10 Years Since Highschool: A Religious Parable

A weird, unsettling creepiness comes over me when I realize that it was a solid 10 years ago that I graduated from high school.

10 years: Enough time for a child to be born and develop a highly distasteful interest in Miley Cyrus. Enough time for a group of nomadic midgets to reach the summit of the Matterhorn, using only gerbils for warmth and company over the long, endless nights.

At some point, staring at 17 year old girls went from "checking them out" to "a cause to call child protection services"

And what about those fancy pants dreams? Sure, all those amazing things you knew you were going to accomplish by 25 seemed plausible in 1998, but now they are a far-off reverie; a post-modern fairy tale, as it were.

Something remotely close to a spec of a tangent of something you want to do seems good enough.

Those friends that haven't at least compromised? Daddy's getting pretty sick of writing the rent check every month.

So the truth? You're always going to be playing catch up with time; it's always going to be a few steps ahead of you. As you age, time moves at an exponentially faster rate, so you're going to fall exponentially further behind.

Is there anyway to catch up? Probably not. You've got shit that will help you pass the time, like primetime TV or a sex worker who's dead inside, but no way to slow it down.

I do have a theory on something that might help. Have you noticed that if you're having fun (going out to dinner, having a good conversation), time fucking flies past, but when you're not (going to the gym, waiting on line at the DMV) it moves super slowly...

Well, maybe the key to life is to not enjoy yourself. Do mundane, vacuous things that cause you to recoil in pain at the slightest thought of doing them. Talk to an ill-informed moron, go to see a "mothers bring your kids in free!" matinée movie, write a buddy comedy for Owen Wilson and Shaquille O'Neal.

If you do that, I guarantee you life will seem endless.

Until you age to the point where death is looking at you while tapping his watch.

Although I guess that's where booze comes in.

This week I was in a retiree community known as "Florida" visiting my father. I haven't seen so many people drunk off their ass since I went to my Irish ex-girlfriend's family reunion/whiskey drinking contest.

I thought getting uncontrollably drunk becomes socially unacceptable at some point in your late-20s, but this appears to not be the case...I guess it's totally cool to get drunk all the time until you die.

At least it makes life a little more bearable. Hell, if I was 77 and living it up in Florida, I might take up a heroin habit.

I guess my main point is; live in the moment, don't live in the moment, time is precious, time doesn't matter. Whatever, it makes no difference, you should just be happy you're however old you are at this very moment, because it only gets worse from here.

Speaking of high school...is it just me or does the poster for the latest "hilarious body swap comedy" 17 Again (cunningly not 18 Again):


Look suspiciously like the cover of David Bowie's 2003 album Reality?

Pandora Judges Me...

Pandora is a revolutionary 21st-century-type radio station that finally I tried using tonight after having several people (including my 67 year old pop) rave about it for a while.

Basically you tell it what songs you like, and it creates a playlist around those songs. Sounds simple, right?

Not entirely. The playlist is created based around certain aspects of your chosen songs (the beat, the harmonies, the rhythm), but not other, perhaps more important aspects (decade of song, genre of song, if the other songs are good at all). So, when I create a playlist around the layered, ethereal "The Model" by Kraftwerk, the 80s pop-crapfest "She Bop" by Cyndi Lauper is the first song that comes up.

Same type of thing happened when I tried to create a glam rock playlist. Bowie's "Suffragette City", T-Rex's "Ballrooms Of Mars", Lou Reed's "Walk on The Wild Side"...what do I get?

A Pavement b-side. Now, I'm as pensive, stop/start dynamic, indie-rock as the next guy, but if I want to listen to fey wobblers singing about tranny sex blanketed in intricately melodic guitar lines, then "Cut Your Hair" isn't my first choice.

Plus, I get the feeling like Pandora is judging me. They have little explanations of why they choose certain songs for you. "Based on what you told us, we're playing this track because it features complex melodies and subtle harmonies"...or whatnot.

