Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I think your hot-dog machine is broken.
Miranda: We don't have a hot-dog machine.
Harvey: (pointing) Then what's that?
Miranda: That's the ATM.
Harvey:
Miranda: Is that why you asked me for mustard forty seconds ago?
Harvey: Er... no. Would you happen to have some paper towels?
Miranda: Christ, not again.

Tonight's specials

Alaskan King Crab

$45
What a pain in the ass this is. You won't care how many men died to bring this crustacean in: this highly sought-after King is a "royal" pain in the ass. It's a Goddamned tangle of fish, ice and spiky exoskeleton and you're armed only with a useless nutcracker and a glorified skewer with two tiny tines on the end to get to it. Irritating. You'll want to give the entire dish a once over with a wooden mallet just to get the ball rolling. But you can't. Served with roasted potatoes.

Filet Mignon

$23
So what it's tender? It's not worth it dude. After the three seconds it takes you to down this morsel, you'll be asking for some reading material to keep you entertained while everyone else finishes their adult-sized portions. Is it worth it to get a lower-quality steak just to feel like you had something to chew on? You decide.  Served with your choice of side.

French Onion Soup

$12
Served in a nauseatingly cute glazed porcelain bowl, the french onion soup lives up to its reputation of being the only thing with the colour and texture of meningitic mucus, while being edible too. If I asked you to wash down a cup of melted cheese with some gravy, would you do it? Then why are you ordering this shit?

Chicken and Ribs

$30
Make a decision, you Goddamned pig. Served with fries (oink) or garden salad.

Big Nachos

$19
We took fresh sour cream, spicy salsa, seasoned ground beef, and every item from your vegetable crisper and piled them high on corn torilla chips. Then we added about forty other ingredients, and a kilogram of cheese. Good luck finding a chip to hold on to; this snack is truly out of control. It's fucking retarded. Perfect for sharing!

Many a mickle makes a muckle

The old whore "raised her prices" on me last night. That's my way of saying I got the walking papers from the old ball and chain. That is, I got dumped.

A bit unexpected, but unlike other more awkward break-ups I've experienced, her method was novel. In order:

1. A box of Kleenex thrown at my face.
2. "Get the fuck out, asshole."
3. A pillow thrown at my face.
4. "Wake up!"
5. Grabbing me by the ankles and dragging me toward the door. (In my stupor, I reached for the nearest leg of the coffee table. Though it did not prevent my process of being dragged toward the front door of the apartment, I was successful in knocking a pile of Reader's Digest and a bowl of candy to the floor.)
6. "Wake up, you fuckin' asshole!"
7. Fire extinguisher blasts to the face and neck as I thrash my legs in protest.
8. Long sigh as I lay on the floor and then a reminder that I still had a Bon Jovi CD of hers that I could "drop off sometime".
9. Completion of the task of dragging me to the front door; awkwardly standing me up and foisting my teetering body into the apartment hallway.
10. "I hope we can still be friends."

To my credit, I didn't cry or vomit until after I had left the premise. I hope she means it about being friends.

Minutes, just minutes to humpday

As we near the final moments to Humpday, I must remind myself of how lucky we are to have a day like Wednesday. So beautiful centered in each week, Wednesday works overtime to provide us with a range of services we have too long taken for granted.

Wednesday separates the days that start with "T" so that our feeble minds do not become confused. It gives us a moment to reflect on the power-triad that is Sunday-Monday-Tuesday. Without it, we would be knee-deep in Thursday confused about the previous three days events. And speaking of Thursday could you imagine going from Tuesday to Thursday without a day in between? I shudder to think.

Friday is largely unaffected by Wednesday.

Oh, and how about the gloriously confounded pronunciation thereof. It is wensday or wendsday or wed-nes-dee or what? I mean seriously what the fuck, Wednesday, is this a joke?

You think you're so great because you're in the middle, but you know what? You're not man. You're just a poor man's Monday. You heard me. People gotta call you Humpday because there isn't anything else interesting about you. Cheap movies on Tuesday, Church on Sunday, fish on Fridays, but on Wednesday? Jack shit. Fuck you you stupid day.

Ever forget what point you were trying to make? Happens to me every Humpday.

