go this this fucking sweet JAZZ place, where everyone wears sunglasses and loves JAZZ, but QT has to make some calls at home, so you'll go home and have to burn, like, these HUGE sage smudge sticks, like to rid the apartment of some totally bad vibes from the last people who lived there,because one of the was this old lady whose cats just PISSED EVERYWHERE and then this guy lived there whose dad wrote a few episodes of The Brady Bunch, but then he was all bummed cause he thought they were really artistically compromised so then he offed himself by taking a load of pills and drinking, like, this whole bottle of Malibu and you haven't been able to drink it since because just smelling it TOTALLY reminds you of that guys and it reallllly spooks you out, right?

Omigod TOTALLY.

Hope you have a good bday and tell Quentin to lose some weight. Bitch is like a fucking WHALE.

I tried

I tried damned hard to find a photo of that Shark Attack sweatshirt I mentioned. It nearly killed me and THIS is the closest I could come:



Sorry, folks. Doesn't quite cut the mustard, does it? Well exccuuuuuse the fuck out of me! I have more important shit to be doing than searching for The World's Ugliest Sweatshirt... actually, I know a photo does exists. It is safe and sound at home in Vermont and will never be seen by anyone, because as it happens I am in it wearing an outfit that looks like it belonged to Andre the Giant in The Princess Bride. No, I have never been a snappy dresser. It is not in my GENES. Get it? OH, SNAP! So fucking SUE me, people. My mind is CLEARLY on higher things.

Seriously though, what are these aforementioned 'more important things' that I have to do? Why, what else but search for photos of tender moments between Ralph Macchio (what if he pronounced his first name 'Rafe', like Ralph Fiennes. It would be kind of awesome) and Pat Morita:





That's fucking beautiful, man. And, searching for little-known facts about these two, I see on imdb that 'during Pat Morita's funeral procession, his former co-star of The Karate Kid (1984), Ralph quoted, "Forever, my Sensei" towards the mourners.'

Ummm, I don't quite know what to do with this information. Part of me is biting my fist, in a vain attempt to stifle the UNCONTROLLABLE TEARS that are SO CLOSE to tumbling out of my fucking eyes, while the other, probably more 'me' part is trying to think how I can find some unseemly, twisted sexual side to this quote and perhaps turn it into a power ballad which will later be recorded by Meatloaf.

But I DID think that 'Forever, My Sensei' must be some song or epic poem... and it's NOT. Am I going to have to fucking bust this shit out myself? Whatever it has to happen.

Forever, My Sensei
by Me

Wax on,
wax off.
I fell, you caught me
twisting in the wind
like the gnarled roots
of your ancient
bonsai
tree

Wax on
wax
off.
Alone in the sea
California, here we come
leave New Jersey behind
New beginnings, new house
shitty old pool
but a new,
mysterious
neighbor.

I sand
I paint
you stand
you wait.
Always knowing what is next
wax on, wax off
Forever, my sensei.


Okay, that's it. I know, I know, it's shit, but guess what:
I DON'T GIVE A RAT'S ASS.

I'm gonna go make spanikopita, you fools don't DESERVE this much flavor.

Dire Straits

Noo, silly! Not the steady rocking, noodling guitar solo band… good for nothing bastards! If memory serves, my first boyfriend in high school made me a ‘mix tape’ consisting of nothing BUT Dire Straits. What kind of a mix is that, fool? I should have known. He also made me a Valentine's Day card with a quote from a Beatles song (alas NOT from ‘Mean Mr. Mustard'), written in lipstick. How can it be that we are not still together? Let me tell you why: he had this sweatshirt- god, the vomit is rising in my throat just thinking about it- that said, in blood red letters across the front ‘SHARK ATTACK’ with a big picture of a great white, baring its formidable jaws and then, and here’s the kicker, three shredded holes, as if the shark on the front of the sweatshirt has TORN IT WITH HIS TEETH… and a spattering of 'blood' all around. And he used to wear it with (gulp) no shirt underneath.

Good god. Am I that shallow that I would break up with someone who wrote me poems (he did, one of them was about bread) and send me valentine’s day cards JUST because he wore the ugliest fucking sweatshirt in the world? Yes. Yes I am. And I have no regrets.

Sooo, where was I? Dire straits. I say that because last night I dreamt of Mario Batali.