Well, I consider myself a connoisseur of fine music; a lone cowboy riding his ear-shaped horse from genre to genre in search of complex, yet satisfying musical deliciousness.

Pandora, on the other hand recommends songs for me because they contain "simple, repeated melodies", "basic rock song structures" and "a dynamic male vocalist". So, Pandora thinks I'm a gay simpleton.

Stop judging me Pandora! Oh, and when are you going to start carrying "Christ Truck"? Get on that...

Mundane, Attractive and Vacuous

Bess was hotter than the burnt embers that stoked the fire in my vacant heart.

Not only did she have "a body that wouldn't quit", she had a body that had recently been promoted to Regional Manager of Sales.

She was pretty fucking hot.

How an Italian mercenary like me ever ended up marrying her is beyond me.

OK, I'm lying. I'm not Italian. I'm Jewish. And I'm not a mercenary, I'm a manager of Accounts Payable at Fenstein, Phlegmberg and Clamcheese, INC.

And we weren't married...yet. It was more of a stalker/stalkee relationship; I pathologically followed her every move, and she lived her life, occasionally enjoying discount Indian food.

But, this beaut beyond beauty will be mine. Soon they will call me "Moshe: The Sexiest Jew Who Fondles All Sorts Of Attractive Lady Types".

I'll just have to change my name to Moshe first. I'm actually Shlomo, which is about as bad a name as my parents could have chosen, except for maybe Gaylord. My last name is Suckscock, so, I mean, I'm fucked either way.

In any case, I wanted to be the Porgy to this delicious slice of Bess. But how?

I gathered up all my courage and decided to talk to her.

"Bess!"
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Yes, I'm that creepy guy who was masturbating outside your window last night."
"Oh, my stalker!"
"I prefer sexy lady connoisseur"
"Either way, you watched me poo"
"I bet your poo smells like chocolate roses"

That visual did nothing for me, so I decided to open up the conversational floodgates.

"Well, I've gathered up all my courage, Bess. I want to talk to you. Tell me a little about yourself."
"OK, I was the cheerleader type in high school, but then I'm like "fuck that, I'm not daddy's little whore any more. Little Lolita's a woman, daddy". I've spent the last five years addicted to crystal meth and managing a Hopewell, New Jersey Quiznos. I don't know if it was the crank, but those sandwiches are fucking nasty".
"They are pretty disgusting"
"So what about you? What are you looking for?"
"Well I'm looking for someone intellectually curious, you know, someone who'll genuinely be interested in listening to NPR. Also, someone who knows how to write a good email. No letter "U" for "you", no TTYLs, no Twitter speak".
"Good luck, it's the 21st century; no one can spell anymore, books are a thing of the past, anal play is a rich sexual tapestry. Get with the times."

Knowing that she'd never be my "it" girl, I decided to drug her and take her back to my place. Sure, it was somewhat illegal, but so is drunk driving, and that didn't stop Linsday Lohan. Yes, I'm a modern day Lindsay Lohan...without the vicious drug and alcohol problem and rampant lesbianism.

She came back to my place; we spoke of God, Groucho Marx and discount hummus. It was an enlightening conversation, because I realized one true fact:

Just because someone is attractive, doesn't mean they have anything remotely interesting to say whatsoever...

I can't believe I'm just finding that shit out now.

I mean, sure. You see someone attractive and you automatically give them an intellectual pass. Idiotic things they say are "cute", vacuous things "sweet", racist things "humorous"...

You're blinded by their good looks.

Bored after speaking for 4 minutes, Bess spoke up.

"Do you have anything to do here? I mean if you're going to kidnap me and NOT rape me, you've got to provide at least some sort of entertainment..."
"I'm afraid the only socially acceptable form of home entertainment I have is this travel Scrabble."
"What about not socially acceptable?"
"Oh, then there's "sitting in deafening silence while idly checking my email"...that's my favorite past time".
"Well, it's your lucky day, Shlomo, because I love uncomfortable silences."

