Many of you have come to me with questions about our company's dress policy. Rather than spend any more time detailing it to individuals, I thought I would send a general memo, detailing appropriate dress for the following month, day-by-day. Please direct any further queries to Katherine (bowl of Twizzlers, near the restroom).
March:
Business Casual Monday
Business Casual Tuesday
Business Casual Wednesday
Business Casual Thursday
Casual Friday
Dressed-up Monday
Ratty Robe Tuesday (telecommuters)
Ratty Sweatshirt Wednesday (laundry day)
Lucky Socks Thursday
Lingere Friday (mandatory)
Dress Like Alan Thicke Monday
Only Sweater-Vests Tuesday
Fu-Manchu Wednesday
Uncle Scrooge Spats Thursday
Pashmina Diaper Friday
Toblerone Earmuffs Monday
Mitten-on-Feet, Sock-on-Hands Tuesday
19th Century Circus Strongman Wednesday
Visible Hernia Thursday
Creature of Energy and Light Friday
And, as always, though we do not work on the weekends, all employees are expected to remain nude, but for a plush shark suit, between the hours of 1:00 am Friday and 6:00 am Monday, and during all sexual intercourse.
Thank you.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Pure Filler
Once again, I was a finalist over at Daniel Radosh's New Yorker Anti-Caption Contest. Someday, I will take the top prize, and will finally ascend to my rightful place as Secretary General of Making Fun of the New Yorker.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Recycling Center: Rejected Jokes Edition
Zango!...
Israel's chief rabbi said in a religious ruling Tuesday that Jews must not wear fur skinned from live animals in order to prevent cruelty to animals. As a replacement, they suggested a stylish “foreskin coat.”
Prime Minister Tony Blair announced Wednesday that he will start pulling British troops out of Iraq next month, or, to put it in terms they understand, a “fortnight.”
Gambia's President Yahya Jammeh is claiming that his concoction of green herbal paste and bananas can cure AIDS, although you don’t want to know where you put the bananas.
It was reported that Britney Spears shaved her head after a fight with Kevin Federline, in which he threatened to have her hair tested to find out what drugs she has been using, proving once again that there’s nothing more entertaining than watching these two outsmart each-other.
Archeologists unveiled the tombs Tuesday of a Pharaonic butler and a scribe that have been buried for more than 3000 years. A preliminary autopsy on the scribe indicates the butler did it.
A man who was fired by IBM for visiting an adult chat room at work is suing the company for 5 million dollars, claiming he is an Internet addict who deserves treatment and sympathy rather than dismissal, especially since he’s supporting a wife and three women who spell Cindi with an “I.”
Australian officials plan to restrict and eventually ban the sale of incandescent light bulbs in an effort to cut greenhouse gas emissions by 4 million tons by 2012, reduce household power bills by up to 66 percent, and dramatically limit the number of Australians required to screw in a lightbulb.
Bill Gates said this week that he limits the amount of time his 10 year-old daughter can spend on the computer to 45 minutes a day for games, and 2 hours for removing spyware
Friday, February 23, 2007
In Which I Hold Forth on Matters Cinematical
My Oscar Predictions:
The Academy Awards will occur. Probably sometime on Sunday, February 25th. I'm thinking evening-ish.
Some awards will be given to actors. Others will be given to technicians. Most of the technical awards won't be televised, but the tech nerds will be thrown a bone by having their Oscars hosted by some hot actress.
People will dress up. People will talk about people being dressed up. At least two of those people will be named Rivers. Unfortunately, neither will be Rivers Cuomo. Someday, Mr. Spectacles. Someday.
--
In other movie-related news, this weekend, The Number 23 will finally dramatize the horror of seeing the same number lots of places.
I dunno why more movies don't have a number as their antagonist. Don't you remember the thrills, when James Bond faced off against that menacing bunch of negative integers?
In other 23-related news, I clearly put approximately 23 seconds of thought into this post.
TERRIFYING!
The Academy Awards will occur. Probably sometime on Sunday, February 25th. I'm thinking evening-ish.
Some awards will be given to actors. Others will be given to technicians. Most of the technical awards won't be televised, but the tech nerds will be thrown a bone by having their Oscars hosted by some hot actress.
People will dress up. People will talk about people being dressed up. At least two of those people will be named Rivers. Unfortunately, neither will be Rivers Cuomo. Someday, Mr. Spectacles. Someday.
--
In other movie-related news, this weekend, The Number 23 will finally dramatize the horror of seeing the same number lots of places.
I dunno why more movies don't have a number as their antagonist. Don't you remember the thrills, when James Bond faced off against that menacing bunch of negative integers?
In other 23-related news, I clearly put approximately 23 seconds of thought into this post.
TERRIFYING!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
In Which I Publish an Excerpt From My Literary Correspondence
Dear School-Chum,
Here is that introduction you requested. Hope the rigors of the literary circuit aren't getting you down, Ha-ha. Best Wishes, D.M.
October 8, 2002 – Tuesday
When my dear old friend Sir Pelham Grenville "Matt" (Matty) Bartmes asked me to write the introduction to the revised edition of his classic novel I Strode Thusly, I was thrilled. Not as thrilled as I would have been if he had requested that I write the introduction to the first edition, but that honor went to Salman Rushdie. I know that Mr. Rushdie is more of a "draw" in the literary world than I, but one cannot help feeling a twinge of pique. Perhaps if the ties of friendship ran deeper than the allure of a juicy quote from some flash-in-the-pan, fatwa-inspiring bearded wonder, the world would be a better place. Perhaps not. I am no literary agent, nor have I been able to get one, but I understand that Mr. Rushdie's benediction may have increased sales of I.S.T.—or "Istrothus" as the critics have taken to calling it—up to 50%. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
Quibbles aside, I feel I am in the position to provide special insight into the work of my old school chum Matty (or Beany as we used to call him, for reasons that elude me at present). He and I shared lodgings through much of our time at university, and I was the inspiration for the character of Reginald in his seminal work Clytemnestra's Weal as well as appearing as a minor character, under my own name, in his latest work Sturm and Drang. (Though I protest the monstrous harelip he provided Reginald in the former, and the portrait of me as a fey, mincing vaudeville entertainer in the latter.) Besides his frequent house calls and our collaboration on a failed modernization of The Great Gatsby, West Egg Blues, he and I have been in semi-weekly correspondence since our commencement, although he insists on sending our communiqués via telegram. Although this leads to a certain terseness of tone, his sterling prose is still very much in evidence. I quote from his latest missive:
HEY. MINCING. LIP-FACE. STOP
HOW. ABOUT. PISSING. OUT. AN. INTRO? STOP
SIR. M.. STOP
P.S. HOWS. THE. GOUT?
