This time, instead of Brendan Fraser as a caveman, it'll be a WEED MOVIE about some amazing 30,000-year-old cannibis hidden by a hesher squirrel.
(This 2,700-year-old marijuana stash was probably some bamma shit. The movie would have to be about kush of biblical quality.)
I was having a conversation with one of my female friends, a gynaecologist last week poolside at the Hilton and she dropped a phrase on me that struck my funny bone, right in the sweet spot, so much so I almost spat out my apple vodka martini. She was railing about how Jamaica was a land of the 'traumatised vaginas' because of the 'daggering culture' that prevails in this country and how men need to understand the delicate petals of a flower that is a woman and blah-de-blah-blah-blah.
I wasn't surprised.
NOTE: LOUD REGGAE MUSIC WILL COME OUT IF YOU CLICK.
If you run or do yoga, you obviously know about the endorphins.
Yes, they are basically the same thing as smoking crack.
Last time I checked, crack addiction was uncool.
So, if you're preparing to post a Facebook status update about running or yoga, ask yourself the following fundamental question:
IF I JUST SMOKED SOME CRACK, WOULD I BE BRAGGING ABOUT IT?
No, you probably wouldn't.
But if you did just smoke a giant crack rock, and you did decide to brag about it on Facebook, you are awesome. Ain't nothin' gonna keep you down!
ADDENDUM: People also could start posting whenever they get laid: "I just had sex for 3.7 minutes! So awesome!"
|Also known as glatiramer; used to reduce episodes of symptoms in patients with relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis.||Clement Seymour "Sir Coxsone" Dodd was a Jamaican record producer who was influential in the development of ska and reggae in the 1950s, 1960s and beyond.|
|May prevent the body's immune system from attacking the myelin coating that protects nerve fibers.||Known to increase Tetrahydrocannabinol consumption in humans, primarily via inhalation of marijuana smoke.|
• I have no idea what caused Stephen Pearcy's hernia. But I find it interesting. And not because the Ratt frontman is officially middle-aged. Everybody had a field day with that. Ha ha ha ha, yeah, whatever, old rocker gets a hernia.
• But let's be more thoughtful about this. Take a closer look. These are Stephen Pearcy's hips in a recent picture:
• Ignore the cock-bulge for a second and note that those are some skinny-ass hips. He's always been a skinny-ass motherfucker. Here's what he looked like during the Ratt heyday: Frontman-fit, but not exactly poppin' with muscle, either:
• Now, I am no expert on hernias, sports medicine, orthopedics, kinesiology, physiology or old people. But I do know this: With hips like that, Pearcy probably didn't have much of a base for anything involving physical strain. Just takin' a shit or closing the trunk of his car was probably a roller-coaster ride.
The Real Housewives of New York can eat the dicks at the bottom of the bag of dicks; I find those ladies utterly exhausting, and they also make me sad in the same way the gorilla house at the zoo makes me sad. The Jersey chicks, though? Now that's some fake-realness that calls to me. It says: "We are a hugely cartoony bosomy exaggeration of the suburban life that wraps America like a fleece blanket. You knew us once. Perhaps we sat next to you in religion class."
I mean, yeah, I usually cannot make it through an entire hour of their horseshit. But I almost get there. The RHNJ/RHNY show-to-show minute-watching-capability proportion looks something like this:
45/NJ = 15/NY
And within last night's 45, there was Teresa's epidural. She was having a baby. The baby turned out to be beautiful. Blah blah blah. It was rich Jersey people making a rich Jersey kid. But I *loved* watching that needle go in. Not in some sort of sadistic way. Nor was schadenfreude a factor. And yes, it was gross, but it also was reality-show peril at its most poetic: Give the flesh-and-blood woman a hardcore anesthetic because she exists and therefore has a nervous system and is not a guido robot.
In that infinitesimal moment, as she was slathered in iodine, I did not want her to be hurt. THIS IS WHAT MAKES AMERICA GREAT.
PREVIOUSLY: PROSTITUTION WHORE
I considered spiders, scorpions, beetles and ants. But the wasp? Oh so nice. Quote: "And that is a very important stage in the development of the social life. In fact, it's the very basis on which all the great insect societies are built. This species of wasp, however, is still at the stage of working alone."
HEY CLONING-EXPERTS, when you get a chance, can you clone hip-hop a few times and give a clone to these people? So they can torture it to death and then defile/desecrate the clone-corpse quietly and in private, without harming the actual corpse of hip-hop?
PREVIOUSLY: PLEASE CONTINUE TOUCHING THE PEN THAT WAY
recognizes the influx of micronutrients, and within minutes my bowels
relinquish a fine display of fecal prowess. It is approximately 5:30
p.m., not within my normal dook-realm.
Anthony Bourdain, if you're reading this, I say: This is your next
frontier. Don't riff on the meat or how good it tastes. Tell me if your
body was so pleased that you had to un-cage a glorious king snake
Make it be so.