That's when I realized that even though she was stupid, vacuous and had virtually nothing interesting to say whatsoever...she actually enjoyed NOT talking to me.

Imagine being in a relationship with someone you don't have to interact with. It would be a dream come true.

So I married her. We never had kids, talked to each other or had any physical interaction of any sort. We only met at funerals and when we both needed to go to the bathroom: It was the perfect relationship.

Cows Have A Magnetic Sixth Sense...Or Something

Scientists have discovered (based on taking a close look at Google Earth) that cows align themselves along a North/South axis, which appear to indicate that they have some sort of "sixth sense" of magnetism.

Well, further studies (based on taking a really close look at Google Earth) seem to reinforce this; showing that cows align themselves in all sorts of fun, different directions when they are standing next to power lines. Those lines emit a low level magnetic field, thereby "crossing their magnetic wires".

So are we about to enter an age of fashionable cow-compasses? Will geneticists create "pocket bovines" and market them to grizzled old mariners looking for a good larf while sailing about the globe? Probably not.

What this says to me, in a pretentiously simplistic way, is that there is some sort of incomprehensible symmetry to everything. It's not necessarily some divine deity, but something necessarily divine about these bovines' magnetism.

As science learns more (and takes a super intense look at Google Earth), we're going to discover all sorts of seemingly inconsequential little pieces; tiny fragments of an unknowably large whole.

Personally, I can't wait. Well, I'll probably be dead before we even being to partially understand the tiniest amount of knowable information...but my great-great-great-great grandson might find it interesting. Well, somewhat interesting...ooooor not actually interesting at all.

My guess? One day, everyone standing in a southern direction will fall off the face of the earth, leaving the hyper-intelligent cows ready for the "Great Cow Uprising" of 2046. Our only defense? Worcestershire SauceBot: a half human, half peppery condiment killing machine created by the human resistance (let by H.J. Heinz).

Holy Cow!

humorous 2001 ramblings circa 2009

At some point during college, I had another "web log", which I wouldn't classify as a blog because is was so morbidly under-updated; but I certainly wrote as much uninteresting crap there as I write here.

Feeling completely uninspired tonight, I'll cut-and-paste bits and pieces of my 2001 AOL HOMETOWN web blog here, for your unenjoyment. This was right after I discovered The Onion, which has since become a national phenomenon, or at least something that's good for a quick, short larf amongst college-age stoners.

THIS JUST IN: Amazon.com User Writes Devastating Review Of Guns N Roses Album

PENNINGTON, NJ- On or about January 22, Pennington area native "BonJovi 1986" wrote a devastating review of the Guns N Roses album "Appetite for Destruction" on Amazon.com, the online store with "The Earth's Biggest Selection". Typing in all capital letters to underscore the urgency and anger of his review, Mr. 1986 writes, "IDOITS WHO LISTAN TO THIS GLAM GARBAGE ARE JUST STUPID. AXL SOUNDS LIKE SREECHING TIGER WHO SUCKS". He continued on saying, "IF YOU WANT TO HERE REAL MUSIC LISTEN TO 'SLIPPERY WHEN WET". BON JOVI RULES/!!.1!" When contacted at his second floor studio apartment over the local Hooters, the reviewer clarified his position, "Hopefully, one day I shall climb the Amazon.com hierarchy, and rise up to become one of the top 1000 reviewers. Once that happens I can gain the respect and admiration that I deserve and people will finally understand that GNR sucks ass, and Bon Jovi totally rules". Guns N Roses management could not be reached at press time.

Your Parents Hate You, Wish You Were Never Born

DATELINE USA-A new study has just been released revealing that your parents hate you and wish you were never born. The study, conducted by the University of Miami, was written after extensive interviews with your parents. It concludes that 100% of your parents think you are "a total disappointment...that wasn't worth the price of the condom that broke during intercourse". While there was agreement amongst your parents confirming your status as "a total loser", opinions differ as to why. Your Mother says, "The child never gives and always takes; like a vacuum. A fucking annoying vacuum." Your Father, on the other hand, takes a wildly different stance, "God. I can't afford shit anymore after paying that loser's way through college. And for what? I wish that fuck would just die so I could collect the insurance money". Dr. Richard Dickson, who helped conduct the study says the results weren't totally unexpected, "After preliminary interviews with relatives and friends, it was a forgone conclusion that you are a piece of crap. The only thing left needed was the generous government funding". You could not be reached for comment because you were crying in a corner, you fucking pussy.