He is my best friend in the world, dear reader. And the gout is fine.
* * * *
Beany and I first came to be acquainted in my level one literature class. I, of course, had noticed him before, as he cut a distinctive figure striding across campus in full evening wear, impeccably tailored, smoking a cheroot or occasionally a calabash pipe. Yet it was in his natural habitat, the English department of blessed Old Haverford U. (tucked away in a cozy nook of Lord Sigfried-Tonszon the Third [Esq.] Honorary Mess Hall) where he was impossible to ignore. I was drawn to him instantly, when on the very first day of class he engaged the professor in a heated argument regarding the authorship Shakespeare's plays. The professor believed the dramatist was actually Sir. Francis Bacon, while Beany maintained it was a four-year-old girl from Kent named "Althea." Although Beany's assertion was a marriage of surmise with the sheerest conjecture, I was impressed not only by the intellectual rigor of his argument, but by his shrill, piercing voice. From that moment on we were inseparable.
From the start, I was convinced of Beany's greatness. Certain that the intellectual development of this towering figure would be of great value to future generations, I pledged myself to be Boswell to his Dr. Johnson. Throughout my tenure at university, I kept a journal detailing my experiences with Sir B. Although he would occasionally feign displeasure with my assiduous documentation ("Get out from behind those bushes with that damned notebook" he would screech at me, in his marvelous, joking way), I knew that deep down he appreciated my diligence. I ask that the reader indulge me as I present some of my favorite moments from these memoirs. Perhaps the following anecdotes may help illuminate the machinations of his elegant mind.
ME: Matty, what did you think of the school's production of As You Like It?
SIR MATT: It could hardly have been LONGER though it was quite WIDE enough.
Sir Matt B. and I were strolling through the quad, when we were nearly run over by a cabal of cyclists. Keeping his presence of mind about him, Sir. Matt was at no loss for a droll rejoinder.
SIR MATT: Get a HORSE!
When I asked his opinion regarding Kant's postulate of the categorical imperative:
SIR MATT: It is IMPERATIVE that you remove your SLEEVE from my SOUP, right NOW.
I provided him a first draft of my novella, "Christmas Morn, 1903" for his appraisal, in preparation for my Q-Level exams. In true illustration of his generous spirit, he agreed to sit down and critique it with me.
ME: What do you think?
SIR MATT: My dear boy, you will never be a first-rate writer until you learn SHORTHAND.
ME: Is that a euphemism?
SIR MATT: I would be EUPH-ORIC if it was.
ME: I don't understand.
SIR MATT: You don't STAND at ALL.
ME: You didn't read it, did you?
SIR MATT: Not as SUCH.
When I tried to engage him on a point of logic one evening while drinking at the pub:
SIR MATT: BLEEECH (various vomiting noises)
Pour over these remarks, my dears, and all the secret songs of the angels will be revealed to you.
* * * *
As to the novel itself, what more can I say? It is what it is. For better or for worse, since it's publication in 1979, "Istrothus" has forever changed the face of American writing. It is a work of fierce originality, except for the first eight chapters, which are cribbed (more or less word-for-word) from Mellville's Moby Dick, and for great portions of the concluding chapter, which are lifted from Tom Brown's School Days with a lot of unnecessary sex scenes added. Thankfully, these portions of the novel are more or less ancillary to the main narrative, which is set in 18th Century France and is the story of a young man's discovery of the world, following his rejection of a well-paying position in his family's petticoat concern.
I Strode Thusly straddles the divide between Sir Matt's early "immature" work, (including his books Lamb of Plenty, Call to Me; Sunday's the Day for Dyeing; Knavery in the Nave, and the Dickensian serial My Horrid Childhood as well as his play, Lost: One Pound of Flesh) and his later "even more immature" work (such as his towering five-volume epistolary novel, The Irrational History of Wuzwardish M. Gort and his collection of short stories, A Change of Clothes).
It is a coming-of-age tale in the truest sense, the literal one. The novel concludes with Francois coming of the age 18 and inheriting the whole of his family's petticoat monies, wrapped in a lace model HJ5-8.9 (The Parisian Fluffer), in an ironic commentary about the futility of trying to escape the past. I hope I haven't spoiled the ending for anyone. If so, they still have all that pornographic Tom Brown stuff to wade through.
I have not had an opportunity to peruse the revised edition, as Beany's publisher still has it under lock and key, but I certainly hope Sir. Matt has taken this opportunity to omit some of the more "writerly" flourishes that I believe marred the first edition—for one, the overuse of footnotes, ranging from the sublime ("It was on that very thoroughfare that, one summer's morn in late October, the russet-colored wind had swept around me, collecting in limpid pools at my feet, spurring me, once and for all, to entreat absolution from Jessica for the death of her cat.") to the ridiculous ("My bologna has a first name; it's O-S-C-A-R"). If you'll pardon the expression, why should the reader give a good G—damn if the author's luncheon meat has a first name or not (a claim vis-à-vis I have my doubts)? And why footnote it? Especially in a passage concerned, as it is, with the tragic death of one of the main characters. I feel it is a sore miscalculation that I hope he has taken the occasion to correct.
