Dumped by Jesse's Girl

It's Friday night. I'm watching ABC. Instead of Sarah Rue and Kelly Ripa boring me to death, I'm watching the Daytime Emmy awards. Why? Penance. That's the only rational explanation.

But because you have a life and aren't watching it you missed the great event of the day! Rick Springfield was chosen for the opening number. I'm not even trying to think of why. Clearly the producers thought people were fans. They aren't.

He started playing on Hollywood Blvd, and decided to spice things up by moving into the Kodak Theatre. As he walked down the aisle, he held out his mic for audience members to sing along... except they couldn't because who knows any Rick Springfield song besides Jesse's Girl? He tried three times with no success before giving it up and singing his own song.

This is the worst awards show ever! On the upside, the first award went to Ellen Degeneres.

Who's Your Daddy?

I really can empathize with Tom Cruise now. Last Friday, I ordered a computer... a notebook from Dell. I got a great deal and I was really impressed with the shopping experience. (The wireless set-up is something else.)

The best part about buying with Dell isn't getting a good computer which will provide me with 24-hour access to porn! Nope, the highlight is tracking your package. You can go online and follow it through gestation.

Within four days it was assembed and delivered. But that wasn't a surprise because I knew where it was the whole time!

Amen

Homosexuality is god's way of insuring that the truly gifted aren't burdened with children. -- Sam Austin (I don't know who the hell he is, but I think he may have been a write on Murphy Brown.)

"The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to heterosexuals. That doesn't mean that God doesn't love heterosexuals. It's just that they need more supervision." -- Lyn Lavner

Same Old Song...

Apparently you aren't the only people that appreciate my bitching. Today, scrolling on gay news rag Queerty.com* I saw this little gem.

I wrote a letter to the editors of Queerty -- one of whom is Dan Renzi of Real World Miami fame -- regarding the overreaction of the gay community to crimes in the Caribbean. My arguments are the same in response to the murder -- you know she's dead right? -- of Natalee Holloway.

Queerty published it. Without telling me. Which is there right I guess. And they are one up on the Daily News, in that I was the one who sent the email. But the f*ckers misspelled my name. ... But they redeem themselves with this one:

Reader Bryan sent us an articulate letter questioning our choice not to vacation in the Caribbean

They called me articulate!



*Queerty gets its name from the very keyboard you use. The letters across the top left side spell out, "qwerty". Ta dah!

Free Market My Ass -- UPDATE

I decided to delete this post because:

a) It was horribly frought with typos, misspellings and grammatical errors.
b) It was long as shit.
c) Y'all don't really care about it anyway. You just want to hear about the crazy people I work with the the "stock brokers" I date. I got your number!

Let's see if I can put my business education to work. Nothing can be more frustrating than getting an economics lesson from a Democrat, but I think it's time.

You see, for a liberal I am remarkably capitalist. I believe that the free market is as critical as our freedoms. The problems is that the United States Corpocracy (did I just make up a word?) doesn't support a truly free market. And even if they did, there are some things that should be left to the invisible hand...

If Life Gives You Lemons...

...throw them back at the bitch so hard she regrets waking up in the morning. Keep your fucking lemons you stupid whore!

Last week, a good friend of mine died. If you know me well, you know I don't really like old people. (I'm in a bit of a pickly in that my parents -- that unlike many people I know, I really enjoy being around -- are getting old themselves. Do I issue them a single exemption or do I reevaluate my hatred of old people?) My friend was a little old. She was 69.

I knew her from the Democratic Party. You would have loved her. Every fag did, at least. She was like an Eastern European Drag Queen. Dear Roberta.

When I heard she died, I learned it in an email from another friend. I wrote my thoughts down and shared them with him. I also shared them with another good friend, who added it to the blog of the San Fernando Valley Young Dems. Then it spread like Chris' herpes.

Next thing I know, I get a call from someone who read it in the newspaper. Okay, the Daily News, but they print on newsprint, so it's almost a paper.

The kicker, they published it as "Special to the Daily News." They didn't ask me if they could publish it. They never spoke to me about it. They just took my personal thoughts and feelings, claimed it as theirs and published it all "special" like.

Oh well.

Popo Jintao

This week, Chinese President Hu Jintao is visiting the US on not-a-state visit. (If you ask the Chinese, it's a state visit. Ask President Bush and he'll tell you, "I like bananas and rainbows. Can I pet your puppy?" Granted, you'll walk away pretty confused but understanding that we probably don't consider it a state visit.)