Top Story: Baby Born Addicted to Crack, Unprotected Sex

QUEENS, NY- In a story that's becoming all-too common nowadays, Jessica Sharpe was born last week addicted to both crack and unprotected sex. Her mother, 17 year old crack whore Melissa Sharpe was "shocked" at the revelation. "That's total fuckin' bullshit", Sharpe said, "my baby ain't addicted to fucking nothing". When pointed to the physical evidence and her apparent double negative, Sharpe responded, "Well, she probably got it from her fucking father, whoever that is". She continued, "Now, where's my fucking thong? I gotta get back on the street before Vinnie finds out". When asked to clarify her statement, Sharpe replied, "Do you have any? I'll give you a BJ. I suck a good cock. C'mon man, I just need a taste". The only known cure for these addictions is a regiment of hard baby fucking and IV crack. "It'll be a long, arduous process" Dr Henry Stein of Queens Medical says, "but it'll eventually cure the baby of her addictions, at least until the age of 14".

Manic Depressive Sadomasochist Masturbates, Cries, Then Masturbates While Crying

Depressed Philosophy Major Ponders Existence Of Self, Acne

HAHAHAHAHAH

or actually,

BOOOOOO, that sucks...

Yeah, that one.

Well, what do you expect, I was 20. I would also sit around my dorm room writing poetry about despair or Bergman movies or something....

WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD...

Finding out that you're the worst person in the world isn't as bad as it seems.

Sure, you're a vicious fiend, hell bent on making life awful for all those around you, but at least you're the best at something. Who else can say that about themselves? Tiger Woods? Those two fat guys on motorcycles (best at being fat on a motorcycles?)
Well, the day I found out I was the worst person in the world was the BEST day for me. I had accomplished something.

Take that, doubting public! Matty has conquered something aside from that bottle of cheap whiskey!

Sure, I haven't conquered my career goals, maintaining basic hygiene, or my fear of Belgians; but there's always a first step. A first, depressingly morbid step.

You see, it's hard being a terrible person; it takes a ton of work. Take yesterday for example:

I used the phrase "dumb Mexican", while negatively referring to an old stereotype. Did my Mexican housekeeper hear the part about it being a "stupid old stereotype"? No. Did she hear "just another dumb Mexican"? Yes.

Worst person am I!

Last month, I was on a shoot with a gay PA (production assistant). I used the phrase "gay" to refer to something "lame". Immediately struck by neurotic guilt, I apologized to the PA in front of the 15 person crew.

"So sorry Bill! I'm not trying to insult gays...hope I didn't insult you!"

How was I supposed to know he's in the closet?

WORST EVER!!!

Or, let's take a magical journey back to 2002 when I was working as a barback in my brother's bar. Carrying some ice to the bar in a big tray, an African-American gentleman reached in, and tried to grab some ice.

"You can't do that, it's unhygienic" Said I.
He got indignant: "You don't want my black germs? You afraid I might turn your white women black?"
"No, it's just that customers aren't allowed to grab ice from the trays".
"You touch it."
"Yeah, I work here."
"So it's OK for a white boy to touch it, but black people can't work here?"
"Huh?"
"RACIST!!!"

I'm not sure I understand that one, but I'm also pretty sure it ties in to me being awful.

SO, these little things that you say, which are completely unrepresentative of who you are, define you. They are little, meaningless snippets that people use to assume big, meaningful things about you.

Why?

Because it's much easier making a snap judgment than a nuanced, informed opinion; just ask the American voter circa 2004.

