UPDATE

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Because every g*ddamned hit I get now is from sick, horny b*stards like yourself looking for pictures of this woman, I am going to help you out. That last link actually ended up being a link to a Playboy Cybersomethingorother that wanted to make you pay for pictures. I'll take the blame for that even though there was supposed to be a free preview, my apologies. However there is a new site that's hosting them totally free, so for the Diora Baird Playboy pictorial go here. And thanks to whoever that guy is.

This was funny, though. My meager little blog, which sees about 50 hits on a good day, was picked up by everyone who had the capacity to type "Diora Baird Playboy pictures" into a search engine and resulted in my hit counter topping 300/day for like four days. Of course I doubt anyone stayed very long; nonetheless it was exciting.

That's all - it's my roommate Rainbow's (don't ask) 25th B-day this weekend and Staci from JMU is visiting so hopefully there should be some shenanigans to post about next week...and hopefully they'll involve the Karaoke Ninja.

I REALLY LIKE 8TH GRADISH SURVEYS

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I guess I really felt like writing today. This comes from one T. Richardson Brown, Banker, stuck at work this Saturday well past 8:30PM ("real" jobs are gay). Feel free to answer the survey yourself and then print it up, fold it into a tightly wound package about the size of a stick of gum, wrap it in tape, deposit it snugly in your rectum, and light on fire. Or, if you prefer, copy and paste your answer and email them to me. Here we go:

1. What is your occupation? Prostitute. No no no, just kidding. Actually I f*ck people for money.

2. What color is your underwear? Right now? Blue. Last night? Blue also...but with an odd stain the color of a yellow copper. Don't ask.

3. What are you listening to right now? GUNS "N ROSES GREATEST HITS

4. What was the last thing you ate? A Bare Burrito from Baja Fresh, which I'm convinced is the greatest meal on the planet (and no, that's not some bullsh*t trnedy New Age veggie wrap or some sh*t, it's just all the stuff that comes in a burrito, like steak and beans, in a bowl instead of a torilla...because we all know that the tortilla is a f*cking evil creature).

5. Do you wish on stars? I haven't seen a star since I moved to LA - have we talked about the smog yet?

6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Aryan Cracker White.

7. How is the weather right now? We got a pretty nice little system going on here. It's called "75 and sunny every day". You should all look into it.

8. Last person you spoke to on the phone? Ryan Gray.

9. Do you like the person who sent this to you? TRB, Banker once smoked a cigar and his car. The car was a 1986 Dodge Aries. TRB, Banker accidentally dropped some flaming ash on the car seat - on the driver's side, mind you - causing a nearly non-existent, barely visible burn hole about the size of the tip of a pencil to form. The burn hole could not been seen with the naked eye unless you were informed it was there. TRB, Banker's mother had no reason to look in his car. She did not drive it. She didn't really often go near it. But TRB, Banker once took the time not only to show his mother the burn mark that you couldn't see and that was entirely inconsequential - likely because of severe, pathetic pansy guilt - but toldl her that I caused the "damage" (not true) and that I did so while smoking marijuana (double and triple not true). This caused your humble narrator to receive sidways looks from said mother, who is a wonderful and caring person, for several months with no real explanation. So do I "like" TRB, Banker?

Yeah, he's alright. But I will kill him one day.

10. How old are you today? Today? Twenty-five. But yesterday? Twenty-five.
11. Favorite drink? Coca-Cola - but let's refer to it more as "Beverage you are hopelessly and without fault addicted to".

12. Favorite sport to watch? NFL football, with College Football coming in a close second only because there's no Fantasy Football involved.

13. Have you ever dyed your hair? No. But I have had someone dye it for me. And TRB, just so we're clear...you are the most closeted yet still straight man I know. Mull over that one for a while and get back to me.
14. Do you wear contacts or glasses? Both, but never at the same time.
15. Pets? Can we not talk abut this? My dog lives with a demon and I'll ask that we never bring it up again.

16. Favorite month? I'm gonna have to go with September here, though that's an East Caost favorite. If you've paid any attention then you know there are no season in California.

17. Favorite food? Ooh, Sour Patch Kids is a good call, and we've already discussed the Bare Burrito, but I also like milk a great deal and am a fan of chicken in most forms. Broccoli is also nice. I love asparagus but it makes my pee smell like a mixture of old socks and water buffalo.

