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Monday, September 06, 2010
Sorry my site has been so jacked up over the past few months. Through some vector I don't even really understand, bad code got onto a number of pages throughout my main host site, jeremybroomfield.com, and proliferated like bedbugs at Fort Thunder. Those of you loyal readers who, like, "follow" this blog or who have RSS set up have probably noticed that the blog was migrated to Blogspot, because Blogger said we had to. The URL is ugly, I know. And the lack of content is still maddening, baffling. But here we are.
HEY LOOK A VIDEO
Have I ever asked you for anything? Other than blog topics and dirty polaroids, I mean? No, I never have. Just topics, polaroids, and your undying devotion. Well. Do you remember this video from 2003?
If not, watch it. It's fun. Then come back here.
NOW COMES THE PLEA
Okay. So that was the video. Here's the request: Please help me by pledging some money to my kickstarter project. I'm only going for $750. So if 75 people give $10 each, I will make more music for you. Also, I will blog more. There, I promised it.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
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Tuesday, August 25, 2009
THE ABSOLUTE LAZIEST AFRICAN INTERNET SCAM I'VE EVER SEEN
Really, Africa? This is the best you can do? You have gotten LAZY. I have received so many tantalizing invitations to wealth from the cradle of civilization that I have come to rely on you for inspiration -- for dreams. I don't even HAVE dreams anymore. I just open my inbox and read a fraudulent attempt to prey on my greed. Because really, you give me much more credit for greed than I deserve. You allow my greed to be boundless, totally unrealistic. I used to dream of a modest rockstardom, allowing me a comfortable living, maybe a cool million in pre-tax record sales. A million dollars? That's PATHETIC! You gotta help me see the bigger picture.
This miserable one-line come-on is the absolute worst I've ever seen. Take a cue from Mr. Chen Guangyuan, who spins me an dream with an Asian flavor:
Now THAT is a grabber of an opening paragraph. Or would you like a little blasphemy with your fraud? Check this shit out:
Develop my evangelism by giving AIDS to the less privileged? Hell YES! Why didn't I think of that year ago? It's so SIMPLE. And profitable! US$15,000,000.00 is buys a lot of the stuff I like to buy! I'm so excited I can't even remember what I like to buy!!!!
Anyway, my point is: Don't be lazy, Africa. I depend on your for my dreams. I will expect more of you when I am within your borders.
Friday, July 31, 2009
On Mon, Mar 16, 2009 at 5:09 PM, firstname.lastname@example.org [email@example.com] wrote:
Hi,On Tue, Mar 17, 2009 at 11:57 AM, Jeremy Broomfield [firstname.lastname@example.org] wrote:
Susan,On Wed, Mar 18, 2009 at 4:28 PM, Derek Truskey [email@example.com] wrote:
worse than ever!On Wed, Mar 18, 2009 at 10:26 PM, Jeremy Broomfield [firstname.lastname@example.org] wrote:
Here is what I recommend.
On Sun, Mar 29, 2009 at 5:14 PM, email@example.com [firstname.lastname@example.org] wrote:
How to pop painful zits? Since you have experience, I was hoping you could give me some clues as to what you look out for. Any help appreciated. Thank you for your help.
On Sun, Mar 29, 2009 at 11:32 PM, Jeremy Broomfield [email@example.com] wrote:
It's very simple, Frank.
On Mon, Mar 30, 2009 at 9:23 PM, Klein Mining & Industrials [firstname.lastname@example.org] wrote:
Gee wizz. Not very nice answer. I just wanted to get rid these painful zits somehow.
On Mon, Jul 20, 2009 at 10:50 PM, email@example.com [firstname.lastname@example.org] wrote:
Why do zits hurt? I don't want to rush into anything so I was hoping you could give me some ideas as to what to avoid. A little advice would go a long way right now. Thank you so much.
On Fri, Jul 31, 2009 at 8:49 AM, email@example.com [firstname.lastname@example.org] wrote:
On Fri, Jul 31, 2009 at 11:15 AM, Jeremy Broomfield [email@example.com] wrote:
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
In a triumphant return to the review page, I explain why I hate Scrabble.
