Eurovision Thursdays!

Did you know there were pirates in Latvia?

Jeannie c. Reilly's Greatest Hits

The Harper Valley IUD

The Harper Valley CPA

The Harper Valley DMZ

The Harper Valley DNR

The Harper Valley PBR

The Harper Valley SEC

The Harper Valley AA/NA

The Harper Valley DMV

The Harper Valley ICBM*

The Harper Valley SWF

*worst one BY FAR

The Most Boring Man in the World

I've decided how I'm going to make my fortune. I'm going to write a series of children's books about the life and loves of Billy Cooper, the Most Boring Man in the World. Look for these exciting new titles soon, at your local smuthouse:

Billy Cooper is Assessed a Hefty Fine
("Thank you, your Honor. I deserve this.")

Billy Cooper and the Actuarial Table
("I'm saving to live another forty-six years!")

Billy Cooper and the Certificate of Deposit
("It's conservative!")

Billy Cooper and the Package Tour to the U.S. Virgin Islands
("What? The former Danish Virgin Islands? Matilda, we're leaving this instant!")

Billy Cooper and the 34th Birthday Celebrated in Lackluster style at Chili's
("Matilda, you're not listening. I'll pay for the onion rings. I just want someone else to eat some of them.")

Billy Cooper and the Middle Management Position
("We need to ask for approval.)

Billy Cooper and the Two Instances of Marital Infidelity
("At the sales conference in Tuscon, with Mindy from the bills office.")

Billy Cooper and Protestantism
("After Martin Luther King, Jr., mailed his doctoral thesis to a church in Selma, Alabama...")

Look for a Saturday morning cartoon, in which a poorly rendered man eats a bowl of cornflakes, shaves, and then watches "Leonard, Part 6" in its entirety.

I've never been to me.

Picture it. The Pacific Northwest, this spring. A young man turns to his friend and says "What the hell ass is this song? It sounds like the showstopper from Heteronormativity: The Opera." The friend turns to him and says, "You are a terrible homosexual, and a worse American. Everyone knows this song." Dorothy, that man was me. And the song was "I've Never Been To Me," by Charlene.

This song is fantastically bizarre, and gets more disturbing every time I hear it. And so, former literature major that I am, I've decided to perform the most horrifying of acts:

A close textual analysis. My comments in red, as befits a grader, and the video, for those who want a multimedia experience:



I've Never Been To Me
( Charlene )

Hey lady, you lady, cursing at your life
The narratrix of the song is accosting a strange woman in a rude and presumptuous fashion.

You're a discontented mother and a regimented wife
The narratrix proceeds to make assumptions about post-partum depression and spousal abuse.

I've no doubt you dream about the things you'll never do
Like escape this increasingly surreal conversation.

But, I wish someone had talked to me
Like I wanna talk to you.....
Ravingly, and apropos of nothing.

Oh, I've been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run
The narratrix is unaware that Georgia and California are both fairly populous, popular vacation destinations, economically strong, and contain airline hubs, and that having visited them both is unimpressive.

I took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun
The narratrix is a whore, and either not of Northern European descent or unconcerned about skin cancer or a sunburned cooter.

But I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free
The narratrix has been everywhere and alienated every pleasant person she knows, probably by asking them to put sunscreen on her vulva.

I've been to paradise but I've never been to me
The narratrix reiterates that she is, in fact, a madwoman.

Please lady, please lady, don't just walk away
The audience is beseeched not to take rational action.

'Cause I have this need to tell you why I'm all alone today
The narratrix does not understand that her tendency to pigeonhole strangers and bore them with long-winded, poorly-connected stories alienates her acquaintances.

I can see so much of me still living in your eyes
The narratrix is a bad poet.

Won't you share a part of a weary heart that has lived a million lies....
It wasn't until I read these lyrics that I realized it was "lies" instead of "lives." The narratrix is tired, but reaffirms her devotion to bad poetry.

Oh, I've been to Nice and the Isle of Greece while I've sipped champagne on a yacht
The narratrix is unaware that Greece contains thousands of isles; she may have been too drunk to realize she was merely on the Staten Island Ferry.

I've moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed 'em what I've got
The narratrix showed her breasts to some French people. (Side note, while we're talking about the south of France: I had a fling with a Greek guy a couple of years ago. He had been shot in the head during the Yugoslav Wars, but was none the worse for wear. I once metioned Monaco in some context, and he said "My parents used to go there a lot." I asked if they were rich or just strange, and he said "Both.")

I've been undressed by kings and I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see
The narratix slept with an Elvis impersonator.

