Shits-a-lot and Stinky Smurf

My friend Lynne, who is working today, sends a collage-style picture of herself lying in an alleyway, with a dead fish on her face.
Marcel Parcells: Nice stick figure, and hair
Lynne: thx, note the serene smile
Marcel Parcells: yes, you seem to be at peace, finally
Lynne: (you might have to look under the trout)
Marcel Parcells: I think you should put some smell lines coming off the fish
Lynne: good idea, good team work
Lynne: I will get you a draft ASAP, drop all other work
Marcel Parcells: like Pepe Lepew
or Linus
"Stinky Smurf?"
Marcel Parcells: I think every cartoon should have had a smelly character. can you imagine if there had been a smelly Care Bear, it would have been called Shits-a-lot, and it would contribute a big smelly brown ray to the Care Bears’ rainbow.
Lynne: I think it would be poohs-a-lot
Marcel Parcells: Oh, yes, for the children. . .good thinking

Stop using this word: Snark

I hate the word, Snark. Firstly, it is unappetizing. It sounds like snarf or snork or snort. None of these have positive connotations for me. For those who don’t know, Snorks were underwater Smurf knockoffs that lived in the ocean and breathed out of snorkel-like tubes attached to the tops of their heads and looked suspiciously like smurf hats. I do not want to be reminded of them when I am reading on the Internets about something that falls between insightfully cynical and patently abusive in tone (read:snarky). This leads me to the second part. There are many words that are far superior, far more specific, and far more sonorous than snark, like “twatwafflery”, “douchebaggery”, “sarcastic humor”, “asshattery” and “biliousness.” Fuck you, snark.

Cats Stop the Rock

This is unbearably awesome. I mean, cats with little toy instruments.

My only question is,
"Cats, stop the rock"
or "Cats stop the rock"??

you should. . .sit down for a margarita

Because it's summer, and because sitting outside with a friend makes it seem less like alcoholism.

Even if she's not really much of a friend. And you're just there for the alcohol.

Cheers! You'll need to be drunk when she makes fun of your body, and then says your fat roommate is far sexier than you are. Here's to friends!

bad joke day

someone else:
I just can’t stand dating. I mean, so many times I finish one and I’m like, “You just wasted two hours of my life!”
Marcel Parcells: That’s what they always tell me at the end.
(APPLAUSE)

later, in the same conversation:
someone: I like to feel like I’m not wasting time. So, I make sure to do something I enjoy on a first date, like hiking. That way, at least you have a little fun.
Marcel Parcells: Yeah. I’ve tried that. But, the looking-at-porn date never seems to work out.
(APPLAUSE, STANDING OVATIONS, SOMEONE PRESENTS ME A MEDAL)

what I did this weekend

Watched a Midsummer Night’s Dream outside
Sweated
Went up to New Hampshire, was sunburned
Skinnydipped with a girl who had rejected me twenty minutes prior
Drank Bourbon
Broke into a school, was scared off by a baby raccoon. It purred at me.
Bicycled in the hot dark
Broke into an abandoned house. Was scared off by a homeless person. He was sleeping.
Attempted break-in to a newly constructed house. Locked.
Watched Million Dollar baby. I tried to hide my tears from my room mate, Branson.

you should. . .take note of fried foods

I just went to a wedding in Columbus, Ohio. Being the Eastern elitist that I am, I had kind of assumed that everyone would be superfat there, that I'd feel like an anorexic eel swimming in a see of blowfish. My hopes went up when the plane I took from Boston had these super wide seats. It was like the whole plane was first class seats, two to a row. And I thought to myself, "You know, this must be for the fatties."

A stewardess explained to me that we were on a charter plane that was usually used by a basketball team. I felt let down.

In the Midwestern airports and the Midwestern restaurants, I looked for fat people and fried food. I expected to be able to chronicle a bizarre medley of fried food unheard of in Boston, like fried pickles, fried cheese, fried sausage, and donuts that had been fried, then breaded, then fried again. I was let down again. I did see one enormous man with a grocery bag full of cheese curds, but they weren't even fried. Also, the people weren't nearly as fat as I wanted them to be. How am I supposed to feel superior to the people in the Midwest if they won't show up with glaring shortcomings?

Bobbing for Brahmins

I'm going to an Indian wedding this weekend. My co-worker, Miranda, is an Indian, and kindly gave me some Indian-style pick-up lines to use. See them below, with my modifications.

Yes, I am from Boston. Have you heard of the Boston Brahmins? My family’s like that. We’re a little like the Kennedys, without the alcoholism.

Every night I pray to Vishnu that Kashmir will one day belong to India again.

So, does that brown skin go all the way up?

This paneer is really good, but I prefer using whole milk when I make my own. So, do you want to fuck?

Ramalamadingdong. . .is that Indian for something?