"But UD," you protest, "don't you love games -- and crosswords? You should love Scrabble!"
A common mistake, my child, I assure you. It is precisely because I love games and crosswords that I hate Scrabble so much: it's a shitty game that has nothing in common with crosswords.
It's like saying to a World War II buff, "Hey, you like war, right? You probably love the Iraq war, right?!"
Friday, January 23, 2009
Q. IS THIS WHAT YOU'VE BEEN REDUCED TO?
After watching Intervention for a while, I got a little obsessed with The Dog Whisperer. After talking incessantly about Cesar Millan, someone told me to watch Supernanny.
All three of these shows are great, and they're all kind of the same. In each, some person or group of people (a family, parents, dog owners) calls a TV show because they are having trouble with dogs, children, or some kind of addict. In almost every case, the people who make the call think that the TV is going to roll on down and fix the mess by addressing the dog(s), kid(s), or addict. And in each case, they are totally wrong.
The Supernanny teaches the parents how to provide discipline and structure for their kids -- and unruly behavior seems to melt away. The Interventionist explains to the addict's family and friends that the addict won't seek help as long as the family keeps providing material or emotional support -- in other words, until they change their behavior. And in my favorite of the three, The Dog Whisperer teaches the onwer(s) that they have been totally fucking with their dog's heads.
You've really got to watch The Dog Whisperer to understand how awesome he is, and to see how many ways he has of helping the dogs by correcting their neurotic owners. But the entire gist of his program is that owners must establish themselves as the pack leader in the eyes of their dog(s), and they way to do that is to project a calm assertive energy, and to reward calm submissive behavior in their dogs. Dogs detect and will not follow a dog -- or a human -- who projects nervous, angry, unstable, or neurotic energy.
Q. SO YOU'RE OBSESSED WITH TV SHOW ABOUT DOGS. WHO CARES? DO YOU EVEN OWN A DOG?
You're right, I don't own a dog, and I've never wanted to -- until I started watching TDW. I walked my neighbors' overly energetic dog last weekend, and applied some of Cesar's techniques to great effect. I also hurt my shoulder. But since I am now obsessed with projecting a calm assertive energy around dogs, I am noticing again (as I do whenever I re-read Keith Johnstone's seminal, must-read, life-changing 1979 book Impro) the status-determining behaviors of humans.
So here's my theory: In the age of television, Americans elect the presidential candidate who BEST projects calm assertive energy. Just like a pack of fucking dogs looking to be led. The adjective "presidential" is synonymous with "calm assertive."
I made a stupid table to demonstrate this. Now that I look at it, it doesn't seem like very profound or new information. But, man, watching Obama at the inauguration, he was like a statue -- never moved his head unnecessarily. Very strong. No wonder he won. Policy can suck it.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
WIPING YOUR ASS WITH BABY WIPES IS THE NEW BLACK
A long time ago, a friend of mine came back from India extolling the merits of two poop-related features of that wondrous nation. First of all, she was mad for squat-johns (you should really go look at the wikipedia page right now. I'll wait here). Which I gotta say I'm pretty persuaded by a lot of the pro-squat arguments, but I can't see them getting installed in a lot of American households anytime soon. How fucking precious would those early-adopters be? I picture a Maude Lebowski-type giving a tour of her pied-à-terre:
"And here's my bathroom, nothing unusual here," flicking on the light and lingering long enough for the guest to get an eyeful.
"Whoa. Is that a bidet on your floor?"
"Oh, what? Oh! No, silly! Don't tell me you haven't seen a squat-john before? Oh they're just too too superior! American are such poop-phobic Puritans. I can't believe you've never even seen one! Sigh!"
But anyway. The second thing my friend loved about pooping in India was the lack of toilet paper. She described with approval (but not too much detail) how she washed her dirty bits with water from a bucket provided near the squatty poop-hole (which I'm pretty sure makes it a "rinse," not a "wash," but whatever).
