Max: How many kids does Jennifer Robertson have?
Rodney: Who's Jennifer Robertson?
Max: Her...[pointing to a poster for Duplicity]
Rodney: Julia Roberts?
Max: Yeah.
Rodney: 2 or 3.
Max: What about Angelina Jolie?
Rodney: I don't know. 6? Maybe six...
Max: 6 kids?
Rodney: 6 kids.
Max: Holy cow. What about the Octomom? She was huge.
Rodney: She has a lot of kids.
Max: How many does she have?
Rodney: 11, 12, I don't know. Too many.
Max: Her parts must be really sore.
Rodney: Her parts?
Max: Nevermind.
Rodney: What do you mean "her parts?"
Max: Well, they can only come out of one her parts, and I know it's not one of them, so I mean the other one.
Rodney: I know what parts the baby comes from.
Max: I just think it must be hard to walk.
Rodney: I would think so. Is this how we're saying "goodnight?"
Max: I guess.
Rodney: Then start thinking up something weird for tomorrow.
Aug 31, 2009
Aug 30, 2009
A Snowball's Chance in Queens
Sometimes for Leni's Blog, Queens Mamas, she'll take the entire family on a field trip to check out a few of the activities available to parents living in the surrounding boroughs. Normally, anyone living outside of Manhattan is swiftly and lazily redirected right back into Manhattan, because we all know Manhattan is the center of the Universe. But that doesn't help Mommy with 3 kids living all the way out in Bayside. So Leni does what she can to help, like a cultural archeologist. Although if I had unearthed that free concert in Williamsburg, you better believe I would have buried it deeper along with the rest of those rotten hipster corpses and all of their glow sticks.
But enough about them.
The good part is when Leni takes us to something like the outdoor presentation of National Geographic's The Human Family Tree, their Genographic Project. We had sandwiches, snacks, sat on a blanket under the stars and watched a really interesting show.
The bad part is when she takes us to something like the Ice Show.
Leni: What do think about the Ice Show?
Rodney: The what?
Leni: The Ice Show I told you about.
Rodney: I didn't hear what you said.
Leni: You heard exactly what I said.
Rodney: No, I didn't. You started speaking and the words "No f**king way" got stuck in my ear.
Leni: The Ice Show.
Rodney: [pointing to ear] Yeah, not a word. That's really weird, isn't it?
The show was at the Ice Rink in Flushing Meadows and seemed to be comprised of a spattering of semi-professional skaters. And although some of the artists apparently were able to headline simply because they qualified as having enough sequins, all-in-all it wasn't terrible.
Now, by saying it wasn't terrible, I make no admission whatsoever that it was good, fine, enjoyable, compelling, moving, fun, or even something I would ever want to experience again. Frankly, I understand putting things on ice about as much as I understand miniaturizing food. In any case, during the performance I looked over to where the stadium parked the zambonis and noticed an enormous pile of snow.
And I thought: wouldn't it be funny to get a snowball for Max.
So, even though it seemed only the performers and their coaches were allowed down on the rink level, I pretended to drop one of Roxy's socks, went down, grabbed a snowball, put it in my pocket, and went back up to the stands. And then I waited.
On our way back to the car (and it was about 90 degrees, by the way), I had Max hold out her hand and close her eyes.
Now, I thought this would be a really awesome surprise: someone giving me a snowball in August. I might as well have handed her a warm plastic bag of dog poop.
Max: What are you giving me this for?
Rodney: It's a snowball.
Max: I know. Why would I want it?
Rodney: It's August. It's a hundred degrees outside. You are the only kid at the moment, in this climate, on this planet, holding a snowball right now. I thought it would be cool.
Max: I should throw it at you. What am I supposed to do with it?
And if life was a cartoon, and there were no consequences, I would have made her eat that snowball right there and then on the sidewalk.
But as a rational adult, I eked out a smile and said, "I don't know, sweetheart. Why don't you throw it at that tree?"
So she did. And I stood there watching the path the idea had taken in my brain: joy, mischief, wonder, the excitement of sneaking down to get it, hiding it in my pocket, the anticipation of giving it to her, and then the apathetic shrug with which it was received.
Is this what they talk about when they talk about the Parenting Hell of having a Tween?
I don't know. She may have a crap attitude sometimes, but Max is a good kid. And I guess if a snowball made it, maybe Hell ain't so bad.
Although this could just be the beginning.
Hmmmm...
But enough about them.
The good part is when Leni takes us to something like the outdoor presentation of National Geographic's The Human Family Tree, their Genographic Project. We had sandwiches, snacks, sat on a blanket under the stars and watched a really interesting show.
The bad part is when she takes us to something like the Ice Show.
Leni: What do think about the Ice Show?
Rodney: The what?
Leni: The Ice Show I told you about.
Rodney: I didn't hear what you said.
Leni: You heard exactly what I said.
Rodney: No, I didn't. You started speaking and the words "No f**king way" got stuck in my ear.
Leni: The Ice Show.
Rodney: [pointing to ear] Yeah, not a word. That's really weird, isn't it?
The show was at the Ice Rink in Flushing Meadows and seemed to be comprised of a spattering of semi-professional skaters. And although some of the artists apparently were able to headline simply because they qualified as having enough sequins, all-in-all it wasn't terrible.
Now, by saying it wasn't terrible, I make no admission whatsoever that it was good, fine, enjoyable, compelling, moving, fun, or even something I would ever want to experience again. Frankly, I understand putting things on ice about as much as I understand miniaturizing food. In any case, during the performance I looked over to where the stadium parked the zambonis and noticed an enormous pile of snow.
And I thought: wouldn't it be funny to get a snowball for Max.
So, even though it seemed only the performers and their coaches were allowed down on the rink level, I pretended to drop one of Roxy's socks, went down, grabbed a snowball, put it in my pocket, and went back up to the stands. And then I waited.
On our way back to the car (and it was about 90 degrees, by the way), I had Max hold out her hand and close her eyes.
Now, I thought this would be a really awesome surprise: someone giving me a snowball in August. I might as well have handed her a warm plastic bag of dog poop.
Max: What are you giving me this for?
Rodney: It's a snowball.
Max: I know. Why would I want it?
Rodney: It's August. It's a hundred degrees outside. You are the only kid at the moment, in this climate, on this planet, holding a snowball right now. I thought it would be cool.
Max: I should throw it at you. What am I supposed to do with it?
And if life was a cartoon, and there were no consequences, I would have made her eat that snowball right there and then on the sidewalk.
But as a rational adult, I eked out a smile and said, "I don't know, sweetheart. Why don't you throw it at that tree?"
So she did. And I stood there watching the path the idea had taken in my brain: joy, mischief, wonder, the excitement of sneaking down to get it, hiding it in my pocket, the anticipation of giving it to her, and then the apathetic shrug with which it was received.
Is this what they talk about when they talk about the Parenting Hell of having a Tween?
I don't know. She may have a crap attitude sometimes, but Max is a good kid. And I guess if a snowball made it, maybe Hell ain't so bad.
Although this could just be the beginning.
Hmmmm...
Aug 29, 2009
0 for 3
I can't lie. I've got nothing. I'd rather not string you along and let you think somewhere, just a few sentences lower, I've got jokes waiting for you. I don't. What I do have are things I wanted to turn into jokes. But sometimes you come up empty. Sometimes the well comes up dry. Sometimes the tank on the back of the toilet doesn't fill up and you're left with a big log floating around in the bowl and a bunch of people waiting on line just outside the door and god damn it how the hell did the f**king chain break in the first place and you know, for sure, that you should have just held it until you got home...
But that's okay. Because even though I'm leaving you with s**t, take solace in the fact that the only place to go for tomorrow's entry is up.
So on we go. To the losers circle. Here are the 3 failed attempts for this evening.
Attempt 1: The Oscar Winners
Morgan Freeman, Tommy Lee Jones, Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, and Cuba Gooding Jr.
Take a good look at that offering. Notice anything in common? If we stick with the fecal motif for the evening, here's Netflix pushing 4 turds for your instant enjoyment. The Code: Thick As Thieves? Didn't Antonio learn his lesson with Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever? Why not just call it I'm Only Here For The Free Yogurt Pretzels At The Craft Service Table? Instead of "New Arrivals" they should call it "They Phoned It In." "Guess Who Needs Coke Money." "This Film = A Villa In Greece." There has to be some Oscar Club where previous winners get together and try to pick the most poorly written scripts ever and then star in them to out-do each other. "I got Electric Mist, Bitch! Suck. On. That!"
Attempt 2: Michael Jackson Google Logo
This is a freaking lay-up.
2 pairs of underroos. Macaulay's face from Home Alone just next to the knees. There were a bunch of directions it could have gone in, but none were clever enough to be worth my time. Although I guess if the "L" wound up being a syringe that could have been funny. Something like this:
I don't know. I'm pretty easy. Most of the time I think I'm hysterical, so, if I can't even make myself laugh, you can guess what kind of mood I'm in.
Attempt 3: The Bottle Top
You don't buy soda in a bottle but later on you get pissed when your drink in the can goes flat or does something carbonated drinks do when you consume them from a can so you buy something for more money that makes the can behave like the thing you should have bought in the first place if that's what you f**king wanted.
Me? I like milk, but I hate the fact that it doesn't come out of a hairy pink flaccid sack. So I buy "Udders." They're furry teet-like appendages you thwap! onto the top of a milk carton so you have the same experience you would if you were crouching down underneath a cow suckling it.
Really, Bottle Top Inventor? The world wasn't full enough of useless plastic bulls**t already?
Grrrrrr.
