13 July 2005



This post could either be really long or really short. Usually I have an outline for what I'd like to write but tonight I'm winging it.

-- Main Entry: ter·ror·ism
Pronunciation: 'ter-&r-"i-z&m
Function: noun
: the systematic use of terror [violence (as bombing) committed by groups in order to intimidate a population or government into granting their demands terror>] especially as a means of coercion

Our "friends" (read: f*cking *ssholes) at PETA celebrate the 25th Anniversary of their sad little crew this summer. Somehow, through the same inane rhetoric and intelligence that brings us cults, the New Age section at Barnes and Noble and Lifetime: Television for Women, these bastards have brainwashed nearly 800,000 people into joining thier "cause". While I'll be the first to admit that I'm glad that reputable cosmetic companies no longer test their products on animals, circuses have come under fire for the way they treat their non-human "performers", and we've been exposed to the plight of animals in the fur trade - all mainly the doing of PETA - I'm more than a little annoyed with this rather moody batch of impish fools who want to tell us all how to behave and what to eat - violently.

Ingrid Newkirk, the founder and governing authority of PETA, has openly stated that PETA's ultimate goal is not only to make sure that animals are protected from undue harm, but also to build a New World Order in which animals are not worn in any fashion (such as leather or wool) or eaten in any fashion (such as steak or fish sticks). PETA has engineered such genius campaigns as "Beer is better for you than milk" (a concept I'd pray to God on high is true, but sadly I live in a little realm I like to call "reality") and "Boycott the Green Bay Packers because 'Packers' refers to 'meat packing' which is insensitive to our four-legged mammal friends, who apparently are extremely downtrodden at the notion of a professional football team mocking them in some twisted, f*cked up dimension where they can read and comprehend such an abstract concept" (at which the Green Bay Packers Official Spokesperson laughed during a televised news conference). Ingrid Newkirk, by the by, gets my Nomination as Official Raving D*uchebag Lunatic of the New Century in the Category of "Best Performace of Exaggerated Jackasserry in a Leading Role, Female". Whatever vessel she's flying in has throttled the Crazy Velocitator to Ludicrous Speed; she's gone to plaid.

A couple of years ago there was this great piece I read, and I wish I could find a link to it. It profiled all these PETA yahoos who were protesting this medical facility that was testing a new drug on puppies. Under controlled conditions in a sterile laboratory - meaning the puppies were anesthetized and under careful watch by medical professionals - the puppies had their legs cleanly broken. The lab then tested out the newest formula of a drug that, upon ultimate functionality, would aid in the growth and strengthening of the bones of newborn babies that were born with brittle bones and diseases such as Osteogenesis Imperfecta. PETA decided to foot the bill for resources so the Animal Liberation Front could destroy the lab and all its research.

Hey, look, I'm a human with feelings; the idea of breaking the legs of puppies, no matter how (relatively) easy they make it for them, breaks my heart. But I have to think logically here: if there are scientists trying to create drugs that benefit humanity - something that, God forbid, MY kid might need one day - I have to believe that they're not f*cking with puppies just for the fun of it; I have to believe that they're doing so because it gives them the best chance possible to succeed at making the world a better place. If some puppies have to be hurt or, again, God forbid, be killed in the process...well hey, condolences to our canine friends, but so be it. I refuse to believe that those scientists working on puppies or chimps or marmots or rats are doing so not because they're sadistic Mendel clones, but because they think it's the best way to improve our lives.

Back to PETA's drive to turn us all into vegetarians: f*ck off. Guess what? Humans have a group of teeth called "incisors". These teeth have been developed and have evolved with us over tens of thousands of years for one purpose: tearing flesh. Why? Because humans are omnivores. We have a basic, instictual craving for meat as well as vegetation. Meat, the delicious, charred flesh of chickens, cows, fish, pigs, and horses (if you're insane or just French). You don't want to eat meat? More power to you. I don't want to stop you and I will not try. What I will do is prescribe to the advocacy of Maddox: for every animal you don't eat, I'm going to eat three. One for the animal you didn't eat, one for myself, and another just to piss you the f*ck off. You complain once about my non-vegetarian lifestyle around me and so help me God, another animal has died unnecessarily BECAUSE OF YOU. Are the processes used by Food Farms barbaric? Some are, but the animals end up dead anyway and I will get my g*ddamned hamburger if I g*ddamn want it. At least my food has a chance to run. Again, just so there's no question about how I feel: f*ck off.

