Monthly Archives: August 2007

Worker #3116 Vs. The Department of Motor Vehicles

Hot tip for teens: when you have a psychic hunch that going to the DMV on the Friday before a bank holiday is a terrible idea and that it will be like a cliche’d joke done by a comedian who calls himself “The Laugh Man” about how long the wait is at the DMV, FOLLOW THAT HUNCH, CLEOPATRA.

Three hours? Does that seem like time that I have? What about all the movie posters that need blogging?

Anyway, mostly it’s just that when you do this, when you go to this place on a Friday before a bank holiday, it is actually so crowded that they lock the doors “until they get control of the floor.” That is the expression they used. Control of the floor. And I only heard them use it because I had to stop throwing my feces at the window for like three seconds to kick at the teeth of the half-naked guy with blood-smeared cheeks who was trying to bite my leg off.

Here is another hot tip, though, teens: DO NOT BE ASIAN AT THE DMV. Everyone laughs at you. There was this one Asian man who could not read the eye chart, and also could not speak English very well. This is when the man sitting next to me on the bench made out of the skulls of the people who died waiting before us started chuckling. I watched as the Asian man begged for his glasses, and then could still not functionally read the eye chart (no telling on whether or not it was difficulty in knowing how to pronounce the letters). The man next to me on Skull Hollow only chuckled more. The woman administering the eye chart finally told the Asian man that he needed to go to the eye doctor and get a signed medical form allowing him to receive a driver’s license. The man gave a final chuckle and looked back down at his Blackberry, where he closed some deals. I watched the Asian man leave and tried to figure out where the humor lay in his predicament. And then it struck me: IT’S IN THE SKIN.

Same goes for the Asian woman who tried to enter the building by going the wrong way in the revolving door. That got laughs out of at least three people, because apparently Benny Hill hasn’t been invented yet, and we love when things are silly and embarrassed.

You guys, temporary license in my wallet. JEALOUS? Labor this.

JJ Abrams, Judd Apatow, Facebook, iPhone, Larry Craig, Chesterfield, Knocked Up, SO MANY HITS GUYS

New York Magazine’s Vulture Blog has been doing lots of coverage of J.J. Abram’s top secret Dogma film about a thing that hates the Statue of Liberty, and today they posted this image, taken from an alternate gaming fan forum (I write what I’m told, babies):

(Oh, and by the way, this is a movie poster website all of a sudden. Shoot my face.)

This image is actually the poster for Chesterfield mirrored like the back cover of Mad Magazine, and the world’s top nerds are claiming that you can see a monster in the smoke, or, to improve on Vulture Blog’s joke (sorry, Team Internet), maybe a grilled cheese sandwich. Fine. Is that a monster? I don’t know. Is it a smoke Predator? Maybe. I see a lot of smoke dreadlocks. Always.

I have to admit that I’m intrigued by this movie, because I love watching the world unfold through the shakiest video camera, and I love being manipulated by secrecy. But my favorite part is how everyone is speculating on what kind of monster is in this movie: is it a kangaroo or a velociraptor? We don’t know! Because IT’S NOT OUT YET. It’s very reminiscent of when there were just teaser trailers for Live Free or Die Hard and everyone wanted to know if the hero would be an octogenarian or a cybernetic octogenarian. Now, of course, we know the answer (Bruce Willis is old.) But there is some new speculation on my favorite Alternate Gaming Fan Forum:

“another thing i noticed was a turtles foot could easily make the claw marks on the building and on the statue of liberty”

The best part of that sentence is “easily.” A turtle’s foot would have NO DIFFICULTY making the claw marks on the building. Nerds are my favorite. To punch.

Hannukah in Heaven

The theme of last night’s Ritalin Readings (which was so awesome, and good job team) was “Christmas.” So naturally, I did a google search for “Christmas in Heaven.” Because I wanted to see what was up with that. Surprisingly or unsurprisingly, depending on your feelings towards Jesus, there were A MILLION HITS. Most of the search results for “Christmas in Heaven” are poems that people wrote for their children and moms who died who they miss for Christmas about how it’s so sad but also how Christmas celebrated with Jesus is awesome. Example:

See the countless CHRISTMAS TREES around the world below
with tiny lights like HEAVEN???S STARS reflecting on the snow.