But that's okay. Because even though I'm leaving you with s**t, take solace in the fact that the only place to go for tomorrow's entry is up.
So on we go. To the losers circle. Here are the 3 failed attempts for this evening.
Attempt 1: The Oscar Winners
Morgan Freeman, Tommy Lee Jones, Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, and Cuba Gooding Jr.
Take a good look at that offering. Notice anything in common? If we stick with the fecal motif for the evening, here's Netflix pushing 4 turds for your instant enjoyment. The Code: Thick As Thieves? Didn't Antonio learn his lesson with Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever? Why not just call it I'm Only Here For The Free Yogurt Pretzels At The Craft Service Table? Instead of "New Arrivals" they should call it "They Phoned It In." "Guess Who Needs Coke Money." "This Film = A Villa In Greece." There has to be some Oscar Club where previous winners get together and try to pick the most poorly written scripts ever and then star in them to out-do each other. "I got Electric Mist, Bitch! Suck. On. That!"Attempt 2: Michael Jackson Google Logo
This is a freaking lay-up.
2 pairs of underroos. Macaulay's face from Home Alone just next to the knees. There were a bunch of directions it could have gone in, but none were clever enough to be worth my time. Although I guess if the "L" wound up being a syringe that could have been funny. Something like this:
I don't know. I'm pretty easy. Most of the time I think I'm hysterical, so, if I can't even make myself laugh, you can guess what kind of mood I'm in.Attempt 3: The Bottle Top
You don't buy soda in a bottle but later on you get pissed when your drink in the can goes flat or does something carbonated drinks do when you consume them from a can so you buy something for more money that makes the can behave like the thing you should have bought in the first place if that's what you f**king wanted.
Me? I like milk, but I hate the fact that it doesn't come out of a hairy pink flaccid sack. So I buy "Udders." They're furry teet-like appendages you thwap! onto the top of a milk carton so you have the same experience you would if you were crouching down underneath a cow suckling it. Really, Bottle Top Inventor? The world wasn't full enough of useless plastic bulls**t already?
Grrrrrr.
Aug 28, 2009
The Face of Terror
This is John Douglas.
He looks pretty nice, I guess. But let me tell you something. If you have kids or a wife or a girlfriend or a vivid imagination: Don't read his books. You will never be the same.
He was one of the first members of the F.B.I. to spearhead the Profiling Division. He was (allegedly) the inspiration for Scott Glenn's character in The Silence of the Lambs. And he has written a number of books (I own 3) that describe, in detail, some of the most horrifying acts of violence human beings have ever committed against other, mostly female and defenseless, human beings.
I am 36. And at night, when everyone is asleep, I stare at the slightly cracked door to my bedroom and wonder who is out there, waiting, in the dark. What that noise was. What exists on my side-table that could be, instantly, wielded as a weapon.
Mindhunter. Journey into Darkness. The Cases that Haunt Us.
I've read them each several times and each time it just gets worse. There are times I wish I hadn't taken the trip down the rabbit hole. Like tonight. And tomorrow. Sunday...
Probably not Monday because I'm supposed to get drunk but other than that, I might as well as commit the week to being afraid of the dark.
I'm serious. And it's not just me. Leni stopped reading the second one for the same reason.
See for yourself if you don't believe me.
He looks pretty nice, I guess. But let me tell you something. If you have kids or a wife or a girlfriend or a vivid imagination: Don't read his books. You will never be the same.
He was one of the first members of the F.B.I. to spearhead the Profiling Division. He was (allegedly) the inspiration for Scott Glenn's character in The Silence of the Lambs. And he has written a number of books (I own 3) that describe, in detail, some of the most horrifying acts of violence human beings have ever committed against other, mostly female and defenseless, human beings.
I am 36. And at night, when everyone is asleep, I stare at the slightly cracked door to my bedroom and wonder who is out there, waiting, in the dark. What that noise was. What exists on my side-table that could be, instantly, wielded as a weapon.
Mindhunter. Journey into Darkness. The Cases that Haunt Us.
I've read them each several times and each time it just gets worse. There are times I wish I hadn't taken the trip down the rabbit hole. Like tonight. And tomorrow. Sunday...
Probably not Monday because I'm supposed to get drunk but other than that, I might as well as commit the week to being afraid of the dark.
I'm serious. And it's not just me. Leni stopped reading the second one for the same reason.
See for yourself if you don't believe me.
Aug 27, 2009
Man Vs. Baby: District 9 Review
Roxy: ...Me: What's the matter?
Roxy: ...
Me: Why are you so angry?
Roxy: You said it was about kittens.
Me: What? No. That can't be right.
Roxy: You said it was about a bunch of kittens that become friends with a duck.
Me: Why would I say that?
Roxy: I don't know. Why would you say that?
Me: [pause] No, I'm pretty sure I said aliens.
Roxy: You said kittens. I said "Let's go see G-Force." And you said, "Give me a break. That movie looks terrible. Let's go see District 9." And I said, "What's District 9?" And you said "Oh, it's supposed to be really good. It's about a bunch of kittens who get lost in a big city and become friends with a little duck who lives in a pond in Central Park."
Me: ...
Roxy: No? Nothing?
Me: Well, that's not too far off, is it?
Roxy: No, no, it was right on the money. Everything except the part where the kittens suit up in riot gear and AK-47's and blow the duck's head off so his brains and entrails explode against the camera. That part was a little different.
Me: Um, well, it was a very contentious relationship...the duck and the, uh, kittens.
Roxy: Oh, it's about to get contentious alright...
Me: You can't expect me to sit through G-Force. I'm sorry.
Roxy: Of course not. That's why you took your 3 month-old daughter to see a movie where Nigerian rebels take a machete to an unarmed alien.
Me: I thought those were, uh, pigeons, pigeons bringing lollipops to the kittens who...were...They were scared, so they brought them some cotton candy to...Are you sure we saw the same movie?
Roxy: [dirty look]
Me: Look, I tried to cover your eyes for the scary parts.
Roxy: But not the scene in the bathroom...
Me: How was I supposed to know? He pulled his freaking fingernail off with his teeth!
Roxy: Jesus, what is this Amateur Night? There are people who haven't seen the movie. Haven't you ever heard of a spoiler?
Me: Oh, I've heard of a spoiler alright. It's called a "Glycerine Suppository" and it just moved to the top of your dance card.
Roxy: That is total crap! That is so unfair.
Me: Let me help you up to the mirror, kid. Me, Parent. You, baby.
Roxy: Yeah, well, Me, baby is gonna wait till You, Daddy start getting it on with Her, Mommy to throw a s**t-fit. Watch you shuffle on back to your room at the Palms Hotel, if you take my meaning.
Me: You wouldn't dare...
Roxy: Try me.
Me: [glares] ...
Roxy: [glares back] ...
Me: ...
Roxy: ...
Me: ...
Roxy: ...
Me: Fine. I'll skip the suppository if you go right to sleep.
Roxy: I can't promise that. But I'll stay quiet and suck on my hand for a bit, if that buys you more time...
Me: Agreed. Let's wrap this up. How'd you like the movie?
Roxy: I thought it was really, really violent.
Me: And by "violent" you obviously mean "awesome?"
Roxy: You asked me how I liked the movie...There weren't any kittens, or ducks, or any animals of any kind except a pig that gets thrown by a robot at one point and a whole bunch of slaughtered cattle.
Me: Well, it's certainly not Vegan Viewing, ha ha ha.
Roxy: ...
Me: Whatever. I thought it was phenomenal. It was original, creative, exciting...I could blather on but I'd rather just say I really, really enjoyed it. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it. Especially when all the puppies come floating down at the end in baskets tied to balloons to save the little duckling from going into the Hudson River.
Roxy: Mommmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!
Me: Shhhhhh! Wait, wait! I'm sorry! Shhhhhhhh!!!! Oh, come on!!!
Roxy: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!
Aug 26, 2009
Invasion of the Baby Snatchers
Lest people think Leni and I made our escape from Colic Mountain, I haven't written about it in a while because it was getting so monotonous. I'm sorry, that can't be how you spell monotonous. Look at it. I know it's right but writing that was 10 times worse than trying to spell banana. Try it yourself. It's ridiculous. M-o-n-o-t-o-n-o...See what I mean?
Where was I? Colic, right. Anyway, it has improved over all, and Roxy's days of being measured for a burlap sack are, for the time being, behind us. But she still appears to be in some serious discomfort. And an uncomfortable baby has only one way of expressing that pain. That's right, Interpretive Dance.
No, the answer was actually screaming. And even though we've been working on Tummy Time, imagine my surprise when I noticed this on the Baby Monitor (and that's me listening to The Hives, btw):
Quiet, content. Pleasant. Wait a minute...That may look like my baby, but that is clearly not my baby.
And just so we're all on the same page, this is my baby (this picture also makes a great Desktop Wallpaper):
Equally as disturbing as the fact that someone had secretly switched my baby with Folger's Crystals, what the hell was she looking at? What was so engaging she had rescheduled her 3:45 tantrum with a good 20 minutes of Serenity?
Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with great pride that I present to you...The Care Bears.
And in the magical land of Care-A-Lot, up in the clouds, you'll find a cranky little baby girl. Because the one they left down here had a very, very unusual day.
Where was I? Colic, right. Anyway, it has improved over all, and Roxy's days of being measured for a burlap sack are, for the time being, behind us. But she still appears to be in some serious discomfort. And an uncomfortable baby has only one way of expressing that pain. That's right, Interpretive Dance.
No, the answer was actually screaming. And even though we've been working on Tummy Time, imagine my surprise when I noticed this on the Baby Monitor (and that's me listening to The Hives, btw):
Quiet, content. Pleasant. Wait a minute...That may look like my baby, but that is clearly not my baby.