18. What was the last movie you watched? The same, WEDDING CRASHERS. Tonight I watch ODISHON, a Japnese import, and I've been told I will not be the same afterwards.

19. Favorite day of the year? Whatever day it is that I get laid (note: I have not had a favorite day since someone made a mistake in December '01).

20. What do you do to vent anger? Write stuff on this blog. And taunt the Amish.

21 What was your favorite toy as a child? A wiffle bat and ball set, which, incidentally, is still my favorite toy.

22. Fall or Spring? If you f*ckers would pay attention I wouldn't have to repeat myself.
23. Hugs or kisses? Blowjobs.
24. Cherry or Blueberry? Blowjobs.
25. Do you want your friends to email you back? It's a free damn country. Yes. No. I don't know. Where are my pants?

26. Who is most likely to respond? Your mom.

27. Who is least likely to respond? Blowjobs.
28. Living arrangements? Situated in a mostly Hassidic neighborhood in Beverly Hills in an apartment with Nathan (the second gayest striaght man I know, behind TRB, Banker) and the lovely Stephanie (sadly not gay or, even more sadly, bisexual and willing to let me watch).

29. When was the last time you cried? Anytime that g*ddamn manipulative Disney-magic-coated EXTREME MAKEOVER: HOME EDITION is on.

30. What is on the floor of your closet? Too numerous to list - whatever was on the floor last week and whatever will be back on the floor next week.

31. Who is the friend you have had the longest? My left hand.

32. What did you do last night? My left hand.

33. Favorite smell? My left hand (this thing actually gets easier as we go along).
34. What inspires you? My lef...wait, no...um...Chim Richels, he's a professional doctor.
35. What are you afraid of? My right hand.

36. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers? What the f*ck is a spicy hamburger? You know someone hamburger-style-challenged wrote this one. Plain, cheese or SPICY? How about you don't ask me about hamburgers if you only know two kinds of hamburgers and have to make up a third? How about that?
37. Favorite car: Let's not go there.
38. Favorite dog breed? The French Bulldog.
39. Number of keys on your key ring? Nine, and I've used exactly two of them in the last nine months, and all but one are the exact same g*ddamned boring silver thing with three holes in the top that look like a fancy window of some sort.

40. How many years at your current job? 1.333333333333333333333333333333

41. Favorite day of the week? Friday
42. How many states have you lived in? e=mc(2)

43. How many cities have you lived in? e=mc(2) times infinity.

Have a swell Monday.

A BUSTED REVIEW

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So I set out to write that aforementioned review of CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY, but I think I might go see it again before I try to wrap my head around - and find the words for - everything I'm thinking about it. Too much going on upstairs. I did want to say one thing about it, however: if you see any kind of review comparing it to the original with Gene Wilder, stop reading. There's no point whatsoever - these are two 100% completely different movies. There's zero reason to try to say which one is better because of this, and anyone even attempting to get close to doing so is guilty of excessive d*uchebaggery.

Alright, that got me thinking, and now I want to say another thing about the newest version: this is much more the awkward, disturbed Willy Wonka that the book created (Gene Wilder's version was made milder and far less dark so the first film could be turned into more of a cheery musical). But don't believe ANY of these *ssholes who are claiming that Johnny Deep channels Michael Jackson for inspiration in this role. There is nothing about the performance that calls up The Gloved One in any way, shape or form; the only (minimal) similarity is the pasty skin. You'll immediately note that the voice isn't at all similar either; in fact, what it reminded me of most was a more hyper, unfocused and verbose version of Edward Scissorhands. A lot of people have been saying that Depp is actually the weakest part of the movie, but...I just don't understand these people. But the Michael Jackson people are complete idiots - they're trying to create a controversial issue that just simply isn't there so they look really intellectual/Freudian/crack-addicted.

I'm not going to say much about WEDDING CRASHERS because my opinion has a professionally-charged bias. But I will say this without any affectations whatsoever: Vince Vaughn, long known to be an overly-capable comedic talent, goes into genius mode here. This is an absolutely superb comedic performance, and I'm not stretching the truth one iota when I tell you that it's on the same level as Steve Martin in THE JERK or Bill Murray in STRIPES; those are the only two I can even think of that are as transcendent (and here I'm speaking to the level of greatness in the performance, not a similarity in the way the part is performed). Imagine the characters he plays in MADE and OLD SCHOOL - but better. He's somehow daring you to hate him, doing everything he can to make it happen...and it's impossible. He has everything thrown at him in this movie. I don't want to say anymore. If you liked OLD SCHOOL and DODGEBALL and movies like that, you're going to f*cking love this. If you didn't like either of those I worry about you and you're not someone I'd care to be around anyway because you're a moron.