In a like manner, I believe chapters 17-38 to be an abomination before all mankind. In the course of these 234 pages, Beany seems to have decided to open up his Dictionary of Literary Terms and choose one stylistic device to over-use, per each page. For instance, on page 129, apropos of nothing, he practically beats us over the head with alliteration: "Gustave's gustatory gusto was guarded as his guests gulped the gumbo, gurgling with gumption." What purpose could this possibly serve? Likewise, page 177 is dripping with the pathetic fallacy: "Marcel's pants gazed at him from across the room, challenging him to put them on. He threw open the boisterous curtains and gazed down on the lusty road below. The sun shrieked "Get on with it, Marcie!" as the timorous moon set in the north. He looked wistfully back at his angst-ridden bed." I am willing to accept the conceit that pants challenge you to put them on, but how can a road be lusty? And the moon set in the north?!
Also, we can only hope that every occurrence of the adjective "horny" has been stricken from this volume.
Dearest reader, I hope with all my heart that these problems have been addressed, yet I fear the changes focus less on form than on content. Allow me to explain: As the original novel was primarily a work of historical fiction, Beany opened himself up to an unprecedented number of attacks concerning the veracity of the period depicted, and I suspect this latest edition is a futile attempt to correct these inaccuracies.
Some errors:
pg. 3 "He walked into the Guggenheim Museum." The Guggenheim is in New York. Also it did not exist in the 1700s.
Pg. 49 "He licked her eye, as was the custom." It was not the custom.
Pg. 99 "Frenchy Crepes was dancing, while Frenchy Parlez-Vous watched silently from the back." No people by those names ever existed. Ever. Also, French people aren't all named "Frenchy."
And so on. Also, the whole subplot about manufacturing digital watches, which occupies a good part of the latter half of the book is, of course, approximately 200 years premature.
* * * *
What's ahead for Sir Matt? Perhaps we can allow our old friend to rest on his literary laurels for a while, now that he's acquired the knighthood he diligently (some might say "desperately") campaigned for all his life. Originally, Beany was set to be knighted posthumously; but, as our Queen so memorably said, "The little bugger won't die." (Indeed, Your Highness, indeed.) Since his knighthood was eventually bestowed while he still had the vigor to use it to full advantage, he has chosen to do so. In the months since his knighting, he has been using his influence to campaign for the inclusion of land mines in several third world countries. Also he has returned to the stage for a series of one-man shows, titled, I am told, Sir Sing-a-lot! He seems to be enjoying his semi-retirement. Yet when I receive telegrams from the man himself, he wistfully speaks of his one yet-unfinished project, the much-discussed Phantasmeroneroticon (although one must read between the lines to detect any actual mention of the book).
So, dear reader, all that remains is the book itself. If you have read it before, prepare to be delighted all over again. If you've never read it, prepare for rough waters ahead.
Warmly,
Professor Dan (iel) K. McCoy, Esq. Q.C., Ph.D. M.D., B.B.C., Literary Hanger-on
Here is that introduction you requested. Hope the rigors of the literary circuit aren't getting you down, Ha-ha. Best Wishes, D.M.
October 8, 2002 – Tuesday
When my dear old friend Sir Pelham Grenville "Matt" (Matty) Bartmes asked me to write the introduction to the revised edition of his classic novel I Strode Thusly, I was thrilled. Not as thrilled as I would have been if he had requested that I write the introduction to the first edition, but that honor went to Salman Rushdie. I know that Mr. Rushdie is more of a "draw" in the literary world than I, but one cannot help feeling a twinge of pique. Perhaps if the ties of friendship ran deeper than the allure of a juicy quote from some flash-in-the-pan, fatwa-inspiring bearded wonder, the world would be a better place. Perhaps not. I am no literary agent, nor have I been able to get one, but I understand that Mr. Rushdie's benediction may have increased sales of I.S.T.—or "Istrothus" as the critics have taken to calling it—up to 50%. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
Quibbles aside, I feel I am in the position to provide special insight into the work of my old school chum Matty (or Beany as we used to call him, for reasons that elude me at present). He and I shared lodgings through much of our time at university, and I was the inspiration for the character of Reginald in his seminal work Clytemnestra's Weal as well as appearing as a minor character, under my own name, in his latest work Sturm and Drang. (Though I protest the monstrous harelip he provided Reginald in the former, and the portrait of me as a fey, mincing vaudeville entertainer in the latter.) Besides his frequent house calls and our collaboration on a failed modernization of The Great Gatsby, West Egg Blues, he and I have been in semi-weekly correspondence since our commencement, although he insists on sending our communiqués via telegram. Although this leads to a certain terseness of tone, his sterling prose is still very much in evidence. I quote from his latest missive:
HEY. MINCING. LIP-FACE. STOP
HOW. ABOUT. PISSING. OUT. AN. INTRO? STOP
SIR. M.. STOP
P.S. HOWS. THE. GOUT?
He is my best friend in the world, dear reader. And the gout is fine.
* * * *
Beany and I first came to be acquainted in my level one literature class. I, of course, had noticed him before, as he cut a distinctive figure striding across campus in full evening wear, impeccably tailored, smoking a cheroot or occasionally a calabash pipe. Yet it was in his natural habitat, the English department of blessed Old Haverford U. (tucked away in a cozy nook of Lord Sigfried-Tonszon the Third [Esq.] Honorary Mess Hall) where he was impossible to ignore. I was drawn to him instantly, when on the very first day of class he engaged the professor in a heated argument regarding the authorship Shakespeare's plays. The professor believed the dramatist was actually Sir. Francis Bacon, while Beany maintained it was a four-year-old girl from Kent named "Althea." Although Beany's assertion was a marriage of surmise with the sheerest conjecture, I was impressed not only by the intellectual rigor of his argument, but by his shrill, piercing voice. From that moment on we were inseparable.
