"unfortunately, we have no leftovers."

sonya thomas wolfed down a 10 pound turkey in 12 minutes. she weighs under one hundred pounds, and is considered one of the top competitive eating... uh... eaters... this side of takeru kobayashi, according to the international federation of competitive eating. thomas also holds records in scarfing down hard-boiled eggs, baked beans, and oysters to name a few. which makes one thing perfectly clear: you do not want to be caught standing behind her on a crowded crosstown bus during rush hour on a humid summer day after one of her competitions.

given the mass consumption of so much turkey in such short order, sonya thomas is celebrating her victory by napping until christmas eve.

a dick in more than just name only

it's a fun game to play. when the white house has its feet held to the fire (accountability, so-called restoration of integrity and dignity to the oval office), they start crying about patriotism and liberal cowardice -- even when those sparking the debate are more patriotic and cajones-abled than those doing the bashing. the only enemy fire dick cheney's seen is the faulty zippo that fails to light his marlboros.

no self-respecting republican should've been comfortable with how those oval office vulgarians lambasted Congressman Jack Murtha, calling him a Michael Moore liberal. who came up with that nugget of 4th grade recess name calling -- dubya or dick? either way, it was ridiculous (some gop congressional brownshirt even quoted a letter from a marine that said, in part, 'cowards cut and run, marines never do.' i doubt that any self-respecting marine would say that about a man like jack murtha.

vice-president cheney today came to his senses and distanced himself from his attacks on murtha and those who are debating the war(for context, watch the entirety of his speech at CNN.com). thanks for remembering this is america, dick, and not the corporate fascist halliburton subsidiary you wish it was.

now, shut the fuck up and find osama bin laden you goddamned snake oil salesman.

the end of guerilla marketing

Corporate Grafitti

it was inevitable. the marketing powers that be have evolved. be afraid. be very afraid.
photo from gothamist.com

if it were only that easy, mr. president...

Shame on those congressional commies for posing questions about this war!
How dare they attempt to impugn the integrity of the White House's agenda with this antiquated idea of "checks and balances"!!!
Operation: Iraqi Freedom - The Death Toll

Cowards saying we should cut and run. What do those Michael Moore-apologists know about running a war effort?

Operation: Iraqi Freedom - What $200B Looks Like


found this pic on the internets. pretty sure he dropped barney soon after. these two links give a visual perspective to cost of freedom's march.

blogs are meant for moments like this

that tie is f*cking huge. huge and pink. and done up all windsor n shit. hell, that's uber-windsor. who wears this? this tie with the freaking giga-knot? ryan seacrest. subbing for larry king on last night's larry king live. talking with nicole ritchie, who looks positively skeletal. there's an awful lot that's troubling about ryan seacrest filling in for larry king. king has had his share of critics, who insist he's the master of the softball question ("so, charlie manson. what's it like, really, living in prison while enjoying iconic status amongst the tweakers and the heroin addicted trustafarians in williamsburg? you're on t-shirts, you're on coffee mugs. you're a franchise, my friend!"). i like to think of king as captain obvious, one likely to spurt out endless "no duh!" lines in his USA Today column: "That Angelina Jolie. Have you seen those lips? And how about that George Clooney? He's one handsome man!"

but i digress. what's troubling is that a simple bastard like seacrest is given such a high-profile gig with which to display his tragic mediocrity. he'll obviously handle the fluff and bullshit -- nicole ritchie is about as newsworthy as the peanut shards ensconsed in the bowel movement i just dropped an hour ago. and upon viewing a touch of the interview on CNN.com (free video, you know), i couldn't help but notice seacrest's cadence and mannerisms are borderline lauer-esque. there's the upper body lean-in; the slightly raised eyebrow to demonstrate his 'genuine' curiousity; the open-faced hand punctuating the real serious questions ("now, nicole. are you using? no? okay. ...are you holding?"); as he fishes around for just the right way to pose a question to this 78-lb mass of skin, bones, narcotics, and bile, he may pause a bit to reflect, you can see the ambition in his eyes. but he's just impersonating a host and a journalist. he wears a suit well, and his foppish hair and aura of homosex give him that smidgen of edginess that's necessary to keep the boys on the editorial staff of People magazine chatting. but i guess when it comes right down to it, larry king -- johnny softball; captain obvious -- doesn't want someone with any semblance of heft or gravitas filling in for him, because it would make it crystal clear to viewers that larry king, despite his tens and thousands of hours of interviewing the planet's movers and shakers, is a bit of a lightweight.

