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Statistics |
| Unique Visitors: 4 |
| Total Unique Visitors: 211431 |
| Visitors Out: 4772 |
| Total Visitors Out: 8469 |
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| Who's Gonna Drive You Home, Tonight |
| 2009-06-19 16:32:00 |
Picture yourself on the side of a congested highway, vehicles speeding inches from your foothold. Asphalt kicks up in clumps as cocaine-addled truckers stress-test the road with their endless convoy. Stretching for miles, a turbid haze in various shades of sepia muddles the urban vista. Adding insult to injury, your tire’s blown a flat yet the trunk carries no spare. And you – stubborn Luddite born of cost savings and technological rejection – lack a mobile device; placing yourself at the mercy of nearby exit ramps, derelict gas station pay phones, and hypodermic needles jabbing forth from their change return slots. In a harrowing commute turned hellacious journey, you, my friend, stand on the shoulder of a bustling artery amidst the choking exhaust of metropolitan rush hour. And you...
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| Of Human Bondage (To Human Toilets) |
| 2009-06-11 12:33:00 |
“I need to tell you something, and I know this might sound a bit disturbing (pause) but it’s very possible that the prior owner of this condo replaced her old toilet with a refurbished one.”–realtor, phone conversation prior to closing, 2003Although common sense was never assumed to be widespread, common courtesy, its more easily learned cousin, requires little in the way of intelligence. When applied to the real estate market, if a sensible person were to knowingly list their house with a broken toilet, they might arrange for a replacement (or at very least, a reduction in price) as a condition of sale. And no, in a quest for that porcelain proxy, trolling white trash yard sales or ghetto fabulous scrap heaps – those venues of toothless impropriety – is never an acceptable sol...
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| Lost In Limbo: An Accelerated Romp Through Generations |
| 2009-06-07 20:28:00 |
The Vermont County Store – purveyor of AARP-approved house frocks and other oddities targeted toward countrified shut-ins – has been advertising a primordial typewriter with the bravado generally reserved for President’s Day auto commercials. According to the latest catalog, inadvertently delivered to these quarters by my normally astute (and hernia recovering) mailman, the Manual Olivetti Typewriter beckons “all thinking persons past the age of discretion.” Or, translated into the common vernacular, “all persons with fond memories of the Conestoga wagon and unsliced bread.” Already scarred by the cancellation of Lawrence Welk, and shaking in their pantaloons at the advent of digital television conversion, lengthy testimonials from the so-called Greatest Generation read like ...
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| Sniff More Stank To Smell More Roses |
| 2009-06-03 10:08:00 |
“That in digesting our common food, there is created or produced in the bowels of human creatures, a great quantity of wind. That the permitting this air to escape and mix with the atmosphere, is usually offensive to the company, from the fetid smell that accompanies it. That all well-bred people therefore, to avoid giving such offence, forcibly restrain the efforts of nature to discharge that wind.”–Ben Franklin “Fart Proudly (or A Letter To A Royal Academy)”When addressing matters of waste disposal amidst the nation’s vast lavatory network, The Bastard directs an approving fist pump to those lacking in human empathy. And while your fearless author can tally his lifetime public evacuations on one hand, his rule for anti-compassion dually extends into the private sanctum. Namel...
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| If You Listen Closely, You Can Hear The Banjos Strumming |
| 2009-05-26 17:45:00 |
“Yes, We Have Fried Tripe.”Those were five words which cemented my arrival in the epicurean backwoods of northern New England. Not only was this crudely erected hash house of corrugated metal located on the boulevard of destitute dreams – where streets are lined with Bubba Teeth, and tag sales doom the used shit of an incestuous square mile to forever circulate from driveway to driveway – but this purveyor of roadkill was delighted to advertise bovine stomach chambers as their principal entrée. Squashed squirrel or poached possum be damned, demand for this kibble must have been inspiring enough for the posting of handmade signs promoting its re-availability; signs which, mind you, were plastered on every vertical beam holding the roof in place. One must no longer settle for the ch...
