That's it, I quit!
- This may come as a shock, but...
I'm done "blogging" in the "blogosphere." And I'm done "listening" and "responding" to "comments."
Unless someone from Craigslist comes through, sometime in the next 24 hours, I’m going to delete the entire winneroftheSAT site and all of its subsidiaries.
It's been real.
Smell you all later!
New Website Created!
- Some of you know I've been researching for a professional blog that is going to totally challenge the way we think and influence people. I see what the top searches are on Yahoo, and I want to cash in.
Now is the time for the new website's unveiling! To keep up the suspense, I will redact the subject matter of the site.
This essential e-zine will be your one stop shop for all relevant information on __________. Each month, I'll comprehend extensive data and give you a detailed report on America's best _______. Hopefully, this resource will help countless new parents ______ their _______ and help them keep track of ________ trends.
Imagine, if you will, a place where beekeepers keep bees. Only I am the beekeeper, and the __________ are the bees. That was a great metaphor.
ENTER THE ASTOUNDING NEW WEBSITE
Bree & Mrs. Solis -- Merely Good Friends?
- They used to be good friends...
Actual Dialogue from Last Night's episode of Desperate Housewives:
Mrs. Solis: "Thanks a lot for giving me 14,000 dollars so I don't have to shit in the porta-potty on my front lawn anymore."
Bree: "With this sum, you can fix your broken toilet and clean up the biohazardous raw sewage that has flooded every square inch of your home."
Mrs. Solis: "I'm glad we're such good friends."
Bree: "We're more than good friends--we're GREAT friends!"
Mrs. Solis: "Yeah. Hey, would you like to come over for a cup of coffee?"
Bree: "Absolutely not."
A Springtime Poem
- Bees sting my legs
Bunnies don't lay eggs
Let’s go to Old Navy for shorts!
Let’s go to Old Navy for shorts!
Girls, wax down your slits
And break in your company softball mitts
Let’s go to Old Navy for shorts!
Microwave fluffy Peeps in a bowl
Take the baby to Connecticut Muffin for a stroll
Let’s go to Old Navy for shorts!
Rain plops on your head
Stop wishing you were dead
Let's go to Old Navy for shorts!
First Day at the New Job -- The Finale!
- "You're fired! You're fucking fired! Do you hear me?!" Bobo Bridges slam dunked his bland sandwich on the floor for emphasis. Mr. Bridges' combover was visibly startled by the sudden angry movements.
"But can’t I explain?"
"No! We don’t have room for liars and people devoid of integrity at the Burning Bridges Greeting Card Company."
Wagging a wrinkly finger Bobo carried on, "On your resume you declared in your skill set that you are an expert at document handling. But when I gave you a stack of documents to review today, you stared at them blankly! You didn't even know how to hold the documents or how to operate a finger-stickie—a condom like device for your finger that allows for easy page checking. I came back to your desk an hour later and you continued to sit there agonizing over what to do with the documents."
"Bobo… I’m so sorry. I can learn. Please… Forgive me."
"Never. Get the fuck out of my company, Sebastian Tolliver!"
I was lurking outside of Bobo's closed office, ready to surprise him with the news that I’ve been in the bathroom all day and not totally hungover and missing my first day of work, when I overheard—by means of cupping my ear to a drinking glass to the door—all the shouting.
As you may recall, I stumbled on a mysterious floor in the building, that had a receptionist in a burqa whose head obscured a neon sign that said The Council of... Sadly, I had no time to waste piecing together what it all was, so I found the nearest stairwell and snuck in through the back of the BBGCC and tiptoed up to where I'm at now.
Sebastian wrecklessly flung open the door, striking me in the nose.
"THIS COMPANY SUCKS! Oh, and Nate, I see you and I’m still going to kill you!" Sebastian squealed in his signature 80's cock-metal voice as he stormed away towards the elevator banks, "Just you wait!"
"Nate--Good! You're here. I was worried you quit already. That guy is a kook." Bobo patted me on the butt.
"He sure is Mr. Bridges. He sure is...," I responded, rubbing my sore face and pushing Bobo's hand away simultaneously.
"How are you with documents?"
"I'm all for 'em."
As the sun set on my first day on the job, both literally and figuratively, I wondered some serious questions. What maniacal schemes does Sebastian have in store for me? What is going on at the enigmatic 32nd floor? When is my next break?