From the start, I was convinced of Beany's greatness. Certain that the intellectual development of this towering figure would be of great value to future generations, I pledged myself to be Boswell to his Dr. Johnson. Throughout my tenure at university, I kept a journal detailing my experiences with Sir B. Although he would occasionally feign displeasure with my assiduous documentation ("Get out from behind those bushes with that damned notebook" he would screech at me, in his marvelous, joking way), I knew that deep down he appreciated my diligence. I ask that the reader indulge me as I present some of my favorite moments from these memoirs. Perhaps the following anecdotes may help illuminate the machinations of his elegant mind.
ME: Matty, what did you think of the school's production of As You Like It?
SIR MATT: It could hardly have been LONGER though it was quite WIDE enough.
Sir Matt B. and I were strolling through the quad, when we were nearly run over by a cabal of cyclists. Keeping his presence of mind about him, Sir. Matt was at no loss for a droll rejoinder.
SIR MATT: Get a HORSE!
When I asked his opinion regarding Kant's postulate of the categorical imperative:
SIR MATT: It is IMPERATIVE that you remove your SLEEVE from my SOUP, right NOW.
I provided him a first draft of my novella, "Christmas Morn, 1903" for his appraisal, in preparation for my Q-Level exams. In true illustration of his generous spirit, he agreed to sit down and critique it with me.
ME: What do you think?
SIR MATT: My dear boy, you will never be a first-rate writer until you learn SHORTHAND.
ME: Is that a euphemism?
SIR MATT: I would be EUPH-ORIC if it was.
ME: I don't understand.
SIR MATT: You don't STAND at ALL.
ME: You didn't read it, did you?
SIR MATT: Not as SUCH.
When I tried to engage him on a point of logic one evening while drinking at the pub:
SIR MATT: BLEEECH (various vomiting noises)
Pour over these remarks, my dears, and all the secret songs of the angels will be revealed to you.
* * * *
As to the novel itself, what more can I say? It is what it is. For better or for worse, since it's publication in 1979, "Istrothus" has forever changed the face of American writing. It is a work of fierce originality, except for the first eight chapters, which are cribbed (more or less word-for-word) from Mellville's Moby Dick, and for great portions of the concluding chapter, which are lifted from Tom Brown's School Days with a lot of unnecessary sex scenes added. Thankfully, these portions of the novel are more or less ancillary to the main narrative, which is set in 18th Century France and is the story of a young man's discovery of the world, following his rejection of a well-paying position in his family's petticoat concern.
I Strode Thusly straddles the divide between Sir Matt's early "immature" work, (including his books Lamb of Plenty, Call to Me; Sunday's the Day for Dyeing; Knavery in the Nave, and the Dickensian serial My Horrid Childhood as well as his play, Lost: One Pound of Flesh) and his later "even more immature" work (such as his towering five-volume epistolary novel, The Irrational History of Wuzwardish M. Gort and his collection of short stories, A Change of Clothes).
It is a coming-of-age tale in the truest sense, the literal one. The novel concludes with Francois coming of the age 18 and inheriting the whole of his family's petticoat monies, wrapped in a lace model HJ5-8.9 (The Parisian Fluffer), in an ironic commentary about the futility of trying to escape the past. I hope I haven't spoiled the ending for anyone. If so, they still have all that pornographic Tom Brown stuff to wade through.
I have not had an opportunity to peruse the revised edition, as Beany's publisher still has it under lock and key, but I certainly hope Sir. Matt has taken this opportunity to omit some of the more "writerly" flourishes that I believe marred the first edition—for one, the overuse of footnotes, ranging from the sublime ("It was on that very thoroughfare that, one summer's morn in late October, the russet-colored wind had swept around me, collecting in limpid pools at my feet, spurring me, once and for all, to entreat absolution from Jessica for the death of her cat.") to the ridiculous ("My bologna has a first name; it's O-S-C-A-R"). If you'll pardon the expression, why should the reader give a good G—damn if the author's luncheon meat has a first name or not (a claim vis-à-vis I have my doubts)? And why footnote it? Especially in a passage concerned, as it is, with the tragic death of one of the main characters. I feel it is a sore miscalculation that I hope he has taken the occasion to correct.
In a like manner, I believe chapters 17-38 to be an abomination before all mankind. In the course of these 234 pages, Beany seems to have decided to open up his Dictionary of Literary Terms and choose one stylistic device to over-use, per each page. For instance, on page 129, apropos of nothing, he practically beats us over the head with alliteration: "Gustave's gustatory gusto was guarded as his guests gulped the gumbo, gurgling with gumption." What purpose could this possibly serve? Likewise, page 177 is dripping with the pathetic fallacy: "Marcel's pants gazed at him from across the room, challenging him to put them on. He threw open the boisterous curtains and gazed down on the lusty road below. The sun shrieked "Get on with it, Marcie!" as the timorous moon set in the north. He looked wistfully back at his angst-ridden bed." I am willing to accept the conceit that pants challenge you to put them on, but how can a road be lusty? And the moon set in the north?!
Also, we can only hope that every occurrence of the adjective "horny" has been stricken from this volume.
Dearest reader, I hope with all my heart that these problems have been addressed, yet I fear the changes focus less on form than on content. Allow me to explain: As the original novel was primarily a work of historical fiction, Beany opened himself up to an unprecedented number of attacks concerning the veracity of the period depicted, and I suspect this latest edition is a futile attempt to correct these inaccuracies.
Some errors:
pg. 3 "He walked into the Guggenheim Museum." The Guggenheim is in New York. Also it did not exist in the 1700s.
Pg. 49 "He licked her eye, as was the custom." It was not the custom.
Pg. 99 "Frenchy Crepes was dancing, while Frenchy Parlez-Vous watched silently from the back." No people by those names ever existed. Ever. Also, French people aren't all named "Frenchy."