I don't know what look was on my face when I heard this, but it was probably the look you have when you are trying to calculate the volume of rubbing alcohol you would have to employ to ever feel clean again after putting your hand in a communal butt-water bucket in a pestilent third-world petri dish of a country. (Sorry India!)
Seeing the paralytic doubt clouding my face, she went on to justify the use of water vs. toilet paper by saying "if you had sticky mud on your leg, you wouldn't use a dry clump of paper to get it off, right? You'd use water." And you know what? I had to agree. Furthermore, I had to admit that if I got actual shit on my leg, I would be much more likely to use water to remove it than toilet paper.
That was when I truly understood that toilet paper is: retarded. Totally retarded. Wasteful, ineffective, abrasive, indefensible. I don't want to use a butt-water-bucket, but now I don't want to use toilet paper either. What to do?
Enter the flushable baby wipe. Faithful readers might recall that I've blogged about Kandoo before, and with typical disdain. But after hearing some outdoorsy types talk about the advantages of damp wipery -- and after seeing very macho soldier types using wipes in Generation Kill -- I now believe that Baby Wipes are about to tip.
All that's needed are some high-profile adherents to provide social proof for the behavior (I'm looking at you, Brangelina), and a better product (a lot of baby wipes are not flushable. WTF? Who wants poopy cloths in their garbage cans?), marketed to adults. I think this is about to explode.
I don't think toilet paper will ever fully disappear, but within a decade, it will seem, at best, a poor compromise for when baby wipes are unavailable or impractical.
DON'T CALL YOUR EX BEFORE NEW YEAR'S
Many of you will get lonely around New Year's because of the pressure to kiss the nearest person at the stroke of midnight. You may feel strongly tempted to reach out to an ex (or a less significant intimate acquaintance) as a bulwark against a crushing sense of solitude. They weren't that bad, right? Maybe you broke up with them in haste, or in a moment of anger. Maybe they deserve a second chance?
DON'T DO IT. It's not worth it. Why start the new year by reestablishing a connection that you will just have to sever, full of remorse, when you return to your senses?
And if the ex has already reached out to you? Same thing. Don't. Play Pictionary with your uncle or something -- the loneliness will pass before you know it. Or, if you can't stomach the deprivation of someone else's saliva, make out with a random person on the street -- a gutter punk or something -- and just walk away.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
So on one of my flights back from the Caribbean, I witnessed a bizarre exchange between two passengers. I must have missed the moment that touched off the conflict, but when I tuned in, this French Architect-Looking Guy was placing something into the overhead compartment above the Tweedy Businessman, who looked like a skinnier version of Donald Rumsfeld:
BUSINESSMAN: [unintelligible, but aggressive.]
FRENCH ARCHITECT-LOOKING GUY: I am zorry -- what did I do wrong?
BIZ: It's just courtesy.
FRENCH: I don't understan'.
BIZ: I'm not trying to engage you. Just sit down and behave yourself.
FRENCH: (Momentarily stunned.) I waz be'aving myself.
BIZ: I'm not engaging you. You're engaging me, now.
FRENCH: (Totally baffled, sits down next to his girlfriend, two rows ahead.)
The only logical explanation for what I saw was that Frenchy had, like, touched BizMan's property, up there in the bin. BizMan's stuffy, matter-of-fact rudeness, combined with his totally bizarre verbiage -- "engage"? -- made me want to hurt him. But because hurting people physically is wrong, I felt a seldom-used part of my brain spin up: the part that crafts triumphant, withering monologues that leave foes limp and cause spontaneous applause from onlookers.
I used this skill very often in my teens, mentally lacerating all manner of tormentors. I have never actually spoken one of my mental paragraphs aloud, ever. But for your amusement, here are my two imagined drafts, which were to be given to the Rude Businessman, to punish him for his poor ambassadorship:
THE PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE BUDDHIST VERSIONUD: You are a sad man, with sickness in your soul; a slave to your pride, your possessions, your ego, and your anachronistic, haute-bourgeois notions of courtesy. No matter how you try to convince yourself that you are happy, at some level you know what I say is true. Your soul-sickness poisons everything you touch, and this makes you a very unpleasant person. I could never wish harm on the sick and enslaved, and there is a chance that one day you may awaken from your sleep. Until then, I wish you peace, joy, and freedom from suffering."
