What I Learned From "Garden State"

Today I went to see the movie Garden State starring Zach Braff and Natalie Portman. I didn't want to go, but I kind of had to because it was a friend's birthday and she really wanted to see it, so I shelled out $6.75 and sat in a dark, climate-controlled cinema for 2 hours instead of enjoying the beautiful sunshine and breeze outside. Anyway, I have drawn the following conclusions from the movie:

1. You can be incredibly irritating and clingy as long as you're cute and Natalie Portman.
2. Taking Lithium for more than ten years leads to bad decisions, i.e. giving up your dreams and staying in New Jersey because you're convinced you're in love with a disorganized schizophrenic epileptic pathological liar who lives with her mom and adopted African brother in a house full of homicidal animals and a pet cemetary in the backyard.
3. Zach Braff is one of the least attractive human beings I have ever seen.
4. Money shouldn't be wasted on seeing shitty movies.

Therefore, you should all go see this movie. Misery loves company.

Listening to: "Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before" by The Smiths

1st Annual Bloody Murder Auction

That's right folks, it's the FIRST EVER OPPORTUNITY for the general public to own Bloody Murder memorabilia. You can now own your very own ORIGINAL and LIMITED EDITION Bloody Murder thing! The world has never seen such an INCREDIBLE spread of AMAZING objects. Unfortunately, we'll have to get through the nitty gritty information first, before we present the articles for sale. But, as the saying goes, anticipation makes you salivate more. Right?

Once you win the undoubtedly heated bidding war for your item of preference, we'll need you to place the unmarked cash in a generic-brand black garbage bag and place it in the center of the Angel of the Waters Fountain on the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park (where S.K. Thoth used to do his thing). You will then leave or you will regret it. We will send somebody to pick it up. Once the money is in our hands, we will send somebody to deliver the goods. Do not be afraid if a few days after you drop off the money, a small and lithe monkey in a ninja costume launches himself through your window with a package. Of course, this is contingent on the product you purchase. For larger objects, we have other means of delivering it including, but not limited to, minor but unpleasant demons and lissom, effeminate fops.

If that hasn't set you drooling, then you may as well switch off your computer and lie in a cool, dark room somewhere, because on we go:

Item #1: Your Own Temporary Asian Watchstrap Girlfriend
Laura has managed to persuade Madame Maria to make available one of her girls for your enjoyment. This package allows you to spend two nights and a day with Mei Ling hanging adoringly off your arm. She is one of the most popular girls in the establishment. Mei Ling is not only difficult to book, but she is very good at what she does. Extremely versatile, Mei Ling can be shy and demure or feisty and sassy, depending on your preference. She has long silky hair and big almond eyes. She's also small and cute.
Everybody loves small, cute Asians.
Value: $4500
Starting bid: $1200
Item #2: A Bloody Murder AIM Icon
We don't have a logo yet, but we can make one just for you. A personalized one. Yes.
Everybody loves AIM icons.
Value: Priceless
Starting bid: $1
Item #3: Olivier
This is an unbelievable opportunity. You can OWN Olivier. Forever. To be honest, we needed an excuse to get rid of him, but we didn't want to fire him, so we've decided to let the public have a chance to own Olivier. He's in good condition, barely used, with negligable emotional baggage and his own clothes. He has all his own teeth and decent eyesight and, if your tastes run that way, I expect he can be quite ornamental with a little refurbishment. He pretty much runs on beer; you can just keep him in an aquarium and toss in a few cans of Bud Light every other day or so. Sometimes you'll need to take him out for a run around the yard every week, but other than that he can amuse himself and, sometimes, you too! He's worth every penny.
Everybody loves Oliviers.
Value: 50 cents
Starting bid: 1 cent.

Don't all rush at once. Just leave a message with your contact information and your bid, and we'll get back to you if you're the winner. Happy bidding!

Two Dollar Psychotherapy

Some of you are undoubtedly acquainted with the cultural icon that is GroupHug. For those of you who are not, let me just say that it is more than a website. It is a cultural icon, a revolutionary movement of staggering proportions. It dwarfs entire nations, yet permeates every aspect of our beings. It is, to quote the illustrious Thomas Martin, "fucking amazing". Nowhere else can you find so many people whining about so many different topics. Actually, belay that statement, matey; your average Dashboard concert is on a par.

Nevertheless, GroupHug is incredible. It irrevocably proves that there is a Catholic in every one of us; we all, to some extent, feel a need to confess our sins. Of course, not all of us feel an abject need to broadcast our deepest darkest secrets across the Internet. That is part of the site's appeal; your average poster is a deranged, disturbed madman with exhibitionist tendencies.

GroupHug, however, is an incomplete effort at best. Confession is good, but psychotherapy is better! While I lack official qualifications, I am (in the loosest sense of the word) a psychology major and a not-entirely-syndicated advice columnist. I will use the Power Of The World Wide Web to heal these people for free! I will be the psychoanalyst you never knew you needed!

Join me! Let us navigate the treacherous passages of GroupHug and dispense some healing:

I've really wanted to have sex with my mother. I know its wrong, but its a uncontrolable urge i have. I sit in my room and masterbate about her. Ive even sneaked into her room and found pictures of her using Didlos and things. I know that Incest is wrong, but its just something ive really craved. I dont know why, but i just picture me being on my knees licking her out. -.- I have problems.

Yes, you just might. In the business of psychoanalysis, we refer to this as an Oedipus complex. In the business of ordinary life, we refer to people like you as, in the words of the immortal Oliver Cromwell, "completely fucked up". Thankfully, there is hope for your kind. Just perform the following actions:

1. Buy a whip. Whenever you find yourself having immoral thoughts about your mother, beat your penis senseless.
2. Run away from home.
3. Find a girlfriend. I recommend Times Square at two in the morning.

And now for our next confession:

Are there any decent guys out there??? I'm always hearing guys talk about the
hot super skinny models with big boobs and blonde hair. Aaaarrrggghhh!!!!! No
offense to the ladies who fit the description, I'm not lashing out on you, or on ALL guys, but I just wish that some guys out there weren't so fuckin shallow. It makes me think that's it what most guys want. I've never had a proper boyfriend, ever. I've not even kissed a guy before. I know I'm only 15 but everyone else seems to have done it all and I'm too embarassed to say I haven't. Girls say I'm cool and
pretty enough to go out with any guy I want, but are they just saying that just
to make me feel happier? I can't take it. It makes me so upset. Where is he?

Let me impress you with a few Stunning Revelations. First of all, all men are shallow. Secondly, your friends are just saying that. The truth is that you are hideous. If every man on the planet suddenly turned blind, you might have a chance of luring one of them into your clutches, but I seriously doubt even that could improve your odds.

The only solution is plastic surgery. Start saving up!

i want to confess that people who seeks god for help annoys me to no end. the only god that exists is the one in your pea sized head. this god of your will never help or save you from anything especially your stupidity. just because a long time ago some asshole decided to create this nonsense and you're still sitting here praying... get a clue

No, that's entirely wrong, lad, for He is I and I am He. I am most upset by your lack of faith and will punish you for your blasphemous writings.

Now if you will excuse me, I have a universe to run.