All the news stations are hyping his trip which began with President Hu meeting with Bill Gates and the CEO of Starbucks before meeting with President Bush. Hu knows who's boss.

Hu knows who's boss?

Who's boss?

No. Bill Gates is boss.

He's meeting with Hu?

I don't know, I thought I heard he was meeting with the President of China.

Yeah, President Hu.

I don't know, probably like President "Panda Express" or something.

Everytime I hear a story about President Hu Jintao, I can't help but think of this prick and his song, PoPoZao! This is cruel! Now I understand why people accuse the Chinese of Human Rights abuses.

Go Get 'Em Girl!

A personal hero of mine has some advice for the world: fight age with nookie!

Blanche Devereaux herself is taking time away from her busy schedule of canoodling and donkey shows to help you deal with aging. This way too short article includes her Blanche-iest advice: FUCK!

(By the looks of the photo, Ms. McClanahan needs to take her own advice. Any takers?)

For my readers: the Date

I think I have solved today's conudrum, thanks to a comment. Here is the best story of the week:

Last week, I went on a date with a stockbroker. This was weird for me. I didn't know he was a stockbroker when we first met, though we did meet in a situation tied to high finance. I guess there was always the outside chance that he was a stockbroker.

The stock market is important to me. I was raised all around it. I really don't know how to respond.

One time, I was on a date and completely out of the blue, right after I made some dirty joke I'm sure, the guy told me he was HIV-positive. It was weird. Obviously, I appreciated his honesty. I would hope that at some point before it becomes critical, everyone who knows of their positive status would let the other person know. But I had barely known this guy. We were only 45 minutes into the date and I wasn't planning on sleeping with him right then. I think there would have been plenty of time in the future for him to drop that one on me. What do you say after something like that? I chose the very best line I could, "I know a lot of positive people. I mean I used to -- er, nervous laughter -- work at the Gay & Lesbian Center. You know -- er -- there are all sorts of people with HIV there. I even lived with one. Not like that though. He was way old." I needed out. So I went to the restroom. Called a friend and told him to call me in 10 minutes. I faked a roommate emergency.

This was similar. I didn't know what to say after I learned this guy was a stockbroker. What did he want from me? Did he want to advise me on trades? Did he want me to help him get out of finance? Wouldn't everything I brought to the table that night about the stock market get in the way of this?

Needless to say, I think I can have stockbrokers as friends, but there's no way in the NYSE's green Earth that I can hook up with a stockbroker. My view of stockbrokers will forever depend on them not dating me.

Plus, how can I bring a stockbroker home to my parents?

Dearest reader: There are a number of clues buried in this post. Can you figure them out? What is this post about? Email me at davis.brianj (at) gmail (dot) com if you think you know!

I want to tell you...

But I can't.

It turns out that people actually read this besides Damian and Chris. I know this because lots of people keep mentioning it to me. Which creates a problem. The Blogger's Conundrum.

What happens if you write about someone -- in ID style, probably not the most flattering things -- and they go back and read it.

It's already pretty clear that if this got around to my co-workers, my car would like be set afire during lunch. But I don't really care about their feelings.

However, there are some funny things that have happened to me -- especially in the past week -- that really need to be told, but I can't. It's not that I would be nasty or target these people. You know that's not my M.O. But I just think they may not appreciate being rediculed written about in this blog.

Maybe I should create a special language for writing about real people? How Tolkein-esque of me!

The Creativity of the Human Mind*

I've been amused recently with some of the SPAM I've been getting at my email accounts. Same garbage as always, Hoodia from Canada, male enhancement pills (which I clearly don't need thank you very much), "please her longer and harder" (because that is clearly my objective), and all other sorts.

What's I've enjoyed mostly are the names they come up with in hopes that I'll open the email not thinking it's SPAM. These are some recent names:

Swanhilda Gammage
Horsy V. Hangouts
Freeman Moser
Anyway V. Donny
Litigation D. Candling

Can you guess what each is selling? Please tell me you can guess what "Horsy V. Hangouts" was pushing, right?

Will SPAMMER names replace the childhood game of coming up with porn star names? What would your SPAMMER name be?

*I understand that most of these names are actually formulated by computers. Computers than can read your mind.

Signs You Need a New Agent

Sign #73: When he has you continually making out with fat, nasty guys. This is made more egregious when you are actually a beautiful, charming, adorable young woman.

Poor, poor Cynthia Watros. Watching last night's LOST made me sad. Why, with all the eligible men on the island -- smoking hot Dr. Jack, mysterious but steamy Sawyer, rockin' Asian bod Jin (okay, I know he's not really eligible but it would mix things up a bit), hard-as-nails but needing-love total-lesbo Ana-Lucia --does she get with the crazy porker?