THE SPOOK VERSIONUD: (matching BizMan's pace and walking next to him, looking forward.) Hey. I saw you speak to that man on the plane. Now, I can't be sure where you learned to talk that way. But if you learned it where I think you did, you should know better than to speak that way in front of civilians.
BIZMAN: Excuse me?
UD: You will not be warned about this again.
BIZMAN: I don't understand what you're talking about!
UD: (Pauses for three seconds.) This conversation never happened. (Walks away immediately, preferably through a door marked "Restricted Access")
Friday, November 14, 2008
RAIN IS DUMB
Rain is good for crops, rain is good for the desert, rain is good for Manhattan sidewalks drenched with horrid midsummer dumpster effluvia. Rain is not good for when I'm sitting on a beach with only a towel, a cell phone, and a very big book. Cruel rain, why did you choose this beach to drench? I can see that in your cumulonimbus caprice you spared the neighboring strand. Fie. I could not have run to shelter, for when I run I look common.
I am wet. And worst of all, I will receive no sympathy from my temperate continental readership. "Oh what's that? Did Little Lord Fauntleroy get some wawa on his silken pantaloons? Pray, instruct his governess to fetch a stout rod with which to thrash him, and the jar for collecting his tears."
MILLIONAIRES ARE DUMB
According to this article, a chap named "Baby" (or "Birdman"), who runs the Cash Money record label, gave profitable artist Li'l Wayne a briefcase full of cash for his birthday. $1,000,000 cash, to be specific.
Hey -- Baby Bird Guy? You are a thoughtful and generous person, there can be no doubt. But you know who could really use $1,000,000? How about almost anyone in the world other than Li'l Wayne. Seriously. Pick someone at random from a list of the world's population. The odds you will pick an existing millionaire are lower than your odds of hitting the actual lottery.
This makes me almost exactly as ill as people who rend their garments and empty their piggy-banks over the mistreatment of various animals -- be they livestock or test-subjects -- while seemingly unconcerned about the vicious mistreatment of HUMAN BEINGS in (e.g.) the nearest penitentiary.
Was that a weird transition for you too?
If you haven't seen the episode of Intervention starring Allison the all-day aerosol-huffer (see some blog I found for a recap), you have not fully bathed in the fecund pool of contemporary reality television. So many shows ensnare feckless B-list celebrities in situations that force them to consider which is more important: 1) a fleeting table-scrap of fame, or 2) whatever threads remain of their shredded dignity. Their decision is obvious from their presence on the airwaves, as I'm sure there is a clause in celebretard reality-show contracts specifically prohibiting dignity, under penalty of law.
A&E's Intervention shows people in the grip of addictions so dehumanizing that dignity is like a long-forgotten gewgaw at the back of the drawer in an attic, and fame a total abstraction. But the moeny-shot is that it often (though I've heard not always) shows an unlikely -- but real -- happy-ending-style return to dignity. Unlike Dancing with the Stars, which always ends like a burst hemorrhoid. Just watch the humanity: YouTube parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
A RETAIL STORE IS A BAD PLACE TO RETAIN THE CAPACITY FOR LOVE
Recently, at more than one big-box retail shithole, a bored, atonal cashier has called me for my turn to consume by saying "May I help the following customer?"
My immediate thought was: who? Shouldn't a name follow that statement? As in "may I help the following customer: Bob Carver" or, for another example, "hobos will be fellated by the following person: Ann Coulter"? The statement should not be succeeded by silence or slack-jawed eye-rolling until I approach.