Listening to: All These Things That I've Done - The Killers

Georgetown Dating Game

Why, hello! Step in, make yourself comfortable and welcome! Welcome! Now, all you lonely young men and creepy old paedophiles should know that Georgetown University is a veritable treasure-trove of pretty young things. (Oh no he didn't!) Oh yes I did! Ha ha! So we've brought you a special Georgetown edition of The Dating Game to show you just what's in store at this venerable old institution.

Please welcome our first bachelor, Justin. Justin is a thirty-two-year-old Capitol Hill yuppie looking for love in all the wrong places. He's had his share of chic Adams-Morgan bars, and women his own age. Now he's looking to rob the cradle. So we've brought him to Rhino's in Georgetown to check out some young co-ed flesh. Let's introduce him to our bachelorettes.

And here they are!

Bachelorette number 1 is a twenty-one-year-old sophomore double-majoring in French and History. But she's not just brains, oh no, she's the self-professed "Queen of the Ellipticals" at Yates Field House. She spends upwards of four hours a day working out on the ellipticals, and you can certainly see the results! Her hobbies are partying, ellipticals, hanging out with friends, movies, ellipticals, hair ribbons, shopping at Polo and J. Crew, ellipticals and just having fun!

Bachelorette number 2 is a nineteen-year-old freshman with a fake ID. She sure loves to party! Her special talents include shots and tying a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue. Bachelorette number 2 has the stamina of a racehorse, the tolerance of a Mezcal worm and the razor-sharp mind of a mung bean! When she's not drinking, Bachelorette number 2 likes to lie in a darkened room with a damp towel over her eyes, cursing at her roommate who's typing too loudly.

And last, but most certainly least, Bachelorette number 3 is a twenty-year-old sophomore with blue hair and a rebellious mien. When she's not being sulky and commenting sourly on all the "preppy whores," she lolls around in her friend's apartment drinking Smirnoff Ice and chain-smoking cloves, wearing her black Chuck Taylors with depressing poetry written on them in sharpie, and ironic t-shirts. She's a very unique individual, and there is nobody in the entire world who understands her pain or artsiness.

Oh, so many choices. How can Justin pick from so many eligible bachelorettes? Well, he's got some questions for our lucky ladies today. Go ahead Justin!

If I were a banana, how would you eat me?
#1: After my ellipticals workout...when I'm all hot and sweaty.
#2: I'd peel you slowly, then swallow you whole.
#3: Uh...I'd chop you up into little pieces and scatter you on my cereal.

We're on a date and I suggest a romantic after-dinner walk. Where would you want to go?
#1: I'd want to take a nice brisk walk to your apartment.
#2: To the nearest bar. I can do a couple of tricks with a cherry...and I expect you can too.
#3: Um...CVS?

If you could pick any occupation for me, what would you pick?
#1: A personal trainer, so you could give me a real workout!
#2: A bartender, so I could see you every day.
#3: The guy who salsas and fandangoes with a blow-up doll in Grand Central.

So, Justin, you have quite a dilemma. Who do you think you're going to pick?
Well, Jack, it's really hard, but I'm going to have to go with bachelorettes #1 and #2.
But Justin, do you think you can really pick two?
I don't know Jack, but we'll just have to find out.
We'll find out in a second. Let's meet who you didn't pick first. Justin, meet bachelorette #3. She looks glad that you didn't pick her. Now, bachelorette #3, go on backstage for your consolation prize. A Hoya dog leash.

Bachelorette #1 and #2, please come out! Now, this is very unorthodox, but Justin's decided to take both of you home. Does that work for you? It does!? Wonderful! Justin, meet Caitlin and Jessica. Yes, they're both blondes, aren't you lucky? My, don't they look just stunning in their polo shirts, ruffled skirts and flip-flops. What lovely tans.

Now, Justin, you've won a digital camcorder! Congratulations! Now, you can take wonderful crisp, colourful videos of your raunchy exploits with bachelorette #1 and #2 and post it directly onto the internet! Now, it's time say goodbye to the lucky trio as they head on over to Justin's apartment in Virginia. Goodbye!

Moral of the story: Annoying emo-bitches never get laid.

Listening to: "Stay Don't Go" by Spoon

And Don't Forget the Keywords: paris hilton video

Diary of a Corporate Whore

You think you know, but you have no idea:

7:00 AM: Alarm rings. Smash snooze button.
7:50 AM: Tired of mashing snooze button. Turn alarm off.
8:20 AM: Consider the merits of emerging from my lair.
8:25 AM: Actually do drag my carcass out of bed.
8:35 AM: Emerge from shower. Pull out towel and dry hair. Spend a few minutes putting contacts on and marveling at how, if I spike my hair, I look like a member of The Prodigy.
8:37 AM: Activate apartment's sound system. The opening chords of "Jacquelyn" fill my living room. While adjusting my tie, I marvel at how I look like I could play guitar for Franz Ferdinand whenever I wear a suit.
8:42 AM: Spending a minute pondering the origins of the term "post-punk bohemian."
8:55 AM: Leave apartment, dash towards Metro.
9:07 AM: Arrive at platform. Peer at Egyptian artifacts in display cases across the platform. Wonder how much each is worth and plan robbery.
9:08 AM: Metro arrives. Robbery postponed for another day.
9:15 AM: The train is not overly crowded today. Position myself around center pole. Some guy, a head shorter than me, slides in-between me and the pole. I catch a whiff of his scalp and nearly retch.
9:22 AM: Metro stops abruptly. Fly forward, spin around pole and crash into some guy. Excuse myself and attempt to disappear before realizing I forgot my cloaking device on the kitchen counter.
9:23 AM: Notice noxious odor permeating subway carriage. Wonder if my suit needs to be washed. Become very paranoid.
9:25 AM: Step out of train and charge up stairwell. Take great pleasure in fact I am first out of the station.
9:30 AM: Pull out security badge and hold card in front of reader. Red light. Exasperated, pull away and turn towards another gate. Predictably, green light suddenly appears.
9:32 AM: Finally reach market room. Sit down at desk, remove jacket, say hello to guy next to me. Cannot see my boss so I check my e-mail.
9:38 AM: Still no boss so I start reading the news.
9:50 AM: No sign of boss so I begin perusing the facebook.
10:10 AM: Boss remains absent. Log onto Bloody Murder and am pleasantly surprised by Laura's update. Thinking of Molly, decide to explain what corporate whoredom is all about. Begin writing article.
10:25 AM: Still no boss and lack of productivity begins to weigh on my conscience. Go through database for the umpteenth time, trying to locate any values which might have changed.
10:41 AM: Co-workers form huddle on other side of desk. Hide behind monitor.
10:52 AM: Wonder what kind of recommendation letter these people could write for me. Resume looking productive.
10:57 AM: What if these people could read my every written word?
11:02 AM: One of the analysts makes laser gun sounds. Somewhere in the distance, a cell phone begins playing the Star Wars theme song.
11:06 AM: Notice every single one of my co-workers has disappeared. Sniff my jacket to determine if stench is causing my solitude.
11:24 AM: Go to bathroom. While there, wrap jacket around my head and inhale deeply. Conclude suit smells better than bathroom and breathe sigh of relief.
11:31 AM: Still no boss in sight. Listen as two women behind me bicker about how little vacation they get; clearly, two months a year is inhumanly tough.
11:43 AM: Wonder if corporate kidnappings are common in France. Devise scheme to retrieve my boss from the clutches of our competitors before she can reveal precious industrial secrets.
11:53 AM: Finish updating. Decide database needs new color scheme. Pink does not seem right. Eventually, settle on black and white and compliment myself for my originality.
12:15 PM: Redo formulae, just to be sure they're correct. Start thinking about lunch. Stare at groups of analysts standing around, chatting. Occasionally, one of their fellows will stand up at his desk to join them in conversation. In doing this, he resembles a gopher popping out of his hole to greet the Midwestern sunshine, aside from the fact that he is probably paid better than his rodent counterpart.
12:23 PM: Consider the probable consequences of replacing our desks with gopher holes. Conclusion: gopher holes would be more comfortable.
12:34 PM: The market room is deserted. Everyone has left to enjoy their mandatory three-hour lunch break.
12:40 PM: I join them.
1:50 PM: Return from lunch. I also notice my screen saver did not activate. Paranoia sets in again. In an attempt to justify my meager salary, I implement a bunch of features that make my database look better but do not actually do anything new.
2:25 PM: Start wondering if I could build a complete Excel chart of every single professional basketball player's performance this year. Decide to do this instead of work. If anyone asks what I am doing, I will tell them I am testing Excel's ability to "draw and interpret data from outside sources."
2:30 PM: After the overdue files for changes, I suddenly realize that, at some point, I typed "10" instead of "1". There is much rejoicing throughout the land. Bonuses will be had by all (with the exception of all interns)!
2:38 PM: Hear sirens in the distance. Desperately try to find something to do before realizing it was just a cell phone.
2:46 PM: My experiment with basketball statistics is a success!
3:09 PM: My database is a finely tuned killing machine at this stage. All it needs are anti-lock breaks and seatbelts. I take a quick walk to go see what happens on the other side of the room.
12:02 AM: Somehow, by innocently walking to the other side of the cavernous market room, I have traveled back in time! Fear of Morlocks drives me back to my desk.
3:13 PM: The guy next to me rather fancies one of the female analysts. We spend the next five minutes discussing her proportions. I am now lazy and lecherous.
3:41 PM: I have taught my database to slice and then sell bread for three times the asking price. I am also amazed by my colleagues' tendency to overuse certain American expressions. For example, if I ever hear someone with a French accent say "Shame on you" again, I will throw them through a window.
3:51 PM: Begin long conversation with Mother on subject of Swift Boat Veterans and John Kerry.
4:19 PM: Still discussing the veterans with Mom.
4:30 PM: One of my colleagues confirms that my boss is not here. I am now sure I remembered to take my medication and that my boss does actually exist.
4:37 PM: Bathroom break. Take note of the fact that all I really want in life is an afro, just like that guy from TV On The Radio.
4:46 PM: Cannot think of anything constructive to do. Decide to focus on my basketball stats project instead. Brilliant.
4:55 PM: Consider leaving early. I also thank my lucky stars that I do not live in Japan, where they would already have induced me to commit ritual suicide for the good of the company.
5:01 PM: Fellow interns accost me. One threatens to dismember me if I do not read my e-mail. The other one makes fun of how little work I have and proceeds to moan about how much she has to do. I tell them to leave; I have an urgent statistics project to complete.
5:02 PM: Start wishing they let us play Solitaire. Begin building basketball database. It is funny how this job has completely altered my priorities; databases are now considered "fun".
5:13 PM: Privately wonder what I will do when I get back to university, besides drink and play soccer.
5:25 PM: A rare beam of sunlight lances through the obscurity of the market room. A couple of the analysts scream and melt.
5:31 PM: The key to earning respect at Cheuvreux is not how hard or how well you work, but when you leave. When my boss was on vacation, I arrived at 10 every morning and left at 5. As a result, I acquired a reputation for laziness in spite of the fact that I finished every single project she assigned me a week ahead of schedule.
5:51 PM: My database now stalks the land, setting fire to desks and burning analysts alive. I have christened it Trogdor.
6:06 PM: I surrender and go home.

Listening to: Matinee - Franz Ferdinand

A Day at Siren

10:00am - 2:20pm - Run stupid errands with Tom that involve running all over town, cupcakes, and Jamba Juice.
2:20pm - Finally get the train to Brooklyn.
2:46pm - Change trains. Stare at girl in dredlocks and patchwork skirt writing in her journal. See flyer for "Siren" sticking out of her hemp bag.
2:54pm - Very pale, skeletal, tousle-haired couple in black, with their arms wrapped around each other board train. Don't smile or talk to each other the whole time.
3:14pm - Brooklyn. Drunk guys in Birkenstocks get on. Start talking loudly about Siren.
3:36pm - Still on the train. Weird hardcore kids with parti-coloured hair get on. They are reading the lineup for Siren.
3:45 pm - Still on the train.
3:53pm - Get off the train. Station is full of skinny people in inappropriate clothing. Lots of buttons and ironic t-shirts. Wish we hadn't come. People are wearing crocheted wool berets at the beach in August.
3:55pm - Search desperately for bathroom. Wish we hadn't bought Jamba Juice. See only port-a-potties.
3:59pm - Shell out 25 cents to wallow in puddles of urine and streaks of fecal matter in only available bathroom. Am angry.
4:03pm - Hear opening chords to "Dreams" by TV on the Radio. Get excited. Try to find an in point in the audience. There is none. Stand around a corner and listen for a while. Get bored. Try to go round the other side to the back of the audience. Is like watching a finger-puppet show through a glory-hole. Get bored.
4:05pm - Go sit on the boardwalk.
4:10pm - Laugh at the freegans.
4:11pm - Laugh at the Japanese couple in the matching outfits (Victorian babydoll dress, platform mary-janes, knee socks and lace bonnet, complemented with sepia velvet suit and ivory silk shirt).
4:12pm - Ogle the shirtless hippie with the fro, the hackeysack and the kickass abs.
4:13pm - Laugh at the nordic muscleman in the shortshorts and his lissom Asian buttboy.
4:14pm - 4:52pm - Play a game called "Which one is settling for the other?" The premise is as follows: Watch couples go by and try to figure out which member of the relationship is settling for the other. It's not hard.
5:02pm - Get accosted by a guy in a purple velour tracksuit clutching a bottle in a paper bag. The jacket is unzipped. He has knife scars going across his stomach. Verbal exchange goes as follows:

Dude: "Hrumblemumblerumble."
Laura: "I'm sorry, I can't hear you."
D: "HRUMgrumblumbleble"
L: "I'm sorry, but I really don't understand what you're saying"
Tom: "We don't have any money, sir"
D: "I Need A Woman's Advice"
L: "Oh. Okay. Sure. Go ahead."
D: "My woman, she's always accusing me of cheating. Now I take care of her, you know, I pay the bills, I buy her nice clothes--"
(Tom sniggers)
D: "--Hey man, shut up. I bet I earn more money than you!"
T: Oh, no doubt. I'm sorry, go on.
D: "And I love her very much but she's always accusing me of cheating! How do I make her stop? I mean, I take care of her, you know?"
L: "Well, have you sat down and talked to her? Like just told her straight out that you're not cheating on her?"
D:"Yeah! And she don't believe me! She just keeps accusing me of cheating! Now, my mother always said "Whoever accuses is guilty"--"
L: "Oh, I'm sure that's not right. Maybe she's just scared about losing
you. I think she's just paranoid."
D: "I'm no cheater, you know? I mean, I got muscles but no teeth. But I don't cheat. You know, my mother said that "Whoever accuses is guilty."
L: "I think that she's just being paranoid."
D: "If your girlfriend kept accusing you of cheating on her, what would you do man?"
T: "What?"
L: "If we were hypothetically dating, and I kept accusing you of cheating on me, what would you do?"
T: "Um. I don't know."
D: "Exactly! Now I don't know what I'm going to do! I can't take much of this any more!"
L: "I don't know what to tell you, sir. All I can tell you is that you should sit down with her and talk or something. I mean, if she's going to believe what she's going to believe there's only one way you can convince her otherwise and that's to talk to her. I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this."
D: "Yeah, I guess. Thanks."

