Monthly Archives: June 2005


I think we were walking down the street when we first noticed it? How we knew right away that the rooftop party we were seeing from the ground was Avril’s birthday party is anyone’s guess, but I think I was the one to call it out, and there was no trouble getting inside, we just walked up the stairs. She was playing some song, just her and her acoustic guitar, probably “Things I’ll Never Say.” (If I could say what I want to say/I’d say I wanna blow you/… away/Be with you every night/Am I squeezing you too tight/If I could say what I want to see/I want to see you go down/On me.) The party was dwindling and I remember Avril seemed to go out of her way to ignore me. She was all over her boyfriend, who was this creepy James Franco character, but not F&G Franco, more like ending of Spiderman 2: Spideryerman Franco, sinister and a little weepy. So don’t get so excited, ladies. People were leaving, including Avril, but for some reason I stuck around, and the next thing I knew it was just me and Franco, and I was telling him that I needed somewhere to spend the night. He got really angry, but also agreed. Then I heard him on the phone to some other woman, telling her not to worry, that he really loved her. “DUDE! You are engaged to Avril Lavigne, you cannot play her like that!” I told him, but he just gave me mean-eye and walked into the kitchen to get something from his brushed-stainless steel Sub Zero, cradling the cordless phone with his shoulder and saying “no, it was nothing, just the TV.” Anyway, I started making myself at home for the next couple of days. It was a beautiful apartment, two floors filled with natural light and an uncovered rooftop deck. I remember Franco was getting so angry that I wouldn’t just leave, and I, too, was wondering why I didn’t go stay with Ti-1000, or at least call him, because it’s not like I spend that much time in New York anymore, but I didn’t. At some point Franco suddenly had a child, and I was getting along really well with him, watching his programs with him while we sat on this designer couch and asking him what he wanted me to cook him for dinner, and Franco’s icy barrier was starting to melt. But things took a turn for the irreparable worse when some Black Riders from Mordor arrived to arrest us. I watched as Franco secretly gave the One Ring of Power to Avril Lavigne and told her to “keep it secret, keep it safe,” as we were led away. Even then, though, I could see something brewing behind those iron-gray eyes of his, and I knew we were all in deep trouble.

Then I woke up and it had all just been my dream!

Temporary Employee, Permanently Nasty

I just encountered a temp in the bathroom. Clown Coffee has nicknamed him “The Troll,” but I am still debating between two other nickname candidates: Balding Weeble Wobble, and Mr. Potato Body. Anyhow, I saw Mr. Potato Body in the bathroom, coming out of a stall. He turned on the water for half of a second. Pst. No more. And walked out. Now, look, I’m sure he’s not the only foul monster in this building who goes to the bathroom and doesn’t wash his hands. In fact, I have a feeling that I’d score 80% accuracy in the Hot Caff if I were to point out walking e. coli transport vehicles. But if you’re going to be that way, all nasty and offensive, do it when you are alone in the bathroom. Grin to yourself as you leave, thinking no one knows that when I shake their hand or lay a file on their desk that later they will inadvertently be eating some of my excrement when they chomp into a Crunchwrap Supreme without washing their hands. But if someone else is in the bathroom with you, bite the big bullet and use soap. If you’re all super nefarious, like you know someone has seen you leave the stall, but you simply refuse to wash your hands because the puerile delight of smearing shit all over your work station because you’re a temp and it makes you mad and you just want to fuck everyone up is too strong, then have the intelligence to at least pretend so that I am not onto your plan. Leave the water running for THREE seconds, and use some paper towel to fake dry your fake wet hands.


How Are We Doing?