IF:

a) GOD IS DEAD
b) GOD WAS NEVER ALIVE TO BE DEAD
c) GOD EXISTS AND IS ALL POWERFUL

THEN:

a) YOU'RE FUCKED
b) YOU'RE FUCKED
c) YOU'RE FUCKED

So let people think you're awful, say stupid things, be super awkward; the only judge that matters is yourself.

CHRIST TRUCK

Walking in a bowling alley parking lot I came across a massive truck with the words "Jesus Christ Is Lord Not a Swear Word".

The truck was so ungainly large that my friends and I weren't able to take a picture that captured the entire blasted driving contraption.

What was it? A portable mega-church? Something that houses a Utopian community of militant Evangelical Christians preparing for "The End Of Days"? Your guess is as good as mine.

Anyways, as soon as I saw it, this song basically wrote itself in my head. When I got home, I recorded it. I can't tell if it's unabashed idodicy or just borderline nincompoopery.

Let me know what you think.

Moron More on

Hello my vacuous ninny
you're a lily-livered
face painted
moron, more on
with a good sense
of diction-
airy light brains

Scribbled on a wall, she wondered if this poem was about her. Sure, it was signed "for a good time, call Alice Sacks" but maybe it was another Alice Sacks. Sure, under Alice Sacks was her phone number...but maybe someone named Alice Sacks used to have her phone number.

Yeah, probably not.

Why did everyone think she was stupid? Was it that she occasionally spelled words with a 7? Spoke with a British accent even though she wasn't British? Limped for effect?

Or maybe it was just because she was really fucking stupid.

Either way, she had to prove to people that she was as smart as a wh7ip.

So she sat down to write a masterwork; a great novel that transcended genre and classification. When she was done, her 569 page piece of Doctor Who fan fiction, "The Attack Of The Zygons" was greeted lukewarmly amongst even the most diehard Whovians.

She moved on to Music. By creating her very own "Sgt. Pepper", she would show everyone what a unique, Thom Yorkian talent she was.

So she sat down and started to compose. After three months, working 22 hours a day, this is what she came up with; "Sing Songs":

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

After playing it for her friends and family, they realized that she wasn't stupid, just mildly retarded. That's when they had her committed.

Unfortunately, the disparaging graffiti continued.

Alice unlike wonderland
wonder when
you'll realize
you're as vapid
as you are ugly
and you're really fu7cking
ugly.

Turns out, in a Fight Club-esque twist of events, it was Alice writing the graffiti all along. She thought insulting herself was good motivation to write books and music.

She was last heard from after marrying a 35 year old Labrador named Harold in a mixed-faith ceremony. She, a Catholic, he a Dogmatist.

Irritating, Vacuous and Offensive

After he signed the Devil's contract Jack had a slight twinge run down his spine. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that. "Soul For All Eternity"? That sounds like a long time.

"Fuck it", he thought to himself. "I want to be a successful-type Hollywood guy; this is the only way it's going to happen, even if the Devil fucks me over with one of his patented 'Evil Twists'".

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he was sitting in the office of Shlomo Steinberg, the #1 agent at CAA. Chomping hard on a big stogey, Shlomo looked at Jack with awe.

"This is seriously the worst fucking script I've ever read. You've removed every semblance of heart, personality and intellect".

Jack sighed. Maybe this is the Devil's evil twist. He knew it must be coming.

Shlomo continued "...welcome to Hollywood, my boy. This is almost as impressively bad as Paul Blart: Mall Cop. You're a fucking genius. We'll fast track this sucker for a summer release".

"Shweet!" Jack exclaimed.

"Shweet!" Jack exclaimed later that day when the blond spray-tanned plastic person yanked softly upon his dangly nether regions.

As he climaxed, the plastic person pulled down her pants and showed off an impressively erect wang. "I fuck screenwriters", she said. "I also have a penis".

Jack sighed. This must be the Devil's evil twist...it was bound to happen.