I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me
The narratrix continues to confuse herself with a destination.

[spoken]
Hey, you know what paradise is?
It's a lie, a fantasy we create about people and places as we'd like them to be
But you know what truth is?
It's that little baby you're holding, it's that man you fought with this morning
The same one you're going to make love with tonight
That's truth, that's love......
The narratrix reads a lot of greeting cards, "Love Is...," and Chicken Soup For The Garrulous Lunatic's Soul. She also assumes that a stranger's marriage is mostly about acrimony and sex. She is probably right, since most are, but it's still a strange assumption.

Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children that might have made me complete
The narratrix has had multiple abortions, and now regrets them, because had she carried the children to term they might now be paying attention to her.

But I took the sweet life, I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet
The narratrix, unlike the present writer, does not have a colorful father who says things like "You have to take the bitter with the sweet."

I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that costs too much to be free
The narratrix thinks she's been subtle about her whoring. She is not correct.

Hey lady......
I've been to paradise, (I've been to paradise)
But I've never been to me
The narratrix is conflating "Heaven" and "some tacky places in Europe."

(I've been to Georgia and California, and anywhere I could run)
I've been to paradise, never been to me
(I've been to Nice and the isle of Greece while I've sipped champagne on a yacht)
I've been to paradise, never been to me
(I've been to cryin' for unborn children that might have made me complete)
I've been to paradise, never been to me
(I've been to Georgia and California, and anywhere I could run)
I've been to paradise, never been to me

The narratrix recaps some of her adventures for the store police, who have rescued the woman with the post-partum depression and failing marriage. This will become a staple story for church socials and bridge night.

Eurovision Thursdays!

Let's clarify one thing right now:

I love the Eurovision song contest more than anything. More than the sun and the sea. More than life and love. Almost as much as getting a blow job while eating a triple bacon cheeseburger and playing video games. (This happened.) There is, simply, no better thing in the world. And so, every Thursday, we will have Eurovision Thursdays. I had a hard time deciding what to select for the inaugural edition of Eurovision Thursdays, but I finally, and arbitrarily, decided to bring you Bosnia and Herzegovina's entry to the 2008 Eurovision song contest. It is beyond inexplicable. And did you know "Herzegovina" just means "Duchy?" That's like if America was just named "Republic."

I had a terrible time deciding between the "Chicken Version" and the "Brides Version," so here's both.

Chicken:



Brides:

MASH

Remember MASH, the this-will-be-your-future game from middle school with the lists of potential mates and careers and whatnot?

It's so much fun to play as an adult, and I am incredibly unlucky at it; to wit:

Baby: All right, Chris. You will marry Ted Kennedy, and with him you will have eight children, arranged in pairs of Siamese twins. You will drive a turd brown 1984 Opel between your home in a shack in Gaza City and your job as a retractable pen quality control assessor, which pays nineteen old pesos a decade. As you age, your skin will slowly harden into an impermeable shell, leaving you unable to strike your children when they disappoint you by becoming Hare Krishnas*. You will eventually die by being ground into a fine powder, and you will be reborn as a mongoose.

I've also had to marry the President and the guy from high school who smelled like dust and had weird scars. I intend to keep playing until this happens:



I will marry Adrian Brody and take him away to live in exotic splendor in Madagascar. He shall want for nothing, except internet access and clean water.

And so now, dear readers (and by "readers" I mean "Patsy"), let's try our first experiment in making "Every Day Brings A Fresh Horror" interactive... just fill in the blanks!

M*A*S*H

Who You Will Marry
1.________
2. Darryl Strawberry
3. Bristol Palin
4.________

What You Will Drive
1. Dogsled
2.________
3.________
4. Adult-Scale Tricycle

What Your Job Will Be
1. Archbishop of Canterbury
2.________
3. Harlem Globetrotter
4. Mermaid hunter

Where You Will Live
1. Ciudad Juarez, Mexico
2. Towson, Maryland
3. your mother's basement/spare room
4.________

How Your Children Will Disappoint You
1. They will convert to a strange "ethnic" religion you can't really convert into, like Sikhism or Haredi
2. Insurance actuaries
3.________
4. Siamese twins that argue incessantly

Health Problems You Will One Day Face
1.________
2. Mittelschmerz
3. voodoo curse
4. "floating bowel"

How You Will Eventually Die
1. Eaten by wolves
2.________
3. Pinned under a fallen vending machine, then eaten by wolves
4. Pinned under a fallen vending machine, partly eaten by wolves, then spontaneously combusting

Then pick a number, for example five, and go through and cross off each fifth thing, skipping crossed-out items, until one outcome remains in each category. It's literally minutes of mild amusement!