The sight is so SPECTACULAR please wipe away that tear
for I am spending CHRISTMAS WITH JESUS CHRIST this year.

Garbage poems, but full of powerful meaning. So then I did a google search for “Hannukah in Heaven.” SURPRISE: nothing. Just kidding. I mean about the surprise part, but the search didn’t turn up anything. So I wrote my own poem called “Hannukah in Heaven.” Basically I put myself in the mindset of someone who just lost a loved one, but who also hated the English language, and wanted to marry those two sentiments together in a celebration of a virtually non-religious pseudo-holiday established so that Jewish American children would not be so mad about all the presents and ham and stuff.

Hannukah in Heaven
by Worker #3116

There were eight days of GIFTS, eight DAYS OF LIGHTS
but after you DIED, there are just eight LONELY NIGHTS

In the old tale of CHANNUKAH the OIL was a miracle
but ever since you DIED, MY eyes are filled with tearacles

Jews don???t believe in HEAVEN OR HELL
so I hope you???re having a good HANNUKAH being DIRT or SOMETHING, I don???t REALLY know.

The End of Culture

So back in April, I saw this trailer:

If an infallible God created an infallible scientist who then created an infallible super-computer that then generated the “Worst Movie Accessible to the Human Mind Without Mechanically Deconstructing the Process of Assumed Free Will” it would be this movie. Also, nice face, Dane Cook. Your face is like the movie Gattaca except instead of parents genetically engineering the perfect children, they just genetically engineered so many pockmarks.

But then back in Saturday, I saw this trailer:

ADORABLE. I’m not the one saying it’s adorable. If you go to the official website,, this trailer is named “adorable.” While I respect the marketing geniuses of Hollywood to pull their golden cigars out of their imported-Spanish-tiled-asses long enough to recognize that maybe three minutes of eye rape isn’t the best way to publicize a movie, I also wonder just how stupid we are that it is believed this new trailer will do the trick. “Hmmm, I have no idea what this movie is about, but that pretty lady sure is clumsy. Ma, stop burning that 10 dollar bill, I got a new use for it!” Also, I’m calling Jessica Alba “Murphy’s Law” from now on because if something can go wrong it probably stars Jessica Alba (I’m looking at you, Fantastic Four franchise, but I am not watching you.)

So that mid-campaign shift seems weird to me, although it’s not unlike when they put Jennifer Lopez in all the advertising for Jersey Girl even though she died in the first five minutes I am told because I will never see Jersey Girl. But now look at the new PRINT CAMPAIGN for this thing:

OK, so just to wrap up: Good Luck Chuck is a Chuck Klosterman novel about a super clumsy girl who loves sexual ice cream that you hate falling in love with because she spills so much ice water on your penis and who works as a diversion from the fact that actually she is a horrible, horrible movie that would make the guy from Amistad cry because all those people’s shoulders he’s standing on would be like “whoops, nope, you’re on your own.”

I Am Not McLovin, Chi-kah Chi-kah Nope


Nicely done, Superbad. Even though your best joke happened in the first five minutes, you had plenty of well-deserved laffs (and one very overwrought and confusing menstrual blood joke that I think you could have done without, like, seriously, it took five minutes just to set it up, you guys, professional criticism free of charge, I have a lot of other opinions about a whole bunch of stuff if you’re interested. Hey Technorati: Judd Apatow, Michael Cera, Jonah Hill, Knocked Up, iPhone, Cable Guy. That should do it. Welcome to my diary, Judd Apatow.)

I remembered after watching this movie that I had once purchased a fake ID, which is a weird thing to remember because it means that you forgot, and it is a weird thing to forget. So what. Me, China Jet, and The Shark went to Detroit to this hole in the wall business where crackheads and illegal immigrants could get “Certified Identification,” if by “Certified” you mean “laminated” and by “Identification” you mean “your name misspelled in crayon on a piece of construction paper.” I think the place was called Tony’s ID’s. Seriously. The best part about us getting fake ID’s is that we were sixteen and all we wanted was identification that said we were 18 so that we could get into 18-and-over shows at St. Andrew’s. (Man, wasn’t Pulp so good, though?) For the record, China Jet is an actual homosexual, so this behavior is to be expected of him, but the rest of us have no excuse.