And just so we're all on the same page, this is my baby (this picture also makes a great Desktop Wallpaper):
Equally as disturbing as the fact that someone had secretly switched my baby with Folger's Crystals, what the hell was she looking at? What was so engaging she had rescheduled her 3:45 tantrum with a good 20 minutes of Serenity?
Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with great pride that I present to you...The Care Bears.
And in the magical land of Care-A-Lot, up in the clouds, you'll find a cranky little baby girl. Because the one they left down here had a very, very unusual day.
Aug 24, 2009
Skip It
It's really just a thought. Not really a Post, more like a Snapple Cap. A snippet.
But Leni and I are making our way through Lost Season 5 and, well, I have to say:
Could somebody, somewhere, someone in charge like a producer (irony) or a director (even more irony), please give Evangeline Lilly the night off? And that's not to insinuate I don't like her and you should exclude her from an episode. No, that distinction belongs to Aaron. I don't care about the kid anymore. You left him off the island for a reason. Let's leave him there.
But with Evangeline Lilly...I mean, did she piss off one of the writers? Do you have to make her cry every scene of every episode? Sure she's a good actress and you can depend on her to give 150%. But for f**k's sake, give the girl a break, already. Give her a day off. Or a sitcom.
But Leni and I are making our way through Lost Season 5 and, well, I have to say:
Could somebody, somewhere, someone in charge like a producer (irony) or a director (even more irony), please give Evangeline Lilly the night off? And that's not to insinuate I don't like her and you should exclude her from an episode. No, that distinction belongs to Aaron. I don't care about the kid anymore. You left him off the island for a reason. Let's leave him there.
But with Evangeline Lilly...I mean, did she piss off one of the writers? Do you have to make her cry every scene of every episode? Sure she's a good actress and you can depend on her to give 150%. But for f**k's sake, give the girl a break, already. Give her a day off. Or a sitcom.
Aug 23, 2009
Dear Williamsburg,
Anyone? Anyone know what this is? A bar of something. What is this something? This green thing over here...This thing on the towel. One syllable...rhymes with Mope. Okay, this is Soap. It also comes in liquid form but that should in no way deter you from securing several bars or dispensers immediately.
You're going to have to explain it to me. And I know I looked like a cranky old man today. I'm sorry. I'm 36. And while there exists quite plainly a dichotomy in my personality where I will have moments of exceptional immaturity, I will also have the opposite. And today was one of those days.
When Stephanie invited us to the free Girl Talk concert on the Williamsburg Waterfront, we figured "Why not?" We hadn't seen her in a while, she hadn't met Roxy yet, the weather cleared up for a bit, bla bla bla. And that part was fine. Seeing Stephanie and Pam was fine.
It was you that was terrible. I've never seen a community collectively try so desperately to be hip and filthy at the same time. Seriously. Adults playing Dodgeball? In the sand? Outside? In 90 degree heat? In silver mylar pants?!! What the hell is wrong with you? Is there some Bermuda Triangle type thing going on between Greenpoint and the Brooklyn Navy Yard (I guess that would be more like The Bermuda Line, only not in Bermuda) that deprives you all of oxygen and reason?
Who told you it was acceptable to dress like this? A ruffled Victorian blouse, cut-off jean shorts, and tube socks pulled all the way up. A fedora, Elvis glasses, oversized basketball shorts and saddle shoes. It's like you all hired the same stylist: some guy's 6 year old nephew who spent too much time in his parents drycleaning business as a toddler who just smiles and gives you two-thumbs-covered-in-peanut-butter-up no matter what you put on. "What do you like better? The cowboy hat...or the colander...cowboy hat...colander...Colander? Alright!"
I would be hard pressed, and I mean this, genuinely, but I would be hard pressed to be convinced that you hadn't, all of you, together, burgled some high school drama department, stealing costumes from decades of performances of Our Town, Bye Bye Birdie, Hurlyburly, The Tempest, it didn't matter, and then dragged all of those old trunks into a big pile right in the middle of Bedford Avenue, and then ravaged them, stealing away from the chaos with whatever you were able to clench tightly in your hands.
I'm flummoxed. Because not only do you dress ridiculous, you also look dirty. Not sexy dirty. Filthy. Like, don't get any in your mucus membranes filthy. Which is sad because even the Mole People shower. They keep themselves clean and they live in the subway tunnels, for Christ's sake. $2200 a month loft, smelly and skanky. Corrugated house under the 4 train, dressed in a smile and ready to face the (under)world.
Seriously. I think the universe would rip apart and spill dark matter onto the Earth if even one person in Williamsburg dared to wash and match on the same day. And yes, consider that a challenge.
So, just to reiterate:
Soap.
Water.
Comb.
RID (for pubic lice).
Best of luck,
Rodney Sterbenz
You're going to have to explain it to me. And I know I looked like a cranky old man today. I'm sorry. I'm 36. And while there exists quite plainly a dichotomy in my personality where I will have moments of exceptional immaturity, I will also have the opposite. And today was one of those days.When Stephanie invited us to the free Girl Talk concert on the Williamsburg Waterfront, we figured "Why not?" We hadn't seen her in a while, she hadn't met Roxy yet, the weather cleared up for a bit, bla bla bla. And that part was fine. Seeing Stephanie and Pam was fine.
It was you that was terrible. I've never seen a community collectively try so desperately to be hip and filthy at the same time. Seriously. Adults playing Dodgeball? In the sand? Outside? In 90 degree heat? In silver mylar pants?!! What the hell is wrong with you? Is there some Bermuda Triangle type thing going on between Greenpoint and the Brooklyn Navy Yard (I guess that would be more like The Bermuda Line, only not in Bermuda) that deprives you all of oxygen and reason?
Who told you it was acceptable to dress like this? A ruffled Victorian blouse, cut-off jean shorts, and tube socks pulled all the way up. A fedora, Elvis glasses, oversized basketball shorts and saddle shoes. It's like you all hired the same stylist: some guy's 6 year old nephew who spent too much time in his parents drycleaning business as a toddler who just smiles and gives you two-thumbs-covered-in-peanut-butter-up no matter what you put on. "What do you like better? The cowboy hat...or the colander...cowboy hat...colander...Colander? Alright!"
I would be hard pressed, and I mean this, genuinely, but I would be hard pressed to be convinced that you hadn't, all of you, together, burgled some high school drama department, stealing costumes from decades of performances of Our Town, Bye Bye Birdie, Hurlyburly, The Tempest, it didn't matter, and then dragged all of those old trunks into a big pile right in the middle of Bedford Avenue, and then ravaged them, stealing away from the chaos with whatever you were able to clench tightly in your hands.
I'm flummoxed. Because not only do you dress ridiculous, you also look dirty. Not sexy dirty. Filthy. Like, don't get any in your mucus membranes filthy. Which is sad because even the Mole People shower. They keep themselves clean and they live in the subway tunnels, for Christ's sake. $2200 a month loft, smelly and skanky. Corrugated house under the 4 train, dressed in a smile and ready to face the (under)world.
Seriously. I think the universe would rip apart and spill dark matter onto the Earth if even one person in Williamsburg dared to wash and match on the same day. And yes, consider that a challenge.
So, just to reiterate:
Soap.
Water.
Comb.
RID (for pubic lice).
Best of luck,
Rodney Sterbenz
Aug 22, 2009
'Scuse Me Mister, Can I Ask You A Few Pertinent Questions For The School Paper?
Max: What's Heroin?
Me: Heroin's a drug, sweetheart. A really bad one.
Max: Is it illegal?
Me: Yes.
Max: Like really illegal?
Me: Really illegal.
Max: So you would need to be a drug dealer to get Heroin?
Me: Yeah, that would help. Or a junkie.
Max: Do you know anyone that's done illegal drugs?
Me: Sure. People who've done them in the past, or tried them, or do them now...
Max: You know people that have done drugs?
Me: Uh, yeah, babe. A lot of them. You will too, when you get older.
Max: Who do you know who's done drugs?
Me: [thinks] Um, I don't know.
Max: Have you and Mommy ever done illegal drugs?
[Very long pause where I deliberate at which age it is appropriate to have this conversation honestly]
Me: No, sweetheart.
Max: You haven't?
Me: Don't you want to talk about something else? Like, jesus, where babies come from?
Me: Heroin's a drug, sweetheart. A really bad one.
Max: Is it illegal?
Me: Yes.
Max: Like really illegal?
Me: Really illegal.
Max: So you would need to be a drug dealer to get Heroin?
Me: Yeah, that would help. Or a junkie.
Max: Do you know anyone that's done illegal drugs?
Me: Sure. People who've done them in the past, or tried them, or do them now...
Max: You know people that have done drugs?
Me: Uh, yeah, babe. A lot of them. You will too, when you get older.
Max: Who do you know who's done drugs?
Me: [thinks] Um, I don't know.
Max: Have you and Mommy ever done illegal drugs?
[Very long pause where I deliberate at which age it is appropriate to have this conversation honestly]
Me: No, sweetheart.
Max: You haven't?
Me: Don't you want to talk about something else? Like, jesus, where babies come from?
Aug 21, 2009
Who Ordered the Decaf?
I don't know, I really liked Pirates of the Caribbean. Not the ride. The ride was okay, much better when I was 10. But I thought the first film was fantastic.
And regardless of your thoughts on The Curse of the Black Pearl or its lackluster sequels, there exist a small majority of people who didn't like it. There are people who sat in the theater and thought, "It was alright, I guess. The effects weren't bad. But where was all the hardcore sex?"