"ramble on. now's the time/the time is now. sing my song..."

sometimes a cabal is just a cabal...

gang of four. seven samurai. four non blondes. two smoking barrels (fresh off the lock/stock). three of a kind. five easy pieces. one night stand. twelve monkeys. forty acres and a mule (deferred).

four guys standing on a corner. group of guys. up to no good.

four jews standing on a corner. jewish cabal. running the show.

four negroes standing on a corner. gang of thugs. crips, maybe.

four iraqis standing on a corner. insurgents. w/ their goddamn rpg.

four white guys standing on a corner. board of directors. engaged in malfeasance and misappropriation. for sport.

four buffys standing on a soho corner. buncha chicks tryna front like they sex&thecity n' shit. e'ryone tryna be charlotte n' whatnot.

four celebutantes standing on a corner. scion's entourage. waiting for wilmer vallderama to bring the coke.

vomitus.

file under: wtf

wait. you can actually do this through your computer?

...eh.

the blog. the sound of one hand clapping. the toppled sequoia in the forest. what silence looks like.

smells like division title

never mind the orange jerseys (hi, can you say Denver Broncos circa 1980?). the chicago bears are looking quite badass. they've got the best defense in the nfl, and yesterday were responsible for the longest play in nfl history. now that's how you bear down. when it comes to pro sports, chicago is looked at as an also-ran (even sports illustrated failed to give the world champion white sox the cover after their historic world series win. bastards). you heard it here first -- the bears will take the place of the philadelphia eagles in this year's nfc championship game... leading up to a superbowl rematch with those pesky new england patriots, a battle 20 years in the making. that's right, bitches. fuck yeah.

for crony, a long hard road from minding the steed.

just when you thought you'd heard/seen the worst of it, more incompetence from the world's most famous ex-arabian horse sheppard. speaking of arabia, can someone levy a fatwa on this jackass?

meanwhile, in the situation room...
the daily global threat assessment briefing is winding down.

dubya jots a joke down on the presidential notepad. let's out a little chuckle, shimmies the shoulder, slides it over to condi. she's all clandestine as she draws the note near. it reads:

"w/ friends like mike brown, who needs liberals?"

condi busts out a laugh. not laughter. just one laugh... *ha. but it's not just 'ha', it's more like a 'pfthfwHAH!!' loud, piercing. it jumps to the ceiling and blasts into all four corners. her body does a little upward heave, tethered... ever so gently... to the ascending-- it's a chortle, and a guffaw together, and a touch of shriek underneath it all. it throws everyone when it happens cuz there's no predicting when the good secretary doctor's gunna bring it. funny... her sense of humor; it can be quite black, really.

they do this, dubya & doc con... w/ the passing of the notes during the briefings and the summits...


"hey c, prime minister speech was good...",
"hey c, thx for e. europe debrief..."
"hey c, i think i may need a bathroom break? is this possible?"


(like fourth grade language arts class; you try and pay attention but johnny funboy behind you is passing forward torn & folded scribbles and drawings and doodles or like that one time it was gum.)

an aide escorts the press in for the standard snapshots and softball q&a. dubya & condi are still in shits & giggles mode; dubya's shoulders bounce as he chuckles, then he tries to regain some semblance of composure by furrowing the brow and chewin' on his inner cheek. condi can't contain her ear to ear alfred e. newman grin.

someone asks dubya to comment on the mike brown e-mails. "mr. president, do you regret telling former fema director mike brown that he was doing, "a heck of a job" in the aftermath of katrina, now that mr. brown has been exposed as a bumbling jackass?"