Go back and read that definition of terrorist. PETA pays the ALF to bomb clinics and research laboritories (bombing = violence) and routinely throws red paint of fake blood on people wearing fur coats (assault = violence) among other violent (violence = violence) acts; I dare anyone to tell me how PETA is not a terrorist organization. Some are going to claim that there's a world of difference between PETA and Al Quaeda. While I'll grant you that PETA isn't flying planes into buildings, they're doing really awful, violent, illegal things to advance their fantatic, braindead cause...and, whether you want to keep fooling yourselves or not, that fits the definition of terrorist. I hate the fact that people overuse the word "terrorist" these days and misapply it to people they just happen to disagree with; that said, that's not the case here. PETA = Terrorists. Literally, figuratively, and according to the Definition Diety on High, Merriam-Webster.

I'm glad that there are people out there who work hard to make sure that animals have a voice and are treated fairly. I'm glad that there are people out there who don't want animals to undergo undue torture and harm. I'm glad they speak out against people who wear fur, which is just a damn stupid thing to do. But you know what? PETA's gone to far, and to that end I officially announce GooseTown, USA as the Official "Boycott PETA for Summer '05" site on the Internet.

So in conclusion...you know...blow me or something.

--Something strange has happened in my bathroom and I need to talk about it. I get into the shower tonight and this long, twisted, weird black hair is stuck to the one wall.

Here's the thing: I have really dark hair (it's damn near black), but none long. I shaved my head a few weeks ago, the pubes are trimmed, and I'm otherwise relatively hairless. My roommate has long blondish hair but he's been out of town for several days. Where the f*ck did this hair come from? I know my other roommate Stephanie isn't showering in there; she wouldn't go near our bathroom if you paid her (and for good reason). What the hell is going on here? Who the hell is showering in my bathroom that I don't know about? I want some motherf*cking answers.

In other bathroom related news, I saw a Daddy Long Legs on the wall the other day by the toilet...and I screamed a little. I then composed myself, grabed some toilet paper [The TP (TM) as it's called in the Bedford Mansion South (TM)], and attempted to crush it. The deft little bastard was too quick for me, however, and he scampered out of the way, causing me to scream again (briefly) and drop the TP (TM). I will tell you that, when the attempt failed and I saw him scatter away...well...a little pee came out.

I don't like spiders.

This reminds me of my college buddy Ruby (and I know I've talked about this before) who got excited anytime anyone talked about Daddy Long Legses because it gave him a chance to interject his favorite (and only) bit of trivia: that Daddy Long Legses are actually, pound for pound, the most poisonous spider, but their teeth are so small and weak that their bite doesn't penetrate human skin. Ruby was deeply disturbed when I revealed to him that his factoid was but an Urband Legend, albeit a widely believed one, and at said time he ran into his room to cry himself to sleep on his cherished stack of Shop-Rite Lemon-Flavored Iced Tea Mix cannisters.

--Why, why, why, why why why why, nearly at age 26, can I not keep my g*ddamned room clean? Why? It's such an unbelievably easy chore. My logical subconscious screams at me when I look around this festering sh*thole. An interpreation of said screaming:

"What the f*ck is wrong with you? Do you know how easy it is to either put a shirt in the closet or the hamper? Do you really need copies of crap scripts lying everywhere? Is that a Pop-Tart (TM) wrapper? Is it too much for you to pick up a seventy-nine cent f*cking lightbulb at Walgreen's to replace the one that's been burned out for five months? What the hell is that sock under your pillow for? When was the last time you changed your sheets? What smells like moldy testicles?"

It's like over the years my mother has stolen into my head and officially taken over as the voice of my conscience. How the hell does all this sh*t pile up? Am I ever going to get a to a point where I can take care of something so simple? Am I just worried that I'm starting to care, meaning I'm on my way to becoming and adult? When I'm 40 is my wife going to ask me, "Geoff, why is there a dirty shirt hanging from the ceiling fan?"

I need to get out more.

--Vote Quimby.

--I don't care what you're doing this Friday, and I know CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY comes out as well, but if you're breathing/have a pulse run to the theater to see WEDDING CRASHERS. You will thank me.

But that's not want I want to talk about. I mean it has to do with that, but not directly. Well yes directly, but kind of as an aside. I'm sorry. I'm excited.

If you own the August 2005 edition of PLAYBOY, you already know about Diora Baird. If you don't, you're going to know when you see WEDDING CRASHERS - she's a chick Owen Wilson bangs towards the beginning of the movie. She's everything I don't immedaitely look for in a girl: blonde (not a killer but not my preference), a little on the skinny side (not terrible, but not good - and don't make me break out my argument that there's a stark difference between "skinny" and "thin"), narrow-hipped (bad) and tall (f*cking awful). That's four strikes. But there's something else. She has 36DD's. And I'm not really a boob guy, but...

I have on good word from a credible source that they're real.