So I have two non-reviews of movies I saw this weekend, and I had tried to type so much already that, after I had deleted it all, I felt that I had to say SOMETHING about my trip to the theatre this weekend. In that, I figured it would just be a good idea to tell you about the horrific, confusing and disturbing two minutes I spent in the bathroom there.

I was with two friends and we had just walked in to CHARLIE when I decided I was going to make a break for the Water Closet. I step into the bathroom to find that the thing is packed like a meat locker. There are actually people standing three-deep in line at EACH urinal, and my bladder is stretching the bounds (quite literally) of its rather voluminous capacity. Luckily I look to my left and there's somehow an unoccupied stall with no one waiting. Figuring this is just good fortune and that everyone else had somehow missed the opportunity, I slipped in. Now I can't logically think that everyone else had some kind of preternatural sense to avoid that particular stall, but I also think there might have been some higher power working to place me in position for the events that next befell me.

I step in, open the fly, reach into my pocket for my tweezers, take between ten and fifteen seconds to locate my joke of a phallus, and begin to drain. I had sucked down roughly 80 oz. of soda that afternoon, and honestly, I don't think urine has ever exited my body with such ferocity. I'm pretty sure I could have knocked over a small horse with the fluids that were literally rocketing out of me. If you're a guy you know what a horribly satisfying feeling this is, and how sometimes it makes your eyes flutter and close for a few seconds out of sheer joy. Because of this I was a little distracted, and I have to think I was relatively close to a state of euphoria, because what happened next shouldn't have happened. In the middle of the deed - and at no point did my body move even slightly - the toilet begins flushing. It's on one of those automatic sensors, but they never actually flush until you walk away. So I look down, and I'm confused, and what I intended to just think to myself internally actually comes out of my mouth:

"Hey uh, toilet...what the hell are you trying to do, rush me out of here? Are you trying to get me out of here? Jesus."

It takes me three or four seconds to realize that I've said this aloud...and at a rather high volume. I'm going to go ahead and assume that the relative endorphin rush that I was getting due to the pee evacuation caused some kind of barrier to break down in my brain, wherein synapses misfired and the filter between my brain and my mouth - the same one that seems to fail me when I am drunk and/or talking to women - broke down temporarily. Regardless, I'm sure people waiting outside have heard me. My hope was that they would just pass it off as a random act of idiocy. No such luck.

All of a sudden the guy in the stall next to me - and just so it's clear...we're separated by a thick sheet of metal - goes, "Who the hell are you talking to in there?"

My brain begins scrambling for an explanation, ANY explanation, and Jesus Christ say something, anything to make this less troubling, but all I end up getting out is, "Yeah, it's that...I mean...I'm sorry."

Just to recap and make sure you're still with me: I've now just apologized to a person I don't know and can't see on the other side of a metal toilet stall for talking to myself while I'm peeing. Confused? Me too. Let's press on.

I zip up, hoping to get out of the bathroom with whatever shred of dignity I have left and wondering to myself why I'm even worried about what's happened. Don't people talk to themselves in the bathroom all the time, even around strangers? Just like you, I immediately realized they don't, and a sense of complete and violent self-consciousness - a feeling I'm not really familiar with - sets in and hits hard. How do I leave this stall now, knowing that as soon as I walk out everyone's going to be staring at me, forever connecting a face with a new mental illness that will be known nationally as Stall Self-Perception Syndrome? It's at this very moment that the fates align and I am saved any further indignity.

The guy in the other stall, who just seconds ago had been accusationally questioning me, begins coughing violently. It's that disgusting, wet cough that long-time smokers with Vesuvian levels of phlegm spasm with in the mornings; that awful, smacking sound like a damp steak makes when it hits a concrete floor. It's that...but just several decibles louder than it should be for any human. I mean this guy sounds like the sickest, most violently afflicted dragon in the cave. After he hacks for like five seconds, there's this horrific flat splashing sound that can only signal one thing: projectile vomit.