From the Webmaster: The First Day at the New Job Boxed Set
The Right to Die Issue Hits Closer to Home: Please Help Pat Freestone
- Pat Freestone, quote, "wishes someone would just pitch my vegetative carcass off the back of a speeding semi."
In his hospital bed, the stinky and weakened Freestone lifted an atrophied wrist and hoarsely whispered to his bored mother, "Please... I want to die... with dignity." His mother reminded him, "It's way too late for that, you stupid fucknose."
This is the same mother who sends him notes like this:
The Friends of Pat Freestone Organization is asking anyone who can dial a phone to ring up their local congressperson and call for the public death of Mr. Freestone. Demand to have his blood on your hands.
Tell your politician to tell the other politicians to leave him alone.
5 Things I Would do Before I Died if I were in a Persistent Vegetative State and my feeding Tube was Pulled Out
- 1) Bungee jump off the Golden Gate Bridge
2) Eat a sheet of acid
3) Attempt impossible human feats one last time like downing 15 hard boiled eggs without puking, swallowing 8 Saltines in under a minute without a sip of water, or folding a piece of paper in half 7 times.
4) Audition for lead in Weekend at Bernie’s 3.
5) Change health care provider/divorce spouse.
What would you do?
Adam & Eve! Not Arthur Glynis & Fenton McGillicutty!
Hundreds of thousands of bibacious grown men crossdressed in ungodly Kelly green skirts, waving misprinted rainbow flags, chanting, "We're Here. We’re Irish. Get used to it!"
This parade is unnatural. "They should round all of you up and stick you on an island!" I instinctively shouted at the swarm.
"First of all, we're from an island. Second, we are on one now!," retorted a shirtless man wearing a ridiculous apiarist’s headband with 2 bobbing green fuzzies.
"Well, I'm still not used to it!" I responded.
And then he spit on me.
"You all look like that dude from Lucky Charms, you know! Get your own style—poseurs!" I ranted at other passersby as I wiped the mucus from my face.
"The USA was built on the backs of the Irish, lad. I will now not say 'top o' the mornin' to ya,'" a shirtless woman in green body glitter raved back.
Shucks. Everyone gets a parade except for me... I went to a curb and sat down.
An elderly gentleman who was watching me spiritlessly throw pebbles against the ground, came over and whispered in my ear something that made me fall over.
"It’s Saint Patrick’s Day?" I yelped in disbelief.
Big deal. I’m going back to work.
Welcome Metro Readers!
- You are the audience I crave—hip, young transients who love not paying for things and are instantly bored by articles exceeding 4 paragraphs in length. You, the reader, are like the strands of saliva betwixt a slobbering open mouth kiss occurring right now between Metro and me. Isn’t it electric?
For those living outside of New York, Metro is a free commuter paper here that presents all the day's news and gossip in fun, easy to read bites. Today I was chosen as Metro’s "Blog of the Day." See page 14.
Making the extremely gratifying leap from blogprint to newsprint hasn't changed me much as a person. I'm still the go-to guy in charge of ordering binder clips for all our North American offices at Burning Bridges Greetings, The Brooklyn Stretched Escalade Company continues to take me to and from wherever I freakin' want, and every night, I still make my butler draw my daily bubble bath with 30 gallons of steamed milk and rolled oats—just like before.
Don’t fear, I'm the exact same guy—only my name is buzzing on the lips of every beautiful person in the tri-state area. I’ll continue to use my astounding brainpower to tend to my duties as a senior leader in the Alliance of Power, the world’s first online blogger gang. Also, I'll go on reluctantly living with my revived roommate Debbie—despite everyone's opinion that she’s a boring piece of trash. There’s no way, however, that I'm letting her stupid cat move back in with us. I'm the same guy--see?
Attention Metro Readers! Wake up! I've surpassed the 4th paragraph and we can all agree this blather has become totally boring. Feel free to come back every Monday thru Friday until one of us dies for new updates.
winneroftheSAT: Now Sponsored by Haute Cuisine Crackers
- When I hunger for a snack that is elegant and fashionable, I knock down the boxes of Pop Tarts and shove aside the empty tubules of Pizzalicious Pringles in my pantry and reach for Haute Cuisine.
Mmmm. So delicious. So glamourous!
These ain't no sh*tty Ritzs.
And another thing--Just because you can find them at the dollar store doesn't mean they're supposed to cost a dollar.