Where, indeed? Where were the piles of oily Pirates unbuckling their swashes? (By the way, that may be the worst joke I've ever written...we should mark the time and date and spend the 1 year anniversary day mourning) Where were the swordfights (metaphor), the parrots, the raping and the wooden legs (non-metaphor and metaphor)? How, blimey, can I get my hands on some hot naked buccaneers?"
Look ye no more! It's right here on Netflix, and "O" marks the spot.
Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge.
Why would I send intrepid Porn Afficionados to Netflix? I wouldn't. Unless you wanted to spend 95 minutes yawning, because this Stagnetti is rated R. If you were to buy the movie anywhere else, you would see scenes like this one. It's just a screencap; it's SFW, but you should get the drift.
Why? Why would you do that? Why release an R rated version? Why would you cut out all of the scenes we want to see so we're stuck with 42 minutes of stuff we'd normally fast forward through? Was the mainstream film market clamoring to see Wet Meat emote (to be fair, I did like The Wrestler)? Did I miss a multitude of Internet Petitions to see Jesse Jane do anything other than look pleasantly surprised?
Let's get something straight: If I wanted to watch s**t dialogue and crappy stop-motion skeletons, I'd go rent Clash of the Titans. Otherwise, let's let Porn stars get back to using their mouths as God intended them to.
Aaarrgh!
And regardless of your thoughts on The Curse of the Black Pearl or its lackluster sequels, there exist a small majority of people who didn't like it. There are people who sat in the theater and thought, "It was alright, I guess. The effects weren't bad. But where was all the hardcore sex?"
Where, indeed? Where were the piles of oily Pirates unbuckling their swashes? (By the way, that may be the worst joke I've ever written...we should mark the time and date and spend the 1 year anniversary day mourning) Where were the swordfights (metaphor), the parrots, the raping and the wooden legs (non-metaphor and metaphor)? How, blimey, can I get my hands on some hot naked buccaneers?"
Look ye no more! It's right here on Netflix, and "O" marks the spot.
Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge.Why would I send intrepid Porn Afficionados to Netflix? I wouldn't. Unless you wanted to spend 95 minutes yawning, because this Stagnetti is rated R. If you were to buy the movie anywhere else, you would see scenes like this one. It's just a screencap; it's SFW, but you should get the drift.
Why? Why would you do that? Why release an R rated version? Why would you cut out all of the scenes we want to see so we're stuck with 42 minutes of stuff we'd normally fast forward through? Was the mainstream film market clamoring to see Wet Meat emote (to be fair, I did like The Wrestler)? Did I miss a multitude of Internet Petitions to see Jesse Jane do anything other than look pleasantly surprised?Let's get something straight: If I wanted to watch s**t dialogue and crappy stop-motion skeletons, I'd go rent Clash of the Titans. Otherwise, let's let Porn stars get back to using their mouths as God intended them to.
Aaarrgh!
Aug 20, 2009
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Press...
Roxy felt she was portrayed unfairly in my depiction of the events that transpired at Staples. In response, she has asked me to post the following video.
Aug 19, 2009
The Lost Art Form: Part II
Dear F**khead Security Guard at Staples,
You have two eyes. This is a fact. And in fact, I know this to be true for several reasons.
One, they are plainly visible. Like two holes of sunlight shining through a dark fence. Like Cyclops from the X-Men, only with one extra eye and instead of an energy beam, you decimate people by blasting Stupidity in every direction.
Two, you obviously use them. With great care you had modified the angle of your baseball cap, twisting it an exacting 45 degrees. This, I imagine, is for the opportunity when another F**khead comes up to you, he can instantly recognize you as a peer. And while the fetters of your employment require the unenviable responsibility of wearing a T-shirt with the word "Security," they certainly can't force one to wear a belt. Throughout history, men and women have attempted to defy and conquer Gravity. Yet, and I would have to think I am correct in this assertion, rarely are their efforts so directly at odds with Professionalism. Either pull up your pants, or don't wear pants at all.
Three, you watch people leave. You watch an endless parade of Small and Large Business owners, Moms, Dads, and Students exit, taking each and every opportunity to stop them and check their receipts. And then, like so many other employees at stores at the top of my S**t list, scribble on it. Draining precious seconds of their lives in exchange for a chance to suffocate in your cologne, marvel at the time and care you have taken to shave your chin-strap goatee, and wonder what deity they have offended to fall victim to your pen.
So I'm going to give you a piece of advice. The next time you see a man hurrying towards the exit, a man carrying three heavy shopping bags of back-to-school supplies he has JUST PURCHASED FROM YOUR F**KING STORE in one hand, and with the other desperately trying to keep a pacifier in the mouth of the baby strapped to his chest, a pacifier that is doing little to stifle or calm the deafening screams being emitted from said baby, and a 10 year-old girl trailing just behind who looks like someone just ran over her cat in front of her...
Ask me for my receipt again and you will lose your testicles. And I'll use whatever I bought in the store. Pencil sharpener. Tape. Composition books. It doesn't matter. I will find a way. I'll put my packages down, calmly pass my screaming infant to my other cranky daughter, and uncork 36 years of repressed rage on your ass. And it won't be that difficult, because, thankfully, with your jeans already half-way down to your knees, you'll have given me a head start.
Sincerely,
Rodney Sterbenz
You have two eyes. This is a fact. And in fact, I know this to be true for several reasons.
One, they are plainly visible. Like two holes of sunlight shining through a dark fence. Like Cyclops from the X-Men, only with one extra eye and instead of an energy beam, you decimate people by blasting Stupidity in every direction.
Two, you obviously use them. With great care you had modified the angle of your baseball cap, twisting it an exacting 45 degrees. This, I imagine, is for the opportunity when another F**khead comes up to you, he can instantly recognize you as a peer. And while the fetters of your employment require the unenviable responsibility of wearing a T-shirt with the word "Security," they certainly can't force one to wear a belt. Throughout history, men and women have attempted to defy and conquer Gravity. Yet, and I would have to think I am correct in this assertion, rarely are their efforts so directly at odds with Professionalism. Either pull up your pants, or don't wear pants at all.
Three, you watch people leave. You watch an endless parade of Small and Large Business owners, Moms, Dads, and Students exit, taking each and every opportunity to stop them and check their receipts. And then, like so many other employees at stores at the top of my S**t list, scribble on it. Draining precious seconds of their lives in exchange for a chance to suffocate in your cologne, marvel at the time and care you have taken to shave your chin-strap goatee, and wonder what deity they have offended to fall victim to your pen.
So I'm going to give you a piece of advice. The next time you see a man hurrying towards the exit, a man carrying three heavy shopping bags of back-to-school supplies he has JUST PURCHASED FROM YOUR F**KING STORE in one hand, and with the other desperately trying to keep a pacifier in the mouth of the baby strapped to his chest, a pacifier that is doing little to stifle or calm the deafening screams being emitted from said baby, and a 10 year-old girl trailing just behind who looks like someone just ran over her cat in front of her...
Ask me for my receipt again and you will lose your testicles. And I'll use whatever I bought in the store. Pencil sharpener. Tape. Composition books. It doesn't matter. I will find a way. I'll put my packages down, calmly pass my screaming infant to my other cranky daughter, and uncork 36 years of repressed rage on your ass. And it won't be that difficult, because, thankfully, with your jeans already half-way down to your knees, you'll have given me a head start.
Sincerely,
Rodney Sterbenz
The Lost Art Form: Part 1
Dear Roxy,
Call it naivety. Imprudence. A lapse in judgement. It may have been several things, but in all honesty, it really wasn't done in malice.
When Max and I decided to wake you up in Staples, sometime around noon, it wasn't to make you angry. We were just hoping that if we kept you awake a little longer, you might sleep longer when we got home. And if you were napping more at home, we could spend more time in the pool.
That was our hope. That was our "best case scenario." The "win-win."
We never thought you would throw a tantrum near the calculators. Or scream at that hispanic couple who, in my opinion, really should have been minding their own business.
Nor did we think walking you around in the cool air-conditioned aisles of Barnes & Nobles would inflame you as it did. It is clear to me now you were in no mood for perusing any thing in the Travel section, or for even the shortest of strolls through Cultural Studies. And I certainly had no way to predict that the Children's Section would be the last straw for everyone involved.
Suffice it to say that we are both truly sorry for the transgression, and consider the experience a valuable lesson.
So please stop crying. Really. It's almost 5 o'clock.
Please?
Sincerely,
Daddy and Max
Call it naivety. Imprudence. A lapse in judgement. It may have been several things, but in all honesty, it really wasn't done in malice.
When Max and I decided to wake you up in Staples, sometime around noon, it wasn't to make you angry. We were just hoping that if we kept you awake a little longer, you might sleep longer when we got home. And if you were napping more at home, we could spend more time in the pool.
That was our hope. That was our "best case scenario." The "win-win."
We never thought you would throw a tantrum near the calculators. Or scream at that hispanic couple who, in my opinion, really should have been minding their own business.
Nor did we think walking you around in the cool air-conditioned aisles of Barnes & Nobles would inflame you as it did. It is clear to me now you were in no mood for perusing any thing in the Travel section, or for even the shortest of strolls through Cultural Studies. And I certainly had no way to predict that the Children's Section would be the last straw for everyone involved.
Suffice it to say that we are both truly sorry for the transgression, and consider the experience a valuable lesson.
So please stop crying. Really. It's almost 5 o'clock.
Please?
Sincerely,
Daddy and Max
Aug 18, 2009
I'm Only A Dolphin, Ma'am
Dear Max,
I'm sorry you got upset last night. Tom and I were only joking. I know the pool was dark and you were scared.