That same summer, Sloan’s “One Chord to Another” was released in Canada, so we figured we would take a little day trip up to Windsor and buy it months before it was going to be released in the US, because that is the kind of thing people would do back when you still had to pay for music and before YouTube’s “Funniest Trampoline Accidents” made leaving the house unthinkable. It is me, China Jet, and R&B, and we get to the Canadian border and they make us pull over and get out of the car. Four policemen begin searching the car while they take us inside and into an interrogation room. It was China Jet’s car, so they take him into another room and make him strip to his boxer shorts. R&B and I are in the first room, where they are going through all of our stuff. They make us take off our shoes and tap on our shoes looking for false bottoms. I was chewing gum and one of the cops turned around and said ‘HOW’S THAT GUM TASTE, PRETTY GOOD? WHY DON’T YOU SHUT UP.’ They were going through our wallets and one of the guards held up my fake ID. “Look what we have here,” he said. “Fake ID.” They confiscated it. The fake ID that said I was 18 years old. Never did get to go to that Superchunk show.

The border guards claimed to have found marijuana ash in the back of the car. I’m not sure this even needs saying, but teenagers who drive up to Windsor to buy a new Sloan CD the weekend it comes out don’t do a ton of weed smoking. I mean, I smoked tons of marijuana cigarettes every second I wasn’t binging on all the snacks I craved from being so high, but we were like “Um, no, you didn’t.” Eventually they let us go, everyone was very upset but we somehow still managed to find a record store, buy the album, and hurry back to the United States, where there is no police.

It’s just kind of weird when you see a movie about nerds in high school who were still cooler than you were in high school. It is also weird how if this had happened a few years later I would be writing this from Guantanamo Bay (everything else about the diary would be the same, though.)

Lenny Travitz Is Not Raven

After avoiding Facebook for many moons because at the age of 45, a lot of the appeal of being able to network with people from high school and college on the internet is replaced by the appeal of alcohol and napping, I finally succumbed just because I wanted Lindsayism to shut up. Here is my impression of Lindsayism:

“Join Facebook, I will never shut up.”

Great. That was a fun story. But the point is that there is a lot to admire about Lenny Travitz, not least of which is his now famous Sex and the City femslash self-insertion fan fic, which blew minds harder than Miranda and Samantha blew Trevor.

Lenny Travitz lasted longer than I did (nullus) in refusing to join Facebook, claiming that as long as Mike Jones and Pimp C continued to reference MySpace in their raps, what did he need Facebook for? He agreed to join Facebook only if it was dropped by a Texas rapper.

Then there was this, from Bun B off the new UGK:

I ain’t got that time to waste, punch your mouth and knock out the taste
You MySpacin and Facebookin, playin games with them toys
I’m in the streets where gangstas meet, while you’re online with them boys

Maybe not a ringing endorsement, but a namedrop nonetheless. And so now Lenny Travitz is a member of Facebook. So true to his word. I just like a man (nullus) who lives by a code. Congratulations, Lenny Travitz, on proving your worth through your internet social networking decisions (total DHV spike).

RELATED: Here is a Facebook group for you to join instead of trying to friend request me. Because let’s be real. I am not your friend, but I am your colleague in pointing out what is and what is not Raven:

De-troit, Sports-ket-ball!

Last Friday’s game was a near total success, with the exception of it being an utter failure. But big “propers” to Weather Report for securing us 7th-row-behind-the-dugout seats, and big “propers” to Ti-1000 for never once mentioning how tired he must have been since the game did not start until 7pm. Also, big “propers” to Meghan, who made Detroit Tigers stickers, even though she called them tattoos, which is a lie. Stickers are not tattoos.

This is the woman, Jessica, I think, who was in charge of making us pay $100 for a hot dog, and $850 for a beer in a plastic bottle. It was a pretty good hot dog, and I was able to throw my beer bottle at people’s heads without killing them, nice, but neither of these things were as good as the calligraphic tattoo (think of this as a permanent sticker) on Jessica’s neck that said “envy.” It’s weird how a neck tattoo of the word “envy,” especially when worn by a hot dog vendor, actually has the opposite effect! Big “propers,” Jess!

