Are you a delusional megalomaniac?

Today, I decided to do my solemn duty as the founder of this blog and actually write an update. I would like to claim I have been saving children from hunger and neglect, or at least ritually killing a few strippers; the reality is that I have been extremely lazy. Take today, for example. I spent the entire day alternating between lazy walks through my sizeable yard and playing basketball videogames. Occasionally, I picked up a deflated soccer ball and pretended I was the French national team star for a few minutes. That never lasted long.

All of this, of course, is besides the point. I am loveable and lazy, and I know our millions of readers around the globe would rather die than see me changed. It's truly nice to know I command that sort of respect; after all, who can honestly say they have a legion of zealous fanatics at their beck and call? I know, I know. The Chinese Premier, Jerry Falwell and Jerry Bruckheimer can all argue that they exercise the same power. It turns out we share more than this in common, however. We are all delusional, power-hungry maniacs!

To be fair, the list is more than four people deep. To help you determine if you might fall into this unique demographic category, I have assembled a "helpful" questionnaire:

1) Do certain obscure numbers hold inexplicable significance for you? For example, can you easily recall how many homeruns Barry Bonds struck in 1994, yet have difficulty remembering your parents' zip code?

2) Do you sometimes contemplate committing crimes just to see how people would react? Likewise, do you wonder how many mourners might attend your funeral if you dropped dead tomorrow?

3) While riding in a crowded subway car, someone says, "I hate it when he does that." Do you automatically turn and glare at them? Extra points if you ask them what it is you did wrong.

4) Do you feel there is a world shadow government controlling our nation's every move? If so, does it have vaguely satanic undertones? Does its leader speak with an Eastern European accent?

5) Can any and all of your problems be blamed on some minority? Is said minority capable of ruining your every dream while simultaneously being disgustingly inferior?

If you answered any of the above questions with "Yes", "No", "Depends on what I am wearing" or "5.1523", you are certifiably insane. I would recommend treatment but it turns out I am not a psychologist, which logically implies that I am not certified to provide you with this survey. Should you question my authority, however, I smother you with my undying legions.

I recommend you drink a lot of orange juice. I hear that helps sometimes. With cases like yourself, on the other hand, there is no proven remedy.

Cheers.

Listening to: Hands Away - Interpol

And I Reiterate

We at Bloody Murder like to think that our blog brings a sentiment of hope and optimism into this cold, cruel world. One of the ideas we have constantly referred back to is that there is someone for everyone. Whether a lonely human with a dolphin fetish, a lonely dolphin with a human fetish, a bored and horny corpse or a ginger-bearded maniac with a penchant for orthodontia, we have found that there is generally someone for everyone.

Upon noticing this trend, I decided to put it to the test. And what better way to do this than through Craigslist?

For those unfortunates who have not heard of Craigslist, let me enlighten you. Craigslist is basically a list of free classified ads for major cities around the world. These ads range from skeevy requests for a soulless fuck and emotionless fulfillment of an astonishing array of fetishes ("I enjoy doing major, intense, manual s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g of a man's scrotum bag and/or foreskin. I like to take the stretches to the edge of a man's endurance ... and hang out & stay there for a while.") to skeevy solicitations for transsexual prostitutes ("Sexy & Gorgeous Oriental She-male (TV) wants to make your fantasy come true…") to skeevy discussions of above topics and beyond ("I'm looking for some bars that are good pick-up places...Sometimes you just want to find someone to hook up with for the night, right?"). But apart from that, Craigslist has some amazing personal ads. I'm not going to lie, I spend hours sifting through the ads on this site:

HUNGRY LIKE THE WOLF
I'm on the hunt, I'm after you

Be EXRAORDINARY, I am

pierced, tattooed, punk rock, hardcore, indie boys..<33>
if you're older than 23, please leave, you have no use. YES I'M YOUNG, deal with it. im 17 and i love piercings, tattoos, the suicide girls, and a lot more. music is my life, mostly punk, rocka and psychobilly. if you have piercings, tats, or are just into punk, indie, or something along those lines, e-mail me. (17-23)

And if you were wondering, no that's not me. I'm not that much of a fucking cunt.

THIS IS A MESSAGE FOR A GIRL WHO ISN'T LIKE EVERYONE ELSE.
If you think that you are single and the only one with an obscure reason for it, then you really think the world was carved around you.
No, I think in Manhattan there are reasons that are social, that make it very difficult for each other to flirt and be romantic like we could be in France and other parts of the world where there is no agenda for love.(I am from France and have experienced much more spontaneous and genuine flirting and loving there.)
Love for me, is a whole
[blah, blah, blah, drawn-out, laughable sensitivity]
“I dream of an Asian princess with beautiful slenderer eyes and delicate face.
I dream of an African queen who may be as delicate as an Asian.
It may be strange to hear this but often I find black and Asians similar in the way they are so sensual and have the best skin in the world. I do like every kind of women, but my preferences are above."