This after having to endure being Drew Carey's girlfriend? Not the fat one he married but one of the hot, skinny ones that got away. Got away real fast like.

Ms. Watros, please fire your agent immediately. He clearly hates you. Or reads this blog and is trying to give me some fat people ammunition. But really, how likely is that?

Totally likely. Everyone reads this blog. Right? Right? Hey, where are you going so fast? I have more to say...

Americans Are Stupid!

Look at the picture above and tell me if you notice something upsetting. Can't see it. Click on the picture and look at the page from the American Idol website and see if you notice it.

Still don't get it? Well, I thought that the order seemed random. I remembered hearing on KROQ that Katherine McPhee -- who inspires McPhever in countless creepy old breeders -- was in the final three last week, or two weeks ago, or who-really-cares ago. I was looking for her on the page. I quickly found Melissa McGhee, so Katherine McPhee should be right next to her right? Nope.

What crazy order did they use to decide how to put these people on the page? Logic and fairness would dictate putting them on the page alphabetically. Maybe their agents did a bidding war. Then I realized that they are, in fact, in alphabetical order... BY FIRST NAME!

Did the web designer fail 3rd grade? Has he never been to a fucking library? Since when do you alphabetize by first name?

Granted, my cell phone is alphabetized by first name... because I don't include last names mostly. (Thus why Allen and Bob get drunk dialed all the time but Whitney and Will escape my slurred profanities in the wee hours of the morning.)

I wonder if they are in this order because the designer thought you are supposed to use first names for alphabetical order, or did they strategically choose to do it this way for the stupid American Idol viewer?

The world may never know.

The Smug Satisfaction of Being a Prick

How do I loathe many of the people I work with? Seriously, these people are useless. Somehow I became the accidental techie of the office. Perhaps it's because of a brain capacity greater than a 3 year-old... turkey! Perhaps it's because I can read. Mostly, it's because I have magic powers and can see that little "Help" menu at the top of EVERY SINGLE window I open.

I hate being the accidental techie. I've been yelled out when the answer I gave wasn't what they wanted to hear. I've been dragged off the phone by someone who had to have immediate access to their eBay account. It can be brutal, but it's my reality.


Everyone in the office comes to me -- everyone except for the "Tuna Melt" chef, the temptress of Chatsworth, the Grand Dame of the Office Collection. Mrs. Kiss Ass was never a fan of mine, nor me her. It's only become worse since I've set my sights on both her beloved Pot Luck and office gift giving.

Today, she broke the postal meter. That's techie! Whoever will help her? Well, she's now asked 3 co-workers to help her while avoiding me. And she's asked them in Spanish, assuming I'm too ignorant to understand her and won't chime in with assistance. (I still haven't told many people here that while I don't speak Spanish, after studying it for five years I can understand it pretty well.)

She can ask the homeless guy peeing on my window in Pig Latin for all I care. I will not volunteer my services until she comes wallowing into my office, reduced to her crippled, arthritic knees, tears causing the blue eye shadow to run down her face. And then, I'll walk over to the maching and hit the power button, because I'm sure that's all it needs!

RIP Career of Rep. Tom Delay, 1985-2006*

Fuck you very much!

*The original post headline celebrated 2007 as the end of his career. Fortunately for America, not only is he not seeking re-election, he's resigning from Congress altogether. YAY!

Too Hip to Sip... Chug-a-lug Chug-a-lug

Last week I told you how uncool I was. Turns out that I was wrong. I am way cool. Like, spawning with an Academy Award-winning Actress cool.

I was scanning the blogs today and was enticed to learn more about Ryan Phillippe's exercise regimine. Strictly in the name of science, I tell you. I am very concerned with the health and fitness of other. This blog clearly demonstrates that.

In my investigation, I uncovered evidence of how truly cool I am! Exhaustive research proves that Ryan Phillippee and I wear the same gym shorts. $16 at Old Navy. I can practically feel Reese Witherspoon's nails digging into my back.



NOTE: Remember the espisode of the Cosby Show when Vanessa got tanked playing a drinking game, and rather than beat her senseless like our parents would have done, Cliff, Clair and Rudy pretended to play the same game later in the day. Yeah, childhood alcoholism is always funny! Why would Vanessa care that Rudy was boozing it up? Nevermind. The drinking game was: Chug-A-Lug.

Every now and then, typically during staff meetings and church, "Chug-A-Lug, Chug-A-Lug" -- the theme song from the game -- pops into my head.