I’m sorry, but I can’t make it to your baby shower at the end of the month. I’ll be in Las Vegas for the National Boggle Tournament. I know, you’re thinking, “I didn’t know Andy was a champion-level Boggle player.” Well, I’m not. I’m actually more of what you might call a Boggle groupie.
“Groupie.” That’s such a weighted term. I guess I’m more of a Boggle supporter. I go and cheer on all of the players, not just some but all. Because, I’ve seen the hard work and discipline needed to reach that level of Boggle success. And, it is so sexy.
Woman or man, I don’t care. You reach that echelon of National Boggle Tournament, and I just get wet. I can’t tell you how many convention hall janitor’s closets I’ve crammed into with two, three, five Boggle champions at once. Just sucking and fucking until it all becomes a blur, and we can’t even spell two-letter words, let alone three- or five-letter ones.
Technically, I get back the night before your baby shower. But, believe me, I will be in no shape to attend. I’m usually walking sideways for a week after the NBT in Vegas. Last year, I went straight back to work and had to explain all the dice-shaped bruises on my neck.
So, again, congratulations on the upcoming baby! Let’s have coffee sometime, so I can see pictures. I’ll bring ones of my trip. Wink wink.
As an angry, militant vegan even I have to admit that that smells delicious. What is that, a roast? Brisket? Whatever it is, you are a disgusting barbarian for cooking it, but it smells amazing.
Don’t get me wrong; meat is murder, and the subjugation of our animal brethren is tantamount to slavery. At the same time, my nose is in heaven right now. Do I detect a little fennel? Maybe a few shallots roasting in the succulent beef juices? You, sir, are a gifted, heartless monster.
Have you ever looked into the eyes of a cow? Have you seen the love they have for their young? The calm consideration of the world around them? Only to be inhumanely shuffled through a corrupt, unhygienic factory farm system. Slaughtered and sent to your plate to be smothered with a silky burgundy wine sauce and what looks like crispy, pan-fried bacon. What? It’s crackled pork belly? You’ve got to be kidding me! That looks incredible. Oh my god, so crispy and rich. And horrible.
Really, I’m tearing up. I’m not sure if it’s for the tragic loss of that poor cow and pig or if it’s just the beauty of a job well done. Somebody should take a picture of that dish. It could be the cover of a magazine or maybe some pamphlet about avoiding the temptation to eat meat.
Speaking of which, I’ve gotta step outside for a minute and look over some statistics about chickens and their cramped cages. Because, I’m feeling pretty torn right now, and I … uh … is that calamari with lemon zest and a peanut oil breading? Uh, I gotta go. I gotta get out of here. Enjoy your meal. Wait, no, don’t enjoy your meal. I’m … bye.
Here’s the thing about my wife bringing fudge home from her trip: She doesn’t realize that fudge goes bad in a matter of hours. Minutes even. So, it’s important that I eat all this fudge as quickly as possible. Back me up on this.
If I don’t keep standing up, opening the fridge, and slicing off chunk after chunk of fudge, it’s just going to rot in there. And, then it might infect all the other food in our fridge. I already think the lettuce looks iffy. That’s why I had fudge instead of a salad for lunch. I’m just looking out for our health.
Who buys two pounds of fudge, anyway? I realize it was split up into several containers, intended as gifts for friends. But, I do not feel comfortable giving our friends rotten fudge as gifts. We won’t see them until 8 o’clock tonight, when the fudge will have turned terribly unsafe. Before that can happen, I promise to make sure all of this fudge is eaten and unable to hurt anyone.
There’s just so much fudge, though. I’m having a hard time getting through it all. Don’t get me wrong--I know it’s my responsibility to eat huge mouthfuls of fudge as fast as I can. But, my tongue is getting sore and my throat hurts, so I’m having to wash it down with can after can of soda. My teeth are making noises. Not good noises, either. Like horror movie noises.