The key part of that ad is "slenderer eyes" and "African queen." Olivier, that's no way to find a woman. I told you Craigslist doesn't work. Better stick with those luscious henchwomen.

So anyway, now that I've veered fabulously off-topic, I'm going to bring this round in an arc toward the original subject. I posted the following ad on the women seeking men section of the NYC Craigslist:

All I'm asking for... - 45
Voluptuous BBW with an increasing consciousness of her rapidly fading youth seeks tall, young, chiseled, hard-bodied hottie for fulfilling relationship and to remind her that she is still a desireable woman.

I am a gorgeous, rubenesque and optimistic mature woman. Standing at 5'3" and 400 lbs, I am all the woman you will ever need, right here in one sensual package tantalizingly wrapped in my flowered fluorescent muumuu. I am all soft curves and warm comfort; perfect for young men with lingering Oedipal complexes. Rest your head in my ample bosom, Momma will take care of you.

I have smooth porcelain skin, ocean-blue eyes and thick, lush waves of chestnut hair that cascade softly over my shoulders. People often compliment me on my wonderful hair. I keep it long and luxuriant and I like to pin it back with pretty, colorful, flower-shaped barrettes.

If I may say so myself, I am a whole lot of fun in my own homebody way. There's nothing I like more than cuddling with my two darling cats (Mipsy and Mopsy) in front of a PBS documentary on Saturday nights, munching on generic-brand Oreos ("Tuxedos") and sipping on German wine. You'll be surprised at how much you can learn from a show called "Tesla: Master of Lighting." But I'm pretty flexible, so I'm up for anything. You could probably pry me away from PBS for a night or two to go dancing or bowling or something fun like that!

Anyway, enough about me. I'm looking for a very good looking, 20 to 30 year old young man, someone with Brad Pitt's body, Orlando Bloom's cheekbones and Jake Gyllenhaal's eyes. Personality unimportant. Mild-tempered, docile, sweet, patient, easily-led, gullible and a little unintelligent is a plus.

I have a 21-year-old daughter, who happens to be a swimsuit model so I need someone who will be willing to give all his love and loyalty to me and who will not try to get with my daughter, which won't work anyway because she-well, she doesn't swing that way if you get my meaning. It would help if you could try to be a good father to her as well. Even if you do happen to be younger than her, I'll make sure she respects you as a father-figure.

You must be out there. Pic for pic!

I posted this at 10:30 at night. Next morning, I got up at 7:30 for work, brushed my teeth, checked the weather, checked my email. 9 replies. All right, fair enough. I get to work, start doing my usual faxing and filing and then check my email again. 4 more replies. Next day, 3 more replies. Mind you, by this time the ad I posted up was about 300 or 400 ads back (there are 100 ads per page). Yesterday, 2 more replies. Today, I received 1 more.

The thing that got me the most is that all of these replies were dead serious:

I'm attracted to the sound of you.
A fantastic notion you spell out.
A fluorescent muumuu and luscious curves..

Some About Me:

I am 27, single, residing on the west side of Midtown.
Smart, good looking, articulate, well dressed. I
know, not exactly to your specifications, but I'm sure
I will do. Witty. Well-educated, successful professional.
I'm 5 10, with short dark hair and a tan complexion.
Cook well.
Let's talk.

He enclosed a picture. Not a bad looking guy.

Well, were do i begin. Are u really ready to meet a great guy with no false pretenses? Okay, then here is a short description of me. Of course should you reply we can explore more about each others uniqueness. I am 6 feet tall, clean cut, clean, in my thirties, disease free, honest, mature, down to earth, real, romantic, and college educated...please send me your picture with your reply and if u wish a contact number where we can chat. I like your ad and i hope we can at least chat some time. You seem like an honest down to earth individual. I am surprise you are online seeking someone, however, I understand, that sometimes we have to seek other channels to hopefully find the best person. I am clean cut, and not into games. I am single, fit, fun, and down to earth...P.S. Do not worry about what I may think of your picture, I will not judge by that, I look at other more important variables such as internal beauty, kindness, personality and humor ect…. Please put unique nice person in your reply.

I love the "Are u really ready" part and the emphasis on "clean." And the "unique nice person" part. Basically, the whole damn thing is amazing. His pictures revealed some enormous eyebrows. But on the whole, a relatively normal looking guy.

MY NAME IS JOHNNY AND I BELIEVE LOVE CAN MOVE MOUNTAINS,LOL...BUT SERIOUSLY I LOVE THE MESSAGE U LEFT IN THE AD..I AM A SINGLE MALE 49 YRS OLD,YOUNG AT HEART....LIKES TO BE ON THE GO..VERY MUCH WOULD LOVE TO MEET A SPECIAL WOMAN TO SHARE MY TIME W/T..SOMEONE WHO LIKES TO GO TO ATLANTIC CITY,SHOPPING BUT WHO CAN HAVE LOTS OF FUN QUIET TIMES AT HOME...

Whoa, whoa, whoa. All caps = bad, Johnny.

