I got a Blackberry and all of a sudden things started happening.

I got a Blackberry and all of a sudden things started happening.

"things started happening" and "blackberry" usually mean business meetings, quiet evenings with giant bags of cocaine and violent prostitute beatings. For me, this was not exactly true.

For me...it was subtle.

The first change I noticed was that I shaved more. "This is what it's like to feel skin!" I proclaimed. I was "barebacking" my cheek, and it was odd. No longer was "once every week and a half-ish" good enough. It was now a concern of mine to "look good".

Next, I started wearing Button Down Shirts. You may wonder why those three words are capitalized. I DARE you to tell me why they shouldn't be.

Gone were ironic tee shirts I bought in 1998 and hellos were waved to Banana Republic's finest. I like them striped, dark and pressed, just like my womens. If that doesn't make sense, dear reader, I encourage you to use your imagination. If that doesn't work, use "The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus"...it worked for Terry Gilliam.

As the halcyon days of laying in bed writing naked, playing Wii naked and BBQing meat naked slowly became obsequious evenings at The Standard, drinking 12 dollar vodka-tonics, I began to realize something about myself.

I'm a fucking douchebag.

Could it be that putting my phone on the table during dinner to check and see if I got an email is rude?

Could it be that determinedly typing away on a tiny little screen while other people attempt to hold a conversation with me is impolite?

Is it possible that updating my Twitterberry in the throws of sexual passion is a "faux pas"?

Yes, yes, and why the fuck not?

I am a man of the 21st century and it is my duty to be impolite. It's my duty to be a huge douchebag.

"Paying Attention" to what people say is so 1992. People are lucky if they can belch out 10 words of polite conversation before texting a friend.

Personally, I long for the days of rotary phones, an MTV that played music and email addresses that were nothing but a long string of numbers with a comma inserted randomly somewhere.

Sadly, this is not to be. It's the 21st century and, like John Connor, I was one of the last non-douchebag resistance.

I lost though and now I'm checking my Twitterberry to see if someone's @ replied me. Actually I forgot what I was writing.

I'm sorry, what were you talking about?

My thick brown glasses sighed loudly.

I smiled an upsidedown frown. It didn't suit me. Neither did 'Brooks Brothers' for that matter, but that was neither here nor there.

She was watching American Idol like a pop-culture hawk starving for mouse carcasses. Glibly she mumbled, "I want Adam to win".

I hadn't a clue of what she spoke. I read books and smoked clove cigarettes and wore a beard of ironic v-neck teeshirts; how could I watch the dreaded television? The lowest form of low since the combination of khakis and the 'tied over the shoulder' sweater.

My thick brown glasses sighed loudly.

"Are we like, going to a bar or something?", I snorted. I thought that it might sound piggish, but the snort was more 'Jewish Phlegm-y'.

"But American Idol is tonight. The finals; a veritable Coup de grâce of singing cacophony".
"Yeah, but I want a beer. I want a beer so much that I want it covered in more beer; like a pilsner or something; then I want that beer wrapped in a Bud Light can, covered in a fine hops 'n barley-flavored dutch chocolate. That's how much I want beer at this moment."
She looked at me.
"OK", I admitted, "I'm an alcoholic. What are you going to do? Have an intervention? Remember the macabre charade the last one turned into?"

That particular charade ended up becoming a drunken game of charades, where I crudely attempted a parodic imitation of a large policeman with a breathalyzer and stun gun.

She finally relented: "OK, you want to go to an alehouse? Go for it, just don't expect me to go with you".
"We can play Sex And The City tonight". I knew this was her weak spot; I also knew it required a night of pretending to be Miranda.
"I'll be Carrie!" She's always Carrie.

So we went out (damn high heels) and wowed passersby with our witty repartee, confident single-hood and emotional empathy.

Late that evening, while fending off Mr. Big when Carrie went to the bathroom, I thought to myself: "It could be worse; I could be watching American Idol".

She LOL'd Lonely As a Cloud

April O'Neil wrote something in her journal.

A journey begins with a step.

A step begins with a move.

A move begins with a thought.

A thought begins with an idea.

An idea begins with an education.

"Great", she thought; "Now all I have to do is get an education".

She wasn't unintelligent, she just didn't have an education. She had a PHd in life, as she remarked in polite company, but that was about as impressive as a PHd from Devry. Her dog had more training than she; two years of community college were about equivalent to a degree in "Walkies" from Poocherstein University.

She was not happy in life; married at 18 to a young evangelical, she lost her faith in God on the macabre charade that was her wedding night. God simply couldn't exist, as there was no explanation for the collection of odd, dangly things contained in her husband's pants. He knew there was something awry when she screamed "There is NO GOD!" the second he removed his TMNT boxers.