Happy Humpday everyone!

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: Listen I hate to break up the mood...
Miranda: Get to the point, "begin the beguine"...
Harvey: Haven't you noticed we're a protagonist short, and a pack of smokes please...
Miranda: In this idyllic, that'll be $32 please...
Harvey: Well-produced scene?

Tracklisting for a shitty rock opera

Love in the Year 3000

1. Once were we young (Jermaine, Eloise)
2. Almost Forever! (Chorus)
3. We must to repair this station wagon (Japanese mechanic, Eloise)
4. A road is a life not driven (William, Robo2000)
5. Could you, would we, should they, are you? (Eloise, chorus)
6. Non-vegetarian waltz (Eloise, Jermaine)
7. I'd bet $75 that you're right (Jermaine, William)
8. Pay me back later (William)
9. I have a robo-soul (Robo2000)
10. Once we were young (reprise) (Chorus, Robo2000)
11. Entr'acte
12. I've never eaten meat before/Damsels in distress (Eloise, Clay, Japanese mechanic, Rudy)
13. I L-O-V Eloise (Jermaine)
14. Pay me back later (reprise) (Chorus)
15. Niggaz killin' 'bots (Rudy, Japanese mechanic)
16. SpaceTime (Eloise, William, Clay, Rudy, Japanese Mechanic, Robo2000, Chorus)
17. Almost, Almost Forever! (Chorus)
18. Yesterday's Tomorrow, Today/Once we were young/Finale (Chorus, Robo2000)

Music and lyrics by Harvey Kornbluth
Book by Harvey Kornbluth
Directed by Hal Prince

Mongoload

There is no other reason for this post except to share with the world the invention of the word, "Mongoload". I know, I know, it's pretty fucking awesome. I have yet to ascribe a meaning to it, but worry not, I'm on it. I bet oxen will be involved.

While it's definitely a noun, I can see it being used as an exclamation as well, e.g.,Great Mongoload, professor! Have you ever seen anything like it?

No, the professor replied stoically. No, I haven't.

New angle for Novartis

Stacey watches with some fascination at Harvey neatly slices open the package of Neo Citran and pours a small pile of white granules on her glass coffee table. He gingerly picks up a piece of the packet he had snipped off and rolls it into a tube.

STACEY

(puzzled)

Um, aren't you going to boil some hot water for that?

HARVEY

(nonchalantly)

Why bother?

He bends over and snorts a good portion of the powdered cold and flu relief. 

HARVEY (CONT'D)

Ah. That's better.

CUT TO:

Harvey is stacking crates in a warehouse on a forklift looking healthy and mostly alert. 

CUT TO:

Title card and logo.

ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Neocitran: it'll fuckin' get ya.

Can't bother with post titles

It has been awhile. My attempts to post everyday actually turned into me not posting anything, ever, at all. Lameness is the only way to describe it. There are probably other words, but I lack a thesaurus or the motivation to find a thesaurus at present. Don't try to tell me about dictionary.com; I don't give a fuck.

But I'm putting this up to make a point: come hell or high water, I am going to type something on here even -- and especially -- if it sucks, is uninteresting, boring, racist, etc.

Oh, came up with a good idea for a rock opera today. We'll see what develops.

Observational humour about patently false things

Have you ever noticed that whenever you're in line at the grocery store, and there's an old person waiting in front of you, they always have to make some sort of racial slur to the cashier? Like, "here's your money, you chink," or "fuck you, towel-head." I mean, what's the deal? Take it easy, you're just buying some milk -- can't you go five minutes without offending someone? Sometimes the cashier is white! Man, I don't get old people.

But don't even get me started on the supermarket. Tell me if this has ever happened to you: you're at the deli, you order a coupla hundred grams of finely sliced pastrami, when you notice the guy operating the slicer accidentally takes a layer off his thumb. You know what I mean. But does he stop and pick the sliced-off flesh out of your order? Or even seek some medical attention? No way. It's like he's a government operative paid to slice that meat and get you the hell outta there. Don't you feel the searing pain buddy? I mean, who is this guy?