MY NAME IS JIM, I AM VERY SINGLE, I LIVE IN NYC UES, A REAL ESTATE BROKER, 33 YRS OLD BUT I LOOK 25. ANYWAY IF U THINK I'M CUTE SEND ME YOUR PIC AND LETS MEET UP FOR A DRINK OR 2!!

Same goes for you too, Jim. No caps.

I am 25 and am very glad to have read your post.
It seems you do have a lot of confidence.
I would love to stray you away from PBS and your cats.
I would love to get into your cat and make you feel desirable.
I llove big tits. Do you like big dicks?
I am 5 7'" and in decent shape.
Tell me if you'd like to keep watching PBS or my PuBeS.

KHRiz

Ah, a razor sharp wit is quick young KHRiz.

hello ! well yes i love hot bbws and im looking for a new relationship in the city,send me your hottie pic and ill send you my pic and let me know whats up. i will say im ital / latin wht guy artsy not old fartsy 47yo. bobby

And articulate too.

swmdd 6' 170 40 looking to cuddle together over that bottle of wine or champagne...........

Ah yes, quality German wine. An oxymoron. Does anyone know what "SWMDD" stands for?

except for the father figure part...I don't know how serious I'd like to get at this time but the Oedipal and PBS stuff are on target and you decribed the physical attributes almost to a "T".

He lied. The picture reveals that he does not, in fact, have Brad Pitt's body, Orlando Bloom's cheekbones or Jake Gyllenhaal's eyes. Maybe a little bit of the eyes. I have no idea, I've never stared into Jake Gyllenhaal's eyes, although they are dreamy.

Maybe about 3 out of the 19 replies I received showed any semblance of an understanding that this ad was, in fact, a joke:

i have to call your bluff but i am a 22 yr old m in good shape

You ad on CL has got to be a joke. Isn't it? If it isn't, consider me very interested. Could you reply and just let me know what the deal is - i promise to reply back with a pic. I would love to be your guy, and I think I meet at least some of the criteria. Oh lord, if only there were really women like you...

I'm sorry that I really don't meet your qualifications, but I have to tell you that you write a terrific ad, honest and hilarious, and I hope you find someone who is more than merely unintelligent. You deserve it.

So basically, there are two conclusions you could draw from this:

1) There is someone for everyone.
2) There is nobody, except your fellow desperate rejects.

For out purposes, we're going to conclude number 1, because it agrees with my hypothesis and the hour is late, I am weary and it's very likely that nobody even bothered to read this far anyway. Class dismissed.

Listening to: "Playgirl" by Ladytron

Oh. My. God.

I am feeling a little shellshocked at the moment. I'm clearing out my room and, thus, my music collection. Digging through the pile of CDs in the corner of my room, I have found some truly horrendous specimens:

Adema - "Adema"
Apartment 26 - "Hallucinating"
James Horner - "Titanic: Music from the Motion Picture"
Orgy - "Blue Monday"
Orgy - "Candyass"
Orgy - "Opticon"
Orgy - "Fiction (Dreams in Digital)"
Ray Munns - "Ray's House"
Skindive - "Skindive"
Videodrone - "Videodrone"

WHY DID I SPEND MONEY ON ANY OF THIS CRAP? I can't believe I ever stood in a CD store and decided to invest in any of these CDs. I also happened to find a number of Orgy posters shoved in my closet. I can't believe I was ever into nu-metal. Jesus. Man, I would've hated myself if I knew myself as I had been at that time, now. Uhhh. Yeah. Wow, this music is really sub-par.

Listening to: "Space-Age Lullaby" by Skindive (WHY WHY WHY?)

Adopt-A-Nation

I have decided to take a break from my Final Paper of Death to inform you of this offer you simply cannot afford to miss. For the very first time, you can own your very own nation for the low, low price of one nuclear aircraft carrier filled to the brim with one-hundred dollar bills. Did I mention the ship must be built of solid gold? Here, have a few of our complementary mints.

If money is a problem, we have some very attractive financing plans available. Consider, for example, our magic bag plan. We give you a magic bag and then you pull money out of it and throw it at us. Is the bag really enchanted? Truthfully, no, but people will be amazed by your sleight of hand. So amazed, in fact, that you can rob them blind while they sit there and wonder how you manage to pull this money out of thin air. Works every time, I assure you.

Why Adopt-A-Nation? You can do all sorts of fun things with your own Third World country. Some people like to use them as their own personal fortresses. We sold one to this guy for just that purpose, but then he stopped paying after the initial deposit. Naturally, we had to reclaim the other half. Now his son just sits around all day in a silly hat and watches porn. Terrible story, let me tell you. Corporations love them. They make great vacation homes, and they tend to have more bananas than you could eat in a lifetime. Yes, sometimes they have oil, but you'll have to pay extra for that option. Should I mark you up for that? You can save a little money if you agree to the "desert wasteland clause". Sorry, sir, there's only so much rainforest to go around.