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| Seven Years |
| 2009-05-11 11:44:00 |
The subway prophets spew knowledge and nonsense, unsolicited in the tunnels underground. At times absurdly humorous, but more often militant or scripted, their paeans to God, instructions toward repentance, and reminders of homelessness are ever-present in the sidewalk cellar, competing for attention alongside vermin and peddlers. Last week, the token Caucasian caught my ear with his religious fearmongering, warning of damnation in a city proud to be damned. Plastered across the chest of his navy sweatshirt were the words “Risk All,” while “Fear God” adorned the back in chunky block letters. And like most of the mentally unstable brethren who pay their $2 to entertain and educate, our friend warned of final judgment, his speech authenticated with fire-and-brimstone scripture. Seven...
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| Hotter Than Hell |
| 2009-05-07 10:03:00 |
Between 2001 and 2006, I’d secretly hoped that my friend would drop dead. Well, perhaps “hoped” is a strong word, but my reflexes would have slackened considerably had his frame, say, wandered under a falling piano or against an electrified fence. Although the man claimed relatively sound health, even the heartiest of souls forget to look both ways when crossing the street, especially when nudged nonchalantly into traffic. Normally I’m not an evil man, but these and other scenarios of demise remained wildly vivid like an endless ‘Faces of Death’ montage. Ultimately, should the Reaper have dragged his sickle to Connecticut during that five year window, the chest bumps would have begun seconds after the Cloak of Doom’s Amtrak ticket was punched for his return trip from New Have...
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| Be Funny, Be Wry, Bea Arthur |
| 2009-04-30 09:44:00 |
Poor Bea Arthur, ravaged by a cancer unbeknownst to her quietly rabid fan base, and eventually lowered six feet under a career marked by stupendous comic timing and brilliant dry wit. Perhaps it was the manner in which she cut through absurdity with a flippant wave of the hand and cleverly pointed quip – shrewdly gaming the less sophisticated ruffian with a sarcasm-soaked dismissal – or that gravely voice more suited for a geriatric sex operator; but whatever the attraction (from those, which logic dictated, should not be attracted), Ms. Arthur had rightly steered a talent for droll retorts into a financially rewarding canon of work. Armed with a resumé of near legendary hyperbole, her towering frame projected the authority to uproot mighty sequoias from their base, to batter airplane...
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| The City Never Sleeps When Jews Cruise The Streets |
| 2009-04-11 00:54:00 |
When navigating the streets of Manhattan – whether en route to the office, late for a happy ending in the back room of a nail salon, or paying a lustful visit to the moneyed geriatric in the Plaza Hotel penthouse – the fastest method of transport has always been the familiar yellow cab. Piloted by unfriendly Middle Easterners with consonant-choked names and a penchant for faking their understanding of English, the quality and comfort you relinquish is agreeably traded for speed. Said differently, while many drivers view their air conditioning as a malicious affront against gas mileage, preferring to bathe in the humid soup of car exhaust, these captains of transportation will sideswipe old women to usher their passengers in rapid succession. Yes, the irony of Arabs fouled by high energ...
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| Red Sauce Wrecking Ball |
| 2009-04-08 10:18:00 |
After suspecting mafia infiltration within his company, my cousin promptly fouled his pants and scuttled out of state. Now, I haven’t had the privilege of breaking bread (or antipasti) with La Cosa Nostra, but excepting the random evidence of cement shoe fittings in the boss’ office, or panicky associates racing by your cubicle holding their sliced throats, I’m not sure how one arrives at such an extreme conclusion. It’s possible that Cuz became paranoid once biscotti trays and espresso replaced the usual coffee and donut tender at staff meetings. Or perhaps the cafeteria switched to an all sauce menu, with rumors of matronly plumpers tending to tanker-sized vats brimming with marinara. And I suppose the erection of a monstrous crucifix in the building lobby – with guards upholdi...
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