5:27pm - Walk out on the pier and watch all the Mexican families crabbing. They seem to be having more fun than we are.
5:29pm - Discuss whether piles of radioactive crabs are edible.
5:32pm - Discuss how incredibly beautiful Coney Island is in such a crappy, derelict, industrial way. You can travel around the world and very little compares to the sight of that huge, peeling Ferris Wheel shimmering in the hazy polluted light.
5:36pm - Walk back. Listen to opening bars of "Gay Bar" by Electric Six. Go back to sit on the boardwalk.
6:13pm - Decide to go look at the merchandise booths. Walk past Stilwell Stage where Mission of Burma is cooking up cacophony.
6:14pm - Discuss why people like Mission of Burma. Their caterwauling appeals to neither of us.
6:15pm - Take a free Mission of Burma button.
6:20pm - Decide to go to the Aquarium.
6:30pm - Change mind. Go look at hermit crabs.
6:35pm - Agree that the Siren Music Festival sucks.
6:40pm - Talk to Asian dude from Prefix Webzine. He likes my Unicorns shirt and tells me not to worry because he's going to change into his soon. Try to figure out why he told me that.
6:41pm - Tom asks me if that's my new Asian boyfriend. Haha...not funny.
7:00pm - Find a girl with the same haircut as me. Am irritated.
7:23pm - Tom ditches me to go pick up Eric Neff from the airport.
7:32pm - Dig my way through the crowd to wait for Trail of Dead to set up.
7:52pm - Trail of Dead hasn't set up. A skinny, tall kid with acne moves into my field of vision.
7:54pm - Skinny, tall kid's dad comes to get him. Ha ha.
8:12pm - Trail of Dead still hasn't set up.
8:220pm - Trail of Dead finally starts.
8:29pm - First song "Will You Smile Again?" ends. It was good.
8:31pm - Second song "Relative Ways." Completely out of tune.
8:32pm - Trail of Dead announces that they are completely drunk. Dedicate next song to George Dubya Bush and say "Let's kill him!" Crowd cheers. Hate them for being so typical.
8:34pm - Third song "Days of the Wild." Cross fingers and hope that singer falls off the speaker that he's standing on. Doesn't happen.
8:35pm - Guitarist gets clocked by a bottle of water. Ha ha.
8:37pm - Singer announces that he is out of tune, "But it doesn't matter. Use your imaginations! You all have imaginations, right?"
8:38pm - Begin "Another Morning Stoner" at triple time. It's out of tune. Singer manages to hit a total of four notes. Imagination not helping at all.
8:39pm - Bandmates stop song because it's too out of tune.
8:40pm - Roadie hands another guitar over. This sucks. They start from where they left off. Singer is still out of tune.
8:42pm - Wait hopefully for roadie to hand another singer over.
8:43pm - Song ends. Decide to leave.
8:48pm - Board train.
9:14pm - Train leaves. Am crammed into a corner with my head shoved at an angle into in somebody's armpit. Can see a huge pocket of empty standing space in aisle, blocked by a fat chick in a ToD shirt and her stupid boyfriend.
9:22pm - Get cranky and shove people out of the way so I can access said standing space.
9:23pm - Kick somebody in the nuts and summon my ninja warriors.
9:24pm - Ninja warriors kick ass.
9:25pm - Ninja warriors finish kicking ass.
9:26pm - Ninja warriors stack bodies neatly and mop up the blood.
9:27pm - Ninja warriors and I sit down and have a snack.
9:28pm - Ninja warriors and I try to figure out why people like Mission of Burma. We don't know. Summon the mystic oracle to tell us why.
9:29pm - Mystic oracle consults sheep knuckle bones and coloured stones.
9:30pm - Mystic oracle tells us that it's because hipsters are stupid. Now it all makes sense. Oracle offers to teleport us home.
10:00pm - I arrive home and go to bed.

Listening to: "Smile Like You Mean It" by The Killers

Oops I Forgot

I forgot to add the following keywords to the last entry:

fetish sneezing enema harry potter totally nude gallery halle berry keira knightley salma hayek naked pics

Listening to: "Clair de Lune" by ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead

My Baby!!!

http://craigslistlove.blogspot.com

Listening to: "Will You Smile Again?" by ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead

Bloody Memo Part Uno

First Order of Business:

I have decided to start another blog dedicated to writing about my major Winter hobby: basketball. As you probably already know, Laura is planning to start something of her own; the major difference between our two projects is that hers will actually be entertaining.

Second Order of Business:

Recently, while look at our site statistics, I realized that most of our traffic was coming from Laura's profile. At first, I was insanely jealous and found myself forced to kill a few small, defenseless animals. Then I suddenly realized that my profile, while indescribably superior to Laura's, does not feature a scantily clad beauty or the words "me love you good long time." The lesson in this, boys and girls?

Sex sells in a big way.

Now that I have finally realized this, I have decided to implement the following changes in an effort to increase our readership:

• We will take full advantage of Blogger's new image post function (THANK YOU GOD OF BLOG!). All future posts will feature softcore porn after every paragraph.
• Every post will have to feature a variety of "key terms." These key terms will include "donkey penis", "tea party" and "Harry Potter PVC dolphin fanfic." Bonus points if posts are actually fanfiction.
• I will change my profile picture from John Ashcroft to Laetitia Casta.
• I will list sex on the beach as one of my interests.

Hopefully this will make us more competitive. Also, Bloody Murder will henceforth be titled "Laetitia Casta Naked Pics".

Listening to: Talking To You (feat. Mos Def) - Pharoahe Monch

Focus Groups Don't Always Work

Advertising involves a huge amount of work. An advertising campaign has to go through innumerable processes before you see it on television: research, development, design, etc. I don't know--I don't work in advertising. All I know is that it's an arduous project.

Therefore, I don't understand why there are so many godawful spots on television. Let's take a deeper look:

Six Flags
Six Flags launched a massive campaign a couple of months ago featuring some dude in an old man suit, driving a schoolbus to pick up bored children and dancing to that godawful Vengaboys song.

Things that are wrong with this ad:
1. The song is fucking terrible. It's actually nauseating to listen to: perky, repetitive and Euro. It's not even good Europop. It's shitty Europop. Kind of like what Ill Mitch is to hip-hop.
2. The old man suit is scary.
3. Why is an old guy with bottlecap spectacles allowed to drive a schoolbus?
4. Doesn't anyone find an old man picking up young children in a schoolbus during summer vacation a little creepy?
5. Did research really demonstrate that an old man in a schoolbus would appeal to the suburban-family-with-bored-kids demographic?