But you know I love being married. A lot of guys will complain, and I will too, but mostly it's great. Women put up with the most amazingly stupid things we do. Like guys: have you ever been pouring a beer or something at home, accidentally spill some on the floor, and then instead of grabbing a mop and cleaning it up, you smash the bottle over your head and then just lie there bleeding on the floor? You know, 'cause you figure rather than take the heat for spilled beer, you'll at least get some sympathy when she finds you lying face down in a pile of broken glass, beer and blood. God, men do the craziest things.

Religion reform #3

I happen to be a big fan of Scientology. It's appropriate use of technology and space-opera mythology appeal to my inner nerd. While I don't have the money to become a devout follower, perhaps some other, more-established religions could make some changes to accommodate me? Try:

Judaism:
Instead of a menorah, Hanukkah involves the lighting of a nine-pronged lightsaber. Using only the force, you must use said light-saber to dice a dreidel into four pieces.

Catholicism:
Instead of Jesus on the Cross, how about Jesus on a hover board? 'Nuff said.

Islam:
Put those dudes on Segways.

Zoroastrianism:
Don't change a damn thing. You guys already rule.

Hinduism:
Gods with multiple arms, gold. Gods with multiple robotic arms? That's SOLID gold.

Atheists:
Keep on rocking with your Blackberrys and espresso machines.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: Do you have to sell hot dogs in packages of 10? Why not individually?

Miranda: Because of the moral issues.

Harvey: I don't follow.

Miranda: I don't have time to get into bun/frankfurter politics with you now. Would you like a package of hot dogs?

Harvey:

Miranda:

Harvey:

Miranda: I'll sell you five dogs.

Harvey: Deal. But instead of 8 buns, can I get 9?

Rant against things that don't bother me so much

I can't stand pickles. Well, I shouldn't say I can't stand them, more that I really don't like them. In most cases. Sometimes a whole baby dill is all right. But never on a burger. Almost never.

Interracial marriage also pisses me off, but only if one person is Ugandan and the other Botswanian. I'm not sure why that specific pairing bothers me, but it does. Kind of.

Umbrellas, are my least favourite implement. I hate the way they almost poke out your eye, and the sogginess. Yeah, yeah, they keep you dry I know. But still. I'd much rather get soaked than carry around one of these damn things like a crutch. Unless it's pouring.

I also hate spices. No, no I don't.

Awkward silence

The question was a bit impertinent, if not wholly rude, considering Harvey's only casual acquaintance with Sarah, but he answered the question nonetheless.

"Actually, I haven't ejaculated in about 8 months." he said.

As is typical when one makes a directed confession of this nature in a room full of people, everyone fell silent just as Harvey said this. The silence lingered in the air for a few moments until Sarah skewered it with yet another question, delivered with the same peppery oomph.

"Gosh, why not?"

"Well," he answered, "that's right around the time I broke up with my girlfriend, so..." and Harvey sort of trailed off before saying, "unless you know of another way..."

"Not me," said Sarah, befuddled.

As their conversation dominated the now-quiet room, the host's brother James felt obliged to contribute.

"So it's been building up inside you for eight months?" James's face signalled panic and fear. The party-goers glanced at each other with expressions of alarm.

"Not really," said a clearly irritated Harvey. "It doesn't build up -- it's not like if you give me a really strong hug it'll come squeezing out my nostrils and mouth."

And the silence that followed was as thick as buttermilk; one no amount of oomph could skewer.

Milk rules

From the Dairy Farmers of Ontario web site:

Children who are lactose intolerant or more precisely, who are lactose maldigesters, lack enough of the enzyme (lactase) needed to completely digest the lactose. Lactose intolerance refers to the symptoms of gastrointestinal discomfort which some people feel after drinking milk or eating lactose-containing foods. With a little experimentation, some kids find they can tolerate small servings of milk spread throughout the day. Certain cheeses and yogurts are lower in lactose. Others kids may use special lactose free milk such as Lactaid or Lacteeze.

I find the emphasized words above most interesting (obviously).

Clearly Big Milk is aware that some people aren't hep to their smooth-as-satin cocaine in a carton and that they will use any excuse to avoid the stuff. "Gastrointestinal discomfort" indeed. Come on. Experiment a little, would ya?