Can you find happiness through Adopt-A-Nation? Certainly! So many of our customers purchase their countries in an effort to compensate for their other failings. Napoleon? He went through our offices. Before he contacted us, Josephine was not giving him a second thought. Funny story, actually: we used to call him "Shrink Wrap" behind his back. Can it help you deal with unresolved father-son issues? I don't see why not. Give it a shot, I say!

The current tenants? They're rather a bad bunch. We'll be happy to see them go, actually. They are always botherign the neighbors and raising a ruckus. We'll just plant a few oil cans full of baby powder here and there; use that as an excuse for retaking the property. In fact, you can say you are attacking for the good of humanity. No, they do not hijack airplanes in their spare time. No, they are in fact atheists. Do not worry yourself, my man! They all look the same in the end. Just forge a few documents here and there! People will buy it! They'll love it! Revenge, guns and Arabs! Sounds like a blockbuster to me!

I must warn you, however, that the natives do not really take kindly to invasion. They have all these misguided thoughts of independence and self-sufficiency. But fret not! All you need are a few men who approve of your rule. Trust me on this one. Appoint one of them president, and I guarantee he will be begging you to stay. It turns out that if you facilitate his rise to power, he is more than willing to dance to your tune.

The key, it turns out, is not being too obvious about the fact you own the place. Let them govern themselves; just deny them a military of any significance. Let them retain control of their major industries; just make sure they know who their biggest trading partner is. It's like being a pimp. Do not follow your whores everywhere. Let her come to you and slap her around if she tries anything fishy.

Do we have a deal? Good! I knew you were a man of vision! Enjoy your purchase, and remember not to be too truthful about what is going on. Five years from now, when your nation is a cuter, smaller version of yourself, no one will worry about what you did and did not do. How could anything possibly go wrong, after all?

Listening to: Finding Me - Vertical Horizon

According to the media, Nietzche was right

After watching a blow-by-blow live n' morbid broadcast of Reagan's lying-in-state in the Capitol, I have come to the conclusion that the American media believes that Reagan was God. Thus, I came to the following conclusion: the American media agrees with Fredrich Nietzche in his statement "God is dead."

Reagan = God
Reagan = Dead
Therefore, by the theory of commutation, God = Dead

Of course, if somebody proves that Reagan was not, in fact, God, then the proof falls to bits.

I'll do the honours. Reagan was not God. He was a human, or at the very least a humanoid alien or an alien in a really good human costume. He was also the President of America in the 1980s. I don't think you can be the President of America if you are not human, therefore Reagan must have been human. Anyway, if he is human he cannot be God because God is perfect and humans are fundamentally flawed, except for Anna Nicole Smith who is, as everybody knows, a true-blue goddess. Also, he didn't actually do anything useful, unlike God who did a lot of useful things like created the world or at least created the conditions that brought about the creation of the world or something to that effect. Fuck you, Science.

Reagan could have been the nicest, most optimistic, mostest specialast man in the entire world, but he wasn't a good president and now he's dead. His death doesn't erase history and it doesn't erase the fact that he didn't do a whole lot while he occupied the White House. Just because the Cold War happened to during his term, doesn't mean he ended it. I mean, the War in Iraq happened during Dubya's presidency and he didn't cause it. Wait. Bad example. Whatever. Reagan was just lucky enough to be president when the Soviet Union finally gave in to the inevitable and came crash-crash-crashing down into the welcoming but ineffectual arms of perestroika, one burning wheel rolling poignantly out from the flames. His administration poured money into funding ridiculous ventures like SDI and revolutions in El Salvador and Nicaragua. He pulled funds out of Medicare, Medicaid, welfare, food stamps and a bunch of other progressive social programmes. And then there was the invasion of Grenada. And then the Iran-Contra affair.

We're not even going to talk about supply-side economics.

Nothing personal, you understand. You probably did your best, and I respect that Mr. Reagan. And even if you weren't an amazing president, you had a pretty amazing life.

But my animosity is toward the media who have turned somebody's death into a sappy, vomit-inducing freak show.

RIP Ronald Reagan.

Listening to: "Televators" by the Mars Volta

Ding Dong, Reagan's Dead

I was sad to discover that Ronald Reagon, 545th President of These United States, passed away the other day. Or maybe it was the day before that. Or maybe he's still alive in a stasis tank somewhere, waiting for my scientists to transform him into an unstoppable killing machine the likes of which the world has never seen before. Don't worry your pretty little heads with details like that; for all intents and purposes, he is dead until he reappears outside your house with a maniacal gleam in his eye and a railgun for a right hand.

At any rate, I was reading various political blogs praising/condemning the legacy of Ronald "Grand Poobah" Reagan when I dawned upon me that I should do a run-down of the various Reagan memorials you can read. After all, who wants to keep a tarnished memory of this man's contributions to society? Keep in mind that none of these commentaries will seem that important when Robo-Reagan invades your backyard and eats your puppy.

Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado:

Peter Schramm likes to call his blog No Left Turns. You can tell he is a very open and fun-minded individual:

They may have been embarrased by his designation of the USSR as an Evil Empire, but every ordinary person from Ashland to Budapest to Vladivostok knew it was true. The only shocking thing about the statement was that an American president had said it, a president able to make a moral distinction. This was shocking to their nihilistic sensibilities. Yet that simple statement was the final cause of the death of Communism.

As you can see, Reagan is a physical marvel, a god among men. This is precisely why I have appropriated his corpse. After all, he destroys evil empires with a single word! Imagine what he could kitted out in the latest cybernetic technology! Also, I am glad conservatives are using this solemn occasion to think up yet another label for liberals. We are now God-hating, baby-consuming, unpatriotic nihilists.

Quite a mouthful. I also like how he titled his piece "Ronald Reagan, American". Funny, I thought he was Samoan.

Balloon Juice also has something to get off its chest. THE DEMOCRATIC UNDERGROUND MUST PAY FOR THE DISHONOR THEY HAVE SUBJECTED MY FAMILY TO! Kindly ignore the fact that many of these people are in fact expressing their condolences and doing so in a very mature and kindly way. A few bad apples really do spoil the bunch, especially if you make apple sauce.

Hootinan is probably the worst name for a website. Ever. In the history of mankind:

Reagan defeated the Soviets but so what, he didn't do enough to for AIDS victims, an easily preventable disease, therefore he was a miserable failure and so was his entire 8 years. Confronting evil and defeating the single most important threat to human existance means nothing, but curing AIDS, ahh now that's something, that's what defines a Presidency. Disgusting, the more I read what the other side has to say the more I believe it truly is a mental disease, and this isn't rhetorical bullshit either.

Yes. I take pills for this condition. Sometimes I forget to take my medicine and start hearing voices. Then I wake up in a pool of what I think is my own blood.

If you like, we could ignore Reagan's pitiful AIDS record on one condition: I am sick and tired of hearing that Ronald Reagan destroyed communism single-handedly. He had a lot of help from the Robot Doom Legion. They told me so.

Useful Fools pretty much says it all:

The “good little queer” can't admit that "his people" died because they spread a deadly disease among themselves through an exceedingly high rate of promiscuity, performing biologically dangerous sexual acts with many partners. Nor does he or his movement accept their responsibility in the “collateral damage” of killing huge numbers of innocent hemophiliacs and others who used contaminated blood. They forget that Ronald Reagan, a former Hollywood figure, had a number of homosexual friends. Instead, the gay world seeks to shift its collective guilt for greatly amplifying the spread of AIDS by blaming Ronald Reagan.

Oh! You got them there! You got served, gay community! Spreading a disease you knew nothing about? Shame! Shame! I look down upon your lifestyle and hope Satan bends you over his knee! Yes, you are all going to hell, you irresponsible cunts.

John Moore, I bet you were one of those kids who got through kindergarten by hiding in the corner and calling the class bully a fuckwad behind his back. Does that ring a bell?

Silent Running takes the same medicine I do:

I can't escape thinking that for the United States and the free world it's 1980 again. A bitter enemy, who despises everything that we stand for and cherish, who wants to destroy our civilisation and build their own totalitarian utopia, is on the march, emboldened by years of compromises and appeasement. Will the people turn to a Democrat, who occasionally talks tough but whose heart isn't really in it, or will they choose a Republican, a "war-monger" and a laughing stock to the sophisticated and nuanced crowd, but for the rest of us someone who sees things clearly and is resolved to take the enemy on and consign him, too, to the ash-heap of history?

All right, there are two problems with this post. First of all, I detest it when people use Tom Paine as their internet handle. Secondly, it is no longer 1980. Twenty-four years have passed, my lad, and it is time to move on. The world is a different place, and there is no clear enemy to consign to the ash-heap of history. Rethink yourself, eh? Otherwise, I give you an 82 for this work.

BaneRants proves that liberals are not the only tasteless ones out there:

93 is plenty old enough. I am glad his suffering has ended. I hope the plane carrying his family back from the ceremony slams into a mountain. He was a good man, generally, and God, through him, did some great things. Some very bright people wrote some incredible speeches that he delivered admirably.

I think history will show him to be one of humanities greatest leaders...

And you know how much I love humanity.

Creepiest blog ever. I am now scarred for life. In all honestly, who wishes that on somebody? In all honesty, Bane, I feel like you do not like humanity at all. I feel like you are one of those people who attends church twice a week and then spends the rest of the day searching for that kid who made fun of you in third grade. I would say more but I am worried you might hunt me down and beat me with my own severed leg.

This guy is cool. I am not just saying that because he is a basketball fan:

The more I witnessed up close the finger-in-the-air approach to policy that most politicians practice, the more I came to appreciate that Reagan actually had some beliefs about which he would not compromise. I also came to appreciate his ability to know when there was no more negotiating room and the exact time to compromise, and then, with artful savvy, declare victory.

