People FAIL

Being an epic frequenter of FailBlog.org, I am aware I shall never outdo it.

But here's something I found on People.com, which is as close to a Fail as you can get without it being categorized as "EPIC". It's more like a "copywriting" fail, which, having worked in the advertising industry, is something I am more than fully aware of.

Ooo...that sentence structure was a copywriting FAIL in and of itself.

Anyway, the following sentence is pretty mind-bloggingly ridiculous and I shall share it with you:

"The singer went for a distinctly edgier style for his Bad album in 1987, adding heavy eyeliner to a buckled leather jacket and skintight jeans".

You lost me after "heavy eyeliner". The only thing edgy about Michael Jackson's style in 1987 was Bubbles.
And that's only because he went ape-shit and bit somebody.

Band O' The Week

Sometimes you come across a song that sticks with you; so much, that when you turn it off, the melody reverberates incessantly in your head until you absolutely MUST play it again. 

Then, when you play it again...you play it over and over again.

Here's a band I found on Pandora called King of Prussia. I can't vouch for their musical canon, but I can tell you that this one song seems to indicate sunny Beach Boys meets melancholic Morrissey vocal melodies mixed with music that marries that wistfulness of The Shins with a hint of The Psychedelic Furs.

Needless to say I'm kinda into it.

The lyrics seem to be a paean to a lover filtered through an ambiguous druggy haze. I try not to listen too carefully to the lyrics of a song when I first get into it, for fear that it will ruin the song for me (like life, what you hear is almost always better than what is said).

Anyway, enjoy the song...

Kinkier Yowl

"Sometimes I just need to be alone". This is the single most important thought one person can ever have; for is there anything more wondrous than solitude? Quiet, delicious solitude; being alone with the only person you'll ever love enough to truly hate.

Unfortunately, this was one of those times to seek out strength in numbers. That number, sadly, was two: me and Yarmulke Jones. She and I were both looking for our missing body parts; her, a absconded Afro, me...a faraway foot. The conclusion we reached? A vicious body-part snatcher who was only interested in our little bits and pieces, but didn't think we were good enough to take the whole kit and kaboodle.

A solution? Well, there was none, except to ask questions which could only be answered with more questions. Such is life and life is such.

Yarmulke had a hunch that most answers lay at the bottom of a bottle of beer. We went to a bar to see if any conclusions could be found amongst all the hops and barleys.

"Yarmulke; why are we here?"
"Literally or metaphysically?"
"Give me some choices, I'll decide which one I like better".
"The answer to both is because we walked in the door".
"What about philosophically?"
"Empirically speaking; drinking might help me remember where my afro went. Rationally speaking; I'm pretty sure drinking might help you remember where your foot went".
"What makes you think that?"
"Idealism".

Having enough of our didactic, frankly uninformed conversation about philosophy, I began to have a much more interesting discussion with contents of a high ball glass.

By the time I finished, things became more clear...maybe Yarmulke was right; philosophically, my drinking problem could be classified as "rationalism" because you don't have to see me drink to know that I'm going to become a fucking genius after a few tall ones (not to mention my ability to create a uniquely amazing Jukebox playlist; holla!).

A few shots and rapid blinks later- the bottom of the glass said four words to me; "look to your left". That's when I saw her:

Kinkier Yowl, a mischievous ne'er-do-well from down the block, who had been around it no less than 24 times. To say she was a beauty was a disservice; she made beauties look runners up in the "I'm Not a Beauty At All" contest.

Needless to say; she was attractive.

Drunk and probably very charming, I hopped over to her.

"Kinkier", I spoketh. "There's nowhere else in the entire world I'd rather be, except maybe in New York discussing something other than insecurities of people in the film industry".
"I understand; I've heard '100,000 Butterflies' by the Magnetic Fields"
She looked at my foot, which wasn't there.
"I see you're missing an appendage"
"You're quite an observer; much like the weekly periodical from Dallas of the same name".
"Are you missing a foot because it's not there or because you don't see it?"
"Well, it's not there, right?"
"Close your eyes. The glass is half full; bad things are always going to happen to you; it's just a matter of realizing that they're only as bad as you want them to be".
"Fatalist?"
"It's not fatalist to say life sucks, right? That's just being a realist. It's what you do with the sucky parts of that make you strong. You don't have a foot, right? I guess that's bad, but maybe it's good. Think of the sympathy pussy. There's going to be sympathy pussy."
"I hadn't thought of that".
"And the handicapped spaces. I mean, you could fucking park anywhere, as long as you have that little blue guy in a wheel chair."
"Sex and good parking? Sounds too good to be true".
"It also sounds like a mediocre HBO show that appeals to middle aged housewives."
"So; if things that suck don't actually suck so much...maybe that means fate is tangible? Maybe there is some sort of outside force making sure that good or bad; our choices are always right".
"That's a wonderful thought and I'm glad you shared your uninformed, borderline retarded insight. There's only one real way to look at this: however you can deal with what you've been given, however you can get through the day...that's what works. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing mystical, no absolute judgments; just...whatever works for you, is what works".
I looked at Kinkier Yowl and realized I was connecting with her on a level which I had never connected to another being. Then I looked at her toes.
They had big, curly toe hairs.
"Your toes...they look like mine".
She got nervous and turned around. Poised to run away, Yarmulke Jones got in her way.

Yamulke looked at her:
"My afro is pinned to your ass, girl. What's up with that?"
"Uhm...it's like tattoos of pixies or elbow stars; totally 21st century".
"Afro ass hair is the new thing?"
"You betcha".

Three hours and two brutal beatings later, I got my foot back and Yarmulke was proudly sporting an afro.

