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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Wednesday, March 17, 2004
I woke up this morning before my alarm went off and smiled to myself, because I had a perfect topic for you. A good entry after a drought. I slept the sleep of the righteous. Then I woke up and went to work and forgot everything. So maybe I'll talk about the Irish instead.
I have to cross Fifth Avenue on the way to work, which today was not possible because of the police barricades set up to completely enclose the upcoming river of bagpiping drunkards. I managed to hop the barricades and blend in with the crowd by stripping down to my green shillelagh hammock and bolting across the street screaming "FOOKIN' 'ELL OI'M IRISH! YARR! SURE AN' YER DA'S A SHEEPSHAGGAH!" I was allowed to cross, and my heart swelled. I'm a quarter Irish, you know. Even now, from my office on the 14th floor, I am gladdened that I can still hear the "FweeEEE-ummmm a Fwee-dalla Fweee!" of Irish pride. It's a wonderful tradition, which commemorates the day St. Patrick barricaded the rats of Dublin inside a pub and killed them using the amplified screams of the witches burning under the willow trees of Glocca Morra, or whatever. Helicopters are flying freaky low-altitude intimidation patterns over midtown to discourage... um, parade terror, I guess? My boss said she heard there were police snipers posted all along the route, which is also weird. My guess is they're authorized to shoot anyone who isn't wearing green or demanding kisses from every girl who passes within thirty feet. I just hope the snipers aren't Irish too, because Irish people are drunk all the time. No, I'm kidding. But seriously, it's hard to aim when your laser scope is covered with chunky green scone huke. Erin Go Blaargle! Speaking of green, my cowokers just started a volley of tsking over some story about a lady who was pregnant with twins and blah blah blah tragedycakes about opting out of a C-section. I dunno, but there was some more tsking about the fact that the expectant mom had smoked weed while pregnant. I just want to tell you that it makes perfect sense to me. The idea of being preggers gives me the shivering creepers. Plus, I think burning trees with a bun in the oven pretty much guarantees you a mellow, chilled-out baby, right? Also, shooting speed straight into the amniotic sac will create an energetic, productive baby who loves to clean his room. Also, inserting a mini bottle of airplane liquor and a rifle bullet into your baby-filled uterus will guarantee your child future employment at St. Paddy's Day parades. 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 |