Did I not introduce myself? I’m Dr. Parcells.

you should. . .buy Boxer, the new album by the National.

the National is a good band. The National is on tour, and I am missing all of their shows. The National writes sad songs with ambiguous, clever lyrics. The National is two pairs of brothers and a singer. The National’s lead singer has a nice baritone voice. The National’s songs are occasionally bleak, which is good for me.

The first National song I heard was All the Wine. I try to put any irony aside, and relish envisioning myself as a “perfect piece of ass.” I also like to have a big wet bottle in my fist. You know, I listen to it and I think I am a festival. I am a parade. Then I go get drunk, and the next morning I’m out of love with myself and whoever else was involved, and repentant. But still, good song. “All the Wine” is not on Boxer, but it is an excellent album nonetheless.

for consumption

George Saunders has a wonderful short story in May 28th's New Yorker. It's called "Puppy", and it's about mothers, children, pets, and the way we make decisions about these things. Bleak. Beautiful.

p.s. He also had a great story, called "the 400-pound CEO" read on a 1997 This American Life.
It's about a sad sack fatty who massacres raccoons for a living.

Internet Safety

The U.S. Senate has decreed that June is Internet Safety Month. I had no idea, but apparently internet bullies are a big fucking deal. Apparently, they call them “cyber-bullies.” I imagine cyber-bullies to be like the bad guys in Tron, riding those cool bikes that put up a wall behind them. Basically, the existence of internet bullies doesn’t really jive with my understanding, which is that all the people who use the internet are bespectacled wonk nerd geek assface shut-ins, and thus, the opposite of bullies. But apparently, America’s bullying community is now “online” as well, stealing people’s Paypal money, rubbing peoples faces into their keyboards, and administering Indian Sunburn/ Carpal Tunnel with brutal glee. Also check out this company Bsafe, which is using our enhanced awareness of internet safety to hawk their product. As far as I can tell, internet filters haven’t made us any safer in the past. I’m guessing this will continue to be the case in the future. But, hurray for awareness! I just hope the Senate gave this issue the debate time it needs.

you should. . . take the George Washington Memorial Parkway

At two on a Monday morning, the Parkway is desolate. Since no lamps show you the tree-lined roadway, speed will be scary. But it’s late, and you’re tired, and the fact that all you can see is trees makes you feel as if you’re in the wilderness. You play Rod Stewart to ameliorate the loneliness. Use both lanes. Really, the white lines are only important if other cars are on the road. When you pass Geogetown, you’ll remember you are not, in fact, in the wilderness. Get back in your lane, and try not to swerve as you try to glimpse the smart-looking buildings through the flicker-shutter of trees. The buildings look so bright.

You’re thinking about camping when the cop begins to follow you. You’re thinking about how, if these were real woods, and you had a tent, you would pull over your rented minivan and set up a cozy little campsite. The sirens remind you that you’re in D.C., and as the policeman reminds you that 20 miles over the speed limit is reckless driving in Virginia, try to look him in the eye. The Washington Monument is sticking out of the top of his head like a unicorn horn, and you find it quite distracting.

things I have learned from Judd Apatow

I like Judd Apatow's work. I have learned from him.
Here is what I have learned from The 40 Year Old Virgin:
1. It's never too late to have sex with Catherine Keener.
2. As pathetic as I become, I may still get to have sex with Catherine Keener.
3. Electronics salesmen get way more ass than I do.
4. Sex is a beautiful thing when done with the person you love. Otherwise, it is scary.
5. I cry at tender moments.
6. Romany Malco, Seth Rogan, and Paul Rudd all have hairy chests. And are wonderful dancers.

Here is what I have learned from Knocked Up:
1. Even if become a fat unemployed drunkard, I may still get to have sex with Katherine Heigl.
2. Munich is a cool movie because of its badass Jews.
3. Unemployed stoners get way more ass than I do.
4. Unprotected drunken sex is a beautiful thing when it leads to babies, love.
5. I still cry at tender moments.
6. Drugs are cool for single guys, and for committed guys only when it leads to self-revelation.

you should. . .see the doctor

You should see the doctor for some pills. I guess you’ll have to go to the psychiatrist, but let's face it, you don’t want to pull any Tony Soprano shit, where you’re talking too much about your crimes and your family. You just want some sleeping pills, so that when you drink too much and are afraid you’ll wake up at three in the morning with drymouth drunksomnia, you can take a sleeping pill to get you the rest you deserve. So, make up some work-related stress, because you don’t want to talk about your family (those peoples are embarrassingly fucked-up!), even though this is a “safe space”. Claim you drink very little alcohol, and even less caffeine, and nobody you’ve ever met has a history of mental illness (which is for poor people and rich people, not the middle classes). The doctor will prescribe you some sleeping pills, and tell you to come back to learn some “relaxation techniques”. Take the pills. Don’t come back. Mission accomplished. The pill bottle will say not to consume them with alcohol, but that’s what they all say, right? They can’t all mean it.