Universal Donor
We can ill afford
another Klendathu

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You are just a number
to me! And that number
is:

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PAGES UD MADE:

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My Books Page

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My Reviews Page

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My Reference Page

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My Music Page

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My Pictures

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UD-RELATED PAGES:

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My LiveJournal

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My MySpace music page

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My Flickr page

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My del.icio.us page

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My Last.fm page

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My Amazon Wishlist

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HEAVY ROTATION

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Dan Deacon:
Bromst
Animal Collective:
Merriweather Post Pavillion
Bon Iver:
For Emma, Forever Ago
Vampire Weekend:
Vampire Weekend
Fleet Foxes:
Fleet Foxes

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BLOGS ETC

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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

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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

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dead amusement pks
craters!

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all content
© 2002-2010
Jeremy Broomfield

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PRAISE & REVIEWS

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"[UD] is a genius."
--Christian Oates

"[Claudia] is fucking awesome, and [UD] is a genius. And vice versa. You should all buy Fear Not."
--Tricia Howey



MOTTO

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egeo huic vigorum

MY WRESTLING NAME

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Titan Gently

MY PUNK NAME

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Razor Ection







WHO LINKS TO UD?

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• from Technorati
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and here's something
weird: my place
in Humor 3-space

  I have a feeling that weather-talk is a vestige of the days that weather killed people more often than it does now. Like today if somebody says "looks like a storm comin' in" you might make a mental note to remember your umbrella, whereas in older days you might have made a mental note to SHIT YOUR PANTS, because the wind already up'n took two of yer kin last week and hurled 'em over yonder crick, and there ain't 'nuff rope in Texas to tie ALL yer cousins to a big rock. You know? But so now that we in the first world have mastered the mysteries of reinforced concrete, ain't so much pants-shitting necessary. SO WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME ABOUT THE WEATHER? I HAVE A RADIO TOO. ALSO A TV. ALSO THIS NEWSPAPER RIGHT HERE UNDER MY ARM. Gllllaaaarrrgle!
     Well, it's related to a revelation I had about sports last night. (I often have revelations that are simplistic but profound, like when you figure out that Santa isn't real -- I don't expect you to be impressed, but I do expect you to read attentively, because I'm going to pepper my writing with a lot of made-up dirty words, like "slunt" and "bohunksucker.")
     So anyway I was accosted this morning, as always, by the concierge of the office building, who wanted to chat about the heartbreak of the Cubbies. The "Cubbies." Which is fine, okay. He also wanted to know whether I was excited for tonight's game, which the answer is yes, but in a very nervous, cramping-and-reflux kind of way. It reminded me of last night, where a bunch of waiters at the steakhouse were crowded around a five-inch b&w TV to watch the Yankees implode in game six. And I was gladdened, friends, because score updates kept filtering through the restaurant like an informational bucket brigade. No, no... like a case of the clap in a circle of friends. Of slunts.
     No jolly irony here: I was actually glad. And sometime overnight I realized the true function of sports: to give idiots something to talk to ME about so that I don't have to listen to their fucktarded political notions or their take on the Post's cover story.
     I'm not interested, dude, that you think Iraq should be turned into a plane of molten glass by our righteous "low-yielt" nukes, and I'm not even going to bother to explain how you're wrong about everything you say, because some ignorances are so fucking cellular that they define their owners, as in your case: you are He Who Don't Know Shit about Shit and Ain't Never Gonna. Unless, of course, that shit is sports-related. In which case you are Steve Hawking, but with slightly less drool.
     I can listen to some bohunksucker's theories about Joe Torre's pitching changes because I do not feel a strong desire to correct, argue with, or kill people who only expound on sports. I just don't care! At least you sound like you know what you're talking about, though you're just parroting a mélange of ideas from the announcers of last night's game. But if you say one more word about terrorists, I am seriously going to fuck your throat with this umbrella, and then I'm going to open it, which is bad luck for you.
posted by Universal Donor 3:03 PM 0 comments

OTHER REVIEWS:
Scrabble NEW!

LATEST BOOK REVIEWS:
The Game
Moneyball
One-Upsmanship
Siddhartha

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You need the
Fear Not Guide to Life.
Buy it already. ($4)

Now available!
The Broomfield Variations CD
($10)

or go to The UD Store

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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS

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Chan Marshall
Rotem of the IDF
Eleanor Friedberger
Amy Goodman
Bernardine Dohrn ('69)
Maya Rudolph
Joanna Newsom
Imogen Heap
Caroline Dhavernas

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Shana Rae Ray

DISALLOWED FOREVER

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"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!"
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"from whence"
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"...the exception that proves the rule"
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any use of the question "spit or swallow?"
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the phrase "drop trou"
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fake-o reviewer verbs:
"penned" for wrote
"helmed" for directed
"lensed" for whatever
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"expat"
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the euphemism
"passed away"
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pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!"
(see also: "grassy-ass!")

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PET PEEVES

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"confinscated"
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trying children "as adults"
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"drownded"
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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.
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tattoos in the Courier font
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any use of Comic Sans

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