They divorced when he caught her cheating on him loudly while she slept. "Oh Shlomo!" she screamed. "Do it again!".

The sad thing was she didn't truly love Shlomo, the town Mohel, she just loved what he did for a living.

Alone, working a crappy receptionist job and spending most of her evenings Googling "lulz", April knew that her life must have a purpose, but that purpose was probably stuck between the cushions or under the couch.

One night, while idly looking up old middle-school acquaintances on Stickam, God arrived.

She was surprised for a multitude of reasons; first, that God existed. Second, that God Was A Taco.

Yes, the Almighty God was a crispy pollo grande with extra cheese. Also, he had the worst salsa breath in recorded history.

"April! Boweth downeth to meeth!"
"Did you just say Meth? Bow to down to Meth?"
"Oh, sorry, I was just being poetic", he said, taco-shell lips flip-flopping, "I meant me-eth"
God Continued.
"Listen April, life is short and you're wasting it; get out every once in a while; travel, shoot a hobo, watch two elephants crap on each other".
"But God, I have a crappy job, no money, generic third complaint about why I'm inactive. How can I take a journey?".
"That's simple, April; the only journey worth taking is a journey within yourself. Take that first step now. Close your eyes and imagine yourself wherever it is you want to be".

She closed her eyes and saw the majesty that only the mind could provide; hardcore pron, EPIC FAILS and teh awesomeness.

She realized her true calling; she was to be a vacuous internet meme. Of course saying "vacuous internet meme" is kinda like saying "huge large burger", but she got the point.

She turned to God and thanked him. Got smiled a big taco smile and flew away in a puff of salsa fart breath.

"Now, all I have to do is become an internet meme".

And that, my friends, is the story of her blog: April's Salsa Fart; updated everyday with Fart Pix, Fart Vids and EPIC Fart Fails. It's currently being developed into a novel and an MTV reality series.

April realized that in this modern day and age, an education begins with a journey and not the other way around. The internet allows you to throw everything at a wall to see what sticks, take a journey without an education, idea, thought, move or even a step.

It's the Cliff's Notes version of life and that's totally OMFG LOL LULZ with April.

Putting the grapes back on the vine

You are a distant, innocent spec of nothingness resting on an incomprehensibly large greatness. This greatness neither notices you nor will acknowledge your existence, because you are such a giant nothing; a never will, a never was. Your smug sense of self importance is a huge mask of ignorance, a macabre charade of limited experience and close mindedness. 

You are nothing and the fact that you think you're something means that you're an even smaller nothing. 

"This, you have to admit", the teacher spoke.

The class of 5 year olds looked confused. Hebrew school had taken a strange turn for this group of kindergardeners; one minute it was all apples and honey, and the next a depressing diatribe of diffuse downers. To put it colloquially; "Ms. Johnson's scary!".

Irving Shacter, the proud, yet incredibly schlubby principal opened the door:

"Ms. Johnson, a word we can speak?"

When they got outside, Mr. Shacter was more frank:

"To the students you speak like this?"

"Well, Irving, don't you think they deserve to know the truth?"

"We're not in the truth business, Ms. Johnson; this is a religious school".

"But don't they deserve to know that life is a giant void and we spend our hours fruitlessly attempting to fill it with meaninglessly inconsequential wastes of time?"

"You mean 'are we going to teach Atheism in a Hebrew school'? No. Now get back to those students; I can see Peter Sachs eating a sandwich of boogers and paste".

Dejected, Ms. Johnson solemnly walked back to class.

"Well, kids; I guess it's time we get back to teaching you about Noah's Ark."

A handsome young Jewish boy raised his hand.

"Yes, devilishly handsome young Jewish boy?"

"Ms. Johnson; don't be down. We all know that these stories aren't actually true".

"You do?"

The entire class exclaimed: "yeah".

"Yeah, but if we stop pretending like we believe it, we don't get grape juice and challah on Fridays. Grape juice and challah is pretty amazing".

That's when Ms. Johnson realized; religion isn't about actually believing in anything, it's about getting cool stuff when you pretend to believe in stuff.

A class-wide group hug ensued, with the exception of Peter Sacks who was rushed to Mount Sinai hospital with an acute case of septic shock brought on by excessive paste-eating.

"I am a wet blanket dousing the fire of your loins"

"I am a wet blanket dousing the fire of your loins", he thought.

What better way to Twitter-flirt, or "Twirt", than to write extremely provocative innuendos cloaked in a mask of humor and uneasy awkwardness? After all, why change what's worked for 20-odd years?

