fupafighter

Oh Yeah...

And Merry Christmas to everyone! 

I'm going back to eat now.

Hap-poo Holidays

Accomplishments during first full day back home:  bought one gift (for dad, which, keeping with tradition, he will return shortly after Christmas anyway), finished off half of a meatloaf, slept for 3  1/2 hours in the middle of the day, showered four times to battle boredom, and catatonically completed a five hour TV marathon--I might've even had a number plastered to my forehead.

In the end, however, I'm inspired by the South Park Christmas Special where our beloved children try and bring the holiday spirit to Iraq, and who better to help them than the festive feces Mr. Hanky.  This time Mr. Hanky helps the kids get to Santa through magic--with a swift plop he ebulliates the sewers of South Park, and the rivers of fecal matter congeal to form the Poo Poo Train.  This ridiculousness was of course giving me a cheek-pulsing grin, but to add to that Stan and Kyle are like, "Dude, that thing stinks," and proceed to ride upon this browneye express with their sweaters covering their noses.

Now there's relevance to this scenario and the holidays in general.  There are wonderful, Christmas smells...and then there are things that just for this time of the year smell exceptionally of ass.  For one,  CC related to me an experience she had yesterday on a subway car that stunk so heavily of piss that people were doing that very same gesture of visibly covering their nasal passages and fervently gagging in pain and disgust.

On my flight home, the little girl next to me had some flatulence issues that left the air so hot and damp I think her underwear would've been mistaken for the Fertile Crescent.  And the nice couple in front of me--doting three-hundred pound dad and mom with nothing short of a mullet--decided to change their baby's diaper right there in row 29, and then benevolently threw the dirty diaper next to my own seat.  It was actually fortuitous, for I'd been listening to my Ipod and thinking, "Hmm, I could use a scotch and a soiled Huggie right about now."  All of this in-flight fun was made even more enjoyable by the man sitting behind me making a sport of kicking my chair.  I almost said something when I got out of my seat and walked three-feet back to the latrine, but it really pulled at my heart strings when I noticed he was wearing a t-shirt that said "Got Lube?" on the rear.  One can only smile tenderly at such a sentiment.

Maybe I'll start wearing an eggnog strip under my nose.  What is it with the holiday funkiness?  I think beginning next year we should start celebrating Christm-ass.  Or at least that's how it seems...

Destroyed

...is the only word I can think of to describe myself right now.  I'm only hoping that this cloud of nausea that seems to have descended as a halo 'round my crest will serve the higher purpose of reminding me that nothing good can come of chugging drinks to make it somewhere on time, selling flavor-infused vodka by the carafe, and dressing for 40 degree weather in 10 degree weather.  I'm not sure which one I'm in danger of suffering from first--cirrhosis or pneumonia. 

On an up note, the Scissor Sisters rocked Hammerstein Ballroom last night, and folks, if you don't know who these guys are, then I don't even want you reading this blog.  Just go away. 

Kidding, kinda.  Please check them out here, they're just such fuckin' rockstars that you'll really want to be one too this time.

One last thing--as my friend CC told me today, the only reason I'm a good personal trainer is b/c I basically am a walking example of what you should NOT do to yourself.  And there is no better lesson than comparison.  I have to go enlighten a poor apple-shaped woman now.

The Rape of The New Yorker

So my lapse in postings can be attributed to two things: A) of course I left the first installment of my thesis to the absolute last minute and B) I've been frantically trying to hold onto my internship by shamelessly exploiting myself as a free worker around my office, ocassionally offering the innuendo of sexual favors. Okay, maybe not that last part, but now that I think of it, that might've helped.

Alas, now my schoolwork is almost up to date, however my future employment possibility looks grim at best. Therefore I have resorted to getting the most bang for my buck (or lack of) during my last six hours at The New Yorker magazine. Thus far, I have taken about 20 CD's and an assortment of books from the slush pile, a variety of office supplies, several magazines, a calendar, and a very pretentiously monogrammed New Yorker calendar/desk diary for 2005. Basically, I've turned this office into my temporary free-for-all, kind of like a Supermarket Sweepstakes where I just extend my arm and collapse everything off of the shelves into my messenger bag.

What this means for any of you? Be prepared to receive a lot of easy listening and cheesy fiction for Christmas. Ho, ho, ho, and blo, blo, blo me New Yorker...