Sure, my foot was stuck-on via Superglue and Yarmulke's hair was about as convincing as John Travolta's wig, but nonetheless important things were returned.

Yarmulke looked at me with a mournful, almost dour expression.

"Things seem to work themselves out, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess so".
"But it really isn't as simple as that".
"Nope".
"I wish it were".
"A million different things happened a million different ways to make sure that you and I are having this conversation; isn't that enough?"
"Maybe the simplicity is in our unimaginable complexity?"
"I'd rather not think about it".
"Sounds good to me".

I walked away with a limp, but it was better than not walking away at all.

Oh No; Someone's Absconded With My Foot!

I remember that day like it was two weeks ago last Friday.

Two weeks ago, last Friday I was sitting in my bed. My normal alarm didn't go off with a thundering BOOM!, but with a shy, effete whisper. This caused me to not "wake up", but instead "sleep", which are scientific terms you should probably look up.

Noting that I was approximately 4 hours late for work, I gathered my goods together and hopped in my car. Then I thought to myself "why I did I just hop to my car? Why didn't I run?". Then I looked at my feet:

AHHH!!!! I had no left foot. It was like that movie "My Left Foot" but without the foot.

Despondently depressed, I began searching everywhere. This was no easy task, as you can imagine. On average, I'm not the sort of person to easily misplace a limb.

Panic attacks ensued; "I'm going be late for work!", "I'm going to be a cripple for life!", "Why can't I find a pair of jeans without faux bleach stains anymore?"

I looked up at the sky and it looked like it was covered in plastic wrap; rain started falling like hail and the clouds parted to reveal more clouds.

This was problematic, I thought, for my search would be delayed by inclement weather. It was like a golf match or a picnic hand job.

Should I just swallow my pride and go to work as one-legged freak? What if I call in sick even though my "Generic Office Busywork" was due this afternoon?

This was the toughest decision of my life, except for my famed 1995 quandary, "should I grow my hair long and part it down the middle?". I failed that one.

That's when I saw Yarmulke Jones, the most militant Black Panther on the block. I guess she was probably the only Black Panther on the block, but I'm not sure. I don't get invited to a lot of Black Panther Parties.

Her hair was newly shorn, which was odd because she had the biggest afro on the block...well, next to L'chaim Schmenderson, owner of the world's largest Jewfro.

"Yarmulke!", I howled. "Have you seen a wondering foot hopping around without a body?"
"Have you seen a bobbing afro wobbling about?"
She looked desperate.
"I've looked everywhere; including a cursory glance at this surrounding area!"
"What the hell is going on?", I sputtered. "If your 'fro is gone and my foot; that can only mean one thing..."
"I'm really fucking high?"
"No, but I like your creative input; we should write a "Lonelygirl 15" style webseries together. No, I'm suggesting something amazing. Something that's never been thought of before; something implying something that might be something you aren't quite ready to hear."
"Can you please stop using the word 'something'? It's really annoying"
"OK; here's my thesis" I swallowed my pride and gum. "There's a part-of-body snatcher going about stealing things from normal people such as you or I."
"Oh no! A part-of-body snatcher?!?!?!?! Whatever do we do?"
"There's only one thing we can do..."

To find out we can do...you'll just have to wait for tomorrow because I'm too languid to write the rest.

Bi-Lingus

Well, I really wanted to write something tonight, but the old "uninspiration" bug has bit me (a common occurrence since I started working in digital media).

So that leaves me with only little choice; stay up really late staring at a blank page, give up at 3AM and post an old blog entry that I took down last year for fear that someone might mistake it as inoffensive. Whatever, bitches...

I've always wanted to speak another language, but considering I have a tenuous grasp on the English, mastering another tongue has always seemed like a pipe dream.

Oh, I've tried; like that one time I got drunk and screamed "me likey taco burrito!" around El Coyote in Hollywood; but that, and the ensuing "race-hate" trial is neither here nor there.

I had seven years of Hebrew when I was a kid, but it was always a little too phlegmy for me. That language is just a distant memory: last time I attempted to do the wine prayer, I ended up calling the rabbi a "funky bacon shmendrick"; but that, and my ensuing expulsion from Judaism is neither here nor there.

Japanese? I went to a boarding school that was 60% Asian. While I found the language pretty and interesting (pretty interesting, at least), I always felt like I was being REALLY, REALLY racist whenever I attempted to speak it. Sure, whenever I couldn't think of a word, I just said "ching-chong Sushi time!", but I'm not sure that was the reason. However, that does explain the great 1999 Japanese/Jewish Riot of Pennington, NJ.

So, being that I haven't mastered any languages, how do I compete in today's fast-paced, take-no-prisoners, International House of Pancakes world?

Babelfish.

No, not that little fish you stick in your ear and it eats your brains...I'm talking about the website. I think it's fool-proof! For example, let's use my introduction to every lady I meet:


Hello, I am Matt Manson and I would like to ask you to have sex with me. Afterwards, we can eat ice cream, watch Science Fiction and talk about our mutual dissatisfaction with our place in life.

See! That's a golden line that will work on any hot piece of tail. But say you're in Kyoto and the girl sitting next to you only speaks four words of English: "SUPER HAPPY FUN TIME". Solution: Babelfish.

Let's translate that into Japanese:


こんにちは、私はマットMansonであり、私が付いている性を有するように頼むことを望む。 その後、私達はアイスクリームを食べ、空想科学小説を見、生命の私達の場所との私達の相互不満述べてもいい。

Easy as that! All I have to do is repeat that to any little Miko that comes into my periphery and SLAM! It's sushi time! Now, what did I just say? Let's translate it back from Japanese into English:


Today, as for me it is mat Manson, in order to possess the characteristic where I have been attached, the fact that you ask is desired. After that, we eat the ice-cream, look at the fantasy scientific novel, our mutual dissatisfaction of our places of life are possible to express.

