UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu You are just a number to me! And that number is: PAGES UD MADE: My Books Page My Reviews Page My Reference Page My Music Page My Pictures My Store UD-RELATED PAGES: My LiveJournal My MySpace music page My Flickr page My del.icio.us page My Last.fm page My Amazon Wishlist HEAVY ROTATION Dan Deacon: Bromst Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavillion Bon Iver: For Emma, Forever Ago Vampire Weekend: Vampire Weekend Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes BLOGS ETC claude le monde nuncstans rock 'em stock 'em tomato nation postmodern drunkard tuckova 22 ghastly mess constintina total virility fuzzysquid drunken bee stacey nightmare elyse from ANTM stereolabrat dark side points jf_franklin 123 i love you READ NOW brotherhood 2.0 NOT BLOGS ETC qwantz (dinosaur comix) go fug yourself the burg cat and girl book of ratings married to the sea icanhascheezburger fire joe morgan fivethirtyeight.com READ NOW hospitality on parade WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2010 Jeremy Broomfield
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Thursday, July 24, 2003
Sometime next week I have to visit the Department of Motor Vehicles to replace my two-months expired license. See, if I were an alcoholic, some bouncer or bartender would have noticed the bright red expiry date in June, and I could have a shot at cirrhosis, too. Damn. I'll make you a deal, New York: let me smoke in bars again and I will consider a plan to convert my disposable income into stomach-annihilating liquids.
Also, if I still bought my smokes on the street instead of the web, some store clerk might have noticed, though why I still get carded falls outside the circle marked "my comprehension" in the Venn diagram of all the ideas in the universe. I do not look remotely teenaged. Teenagers have something about their skin, especially their face skin: it's all... taut or something. How do they do that? But so the clerks who card me must be doing something other than checking my birthdate and flattering me. Are they checking to see if they can arrange for my death in a way that will allow them to harvest my organs, which I have agreed to donate to serial killers? (Movie idea: incarcerated serial killer wakes in prison hospital after suffering a comprehensive shivving in the caf. He is told that he had to have a stomach transplant (I know, but keep listening) as a result of injuries. Only donor was some twentysomething who mysteriously choked on a bar of halvah outside a Pakistani bodega on the lower East side. Over the next couple weeks, killer realizes that something is wrong... very wrong: he has Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease! Ah, the cruel tricks of fate! Thence, his real torment begins!) So they said over the phone that I could come to the "Express" License Processing Center (skeptical quotes mine) for an eye test and, if I desire, a new picture. First of all, they are lying sacks of insulting shit if, by using the word "express," they are implying a speed of service greater than "evaporating water." Because: no. No and no. Five years ago, I had my only full-blown panic attack ever at the DMV because they took five hours to "express" their fundamental disinterest in DOING ANYTHING AT ALL FOR ME. So no, it is not fast. I have the option to take a new picture. I know that no matter how much primping and fussing I do before the snapshot, I will be a sweaty disheveled hunk of twitch after waiting on line for a few hours in completely unventilated hell. See for example how the current picture, which has balefully stared at the world for half a decade, shows a broken, hollow man whose image has been horizontally stretched a bit, making my neck look jockily wide. Ugh. Anything would be an improvement, right? If those cops from Fox's America's Most Citizen-Harrassing State Troopers wanna pull me over, they better steel themselves for a ten-year pictorial roadside assault of eyebags, scabs, oils, and asymmetry. Click click boom, and all that. A driver's license picture is worth a thousand turds. 0 comments |
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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...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 - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - 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 |