"lemme tell ya som'n," dubya begins, a little ornery. "you media folk, yer always tryna play this game of 'do you regret' or 'are you sorry' or 'doesn't so and so deserve an apology. and the answer to your question is a... rescinding 'no'. i don't regret saying what i said to mike brown because if you look at what i said, you'd see there's nothin doin with regards to apologizin. what i said was, 'brownie, you're doing a heck of a job'. the operative word there in what i said is 'heck'. and 'heck' is a whole lot different than 'hell'. a helluva job would imply that he was doing good by fema and the katrina folks. a heckuva job implies the exact opposite. any dimwit would understand that. now, if you don't mind, i need to head to an ethics meeting. scotty'll be more'n happy to answer any more of your folks's questions."

and in his spare time, maybe he'll pen a sequel...

while he was blazing a trail of neoconservative activism with his right-minded colleagues, i. lewis 'scooter' libby found time to write a trashy novel set in 1900s Japan chock full of concubines, geishas, deer fucking, and a smidgen of incest thrown in for good measure. this article from the november 7th issue of The New Yorker has some excerpts, and it's apparent that the mag's overtly liberal, anti-philistine leanings have clouded its objectivity. they should have just titled the article Scooter is a Neo-con & That's Why We Hate Him. can't a decent right-winger write about far east gang bangs without those liberal commie bastards getting their panties in a bunch?

the post-ironic future crisis of tom & katie awaits the armchair quarterbacking of the literary geniuses at US Weekly

this is going to be awesome. once katie holmes gives birth to l.ron, jr., , all of america will be consumed by reports that the young starlet suffers from a severe case of post-partum depression. tom will return home from shooting M:I-3 to find katie doing the Michael Jackson Balcony Tango with their newborn (who will have been determined to be -- thanks to a wierd kaballah/voodoo seance administered by madonna during katie's third trimester -- the scientological equivalent of the messiah).

katie, with her crying, bloodshot eyes and her brown locks covering her mucus-stained face, will scream out, "tommy, i can't take it anymore! i can't stand this baby! i want to kill myself!"

tom might stop in his tracks, furrow his brow and tilt his head towards her curiously before flashing his dazzling pearly whites...

tom will give her vitamin c with rose hips and a couple lysine tabs, do a quick audit on her mental state, and say something along the lines of, "katie, look. look at me. look at me. you are fine. fine. you're just having a bad day. take this folic acid, have a little nap, and we'll go down to the celebrity center and have dinner with the travoltas." big, dazzling smile.

katie won't be having any of it. she'll smack the vitamins out of tom's giving hand, and pull out a loaded gatt, aiming it modified john woo-style at tom. through her sobs, she'll say, "you know, tom, while you were out shooting your damn movie, i was talking with brooke, and reading up on her memoir, and she tells me i need a heavy dose of wellbutrin if i'm ever to get through this depression--"

tom will cut her off. "excuse me? wellwhat? depressed what?! listen to me. listen. to. me. you put that gun down right now and you give me that baby and you take these god damned vitamins, you little toledo bitch. because you know who makes the rules here? tom makes the rules. that's right. and i didn't shell out ten million large so you can make uninformed decisions about how to deal with some fantasy ailment and pump your body full of pharmaceutical poison. now, i'm going to count to three, kate. i'm going to count. to. three."

he'll pause, but only for another dazzling smile and to remove his aviator shades (to give the moment the perfect note of gravity it deserves).

"one... two... kate? there are no more numbers between two and three, you know this... seriously, kate. do i look like i'm playing games? Ka.. com--... two and a half..."

she'll drop the gun, wipe away her salty tears and collapse into tom's arms, but not before pounding on his substantial pecs, crying in heaves and screaming, "why?! why?!!"...

it'll send the US Weekly newsroom into a hotbed of activity and blah blah blah.

gag me with a decked hall

this is october 31st, 2005.
50th & 6th, midtown.
morning.

the eve of all saints has barely begun here, and the signs of christmas are already afoot. tin men, drummer boys, santa, the reindeer, and all that jingle jangle... icons and idols borne of that magical time when capitalism and commercialism intersect in a land of merriment and holly jolly.