Poop safely and soundly, but with beautiful hair, yo.
Doctors presumed he was in a vegetative state following a near-fatal car crash in 1983. They believed he could feel nothing and hear nothing. For 23 years. Then a neurologist, Steven Laureys, who decided to take a radical look at the state of diagnosed coma patients, released him from his torture.
Let's call it The Diving Bell & The Butterfly II: Brussels Awakening, or even better yet, Le scaphandre et le papillon: Réveil à Bruxelles.
Holy shit, it's gonna be better than Avatar.
* Damn, yo, Artcyclopedia.com is ugly, for a Web site about art.
(Photo from Flickr user 66Baseball)
Yer Poppa complained loudly about the fact that many of the Phils' first-round playoff games were on the boobtube at inconvenient times -- like, uh, 2:30 p.m. on a Wednesday, when even Your Friendly Office Bourbon Fiend might have a hard time saying "I gotta get LUNCH" with a plausibly straight face. Now I'm wondering if all this prime-time October baseball action is only a mirage of convenience. Because on Monday night, I fell asleep well before Jimmy Rollins hit that double, and I awoke only to the sound of TBS announcers pulling their tongues out of their tracheas. Dude, I'm an old man, and an 8:07 start time only guarantees that I gotta guzzle some PG Tips or a Mt. Doo-Doo to stay awake for all 9 innings.
If so, any musical notation of beatboxing would have to include that tiny fact.
This twister was in Canada, but whatever. They're weird, too.
The rise of the pocket video camera means that every single fucking tornado that comes into contact with civilization is now probably preserved in pixels. I'm actually OK with this, because of all the shit that happens on a regular basis in the sky, tornadoes are the closest thing -- in disposition, if not constitution -- to angry extraterrestrial life forms descending on the landscape. In fact, I have a hypothesis that goes something like this: Give a Flip camera to every knucklehead in tornadoland, and large swaths of our nation's rich UFO-conspiracy heritage would start to dissolve. Because, really, look at that huge fucking tornado. Holy shit.
If I had found that any of these young ladies indeed had searched for me, I would consume antibiotics immediately, out of concern that I would be subject to novel and potent species of contagion. If you should label me irrational for such fears, I would suggest that the biology of the common skank is inclined toward mysterious and powerful mutations at the level of microflora. When mingled with powerful (and perhaps untamed) communications technology, a skank's potent parasites cannot be presumed to remain purely in the organic realm. Just inserting this photograph into this blog entry has left me with a keen desire for hand sanitizer.
They want you to be able to smell farts.
And they want you to be able to smell dangerous, smoky farts.
But they don't want you to eat food that causes really awesome farts.
I'm writing a letter.
QUOTE: "I took an American Red Cross CPR class so that I’d be prepared to respond to cardiac emergencies. On the runway and off, at work or hanging out with my kids, I want to be ready to help if something happened." -- from Heid Klum, via the American Red Cross, about June being National CPR/AED Awareness Week.
TRANSLATION: "Those underfed, brittle-boned, meth'ed-up, dehydrated, chain-smokin' runway bitches keel over at the most inopportune times."
Translation: "If we could, we would."
The female narrator of the American version of "Planet Earth" is a bit more titillating and emphatic than the grumpy British guy, but they're both quite facile with the phrase "wild ass." The Brit:We couldn't find the lady's version anywhere. But you could totally sample her "wild ass" for a hip-hop hit.
Charles Q. Choi writes in the April 2009 issue of Scientific American that a species of dung beetle has gone from scavenging for poop to preying on other bugs. The eight-millimeter-long nocturnal Deltochilum valgum:
Choi's blurb isn't online yet, but the original report is available at Biology Letters.
"We are not especially disappointed for the death of the cloned newborn."
"We will try to improve the technology in order to increase the efficiency of the cloning process."
"The public should not leap to the conclusion that we are on the edge of cloning woolly mammoths or dinosaurs."
"Even if such embryos could be constructed, there are no appropriate surrogate mothers for long-dead species."
"Offspring was produced from an animal well known to have suffered a recent extinction."
INSERT DUMB POLITICAL JOKEZ HERE.
This is some zen shit, I tell you: Wilford Brimley just riffin' on doctorin' and muskrats and heartbeats that SOUND LIKE GLITCHCORE. And the crowd CHEERS. We're tearing up over here. Goddamn:
SIDE NOTE: If anybody has the full audio file of that Ol' Dirty Bastard news conference that Stern plays once in awhile, please GIVE.
And now I have a feeling that I've made this blog a target, too. Note to presumptuous spammers: Poppa had a stomach virus right before Christmas. That's the Cesspool Diet.
Both sides of yer Poppa's head are chock full o' nuts. This means I can't "enjoy" music. And watching TV becomes an act of high-volume sound-terrorism against others in the house. But I'm now pumped full o' meds, and I'm trying to sleep it all away. When I feel better, the Cesspool shall overflow, and the childrens shall rejoice with the glee of Hate. Until then, eat a dick.