Wow! It actually made me sound even better! "in order to possess the characteristic where I have been attached, the fact that you ask is desired"? That's fucking Shakespeare! Sure, a drunken, retarded Shakespeare, that's maybe not William, but at least a 3rd cousin.

Thank you Babelfish, thank you technology. You've made me an international Don Juan.

A Night At The Bar: A Tragedy In Three Acts

ACT I

I see you standing there.
Looking at my shoes.
They're nice shoes, no?
I got them at Ross.
Half off because there's no holes for shoelaces.
What? You aren't staring at me?
You're looking slightly in my direction because I'm standing next to the bar?
Surely you must be checking me out.
You're not?
Are you sure? Because I'm wearing new shoes.
Also, I put gel in my hair instead of spitting in my hands. My cowlick is slightly less noticeable.
So, you're sure?
OK. That's OK.
You're absolutely sure?
No worries girl, I think your friend is checking me out.
Wait, she's not your friend?
Wait, she's actually a man?
Wait, he's not checking me out, but looking at me with disgust because I just picked my nose and wiped it under the bar?
No way! I'm too fucking subtle for that.


ACT II

Now we're talking!
Dancing with a beautiful girl, I'm pretty sure that smile is genuine. My ineffable charm is currently irresistible.
Wait, I'll be right back, I have to use the gentleman's.
Hey! I'm back.
Wait, what's wrong?
Hey! I'm back.
No seriously, what's wrong?
Why did you sneak that quick glance down to my pants?
Those two or three drips of liquid by my zipper are totally from washing my hands. I swear!
What? My hands aren't wet?
That's because I used my pants to dry them off...duh!
What do you want me to do? Waste paper? You must not care about the environment.
OK, fine, go talk to that guy who's slightly more handsome, has more self-confidence and doesn't have pee drops on his pants.

ACT III

OKHHsjr, I judy just need to concentrate.
Yessir, things are back into focus.
I'm pretty sure I'd fuck anything in this bar, including the whiskey.
Yes. I would make spunky sweet love to that bottle of Jameson.
I'm pretty sure that bartender needs a 40% tip. She's really hot. Maybe if I tip her, she'll like me more.
Yeah, no chance she's remotely interested in me, but yeah, she's really hot. Plus, she'll know I respect her profession, unlike those other jerks in the bar.
There are so many jerks in this bar.
Like this fucking douchebag wearing the Ed Hardy "Punks Not Dead" shirt. That shit probably cost $80, only reaffirming that Punk is dead.
What, you don't like me laughing at your shirt?
Wow, your girlfriend is hot. How the fuck could such a douchebag get such a hot girlfriend? Sure, she looks dead inside, but she's still hot.
Maybe I should wear Ed Hardy.
I think that thought might be the lowest thought I've ever thunk.
Is "thunk" a word? I'll have to look that up when I get home.
Are you still angry at me staring at your shirt and sneaking a peek and your girlfriend's most likely fake chest?
Well, fuck you!
That's right, I'm telling you that in my mind, asshole! In reality, I'm slowly walking away and pretending that I was looking in the opposite direction.
I guess I should leave.

POSTSCRIPT

Mmmm...light...so early. I'm really thirsty.
Why am I still wearing the same clothes as last night?
How did I end up asleep? I really don't remember.
Oh right, I thought I was just going to "rest my eyes".
I guess I'll just take these pants off and go to the shower.
What's this, a receipt?
Why did I leave a $20 tip for a $40 bill?
Why do these pants smell like pee?
Oh man, I really can't afford to go out like this again.
Never again.

FOUR DAYS LATER:

I see you standing there.
Looking at my shoes.
They're nice shoes, no?
I got them at Ross...

The Best Date I Ever Had

Darkly lit French Restaurant; either the waiters were über snooty, or their ties were tied too tight.

The dinner was delicious and so was the conversation. The bread was warm and so was my libido. The salad was dressed and so were we. The menu was filled with vexatious metaphors and so is this paragraph.

Me: A 25 year old Jewish boy, freshly graduated from the "School of Hard Knocks"; my PHd was in "banging on the door loudly enough to make sure you don't walk in on your roommate jerking off to scheisse porn".

Her: A with-it Hobbledehoy with a breasts like soft cheese; milky, but a little too runny for my taste.

She started her sentences in the middle of the sentence, as if she starred in a scene that began halfway through a conversation.

Her: No, I totally agree; if you can't spell the word child, then you shouldn't legally be allowed to have one.
Me: What about the ethical implications?
Her: Ethical implications? So the world loses a few fry cooks or Fox News correspondents...so what?

A waiter walked past us and tripped, falling down and SMASHING several plates along the way.

She laughed like a hyena who just sat through the Parrot Sketch for the first time.

At this point, I'm in love. Hatred of ignorance? Genuine enjoyment of the pain of others? My dream.

Then I notice the ring on her finger.

Me: What's that?
I point with my pointing finger. I make a point of pointing with my pointing finger, otherwise there's no point to point with my pointing finger.

She RIPPED the ring off of her finger and looked NERVOUSLY around, as if she expected someone to be looking back.

Her: So what is it like (yelling) BEING JEWISH?
Me: Why did you just yell "BEING JEWISH"?

A big, burly man in a baseball hat and caulk-stained overalls RAN up to us.