But you should know, for 100% certain, that in order for this:
...to come here...
and...
...my little girl, he would have to swim allllll the way from Montauk to...
...walk 5 or 6 blocks without anyone recognizing him...
...go through our neighbor's yard and jump a...
...and wait patiently in our...
...until you finished taking a half-an-hour to put your mask and snorkel on, and finally jump in.
No shark would go to alllll that trouble, especially since Orchard Beach is right around the corner, a virtual cornicopia of plump little fatties who don't know how to swim. It's like the Chocolate Room at the Wonka Factory, only with more Augustus Gloop's you can shake a fin at.
So stop worrying so much and come back in the pool so we can take more pictures like this:
xoxo
Daddy
I'm sorry you got upset last night. Tom and I were only joking. I know the pool was dark and you were scared.
But you should know, for 100% certain, that in order for this:
...to come here...
and...
...my little girl, he would have to swim allllll the way from Montauk to...
...walk 5 or 6 blocks without anyone recognizing him...
...go through our neighbor's yard and jump a...
...and wait patiently in our...
...until you finished taking a half-an-hour to put your mask and snorkel on, and finally jump in.No shark would go to alllll that trouble, especially since Orchard Beach is right around the corner, a virtual cornicopia of plump little fatties who don't know how to swim. It's like the Chocolate Room at the Wonka Factory, only with more Augustus Gloop's you can shake a fin at.
So stop worrying so much and come back in the pool so we can take more pictures like this:
xoxoDaddy
Aug 16, 2009
5 Worst Sounds
5. The word Venti
4. The dramatic music before each commercial break on "Lost"
3. A fork scraping across an empty plate
2. Leni saying "It's fine"
1. Roxy getting inoculated for some terrible diseases with this enormous needle
4. The dramatic music before each commercial break on "Lost"
3. A fork scraping across an empty plate
2. Leni saying "It's fine"
1. Roxy getting inoculated for some terrible diseases with this enormous needle
Aug 15, 2009
Why Playland!
Rye Playland.I've lived in New York 36 years and never had the opportunity to venture over to this, ahem, unique amusement park. In fact, most NY staples usually fall by the wayside. I only visited the Statue of Liberty for the first time a-year-and-a-half ago. Never been to the Empire State. I did have tickets to Homeless Fight Club but decided to bail because of the weather.
But Leni hates being idle, so the family took a short trip up north to Rye, home to New York's "premiere amusement park and entertainment center."
And I'm going to take those two elements on separately, I think.
PREMIERE AMUSEMENTS
Hold on tight as you marvel at the thrills found on such rides as Illuminated Exit Sign, the 3D Herniated Disc Spectacular, Don't Get Any Flume Water In Your Mouth, and Terrible: A Boat Ride. You'll also regale at the state of the art Animatronic Trolls who I imagine are supposed to move their arm or their heads on Waterworks, but more likely tremble and spasm, eyes forlornly looking into the distance, wondering where the expressions of joy went from those audiences in 1928, the time both the ride was constructed and occasion of its last servicing.
PREMIERE ENTERTAINMENTS
Robot Man. Share Some Songs with Shawn. Good Luck Finding A Place To Sit. Spend Too Much Money on Crappy Food. Ultimate Suxx. And even worse, Collective Soul is playing Wednesday night. Now, I'm not saying Collective Soul is on par with Ray Charles or U2. But I used to like Collective Soul. I still enjoy their songs on my iPod. Has it come to this? What's next? Pearl Jam playing Westbury Music Fair? Tom Waits opening for Lady GaGa? What the effing eff eff is going on with the world?
Do them a favor. Go buy a Collective Soul song on iTunes. A song like Hollywood or Gel. They're perfect for the summer and you won't have to listen to it playing goddamn Skeeball.
Other than that, speed past exit 19 and do something worthwhile. Unless you were one of those people at Rye Playland today. In which case keep going there.
It will decrease my chances of running into you somewhere else.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Sir Laurence Olivier
They say the Baron would vomit backstage every night before a performance, a result of his debilitating stage fright. I didn't have that luxury last week trying to use the bathroom at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, as there were about 12 guys on line waiting for the stalls, and 3 other seat-warmers making sure no one else came in without a toe-tapping introduction first.The problem was Roxy was strapped to my chest, facing outward, and nestled tightly in her BabyBjorn. Ordinarily, had she been asleep, visiting a bathroom wouldn't have presented so many obstacles. She'd just snore quietly though the whole thing.
But she was awake, and grumpy, which meant that if I wasn't bouncing/swaying/and moving, she was crying. So the usual drill is I hold the pacifier in her mouth with my left hand, and add a consistent light bounce to my step, and she becomes peaceful and calm. If we stop to look at something, I'm marching in place. And this works consistently well.
So I'm in the Men's Room, waiting on line, and I do a little salsa in place to keep her happy. Yet even though this works for her, this does not work for me.
We had finished up at the Temple of Dendur, and about the same time Max seemed only interested in throwing change into the reflection pool, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and start the ball rolling towards the exit.
But there were so many tourists already in line. And 2 other dads with little 3 year-old kids in tow, all waiting for a stall. Despite the close quarters, I decided to use the urinal.
Obstacle 1: Tension. Overheated tourists waiting on line to use the bathroom. I felt anxious about having Roxy start to scream and add to everyone's misery, so I had to keep bouncing her.
Obstacle 2: Bouncing Roxy relaxed my anxiety, but gave me Stage Fright. Bounce bounce bounce (Now I can't pee). Stop bouncing (come on, come on), Roxy starts to cry, bounce bounce bounce, I'm still waiting to pee.
Obstacle 3: Stage Fright gave me Stage Fright, so I couldn't pee anyway. I would stop bouncing and try to concentrate, and then, just when I got close, she'd start to cry, so I'd start it all over again.
Obstacle 4: Positioning. Because she was fussy, Roxy kept kicking her legs out. So I had to step back a bit, and pull her to the right so she wouldn't put her foot in the urinal, and I wouldn't accidentally pee on her ankle.
Obstacle 5: Proximity to neighbors. The dividers were low. So as I pull Roxy to the right, she's pretty close to the old man at the next urinal. And I could tell that he wasn't quite comfortable having a bright-eyed little baby watch his struggle to relieve himself.
Was I able to finally go? Yes. But the girls probably could have taken in about 3 more exhibits in the meantime.
My advice to other Dads: Pass the Temple of Dendur, head to the Shaker Room in the American Wing, open the top drawer on the wooden desk and relieve yourself there. No one visits that display anyway.
Aug 13, 2009
Man vs. Baby: Blackberry Storm
Me: So, this is Blackberry's answer to the iPhone.Roxy: Yeah. And apparently that response was "Dear Customer, I hate you. XOXO, Blackberry."
Me: I'd have to agree with you there.
Roxy: Although it's not like the iPhone is any better.
Me: What do you have against the iPhone?
Roxy: Well, you tell me. You got rid of yours.
Me: I know. I'm like the John Glenn of cellphone owners. I don't think I've ever met another person who got rid of it. I loved it. I did. Everything about it was awesome except the fact that it was a phone. As a phone, it was terrible. AT&T blamed Apple. Apple blamed AT&T. And when I called both of them for help, they dropped my call 3 times. And that was all I could stand. So I switched to Verizon.
Roxy: And then you got an older Blackberry.
Me: And I hated that too. What do you hate about the iPhone?
Roxy: That I can't hold either phone against my cheek without accidentally activating the "Mute" function.
Me: Yeah, I guess I hate that too.
Roxy: And also the fact that everyone who owns one has to carry it around in their hand all the time. Frankly, they should just make an iMe program with my face on it so they can just pretend to have a conversation with me instead of pretending they're not being rude by playing with it every f**king time they're in front of me.
Me: Do you want a bite of this doughnut?
Roxy: I'm a baby. I can't have a doughnut.
Me: It's one of those Entenmann's Crumb doughnuts. I put them in the freezer so Leni and Max won't eat them.
Roxy: Why wouldn't they eat them?
Me: They hate cold food. Cold cookies. Cold doughnuts. Ring Dings.
Roxy: Ring Dings are the best frozen!
Me: That's what I say, but they don't believe me.
Roxy: Anyway. We're off topic.
Me: The Storm is frustrating to navigate, counter-intuitive, the accelerometer doesn't always understand what orientation you have the phone in so good luck getting it to flip between horizontal and vertical, texting is nigh impossible...
Roxy: Unless you have baby hands...
Me: That's right. If you have baby hands, you will most likely be able to text without much difficulty. But as that probably isn't the case with most consumers, they should just go on ahead and order a replacement "<-" key now.
Roxy: Or rather don't buy the phone...
Me: Have you seen this? I swear, trying to highlight a word or a number on this touchscreen is an exercise in subduing rage.
Roxy: I'd rather have that phone Johnny Depp carried along in Platoon. That big one with the crank he has right before he gets shot.
Me: Oh yeah, that one's kind of cool. I think I'd rather have the big one with the antenna Gordon Gekko has walking on the beach in Wallstreet.
Roxy: Ohh, yeah. Yeah. Hey, that's weird. Those are two Oliver Stone movies.
Me: You're right. Does Talk Radio have a big phone in it?
Roxy: It has a big microphone. But The Doors does.
Me: Where is there a big phone in The Doors?
Roxy: The one Andy Warhol tries to give Jim Morrison. At that party.
Me: When the hell did you watch The Doors?
Roxy: The other night. Remember, when Crispin Glover comes over and he's wearing lipgloss...
Me: No, no, I remember the scene. But who the hell let you watch an R rated movie?
