welcome back

(explosion of dust and glitter) I'M BACK! Hello again, loyal followers of the poop--I've missed you. My summer spent in the Hamptons was exquisite as always--unfortunately, somewhere between being fanned by my loyal servants and lazily fed grapes by my minions, I just couldn't find the time to blog. In truth, I spent the bulk of these last three months in the scenic Eugene, OR, and the only fanning to be had was that of my own farts in the sweet summer humidity. Grapes were probably eaten at some point, however. ENOUGH of this dilly-dallying, lets get to the real reason why I felt so compelled to return...

As I laid staring into space one evening, meaningless drivel splish-splashing about my brain, a great realization--an epiphany, if you will, came over me. A fleeting little thought that, now, has developed into an intriguing obsession. A much overdue comparison that can only be described as pure destiny...

SPORKS vs. SKORTS: a disturbing and endless list of similarities.

The first and most obvious quality these pointless and embarrassing products share is their name. At a glance the two words look identical, and when uttered with any kind of speech impediment they would probably sound identical as well. I suspect that none of us could say the the two words together ten times fast--I cannot say this for sure, however, as the "red leather/yellow leather" controversy has led to my ultimate refusal to participate in such games.

I will excuse the similarities found in their name-combinations, however, seeing as "shirt" is a pre-existing article of clothing, and "foon" sounds really stupid. More-so than spork or skort, that is.


Next, I would like to touch on the design similarities of the spork/skort.

Figure 8.5







Figure 8.6











In figure 8.5 you will notice the flat, smooth, "skirt"-like front piece-- one that secretly hides a pair of pronged shorts beneath its wall of shame. The "shorts" portion is only to be discovered when viewed from behind, or by flashing up the frontal skirt portion of the outfit (as seen in the figure), like some kind of prankster-hussy. One will notice the lack of pockets, a common theme among skirts--however, these pockets that have been so carelessly tossed aside in this relationship are traditionally expected of shorts. As a result, the breezy, carefree qualities of the skirt are downplayed by a dysfunctional pair of shorts.

A similar relationship can be found in figure 8.6, the plastic spork. This utensil combines the commonly used spoon with fork--but I think we're all aware of its flaws. The spoon, much like the skirt, is traditionally found freely swimming and stirring about--be it a bowl of soup or a vat of lard. The fork, with its prongs of fury, has proved itself useful in the art of jousting the non-scoopables we so often encounter. However, when combined, both elements of the spoon and fork are weakened. It can be used as a spoon, however an actual spoon will always be superior, as it won't poke you or give you trouble with hard-packed ice cream. As a fork it is just useless, disappointing, and embarrassing.

Socially the spork and skort lead very similar lifestyles. They are generally found in elementary and middle schools; the skort being a parental selection in an annual "Back-2-School" shopping trip, and the spork being an administrative selection in an annual budget cut. The frustrations of both are experienced throughout the tender ages of 6-14, and now only our scars--physically, mentally, and emotionally--are here to remind us of the fusions we once accepted as part of our lives.

Where is this manufacturing company, I ask? This factory that pairs skirts with shorts, forks with spoons, pants with shorts (Shants!), and probably the same place where peanut butter and jelly are casually thrown together in the same jar, like animals.

The day I see a skort-sporting spork-user jabbing away at a pint of Haagen-Dazs is the day I've seen it all.

rom-com afternoon

I’ve been thinking about romantic comedies a lot lately. Haven’t you? I hope not. Also, I was lying—most days I pretend they don’t exist, and you should too. However, today I really did manage to think about rom-coms for a solid 20 minutes or so. It was exhausting, pointless, and embarrassing; kind of like watching a romantic comedy. Anyway, I challenged myself to think of a shitty title and equally shitty storyline for 3 romantic comedies in 3 minutes. Soon I realized more time would be necessary and I requested an extension, which I then approved.

Here’s what I came up with:

Let Your Love Grow

A tree-hugging hippie environmentalist chick (i.e., a tiny recycling tank top and wavy yet flawless hair) straps herself to a tree to protest some kind of logging operation we’re all supposed to care about. Despite her green beliefs, she seems to be falling for the rugged, handsome, charming lumberjack who makes continuous attempts to coax her down. Can the two of them settle their differences for love?

Call Me

Two strangers connect on a plane ride, though both are involved in relationships . When the plane lands they go their separate ways, each without realizing they grabbed the other’s identical iPhone! Madness ensues as they spend a week in NYC with each other’s phones.

Shout Out Love

Guy falls for Tourette’s Syndrome hottie.

I suppose that's it until next time.

secret crush: papa pleasure

Pa Ingalls, we swooned over you via TBS in summers passed, when they used to play back to back episodes of Little House in the mornings. Needless to say, it wasn't the summer heat that had me sweating. But to our great disappointment, we learned from the wannabe-seductive-bitch-of-a-town-widow that Charles Ingalls is as faithful to his wife as he is to sporting that patch of golden-brown chest perfection; and therein lies the problem.

Don't you worry Pa, that one neglected button says enough.

pseudo happy

There’s this group of people out there who’s bodies seem to serve as a vessel for absolute happiness. They’re everywhere—that group of attractive religious girls from your high school, or people who are so busy with extracurricular activities and family vacations to have time for unhappiness. Really, just people who seem to be so content with their lives that there are no times of true darkness for them. Usually their sense of humor is pretty bad, and they tell a lot of stories that go no where and leave you bewildered as to why they’re laughing so hard. Of course there are things that bring them down occasionally, they’re still humans, but it’s in more of more of a “shit happens” kind of way, rather than an “I’m shit” way. But to those of us who think we’re shit sometimes, it really can seem like these happy types are living on another planet that we may convince ourselves we want to live on too someday.