Him: Sharletta, what you doing with a Jewish man? I said you could cheat on me...but you know I'm an anti-Semite.
Her: Maybe you shouldn't have fucked my sister.
Him: Well maybe you should have been emotionally available to me in the first place!
Her: You knew I was emotionally unavailable when you married me! I'm broken inside like a cheap toy or Canadian pop sensation Avril Lavigne.
Him: Isn't that bitch Jewish?
Her: No, despite her Semitic-sounding last name, Lavigne is most likely Roman-Catholic.
Him: I miss you and those times you licked my taint without crying.
Her: I save the crying for when I cry inside.

At this point, they started to make out.

Me: This actually ended better than most of my dates do.

Slowly Dying Inside Doesn't Mean I'm Dying Outside!

By George Blembeck

Guest Blogger

Hey, just because I can barely make it through an hour of the painful, unending suffering that is life doesn't mean I don't know how to party.

Sure, I may stare at my pale, flabby body in the mirror and think about all the creatively diverse ways I could kill myself, only to stop short because I'm afraid it would give my father a heart attack; but a night out with me is going to be a blast!

You and me are going to paint this mother fucking town red, bitch!

What, you're concerned that I haven't left my bedroom in a week and you heard me loudly criticizing myself about a litany of failed opportunities? Fuck that, hoe! George Blembeck is all about the three Rs:

Red Wine With Bitches

Roses On The Bed With Bitches

Being Accused of Statutory Rape of Bitches

That last one only happened once, and sure it sent me through a giant shame spiral and put me in a place where my own gerbil vomited in disgust at the site of me; but George's BACK and ready to FUCK...someone with a properly authenticated state-issued ID.

Yeah, the last time I had sex it was with a concussed drunk girl who thought my name was Peter, but at least I got some action! OK, she had one arm and kept counting her eyebrows to make sure they didn't "add up to a number that offended Jesus", but damnit, we had a great time. It was special, fo' sho'...until she woke up the next morning and stole all of my high fiber cereals.

I thought she was the one!

So, let's go out tonight, buddy. You won't have a BETTER TIME with anyone else! Of course, I'll be thinking about how the noise of the bar and the piercing stares of its inhabitants makes me feel like I am less than a spec of nothingness; but at least I'll look like I'll be having a good time.

Maybe we'll get drunk! I'll put some kick ass tunes in the Jukebox and dance like an asshole because that's what well-adjusted people do; pretend they're having fun while hating everything about themselves and those that surround them.

Won't you please join me?

If Jews Ran The World...

I found out something interesting today, but I'm afraid to share it, for fear that I play too much on the "Jewy" angle.

Oh vell!

Syrians, Palestinians, and Lebanese share more DNA with Jews than they do with neighboring non-Jews. Talk about your self-hating Jews!

The theory is that most of them were Jews to begin with, but converted to Islam somewhere along the way...too bad that hasn't caused both sides to hug and fondle each others' dangly underthings.

This doesn't actually come as a surprise to me. I mean, let's take Arafat for example...the man looked pretty freakin' Jewish...maybe a Jew who spent a little too much time in the Florida sun, but Jewish nonetheless...

I mean, let's be honest; the guy could have been Jackie Mason's angry, comically hilarious headcovering-wearing brother Shlomo.

They've got to share some schlumpy DNA, no?

So where does it leave us?

0.2 percent of the world is Jewish. 19% is Islamic and 32% is Christian. That's 51%! Let's be honest.

If Jews were 51% percent of the world's population, do you think we'd have such socio-political strife in the world? No. Here's the 5 reasons why:

1) POPULAR AVAILABILITY OF PASTRAMI SANDWICHES: Have you ever been to the "2nd Avenue Deli" in New York? No? How about "Langer's" in Los Angeles? Not that one either? OK, well here's a little Jew-insight...we like Pastrami sandwiches and have for thousands of years. Do you want to proselytize after eating one? No, you want to drink a Cel-Ray tonic and unbutton your pants.

If Jews ran the world, these delights would be available in McDonalds and Burger King and everyone would be too pacified by deliciousness to argue.

As the prophet George Costanza experienced...pastrami only makes life better. In fact, his girlfriend once said: "I find the pastrami to be the most sensual of all the salted cured meats."

2) GREAT SENSE OF HUMOR: Go ahead...name me an Islamic or Christian comedian who is hilarious. I'm giving you time. Think hard. Dane Cook? Good luck with that.

Jewish people are hilarious. Let's just be honest. Even unintentionally...Jews are hilarious. All the way from The Marx Brothers to Seth Rogen...Jews know how to joke around.

Christians? Jeff Foxworthy. Go ahead. Try and laugh at him. If Jews were running the world, there would be too many awkward Larry David-esque exchanges to start a war...we'd be too busy arguing over dinner portions or tip amounts.

3) DOCTORS AND LAWYERS: We've got your ass if you're sick. Have you ever been to a BAD Jewish doctor? Seriously, think back...when have you gone to a Jewish MD, and left thinking "boy, I really didn't get A+ service" ? Sure, we might charge an arm and a leg, but at least we made sure that said extremities are still attached to your body.

As for Lawyers...who would be left to sue the Christian doctors who fucked you up? 'Innocent' Murderer OJ Simpson's lawyers? Robert Shapiro, Alan Dershowitz. Convicted murderer Scott Peterson's lawyer? Mark Geragos.

Case closed. Go with Jews if you want to get away with murder.

4) WE'RE GOOD WITH MONEY: OK, Do I need to even go further than this?:

Clinton's budget surplus under Jewish treasury secretary Robert Rubin? $127 billion
Bush's budget deficit under Christian treasury secretary Henry Paulson? $482 billion

We run the world and even starving African Children will be enjoying $14 Pastrami Sandwiches AND leaving a big tip for mediocre service. Let's just be honest.

