I wish my grass was EMO

...so it would cut itself.

Have been cheating on Blogger with another site, will post link as soon as all the kinks are worked out.

Breaking It Off With Jake Plummer

Oh, Jake. Do you remember the days when I used to run my fingers through your military-precision cut hair? And you would stare (languidly) into my eyes. And I would coach you on your plays and feed you plates of chicken wings?


And then the hair started to grow.



And, Honey. That was okay. Really. You were still playing great, on top of your game. Yes, I was a bit apprehensive about the vision thing. You'd throw a questionable pass, and I'd think, "Eh, maybe I should have cut his bangs in his sleep." But, no, I trusted your judgement.

And the hair got longer, and all of a sudden, I was remembering what happened to The Beatles.


John didn't last long, and Ringo was certainly not the success he thought he'd be. I was worried, but I knew you'd be able to do it.

Until...

Jake, I think we should just be friends. It's not you...it's me.

Love,

Nina

Grapples and Matthew McConaughey

No, really.

So I had this dream the other night that I was playing Jeopardy. Not the ordinary Jeopardy, mind you, but the Jeopardy where a) I am back in high school (yeah, it's a stretch, so fuck off), and b) Matt is hosting and c) I am so about to win.

During a commercial break, Matt and I converse and decide it is best that we no longer share intimate moments in public due to the press onslaught. We're seeing each other of course. In other words, I am his bongo and he is naked and high.

Bing! Back to broadcasting and...

Cameron Diaz walks right out of a special "clue crew" video clue (I shit you not), walks up to Matthew I(slinking past me with a filthy look) and asks him how he could cheat on her.

And? I feel guilty. Did I somehow know we'd been snarking around? I don't know. But guilty? She's a class-A bitch. The hell?

Cameron's antics stop the show. Cameron and I spar Charlie's-Angel style to the death, she loses (it's MY DREAM DAMMIT) (oh, and it's all slow-motion style, like I can drink some Diet Coke mid-air and kick her in the groin) and we're back to the show...

And because of the chaos, they've changed the questions. DAMN IT! I KNEW those questions! (Refer to the "my dream" above.)

I lose by one DOLLAR to the geek from NAMEYOURSTATE Tech University.

Goddamn you Cameron, and goddamn Jeopordy.

Fuckers.

Oh, yeah...and the grapples. That's how it all started. I went to bed thinking about grapples, those apples soaked in grape juice for a few days and then sold at exorbiant prices as exotic fruits?

Yeah.

Fire and Looting in New Orleans

Just moving some posts from old blog to new - this is a particularly "genius" parody courtesy of my brother:

Savage Minorities Loot the Big Easy Blind

I have never ventured into a town more helpless and depraved than New Orleans in the midst of Katrina. Martial law was declared earlier this afternoon, but Johnny Q. Law retreated, his swine tail tucked between his legs leaving this town to the thugs, brutes, and degenerates. In the suburbs, the pansy-elite journalists were doing human interest pieces -- Geraldo was pushing troops out of the way to claim the heroics of saving a ninety year old woman from two inches of entrance-level water; Cooper Anderson was stealing candy from babies.

They could not appreciate the pure decadence of my location, Bourbon Street. I lit a cigarette as I waded through three feet of sewage-infested water. Bourbon Street was once the home of Mardi Gras; now it was the largest discount mall on the Mississippi. ESPN was paying me to do a human interest piece on athletes affected by the storm. I had never thought of property theft as a sport, but then again some of these people were braving twenty, sometimes thirty, feet of flowing water, dodging bullets from white in-bred Texas national guardsmen -- and they were black. I was in the Louisiana of 1920; perhaps it was the LSD, perhaps it was the eerie deja vu of seeing middle-class white hicks murdering poor black kids.

I had waded through the water to the J. Murphy Jewelry Shop. I knew I would not be a target-- my appearance reeked of Arian descent; my Samoan attorney, on the other hand, could be misconstrued for a foreigner -- or worse, a minority. But that was his problem. I could sense the decay that imbued the inside of the store -- the smell of leeches, dead bodies, and putrid water; it reminded me of Washington.

My attorney was less inclined to soak up the moment. He screamed at me as I casually opened the door, “Fuck, they’re shooting us like rabid dogs out there man! Hurry up and open the damn door, we’re dying like pigs out here! As your attorney I recommend that we go back to the ‘burbs and finish your story.”

“Silence you fool, this is my story. Besides, they weren’t shooting at me; they could smell your foreign scent from miles away,” I replied to him. My attorney was not a brilliant man, but a fairly bright man -- a bright man with a large muscular frame, perfect for hauling a large load of rare antique jewelry.

Outside, the bullets were ripping into the water, much like a pack of ferocious piranha nibbling the top of the Amazon for a taste of human flesh. The LSD was hitting its plateau stage -- that’s when the fear began to take hold. Not your common variety of drug-induced survival-based fear like Vietnam. No, this was a sickening, end of the world fear, the kind one felt during the middle of the Nixon administration when even the scientists and scholars prayed for the Apocalypse. There was no time to waste, the end might have been right around the corner, so I instructed my attorney to break every inch of security glass around the jewelry he could while I grabbed two woolen knapsacks from the vaulted area. If it takes two seconds for lightning to exit the clouds and hit the earth, it took us one second to stuff our stockings with enough jewelry to make that fat bastard called Santa Claus turn red with jealousy. But now came the tricky part.

“Shit, my Samoan friend, we have to cross the Red Sea now!” I exclaimed. The beads of sweat were drooling from the sides of my face; it was obvious that the fear was growing.

“Goddamn it man, I told you this was a bad idea,” my attorney replied.

“Watch your mouth before I throw you to the vultures,” I exclaimed. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll make a mad dash for the alley and draw their fire. When I reach the other side, I’ll wave you in. You’re the bigger man, so it’s best that you take both sacks -- besides I have to write a story this evening.”

Before he could reply, I threw him my sack and lunged into the perilous water. The swine on the slope did not fire at me as I crossed. No, I could sense their aim shifting from me to the door of the Jewelry shop; they knew my dark-skinned friend would eventually have to exit the building. When I reached the alley I gave my signal. The ensuing sight can only be described as an ox crossing a river. Slow lunge after slow lunge my attorney made his way. Bullets rained to his left, grenades thundered to his right.

Above the military barrage a voice crackled, “Fuck man, fuck man, Jesus Christ man, holy shit.”

With that my attorney reached the other side. I had procured enough jewelry to buy a years worth of drugs, and I had a headline for my ESPN story.

“Samoan Swimming Team Defies Odds and Beats Texas Rifle Club 1-0. Rematch tomorrow, weather permitting.”

New Years Resolution

No more seafood. Ever. I'm shitting stringy crab legs.