That's when he looked up and realized that the term "Twirt" was just ridiculous. So were the terms "weblebrity" and "mukluk".

Flirting over direct message was nice, but not as nice as flirting in person, and not even close to as nice as watching the Director's Cut of "Apocalypse Now". Her responses "LOL" and "WTF OMG LOL" belied the inherent macabre despondency of the situation; Each three letter acronym was another knife to the heart; Each four letter acronym was another knife to the heart, stab to the stomach and rape of the anal. I won't even go into five letter acronyms.

He closed Twitter. What good was it doing him anyway? He couldn't express himself correctly anyway; "If Carneades was correct in saying 'nothing can be known; not even this', then how the hell am I supposed to figure out the 7th season of 24?"...is more than 140 characters.

YouTube Comments In Real Life

Life would be easier if you could have a Greek chorus of youtube commenters giving feedback on your every move.

You eat a turkey sandwich...three horny loners watch.

"LOL ROTFLMFAO! This is definitely going on 4chan".
"Your stpud and gay. LAMME!"
"Now that you've read this dunt stop. Send this msg to five friends within an hour or you'll die".

"Outstanding advice!" you think, "maybe I'm funny when I eat a turkey sandwich, but I'm also stupid and gay. If I don't pass that information on to five of my friends, I will surely die".

You're sitting in a bar, looking for some hot action. An unremarkable, pizza-faced hobbledehoy gazes at you from across the room.

"Cum check out my free webcam. Sexy live shows!"; his every exclamation is underscored by a flapping jowl. "xxxxcamsexy.info NOW!".

He holds out a picture of a young, attractive girl sitting on a bed, staring into the camera.

"That's me telling you this; sexy time sex...SEX", he finishes his whiskey, shakes his head and takes a deep breath. His work day is done.

You take home a very valuable lesson; things aren't always what they seem. The second valuable lesson; "that girl I cybered with on the 'sex chat good times' message board was probably an overweight man" was briefly learned, but then immediately forgotten later that same night after three vodkas.

So what can we learn about people who comment on videos on youtube? A small cabal of Jews control the world, apparently. Also, youtube commenters are borderline retarded.

Check out this video, for instance:



Some of the amazingly adroit comments include " Is it just me, or is the person really playing it an overweight caucasian person?", " I love how its a skinny white guy playing guitar hahahah", " that fat wight guy is good" and " yah this is so freaken bad and fake"

Is he fat? Is he skinny? How on earth does anyone think that "white" is spelled "wight"?

These are all questions...

Cinco de Gringo

Ed Hardy? More like Dead Farty.

I have no idea what that means, but I thought of it yesterday while shopping at my local Ralphs not-so-supermarket. Note the inappropriate lack of punctuation in the name.
Ralphs? As in several Ralphs own the supermarket?

Anyway; cinco de mayo there is like a scene out of Yevgeny Zamyatin's bleak distopian nightmare, "We". Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats, and ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes.

That and about 1000 white people got sombreros, chips and a margarita mix (all labeled "cinco de SAVINGS!") in exchange for their last vestige of dignity.

Someone please explain to me why it's totally acceptable to co-opt a culture for a day in an inherently simplistic and racist way. That's like dressing in blackface and a dashiki while eating fried chicken and watermelon during Kwanzaa; except that's not "in" right now; racism against Mexicans is.

Well, I for one, say "Mexican't" to racism.

Monday night I went to a godawful Mexican place in West Hollywood and it was a totally Mexican't experience. The waiter was a mid-west valley girl type, the host was an effete white manboy and the chefs were third season rejects from "Hell's Kitchen". They offered things like "a light mole reduction sauce". In fact, the only Mexicans I saw were the busboys; Pancho Villa Jr. and Emiliano Zapata III.

Sadly, no revolution was forthcoming and the food tasted like Mexican food prepared by a retarded blind midget after they donated their face to Connie Culp. Why do white people think they can out-minority minorities?

St. Patty's Day! I know, let's all wear "Fuck Me, I'm Irish" buttons, beat up gay people and drink Guinness until we impregnate the closest Gaelic piece of arse. Well, white people; you ain't gonna out drink, fight or fuck the Irish, so it's about time to give up that dream.

And for all you people who move to NYC and start going to Jewish Delis and watching Woody Allen movies...to be Jewish you need to face 2000+ years of hardship and persecution and inexplicably feel guilty about it. Using the word "nosh" in polite company does not a Jew make.

I think we should create a holiday called "Cinco de Gringo" and everyone dresses up as white people, drink PBRs and start wars, rape land and enslave those that look different from us. And remember, enslavement can be physical, economical OR mental! Or all three!