Roxy: Um...
Me: Um?
Roxy: I don't know. You guys fell asleep and...
Me: Whatever. I don't want to know right now. We'll talk about this afterwards. But don't think I'm letting you off the hook.
Roxy: Haaaa, another phone reference.
Me: That's a fishing reference.
Roxy: Oh. It could be both.
Me: Blackberry Storm: Yay, or Nay.
Roxy: Nay.
Me: Me too. A big-fat-heading-to-the-Verizon-store-now nay.
Aug 12, 2009
Okay, One Last Time
It only seems difficult. But you have to have the time. You have to have the interest. And you have to be one of those people who spend their short lived lives in horror movies going, "Hmmm, I don't remember my closet looking so ominous" and then go open the door.
Because that's why you go here, to Tribute City. So if you want to see a German George Michael or an Irish James Brown, follow the instructions. But remember, there are some things in this world you can't un-hear.
Start here: http://www.tributecity.com/
And click on BANDS. The scroll-down menu on the left is for Artists, so you can look up any number of bands you think would be magical in Tribute Form. Like a Penis Cake, only one that plays the saxophone. That's right, I just made you imagine a Penis Cake playing the saxophone. Suck on that, Bloggers!
Anyway, I chose Prince for this example.
But have courage. Don't choose the Prince cover band from LA or IL. Choose the one from Oslo. Say to yourself, "I want to see how the Norwegians do it. I want to see Norwegian Funk."
And then click on this link: http://www.glamslam.info/Demo.htm
If you're brave enough, or don't have to worry about NSFW (this stands for Not Safe For Work, Mom and Dad. It usually means "Something you wouldn't want to look at next to your Grandma), check out the "Sexy MF" clip. The blood should start coming out of your ears within the first 10 seconds.
But most of all, enjoy!
Because that's why you go here, to Tribute City. So if you want to see a German George Michael or an Irish James Brown, follow the instructions. But remember, there are some things in this world you can't un-hear.
Start here: http://www.tributecity.com/
And click on BANDS. The scroll-down menu on the left is for Artists, so you can look up any number of bands you think would be magical in Tribute Form. Like a Penis Cake, only one that plays the saxophone. That's right, I just made you imagine a Penis Cake playing the saxophone. Suck on that, Bloggers!Anyway, I chose Prince for this example.
But have courage. Don't choose the Prince cover band from LA or IL. Choose the one from Oslo. Say to yourself, "I want to see how the Norwegians do it. I want to see Norwegian Funk."And then click on this link: http://www.glamslam.info/Demo.htm
If you're brave enough, or don't have to worry about NSFW (this stands for Not Safe For Work, Mom and Dad. It usually means "Something you wouldn't want to look at next to your Grandma), check out the "Sexy MF" clip. The blood should start coming out of your ears within the first 10 seconds.
But most of all, enjoy!
Aug 11, 2009
Neil Before Zod
Walking the dark streets of Neil Diamond Tribute Bands alone can be pretty perilous, especially in these fiscally challenging times. On one hand, you could show up to the Damages Season 3 Kick Off Party and find Super Diamond taking charge (which would be a dream come true, Todd Kessler...so live the dream, I say...live the dream). Or, more likely, you arrive at your cousin's Sweet 16 to find some overweight, elderly shop teacher with a badger on his head playing a Casio keyboard.
So who cares if Aerosmith asked for too much money to play at your Bar Mitzvah (or, in light of recent events, wheelchair access)? I've gone ahead and compiled a short list of some of the potholes you might hit on your journey to find the perfect Nearly Neil for your Wedding/Party/Corporate event.
Name: Ron Eskin
Neilness
With the sequins and a scarf, they could be twins. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito.
Redeeming Quality
Gets to drink free booze at weddings.
Low Point
The vibrato on Sweet Caroline, I Am I Said, and pretty much the other songs too.
Casio vs. Guitar
Appears to work with a back-up band
Score: 3
Parting Gift: http://www.neildiamondtributeshow.com/sweet_caroline_movie.html
Name: Fantastic Diamond
Neilness
Not with looks, but does a post-stroke, French Canadian Neil Diamond spot on.
Redeeming Quality
Enthusiasm
Low Point
Forever in Blue Jeans. Forever being the the key word. As in "endless."
Casio vs. Guitar
Nope, a band. Like the Osmonds.
Score: 6
Parting Gift: http://www.fantasticdiamond.com/Blue%20Jeans.mp3
Name: Fawzia Begum
Neilness
I'm sure you can see for yourself, they are I. Dentical!
Redeeming Quality
There is only 1 of her.
Low Point
Her long, lonesome, unenviable task of producing an all-Instrumental Easy Listening CD of Neil's music. And the CD itself, of course.
Score: 0.4
Parting Gift: http://www.solitarysong.com/music/sweet_caroline.asx
Name: The Black Diamond
Neilness
Next to Fawzia, well, it's no comparison. But you know, Jim Varney had a gimmick, too. And look at him now.
Redeeming Quality
Look at that photo. I mean, holy s**t!
Low Point
Again, his renditions. But you don't go to see The Black Diamond for his vocal ability.
Casio vs. Guitar
Neither, I think.
Score: 5
Parting Gift: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xc9HpijUmeg
Name: Tim Hunt
Neilness
Looks? Well, he looks serious about it. Singing-wise, it sounds like he's wearing one of those things little kids wear in a pool to not get water up their nose.
Low Point
The video montage for "If You Know What I Mean"
Casio vs. Guitar
Both, with perfect abandon.
Score: 4, but mostly because he can play an instrument.
Parting Gift: http://timhunt.webs.com/video.htm
So who cares if Aerosmith asked for too much money to play at your Bar Mitzvah (or, in light of recent events, wheelchair access)? I've gone ahead and compiled a short list of some of the potholes you might hit on your journey to find the perfect Nearly Neil for your Wedding/Party/Corporate event.
Name: Ron Eskin
Neilness
With the sequins and a scarf, they could be twins. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito.
Redeeming Quality
Gets to drink free booze at weddings.
Low Point
The vibrato on Sweet Caroline, I Am I Said, and pretty much the other songs too.
Casio vs. Guitar
Appears to work with a back-up band
Score: 3
Parting Gift: http://www.neildiamondtributeshow.com/sweet_caroline_movie.html
Name: Fantastic Diamond
Neilness
Not with looks, but does a post-stroke, French Canadian Neil Diamond spot on.
Redeeming Quality
Enthusiasm
Low Point
Forever in Blue Jeans. Forever being the the key word. As in "endless."
Casio vs. Guitar
Nope, a band. Like the Osmonds.
Score: 6
Parting Gift: http://www.fantasticdiamond.com/Blue%20Jeans.mp3
Name: Fawzia Begum
Neilness
I'm sure you can see for yourself, they are I. Dentical!
Redeeming Quality
There is only 1 of her.
Low Point
Her long, lonesome, unenviable task of producing an all-Instrumental Easy Listening CD of Neil's music. And the CD itself, of course.
Score: 0.4
Parting Gift: http://www.solitarysong.com/music/sweet_caroline.asx
Name: The Black Diamond
Neilness
Next to Fawzia, well, it's no comparison. But you know, Jim Varney had a gimmick, too. And look at him now.
Redeeming Quality
Look at that photo. I mean, holy s**t!
Low Point
Again, his renditions. But you don't go to see The Black Diamond for his vocal ability.
Casio vs. Guitar
Neither, I think.
Score: 5
Parting Gift: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xc9HpijUmeg
Name: Tim Hunt
Neilness
Looks? Well, he looks serious about it. Singing-wise, it sounds like he's wearing one of those things little kids wear in a pool to not get water up their nose.
Low Point
The video montage for "If You Know What I Mean"
Casio vs. Guitar
Both, with perfect abandon.
Score: 4, but mostly because he can play an instrument.
Parting Gift: http://timhunt.webs.com/video.htm
Aug 9, 2009
mine minne mine miiine mine
my daaad is aslllep
i amm takkin g over wiht jokkes!
wut collor is a buurp?
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
buurple!
Aug 8, 2009
Aug 7, 2009
I've Fallen and I Can't Have Sex With My Groupies
This is the actual 911 transcript from Thursday night.
911: This is 911, what is your emergency?
Roxy: [shouting in background] Hello?
911: 911, what is your emergency, Miss?
Roxy: We need an ambulance, here. I'm sorry, it's really loud. Can you hear me?
911: Yes, ma'am, I can. Are you alright?
Roxy: Me? Yeah, but this really old man just fell down and hurt himself. Like, bad.
911: You're saying an elderly gentleman fell and injured himself?
Roxy: Yeah, he lost his balance and fell. But he was up a little higher than me, um...he doesn't look so good. And he's bleeding.
911: Where is he bleeding from?
Roxy: His head. Maybe just his head. I mean, it's all over this ridiculous headband he's wearing. His clothes are a little askew, but, I can't really tell. They're ripped.
911: His clothes are ripped. Where are they torn?
Roxy: Well, I'm not really sure. They kind of look like they were already that way. He's got these tight leather pants on, and they've got fringe, or something. I don't know. He's really old. Way too old to be wearing the shirt he's wearing. He looks really bad. Now he's holding his hip.
911: What is your location?
Roxy: I'm at the Buffalo Chip Campground. Row C.
911: Are you at the Aerosmith concert?
Roxy: Yeah.
911: No way! I tried to get tickets but they were sold out.
Roxy: Yeah, well, you're probably better off 'cause I think the show's over.
911: That's such a bummer.
Roxy: I know.
911: Oh man, well, the medics are on their way to you now. And tell Joe Perry I said 'Hello.'
