Now this blog has gotten a new name and a new location:

Daily Dares

Update non-existent bookmarks and RSS feeds accordingly.

Ohhhhhhh thank you Boing Boing. Thank you thank you thank you. You have given me sweet, sweet justification for looking down upon those pathetic little wastrels using–gasp–Hotmail:

A guy, who works in the department of a Human Resources consultancy company, says they made a selection process in which, among other things, they asked for a person with ample experience in using the internet (navigation, searches, formats…).

They received 50 candidacies, from which 30 came from Hotmail-directions, all of them erased as they entered.

The reason: You can’t pretend being an internet expert and use a Hotmail account at the same time.

The lingering pangs of guilt from all those times I saw a @hotmail.com address and nearly threw up in my mouth…gone! Always comforting to have respected nerd blogs giving you license to practice l33t elitism.

Hotmail users deemed too dumb for employment at firm

3 weeks! Unbelievable, I know. I’ll never comprehend how the earth manages to spin on its axis without my contributions to the blogorgy–you know, a couple musty old links and bad jokes born out of sexual frustration. Nevertheless, I push on in the interests of self-flagellation, seeing as how writing blog posts is proving to be akin to getting swatted with a bamboo cane across my ass. After laying naked in the Arizona sun for two days, that is.

There has actually been a surplus of things to blog about–Spring Training, the wonder that is California, moving across town, sexy bloggers–but true to form, I’m going to delve into the trivial and insignificant. Like the bassist for the the New Violators, a 5-piece from Norway who have decided to bring back the spirit of The Fixx and numerous other shitty 80s synth-pop bands:

This dude looks like he got lost on the way a Journey video shoot. Am I right?

You can’t let a sight like this go without documenting it for posterity, which is why I will once again praise the technology gods for granting us tiny cameras on our phones. This guy’s pants are so tight you can practically read his DNA; I can’t even conceive of how he can wedge his legs into them, outside of getting them sewn around his legs and just never taking them off, EVER. And wearing the blazer kills me; maybe he got dressed, was checking himself out in the mirror and just thought, “I need to OWN this look…this is the 21st century now, we’ve got to class things up a bit.”

No one tells you that living in NYC and going to a fair number of concerts is akin to enrolling in a sociological study of the Early 21st Century Hipster Douche, but maybe that’s one of those things that should be self-evident. More to come as events warrant.

The odds say you do not read the offbeat web comic Achewood. The odds also say you are a terrible person, who desperately needs to acquire an aura of hipper-than-thou coolness and a better haircut. [Hate to tell you, but that shit you got now is whack, yo.]

Anyway: Read this strip from last week, then try to tell me Philippe the Otter isn’t smarter than all of us. I know I’m not.

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 a desperate attempt to distract from the morass of legal troubles that’ll end with a stint in federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison except no one will try with me because I will squeeze the grey matter out of their head between my forearm and bicep and do you see how carefree and happy I am? DO YOU GODDAMMIT?

Sigh. This is going to be a long year.

Spreading condoms out among the masses has always been something I’m on board with, for those of us who believe encouraging more fucking among the populace is a net positive for society. Fewer babies, fewer STDs, maybe a few more mixed messages and awkward sex stories? Totally worth it in the end.

Apparently the Designated Asshole stepping up the the plate for the religious fundies is Bill Donohue of the Catholic League, having himself quite the busy week between this and trashing innocent bloggers. Quoth the putz*:

“What’s next? The city’s own brand of clean syringes? Every illiterate in America already knows about the wonders of condoms. At a time when police and firemen are underpaid, is this really the best use of city money?”

Well. Let me assist Mr. Donahue with his obvious cry for sex and drugs. To Craigslist we go!

Reply to: pers-thisis20fucking07@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-02-15, 11:08PM EST

Aggravated, witty 25-year-old SWM seeking 300-pound leather daddy to inflict unspeakable torture on bloviating fundamentalist asshat. Thinking whips, chains, anal penetration with heroin-filled sex toys. No need to watch; the screams will be enough. Must wear condom, however.

[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.