‘WHO?’ the innocent among you say…



LOOK at him. Do you understand my WRATH?




Mario ‘Red Headed Italian Chef who wears orange Crocs in the dead of winter and calls himself Molto Mario’ Batali has cursed the shores of my homeland with his corpulent frame for too long, and now he has the gall to enter my dreams? Well, in retaliation I have started a ‘Mario Batali’s So Fat…’ Club.

This consists of me writing humorous lines about Batali’s morbidly obese personage, interspersed with ‘comments’ from an appreciative greek chorus. Let me demonstrate:

Mario Batali is so fat he flosses his teeth with links of sausage

(Hoooohhhhhh, SNAP!)

Mario Batali is so fat, the wheels on his car are made of cheese

(Sssss. No she didn’t!)

Mario Batali is so fat, they kicked him off the football team cause he ate the pigskin

(WHOA!)

So you see, this is how I get my revenge. Sweet, n’est-ce pas?
But it will never be enough. I can never rest.

Has it come to this?

Am I really resorting to images of kooky monkeys? Am I really that close to scraping the bottom of the barrel?



Clearly I am. It's just the fact that the two are just holding onto each other for dear life. It touches my black, black heart in a way not man other things do... like this frankly very frightening image of a *POSSIBLY* transsexual Ray Liotta impersonator, cuddling up to his/her next victim.



It's like Night of the fucking Hunter here, people. Just imagine old sweet hymns being sung in the deep, booming voice of the man who killed your momma... riding a weary nag, searching the river for you and your idiot sister, as you drift slowly downstream, dreaming of sweet escape...

too much?

Did I go a bit bonkers there?

Thought so. Sorry. Got those Sunday Blues again. I feel like I am coming slowly unhinged, like a hideously be-wigged Joe Pesci in JFK.

That said, it does not take much for Pesci to go off the deep end. Hmm, he gets angry easily, curses like a sailor and seems to be impossible to kill... okay, so the fact that Joe Pesci and I are THE SAME PERSON has somehow managed to escape me for YEARS! Holy shit, people. This changes everything. Instead of docilely going about my daily routine, mild-mannered and subdued, I just need to crack some fucking skullz, y'all! THAT and I need a steady supply of toothpicks with which to punctuate my curse-peppered soliloquies. DONE.

And I need to seriously rethink my stance on leather coats (hate them). Pesci basically lives in them. Friends, I shall don this second skin and live the rest of my days in the spirit of poorly-bottled rage and ready-to-fucking-explode-hernia-inducing menace. It might change the way some of you, um, FEEL about hanging out with me. But those of you who know what's fucking good for you won't say a fucking word.

After all, if you and your ugly-as-sin friend are ever in the deep south visiting colleges and happen to be falsely accused of the murder of a gas station owner, I might just come and bail your asses out, defend you in court using HIGHLY irregular techniques, all the while creating the most hilariously over the top fish-out-of-water brouhaha that small Alabama town has ever seen. Stick with me, kids.

Did you know...

That I am a secret fucking GENIUS? Proof? here goes:

Okay guys. I'm gonna really lay it on you this time. No more fucking around. I have come up with possibly *the* best idea for a film ever.

'GRAMBO'
John Rambo's grandfather. He's the original badass. These days he doesn't move too quick, shuffles a bit in orthopedic shoes. Picture him! Red wooly cardigan, dentures, Werther's Originals, someone to gum his food for him, and a fucking headband, just like his li'l grandson Johnny.



I see him as played by Dick van Dyke, don't you? Or an artfully made up Benicio Del Toro... are you feelin' me?

Welp, now that flash of brilliance is over with... I had a really disturbing run-in with a squirrel today as I was having my usual Duck watch at lunch in the park. I was feeding the ducks my sandwich crusts (Do note, I am NOT advocating the non-eating of crusts. This is a habit for weak people and children. I love crusts, but ducks have to eat too, peeps) and a squirrel got allll up in my grill and would not leave me alone...