Sure you might puke a few times, or experience severe diarrhea, but eventually you'll find your 'sweet spot'. Just drink whatever doesn't make you sick. There. That's a good lad.

Can't handle it? How about just a few servings spread throughout the day? You don't have to like it son, we're just asking that you tolerate it. Don't be a pussy.

Religion reform #2

If you're going to believe in religion, you have to wear a corresponding hat. Period. The Jews are way ahead of everyone on this one; I'd like all faiths to follow suit.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: Hello, hello. Just this box of facial tissues. Thought I won't be using them for my face, is that OK?
Miranda: That is fine. That will be $199 dollars please.
Harvey: All I got is $200 dollars. Can you break a $5?
Miranda: Your $200 is fine. $1 is your change.
Harvey: See you tomorrow.
Miranda: That is likely.

Our addictions

"Our addictions," he began, "are what stop us from being real people."

The rest of the group sat quietly in the circularly arranged folding chairs, listening to the counsellor speak.

"They are like," and he scanned the air for a point of comparison, "a rock tethered to our ankle, holding us dead in our tracks. What we must learn to do is cut that rope."

There were nods of recognition as he emphasized those last three words. One man in the circle looked up and cleared his throat. His chair screeched slightly as he rose to his feet. His dark eyes drooped. The group leaned their heads toward him to hear him speak.

"Actually, addiction isn't like that at all. An addiction," he said, moving his eyes around the circle, "is a like a masterpiece. A work of art that you can't stop staring at. They're beautiful. That's the problem: there isn't any rope to cut, and you'll never find it."

* * *

Harvey's body heaved the pallet truck across the factory floor. The sound of his boots against the cold concrete echoed through the dark and empty warehouse. With a robotic sense of grace, he manoeuvred the pallet truck under a skid of freshly-boxed toys, pumped the machine up with a grunt, and began the tedious walk back to the shipping area.

In a quiet lonely job such as Harvey's it was easy to succumb to the monotony. But Harvey did not mind. Over the months, his actions evolved into basic instinct, almost robotic you could say. And as his mind floated away from the demands of moving boxes of new toys from point A to point B, the world inside the toy factory became easily divisible, organizable and comprehensible.

It took exactly two pumps of the truck to lift each pallet to an acceptable height to move across the floor without dragging. It was approximately 415 steps from rear wall of storage to the delivery door. Harvey passed exactly 16 steel pillars, two fenced gates, and 32 hanging light fixtures on each trip.

Each skid was roughly 1200 lbs, except for the deliveries that went out on Fridays which were nearly 1800 lbs. The weight was tolerable, but on Fridays, like tonight, the heavy skids always drew his attention to the lip.

It always startled him whenever he encountered the lip. Almost exactly halfway between storage and the delivery garage there was a slight protrusion in the otherwise perfectly flat warehouse floor. At the meeting point of two cold concrete slabs, there was a slight bump, a discontinuity, which would halt Harvey as he dragged his pump truck. Light loads would glide over easily with a slight tug. But the heavy loads of Fridays would come to a complete stop. And invariably, he would have to grunt and pull the stopped pump truck over the lip and continue to deliver his goods.

Tonight was another Friday and Harvey had been moving skids for three hours. His mind was often absent when he dragged the pump truck through the factory and he knew the route by heart. His mind had clicked off 200 steps when he noticed a slight bump as he dragged his cart. He stopped.

Letting go of the handle Harvey walked back to investigate the bump. It was of course, the tell tale lip. This time however, it did not stop the pallet mover in its tracks. It caused only a slight murmur in Harvey's path.

Harvey got down on his hands and knees to investigate. The light was dim in the factory late at night except for halogen lamps far up overhead. As he moved toward the crack, a gleam of factory light followed him to the cleavage on the floor. He slowly slid his hand against the cold floor. He pressed his fingers to the crack and felt the ridge that had stopped him dead so many Friday nights before. It was hard and rocky, like the blade of a stone knife. And for the first time, Harvey noticed precisely how beautiful it looked under the dim factory lights.

Ever been so tired?

It's so late, and I'm so tired that I could eat a horse. Literally. I would just chew the damn thing with my mouth open. I wouldn't even use steak sauce. I'd eat the damn thing with a sprinkle of pepper. That's how exhausted I am. I would consume barely-seasoned equine meat.