The WSJ notes that outbreaks of chlorine-resistant cryptosporidium -- a parasite that gives people the shits -- are on the rise at public pools. Although chlorine might not kill the thing, strong ultraviolet light does:
Now, many water parks are installing ultraviolet systems, which kill parasites including crypto when water passes through the systems' black light. Seven Peaks Water Park, in Provo, Utah, invested about $250,000 in UV systems, said the park's maintenance engineer, Ken Kroeber. Park officials were concerned after some people who became ill in last year's outbreak said they had swum there, though the water wasn't ever tested for the parasite, he said.
The article does not mention that another form of parasite, the raver, is not killed by black light.
Today, I can't stop licking the stump. Cosmetically, the new flaw is hardly noticeable. But physically, it's like a little patch of gum-on-the-sidewalk in my mouth. Steve Nash would be like, "you're a wuss."
My first thought upon watching Discovery Channel's When We Left Earth: It's time for another comeback of NASA style. You had the skinny-tie moment of the '80s and the indie spacerock nerdlove of the '90s, but the buzzcut/shortsleeves/hornrims look now seems to be absorbed, dispersed and minimized among various subcultures. Nobody really owns it anymore. (Indie rock is now too hirsute. And nerdcore doesn't count.) This clip is a good primer, in case you forgot.
Poppa Cesspool keeps a tidy vegetable garden in anticipation of the apocalypse. When the horsemen hit, I wanna know how to grow my own food. Anyway, a battalion of aphids had invaded my heirloom tomatoes in recent days, but on this triumphant Friday, the pests had fallen prey to a methodical column of tiny black ants. I could see the warriors triumphantly carrying away the soft green bodies of their victims. Delicious. In honor of the victory, I remind you of the greatest buggy thing in online history:
Last time a senator had a brain problem, Doc Sanjay Gupta had a goofy-looking rubber model as his primary prop. Today, he did bust out that candy brain again. But later he was in front of a high-def screen, and he was gettin' all tsar-of-the-telestrator with it. Gotta love that spooky blue translucent brain with the throbbing pink parietal lobe. I'll check later to see if they post some vids.
"Dr. Reed’s team collected pubic lice from a public health clinic in Salt Lake City. Samples of gorilla lice were obtained by members of the Mountain Gorilla Veterinary Project, which provides free health care to gorillas in the wild." Ahem.
The March 2007 SciAm reviews "I Am A Strange Loop," the new book by "Gödel, Escher, Bach" author Douglas R. Hofstadter. The reviewer, George Johnson, writes:
Souls, as a Hofstadter puts it, come in "different sizes." In a whimsical moment, he even suggests that soulness might be measured -- in units called "hunekers," after an American music critc, James Huneker, who once wrote of a certain Chopin étude that "small-souled men" should not attempt it. The scale might start with a mosquito, with a tiny faction of a huneker, ascending to 100 for an average human and upward to maybe 200 for Mahatma Gandhi.
This is clearly a slippery slope. Top-tier MBA programs could start rejecting applicants whose huneker scores are too high.
SIDE NOTE: The "jizzule," a measurement of my own coinage, applies to the force, energy and/or output of a soul, not necessarily its size.
Doc Sanjay has the worst freakin' gig today -- worse than anything he had to do in that hospital during Katrina. He's being confronted with an endless stream of suppositions and assumptions, and he has to sit there with that god-awful multicolored plastic high-school-science-class brain, trying to give reliable estimates of how soon Tim Johnson might be able to act like a senator again. I wonder if the Daily Show has its own plastic brain prepared for tonight's episode.
NOTE: The photo of the god-awful multicolored plastic high-school-science-class brain was added ex post facto, because it took me all afternoon to figure out how to do a good screen shot from the CNN video player. Turns out that I had to turn down the "Hardware Acceleration" under the "Troubleshooting" tab of the "Advanced" area in the "Settings" tab of the "Display" section of the "Control Panel." Annoying. Thank you, Mr. Gates.
ADDENDUM: If CNN actually provided an embed code for its videos, or gave a useful link (rather than an e-mail link that is cloaked or randomized or whatever), I would've put the whole video here, or at least linked to it.
If you're going to sell me some penis-lengthening products, be a little more sensitive about it. Today I got a message with the subject, "LONGER 2-3 INCHES ON YOUR ShortPENIS IN 2 MONTHS TIME, TRY NOW obliged."
Does it really make any sense to tell a guy, point blank, that his cock is short? It's far preferable to say something like, "Add 2-3 inches to your already sufficient member." That's what's effective about those Enzyte commercials. They sorta say, "Hey, buckaroo, we know you're quite capable of giving the little lady some magic, but wouldn't you like to really rearrange her girdle?"
Yeah, it's all about products this week in the ol' Cesspool....