So I ran. Yes, I ran from a squirrel. Bitch chased me. He had the devil eyes. He was not stopping. It was the 'Duel' of small rodent vs. human interaction. So I pulled some fucking REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY on his ass. Yep, I wised up and chased him, that tubby motherfucker. And shit worked. He turned tail and ran away like the little pantywaist he was. Luckily nobody witnessed this little face off, but basically when it comes to coolness I am the equivalent of the kid who wears shorts in the dead of winter, and at school dances just spends the entire time running at full speed around the gym while 'We Didn't Start the Fire' plays, and then hopping up and down in the corner during 'Stairway to Heaven'. Sixteen and never been kissed. Sad stuff. But at least I won that fucking showdown.

It's like when you see a guy earnestly reading the ads for prostitutes posted in the phone boxes and you lock eyes and he looks away, clammy and ashamed, hands deep in pockets in the grossest way possible. When I'm REALLY feeling on, I put on my wooden leg limp, cross my eyes and put on my 'retarded Italian butcher' voice and kind of sing sad lullabyes as I stand and stare at them.... the creepy shit is when they're into it.

That said, easiest £20 I ever made!

Boom boom!

Day off tomorrow, lovelies. I hope to spend it drunk and composing dirty limericks...




Layyyydah foolz!

Le Weekend

What did I do this weekend?

Oh, ya know: went to my local street market; went for a run; ate lots of butternut squash; followed an old treasure map to a sepulchral galleon, all the while followed by a rag-tag bunch of criminals led by a VERY scary matriarchal figure, stopping along the way to make out in underground caves, play the bones (dirty), FINALLY get the chance to see if my slick shoes worked (score, they totally did), and finally wound up on some soggy beach, half crippled by asthma but proud to have saved my dad's livelihood from money-grubbing golfing enthusiasts using jewels coughed out of the ample mouth of Corey Feldman.

What? Ohhhh, right. That wasn't me, that was The Goonies. Cheeez, I keep getting that shit mixed up. Perhaps tis because I identify so strongly with each of the Goonies. Well, maybe not so much with Sean Astin, but certainly with a certain CHUNK. You cannot STOP this. You cannot stop me from doing the Truffle Shuffle. I love it. I wind up shaking and spitting quite a lot, and it is quite a sight to behold, but I fucking sympathize with that kid. That part where he gets trapped in a freezer, albeit with a shit-load of ice cream- scares the ass off of me... and the bit with the blender? DEADLY.

And Mouth. Yes, people I identify with a character played by a Corey... I too have an oral fixation and so that bit when he just stuffs a whole bunch of jewellery in his mouth: totally would happen to me. I am eating my fucking telephone right now. Cannot stop.

Wow, so this is it, eh? A whoooollllle post and no 'kooky' image? Disappointed? Want one? Wanna little bit, eh?

Well then THIS (as the stuttering German kid in 'Dead Again' might say) 'is f-f-f-for y-y--YOU!'




But wait, while I am on the subject: how fucking shit a film is 'Dead Again'? I even liked it the first time I saw it (okay, I LOVED it)... when I was BRAIN DEAD, and then Holly and I rented it in Brooklyn in 2005 and it nearly killed us. I was so embarrassed for everyone involved. Especially effing BRANAGH and his AWFUL, cringe-inducing American accent... and while I'm at it: I hate it when British people do American accents. Sweeping generalization, yes. Why? Because they ALWAYS say one of three things:

1) 'OH MY GAWD!'
2) 'Hey, y'all!'
3) 'alll riiiight'

The wild card is 'awesome', which slips in sometimes.

Or some shit like that. That is what drew me to Daniel. He did not say any of these things. He said 'Hot dogs!' (Well, methinks he said 'Oh my GAWD' first, but let's let it slide).

THAT SAID, I give a pass to Russell 'Stringer' Bell... because I love him. Yes, he is a British man doing an American accent and a bad, bad man and a cold-blooded killer. I like that.


And you know who does NOT get out of jail free on this one: you, Hugh laurie. Because your 'House' shit freaks me out. Your cray-cray monotone is what I hear in my nightmares.

People

People do not take me seriously.

I am going to tame a crow and make it sit on my shoulder, like that old guy from The Shawshank Redemption.



Then when I get sprung from the joint I will hang myself in my lonely, empty rented room in small-town Maine. They'll be sorry... they'll ALL be sorry. God, I fucking love it when a plan comes together. Don't you?

bwaaahahaha!!! Dark thoughts, eh? That's what happens when I spend my lunch hour in the park watching what basically amounts to duck gang rape.