5) WE AREN'T WHITE: Lest you be mistaken, Jews ain't white. We're not even close to being white. White people have a history of being Oppressors. Jews have a history of being Bagel Eaters. Shit, we couldn't even do that in most places. We had to eat bagels in basements under a blanket while bleaching our hair strawberry blonde. Do you even know how often we've been oppressed? Check this shit out.

Like once every 100 years, 20% of us are murdered and kicked out of wherever we are. That's why we've been around for 3000 years, but we're only .2 percent of the world's population.

This ain't about being religious. A lot of Jews are secular. In fact, we celebrate being secular.

Here are but a few Jewish "non-believers"

Albert Einstein
Sigmund Freud
Emma Goldman
Karl Marx
Woody Allen (I'm assuming)
David Cronenberg
David Cross
Stephen Jay Gould
Theodor Herzl
Mark Zuckerberg

Anyway, I'm sure the list goes on and on. I guess we've got good DNA, which means the Syrians, Palestinians, and Lebanese do too...maybe peace isn't so far off....

Super Jew!

I wrote something today.

I don't know why I wrote it.

I think it had to do with a "Butterfinger Buzz" that I consumed. This discontinued candy was being given away at an Ad Agency where I was working.

It proclaims it has "As Much Caffeine As The Leading Energy Drink!"...12 hours later and my heart is still beating in an irregular fashion, I'm sweating and I'm pretty sure I can see into the future. Grunge's going to make a comeback, BTW.

Anyway, this background information might explain the following sketch, which I'm pretty sure is unexplainable. That Catch-22 would make a wonderful book. I'll call it "Catch-22...2: Captain Aardvark's Return, Except Told in Completely Uninteresting Prose".

OK, here ya go:

INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY

Neil and Matt are sitting around, literally staring at the WALL.

MATT: Oh man, I’ll never be a success at everything. I should probably just kill myself...except I hate me too much to put myself out of the misery.

NEIL: Dude, you’re such a stereotypical Jew. Seriously, you make Woody Allen look like Hermann Göring. 

MATT: Don’t knock it man, don’t you remember how I used my Jewiness to star in that SpikeTV show?

CUT TO:

OPENING CREDITS MONTAGE:

Graphics follow the lyrics:

INT. APARTMENT - DAY

SuperJew: A Hasidim DRESSED AS A SUPERHERO (like Superman, except S is a Menorah) Frantically Talks On The Phone, CRYING...

SINGER: SUPER JEW! Calling mom about problems. 

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

SuperJew makes love to a BLONDE

SINGER: SUPER JEW! Hate Fucking All The Germans. 

He SHITS on her FACE.

INT. OFFICE - DAY

SuperJew holds a Calculator, while caressing a pile of money.

SINGER: SUPER JEW! Sound financial decisions!

INT. SYNAGOGUE - DAY

SuperJew gives a thumbs UP!

SINGER:  SUPER JEW!

VOICE OVER: Super Jew is brought to you by Schmuley’s Matzoballs.

CUT TO:

INT. KITCHEN - DAY

A BLACK Hasidim sits at a table. 

He takes a bite of soup.

HASIDIM: Damn, that’s a fine ass SOUP!

CUT TO:

INT. LIVING ROOM

Neil looks perplexed.

NEIL: What are you doing?

MATT: Huh?

NEIL: You said “don’t you remember how I used my Jewiness to star in that SpikeTV show?” Then you stared blankly at the wall for 10 seconds. You never had a show on Spike.

Matt looks in a mirror...

ALL OF A SUDDEN, He’s Dressed as SUPER JEW.

MATT (to himself): One day, super Jew...one day...

And with that, I bid thee farewell...

I'm Rich Bitch!

Well, as all my various readers can tell (all 12 of you), I haven't been updating as much as I used to.

Life's hard motherfucker! I have no free time that doesn't involve morose self-reflection or painful imaginary wrist-cutting.

I think I'm well adjusted; it's just that I'm 'well adjusted' to a life of never-ending pain.

I would commit suicide, but I hate me too much to do myself such a big favor.

Still, there are simple pleasures; eating a bag full of Oreos, then purging in the toilet until the tears and vomit combine to form a grotesque masturbatory lubricant.

I pause for a quick thought: "where does that last sentence even come from? What irregular series of thoughts came together to make my fingers gingerly type that?"

The answer, my friends is in 15-20 years of intense psychotherapy. I like to go to a psychoanalyst who is also a therapist: a Psyscho-analrapist. But enough about my Friday nights!

In any case, I think "simple pleasures" should be renamed as "things that distract you from your inevitable, meaningless death". It makes a little more sense to me.

This week, my "TTDYFYIMD" are:



I dare you to listen to that song and not get throughly absorbed in the complex, evocative imagery. My only problem with Dylan? He was born a Jew (hello! We're the best religion!) and converted to a "Born Again" Christian (hello! American culture between the years 2000-2008!)

I'm informed that he's now "semi-Jewish", or as I like to call it Jew...ish. So I can listen to his music again.

And of course, there's always this:

Chappelle's Show
The Wayne Brady Show
www.comedycentral.com
Buy Chappelle's Show DVDs Black Comedy True Hollywood Story

Sure, a lot of the humor of the show was predicated on racial stereotypes that might have enforced them (and why Chappelle probably left the show), but it's really fucking funny.

I like to watch it while shaving my knees and spiraling off into the vast emptiness that used to yield limitless potential, but now yields limited disappointment.

Delicious and Easy 20 Minute Steak

I thought I might just throw up a quick and easy recipe for a 20 minute steak for those of us on the run/those of us who are completely incompetent in the kitchen.