And so on. Also, the whole subplot about manufacturing digital watches, which occupies a good part of the latter half of the book is, of course, approximately 200 years premature.
* * * *
What's ahead for Sir Matt? Perhaps we can allow our old friend to rest on his literary laurels for a while, now that he's acquired the knighthood he diligently (some might say "desperately") campaigned for all his life. Originally, Beany was set to be knighted posthumously; but, as our Queen so memorably said, "The little bugger won't die." (Indeed, Your Highness, indeed.) Since his knighthood was eventually bestowed while he still had the vigor to use it to full advantage, he has chosen to do so. In the months since his knighting, he has been using his influence to campaign for the inclusion of land mines in several third world countries. Also he has returned to the stage for a series of one-man shows, titled, I am told, Sir Sing-a-lot! He seems to be enjoying his semi-retirement. Yet when I receive telegrams from the man himself, he wistfully speaks of his one yet-unfinished project, the much-discussed Phantasmeroneroticon (although one must read between the lines to detect any actual mention of the book).
So, dear reader, all that remains is the book itself. If you have read it before, prepare to be delighted all over again. If you've never read it, prepare for rough waters ahead.
Warmly,
Professor Dan (iel) K. McCoy, Esq. Q.C., Ph.D. M.D., B.B.C., Literary Hanger-on
Thursday, February 15, 2007
In Which I Publish Excerpts From My Future Collected Works
Like most creative, goal-oriented people, I want to have written a book, or several books, but have no interest in putting in the actual "writing" (what the French call "écriture") time needed to do so. Usually, around page ten-- at approximately the point when the second major character is introduced; the inciting event has ceased to be inciting anymore; or when Fifi puts her maid's outfit back on-- I hit the wall of my television-addled attention span and stop, usually to see what's on TV.
This habit may keep me up-to-date on the ever-growing field of ride-pimpery, but in has left me with multiple false starts. Rather than slap a hasty denouement on these aborted literary works and call them "novellas," I have decided to be optimistic, and look upon them as the first flowering of a varied and successful literary career. Anticipating the day when they will all be finished and collected in a handsome Modern Library edition (available in pre-order from me, now, for the price of $34.85) I present you these excerpts from my collected works. Think of it as a glance INTO THE FUTURE!
From Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom, the collegiate coming-of-age tale/ horror thriller. McSkinny's Press. Est. pub. date: February 2008.
My advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
"So, what do you want out of college?" she asked, settling back onto her bed.
"Oh, you know. I want to fall in love for the first time. Have sex. Be betrayed. Be forced to make a difficult decision. Realize that the woman I was in love with I wasn't really in love with. Betray a friend. Make up with the friend. Do stupid drunken things and have fun. Do stupid drunken things that have tragic consequences. Meet people different from myself. Fall in love for real. Emerge from the other side sadder but wiser. You know, the usual coming-of-age crap."
"Interesting... and how do you feel about meat cleavers?" she asked, reaching for a bloody meat cleaver, on her bedside table.
"I don't really have strong feelings about... AAAAGH!"
From The Mystery of the Guy Kevin Who Kills People, one of the 'baby's first murder mystery' series. Viper Children's. Est. pub. date: May 2010.
Inspector Balustrade delicately made his way around the crime scene. Although the body had been removed, a chalk "K" remained on the floor, a cold reminder of the corpse's unusual body alignment. An odd assortment of items were arranged ritualistically, encircling the K. These included a copy of the film "Clerks," a subway map of Brooklyn with the Nevins Street stop enlarged and the "N" blocked out, a signed poster of "Dances With Wolves," and Kevin Kline's actual Oscar for "A Fish Called Wanda," which had been reported stolen earlier that week.
Sidling over to a sergeant, the Inspector inquired, "Any idea who did this, Kevin?"
From How To Sit On a Flagpole: The Retro Guide For the Modern 1920's Hipster, the novelty how-to cash-in. Faddish Books. Est. pub. date: October 2013.
It is vitally important to wear pants.
From Get Your Rocks Off, Quick, the pornographic smash hit. Originally published in Quim Magazine, republished in The Least Embarrassing American Erotica 2015. Est. pub. date: January 2015.
As she withdrew his knish of pulchritude from her burning vermilion canyon, she felt strangely turned on, as if she'd just had sex or something.
"I'm going to clean out your pipes so hard," he whispered into her ear, managing (this time) to not drench her in saliva, in the process. "But first," he said, putting down the plumbing equipment, "Let's do it."
She breathlessly nodded her assent. Then she breathily nodded her assent. Then, she decided to nod her assent without giving much thought to her breathing at all. Finally, in case there had been any confusion, she combined a little vocal chord action with her breathiness.
"Yes. Take me five ways from Tuesday."
Taking no time to wonder why she chose Tuesday as her day of choice for him to take her five ways from, Victor yanked at his silken shirt. Buttons flew everywhere.
"Fuck. I paid sixty dollars for this shir...." He was interrupted mid-shirt by her probing tongue, probing his mouth canal like the most determined Mars probe. Her two love-moons burst from her chest-holster, in a flurry of ill-chosen imagery.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over. Fifi put her maid's outfit back on, thinking to herself, "Well, that was totally unfulfilling."
From My Memories of Memoirs, the memoir, taken from memoirs previously written but lost in a mysterious memoir-shredding incident, combined with unused material from Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom. Sedaris Knock-Off Library. Est. pub. date: June 2020.
And then, I remember, there was something really, really funny that I wrote about the way my dad combed his mustache. God, I wish I could remember it. I just know I couldn't do it justice if I tried to reproduce it here. Plus, my mom... oh, my mom, what a character! I wrote some stuff in my diary about her, I'll tell you what! Unfortunately, that diary is at home, and I can't get my mom to FedEx it to me. Well, I can, but she wants me to pay the shipping costs.