Fair enough

Heyyyyy-oooohhhh!

What up? I know, I've been pretty lacka-fucking-daisical lately, but I have been having a shitty time at work lately, mes amis... sad times.

So how to raise my low spirits? How else?! With pictures of sad, chubby people doing the only thing they can to be happy...

Getting muthafunking Renaissance-ed to the max.



God it's so awful it makes me want to eat my children so that they need never experience such things. Thank god I have no kids... I'm trying to cut down on eating meat.

Speaking of MEAT (ew, I am so sorry, strike that last bit... yet DON'T because it makes me happy when others experience pain)...



Look at those guys and their wenches. They are like the pimps of the Renaissance Fayre. I am SO glad that dude on the right opted for the tinted shades. VERY Jack Nicholson... now all he needs is about 40 kilos of pure Colombian Gold, 2 or 3 high price hookers and a yacht off the coast of Crazy Island. A touch of class... either that or it makes him look like fucking Bea Arthur, or any of the other Golden Girls.

And this, well, this has no rhyme or reason. WHO KNEW that the Mario Brothers are into Ren Fairs????? Bwahahahahahaha! I know, I KILL me too! Hooo hah!



But soft! It seems that not all of the answers to life's questions lurk in the photo annals (hmmm, slightly dirty, eh?) of the Renaissance Fa(y)r(e)... no no, they are treasures untold to be mined in the online photo album of ...



THE SEITZ SIBLINGS!!!!

'But who ARE they?' you may ask...

'I have NO FUCKING CLUE,' I respond. But:



At least one of them fucking loves animals.



LADY!!!! YOU'RE KISSING A HORSE!!! Not even a 'fresh from the meadow' horse, but a 'been injecting intravenous drugs in Needle Park for years before breaking into your apartment, stealing your shit and selling it on the sidewalk for $5 NYC carriage-pulling horse.' Seriously, those bitches are NO JOKE.

At last

Sometimes you stumble upon something that just takes your breath away... the sheen on Yul Brynner's bald pate, the smugness of Kevin Spacey, the blood-alcohol level of a Baldwin Brother at any given moment, and this:



Yes. Fan art. But not just ANY fan art. Fan art about normal, everyday people, not a celebrity... like the aforementioned Yul Brynner (though I would fucking pay top dollar for some classy YB fan art)... but fan art about SOME RANDOM KID'S FRIEND WHO IS A BOY BUT IS NOT HER BOYFRIEND (suuuure, you don't like him at ALL... you're just DRAWING PICTURES OF HIM AND PUTTING THEM ON THE FUCKING INTERNET). It breaks my heart... almost as much as this one below makes me completely lose my shit:



YUP. Fan art about her younger sibling HACKING into her MySpace and wrecking shit. Fucking genius. The only thing that could POSSIBLY top this would be utterly misguided fan art about Wayne's World, oh, but that's not likely to happen now is it... A FULL SIXTEEN YEARS AFTER THE FUCKING FILM CAME OUT. Oh shit, Freeman spoke too soon:



OH MY GOD! Look at Wayne's googly eyes! It's like somebody tearing my heart out, roasting it on the spit and then serving it to me with a nice wine sauce: sick and yet oddly compelling. It kind of helps to put it all in perspective, eh? Does such a man deserve to have fan art? After all...



You THOUGHT I had forgotten, didn't you? No, friends. LOOK at how disgusting he looks! His mouth is like an anus. Face it. I'm sorry, but it's fucking true. It's like something Dali might have done as a laugh and everybody would have to be all 'Oh c'est magnifique!' to his face but they're secretly thinking "What a cock.'

I think Mike Myers just wears that around town now because GOD KNOWS NOBODY GIVES A SHIT ABOUT HIM OTHERWISE. Nope, he's just another little man in a kilt to them.



A little man in a kilt with really unfortunate 90's hair. Seriously, his crazy mushroom top was like an uncredited character in 'So I Married an Axe Murderer.' And I love that film, but I must tell the truth.

wahhhh, all this 90s hair and general anus-face unpleasantness is getting to me. Here are some lovely images of my homeland to calm us all down:






LOOK at at how much fucking snow they have. It almost makes me feel guilty that it is basically spring here right now. SUCKAZZZZZ. Peace, I'm OUT.