Needless to say, this ad should be pulled and the marketing execs who thought it up should be shot. Or forced to listen to that goddamn song over and over again.

KFC
KFC have ditched the family-dining approach, and are now trying to appeal to the trailer-park community. Their new campaign seems to be appealing to the jingoistic, salt-of-the-earth, all-American hearty down-home type people who watch Nascar and understand the significance of, um, Dale Earnhardt Junior.

So. KFC is now the chicken capital of the US of A, and therefore the world. It also sponsors NASCAR drivers, and runs TV spots that feature perky, clear-skinned, sweet-potato-queen type women in small wifebeaters as well as twangy voice-overs. Which must be why I've been a-hankerin' for some fried chicken lately. Gotta get me some of that KFC. Seriously though. "Chicken capital, USA" isn't even a smart or catchy slogan. Who thought that up? And why?

Taco Bell
"I'M FULL!!!!" Shut the fuck up. This is not a rarity in this country, companeros. In 2003, roughly 23.7% of adults over the age of 20 were considered obese by the National Center for Health Statistics. Obesity is defined as having a Body Mass Index greater than or equal to 30. In 2000, almost 65% of adults over the age of 20 (having a BMI greater than or equal to 25) were considered overweight by the same organization. In a fat country, I don't think that being full is a problem. Also, your company must be in bad shape if your biggest selling point is that fact that you recently introduced a 99cent menu, something which companies such as KFC and Burger King have been throwing around for a long, long time.

Ugh. These ads irk me. I bet they're ineffective. What a waste of money. Well, it's late and I'm feeling a little peckish. Fried chicken sounds good. Later guys.

Listening to: "Halcyon & On & On" by Orbital

Where have all the Cowboys gone?

I like to think of myself as liberal. Sometimes, when I have had a few too many drinks, I describe myself as socialist. Occasionally, after ingesting a few too many hard drugs, I tell people I am a dedicated member of the Communist Party.

In spite of my left-leaning tendencies, I cannot abide the state of liberalism in these United States. Some of you may remember a recent update, when I announced the creation of the Batshit Party. I am sure you all reacted by thinking, "Oh! What a card that Olivier is! He should take his medication, that he should." All pleasantry aside, I genuinely believe voting the Batshit Party into power would greatly increase the quality of political debate in this country.

I do not find Schwarzenegger to be either inspiring or intelligent, but he does raise a valid point: Liberals cannot take a joke. This may seem a little harsh coming from the founder of a website filled with second-rate attempts at vaguely political humor, but it is undeniably true. Somehow, in this age of pre-emptive strikes and sky-rocketing oil prices, we have forgotten how to laugh. Over the past four years, liberal voices in the media have been comparing Iraq to Vietnam and Bush to the Anti-Christ.

While I do intensely dislike Bush, I believe the term "Anti-Christ" is reserved for Dick Cheney. Bush is, quite simply, an asshole. What do we do to assholes? We make fun of them! We laugh heartily at their expense! Have some perspective, folks! Worrying is turning us into hysterics, and hysterics develop ulcers!

Take a look at yourselves. Go on, take a look around. I don't see a squad of battle-hardened political swashbucklers, eager for war! Instead, I see a bunch of scared, petty little men, who have turned to Michael Moore because he is the only one who dares make any sort of statement. I see a candidate who refuses to be judged on his merits, instead choosing to present himself as the Man Who Is Not Bush. I see a vast sea of hysterical, fearful journalists and writers, who think with their stomachs and refuse to harness the intellect and humor in the service of liberalism.

There's a reason our speakers have taken a backseat to the likes of Coulter and O'Reilly. No matter how poor its journalism may be, the conservative media is entertaining and engaging. They may well be horrible people, but they are supremely gifted at what they do, which is transmit the Right's agenda across the airwaves and into the minds of the public.

It is time we gave them some competition. Let us make a commitment to be aggressive and entertaining. We know our cause is valid; let us defend it properly. No more whinging about how the Gubernator made fun of our masculinity! Instead, let us look the camera in the eye and ask if Arnold can help us find some hormone treatments for our girlie man condition. "Effeminate" California law-makers should wear headbands and carry exercise paraphernalia everywhere they go, which they should make a big show of using every single time they meet the governor.

That, however, would demonstrate character, organization and resolve, something we obviously do not choose to exhibit.

Listening to: Travellin' Man - Mos Def

Start Reading Marx

Class warfare is on, people. Make like professional wrestlers and scrum!

Listening to: The Knock (Drums of Death Part 2, feat. Mike D) - UNKLE

Michael Moore Is Not God

I usually like to think that liberals are pretty smart. Unfortunately, I have found that this is not the case. I'm sick of rabid liberals acting as if Michael Moore is the personal saviour of American Democracy. Did these people actually read Stupid White Men...And Other Sorry Excuses for the State of the Nation? The first seven pages were funny. Then his conversational, easily-digestible, gramatically-incorrect writing style got a little, you know, old. Then it turned into a liverjournal rant with CHUNKS OF WRITING IN ALL CAPS.

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate what he's doing for the Democratic Party (who, quite frankly, need all the help they can get). I just wish he'd stop being so bombastic and self-aggrandizing. I hate it when people reference themselves in their own movies.

However, I must admit, Fahrenheit 9/11 was a good documentary in that it achieved what it was trying to achieve. The footage of wounded soldiers should strike a chord in the jingoistic hearts in those American "patriots" who think that peace and democracy will come about in the cry of "Bomb All A-rabs!" The footage of charred baby corpses and screaming survivors should strike a chord in anyone who has a heart and a conscience. It portrayed Bush as the bumbling, inarticulate fool he is (which should be fairly obvious by now, but some people are too fucking partisan for their own good or the good of their own goddamn country).

Best of all, it did all these things through a medium accessible to everybody. God knows, nobody in this damn country reads unless the book gets onto the "Oprah's Book Club" list, unless it was written by Tom Clancy, unless it's sold in CVS, or unless it's some sub-par pseudo-intellectual heartwarming drivel (The Lovely Bones was a shitty book, don't let anyone tell you otherwise). Everyone knows that movies are one of the best ways of influencing malleable minds. Why else would Pepsi shell out mucho dinero to have their product ostentatiously shoved in my face during Tomb Raider?

But back to how much Michael Moore sucks. He sucks a lot. Maybe if he toned down his act a bit and wasn't so goddamn annoying, I'd have more respect for him. Luckily, he didn't feature that much in Fahrenheit 9/11, which redeemed the movie quite a bit. I just don't appreciate his pompus, over-the-top attitude. .

Anyway, whatever. Fuck it, if he gets the job done then he has my support, even if he is a chubby nerd with an irritating voice.

Listening to: "Run Through" by Denali

On the Non-Issue of Gay Marriage

It really irks me when people try to foist their morals and opinions upon me. My parents tried and, God knows, they failed. I turned out the liberal, cynical, borderline atheistic individual I am today, not the God-fearing, conservative, mild and studious offspring they tried to train. Individual, you say? Insofar as it is possible being a consumer of mass-produced goods in a crowded urban area, yes, I am an individual. Individuality goes beyond what you wear, motherfuckers. It's what goes on inside the peanut.