Creating idioms (from scratch)

Do "expressions" "always" have to "make sense"? (You know, you can emphasize just about any word in that last sentence, and I'd be pretty happy about it.) Try:

• He was hairier than a sheepdog after Thanksgiving.
• Bob spends money faster than Chinese lesbians at a fireworks factory.
• I haven't heard anything that ridiculous since I started getting colonic irrigations down at the auto body shop.
• Suzie is dumber than a pair of pliers glued to a shoebox.
• I'm hungrier than the world's oldest Snickers bar.
• Watch out: Jimmy's angrier than a truck full of one-armed monkeys.
• Why buy the cat, when sausage is readily available?
• Woo-ee, this salsa is spicier than a Mexican stripper's asscrack!

Actually, I think I might use that last one.

Religion reform #1

It would have been pretty neat if instead of the Bible, the world's most popular and influential book was a Japanese graphic novel featuring a pan-sexual anthropomorphic blob named "Kaito" who was pink and blue and spoke only in rhyme.

Oh, and somehow instead of the Eucharist, we had something that involved cream soda and Viva puffs. Just off the top of my head here.

Everybody likes jokes

It occurred to me that I don't tell enough jokes. The reason is probably a combination of my not being able to memorize any existing jokes, and my refusal to create any new ones. Since I have not received any word from Garry Trudeau on the whereabouts of my MegaMemory kit, I will have to work on designing my own jests for use at parties, funerals and bar mitzvahs.

A nun walks into a bar, sits down at a stool and orders a bloody mary. The bartender pours her drink and slides it over to her. "I didn't know nuns were allowed to drink," he asked the nun.
"We're not," said the nun, and she ordered another. The bartender complied, and eyed her quizzically.

I guess that wasn't really a joke. Perhaps I will start simpler, with a knock-knock joke:

Knock knock
Who's There?
Who shot
Who shot who?
Who shot Jr? Motherfucker!

Well, that fucking sucked. I'm not sure what happened there. Comedy is tough. Perhaps instead, people could start sharing little nuggets of tragedy. People like drama too. We could tell one-liners like:

Did you know that the incidence of HIV/AIDS in young people is increasing dramatically each year?

My wife used to be an auto mechanic; that is, until she died.

What do you call a child who's parents have both died in a fiery blaze? An orphan with a long hard struggle ahead of him.

Yeah, I think I could get used to these. Tragedy is the new comedy.

Bawdy!

"Careful now sir," Mr. Lemon reported, "if she suspects that you're talking about her, you'll most certainly drive her to arousal."

"Agreed," was the reply of the president, "her panties'll shoot down her legs like a rainsoaked flag against a window. And no one needs to see that."

"Yes, sir." Mr. Lemon sighed. "But please, such language, you must --"

"Aw, shut that cock trap of yours, Lemon," the President bellowed. "You're acting like I ain't ever been to an event like this before."

"Yes, sir. But in fairness, you really haven't --"

"There you go again, flapping that damn cocktrap of yours. Listen Lemon... hey, where did that slut get to anyhow?"

Mr. Lemon sighed long and hard.

"Son of a bitch," the President mused out loud, "I wonder if she's in the bathroom pleasuring herself..."

"Mr. President," Lemon started, "please, I --" but the president again uninterrupted him, waxing philosophical.

"Well, I'll be. That diplomat from Georgia is a God-damned whore. I like her."

Offensive haiku

The japs, chinks, and gooks
Can't drive worth shit; but at least
They ain't niggers. Damn.

I know they called it
Rape; but come on now, that slut
Was asking for it.

Yesterday was tough:
I got an abortion, AND
Missed the bus back home.

Faint recollection.
Mind hurts, memory is faint.
Ass is sore as hell.

Maternal longings,
Plus lycra workout pants means:
I can't be blamed, dude.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
I was just gonna move! Damn
This parking Ticket!

Jews and Arabs should
Learn to get along, because
Who else can stand them?

Lipgloss, pigtails, and
Mother's perfume. "Little girl,
You need a ride home?"