These are the two lovers who were sitting in front of us. What? What is that? They were these two hilarious meatheads who kept turning around and telling us to go back to Kentucky, but then when they turned back to watch the game, they settled into the softest of cuddles? It is well known that I think when two dudes hang out together, they should not be ashamed to sit in adjoining seats. When you guys go to the movie theater and put your coats on the seat between you, you are not fooling anyone. Your love glows! But this is also ridiculous in the opposite direction, lovers. The one on the left (the top, apparently), was also the one who kept sneaking pictures of the girls in the row ahead of them on his Blackberry (because that is what you do when you are straight, guys, SEE?!), but then would have the frustrating sadness of every time he wanted to show off a picture of the girls to his boyfriend he would have to scroll past the desktop image of his daughter. STAY CLASSY, SEXUALLY AMBIGUOUS MEATHEAD. At one point in the game, the one on the left asked the one on the right what he was doing tomorrow and if he wanted to get some brunch. This is true, and so good.

I will admit, though, to some deep-seated fear in my interactions with them, because they saw me as their primary rival in the World of Sportscraft, a role I was all too happy to play, but they also kept asking me about specific player’s stats and things like this, which I do not know because I do not have time to pay attention to sports with the new season of Hills (Spencer is such a dog!), and also Top Chef (Howie is such a dog!), and the Pick-Up Artist (Matador is such a dog!), duh, so I was always nervous they would find out and wouldn’t want to rival me anymore, because I liked yelling “Go Kentucky!” at their fat fucking necks. WHO IS THE FAGGOT NOW? Me, apparently.

We had tickets to the EXCLUSIVE Sony Club or some such. It had tons of security around it, and you needed a golden Willy Wonka ticket to get inside. When you got inside, SURPRISE, you were in the world’s worst Bennigan’s. This horrible photograph that is horrible is intended to show that when I got into the EXCLUSIVE piss-covered bathroom, there was a self-applicating catheter in the bathroom. The catheter was also covered in piss. Learn how to use these, guys. No more embarrassing accidents for 2007. New motto. Mousepad now available on Cafe Press.

I would also like to point out that by taking pictures in a bathroom stall while someone else is in the bathroom and not giving a shit what they think, I am offering a “DHV spike” (Demonstration of Higher Value). Remember when I taught you that, Mystery? When we were playing Dungeons and Dragons together after school? They called you KING OF THE NERDS! And now look who’s fucking sluts!

This is what Jean Baudrillard famously referred to as a “spectacle d’action” or “action shot” of rookie Camron Maybin of the Detroit Tigers. Big “propers,” babyfaced! I am sad to report that he struck out twice in our game, but happy to report that the next day he hit his first professional home run as a major league player for the baseball. Way to go Camron! Next stop, the ability to grow a moustache!

These are sportsletes having a sportsbreak. In the middle is 20-year-old rookie Cameron Maybin, just hours before his mom picks him up so his dad doesn’t yell at him again for missing curfew. Ding dong, but seriously, he is a tiny child. Awwwww.


Top 25 Episodes of “Charlie Rose” to Get Busy To

I was doing some research on The Pick-Up Artist, mostly just to see how my most famous student was doing (so proud of you, Mystery), and also I saw this:


“Hey, hold on, I’m just going to turn the lights down, and let me just boot up some music videos on YouTube to set the mood”? What? THAT IS HOW LOVERS DO IT.

Also, if you are fucking to a Sisqo video, you are gay.


Molto Body

There is a long article in the New York Times today about Mario Batali’s summer home in northern Michigan. I have a lot I could say about it, not least of which is the fact that of course Batali feels more comfortable vacationing in a part of the world where a big fatso with a ponytail, a beard, and Crocs looks even more at home than a racist high school drop out made of maple syrup and dried cherries. And of course there are cute anecdotes about cooking, that are not cute at all, but make you want to bash in the entire Batali clan with an imported Sicilian pizza stone: “our kids made pasta with honey last week,” sounds pretty fucking gross, “I can’t make paella over a fire of slow-roasting Venetian swamp vines, so I use this special oven I had shipped over brick by brick,” sounds pretty drop dead.

But actually, reporter Jennifer Conlon kind of did my work for me, with a little more professional beating around the bush.

One wonders if the hammock on the private beach has ever been graced with Mr. Batali???s body, given his active vacation schedule.

Hahaha. I hear you, Conlon, loud and fat.

Roger, Ken, Dave, Stu, and Brian stand in descending order of active vacation schedules.