Let me say this: Ronald Reagan was a tremendous speaker. He was also, for better or worse, a man of principle. He genuinely believed communism had to be stopped and truthfully felt he was fighting the good fight. Whatever your opinions on his policies were, you have to admire his strong character and warm personality. Once, when I was feeling sick, he bought me flowers and a new automobile. True story.

Now lynch me.

Listening to: History Repeating (House Mix) - Propellerheads

Deep Thoughts with Melanie Griffith

All Melanie Griffith wants is to show you the way to true enlightenment. And so she has hired a frustrated and, without a doubt, soulless team of web designers to create Avalon, a fantastically self-indulgent confection of Yanni-esque music, amateurish flash movies and magnificent scenes of nature. She must be congratulated for being refreshingly honest about her addiction to prescription drugs, but on the other hand, Avalon seems like a sinister sceme to get back on her fans' (who are all undoubtedly good, God-fearing and chubby midwestern housewives and thus a little behind the times) good sides.

Well, she's doing a good job of it. Her site pretty much covers all bases, from the Goddess Book Club featuring priceless contributions to literature such as Sting's Autobiography Broken Music and The Heart of the Soul: Emotional Awareness by Gary Zukav and Linda Francis. Book discussions must be real inter-llectual, like.

Griffith also provides tips on how to connect with your inner child, or something to that effect through "The Story of Avalon," a section of the website devoted to all that meditation and inner-peace bullshit that celebrities buy into. According to Griffith, Avalon is some sort of unattainable imaginary arcadia to which one can escape in order to avoid one's problems. She words it somewhat differently, but the idea is the same:

When I want to escape from this sometimes insane life of mine, I close my eyes and conjure up my very own Avalon. Like this island of legend, there is beauty, tranquility, serenity and peace.

I too withdraw into my own personal fantasyland when life gets the best of me. Hey, it helped me with all of my problems. All you have to do is imagine that you're a child on a rocking horse in a wonderful playroom, and to lose yourself in this chimerical environment. It greatly confuses the prosecution when the defendent starts rocking back and forth while tunelessly humming "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" in the middle of a grand jury hearing. Thank you for that, Melanie, I owe it all to you.

The "Dream Room" is worth looking at, too. There, Melanie reveals how she looks "to her inner conscience for answers." She advises that to find answers to life's problems, one should write to one's inner-self. She provides a template for this:

Dear Inner Self,
If it is your will, please reveal to me in a dream tonight the positive way to (insert problem here) in order to become closer to you.

With love and respect,
(Insert your name)

So last night I tried this method of solving my problems. I wrote the following letter to my Inner Self:

Dear Inner Self,
If it is your will, please reveal to me in a dream tonight the positive way to cook a fluffy and light mini chocolate souffles in individual ramekins in order to become closer to you.

With love and respect,
Laura

And guess what? That night, I dreamed that I was in a kitchen, grating chocolate and beating eggs. Then, I was taking an exam when I realized that I wasn't wearing any clothes, so I ran outside and jumped onto a large Jersey cow, adorned with fresh flowers, which I rode over the mountains of Kansas under the honey-yellow harvest moon. Then, I reached the sacred mountain just beyond whatever their capital is. There I ascended to the top and made a sacrifice of Harry Potter books to the child-goddess of nouvelle cuisine. She ascended from the heavens to bestow upon me the secret to fluffy and light mini chocolate souffles in individual ramekins, but then my alarm clock went off. I think that my inner self was telling me that I have a long journey to go before I shall be given the power to create real ultimate souffles. There are no mountains in Kansas.

Well, since this dream had gotten my knickers in a twist, I decided to visit the "Meditation Room", described as "a wonderful place to regain the peace and tranquility that we so often lose during the day." I chose the "World Peace" meditation, which displayed a pulsing montage of fluffy dandelion seeds set against a purple background. I was instructed to use the mantra "I am One with All." I switched off all the lights in my room, crossed my legs and let myself be drawn into the feathery purple swirls and the soaring, Mobyesque soundtrack. I repeated my mantra over and over again. Unfortunately my attempt to bring about world peace was thwarted when Pimp Master Dopetastic Diamondtrim Sweet Chocolate O. Daviron Diz-Dazzle began banging on the door and threatening to pimp-slap my muthafuckin' ass because a ho who don't trick is a ho who needs to be kicked to the curb, you dig me bitch? And while we talkin' where the hizzy is my green-green, ho?

So shit, I've got to get to work. But before I leave to ply my luscious unspoiled young Oriental peach-blossom body on the mean streets of Kuum-Ni, North Korea, I'll leave you with this inspirational missive that I found on the message board, courtesy of a man I shall, unfortunately, never know by any name other than "Brunie":

I have been having yellow stool lately and wonder why. I try to keep harmony in the body but these stool have a habit of offensive odor. What can I do to promote the fitness and harmony to get rid of this strange stool and odor before it causes me situations of ambarrassment?

God bless you, Brunie.