Anyway, when I went to college, my advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
From How I Lived So Amazingly Long, the true-life, tell-all. Originally published in Geria-tricks. Est. pub. date: August 3013.
Lots of cranberry juice, every day.
This habit may keep me up-to-date on the ever-growing field of ride-pimpery, but in has left me with multiple false starts. Rather than slap a hasty denouement on these aborted literary works and call them "novellas," I have decided to be optimistic, and look upon them as the first flowering of a varied and successful literary career. Anticipating the day when they will all be finished and collected in a handsome Modern Library edition (available in pre-order from me, now, for the price of $34.85) I present you these excerpts from my collected works. Think of it as a glance INTO THE FUTURE!
From Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom, the collegiate coming-of-age tale/ horror thriller. McSkinny's Press. Est. pub. date: February 2008.
My advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
"So, what do you want out of college?" she asked, settling back onto her bed.
"Oh, you know. I want to fall in love for the first time. Have sex. Be betrayed. Be forced to make a difficult decision. Realize that the woman I was in love with I wasn't really in love with. Betray a friend. Make up with the friend. Do stupid drunken things and have fun. Do stupid drunken things that have tragic consequences. Meet people different from myself. Fall in love for real. Emerge from the other side sadder but wiser. You know, the usual coming-of-age crap."
"Interesting... and how do you feel about meat cleavers?" she asked, reaching for a bloody meat cleaver, on her bedside table.
"I don't really have strong feelings about... AAAAGH!"
From The Mystery of the Guy Kevin Who Kills People, one of the 'baby's first murder mystery' series. Viper Children's. Est. pub. date: May 2010.
Inspector Balustrade delicately made his way around the crime scene. Although the body had been removed, a chalk "K" remained on the floor, a cold reminder of the corpse's unusual body alignment. An odd assortment of items were arranged ritualistically, encircling the K. These included a copy of the film "Clerks," a subway map of Brooklyn with the Nevins Street stop enlarged and the "N" blocked out, a signed poster of "Dances With Wolves," and Kevin Kline's actual Oscar for "A Fish Called Wanda," which had been reported stolen earlier that week.
Sidling over to a sergeant, the Inspector inquired, "Any idea who did this, Kevin?"
From How To Sit On a Flagpole: The Retro Guide For the Modern 1920's Hipster, the novelty how-to cash-in. Faddish Books. Est. pub. date: October 2013.
It is vitally important to wear pants.
From Get Your Rocks Off, Quick, the pornographic smash hit. Originally published in Quim Magazine, republished in The Least Embarrassing American Erotica 2015. Est. pub. date: January 2015.
As she withdrew his knish of pulchritude from her burning vermilion canyon, she felt strangely turned on, as if she'd just had sex or something.
"I'm going to clean out your pipes so hard," he whispered into her ear, managing (this time) to not drench her in saliva, in the process. "But first," he said, putting down the plumbing equipment, "Let's do it."
She breathlessly nodded her assent. Then she breathily nodded her assent. Then, she decided to nod her assent without giving much thought to her breathing at all. Finally, in case there had been any confusion, she combined a little vocal chord action with her breathiness.
"Yes. Take me five ways from Tuesday."
Taking no time to wonder why she chose Tuesday as her day of choice for him to take her five ways from, Victor yanked at his silken shirt. Buttons flew everywhere.
"Fuck. I paid sixty dollars for this shir...." He was interrupted mid-shirt by her probing tongue, probing his mouth canal like the most determined Mars probe. Her two love-moons burst from her chest-holster, in a flurry of ill-chosen imagery.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over. Fifi put her maid's outfit back on, thinking to herself, "Well, that was totally unfulfilling."
From My Memories of Memoirs, the memoir, taken from memoirs previously written but lost in a mysterious memoir-shredding incident, combined with unused material from Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom. Sedaris Knock-Off Library. Est. pub. date: June 2020.
And then, I remember, there was something really, really funny that I wrote about the way my dad combed his mustache. God, I wish I could remember it. I just know I couldn't do it justice if I tried to reproduce it here. Plus, my mom... oh, my mom, what a character! I wrote some stuff in my diary about her, I'll tell you what! Unfortunately, that diary is at home, and I can't get my mom to FedEx it to me. Well, I can, but she wants me to pay the shipping costs.
Anyway, when I went to college, my advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
From How I Lived So Amazingly Long, the true-life, tell-all. Originally published in Geria-tricks. Est. pub. date: August 3013.
Lots of cranberry juice, every day.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Friend Plug Corner: Valentine's Video Cavalcade
I did a sketch show with a bunch of folks for Halloween, back around... Halloween. Many of the same folks put together a Valentine's Day sketch show that ran this last weekend. I've been busy working on some other things, so I wasn't involved. However, I did go as an audience member and greatly enjoyed myself.
Anyway, I'm posting about this, because nearly the entire show is now up on YouTube, so if you're having a boring Monday, I urge you to watch and enjoy. I recommend Kate and Theodore (2 parts), The Florist, and The Gondola.
Anyway, I'm posting about this, because nearly the entire show is now up on YouTube, so if you're having a boring Monday, I urge you to watch and enjoy. I recommend Kate and Theodore (2 parts), The Florist, and The Gondola.
Recycling Center: Rejected Jokes Edition
Even better than the real thing...
Astronaut Lisa Nowak, who has been accused of attempted murder and kidnapping in a love triangle involving a fellow astronaut, was released on bail Tuesday but ordered to wear a monitoring device, and to not leave the planet.
While appearing on the Ellen DeGeneres show, Christina Aguilera revealed that she and her husband have "Naked Sundays," where they do everything naked, including cooking, followed by “Oil Burn Mondays.”
A 76 year-old woman from Malaysia, has been reunited with her family 25 years after she got on the wrong bus. Worse yet, the bus had no restrooms.