That's when he got a great big look at the Tranny's wang. "Wow!", he thought to himself. "I guess I'm gay, because I'm in penile-love!". That's when Jack realized he was unbelievably gay.

"This isn't so bad, except for the rectal stretch marks".

"This isn't so bad, except for the rectal stretch marks". Jack's actor said the line perfectly. It's a new-millennium catch phrase; irritating, vacuous and offensive. The film, "Irritating, Vacuous and Offensive" was a fart-riot-a-thon which debuted at #1. Jack had finally made it.

Or did he?

In the back of his mind, he knew it wasn't that easy. The Devil twists and turns like a twisty turny thing, and there was sure to be some sort of backfire. But what?

"Maybe I'm just being paranoid. After all, I did just start a raging coke habit to keep up with my friends in the business. 'Friends'? Fuck that, competitors. If they get a job, I don't; so even though we might talk politely at parties; discussing vaginas, oral herpes and ways of acquiring cocaine; they aren't my friends, but my friemies". He took a toot and tore up a torn tee.

Naked, he made love to his tranny high on cocaine while thinking about what he was going to write next. "A Group of Teens Have 2 Days to Lose Their Virginity, Or Terrorists Will Blow Up The White House; I'll Call It Sexxorist".

He realized that that was the worst idea in the history of ideas; even worse than The Turd Twister, which allows you to make shapes out of your poop. He also realized that the film would be made, probably starring J.K. Simmons as the stodgy, but lovable high school principal.

He thought hard to himself; "do I have any good ideas? OK...think...A Blind Policeman has to team up with a Deaf Musician to...FUCK!!! I have no good ideas. Maybe I'll call a friend and talk about this. Oh, wait, I don't have any friends, just frienemies. FUCK!!!!".

Looking in the mirror, he realized that the Devil's Twist was that he had no creative talent whatsoever and treated all his friends like they're your enemies. That was the only way to make it. Blast!

Later that night, Jack killed himself because spending the rest of eternity in Hell was way better then spending 15 minutes at a Hollywood party.

Super Hot Naked Time (trout pouts)

According to academic study that I read last year, humans find things attractive because they are easier for our brain to process. So, the simpler something is to look at, the more sex-licious it is for us. If something is out of the norm (and our brain is saying, "really? I have to actually pay attention to this?"), then we don't find it attractive. A wart, squinty eyes, a bigger-than-usual body part, etc...

I mean, I'm fucking hotter than a supermodel spitting Jay-Z lyrics on Venus, but for those that aren't; a few existential questions must come up: Why don't people find me attractive and what can I do to make people find me attractive?

Well, if you have money you can do this:
Yeah!!!! Get those lips a-pumped! I've heard of penis envy, but lip envy?

Do people find big, thick lips sexy? Apparently. Every woman that I've ever met has a hang-up about the size of their lips. That's why so many MySpace/Facebook pictures have girls giving their best "trout pout" or as I like to call it, "Mick Jagger impersonation":
Are women more attractive with 'em floppy lips? Let us go experimental and take two of Hollywood's sexiest sexpots and see what happens when we rid them of their pair of pouties.

Scarlett I. Johansson:
Now which do you find more attractive? Seriously? Be honest with yourself. She's very attractive, but I do believe that a lot of her appeal is her wondrously luscious labia oris.

Sure, she's still a beaut in the second picture, but "guest spot on Bones" beaut, not "Scar-Jo" beaut.

Angelina Jolie: Now, I really only remember her as "the sexy chick from Hackers" but she's apparently made a career for herself and her 15 African children. Her lips are so famous that insanely unstable octo-mommies feel the need to collagen-cop them.


So, what does our celebrity look like without the lips?

Kind of becomes a bootleg J-Lo, no?

I wonder what our obsession with pout is? Maybe it's easier to look at. Certainly, my lips are so delish that they could be sold at Greenblatt's on Sunset with a side of Cole Slaw and a pickle...

Well, I'm unrelentingly sexy, right? Let's photoshop those big lips out and see what I look like...

No wonder my nickname is "tiger lady"...