Here's what you'll need before you cook:

To Serve 2 People:

Lean Steak (1/4-1/3 lb per person)

3-4 cloves of Garlic (chopped thick)

2 tablespoons of olive oil

2 heaping tablespoons of sweet salsa (something like a "peach mango" salsa, one spoon on each steak)

5-7 crushed crackers (something delicious and crunchy, Rice Crackers work well...)

A few squirts of your favorite BBQ sauce

Dash of Salt and Pepper

Directions:

-Cover a cooking dish with aluminum foil, then spread Olive Oil evenly across the foil. Squirt some BBQ sauce (as much as you want) in with the oil.

-Take steaks and rub both sides in Olive Oil/BBQ sauce mix, then lay them on the foil.

-Top steaks with salt & pepper, chopped garlic (I personally like really thick pieces of garlic, not minced), salsa and crushed crackers (you can put the crackers in a bowl and hit them with a blunt object until they break into little pieces).

-Turn Broiler On...

-Stick steaks in your broiler; flip them over after about 7 minutes, then flip 'em back again after 7 minutes for another few minutes. Depending on how well you like your steaks done, they should be ready in about 15 minutes.

A good way to tell is to cut a little into the center of the steak and check and see how "pink" the middle is. I personally think they taste best with a decent amount of pink; say around medium.

Another way, suggested here, is: "Check the edges. If you have a thicker steak, the color of the edges is often a good way to tell how done the middle is. When the edges change from red to pink to brown, the inside is probably moving from rare to medium rare to medium."

When you're done, the cracker/salsa/garlic topping will probably be all over your foil, so make sure to scoop it on top of your steak before you serve. It's pretty tasty.

While you're cooking the steak, you can make a good side dish, here's what you need:

1 bag of Sweet Potatoes, cut up (they have these at Trader Joe's, etc)

1-2 teaspoons of brown sugar (depending on how much sugar you like)

1/2 lemon, squeezed

a sprinkle of water

-Put Sweet Potatoes on a microwave safe plate.

-Squeeze 1/2 Lemon on them

-Evenly sprinkle some water on them (as much water as you might have on your fingers after you wash them)

-Gently dust them with brown sugar

Cover tightly in plastic wrap, stab a few holes in the wrap with a fork, and microwave for about 7 minutes.

You can add basically any vegetable to this concoction to make a pretty tasty side. Carrots or Brussel Sprouts work nicely too.

And basically you have it; a nice, relatively healthy meal that's incredibly easy to make.

Google Voice

I love me some google, even if a ton of my personal information sits in their hands. (not to mention that 'Ceti eel' they put in my ear [read the TOS for youtube])

I'm so cool with them that I am so willing to take the virtual plunge into the glorious world of Google Voice...an application that allows me to NEVER PICK UP THE PHONE AGAIN!!!

Yes, Google Voice assigns you a phone number, you give it to people, they call it and leave a message. That message is then emailed to you, along with an audio recording of said message. Through your email you can either TXT that person back, or have Google Voice actually call them on your behalf (it calls you too...sort of an electronic conference call). I prefer to text, obviously, because I absolutely despise actually speaking to someone. 

Anyway, it's pretty cool. Here's me calling myself:

Here is what Google Voice THOUGHT I said: 

 

hi matt this is a test i'm trying to see if this message is transcribe correctly love you very much bye 

Here's my friend Paul calling it:

Here's what it thought Paul said:

 hello  matt  this  is  call  i  hope  your  social  media  experimenters  working  and  let  me  know  if  it  works  this  is  exciting  alright  

So, as you can see, some bits and pieces still left to be worked out, but I'm a fan.

If you want to chat, I encourage you to call me. I won't call back, but I might text, email, or some sort of other thingy.

Do it do it do it!!!

El Pollo Loco Commercial

I've always wanted to direct an El Pollo Loco commercial, and not just because their chicken is FUCKING CRAZY.

I mean, Chick-Fil-A is probably better, right? Someone brought me some once, but I didn't end up eating it. The "a" at the end scares me, but I'm a nervous character at heart, much like Mir-Hossein Mousavi or Woody Allen.

In any case, I woke up one morning with an El Pollo Loco commercial in my head and wrote a short sketch about it.

Read and understand that I have humongous mental problems.

INT. APARTMENT - DAY
Matt walks in as Neil and Franci sit around.

MATT: Hey guys, I got an acting gig.
NEIL: I didn’t even know you were an actor.
MATT: I’m not, but my parents didn’t pay enough attention to me as a child, so apparently, I’m a natural.
FRANCI: My father used to beat my hamster with a bible, because he thought it was living in sin with the rabbit.
NEIL: So what’s the job?
FRANCI: But it was just a plush chew toy we put in his cage.
MATT: Brian De Palma's directing a new ad campaign for El Pollo Loco!
FRANCI: I loved that fucking hamster.
NEIL: When can we see it?
MATT: Now, probably.

CUT TO:

INT. JAIL CELL - NIGHT
A PRIEST (MATT) is giving last rites to a GRIZZLED HISPANIC PRISONER on DEATH ROW.

The Prisoner has a TATTOO of a tear on his face.

PRISONER: Thank you Padre; my soul feels cleansed.
MATT: And for your last meal?
PRISONER: I want chicken like muy tia Rossette used to make.

The Prisoner CRIES and makes a CROSS.

Matt solemnly nods.

CUT TO:

INT. KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER

Matt walks into a KITCHEN,

MATT: We have a special request...

He SEES:

A CHEF with blood and GUTS spewing everywhere.

On the wall, written in BLOOD is “I’ll Be Back”.

CHEF: Avenge my death...

Matt looks to the camera, WORRIED.