A feeble attempt at narrative

OK. This time I'm going to do it. Here we go. What I need here is a story, which a main character, who does stuff, perhaps sets a goal, has trouble reaching that goal but ultimately succeeds. That's all I gotta do here. Let's try to not to fuck it up.

Billy's Story.

Billy was a young lad who lived at home with his parents. Because he was seven. He went to school like all the other boys and girls, except he hated school. He hated the teachers, he hated math class, he was not exactly a fan of gym either. He felt recess was OK, but nothing to phone home about. He definitely liked lunch. Maybe school wasn't so bad.

One day on his way home from school, he found a shiny quarter. He was excited because for a seven year old, that was a lot of money. I mean, seriously. That would buy him some candy or something.

It took him a long time to get home and when he got there his mother was waiting for him and she was angry.

"What took you so long to get home, Simon?" She said, because that was his name. He had no response but feebly held up his quarter.

"Look what I found!" But mother was not impressed. She snatched the quarter away. "Give me that." She thrust a "Here, go to Howard's Grocery and get everything on that list. And don't waste your time or buy anything we don't need!" She handed him 2 dollars and sent him on his way.

The walk to the store was long, and difficult and Simon only had little legs that didn't move him very far. After about ten minutes, he realised that he was not even halfway there. He was bored so he poked his head into one of his favourite stores. It was the comic book store. He liked this store very much. He was a big fan of comics, and wanted to stay longer but he knew that his task was to get to the store and buy the things for mother as soon as possible. He continued on his way.

As we walked further his legs started to ache and he sat down on a bench on the sidewalk. A man with an accordion walked up to him. He looked dishevelled but friendly. "Would you like to see a magic trick?"

"Sure!" Said Simon enthusiastically.
"OK, but it's one dollar!" the man replied.

Simon knew he shouldn't give the man his money so he said, "no". "Look man, all I gotta do is get to the store, and get this shit. Stop hassling me."

He continued on his way....

And here is where I realise this story is completely bullshit.

...Simon kept walking to the store but he tripped over a rock along the way. It hurt him pretty bad and he stayed on the ground for a long time. He never woke up.

The End.

A sentence that just seems to keep going even though it has already said what it needs to say it just doesn't seem to be able...

Starting a sentence when you don't even feel like writing can be a pain in the ass, especially when, thanks to your non-creative inklings, you start to dread finishing it out of fear of what the end result could (or would be); instead, one keeps writing to avoid the awful full-stop, or typing as it were, like a madman looking for a lost shilling in a sack full of fish-heads praying that sooner, rather than later, his quest will come to an end -- something which we all know, of course it doesn't (barring any parenthetical deus ex machina, like a hobo wearing formal attire who suddenly shows up with a whole sack full of shillings and suggests that the two men drop everything (fish-head sack included) and wander off to the nearest carnival, where surely they will be able to enjoy candied yams, and sugar cubes, and perhaps, fortune-willing, catch the eyes of a couple of dashing young ladies who will let them hold their hands, and, if all goes well, die nobly at the hands of a circus beast, like an elephant or bearded lady; this final proposition of course, and I think it bears no mentioning, our madman holding a sack full of fish heads likes not in the slightest -- THE SLIGHTEST -- and would mention so to our dear formal-hobo, were a person like that to arrive on the scene which we all know of course, he wouldn't): for that, dear reader, is the plight of the desperate writer mired in a run-on sentence; a plight he would not share with anyone; not his mother; nor his uncle; nor the nearest man who misuses semi-colons; he instead, like a child swimming unattended struggles to keep himself afloat, he is drowning in words, and sputtering as though from water-filled lungs, while mother sips her lemonade in the parlour talking with Doris about Eleanor, their recently divorced friend and her most recent scandal, and blithely pass judgment while masking their own all-too-obvious jealousy at her newly found freedom as a woman about town and all-the-while ignoring the screams and splashes from the backyard -- no, not a plight to share at all.

Finicky formatting finesse fantastic

Let's see here. I am trying to ascertain whether or not this function of my blog-machine is actually working. For those of you out there in Blog-land, would you be so kind as to drop me a line and let me know if it is working?

