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qwantz (dinosaur comix)
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Jeremy Broomfield



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

Thursday, October 23, 2003
 
My shoulder muscles feel like frightened cats, and no amount of rubbing or attention seems to calm them down. How many stressors can be stacked on one hapless fucktard? My Job-like existence would have crushed a lesser man, but happily I am a greater man, so I just feel like a wind-up toy with his feet taped down. Here is the short list of my woes:
• I am growing a beard for my Halloween costume (the Unabomber police sketch, which really only requires a mustache), and it is itchy as fuck.
• I hate eating, and yet here is some stupid food in front of my goddamn face, just like every day.
• I must find somebody to live in my apartment, but soon.
• Why does Gregor love blowing hobos so much? Does he have a problem? Is it intervention time?
lo told me yesterday that my planned Halloween costume has been done, done, by somebody in a satellite peer group that it would be impolitic (or at least frightfully unhip) to emulate, or to even be perceived of as imitating.
• Which is weird because my regular Halloween costume is deliberately unoriginal specifically so as to avoid the problem of appearing like I believe I'm original in any way, which I don't. Usually I dress as a bee, because it's one of the few costumes that is improved by the presence of other people wearing the same costume. Why am I fucking with a good thing? This protobeard itches like fuck!
• I have to go to NJ for the weekend but all kinds of wrenches are being introduced into the geartrain by potential roommate interviews. I'm tired!
• Does my hair look okay? No, really. LOOK AT ME.
• When am I going to find my calling, the special thing I was destined to do? Because I'm pretty sure that, whatever you wanna call the stuff I'm doing now, THIS AIN'T IT.
• Who let the dogs out?
• Is the new Matrix sequel going to kick enough ass? Because I swear, if Morpheus takes even one more step with his hands folded smugly behind his stupid back like that, I am going to jump into the matrix and ninja those fucking pince-nez down his smirky throat.
• Damn those Yankees, couldn't they have lost in the last round so I wouldn't have to watch any stupid fucking baseball in October? I have BETTER THINGS to do. LIKE TYPING IN ALL CAPS.
• Am I actually prepared for a zombie attack? I know I talk a good game, and I give advice to everybody else about it, but could I really blow J.Ro's face off with a fucking shotgun if she came at me, undead, rotting, and baying for brains?

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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