CUT TO:
INT. JAIL CELL - LATER
Matt walks in with an EL POLLO LOCO bag, but tosses it aside and hands the meal to the prisoner.

The Prisoner takes a bite.

Matt looks concerned, dramatic music plays.

PRISONER: Si...éste es pollo de dios. (this is the chicken of God)

They SMILE at each other.

CUT TO:

INT. CLOSE UP SHOTS OF CHICKEN

VOICE OVER: El Pollo Loco is freshly flame broiled to order. So good, even a hispanic convict on death row can’t taste the difference.

CUT TO:
INT. JAIL CELL
Prisoner has finished chicken and is holding a sharp BONE in his hand.

MATT: God bless you...and El Pollo Loco.

The Prisoner STABS Matt and runs out.

SFX guns are fired.

CLOSE ON:

Half Eaten Chicken Meal.

GFX:
A CHICKEN GETS IT’S HEAD CUT OFF AND IT LANDS IN A PLATE

TAGLINE: “EL POLLO LOCO: FUCK THOSE CRACKERS”.

CUT TO:
INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY

NEIL: I’m still waiting to see it.
FRANCI: Yeah, you just said “probably now” and have been standing there for 30 seconds.
MATT: You didn’t see that?
NEIL: See what?
MATT: Oh boy, I must be high again.

The PRISONER stands behind Franci and Neil, holding a hamster.
PRISONER: I’m gonna kill this fucking hamster.
MATT: Now that’s just loco!

Everyone starts laughing.

CLOSE ON:

HAMSTER PUPPET:

HAMSTER: Why are you laughing? Save me, you fucking Jew!



Something tells me that won't be El Pollo Loco's Spring 2010 campaign.

not surprised, but disappointed

I saw this on CNN.com last month, I took a picture, and I've been meaning to upload it for a while.

If you look at the incredibly non-scientific poll conducted "should people be executed for non-violent crimes such as drug smuggling", 32% of respondents said "yes".

So I bought some awesome pot in Mexico and wanted to bring it back to share with my hippie friends...except I can't now because I'm being executed by firing squad.

This scenario makes sense to 32% of CNN readers?

That must be the same 32% of mouth breathers that respond to last week's Holocaust museum shooting with comments like these:

The murderous jerk has just given more ammo for Jews to hide behind holocaust guilt while hardworking asian, muslim, and latin immigrants are denied entry into the USA while Jews are given free passes to come into the USA as they please..

And:

This mans rage was sparked by jeremiah wrights comments over the screening of white house info last weekend. The ACLU has really got control over this administration, look what happend to chrysler , the supreme court was to see the case and the ACLU stoped it. the ACLU Has been sabotaging the US for years. It's about the money & the power. there foot print is big and not in a good way.

And:

OBAMA saddened > BECAUSE HIS MAN VonBrunn got caught!

And:

Yeah & These museums are all over the counrty which I don't understand the point of. Whether you believe in the accuracy of all the Holocaust history or not, this sh-t happened in Europe. Let them deal with it because from where I'm sitting Americans liberated the "death camps" so why do I as an American taxpayer have to pay for what seems to me to be little more than indoctrination centers that are all about the special suffering jews endured. The way I look at it the jews owe me money for liberation reparations that our fathers, grandfathers, and greatgrandfathers (the so-called greatest generation) died for while freeing the ungrateful bastards. So how about some dough for us, out of your own pocket, for all those WW2 American GIs you duped into freeing you so you could continue your nefarious activites

Comments here

and

here

I guess my thought is 32% of people are vocally stupid, while about 60-65% of people are really fucking stupid but don't talk all that much.

I'm not surprised, but consistently disappointed. It's like a typical Friday night.

Being Misled...

Being misled is a cornerstone of humanity. From the Trojan Horse all the way to "Compassionate Conservatism", we have an innate desire to package disappointment as something slightly less disappointing; To offer someone something, only to give them something else and hope they don't notice.

In other words, welcome to Hollywood.

Thinking back, I have experienced this all my life. Let's take a little trip down "memory lane", which, if I'm correct, will be called "Human RAM lane" in about 20 years.

Having grown up in NYC, 7-11 was an exotic, almost unknowable experience to me; like sex with an Norwegian. As a child, I saw the commercials on TV, but since there were none anywhere near me, the idea of one grew to mythic proportions.

It was my Godot; always talked about, but never there.

One fall evening in the spring of 1988 my family took a trip to Washington, DC, home of DIY punk and DIY drive-by shootings.

We were there with my oldest brother while he undertook the macabre charade that is "the college search".

I remember taking the requisite sight-seeing drive around town with the fam; "look! there's the Washington Monument!" "look, there's the Lincoln Memorial!" "look! there's Marion Barry smoking crack and having sex with a cheap call-girl!"

These were things I had never seen before, and they didn't fail to impress. But what was the one thing I was most looking forward to? 7 fucking 11.

7-11! The Gourmet Eatery I had only heard about during the commercial breaks on "DuckTales"...well, certainly I must go there post-haste.

We were driving:

"Dad!" I exclaimed, "can we go to the 7-11?"
"Good God" he responded, "why on earth would you want to do that?"
"I wanna go!!! I wanna go!!!"
He looked at me with a mixture of hatred and sorrow. To my family, the concept of a chain store was about as exciting as a weekend trip to Buchenwald circa 1944. In fact, I didn't even enter a fast-food establishment until I was 18.
"Sorry, kid, we've got to run to dinner".
"Can't we go there for dinner?"
"Uh, no, we have reservations"
"Can we go after dinner?"
My mother looked at my father with a "be nice to him even though he's being an annoying brat" look.
"Sure".