Listening to: "A Letter to Elise" by The Cure

Stop Trying to Cheer Me Up, Fucker

You know, I really like capitalism. I know that I'm from North Korea and all, but shit, I'd just like to get it out there. I HEART CAPITALISM. I love the concept of amassing the benjamins, yo. I go through great lengths to simulate the lifestyles of the rich and famous, imitating what I see on "The Fabulous Life of JLo." Bitch be stylin' fo' shizzy. I buy the finest Louis Vuitton and Versace down on Canal St. and am a regular shopper at icedoutgear.com. When I walk down the street, all iced-out, I cause crashes because of my hotness, and because of the fact that the sticky, humid NYC sun reflects off my bling, blinding cab drivers.

This is great and all, but the dark side of capitalism is the lengths companies will go through to one-up each other. Customer service is allegedly the secret to bigbigyummy profits. Friendly employees make people want to spend more! But is this true? Let's examine two examples: Jamba Juice and Cold Stone Creamery.

JAMBA JUICE
I adore Jamba Juice. In NYC, I have to pay $5 for an original size smoothie, but boy is it worth it. The idea of a big, fruity smoothie makes me happy. It redeems my soul after a long shitty day of filing, faxing and sucking blood out of paper cuts. So I step up to the counter in the citrus-coloured faux-So-Cal riot that is every single Jamba Juice store ever created, where I am greeted by a tiny Asian in a visor and an apron with a maniacal "I'm going to eat your tasty tender babies" grin on her face:

"HI! HOW ARE YOU TODAY?!?! CAN I HELP YOU????"
"I'm...fine thanks. May I have an original Caribbean Passion with a vita boost please?"
"SURE!!! THAT'LL BE $5.27!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!! ENJOY YOUR SMOOTHIE!!!!! NEXT CUSTOMER PLEASE!!!!! HI! HOW ARE YOU TODAY?!?! CAN I HELP YOU?????"

When I close my eyes, I can still see the frenzied desperation hidden deep within that demonical grin. She hates her job. She hates Jamba Juice. She hates me. She doesn't really care how I am today. She knows she can help me, even though she hates me. I back away from her, her cash register and her crazed beam, ducking under the velvet rope to wait for my smoothie. I watch the thousands of employees in identical black visors, black aprons and grim expressions milling around the preparation area. Squeezing, juicing, slicing, pulping, blending, scrubbing - Jesus Christ, it looks so sinister, like a fucking nuclear warhead factory, Bond arch-villain style. A frazzled looking young woman finishes tapping my smoothie into a giant styrofoam cup, "NORA???" She looks around quizically, "Uh...LAURA???" I step forward. She pastes a familiar, nutso grin on her face.

"Yeah, hi, that's me."
"Hi Laura, my name is Sammy. How are you today? This is your Caribbean Passion with a Vita Boost"
"Thanks"

She gives me another huge, desperate, last-ditch smile, "I hope you enjoy your smoothie and have a WONDERFUL day."

Thanks Sammy. I carefully take my smoothie from her outstretched hand and scurry out the door. Jamba Juice is always such a fucking exhausting experience. I always feel obligated to return their barmy grimaces, so I leave the store feeling like a crumpled, smiled-out rag and am unable to express emotion for the rest of the day. Dude, just ring up my fucking order, give me my damn smoothie and stop trying to be my friend.

COLD-STONE CREAMERY
As soon as I step in the door, I realize this is a bad idea. Staring at the insane menu (Germanchokolatekake, At the Cocoa Banana Cabana, Cookie Doughn't You Want Some) I heard a yell of "We got a tip!" I turn around to see who's shouting, only to witness every single employee in the store doing some sort of goofy on-the-spot dance (High-school girls Volleyball team style) and chanting "I love it, I like it, I really got to have it" or something to that effect. A bashful, spooked mother and child hurry out the door in response to this display. Very good.

I edge around to the place where the ice cream case was. In truth, I am somewhat entranced by these two guys working there - not because they are good looking (because they aren't), but because they resemble feather dusters of the kind you get in dollar stores. Both of them have bleach-highlighted their hair and have somehow hairsprayed it so that it radiates from their heads in a fluffy, blond-and-brown cloud, encircled by their black visors. Team spirit? Or are they just INSANE? Are they trying to inject some sort of individuality into the mindless conformity of their job?

"Can I help you?"
"Yeah, can I have, um, a small one of banana, please?"
"Sure, do you want something mixed in with it?"
"Um, no thanks."
"Are you sure? It's free!"
"No thanks."
"Aw c'mon. You sure?"

Well, no. I'm not sure. YOU'VE ONLY ASKED ME THREE TIMES. So he scoops me this enormous mountain of ice cream, which is all very exciting, and I go up to pay, "Hey! How are you?" Oh God, not again.

I'm fine thanks. How are you?
I'm great! Thanks! Are you excited for your ice cream?

What?
It's an ice cream, not a trip to Disneyworld.