Roxy: Will do.
911: This is 911, what is your emergency?
Roxy: [shouting in background] Hello?
911: 911, what is your emergency, Miss?
Roxy: We need an ambulance, here. I'm sorry, it's really loud. Can you hear me?
911: Yes, ma'am, I can. Are you alright?
Roxy: Me? Yeah, but this really old man just fell down and hurt himself. Like, bad.
911: You're saying an elderly gentleman fell and injured himself?
Roxy: Yeah, he lost his balance and fell. But he was up a little higher than me, um...he doesn't look so good. And he's bleeding.
911: Where is he bleeding from?
Roxy: His head. Maybe just his head. I mean, it's all over this ridiculous headband he's wearing. His clothes are a little askew, but, I can't really tell. They're ripped.
911: His clothes are ripped. Where are they torn?
Roxy: Well, I'm not really sure. They kind of look like they were already that way. He's got these tight leather pants on, and they've got fringe, or something. I don't know. He's really old. Way too old to be wearing the shirt he's wearing. He looks really bad. Now he's holding his hip.
911: What is your location?
Roxy: I'm at the Buffalo Chip Campground. Row C.
911: Are you at the Aerosmith concert?
Roxy: Yeah.
911: No way! I tried to get tickets but they were sold out.
Roxy: Yeah, well, you're probably better off 'cause I think the show's over.
911: That's such a bummer.
Roxy: I know.
911: Oh man, well, the medics are on their way to you now. And tell Joe Perry I said 'Hello.'
Roxy: Will do.
Christmas Comes Early
I don't think most of you (making a huge leap of logic here to presume there are more of you than just my mother reading this) come here for my heart-felt ruminations of being a bad step-parent.
You want to watch me drop Roxy in the toilet.
Watch me fumble with suppositories (out of context this example could be damaging, yes).
Incorrectly explain hormones to Max (they come from Space).
Humor, with a dash of Levity.
So to make up for last night's Very Special Episode of I Am An Idiot, here you go:
I took this picture of myself last week when I went to Arthur Avenue to get some stuff from the Meat Market.
So far so good. Me carrying Roxy in her GI Joe sling. And she looked so cute, I attempted to take another angle. This angle.
It was a little blurry, so I zoomed in a little to see if it was salvageable. And then I noticed this:
That. What is that? Why didn't anyone tell me that is how I look when my subconscious forgets to do its goddamn job? Why didn't we suck that in? Is that what I look like? Some wubby 12 year-old at camp who wears a T-shirt when he goes swimming? I don't remember this being included in the "Welcome to 36" gift basket. I remember the colonoscopy. Leni's face when I said "I'm the sole survivor!" and she said, "What?" Explaining to Max that Michael Jackson was black once.
But certainly not this.
You want to watch me drop Roxy in the toilet.
Watch me fumble with suppositories (out of context this example could be damaging, yes).
Incorrectly explain hormones to Max (they come from Space).
Humor, with a dash of Levity.
So to make up for last night's Very Special Episode of I Am An Idiot, here you go:
I took this picture of myself last week when I went to Arthur Avenue to get some stuff from the Meat Market.
So far so good. Me carrying Roxy in her GI Joe sling. And she looked so cute, I attempted to take another angle. This angle.
It was a little blurry, so I zoomed in a little to see if it was salvageable. And then I noticed this:
That. What is that? Why didn't anyone tell me that is how I look when my subconscious forgets to do its goddamn job? Why didn't we suck that in? Is that what I look like? Some wubby 12 year-old at camp who wears a T-shirt when he goes swimming? I don't remember this being included in the "Welcome to 36" gift basket. I remember the colonoscopy. Leni's face when I said "I'm the sole survivor!" and she said, "What?" Explaining to Max that Michael Jackson was black once.But certainly not this.
Aug 6, 2009
My Little Girl
Today something unexpected happened.
For the past 2 months, Max and I have been at odds for a multitude of reasons. And I think both of us have found adjusting to Roxy an insurmountable task. We would argue about meaningless things (although at some point in our past, "who-licked-who-first" would have been paramount above all others), snap at each other, and silently watch the gulf that existed between us grow larger. My patience for anything other than Roxy disappeared, and Max, unfortunately, was one of the first to go.
Having a child after having a Step-child does strange things to a person, at least it did to me. I grew less and less tolerant with Max. I found her annoying. Her pouting intolerable and infuriating. Even more so, each time she poked or kissed or hugged Roxy, I'd feel my insides turn to anger. And it was irrational. I'd wonder why she couldn't clean up after herself (she's a kid), why she couldn't figure things out on her own (she's a kid), why she would react so strongly to anything I said (she's a kid), and why everything I asked her to do was met with an argument (again, she's a kid). It didn't matter; everything about the relationship repulsed me. Not in a way that disgusted me. It just polarized us and I had no reason to close the gap or mend things.
I watched myself grow distant from her, colder, and less kind than I had been for our first 2 years together. And it wasn't something I wanted. It just seemed like something I couldn't prevent. And being exhausted and strapped to an infant that cried all the time didn't do anything to improve the situation. Until finally, Max and I didn't really enjoy each other at all.
But Life finds a way (so says Jeff Goldblum). Imagine my surprise when this morning, in the deli, just after Max tackled me into a stack of newspapers, I fell in love with my little girl again. I suddenly found myself looking at the little princess that, until not too long ago, was my only joy. And she's still the same. Tall, lanky, clumsy and wonderful, brilliant, beautiful, and perfectly, perfectly silly. And mine.
I don't know what kind of parent I am. But I know what kind of human I am. And I hope, stress or no, that this is the last time I lose sight of what's important, of what is precious, and what was sitting right beside me all along.
For the past 2 months, Max and I have been at odds for a multitude of reasons. And I think both of us have found adjusting to Roxy an insurmountable task. We would argue about meaningless things (although at some point in our past, "who-licked-who-first" would have been paramount above all others), snap at each other, and silently watch the gulf that existed between us grow larger. My patience for anything other than Roxy disappeared, and Max, unfortunately, was one of the first to go.
Having a child after having a Step-child does strange things to a person, at least it did to me. I grew less and less tolerant with Max. I found her annoying. Her pouting intolerable and infuriating. Even more so, each time she poked or kissed or hugged Roxy, I'd feel my insides turn to anger. And it was irrational. I'd wonder why she couldn't clean up after herself (she's a kid), why she couldn't figure things out on her own (she's a kid), why she would react so strongly to anything I said (she's a kid), and why everything I asked her to do was met with an argument (again, she's a kid). It didn't matter; everything about the relationship repulsed me. Not in a way that disgusted me. It just polarized us and I had no reason to close the gap or mend things.
I watched myself grow distant from her, colder, and less kind than I had been for our first 2 years together. And it wasn't something I wanted. It just seemed like something I couldn't prevent. And being exhausted and strapped to an infant that cried all the time didn't do anything to improve the situation. Until finally, Max and I didn't really enjoy each other at all.
But Life finds a way (so says Jeff Goldblum). Imagine my surprise when this morning, in the deli, just after Max tackled me into a stack of newspapers, I fell in love with my little girl again. I suddenly found myself looking at the little princess that, until not too long ago, was my only joy. And she's still the same. Tall, lanky, clumsy and wonderful, brilliant, beautiful, and perfectly, perfectly silly. And mine.
I don't know what kind of parent I am. But I know what kind of human I am. And I hope, stress or no, that this is the last time I lose sight of what's important, of what is precious, and what was sitting right beside me all along.
Aug 5, 2009
Why? Part II
Today, Leni and I drove back to Queens to see a Lactation Consultant. Apparently, the woman we saw is world reknowned in terms of helping women utilize the full capability of their boobs (second only to Hugh Hefner, I suppose. And we might as well tag Charlie Sheen for third place).
Roxy is extremely tense when she feeds. She balls up her fists, claws at Leni, squishes her toes together, and makes her body really rigid. She's like an angry 2x4 in a squishy diaper. But this frantic exchange obviously makes for unpleasant feedings on both sides of the nipple, so this woman had us come by so she could watch Leni feed Roxy and make suggestions.
But none of this has anything to do with McDonald's. Since we arrived in Edgewood a full hour early, we stopped by our old chicken restaurant and ate lunch in the car near the woman's apartment. By the time we finished up, I had Leni swing around to a nearby by McDonald's so I could use the bathroom.
And do you know what you need to use the bathroom at McDonald's?
This:
A Token. A goddamned token. And not just any token: a bathroom token. Had I unwittingly walked into a Chuck E. Cheese? Did 2 of the most base-level trough serving food peddlers merge, like Dunkin' and Baskin Robbins, to form one super binary black hole of indigestion?
Oh, I get it. I go in, use this:
To open this:
(or go for the little stuffed panda...decisions, decisions)
Then, I jump down into the Ball Room, poop somewhere down along the bottom and hide it, then clean myself off on the Burgertime machine.
Is there really such a scourge of people who use bathrooms too much so that now, not only to I have to pay a dollar for a "McCoffee," I have to watch animatronic mice sing songs to urinal cakes while I'm going to the bathroom?
Is it really too much to ask for Zaxxon?
Roxy is extremely tense when she feeds. She balls up her fists, claws at Leni, squishes her toes together, and makes her body really rigid. She's like an angry 2x4 in a squishy diaper. But this frantic exchange obviously makes for unpleasant feedings on both sides of the nipple, so this woman had us come by so she could watch Leni feed Roxy and make suggestions.