And when you see these things...oh my God...they sit up perky like a Priest in front of the Boy's Choir. These things absolutely defy physics. Seeing them...well, it's one of those days that makes you sensationally happy to be a heterosexual male - even if, like me, you just barely qualify. Hell, even if you're a chick who doesn't want to f*ck other chicks (which is, like, what, maybe 3-4% of the overall population?) you're going to dig these things. Jesus have mercy. I need to sit down.

I am sitting down. OK. Now where are my pants?

--I think it's kind of sad that I felt the happiest I've felt in at least three weeks today when I walked into Walgreen's and found that I had stumbled upon the last 12-pack of RC Cola in the store. Remember RC Cola? Leaps and bounds above Coke and Pepsi in my opinion.

Of course I was so overcome with joy that I forgot for the umpteenth time to buy f*cking paper towels and that g*damned lightbulb.

--My bank is apparently so impressed with me that they replaced my old Visa Check Card (TM) - the full-color version with a picture of a stagecoach straight out of the old Apple IIe version of THE OREGON TRAIL - with a Gold Visa Check Card (TM). Wowee! Am I supposed to feel good about this? My purchase power has gone from the ability to spend up to $750 per day to $1500 per day and the right to withdraw $310 per day as opposed to $200 per day from an ATM. Zowee!

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Does anyone remember when ATMs were called MAC Machines? Am I dating myself here? I don't care - I'm hereby referring to ATMs from now on and at all times as MAC Machines. My Gold Visa Check Card (TM) is now my Gold Multifunctional MAC Card (TM). No, wait, no it isn't - that's too much of a mouthful for me to commit to, and if I can't commit to with 100% of my heart I can't make that call. I will stick to the MAC Machine platform, however. Still with me? Didn't think so. Let's move on.)

As far as I'm concerned that's like going from a really small penis that people mistake for a vagina to a slightly less-small penis that people only occasionally mistake for a vagina if they're farsighted. But it's GOLD, so I guess that means it's REALLY going to impress the hot bartender at Power House who still won't want to have sex with me. Thanks, Wells Fargo, for lookin' out for your boy!

--As of this writing one Mr. Phil Ivey is sitting in fourth place going into the last two days of the 2005 World Series of Poker Main Event. I have been pulling for Phil - my favorite because of his style of play - along with Howard Lederer (who fought well but got bounced two days ago) and John Juanda (who sadly busted out today). Somehow, contradicting the revelation that is Diora Baird by proving there is NOT a God, Greg Raymer has again lucked his way into the last few competitors and is somehow sitting on a healthy stack of chips. If you're following the Main Event you know that Mike Matusow currently has the lead, but if you're a poker fan you also know that the vaunted Matusow Meltdown is only hours away.

In Could Geoff Be Any Sadder? news, I have spent the better portion of the last seven days constantly hitting the "Refresh" button on my browser in checking for Main Event updates over at Card Player. If you've ever asked youself, "How does Geoff not get laid?" - and I know you haven't - see the above, develop a thesis and get back to me.

--I have decided not to trim my beard until at least after Labor Day 2005 - I want to show up at my buddy Kyle's wedding looking like Grizzly Adams, a homeless man and a reject from the old Brawny Man marketing campaign had a disfigured Lovechild. I've also decided that, when he's sufficiently bushy and 100% female repellant (we're working at about 73% capacity here) his name will be Marvin.

This is partially because Marvin is a cool name but also because, when Ving Rhames's Impersonator and the Karaoke Ninja sing NIGHT SHIFT at Amagi, I want to believe they're singing to my facial hair.

Marvin (Marviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin...)
Sang of the joy and pain
He opened up our minds
And I still can hear him say
Awwwww, talk to me so you can see
What's going on
Say you will sing your songs
Forevermore (E-ver-mooooooooooooore...)

Gonna be some sweet sounds
Coming down
On the nightshift (Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, on the nightshift...)

And, just to embarass Kyle, swing on over to a little estrogen-driven website cleverly engineered to make sure that Karyn has full and total control of what used to be very manly balls. It's clearly all Karyn's idea, and I know for a fact that the first time Kyle saw it he told Karyn, "Honey, this is really sensitive, beautiful and romantic. I will cherish this forever," while at the same time he was thinking, "Oh f*ck me."

Thank you, Karyn, for providing me with bonuns material to my already stacked Wedding Roast of Kyle speech. Incidentally this is not Kyle's first bout with public humiliation; back in '01 my buddy Louie stole a Love Letter/Collage that Kyle's (now ex-) girlfriend made for him and turned it into a Sigma Chi Rush poster. Louie, I know I've told you this before, but that is one of my all-time Top Five "Huge-C*ck Man-Hero Genius Friend Burns" ever.