Actually I give him a blank, surprised look and say, "Yeah. Sure...I guess."

CONCLUSION
To all the people at Jamba Juice and Cold Stone Creamery, stop trying to be my friend. I know you don't care and it's not making me love your store any more. In fact, your lunatic grins and tense, overly-friendly voices and bright, vacant eyes are beginning to frighten me. What happened to the good old days of service with a sour, embittered look? What happened to surly, apathetic high-school ice-cream scoopers who ignored you and took the time to flirt with their co-workers instead? I loved those days. Service was quick and grouchy, just the way I like it. Less time with the customer means more time in back storeroom with Stacey/Brent, the hot cheerleader/quarterback with whom you work.

Shit, this doesn't make any sense. I am exhausted. Nobody reads this shit anyway.

THERE OLIVIER, I DID MY FUCKING UPDATE.

Listening to: "Don't Mug Yourself" by The Streets

Someone for Everyone

Love is a wonderful thing because it is universal. Every carbon-based lifeform, it seems, can experience this emotion, be it for another member of their species, a completely different species or an inanimate logic. This long-awaited update, however, has nothing to do with love. As usual, it deals with insanity, the only topic I can make money writing about, though I could technically earn something writing sordid sexual epics starring your favorite childhood cartoon characters.

Children, before we begin our analysis, I want you to study the source material intently. Here is a copy. Do not consume any psychotropic substances before viewing this site. Possible side effects include: listening to ICP, painting your face and having sexual fantasies featuring clowns.

This website has one positive aspect, and that is that none of these people live in either Connecticut or New York, thereby confirming my hypothesis that I live in the two sanest and least disturbing areas of these United States. I would take the time to make fun of the rest of the country, but the truth is that I am not really that bored. Instead, I will randomly select a few choice regions:

Illinois

Illinois is close to my heart because my university campus is located in scenic Evanston, a suburb of Chicago and the place where Hollywood situated that hip teen comedy, "Mean Girls". I also spend most of my free time making fun of the state in some way or another, so I was very happy to find more things to criticize about this god-forsaken area.

Our first personal did not disappoint. First of all, who in their right mind names their kid Ashie? That's a social massacre of the highest order, punishable by the Geneva Convention, or maybe just John Ashcroft. Her instant messenger is apparently "L0ser 0f Th3 D4y", which is perfect. After all, she is searching for a soulmate on a AOL site, which is a few steps removed from, say, your average match-making website. She is also looking for a man (I am guessing) who listens to ICP. Need I say more? Finally, she advertises herself as "Not typical Juggalette, but sure as hell is as good as any other!". Honestly, Ashie, that will not do. I refuse to date an atypical Juggalette. In fact, I pretty much refuse to date Juggalettes, period. In fact, for your purposes, Ashie, I only fuck dolphins.

Ashie's personal, however, is trumped by Tony's triumph at the bottom of the page. Tony's picture shows him flaunting his addiction to Faygo, which is quite possible the worst name for a soda I have ever heard. That in and of itself should be enough to undermine any artistic credibility ICP has; after all, real artists drink Pepsi. Just ask Britney. Tony also likes Slipknot and is "DOWN WITH THE CLOWN".

I'll stop now.

Washington

Washington's two major exports are rainwater and serial killers. To top it all off, they have Shannen to keep things interesting and varied.

Shannen's pictures illustrate one of the biggest problems I personally have with ICP; it allows white kids in death-metal sweatshirts to flash gang signs. Forget the Crips, readers! The ICP gang is taking over suburbia! And they are drinking FORTIES FULL OF FAYGO! THE HUMANITY!

She also has this irritating habit of referring to herself in the third person. That may work for cranked-out musicians and NBA stars, but it does not suit young girls hailing from Yakima, Washington. She is also not a cutie. Shannen, if you are reading this, I hate you and you are ugly as sin. I suggest you find a job that allows you to skulk around in dark rooms and see very little sunlight.

Oh wait, you're an ICP fan. Well then, keep on doing what you do best.

Massachusetts

I was extremely upset to discover that Massachusetts had fallen. I am currently petitioning Rudy Giuliani to build a wall around the state of New York, in an effort to protect us from the dangers of the ICP world. I know he's listening.

First on our list of eligible bachelors is "spider zombie", hailing from scenic Boston. In his own words, he was born with a hatchet. His parents hate him and feed him arsenic for dinner.

Our final contestant is Marye. She hails from Burlington and is "single like WUT!", whatever that means. Like all good Juggalettes, she swings hatchets, which must be fun in bed if you enjoy having your head split in half. She is also a little past smoking and prefers to "sm0ke", which is just like puffing regularly except WAY MORE EXTREME. At first glance, I had trouble telling her apart from her friend. For the low, low price of a Snickers bar, however, I will let you marry both of them. In fact, I will perform the ceremony, because I am an ordained minister and I enjoy seeing people ruin their lives and lose a perfectly good candybar.

Amen.

Listening to: Meteorology - Overseer