Archaeologists in Italy have discovered a couple buried 6000 years ago, still hugging each other. Their discovery will be reported in “Things Goths Find Romantic Magazine.”
A woman in China has launched a company where she hires herself out as a professional bridesmaid to help smooth over problems during weddings. It’s called “Always A Bridesmaid, Never A Bride – I Mean That in the Literal Sense, and Also You Owe Me $500.”
A new study shows that children who do not get enough sleep are more likely to be overweight than those who get more sleep. And those who sleep all the time are more likely to be comatose.
A Florida theater changed the name of "The Vagina Monologues" to "The Hoohaa Monologues" after a woman complained that her niece asked her what a vagina was. The theater regrets that it caused a girl to learn about a part of her body.
Nashville's city council has voted to adopt English as its official language, y’all.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
In Which I Imagine a Libelous Conversation Involving an American Hero
So, the news channels are all over this Lisa Nowak/ Astronaut attempted murder case, and what I like most about the coverage is that the producers hear "astronaut," and they just drag the most famous astronaut they can snag into the studio, whether or not there's a real reason for them to be there.
Example? I was in a bar on Tuesday, and saw an interviewer talking to Buzz Aldrin about the case. The sound was turned down, so I don't know what they were saying, but I imagine that the conversation went along these lines:
INTERVIEWER: ...So we've got some legal experts to talk about the case, and family members, and Buzz Aldrin is here to... why are you here Mr. Aldrin?
ALDRIN: Because I went to the moon! Have I told you the story of how I went to the moon?
INTERVIEWER: Many times, Buzz.
ALDRIN: You better show me more respect, son! I was the first man on the moon!
INTERVIEWER: Wasn't Neil Armstrong the first man on the moon?
ALDRIN: Armstrong! That bastard beat me to the moon! Do you realize the differential in the tail you get, if you're the second man on the moon? It's ridiculous!
INTERVIEWER: Yes, well, can we get back to the Lisa Nowak stor...
ALDRIN: In fact, I think I'll pay a little visit to my dear friend Neil Armstrong RIGHT NOW.
(Picks up BB gun and pepper spray. Leaves the set. Sound of car door slamming. Car pealing away.)
Yes, I'm pretty sure that's the way it went.
Example? I was in a bar on Tuesday, and saw an interviewer talking to Buzz Aldrin about the case. The sound was turned down, so I don't know what they were saying, but I imagine that the conversation went along these lines:
INTERVIEWER: ...So we've got some legal experts to talk about the case, and family members, and Buzz Aldrin is here to... why are you here Mr. Aldrin?
ALDRIN: Because I went to the moon! Have I told you the story of how I went to the moon?
INTERVIEWER: Many times, Buzz.
ALDRIN: You better show me more respect, son! I was the first man on the moon!
INTERVIEWER: Wasn't Neil Armstrong the first man on the moon?
ALDRIN: Armstrong! That bastard beat me to the moon! Do you realize the differential in the tail you get, if you're the second man on the moon? It's ridiculous!
INTERVIEWER: Yes, well, can we get back to the Lisa Nowak stor...
ALDRIN: In fact, I think I'll pay a little visit to my dear friend Neil Armstrong RIGHT NOW.
(Picks up BB gun and pepper spray. Leaves the set. Sound of car door slamming. Car pealing away.)
Yes, I'm pretty sure that's the way it went.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
In Which I Detail My Gambling Problems
Man oh man. I'm so screwed! I owe ten grand after last Sunday's game. What am I gonna do? Why did I have to make those bets?
Yeah, that's right. I lost a bundle on Puppy Bowl III.
Jesus, it all seems like a bad dream. I wish I could go back to last Saturday and take back that call to my bookie. You see, I bet that the puppies wouldn't be adorable.
BUT THEY WERE TOTALLY ADORABLE!
Oh my God! They were all furry and playful and cute, damn them! And with every look from their deep, brown eyes, I could feel my bank account draining away! DAMN YOU, YOU FUZZY WUZZY WUMPLEKINS... oh, look at you! You're splashing all the water out of your water bowl! I could never stay mad at you!
You might say, "Dan, why would you make a bet like that?" And, y'know... I had a feeling at the time that it was a bad bet. But it's always the long-shot bets that pay off the sweetest!
Besides, I figured that even if my primary wager didn't come through, I'd cover myself with some side action. For instance, I bet that there wouldn't be much scampering. BUT THERE WAS SO MUCH SCAMPERING! I bet that there wouldn't be any cocking-of-the-head, with a quizzical look, in such a way that one ear folded over in a sweet way. But guess what? THAT HAPPENED TOO!
God, I'm so stupid! Right now my bookie is sending over hundreds of darling little killer puppies to bury me in a smothering, suffocating, massacre of love! What am I gonna do?!
Yeah, that's right. I lost a bundle on Puppy Bowl III.
Jesus, it all seems like a bad dream. I wish I could go back to last Saturday and take back that call to my bookie. You see, I bet that the puppies wouldn't be adorable.
BUT THEY WERE TOTALLY ADORABLE!
Oh my God! They were all furry and playful and cute, damn them! And with every look from their deep, brown eyes, I could feel my bank account draining away! DAMN YOU, YOU FUZZY WUZZY WUMPLEKINS... oh, look at you! You're splashing all the water out of your water bowl! I could never stay mad at you!
You might say, "Dan, why would you make a bet like that?" And, y'know... I had a feeling at the time that it was a bad bet. But it's always the long-shot bets that pay off the sweetest!
Besides, I figured that even if my primary wager didn't come through, I'd cover myself with some side action. For instance, I bet that there wouldn't be much scampering. BUT THERE WAS SO MUCH SCAMPERING! I bet that there wouldn't be any cocking-of-the-head, with a quizzical look, in such a way that one ear folded over in a sweet way. But guess what? THAT HAPPENED TOO!