Anyway, what makes ol' Dubya think he can convince me, with his poor pronounciation, that allowing gays to attain basic civil rights is a "violation of the sanctity of marriage"? Let's talk about the vocabulary used:

sanc·ti·ty
n. pl. sanc·ti·ties
Holiness of life or disposition; saintliness.
The quality or condition of being considered sacred; inviolability.
Something considered sacred.

5 words: separation of church and state. Sanctity (holiness/saintliness/quality of being sacred) has fuck-all to do with a legal union between two individuals who are willing to devote their lives to each other. At least someone's willing to love each other these days. Hey, Republicans, if you're so interested in protecting marriage, you might want to start conducting relationship counselling en masse to repair that 40% divorce rate. Not to mention the guys who just, you know, kill their wives a la Scott Peterson and Mark Hacking.

Homosexuality, contrary to what many people think, is not a fad or a cultural phenomenon. Being gay has only recently started being anywhere close to generally acceptable in recent years. With a cultural history like being burned at the stake in the 17th century, gassed in concentration camps during WWII, suffering through the anti-gay backlash in the eighties, and innumerable acts of hostility and violence throughout the years, would you have willingly come out? Why do you think that a homosexual lifestyle seems to be more prevalent nowadays? It's not more prevalant. It's just that it's because they are more accepted and feel that they can be true to themselves instead living as social fugitives.

And why is this? Because we live in an information age and people are more educated. Yes, that's the reason - because, guess what, prejudice is stupid. Backward. And for those of you who don't understand that, discrimination is, like, so passe.

As for those who say that gay marriage is "unnatural" because the union does not produce offspring, I say if that's your logic, why don't we outlaw marriage between post-menopausal women and Viagra-users?

Then there's the argument that legalizing gay marriage opens the door for other possibilities, such as marriage between a human and a dog. The problem with that argument is that a marriage between a human and a dog would be impossible, as there would be no way to prove that a dog was consenting to marriage or, for that matter, even understood the concept of marriage and what it entails.

Also, the institution of marriage as we know it is a strictly human construct. We are one of the few animals that have (theoretically) long-term monogomous relationships (and even we have trouble doing that, it seems). We are certainly the only animal that grants special rights to those who participate in formalized, (theoretically) long-term, monogomous relationships. And we are most definitely the only animal that deprives sectors of its own population of said relationships because of archaic social ideas.

Since when did we start taking shit from nature, anyway? Now is not the time to invoke the terms "natural" or "unnatural." Look around you. Look at your house. Is that natural? Look at your computer, your television, your pet fish in it's aerated tank. Look at your cars and your immaculately planted flowerbeds, your McDonalds hamburger. Are any of these things "natural"? Hell no. We've been kicking nature's ass for millenia, and now is not the time to turn around and pretend that you give a shit about nature and what's natural, Mr. Corporate "I'm a self-serving motherfucker" Hardline Republican.

Religion has no place in modern politics, I'm not sad to say. I'm all for Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Falun Gong, what have you - you live your life, I'll live mine. But all I have to say is that as a holiday-Christian, neither Hinduism nor Voudou has any place in my life. And for many atheists, Christianity has no place in their lives. Let's say, hypothetically, that Dubya was not, in fact, an overprivileged, inarticulate, cowardly, WASP, but was an intelligent black man who had struggled his way out of the streets and into politics strictly on his own merit but who happened to also be a santero - well let me tell you, all them good Christian midwesterners would be up in arms if he tried to tell them what to do. So don't you try to foist your fucking morals on me, you bigoted prick. Leave me alone and leave gays alone because you have no place in my life or theirs, you big fuck-up.

My God, the God I believe in, is chill and takes responsibility for those who created, including gay men and women, and Jerry Falwell. He loves us all because he made us all, and if he's my heavenly father, he gave me my beliefs and my views, so can I really be wrong? Well, if I am wrong, I'd rather fry as a fag-hag in hell because hey, at least the parties will be fun and how bad can Satan be if he's willing to take in the children of a hypocrite?

And if you still don't believe me, I can invoke my favourite saying: your country, not mine.

Listening to: "The Last Broadcast" by The Doves

Revolution 101

Let's face it: The Bush administration has not made for a successful presidency. Bush is an idiot, Cheney a greedy bully. The rest of the fifteen stooges are fairly bad people as well. We could easily squander hours discussing exactly how bad these people are. Such a debate, however, would do little to address a question we desperately need to answer: How did these people get here, and why are we still listening to them?

Somehow, in our rush to paint Bush as the Anti-Christ, we have completely neglected to ask ourselves how this happened. There is the obvious answer, of course: Bush and his cronies stole Florida. I, however, cannot help but feel that the subversion of our democratic process four years ago was representative of a deeper flaw in our whole system.

My job has forced me to spend a lot of time reading up on Merrill Lynch's current dilemma, which has forced the company to complete revamp its rating and compensation systems. The root cause of the problem was ML's decision to calculate its analysts' bonuses based on how many shares of certain companies their customers bought. Needless to say, the concept of fair and balanced coverage became theoretical at best. The flaw in Merrill's system was obvious; if your analysts' bonuses are rewarded for creating hype, they no longer have any economic incentive to deliver accurate coverage to your clients. Instead, they will focus on selling as many shares of Company X as possible. Overnight, your Stanford-educated math geeks have been transformed into Prada-wearing spin whores.

Right now, you are probably wondering what this has to do with the current administration. First, read this. As you can see, this administration includes an unprecedented number of people clinging to corporate ties. Cheney, as I understand it, is still being paid by Halliburton (through his excecutive compensation package). This behavior is not confined to the administration, either. The potential for a conflict of interest, like the one afflicting Merrill, is tremendous.

I do not mean to bore you with conspiracy theories. Perhaps I am being hysterical, but Corporate America made these men rich. Odds are, as soon as they leave public service, that they will be provided with cushy synecures by their former employers. Even if you do not subscribe to this theory, you cannot deny the vast amounts of money corporations are pumping into the political machine. There is a reason Bush refers to them as his base; they are the financial foundation of the Republican Party.

Something must be done. Democracy is founded upon the idea that all men are created equal. By this logic, they should all be able to exert the same amount of influence over the political process. It is time we enforced this principle. We need to reform the system. We must ensure the incentives we offer to politicians coincide with our needs. Most importantly, we must somehow redefine Big Business' role in the political process.

And I'm spent.

Listening to: Alphabeta - Herbie Hancock

Advice-a-palooza!

For years, I aspired to be an advice columnist. I would read Dear Abby before falling asleep, and in my dreams I would picture myself hunched over a cast-iron typewriter, answering anonymous letters from people with witty pseudonyms like "Incontinent in Indiana" or "Bleeding to Death in Boulder." That, boys and girls, was my dream.

When I founded Bloody Murder, several months ago, I hoped to finally achieve this goal. I figured that our ascerbic, bitter brand of humor would lure thousands of cynical readers to our site. They, in turn, would describe their problems to us and I, in my inimitable style, would provide them with guidance and understanding.

Sadly, our readership falls into the demographic category experts refer to as "non-existent."