We went to the fanciest restaurant in DC, which fit it nicely with my family's lack of chain food experience. We're gourmands, which is French for "extremely picky and annoying". We were served and the food was amazing, but I wasn't paying attention.

Like a teenager awaiting the results of his SATs...I was a giddy mess. All I could think about were those amazing commercials; multi-colored frosty drinks, huge "gulps" of soda, and toys that tied in to the latest blockbuster film. It was my Xanadu.

I remember exactly what happened when bow-tied waiter came up:

"Still have room for desert? We were rated best in Washington".
My family eagerly ordered delicious sounding things; a la mode this, double chocolate that. My turn.
"No desert for me!" I excitedly exclaimed.
"Are you sure? We've got some really great choices"
My mother looked at me.
"Matt, seriously, are you sure? Everything here is great"
"Nope! I'm waiting until after!"
The waiter looked at my mother, she embarrassingly spoke:
"He's excited because we're going to 7-11"
He laughed "Really?"
"Yes!!! We're going!!!!" I shrieked.
"Well, I still remember my first time. It's never as good as it is then"
As a child, I lost the irony.
"Yay!!!!"

I can specifically remember that my mother ate a fudgy brownie covered in whip cream and gooey chocolate sauce. When my mother wants you to eat something she goes "mmmm" loudly, to underscore how much you're missing.

Needless to say, she was pulling an "mmmm" fest.

But I stood strong. I turned down every offer of a bite, because I was saving room in my tummy for whatever scrumptious delights awaited me at the wondrous 7-11.

Then we got there I and have never been so disappointed in my life.

This wasn't like it was in the commercials. I half-expected it have a velvet rope and a bouncer; checking the names of all the excited kids waiting patiently for their sugary delights.

Instead, it was illuminated with a dull flickering florescent light and the only occupant was a middle aged Indian gentleman.

My mother looked at me as if to say "sorry" and "I told you so" at the same time. This was the same look she gave me when I graduated film school.

Morbidly disappointed, I went back to the hotel with a mini-pack of Oreos.

Advertising's not just about making a product look good, it's about making the consumer believe whatever the product is...they need it.

And believe me, as long as there are gullible 7 year olds around (mentally or physically), companies will still market crap as gold-covered crap. I hope my story will illuminate this for a wayward child.

Probably not so much.

New Post Coming Tomorrow, but for now...a bit of depressing news:

Britain's far right party won some seats in the elections this week. Their leader, Nick Griffin has said things like this:



and



Yeah, he said "organized Jewry" and now he's the British equivilant of a congressman. He's one of those "Britian for the British, Deport Those That Aren't 'Pure Blood'" type people.

From the above article:

Right-leaning governments came out ahead in Germany, France, Italy, Belgium and Spain, while far-right parties that excoriated Muslims, immigrants and minorities gained strength in the Netherlands, Hungary and Austria.

Something to think about.

Living in Los Angeles has taught me a few lessons.

The bird poops on an electrical wire. The crack whore struts like she owns the place. My neighbor, who starred in a VH1 reality show, screams at her boyfriend about everything and nothing. A douched-out fratbag zooms down my block going 80 in an $80,000 Mercedes, just to reach a stop sign 3 seconds earlier then he would have otherwise.

Living in Los Angeles has taught me a few lessons. First; New York City is fucking awesome. It's a Mecca; I am a Jihadist and it's my Allah. I want to walk. I want to talk about things that aren't 'industry'. I want a cover of my magazine to be Larry David and Woody Allen. I want to drink at a bar at 3am.

But no, I'm not going to Bash LA. Sure, almost everyone I meet has ISSUES. Not 'itsy bitsy, let's drink whiskey and talk about your issues' issues...like 'mommy raped me while I was beaten with a bible' issues. The entertainment industry is fed by those people; hungry for approval, scarred by the past and narcissistic because it just makes sense.

Don't you love how someone says "not to blankity blankity blank", then they "blankity blankity blank"?

Needless to say, there are a lot of positives about living in a giant metropolitan sprawl. I like driving, for one. I think I'm fully OK with never being in a packed, sweaty, vomit-inducing subway again. When I first got here I used to say "nothing beats the subway; I can get anywhere, anytime...no traffic"...

But then I discovered "This American Life" and singing loudly to myself; traffic jams became an excuse to escape. Being in your car is kinda like being in the shower, except you're a lot dirtier. Sure, that fucker that cuts you off is annoying, but it's all OK because you're having your own little Karaoke Party. "Sister Christian" never sounded so good.

Then there's Hispanic food. Here's the difference between Los Angeles and everywhere else in the US; an El Salvadorian Immigrant is COOKING your food rather than delivering it.

Actually, he's delivering it too...but he's delivering what his cousin cooked. And, I gotta say; good hispanic food is about as delish as any food (except Jewish Deli food; but it gets close)

Even all the industry bullshit is OK. I mean, it's not, because if I have to be in the same room with another jackass wearing a blazer and teeshirt talking on their iPhone about "the deal", I'll kill myself...but: I do like the idea that we're all out here for the same reason. If I want to get a crew together, whatever the price, I just have to make a phone call or two. Anywhere else in the world it becomes a Wellian nightmare of begging, borrowing and crying.

I guess I'm getting used to LA. No, it'll never be NYC, but there's only one NYC. That's my hometown and that's why my number is 917 and my driver's lie-sense says that I live on the upper west side...but I'm used to the land of Angels. No, it's not "Under The Bridge", but maybe it's...OK.

My friend's wife created a Tee shirt line that says "I Stomach LA" (rather than "I Love LA"), and I think that's basically what's going on here. The only problem is that I have a consistent stomach ache...

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".