*For those of you who think Hare Krishna is a hopelessly dated 80s reference, let me assure you. They are ALL OVER New Zealand. They have their own restaurant. The food is okay. Also, what is the plural? Hare Krishnas? Hares Krishna? Harae Krishnae?

On comments.

I'm kind of torn on whether to allow comments on this blog. On the one hand, I like attention, and the best way to know whether this blog is calling attention to myself is to allow them. There are two arguments against it, however:

1. On my last blog, I got a death threat from a Quebecois Orthodox Jew (in response to a post about Super Drink, the ultra-kosher ultra-delicious Israeli soda and mixer,) and

2. People are fucking stupid. For example:

I love the popular webcomic "Achewood." So do a lot of idiots. Look at the comments on this comic from 2001. If you don't feel like clicking over, I'll summarize. Two characters are watching infomercials, and one of them says, "These knives!"

Ten (10) consecutive commenters comment with some form of "THESE KNIVES," "these knives!!!" "These Knievs," etc. One person bolded the phrase "These Knives!" and was given seven marks of approval and none of disapproval by his fellow commenters. And these are just the idiots. As terrifying as it is to note how many people have the compulsion to brayingly repeats punchlines like a mynah bird that watched "Borat: I'd Fuck Sacha Baron Cohen If He Weren't Such A Tiresome Ass," it pales in comparison to the knock-down, drag-out, pointless meanness that is a Youtube comment thread. I'm terribly judgmental, and those people disturb me. These people have awkwardly delayed arguments, using ferocious and misspelled invective about the merits of a fucking YouTube video, or almost more disturbingly, issues raised by a YouTube video. Sometimes an ugly girl dressed as Elvira, Mistress of the Dark and lip-synching "Horst Wessel" is merely that.

So. Permitting comments for now, but the minute ArmchairJihadist and 2sweet4urkityys start having opinions near me, they're gone.

Whose Powers Are Greater #1

Whose Powers Are Greater #1: The Countess and the Cocksucker

AUGUSTA ADA BYRON KING, COUNTESS OF LOVELACE

vs.

LINDA SUSAN BOREMAN, a.k.a. LINDA LOVELACE

In this inaugural edition of Whose Powers Are Greater, we examine an age-old question. Who has done more for Western civilization: a woman who was arguably the first computer programmer, or a woman who sucked a whole mess of cocks on film? Let's match 'em up.

The Case for/against Ada Lovelace:

- Lord Byron's only legitimate child, so her mother was foxy enough to at least briefly distract him from a succession of Mediterranean teenage boys (+2 points)

- First person to write a "program," manipulating symbols according to rules, for Charles' Babbage's analytical engine. She also foresaw the use of such machines beyond mere computational mathematics, which few did at the time. (+8)

- She was a countess, which was probably kind of fun (+3)

- She has an asteroid, a computer programming language, and an award for female programmers named after her (+6, +1, +1)

- Died before motion picture and was apparently reasonably discreet, so her sexual exploits went to the grave with her (0 points)

The case for/against Linda Lovelace:

- Was in Deep Throat, one of the most famous pornographic films ever, and one of the first "mainstream" porns to feature heterosexual anal sex (+10)

- Was in Deep Throat, which is about a migrating clitoris and in which she has sex with a man who looks like Dr. Mario (-1)

- Was in Deep Throat, which contains a carousel orgasm montage (+2)

- Was in Deep Throat 2, which was rated R (-2)

- Was in Linda Lovelace for President, a comedy film in which she played herself... running for president (+3 just for the concept)

- Was in Dogfucker (-40)

- Became an anti-pornography activist (-8)

The verdict: Ada Lovelace. She was a countess who invented computer programming and has her own asteroid. Linda Lovelace fucked a dog, sucked some dick, and changed her mind. Granted, she has claimed that she was forced into the porn industry by an abusive boyfriend, but she was unable to give any proof - and Dogfucker predates Deep Throat by a couple of years. The final point in the countess's favor: Linda Lovelace did nothing to further computer programming, but by being the first computer programmer, Ada Lovelace paved the way for internet pornography, making everyone's life much, much better, and ultimately overshadowing the film pornography in which Linda Lovelace made her name. 500 bonus points and a crushing victory for Ada Lovelace.

Older Than Sarah Palin

Sarah Palin is surprisingly endearing for a woman I agree with on very few issues. If I ever meet her, I expect to have a polite and interesting conversation about the death penalty and the abundant natural beauty of this, our glorious country.