May I suggest a substitute for "may I help the following customer?"? It's a word with much to recommend it: it's succinct, easily understood, and proven effective over the course of many decades: "next". Try it. Until you do, I'm gonna start shouting it in response to your long-winded nonsense. I will change the world with my curmudgeonly vigilantism.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
THE HISTORY OF THE PAIN
Longtime readers might know that since my early 20s I've suffered from terrible, if intermittent, heartburn. I've used many appealing analogies over the years to communicate the sensation, e.g.:
So for years and years and years I either (when I was smart) took a prescription stomach-acid reducer like Prilosec or (when I was dumber) gobbled handfuls of Tums to manage the immediate flare-ups of glass-shard agony. But over the years the problem got worse, and led to a problem called Barrett's Esophagus, which means (to quote Dr. Lexus) my shit's all retarded. Esophageally speaking.
THE UNDERLYING PROBLEM
But that's only part of it! The GERD and Barrett's are both symptoms of a hiatal hernia, which is not quite as gross as it sounds. See, at some point in my life -- we're not sure when -- my stomach attempted to defect from the region of the torso in which it had long resided. It moved upward in a desperate break for freedom, but, as it was attached from below by the pylorus and duodenum and so on, it could not get far, and got wedged in the hole in my diaphragm like a fat man trying to leave by the bathroom window. It petulantly refused to go back where it belongs, and though one time this massage dude stuck his hand under my ribcage and pulled it back into place, it slipped back up after a few days.
Barrett's (cellular changes to esophageal cells) can lead to esophageal cancer if your cells continue bathing in flamboyant acid fountains for too many years. Surgery is usually indicated to fix the hiatal hernia, and it usually works, too.
THE TESTS THEY DID
Two tests I had were interesting enough to mention briefly because they sound kinda sci-fi:
1. The Momentary Cyborg Test. They implanted a monitoring capsule into the lining of my esophagus during an esophagoscopy. The capsule measured the amount of acid squirting out of my stomach and transmitted a pH reading to a phone-sized device I wore on my belt. For two days, I had a constant readout of how acidic I was, right there on my belt for all to see. 7! 6.3! 3.5! 2.1 oh my god ouch! Eventually, the capsule just detached and went on its disposable merry way. I gave the receiver to the MD, who was like: oh, look, you have acid squirting into your esophagus in great quantities. UMM YES I KNOW DUDE IT BURNS ME LIKE ANGRY BEES. But thank you for making me a cyborg temporarily, because that was cool.
1. The Radioactive Breakfast. To check if my stomach processed food at a normal pace, the Medical Establishment fed me RADIOACTIVE EGGS and then had me lean against a gigantic glorified Geiger counter for two hours. The thing looked positively Soviet, as did the technician, whose name was Igor, for real.
THE SURGERY I'M GETTING
So the tests said I'm a go for the surgery, which is laparoscopic (which means done through tiny holes, not giant slashings). Before you click the next link, I will warn you that it's not only gross, it's weird.The procedure I'm getting is called a fundoplication. The weirdly wrapped part of my stomach will keep the whole mess from sliding back up into the Northern part of my torso, and hopefully the gushing pain-fountain will be stilled evermore.
The surgery is next Thursday, the 16th of October. I'll be kept overnight to ensure that I don't start hemorrhaging or whatever, and then I'll be released into the arms of a non-sedated adult. I'll be drinking only fluids for two weeks, and then only soft foods for another two. There is a chance I will never be able to swallow gigantic, poorly-masticated hunks of gristly flesh again, but if I puree, finely chop, or just chew my damn food I should be okay.
Also, there is a chance I may never burp or vomit again. And that's the unkindest cut of all.
Wish me luck!
POST SURGERY UPDATE:
Here is a picture of my incisions. They made five holes.
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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS
Rotem of the IDF
Bernardine Dohrn ('69)
Shana Rae Ray
"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!"
"...the exception that proves the rule"
any use of the question "spit or swallow?"
the phrase "drop trou"
fake-o reviewer verbs:
"penned" for wrote
"helmed" for directed
"lensed" for whatever
pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!"
(see also: "grassy-ass!")
trying children "as adults"
misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT.
tattoos in the Courier font
any use of Comic Sans