This continues for like twenty seconds, the duration of which I'm staning in my stall, totally frozen: hack, hack, HACK HACK HACK, sploosh-splash-splish. This is by far the most painful-sounding and violent regurgitation I've ever heard in my life. People have easily died from less, and I'm immediately concerned that the strain he's undertaking is going to cause this man to lose an eye. As soon as there's a break in the storm I sense my window and bust out of the stall. Of course the second I step out everyone's looking directly at me, and it occurs to me that, in a hard, sterile, large bathroom with no plush surface to absorb the sound, the noise coming from the adjoining stall has not only rocketed striaght into the ears of everyone in the place...but it's impossible to tell which stall the cacophonous spewing is coming from.

So now I'm not only the Self-Talking Pisser, but I'm the Violent Vomiting Vigilante.

Thankfully, after only a few seconds (and me holding my hands up like I'm about to be arrested in mock "don't f*cking look at me" fashion) the *real* Violent Vomiting Vigilante goes into an even more impressive - we're talking an operatic-level - bile-rejection ceremony. Everyone realizes that the offender is not me, casts a rueful glance to the other stall, and shudders. At that moment all of my transgressions are forgotten and there's a ridiculous mass exodus from the Men's Bathroom like salmon swimming upstream; I tell you, it was a comperable struggle for survival.

For the next ten minutes I wasn't myself and I was totally unable to enjoy the previews before the film. The only consolation I can take is that I was too distracted to get angry at the f*cking g*ddamned jackassed Fanta advertisement that runs before every movie at The Grove. What the hell just happened to me? Why did a very, very sick man question my sanity? What are the relative bounds of my own dark lunacy? Who REALLY shot J.R.? These are questions that, sadly, I have yet to find answers for.

Just thinking about this has put me in a bad place mentally, so...I'm going to watch ENTOURAGE and take a nap before our Sunday Night Poker Game.

PERVERTS

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Look, the majority of people coming here over the last two days have been looking for Diora Baird pictures. It's not that I don't understand. I do. Of course I do. How could I not? I'm more than OK admitting this.

However, like a forgotten female hookup, I feel used. Therefore, like the female, I need to do something to validate myself. Now typically, were I a female, I'd blow your best friend out of hatred/anger/revenge/sorrow/low self-esteem. But that's not where we go with this blog; that's not where my head's at. Instead I provide you with a service. I provide you with what you want. I provide you with an answer. Or, as it were, answers.

For Diora Baird pictures - yes, naked, you scaliwags:

Diora Baird

For a few naked (and scantily/tightly clothed) pictures of Rachel McAdams:

Rachel McAdams

And, just as icing on the cake, for naked/slightly naked/whatever else pictures of the absolutely amazing hottest girl in WEDDING CRASHERS, Isla Fisher:

Isla Fisher

And don't even ask: would I send you, devoted reader, to a site where you had to PAY for pictures of a naked female? Do you even know who you're dealing with? If you came here by way of Internet search and you don't know, then I understand and I say...I would NEVER send you to anything that wasn't A) Free and B) without agregious/any Pop-ups. Surf in security, friends...surf in security.

After all that, I want to say this about the last female:

Isla Fisher is engaged to Ali G. As far as I am concerned, Ali G is offcially and unoffcially "The Man". This goes without saying. However, it has been some time since I was truly, literally jealous of another man based on his girlfriend. You know what I'm talking about? Celebrity or otherwise, you might look at any other guy on the planet and, based on the girl that's on his arm, you just think, "Jesus Christ...Holy God Almighty am I jealous of that man." And you feel it literally. Well, this is the point I've come to with Isla Fisher. Guys are freaking out about Rachel McAdams, and really, who can blame them? She's fetching, and I use that term in the most flattering way possible - she's got that something about her that's just...yeah. Good God, totally amazing smile, and sexy as all Hell. I can't deny these people, like my very good Best Missing Friend Brian Patterson, who sings her praises. I'm there.

But Isla Fisher? Help me, please. Two huge factors working for her, and they're the simultaneous "Hot Factor" and "Cute Factor", which is very, very rare in a girl. Combine that with "Ubelievable breasts" and "Unfounded Gorgeous Red Hair" and "Short in Just the Right Way", and, well...that's all I can do. She's my current infatuation and I'm not ashamed of it.

Soon I plan to write about WEDDING CRASHERS (which will be short, because obviously it's a biased opinion) and CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (which is just brilliant on a scale I don't yet have words for). Until then, look at pictures of hot naked chicks and shut the f*ck up.

GOOSETOWN: THE OFFICIAL BLOG OF F*CK PETA 2005

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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.