No Sleeves

And I am not one of them. While the masses were fighting a losing battle with contempt-fueled boredom, I enjoyed absurdist observations about racist cell phones, MTV dating-show morons and user-generated porn.

But I digress. This picture calls out for our attention:

There’s no way I can possibly outdue the subverted, insane genius of the Fug Girls here. Much like Pedro Feliz turning on an inside fastball, they smacked it right out of the park.

Let me add this caveat, on behalf of straight men everywhere: this woman is NOT attractive. Period. Please, ladies, say no to pale skin. And faces pulled tighter than a Janet Weiss drum. And especially not the quasi-alien deathstare that screams, I WILL FRY YOUR BRAINS LIKE BACON. TASTY, TASTY BACON.

Maybe she got a certificate to a tanning salon, in which case I’ll be generous and give her another shot in a month or so. Patience, people. It is a virtue.

Unbelievably, my soon-to-be-former roommate has acquired this irritating habit of busting into my room late at night when my door is closed, and I am presumably enjoying my privacy. This has happened THREE times now, with the following scenarios occurring:

Scenario 1: Tim is sleeping. End Result: Tim is pissed off, locks door.
Scenario 2: Tim is watching DVD. End Result: Tim is pissed off, locks door.
Scenario 3: Tim is in flagrante delicto with a female guest, who of course is positioned for maximum exposure at the time of intrusion. End Result: Tim finishes responsibilities, contemplates grabbing 9-iron and trying to send roommate’s testicles over roof next door.

Like a wife-beating hushand, he apologized after the first two times and blamed his intoxicated state. Being the idiot that I am, I believed him, and continued to leave my door unlocked. Now that he’s elevated into shithead territory, it is time to decide upon an appropriate punishment. The following options are under consideration:

1) Spiking body-wash with concentrated hot sauce
2) Hiding raw meat in fuse box within room
3) Take fruits and vegetables out of fridge, give thorough rinsing in toilet, replace in fridge
4) Sign roommate up for several hard-core pornography websites, using his credit card
5) Offer his room to homeless vagrant who may have been lying in own feces
6) Lock roommate inside with Celine Dion record on repeat…forever!
7) Purchase crack, plant in roommate’s jacket, make anonymous phone call to NYPD. Hilarity ensues!
…

Screw it, I’m not making it to 50. My apologies to Paul Simon for ripping off the post title–you keep making music for baby boomers to fuck to, Paul!

[It's 2:15 right now and I can't sleep. Brace yourself.]

Sometimes it doesn’t seem possible, the effect that your “home” can have on your frame of mind for days, weeks, even months at a time, when those little nagging tendencies of roommates light up just the right axon in the cerebrum to move you from “acceptably cheery” to “gruffly irritable” to “incendiary.”

Those poor souls destined for abuse are far too many in number, and almost assuredly, none of the victims are deserving of their fates. The elderly gentleman standing in the door of the subway who gets a rough bump on the shoulder when he won’t move instead of a polite request. The girl who deserves much better than the pathetic lies told to soothe your own cowardice. The barista who broke up with her boyfriend last night and sucked it up to make it into work and GODDAMMIT, I SAID NO WHIP ON THAT MOCHA– is just trying to make it through the day.

Go ahead and blame the roommate whose grand contribution to intellectual discourse is an annoyed grunt, the piece-of-shit refrigerator that lets the milk go bad in 3 days, the nu-metal blaring out and that stupid uncomfortable sofa that consumes the entire room with its useless bulk.

Excuses are–wait for it–like assholes. And yours are no better and certainly far, far worse than all the others, even in this town of decadence and emotional disruption. When the roommates and the fridge and the hated trek home are all finally left behind, it’ll be your own weakness of character that anchors you down.

I’m moving out of my apartment soon, and I can’t wait to leave the negative vibes behind–but if that’s all it takes to steel my mindset here in the city, then I’m fucked.
Because it’s still far too easy right now to blame my own failings on furniture and spoiled milk.

I’m only bringing this up because the over/under on number of daily sightings for this poster is at about 23 these days, but…

If there is anybody in this aimless, slothful excuse for a country who is even entertaining the thought of paying $10 to sit through this exercise in ego masturbation, I’m officially forbidding them from being my friend.

Or speaking with them.

Or stopping to dump a bucket of water on their flame-engulfed body.

Or saving them from being sliced up by a squad of machete-wielding midgets.

Ahhhh…..that feels much better.

On a side note, what happened to you, Eddie? Your ass used to be BEAUTIFUL. Raw, Delirious, Trading Places, SNL, Beverly Hills Cop…without you, I never would have grown up to be the well-adjusted Jewish mama’s boy who learned NOT to put his dick in the sink. Women all over the tri-state area should be kissing your feet.

This is funny, because I was thinking about this the other day while eating yet another terrible burrito:

Apparently I live in the Haight, which is news to me since I haven’t seen any annoying teenagers from New Jersey playing hackey sack or juggling with those stupid fucking sticks. And SOMA is so NOT TriBeCa.

But overall, a pretty good effort. And I’m always in favor of anything that totally gives the shaft to Oakland, where I spent over a year looking for the “there” and never found it.

(via Kottke)