Today, however, I suddenly developed an idea. Why bother finding readers when I could simply hijack Dear Abby's material? I could take letters addressed to her and answer them myself! Perfect! This way the entire world will be able to see how much better I am than her!

And for our first letter:

DEAR [Olivier]: My mother and her fifth husband, "Lester," have been planning their funeral arrangements, discussing burial vs. cremation, etc. Mom wants to be cremated. At first Lester said that was what he wanted, too. Then he changed his mind.

Lester was previously married for 42 years to a wonderful woman, "Agnes." He nursed her through her long last illness. Now he says he wants to be buried next to her.

Personally, I see nothing wrong with this. As far as I'm concerned, when people die they are gone. But Mom is making a huge deal out of it. She says that Lester will probably die first, and she doesn't think she should have to visit him if he's lying next to Agnes.

I feel that Mom is ruining the present over an uncertain future. Do you think she's justified? Or is she making yet another relationship mistake?

- DAUGHTER OF RELATIONSHIP DUNCE IN CALIFORNIA

Five husbands? I hate to break it to you, DAUGHTER, but your mother is a loose woman. I recommend you kill Lester and give me your mother's phone number. That way, everybody wins!

That was easy. Let's see if there are any more exciting problems to be solved!

DEAR [Olivier]: I am 16 and my boyfriend, "Johnny," is 17. He will be going on a religious mission in two years. Johnny has proposed to me and wants us to be married in his church. For that to happen, we would both have to be his religion. My problem is, I don't know if his religion is right for me.

I love Johnny with all my heart, but we have very different outlooks on life, religion and raising a family. I respect him and his beliefs, but I am a very independent person and I don't think it's fair that I have to change everything about myself. I'm losing sleep over this.
I think that Johnny respects that I want to live life to the fullest, but he thinks his beliefs are more "right" than mine. He is also mad that my parents didn't raise me to be particularly religious -- although I have been baptized.

I don't want to hurt Johnny, but I don't think I could live the way he wants me to for the rest of my life. I want to go to college, get a good job and have a career before I start a family. If I marry Johnny, I'll be expected to stay home, be a homemaker and take care of the children.
Please, Abby, any advice you could offer would be appreciated.

- MADE FOR BETTER THINGS IN IDAHO

Made, I hate to break it to you, but colleges, good jobs and careers are all overrated. But, at the same time, so is baptism! To help you better determine which path you should take, I have interviewed a pair of experts. My counsin Emlin, who is about to be married, had this to say on the subject of unions: "Don't ever get married. You're better off signing yourself up for recreational Chinese water torture." Sobering, no?

My half-brother Christophe, who has two kids, had this to say about raising a family: "Don't have kids. Your sex life evaporates, you live in a perpetual state of jetlag and your diet consists of tylenol and apple sauce. Don't do it." In conclusion, dump Johnny and do something else.

Well, that was easy. Send your letters in, or I will have to steal some more!

Listening to: Break You Off (feat. Musiq) - The Roots

The Pinnacle of Civilization

Two words: Zelda Poetry

Listening to: "Beetlebum" by Blur

Lights! Camera! Realism!

This morning, my manservant Jonesy woke me, as is his custom, by spilling rich, freshly-brewed java on me. He then handed me a silk dishrag to dry myself with and sent my spoiled satin sheets off be cleaned by my army of diminutive oriental handmaidens. I then waltzed over to my deck, admired my perfectly manicured garden (all seven acres of it) and sat down for an enchanting breakfast of delicate French pastries.

My morning rituals, however, have absolutely nothing to do with this article. I just thought you might like to know.

Movies do not make any sense. I am sure you probably realized this. In fact, I am positive some of you geeks are jumping out of your chairs right now, dying to point out how one of the extras misses his cue runs straight into a rock wall in Scene 7, Frame 46 of the Star Wars Special Edition DVD. Bad news, boys, no one cares. Take your pills and shut up.

My problem is that movie scripts no longer make sense. To enjoy a movie in this day and age requires you to suspend any basic understanding of human nature you may have. Take the Star Wars Trilogy, for example. I do not care about George Lucas' sloppy execution; the exact size of a Storm Trooper's rifle is, to me, entirely unimportant. What really irks me is this: why does Luke actually buy all that bullshit about responsibility and honor? Sure, he saves the galaxy from a supposedly corrupt regime, but he also loses his hand, kills his dad and nearly impregnates his sister!

In Real Life (copyright pending), Luke would have cut his losses early and become a professional gambler. Alternatively, he could have started his own business and pushed Miss Cleo right out of the market. In short, Star Wars sucks and should be banned.

There are numerous cases of this. I will give you a few choice examples:

Catwoman: Halle Berry plays some woman named Patience, who is portrayed as shy and repressed in spite of the fact that she is ridiculously hot. She stumbles upon some sort of elaborate plot that violates several important consumer advocacy laws and is promptly "downsized" by her corrupt employer. Miraculously, she returns as a half-cat hybrid and foils the bad guys' scheme by strutting around in a PVC bondage outfit.

Real Life: Patience is officially recognized as "fucking hot" by her junior year of high school and fellates the entire football team at some party. She then marries some rich bastard and struts around for him in her PVC bondage outfit whenever she needs a new car or two.

Kangaroo Jack: Two best friends become bag men for the Mafia after botching a delivery of stolen goods. They are sent to Australia, where a wily, street-wise kangaroo steals their parcel. Hilarious antics ensue. In the end, the bad guys get what they deserve and our two friends become rich businessmen with hot Australian wives.

Real Life: The kangaroo eats the money, and our two heros are cut to ribbons by some guy named Vito.

What Women Want: Mel Gibson plays a lucky guy who acquires the ability to read women's thoughts. After numeous funny incidents, our man discovers true love.

Real Life: Our hero acquires this power only to discover that what women really desire is Mel Gibson. Emboldened, he proceeds to sleep with everything in sight. He dies of AIDS ten years later, rich and oversexed.

She's All That: Some Random Twentysomething Pretending To Be A Teenager plays a guy who, having lost his girlfriend, bets he can turn any girl in school into the Social Queen du Moment. His friends force him to pursue Some Other Random Twentysomething Pretending To Be A Teenager, who he predictably transforms from a "dowdy" geek into a movie starlet. True love blossoms.

Real Life: The girl is actually ugly, antisocial and bereft of any redeeming qualities. Thankfully, the bet only involves forcing her to perform a particularly gruesome sex act, which is promptly photographed and posted throughout the school.

There you have it, folks. I think we should impeach Hollywood.

Listening to: Blue Monday - New Order

Game On!

Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

While my dear friend Laura was spreading lies about my succumbing to consumption in the embrace of a cheap whore, I was actually attending, for the first time ever, the annual Conference for the Subjugation of the Britons. The English, as you may or may not be aware, are the most obnoxious people on the planet. Consider the evidence:

• They have ruined popular music.
• They have single-handedly transformed monarchy from an instrument for repression and fear into an absurd mechanism for selling trashy tabloids.
• They pioneered the concept of "elitist elitism".
• They believe Marmite should replace butter. Marmite is the dietary equivalent of tarmac.