She is, however, about sixteen years old.

Without further ado, and with a nod to the Younger than McCain people, and with the understanding that someone has probably already done this, here is a list of 44 things younger than Sarah Palin, est. February 11, 1964:

1. Belize (1981)

2. East Timor (1975 / 2002)

3. Bangladesh (1971)

4. The author (1984)

5. Every pet dog or cat in the world (answers will vary)

6. The Ebola virus (as far as Western medecine knows) (1976)

7. Grandy's Restaurants (1973)

8. The Internet (no one agrees, but all the dates are after 1964)

9. Residents of Washington, D.C. voting for President (November 1964)

10.... this isn't as funny as I hoped it would be.

Things Older Than Sarah Palin

1. the Hammurabi code

2. English

3. Orthodox Christianity

This isn't funny either, which I guess proves that early middle age isn't inherently an amusing time of life.

I hope she keeps rocking the fur coat, though. I hate anti-fur activists. I want to tie them all up in raw, bloody pelts and release them into wolverine country. If you're a vegan, you can make that argument. If you're a vegetarian, you kind of can. But saying "we can eat them, we just can't wear their skin, and you're mean if you do!" pisses me off. For years, I've fantasized about getting famous enough to do a parody of those fucking PETA "I'd rather go naked than wear fur" advertisements in which I'm naked, except for a huge fucking fur. I won't feel fulfilled until a hippie photoshops my face on Cruella de Vil's body and puts it on his LiveJournal.

(Does that joke work? Are LiveJournals still, you know... extant?)

Coming Out Day

National coming out day is October 11. I fucking hate bandwagons, so I came out to my dad two days ago. My dad was the only major figure in my life I hadn't talked about it with yet; my mom outed me to herself while I was living in New Zealand last year via a surreal series of phone conversations.

Mom: I was watching Oprah the other day...

Me: Oh, God. (I respect Oprah enormously, but anything that gives my mother ideas is dangerous.)

Mom:... and they had this thing on about transgender, I mean transsexual, anyway people unhappy with their sex, and their parents, and then I had a nap, and I had a dream, and anyway if you're not happy with your gender you can tell me. How's your gender? How's your sexual orientation?

Me: ...Fine?

Mom: You can tell me.

Me: I'm thrilled to death to be a man. Couldn't be happier. Me and my penis against the world.

Mom: Well. I'm sorry to have lost another warrior for women's rights.

Me: What the hell does that mean? I'm all for skirts having the vote.

Mom: Nevermind.

Eventually, I bargained her down to gay from tranny. She immediately asked me if I'd ever been in love, which is an appalling question in any context.

Whereas my dad took it in stride, and then the next day told me to tell my friend that it had gone like this:

Me: Dad, I'm gay.

Dad: That's okay, I'm not your real father. Let's go get drunk.

My dad is awesome.

Full Disclosure.

So, I set this blog up in a fit of pique in May, when my former blog co-writer (may his name and memory be erased except in the context of "Roses are red, violets are blue, YOU'RE A PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE PRETENTIOUS PERSON AND I HATE YOU" poems) locked me out of our old co-blog. It was the end of an era; granted, an era of crudely photoshopping the King of Jordan's head onto gay porn and posting barely coherent AIM logs when we had mental blocks, but an era nonetheless. We were one of two blogs that forced the Jewish-Israeli Blog Awards to institute an adult content filter, and I was proud of that.

Anyway. It's over, and I'm striking out on my own (and by "my own," I mean with the creative input of the lovely and talented "Eddie," my dysgraphic radical lesbian ivy league burlesque queen friend.)

Without further ado, let's get right down to the primary topic addressed by most humor blogs: the dawning realization of my own mortality. The other week, I found my first bodily sign of aging (I'm 23)...

A grey chest hair. More specifically, a half-grey chest hair. My chest hair is fairly sparse to begin with, so it's extra disturbing - if I had thousands, the loss of one of my guys wouldn't be as disturbing, but since I'm working with a Thermopylae level of about 300 chest hairs, every man counts. To add insult to injury, the damn thing is tu-tone. You (I) can clearly see the spot, midway down the hair, where the pigment cells gave up the ghost. They just gave up after roughly seven years, much like a president or a tetanus booster. I'm tempted to pluck it, but I'm leaving it be for know on the off chance my chest hair will hurry up and salt-and-pepper so that I look distinguished.

Sigh. I'm going to die. With grey chest hair.

A blog of my very own!

The prettiest queen bee in all of England.