God, I'm so stupid! Right now my bookie is sending over hundreds of darling little killer puppies to bury me in a smothering, suffocating, massacre of love! What am I gonna do?!
Monday, February 05, 2007
Recycling Center: Rejected Jokes Edition
My failure is your windfall...
A new study suggests that lavender and tea tree oils found in some shampoos, soaps, and lotions can temporarily leave boys with enlarged breasts in rare cases. Thankfully, boys know just what to do when confronted with breasts and lotion.
A new study suggests that lavender and tea tree oils found in some shampoos, soaps, and lotions can temporarily leave boys with enlarged breasts in rare cases. Thankfully, boys know just what to do when confronted with breasts and lotion.
A woman in Florida claimed Wednesday that she found a razor blade in her McDonald's breakfast sandwich. The manager promised to fire those responsible, after discovering that the sandwich had been served after 10:30 am.
Harry Potter star Daniel Radcliffe will appear naked in a British stage revival of "Equus,” or, as fans are calling it, “Harry Potter and the Order of the Penis.”
Sidney Sheldon, the best-selling author and the producer of “I Dream of Jeannie,” died this week at the age of 89. In memoriam, a penny was placed over his belly button.
The UN's first female-only peace-keeping contingent, made up of about 100 Indian police officers, arrived in Liberia this week, otherwise known as “Vishnu’s Angels”
A Los Angeles immigration judge who previously denied a gay Mexican man's 2004 asylum bid on the grounds that he could simply conceal his sexual orientation if he returned to Mexico, reversed the decision Tuesday, citing the tragic case of gay mouse Flamboyant Gonzales.
The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences is offering the services of three writers to help Oscar nominees with their speeches. Unfortunately, they’re the writers of Epic Movie.
Friday, February 02, 2007
In Which I Suggest Several Brilliant Ideas For Video Games
SimLewisLapham
In this exciting simulation game, you get to see what it would be like to be Harper's magazine editor, Lewis Lapham! Compose "Notebook" articles detailing the failures of the Bush administration directed at the people who most need to hear it--your almost exclusively liberal, over-educated readership! Take part in panels in which you excoriate the traditional press for their compliant war coverage! Thank heaven for the MacArthur Foundation, which allows you to fund all this without worrying about magazine sales! But watch out--if you're hit by a Koopa Paratroopa, you'll die!
Copyright Infringement Rumble
Play as Spider-Man, Pikachu, Mickey Mouse, Batman, Alias' Sydney Bristow, Beatle Bailey, Luke Skywalker, SpongeBob SquarePants, King Kong, Oprah Winfrey, or any number of other characters we've neglected to clear the rights to, in this all-out throw-down fighting game!
Beat The Shit Out of Private Residences and the People Living Inside
Take the Grand Theft Auto concept one step further, with this fully interactive suburban environment. Roam from house to house breaking windows, spray-painting rude limericks on aluminum siding, and inviting your thug friends over for impromptu cook-outs using other people's gas grills. Then enter the houses to find over 1,000 discrete characters of all ethnicities and ages (utilizing the latest artificial intelligence), for you to kill, maim, or molest… our favorite is molest!
Inexplicable Cute Japanese Thing That Five-Year-Olds Will Love
What is that thing? Is it a big pink gelatinous blob? It has ears, though. I... I think they're ears. Maybe they're supposed to be vestigial wings. Whatever it is, it's poorly-animated. What's that language he talks? Oh, that's his name. Why does he keep referring to himself in the third person, then? You say there's a card game that goes along with this? So is the card game an ad for the video game or is the video game an ad for the card game? Or are they both an ad for the cartoon? Wait, the video game is about the cartoon, which is about kids playing the card game? Well, whatever it is, it's synergy-tastic!
Game With Nudity In It
Hey—that's a video game character, but she's totally naked. Awesome! Video games aren't just for kids anymore! They're for adolescent 30-year olds!
In this exciting simulation game, you get to see what it would be like to be Harper's magazine editor, Lewis Lapham! Compose "Notebook" articles detailing the failures of the Bush administration directed at the people who most need to hear it--your almost exclusively liberal, over-educated readership! Take part in panels in which you excoriate the traditional press for their compliant war coverage! Thank heaven for the MacArthur Foundation, which allows you to fund all this without worrying about magazine sales! But watch out--if you're hit by a Koopa Paratroopa, you'll die!
Copyright Infringement Rumble
Play as Spider-Man, Pikachu, Mickey Mouse, Batman, Alias' Sydney Bristow, Beatle Bailey, Luke Skywalker, SpongeBob SquarePants, King Kong, Oprah Winfrey, or any number of other characters we've neglected to clear the rights to, in this all-out throw-down fighting game!
Beat The Shit Out of Private Residences and the People Living Inside
Take the Grand Theft Auto concept one step further, with this fully interactive suburban environment. Roam from house to house breaking windows, spray-painting rude limericks on aluminum siding, and inviting your thug friends over for impromptu cook-outs using other people's gas grills. Then enter the houses to find over 1,000 discrete characters of all ethnicities and ages (utilizing the latest artificial intelligence), for you to kill, maim, or molest… our favorite is molest!
Inexplicable Cute Japanese Thing That Five-Year-Olds Will Love
What is that thing? Is it a big pink gelatinous blob? It has ears, though. I... I think they're ears. Maybe they're supposed to be vestigial wings. Whatever it is, it's poorly-animated. What's that language he talks? Oh, that's his name. Why does he keep referring to himself in the third person, then? You say there's a card game that goes along with this? So is the card game an ad for the video game or is the video game an ad for the card game? Or are they both an ad for the cartoon? Wait, the video game is about the cartoon, which is about kids playing the card game? Well, whatever it is, it's synergy-tastic!
Game With Nudity In It
Hey—that's a video game character, but she's totally naked. Awesome! Video games aren't just for kids anymore! They're for adolescent 30-year olds!
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