In short, they must be eliminated, no matter the cost. The conference was held in the catacombs of Notre Dame, at noon. I attempted to have the event rescheduled, on the grounds that no self-respecting conspiracy can afford to meet earlier than midnight, but my efforts were futile. The French have an extremely strict schedule and refuse to miss out on their mandatory flask of cognac by the Riviera. When I suggested we meet at three in the morning, they said they had their mistresses to attend to. When I suggested some time in the early evening, they shrugged, blew smoke in my eyes and told me to back off. I did; I have a pathological fear of cigarettes and poor English accents.

Security consisted of a peg-legged hunchback who muttered to himself in some foul and ancient tongue as he escorted us to the meeting room. Glancing around the massive oak table, caked with foul-smelling cheeses and bleary wine bottles, I could see some of the greatest scoundrels in Europe:

• François Vaugirard de L'Abbé, the famous Impressionist painter, who is currently being hunted by the FBI, the CIA and the ICP (Icelandic Communal Police) for inventing lung cancer.
• The Magenta Baron, the mastermind behind the recent exploding golf-ball scandal that forced so many country clubs into bankruptcy. Except, of course, the ones that granted the good Baron membership.
• Vladimir B'Stardchev, the man who initiated the Chechnian conflict in an attempt to corner the New York City taxi business. You may also know him as the host of that hilarious cable-access game show, "And To What My Happy, Tovaritch!?!?"

Needless to say, I was excited to get started. Before we could actually begin conferring, however, we would have to watch a performance the table dance, a ritual that dates back to the Conference's beginnings during the 11th century. The exhibition has been updated since then, and now features a bevy of strapping, leather-clad young lads gyrating to "Jock Jams, Vol. 5". I was going to ask the organizers exactly what was meant by this, but they pre-empted me. I was told, in very precise, heavily accented language, to "fuck off." I acquiesced.

After a great many useless speeches, the Conference's organizer stood up to formally initiate the event. I had heard a great many good things about this man, who, in the Underworld, is known simply as Vice-Cardinal Marcos Gabriello Gregorio Marquez de la Venta Loca, or El Cardinal for short. He began by briefly thanking us all for making an appearance, then began running down the various invasion schemes his people had developed over the past year. There were three:

1. Export more cream-based products to the UK. The population will become fat and lazy, thus simplifying the task of storming the country's beaches and seizing the capitol.
2. Pay outrageous sums of money and force the transfer of their better players to foreign leagues. This will force British teams to bring in more foreign talent, thereby convincing the British that they are useless at football. Mass hysteria and depression will set in. Furthermore, the entire economy of Manchester will collapse when Man United supporters suddenly realize they have nothing left to riot over, thereby causing Great Britain to spiral into a massive economic downturn.
3. Start producing cheddar.

While my compatriots sat there, nodding away, I could not help but feel a little bit cheated. I was hoping for action, adventure and the chance to slap Massive Attack across the face for actually releasing their last album. Instead, I was being treated to... AND THEN IT HIT ME! The glint in El Cardinal's eye! The shape of his beard! The shade of his clothing! I jumped out of my chair, leapt across the table and, in one brilliant motion, tore of his beard! I WAS RIGHT! It was Michael Palin in disguise!

A collective gasp spread throughout the chamber. We had been lied to! It was no wonder Great Britain remained independent in spite of its pathetically small, undistinguished list of defenders; we had been tricked into squandering our resources instead of focusing on schemes that might actually pay off in the long-run.

Of course, Pierce Brosnan then made an appearance, grabbed the phony functionary and flooded the room. I have spent the past week clawing my way through the catacombs, praying that my microscopic breathing apparatus would not suddenly fail and deny me the opportunity to exact my revenge for this subterfuge.

To make a long story short, I am not dead.

Listening to: Nursery Rhyme - U.N.K.L.E

We Regret To Inform You That Olivier Is No More

Dear Loyal Reader, I have found that it has become my unfortunate task to inform you of Olivier's passing. Yes, our favourite Euroboy is no more. I recently learned that he shed this mortal coil in the arms of a gonorrhoea-ridden underage Vietnamese prostitute named Daisy Duk, at a neon-illuminated massage parlour in an unsavoury part of gay Paris. The circumstances of his death are murky; as I have gathered, his demise involved a gerbil, a cardboard toilet roll and a box of matches.

Whatever happened, I am sure that there will be much wailing and beating of the breast. This happened to me earlier this evening, until Madame Maxine had the bouncer hurl the john out the window. Nobody lays a finger on Madam Maxine's girls. Nobody.

Well, it's up to me to write some sort of eulogy. I don't know how to do that, so I'll just summarize his life and then try to think of something nice to say.

Olivier and I had a rocky relationship. Those six months we spent together as pimp and ho hold some of my sweetest memories. And also some of my worst memories, which is why I had to get that restraining order. But everything turned out alright in the end and we ended up as friends, sort of. Well, I wouldn't say we were friends, exactly - it was more a professional thing. Anyway, I digress. Let's get to the life part, I hate introductions.

Olivier was born in the early 17th century, the son of a fugitive millionaire aristocrat and his piece of fluff, a chambermaid by the name of Lulu, who was as dangerous as she was beautiful. So she was kind of nonthreatening, and kind of homely too. Luckily, Olivier got his grandfathers looks and became the chiselled, rock-bodied adonis he is today. Now I'm sure you're wondering how it is that Olivier is still alive, four-hundred years after his birth. Well, I'll tell you. One day he slipped on a grape in the great marble halls of the Palace of Versailles, where he was attempting to woo the hand (or at least some part of her body that wasn't quite similar to her hand but you get the idea) of a chambermaid named Fifi. Looks like it runs in the family. Anyway, the velocity of his falling body was so fast that it pitched him 700 years into the future.

In the 24th century, the world will be a nuclear wasteland. Apparently Dubya will be voted into a second term, use state funds to have his brain inserted into the body of a giant killer robot, destroy the Middle East singlehandedly, drain it of oil and launch a full-scale nukular attack on the Republic of Georgia in the name of freedom and all that is holy. Missiles will shoot from his eyeballs and nostrils like enormous, deadly boogers. Unfortunately, since it will be Dubya, every single warhead will miss, and the entire world will be destroyed except for the mountain village of Nokalakevi. Olivier will land, unfortunately, under the only surviving grape vine in the entire world. He then will slip on another grape, and be thrown 300 years into the past, where he landed in a boarding school.

Luckily, being exposed to nuclear waste gave Olivier SUPERUBERHUMAN (tm) powers. He learned modern English within two seconds of landing and managed to bullshit his way into free tuition, board and books at Choate. He then seduced several girls to make up for his lost chance with Fifi. After that, he had a cigarette and some chocolate milk. Then he watched a few episodes of "Yu-Gi-Oh" and played some Fifa. Then he graduated, got into college, went back to Paris to become a corporate whore and died (oh, karma!).

And now for the part where I say something nice about him. Um, Olivier was very nice. He liked to do nice things for people, like take their money and run them over with his customized sea-green Cadillac and yell, "Bitch, you KNOW what I want" and "Sex me, woman!" He also did other things, like, um. Sorority girls. Yes. Olivier changed my life, and now he's dead. Condolences. The end.

Listening to: "Idioteque" by Radiohead

The Truth

Nah dude, dumpster-diving is rad. Down with capitalism, man!


Listening to: "Fool's Gold" by The Stone Roses