Yet, I believe in myself, and I know I can do this. Thank goodness my unemployment provides me with the free time necessary to take on this project. And, thank god for this Gilmore Girls marathon to keep me company during the slog.
I think I’m keeping pace to have most of the fudge gone by the time Colleen gets home from work. That’s important, because she kept trying to hide it last night. It’s as if she thinks I’m kidding about the danger this fudge presents if left to sit out, uneaten for the rest of the afternoon. I guess sometimes the greatest deeds go unappreciated. But often, that is the truest heroism, the most nobly duty. And, I accept that responsibility.
My thoughts on a recent art show.
[Text of the above audio. Best if read in a thick German accent.]
This weekend, I attended the rather large Armory Art Show in New York, and I found myself pondering the same question that critics and art historians have been asking for decades. Yes, it is beautiful. Yes, it hangs on the wall. But, is it a vagina?
I know, I know, it is the most subjective of questions. I assume many of you have settled on the classic answer: “I know a vagina when I see it.” But, especially in the world of contemporary art, I think it is an uncertainty that demands further study.
Anyone can look at the established, canonical artists like Egon Schiele or Georgia O’Keeffe and see that, yes, this is clearly a vagina. But, what of the work of Jeff Koons or Takashi Murakami, pieces that mix artistic technique with brazen commercialism? Are these still vaginas? (In the latter’s case, I believe it to be a mix. Some work is vaginal, while other pieces are something else completely.)
Can a pile of spilt sesame seeds be a vagina? Is a statue of Scrooge McDuck a vagina? What about a video installation of man hitting his penis with a belt? Surely, we can agree that this is a vagina.
Some of you might scoff, “Tut tut, my five-year-old can glue a triangle of shag carpet to an American flag. That doesn’t make it a vagina.” Well, I think this brings up further questions rather than easy answers. Is the scenario, itself, a sort of meta-discussion on the role of vaginas and their place in our daily lives? Can anything be a vagina when seen through the perspective of an artist?
I don’t believe we can come up with a so-called “answer,” but the topic deserves deep, penetrative analysis. Every day, we must strive to dive face-first into our basic precepts of what is and what is not a vagina.
I ate a peach yesterday that I think might have gone bad. How can you tell when a peach has gone bad? Can I just describe to you what happened?
Okay, first off, the peach looked fine. It was about shoulder height and white, with brown spots. It had a nice, fine layer of peach fuzz. Except near the back, where it had a long tail. And, I guess it had some extra hair running down the crest of its neck as well. But, everywhere else—the haunches, the muzzle—had standard-looking peach fuzz. And, it wasn’t bruised, beyond one spot behind the ribs.
The problem started when I took my first bite. Don’t get me wrong, it was juicy and delicious. But, as soon as I bit into it, it reared up on its hind legs and tried to run away. I had to grab the peach by its peach reins and hold on for dear life. The damn thing tried to kick me, if you can imagine. A peach trying to bite and kick someone?
I finally got a hold of it, and I ate the whole thing. All the way down to the pit/saddle. I mean whatever it takes to get your five daily servings, right? But, my stomach is super upset today. I feel terrible.
I was wondering, do you guys think I could be allergic to peaches? God, I hope not.
I’m trying to decide which superpower I’d want.
Flying is out, because I think I’d get chilly. Also, my contacts would dry out. Invisibility seems cool, but I don’t trust myself to stay away from women’s locker rooms, and I don’t want to be that guy.
I’ve thought about the ability to morph into animals, but it gets so complicated. Do you keep your human brain so that you know how to turn back? Let’s say you do. If you turn into a hummingbird, how do you fit a giant human brain inside there? Is it just packed in tight?
Pausing time seems rad, but again, the cold thing. Because, heat is just molecules moving around, so if you freeze time, doesn’t that mean it’s absolute zero all around you?
What? No, I know I need to make up my mind. There’s just a lot to think about.