**This has been a paid advertisement by the Haute Cuisine cracker company**
Life = Super Tennis for the Super Nintendo, The Rest = Just Details
- Three days ago on my lunch break, I saw some dude with maximum coverage shades and a poopstain moustache walkin' down the street and I screamed out and laughed, "OMG, that guy looks just like Meyer from Super Tennis!" Everyone around me gave me high fives.
Two days ago I was talking to a dear friend and I was like, "Want to go to Sandwich Supreme for lunch?" and he was like "With you? Never! I hate your guts." and then I said "RATS! RATS! RATS!" and I kicked the floor with my foot. And he was gloating in my rejection going “YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!” and then I was all "OMG, we are just like the final screenshot of every match in Super Tennis!"
Yesterday, I was scarfing down lunch and watching The Matrix with directors’ commentary and there was a scene where the camera was zooming in and out and one of the Wachowskis goes, "OMG! We had to pay the creators of Super Tennis 50 million dollars for their Mode 7 technology in order to do this. It was so worth it though."
And finally, I was trying to score some lunch today in Williamsburg when all of a sudden, some guy turned into a werewolf right before my eyes and I thought, "OMG! This is nothing like Super Tennis! This is just like Altered Beast for the Sega Genesis!
A One Sided Conversation With: My Local Florist!
- "Hi there. What a nice arrangement you have! Look at all these pretty flowers—you've got white roses, pink tulips, and sunflowers."
"Oh yes, I agree. The gays do love sunflowers."
"Don't mind me as I lumber around the store casing the joint and calculating something. Ah! Over here—is this a flat of morning glories?? You don’t say. I've always enjoyed the calming sight and crisp smell of these precious flowers. I would really like to germinate my own garden—there's a special satisfaction one gets from nurturing a plant from the tiniest seed to the tallest bud."
"Yep, I wouldn't mind growing some Morning Glories of my own this Spring."
*I winked at her*
"Hmmm. I said—I wouldn't mind GROWING my own. You follow?"
*I winked twice*
"Look you dumb b*tch—just give me all the Morning Glory seeds you got!! Put them in this burlap sack! Now! Now! Now!"
"Yeah that's it. Gimme all those Morning Glory subspecies too—the Grandpa Otts, the Heavenly Blues, the Moonflower—don't try to be a hero, keep shoving those Burpee packets in the bag, slag!!"
"What you think I'm gonna do with them? I'm gonna get so high I can't even move. Shut up."
"I was just kidding about this being a nice shop. THIS STORE SUCKS!"
*I took the sack and charged out the door*
For your reference
Trendspotting in Manhattan
- Fox 5 Local News reported last night that for trendy and jonesin' school children, swallowing a packet of these:
is the new eating a sheet of this:
Which reminds me... I know a guy who knows a guy who was carrying a pack of Morning Glory seeds in his back pocket when all of a sudden it started raining cats and dogs...
In other deviant vegetation news, Manhattanites have yet to come up with a tertiary use for the full grown version of these and are solely using them for their secondary functions.
For More Trendspotting in Manhattan:
Manhattan's last big trend
Take Time to Volunteer - Happy Birthday Wild Animal!
- Because I care for all of God's creatures, I like to take a few hours every month to volunteer with the various relief agencies in New York. I spent last Sunday with the animal outreach group called Happy Birthday Wild Animal!
The mission of Happy Birthday Wild Animal! is to surprise undomesticated and feral beasts with birthday cakes and apply anthropomorphic constructs to their savage brains that they could never ever comprehend—all while showering them with lavish gifts! We don't buy a can of Fancy Feast for our cats like the lame Every Adorable Kitten Deserves Fancy Feast—we only deal with at-risk wild ones. Heck, we don't even care if it really is the animal's birthday, we just love to party and so do the party animals.
We get dressed up in Panama Jack safari outfits and drive around the Catskills hootin' and shootin' confetti cannons into the air from a minivan until we spot a wild animal in need of a surprise party. We then start clapping 1-2-3-4 from within, roll open the side doors, and approach the untame mammal while flatly singing this tune:
Happy Happy Birthday
From the Happy Birthday Wild Animal Crew!
Happy Happy Birthday
From all of us to you. HEY!
That's when a cougar and several of his irate friends began attacking all of us.
"Help meeeeee!" I screamed as the mountain lion batted the sugary cake out of my hands and ripped a claw down the front of my chest like Sagat in Street Fighter II. All the other volunteers were shrieking and fleeing in opposing directions. "You didn’t open your lavish gifts yetttt!" I howled as a cougar grabbed me by the neck and shook me like a baby.