What I am trying to achieve is a subtle gradient in the colour of each of the letters. Ideally each word will start out dark black (or light black, I don't know) and slowly fade letter-by-letter to a rich shade of azure or indigo.

If there is a strong or emotional word in there (like "punch" or "hey"), I would prefer a less abrupt (but nonetheless smooth) transition to puce or a roan red instead. Now, if the word to be emphasized has its origins in another language, then I would like it to be italicized as well, but I would like the letters to slant left instead of right, as I would like to reserve those italics for regular words in the English language that merit emphasis, song titles, and the names of basketball teams.

And if the whole thing could be on a background that slowly changed colours based on the time of day, that would be super.

I am not sure how this aitch-tee-em-ell stuff works, so I can only hope by adding enough backslashes I will achieve decent results. Won't you please tell me if this doesn't work?

An insult

Wendy was shocked.

"I've never been so insulted in all my life. First, to claim these oysters taste like 'puke' and then to follow that up by calling me a Nazi... well, I --"

"First," William interrupted, "I don't like oysters. Second, I was only saying that your attention to detail was Nazi-like. It's still a complement. Forgive me if it wasn't the balls-deep cocksuckery you anticipated."

And that my friends, is how one uses the term "balls-deep cocksuckery" in a sentence.

Words I hate

For real: there is nothing worse than the word "crisp". I fucking hate it. There is really no one who sounds genuine using this word, except maybe (strong maybe) octogenarians baking apple products. Everyone else? Not a chance. And what does this word even mean? The dictionary provides this:

1. Firm but easily broken or crumbled; brittle: crisp potato chips.
   
2. Pleasingly firm and fresh: crisp carrot and celery sticks.
   
3. Bracing; invigorating: crisp mountain air. Lively; sprightly: music with a crisp rhythm.
   
4. Conspicuously clean or new: a crisp dollar bill.
   
5. Marked by clarity, conciseness.

For fucks sake. What doesn't "crisp" describe? It's firm, it's fresh, it's lively, it's motherfucking concise; it's everything. If you use the word "crisp" to describe any of the following, I hate you:

• an autumn day
• apples
• linens, esp. a white and neatly-folded bedsheet (God, I hate that.)
• mountain air

Please don't ask me why, I just know I fuckin' hate this. You can describe your potato chips as "crunchy" and your "clear and concise" reponses as exactly that.

It's that fuckin' p at the end. I hate the little 'pop' of the lips, that comes with it. Oh, I hate you "crisp".

(Don't even get me started on how the British use it to describe a whole Goddamn snack treat.)

I'm sorry?

I think instead of saying "I'm sorry", which no one ever really means, we should substitute "tough shit, asshole". Think of the many times when this really mirrors our true sentiments:

Jane: Having sex without my consent while I was drunk was wrong.
John: Tough shit, asshole.

Jeff: Dude, you just scratched my car.
Jack: Tough shit, asshole.

Jim: Next thing I knew, I was furrrg, breskkkk hahualug...
Jeb: Tough shit, asshole, I didn't get that -- it might be my cell phone.

In the first grade, my best friend at the time demonstrated an amazing feat of forcing saliva between his two front teeth and producing a fine spray. He got it all over me during a lesson, but I was impressed nonetheless. Our teacher however was not so easily impressed -- she was disgusted really -- and made him apologise. He did, and I gave him the perfunctory, "that's OK", but the stern Ms. Parish interrupted.

"No, it is not OK."

I was shocked. This is possible? I thought you had to accept apologies; is that not why we give them out? My mind was truly blown, and for the first time in a public school, I think I learned something.

Today I propose that instead of "That's OK", which again, we never truly mean, we reply with a curt and serious, "fuck you". Some examples:

Alpha: Oh, shit. I locked your keys in the car. Tough shit, asshole.
Beta: Fuck you.

Airline counter person: Tough shit, assholes, but flight 137 has been delayed coming out of Newark and won't be arriving until 19:38. Tough shit for any inconvenience this may cause.
Various passengers: Fuck you.

Joe: Do you have the shoes in a different colour?
Jon: Tough shit, asshole, we don't.
Joe: Oh, well. Fuck you.

I haven't had an idea this good since ever. Next week: "please" and "thank you".