But none of this has anything to do with McDonald's. Since we arrived in Edgewood a full hour early, we stopped by our old chicken restaurant and ate lunch in the car near the woman's apartment. By the time we finished up, I had Leni swing around to a nearby by McDonald's so I could use the bathroom.
And do you know what you need to use the bathroom at McDonald's?
This:
A Token. A goddamned token. And not just any token: a bathroom token. Had I unwittingly walked into a Chuck E. Cheese? Did 2 of the most base-level trough serving food peddlers merge, like Dunkin' and Baskin Robbins, to form one super binary black hole of indigestion?Oh, I get it. I go in, use this:
To open this:
(or go for the little stuffed panda...decisions, decisions)Then, I jump down into the Ball Room, poop somewhere down along the bottom and hide it, then clean myself off on the Burgertime machine.
Is there really such a scourge of people who use bathrooms too much so that now, not only to I have to pay a dollar for a "McCoffee," I have to watch animatronic mice sing songs to urinal cakes while I'm going to the bathroom?
Is it really too much to ask for Zaxxon?
Aug 4, 2009
I Like My Irony With A Little More Starch
There's two kinds of Funny. Funny Funny and Ha Ha Funny.
Funny Funny is getting fleas when you don't have any pets.
Ha Ha Funny is the fact that it's easier to get rid of fleas when do you have pets. You put the collar on, it poisons the flea and the eggs and kaput! This is Flea Maintenance.
I can't put a flea collar on Roxy. Not just because she squirms so much, but more, actually, because I just don't like the smell they give off. The collar. Not the babies. Although sometimes babies smell bad too. But Roxy is constipated again so she gets the day off from not-smelling-any-good jokes.
Anyway, rather than introduce our fleas to the Hiroshima legacy and bomb the entire house, I've decided to confirm that these are 100% fleas with an all natural method. I tried taking a census, but it was too much trouble passing them the clipboard being so small, and all. The clipboard, I mean. And the fleas, I guess. Whatever. Apparently, if you place a small dish of soapy water with a tea light in the middle of it, you can place it on your floor at night, and the fleas will jump into it. They are attracted to the heat and the flame, and the soapy water traps them.
The problem I have with this is that all of the fleas will think I have either installed a nice, new fountain in the courtyard of their hotel, or opened up a spa.
"Did you see that great new whirlpool in the Master Bedroom?"
"No, how is it?"
"Oh my goodness, it's fabulous. You MUST go try it! Must must must. I like it so much better than Great Jones."
Aug 3, 2009
Swimming Lessons with Virginia Woolf
I know. Poor me. Complain complain complain. But the problem is when you live in a box, you can't always see what's outside the box. And while I tend to be a glass-half-full kind of person, liberally using dashes between words-that-have-some-sort-of-link-together, I am officially changing my address to The End of My Rope.
Fleas.
I was hoping it was mosquitos. I was hoping our landlords (their 2 cats and 1 dog) took everything with them. I could forgive the oven cleaner under the sink. The beat-up play structure on the lawn. But this? What do I do now? Worse off, we don't even have pets (I killed the last one, fyi).
And while I don't this is at DEFCON 5, a full-scale infestation, what the f**k? Am I not entitled to 1 day? 1 day without something else piling on top of my stress? And even worse, I can't find my jar of placenta pills.
And I haven't told Leni yet because the last thing I need in addition to the last last thing I need is something else to challenge her health and her delicate mood (being kind here, sweetheart).
F**k f**k f**k f**k f**k. F**k.
Fleas.
I was hoping it was mosquitos. I was hoping our landlords (their 2 cats and 1 dog) took everything with them. I could forgive the oven cleaner under the sink. The beat-up play structure on the lawn. But this? What do I do now? Worse off, we don't even have pets (I killed the last one, fyi).
And while I don't this is at DEFCON 5, a full-scale infestation, what the f**k? Am I not entitled to 1 day? 1 day without something else piling on top of my stress? And even worse, I can't find my jar of placenta pills.
And I haven't told Leni yet because the last thing I need in addition to the last last thing I need is something else to challenge her health and her delicate mood (being kind here, sweetheart).
F**k f**k f**k f**k f**k. F**k.
Aug 2, 2009
I Like Mine With A Little Paprika
My Aunt Shirley sent me an article the other day from Time Magazine.
Hang on, I think grammatically I just inferred my Aunt Shirley was at and/or working at Time Magazine, and that's where she mailed me the article from. This is not true. If this were true, Time Magazine would be Time Golf Course for Retirees Celebrating the Permanent Surrender of Their Sobriety. But I don't really read Time, so, maybe it is that cool. Who knows?
Anyway, it was a humorous pregnancy article; I write humorous pregnancy articles (just ask my mom), and she thought I would enjoy the piece.
Ready for the title?
"Afterbirth for Dinner. My wife ate her own placenta. I had to watch. And then I had to write."
Which is funny, because the title of my blog was going to be: "What the f**k did your wife eat? Aaaaannnnnd I guess I'll finish my chicken parmesan later, thankyouverymuch."
You probably don't need me to help you out on this one, but if you're wondering what I found spectacularly off-putting, it was the part about eating a placenta. Feel free to jump to conclusions here. In reality, the couple hired a "chef" (their word) to come, slice and prepare the placenta into little capsules the wife could use to stave off postpartum depression and increase her milk supply. Because, really, rather than get your Mother-in-Law to watch the kid for a night and reduce the stress in your life, you looked at that thing sitting in the stainless steel pan, the one that looks like a silicone breast implant having it's way with a Red Jellyfish and the Gluttony guy from the movie Se7en, and thought "I'm going to ingest that!"
But wait. You have options. On one hand, you have the prepared easy-to-swallow gelltabs route (1 tablet twice a day, may cause drowsiness). Or (please sit down for this), you can go the Hannibal Lecter-on-line-at-Jamba-Juice route and opt for the smoothie.
And if you missed that last part, I'll put it in bold caps: SMOOTHIE
I'm going to tell you a little story. A few years ago I found a little blurb in some tabloid about Matt Leblanc working on a movie with a bartending orangutan. And the more we kept saying "The Bartending Monkey," the dirtier it sounded. And it does. The Bartending Monkey. So any time we found ourselves in a social setting and some idiot (and by idiot I mean drunk male between the ages of 17 and 35) mentioned a "Dirty Sanchez" or a "Cleveland Steamer," we would ask "Oh, man, how about the Bartending Monkey?"
And their eyes would light up, and they'd say, "What the hell's a Bartending Monkey?"
And I'd say, "You don't know what a Bartending Monkey is? Christ. I can't tell you. It's too gross."
And it is. Even to this day, I can't tell you what the Bartending Monkey is. But I can tell you what it involves: A blender, a woman that spells her gender W-O-M-Y-N, simple syrup, a brow-beaten husband, insanity, 6 ice cubes, a shot of bitters, home schooling, Xenu, the ability to speak to whales, Jermaine Jackson, and at least a 2 credit course in Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.
Beeeellllchhhhh! Ahhhh.
Hang on, I think grammatically I just inferred my Aunt Shirley was at and/or working at Time Magazine, and that's where she mailed me the article from. This is not true. If this were true, Time Magazine would be Time Golf Course for Retirees Celebrating the Permanent Surrender of Their Sobriety. But I don't really read Time, so, maybe it is that cool. Who knows?
Anyway, it was a humorous pregnancy article; I write humorous pregnancy articles (just ask my mom), and she thought I would enjoy the piece.
Ready for the title?
"Afterbirth for Dinner. My wife ate her own placenta. I had to watch. And then I had to write."
Which is funny, because the title of my blog was going to be: "What the f**k did your wife eat? Aaaaannnnnd I guess I'll finish my chicken parmesan later, thankyouverymuch."
You probably don't need me to help you out on this one, but if you're wondering what I found spectacularly off-putting, it was the part about eating a placenta. Feel free to jump to conclusions here. In reality, the couple hired a "chef" (their word) to come, slice and prepare the placenta into little capsules the wife could use to stave off postpartum depression and increase her milk supply. Because, really, rather than get your Mother-in-Law to watch the kid for a night and reduce the stress in your life, you looked at that thing sitting in the stainless steel pan, the one that looks like a silicone breast implant having it's way with a Red Jellyfish and the Gluttony guy from the movie Se7en, and thought "I'm going to ingest that!"
But wait. You have options. On one hand, you have the prepared easy-to-swallow gelltabs route (1 tablet twice a day, may cause drowsiness). Or (please sit down for this), you can go the Hannibal Lecter-on-line-at-Jamba-Juice route and opt for the smoothie.
And if you missed that last part, I'll put it in bold caps: SMOOTHIE
I'm going to tell you a little story. A few years ago I found a little blurb in some tabloid about Matt Leblanc working on a movie with a bartending orangutan. And the more we kept saying "The Bartending Monkey," the dirtier it sounded. And it does. The Bartending Monkey. So any time we found ourselves in a social setting and some idiot (and by idiot I mean drunk male between the ages of 17 and 35) mentioned a "Dirty Sanchez" or a "Cleveland Steamer," we would ask "Oh, man, how about the Bartending Monkey?"
And their eyes would light up, and they'd say, "What the hell's a Bartending Monkey?"
And I'd say, "You don't know what a Bartending Monkey is? Christ. I can't tell you. It's too gross."
And it is. Even to this day, I can't tell you what the Bartending Monkey is. But I can tell you what it involves: A blender, a woman that spells her gender W-O-M-Y-N, simple syrup, a brow-beaten husband, insanity, 6 ice cubes, a shot of bitters, home schooling, Xenu, the ability to speak to whales, Jermaine Jackson, and at least a 2 credit course in Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.
Beeeellllchhhhh! Ahhhh.
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