Like they’re all on the same Royal Caribbean cruise ship together, gliding along the surface of what is underneath them—an ocean full of asshole dolphins fooling people into thinking they’re great, manatees who probably hate their bodies, entire societies of krill being destroyed left and right by giants. A little far-fetched, maybe. But for those of us who have come to terms with the things we don’t enjoy about ourselves; anxieties, insecurities, whatever--sometimes it feels like we’re trailing behind that cruise ship in some shitty aluminum boat we bought off of craigslist, unsure of whether or not we got swindled by that creep who sold it to us, worrying if the thing is going to fall apart, uncomfortable about all the wet sand in the bottom. Though this boat is obviously far less jubilant, I personally know I would be vomiting off the side of that cruise ship, and I don’t get seasick. While we all seem to be striving for happiness and success (isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?), that cruise ship is not it, but sometimes if you’re not careful the patrons of the Royal Caribbean can make you feel like it is. You think “I want that”—that carefree bliss they have—but it’s the shitty reality of the aluminum boat that makes for true times of happiness when they come. And when they go, and they will most of the time, you know the ins and outs of that aluminum piece of shit and you can reluctantly get it started. Cruise ship happiness isn’t real, and it’s not something you want. You’d be better off spending that money on countless 5ths of rum and bags of Pirate’s Booty.

yester yes

the list

Many of us go over this list in casual conversation at various times throughout our lives, often revising it upon new shoulder-to-ear worthy discoveries. Some are nouns, some adjectives, verbs--just words, really, that may or may not be repulsive in meaning, but they all share one common feature; they sound gross. Not everyone will agree with what they're about to see--please, feel free to make the necessary adjustments to your list at home.

(in no particular order, except for the first one...)

moist
ointment
wad
tender
crusty
supple
wipe
lard
runny
damp
creamy
panties
fester
plump
smear
warm
juices (juice, juicy not included. only juices.)
churn
gullet
flap
sift
veal
yeast
thigh

money money money

if only things were this simple, J.G.




but i suppose this strategy is worth a try.

room

There is one question I'm asked just about every single day, and I would be fine with that--I might even appreciate it--if I thought my answer actually meant something to the seemingly 'with it' barista doing the asking:

Do I want room for cream?

Now, I know that want cream, without a doubt. I also know that I want the most for my money-- if I'm paying for a 12oz. cup, I want 12 ounces of liquid. The mystery lies in the room leaver's judgment of how much "room" should be left, and this is where things start getting out of control. Before I go on, I would like to note that I am aware of how trivial this is. Good, it's nice to have that out of the way.

Something must be done about the room. I'm sick of answering this question and never knowing what I'm going to get back. I like my coffee with cream and not the other way around, and I think this is true for most drinkers. For this reason, I usually reply with a "no, thanks" or I say "just a smidge" or something stupid like that, holding up my fingers and giving some kind of visual representation of what a smidge might be.

Here's what it isn't: 1/3 my cup of coffee. When I'm handed the sad-looking paper cup after embarrassing myself with the whole smidge act, I'm wondering how much they leave for the people who just say "yes" to the dreaded question. I'm thinking I'll just retire from doing anything that implies I want room, it's too risky and I'm usually disappointed.

However, while the "no" response often produces a suitable amount of room, I'm still getting the occasional balance master who gives me a brimming cup of lava that usually gets all over my hand as I try to choke it down by the trash can until it is at an appropriate level for creamin'. And then there's the tension between the barista and me as I inquire of the half & half, looking at me like "no room, huh?"

Put your right index finger in front of your face and point to the left, or vice-versa. Most people have this finger, and probably a lot of baristas have this finger. THIS, people-- the girth of the index finger (left or right) should be the universal size of the room we are so often asked about, and no more. If we can't all agree on an appropriate standard of cream allotment, we have officially failed as a caffeinated people.

That is all.

Dumplings (2004)

Take 87 minutes to watch this beautiful movie.

http://vitamovie.com/movies/dumplings/

wait...

There's nothing more degrading than running for public transportation. Well, maybe there are a few things, but huffing it for a bus doesn't get you any cash in your g-string, or boners for your audience (usually). Some would say that the act of riding the bus itself is degrading, let alone breaking a sweat over it. I don't really mind, but I suppose I haven't really been around long enough to feel bad about not acquiring my own personal shame cart.

You're fully aware that the bus has the upper-hand in the relationship--often confusing you, making you wait around, follow its schedule. But you're human, and sometimes you forget that, for whatever reason, you took each shoe off in a separate room of the house. So there you are, letting out that throaty groan of frustration every so often until you find it and get your ass out the door.

You start doing some kind of math that you don't really understand once you lay eyes on the beefy monster. Like, how far away you are, how much time you think you have to get to it--really, just gauging whether or not you actually need to bring yourself to run. As you go over it in your mind, you figure it wouldn't hurt to pick up the pace so you walk with purpose until it transitions into a mom jeans, windbreaker-worthy power walk. The run starts when you know it's absolutely necessary, and even then you're aware that you may have started too late. If you've got stuff in your hands there's an added embarrassment, it makes your run look funny and probably slows you down--or you might drop it and reach entirely new levels of pathetic.

Whether they stop for you or not, it's a degrading scene. If they don't, there you are stranded with one arm out getting ditched by public transportation, while the punctual bastards in the back half look at you and smirk in a that's-a-shame kind of way. If the driver does stop for you it can go one of two ways: they're too sweet to make you feel bad about it and happily welcome you on, OR they act like you've really put them out and maybe make some smarmy comment about "the next time."

I suppose the reason it feels degrading in the moment is just because you're really only using this service to take you from A to B, so you can avoid real problems that come as a result of laziness or neglect. But when you can't even make the bus in time, that's when you really feel like shit.