Yes, I know you’re a very busy genie. You’ve been saying that ever since I let you out of the lamp. Seriously, don’t rush me. I’m still not sure these gold cowboy boots and Six Flags tickets were the best first two wishes.
Man, I wish I knew which was the best superpower. SUPER STRENGTH! I got it, super strength! Genie, I wish I had incredibly useful super strength. Wait, what? What do you mean I already used my third wish? Where are you going? Genie? Genie, get back here! Don’t turn into a cloud of smoke without my super strength!
I’d like to share with you guys my grandmother’s secret recipe for cheese biscuits. I can remember as a little kid, standing next to her in the cottage, watching her make these biscuits. She was always so proud of them and never let anyone have the recipe. But, now you will.
Here it is:
1) First, preheat your oven to 450° F. Lightly grease a cookie sheet with a vegetable oil.
2) In a large glass mixing bowl, mix together 2 cups of unbleached flour, either a tablespoon or a teaspoon of salt, and some other kind of powder. She wouldn’t tell anybody what kind of powder, but it was white. Maybe baking powder? Every time I’d try to look, she’d bat my hand with a wooden spoon.
3) Cut in butter with a pastry cutter until crumbly. At least, I think this is what she was doing. She’d keep her back between me and the bowl, blocking my view even if I tried to sneak around. But, afterward, it seemed like she had mixed in butter.
4) Stir in a cup of shredded cheese. (Again, no idea what kind. My dad asked once, and my grandma started screaming about respect for her secrets.)
5) Add 2/3 a cup of milk. This one I’m sure of, because once I hid above the fridge overnight and saw her making biscuits the next morning. When she found out that I was spying, she cried for a while and then told me that if I ever told anyone her secret recipe, the devil was going to come at night and take me in my sleep.
6) Kneed the dough on a floured cutting board until somebody comes into the room. Yell at them to get out, or there will be no biscuits! Do they want to ruin dinner for everyone?!! Roll the dough out about an inch thick and cut into 2 inch circles.
7) Bake at 450° for 10-14 minutes until a light brown. During this time, stand guard at the oven to make sure that no one tries to steal one of your biscuits. Hide any evidence of the recipe.
8) Remove from the oven and brush the tops with melted butter.
Hate is such a strong word. Can you ever really hate something? Like, if you say you hate strawberries, do you really mean that, or are strawberries simply not your favorite? Or a minute ago, when you said that you hated racism. Are you sure? Hate? Really? ‘Cause you seem pretty racist to me. I mean, I’ve only known you for a couple of years, but you’ve always been super racist.
Maybe it’s like how you hate Paul, because you see in him the things you’re not proud of in yourself. Same thing with racism. Maybe you have such strong feelings about racism because you are racist. Just like Paul.
Like, when you say it’s too bad that all black people hate Asians. That’s a little racist. Or, when you said that all the races should be kept separate so that no one can be racist towards each other. Again, pretty racist.
Instead of saying that you hate racism, maybe you could accept that you kinda like racism. A lot. You like racism a lot. That way, you could move on and become a better racist.
Take the other night at dinner, when you went off about immigration laws. I just think that if you allow for the idea that you’re a huge racist, you wouldn’t have to jump through so many hoops to say what you mean. You could just say that you hate Mexicans. Although, again, that’s a strong word: Mexicans.
Lost: One Cat. Any Color.
Answers to the name “Here Kitty Kitty.” Has a pleasant demeanor and likes children and other cats. Preferably well-fed and not too mangy looking. Long, shiny hair would be nice, but a tabby or whatever would do in a pinch.
If found please take to the vet and pay for proper shots and de-clawing. Also, keep the cat in your house for a little while to make sure it’s not crazy or sick. The cat I lost doesn’t piss everywhere.
Then, call 555-5212 and ask for “Ace.” (Or “Andy” if someone else answers and the nickname hasn’t sunk in yet.) If I’m not around, then nevermind.
Reward: Good Karma