McCullen:My iPod started working again today, right after I got the box and stuff to ship it back.
Worker #3116: Well, you should still send it. Even if it’s working, you don’t want to NOT get it fixed and then have that error show up again in a month.
McCullen: I know, but on the complaint form it asked if the error was continuous or intermittent, and I put continuous. But now it looks like it’s intermittent.
Worker #3116:
McCullen: So now I’m going to go to jail.
Worker #3116: At least you’ll have a working iPod.
McCullen: Where will I charge it? They won’t let me charge it in my cell, only battery-operated appliances.
Worker #3116:
McCullen: Great! I’m just going to have to leave it in the common area and hope no one steals it.
Worker #3116: Here’s what you do. Take your iPod—
McCullen: I’m going to have to do hard labor—
Worker #3116: LISTEN! Take your iPod and just leave it in your cell, for a couple weeks. Go to the library on your free-time, read up on electrical engineering and design a device that will transfer the energy created by your hard labor into a portable battery pack on your hip that you can then connect to your iPod at night.
McCullen: They’re not even going to send me to a good prison, it’s going to be some shitty prison off the coast of Malay or some shit.
Worker #3116: Sounds beautiful.
McCullen: Yeah, except I’ll get malaria.
Worker #3116: From a black man/mosquito.
McCullen: From a pregnant black man/mosquito.
Worker #3116: Well, I guess from now on you’ll be more careful filling out customer complaint forms.

A Message to Girls 18-25 Who Have Been Accepted to MTV’s The Realest World

The day you are accepted to MTV’s The Realest World will be one of the happiest days of your life. You and your boyfriend will probably go out to celebrate. You will notice that there is something subdued or even sad in his face, but you will be too thrilled with the news to pay it any real attention. Later, as your departure approaches, you will have some fights with your boyfriend, the basic gist of such fights being if he really loves you why can’t he just be happy for you since this is what you want, versus his position that you are going to sleep with everyone in the house. Of course, at this moment all you’re thinking about is the plasma screen TV you might win when you enter The Realest World/Roadest Rules Hell Challenge after your season of RW is finished taping and tossed in the junk bin of pop culture flotsam. Your fights usually end with wistful, kind of annoyed make-up sex, since this fight just keeps happening over and over, and it’s not getting anywhere, and you’re starting to just wish you could go to Portland or Marseille, or whatever other end-of-the-Earth the producers are going to find for your season. The day you leave you really are, honestly, sad to leave your boyfriend, but you also are excited, and if it was meant to be, you think, then the two of you will weather whatever may come.

This is called a “fucking retarded idea.”

Almost as soon as you enter that over-decorated, super-illuminated compound you will find yourself attracted to one of the Abercrombie and Fitch models that has been selected for your roommate. Initially you will just pray that he’s not a fag, and when he starts asking about your boyfriend you’ll get a little excited. At first, maybe for the first half hour, you will talk about your boyfriend a lot, how long you’ve been together, how much trauma the two of you have jointly suffered, how he’s the only one who’s ever really been there for you. It is a ruse. This boy wants in your pants, and who’s to stop him? Certainly not you. You’re not big on confrontation. Eventually you pretend like the pressure was just too strong, as if anything more than a stiff sugar-rimmed daquiri and a gentle “Huh?” was needed. You give in. Later you talk to your boyfriend and get upset with HIM, turning it around on HIM, that he couldn’t be more sensitive to what you are going through. True, you cheated on him within forty-eight hours of arriving, but he doesn’t KNOW that so why is he being such a JERK.

Here is what I want you to remember: people cheat. People lie. People fool around. All-in-all, what you are doing is basically what any emotionally immature, mildly inebriated 18-25 year-old would do in your situation. Maybe you were right, maybe you should have just broken up with your boyfriend before even leaving Missouri or Wisconsin or whatever backwater they’ve brought you from to give the show a fresh-face of innocence. But you didn’t. You thought that yours would be the only relationship in the history of the show to survive the raging hormone riot that is The Realest World, with the possible exception of that really ugly girl who used to cut herself with a Hello Kitty pocketknife, but she doesn’t count because no one in the house wanted her, and she left the show early, and besides, she cheated on her boyfriend, too, he was just too much of a pussy to stand up for himself. So you’re just normal. Just as much of a terrible person as everyone else. And weak. No one blames you. But bear this in mind: when you have already slept around with one of your roommates, and when you claim that you are as attracted to said roommate as you have ever been to your boyfriend or any other guy ever, then it is not really an act of “courage” or “bravery” to leave your boyfriend. It’s not really “going out on [your] own to learn about [your]self” when you’ve got a well-muscled back-up plan waiting in your bed in his boxer shorts.