Thankfully, one of the volunteers was carrying an assault weapon and he managed to shoot all of the endangered animals dead without causing much harm to me.
Well, that was a bit of a disaster! On the drive home to the city, we returned all the gifts we bought back to Wal Mart.
After "The Catskill-ing Spree" (as the Post called it) was all said and done, I still think I made a difference in these animals' lives—despite the fact they're all dead now. And isn’t that the whole point of volunteering—to make a difference? Take time to volunteer everyone.
Shape Up, Homeless!
Countdown to Pacification: The Punchline You’ve Been Waiting For
Ahhhh!!! My eyes! Oh, Mother of all that is unholy! Forsooth! What was I thinking? Vin Diesel in a clandestine operation to sit babies! Brad Garret in a singlet! Why didn't you people stop me?!
The only orifice this Pacifier belongs is in the stinky butthole from whence it came.
Countdown to Pacification - Just a few more hours!
- The moment is almost upon us! In less than a few hours, The Pacifier will open at midnight in every city in North America. You betcha I left work 8 hours early to be the first in line! To show my rabid fanaticism for this movie, I’m dressing up like all things The Pacifier and doing one man original scenes inspired by the film in front of the theatre. Let’s go through my propslist to make sure I’m fully prepared:
--Vin Diesel Musk for Men
--Pink tutu from the set of Mr. Nanny signed by Hulk Hogan
--Bottle of powerful, mood enhancing Type III narcotics for the crowd
--Crying baby w/ soiled diapers
--Hilarious trained duck that bites my ear when I say "Action!"
--Everybody Loves Raymond Superstar Brad Garret in a wrestling unitard
--"Astonishing Plot Recycling Machine" fashioned out of a box of pancake mix wrapped in tinfoil that will allow me to theatrically enact turning The Pacifier storyline into a stunning vehicle for action hero cum stay at home Mom of the future, Haley Joel Osment.
--A big poster with puffy paint and glitter that conveys the message "Whooooo! I'm insane!! Whooooo!" to passersby.
Still working on it!
Countdown to Pacification - Actual IMDB Message Board Headlines - 3 More Days!
Diesel and a bunch of screaming kids. Can you imagine anything worse??!
What the *beep* is wrong with Vin Diesel?
To be honest, I would rather see xXx2.
'It's naht a too-more' (it's not a tumor!)
Vin Diesel is finished..
Shut the hell up losers!
BTW, I managed to get another comment from a disheveled Hulk Hogan:
"So this is how it all ends, huh. Brother, when you drink a liter of scotch and stare down the barrell of .22, life finally begins to have some clarity. If Suburban Commando were a bigger hit, things might've been different. Could you give me a hand...? Diesel!!!"
Why did I go on MTV's Room Raiders?? - The Finale
- Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
"That stupid stupid whorebag! Gah!" I punched the interior wall of the van. "Owwiee!"
My former roommate Debbie, whom I last saw dying in a hospital bed, was in my apartment taking a dump during the taping of Room Raiders. A sweet horsefaced contestant named Suzie was on the cusp of choosing to give blowjobs to me, I'm certain, when she opened the bathroom door and found Debbie on the throne.
On the production monitor, a Room Raiders producer consoled a visibly shaken Suzie while waving in the cameraman to get tighter on the tears.
The van us dudes were in, pulled up to Suzie’s apartment and the crew instructed us to stampede inside and break everything we see. A production assistant shoved a bag of stinky garbage in each of our hands to strew all about too.
"Go make fun of that girl’s stupid possessions! Crucify her! Mwa ha ha! Go go go!" yelled a weasel-like director with Don Henley hair.
I instinctively took the hefty garbage bag, screamed primally into the air, and pitched it square at the director’s fugly mug. The blast knocked him to the ground with a bone crushing thud and the Room Raiders crew began weeping and crying. I took off running for the nearest subway station.
I've got to find Debbie! Where has she been the last 4 months?!
Twenty minutes later I'm walking with my head down past the other half of the RR production—paramedics were loading Suzie into an ambulance marked "Brooklyn Asylum."
I hopped up the stairs of my building, stepping anxiously through the broken-down door of my 1 room apartment.
"Debbie! Debbbbbiieeeee!! Where are you?!"
The place stunk and there was no answer. My computer was turned on and the following message anchored itself like a dreary fog to the screen/my life.