Oh, and Tom Cruise

About 75 million years ago, a nefarious intergalactic warlord called Xenu rounded up the inhabitants of numerous planets, killed them, and brought them to Earth, then set off a chain reaction of cataclysmic volcanoes, which dispersed their thetans into the atmosphere. These thetans now fester inside the bodies of all humans. They are to be located in specific body parts and summoned out.

People who believe this:
John Travolta and his wife, Kelly Preston
Kirstie Alley
Jason Lee
Priscilla Presley
Lisa Marie Presley
Chick Corea
Isaac Hayes
Nancy Cartwright
Jenna Elfman
Danny Masterson
Giovanni Ribisi
Jerry Seinfeld
Patrick Swayze
Juliette Lewis

In Real Life, I Hate Vodka

I dreamt last night that I went to Chicago with Mom #3116. The details are a little hazy now, but I do remember that right after we had lunch I made her stop at a Byron’s for a Chicago red hot, and that we ate them at an outside table across from Cabrini Green, and that there was a really threatening wigger at the table with us, who kept his arm around his black girlfriend’s shoulders the whole time. Also: I was drinking from a bottle of vodka in a paper bag during the whole dream. Later, after the hot dog, we walked to the Loop where we met up with Matthew Perry, and Matthew Perry and Mom #3116 went shopping for gowns and diamonds.

I remember this one time in summer camp when the bus drove past Cabrini Green and one of my camp-mates threw a gang sign out the window and a bunch of other kids freaked out and said we were going to get killed. I like the idea of a gang member becoming enraged at 2:30 in the afternoon by a little white hand throwing a gang-sign out of the window of a passing school bus, and vowing to hunt down that child and make him pay dearly for crossing the wrong thug’s turf.

Totally unrelated to the dream, I wrote this piece of dialogue this morning, which I’m just going to give you context free.

As it happens I just fucked out my last condom this afternoon. Ha ha ha, you know, I was going to buy some myself. I take it youâ??re out?

All out.

Itâ??s just as well, I donâ??t even think Jesus could get me to come again without a good nightâ??s rest.

Let Him Go. Fight. Let Him Go. Fight.

One of my favorite things about boxing is when the fighters hug each other at the end. This always happens. The reason that I like it is because it teaches me that it is okay to want to literally KNOCK SOMEONE THE FUCK OUT. That doesn’t make you a bad person incapable of love or friendship. In fact, you can love and befriend the very person you wanted to kill, quite literally, seconds earlier. So when I am threatening to fight you in the street, know that you might get a hug out of it at the end.

Another thing that I like about boxing is the bizarre hyperbole of the announcers. I don’t watch very many other televised sports, so I don’t know that this is as exclusive to boxing as it sometimes seems, but, okay, let me give you an example:

“You better go to the street Wade was born on and get some water there if you want to be a fighter, because that’s…I mean, that’s basically the only way to get whatever it is he’s got.”

Does that make any sense? I mean, I get the whole “there must have been something in the water” sentiment, but to encourage a strange pilgrimage to the same street for anyone who wants to be a fighter in such hackneyed language…did I mention that Wade was losing the fight at this point, and was, in fact, assured a technical loss unless he knocked Arturo “Thunder” Gatti cold, which he didn’t? I didn’t mention that, huh? If you want to be a resilient but ultimately failed fighter you should go to the street that Wade was born on and get some water there.

If you try to call me on Thursday and get my voicemail this is why.