Before we got all hot and bothered with today's entry, go see what I've been up to at CarlosJacott.com. I updated it on Wednesday, after I said I'd do no more updates for the week. It's called a Thanksgiving present, straight from Tom Turkey to Boogaloo Brown (you). If you're looking for a good hobby that doesn't require too much work, I'd suggest making a random celebrity website and just going crazy on it. It gives you a whole new class of people to horrify and annoy, which is the whole point of the Internet.
Of course, Thanksgiving was a delight, aside from the 82 hours I spent in the kitchen, laboring over a hot stove for my family. Then, at the very end, my gold-plated turkey spontaneously combusted, and I had to scramble to make some chili dogs instead. I was scared that when the fam saw that I had spent so much time on a bunch of crappy chili dogs, they'd break out the pitchforks with which they used to chase our albino neighbor around. Luckily, cool heads prevailed, and I only had to spend the rest of the weekend chained to the washing machine. Okay, so I didn't really cook anything and I don't even know what a washing machine is, but I promise that I do really like chili dogs.
After arriving back in Austin in my stagecoach this morning, I discovered a few unfortunate facts. The facts are as follows:
(1) My garage door opener doesn't work.
(2) My fire alarm won't stop beeping.
(3) All I have in my kitchen is chex mix and beer.
But that's what happens when you give your apartment keys to Dom DeLuise. I'm not really worried about the plague that's fallen on my apartment though, as I have brought new life into it.
My mom gave me a rubber plant while I was home, and it is now busting out the jams in my living room. I have named it Dhalsim, after the rubber guy from Street Fighter 2. Everyone can now look forward to lots of homemade rubber gifts from me for Christmas, such as raquet balls, rubber bands, and woopie cushions. You know how people who grow their own vegetables are always yammering on about how nothing can beat homegrown food? Well, I'll soon be expounding endlessly on how nothing can beat homegrown rubber. It's probably the only thing that could make me cooler. I will go ahead and put the Dhalsim on death watch.
Headed back to the ancestral homeland this evening to get my Thanksgiving on. If you happen to see a guy in a Nissan on I 35 today, driving like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit while being chased by the Highway Patrol, the INS, and an alien spaceship, you better clear a path. And if, in the midst of all the swerving, I happen to drop one of my lucky trolls that I have mounted to my dashboard, you are obligated to return it to its rightful owner.
It's highly unlikely that I'll be posting again until Sunday, as my family has decided to try a traditional Thanksgiving this year. The teepee my dad rented for this thing may have electricity, but I really doubt it'll have internet access. Also, I don't like my chances of figuring out how to use an authentic indian keyboard; I can see that thing being made out of acorns and squirrel blood, so it's smell you guys later for a while. Before I go, how about a Thanksgiving joke?
Guy 1: Knock knock
Guy 2: Who's there?
Guy 1: It's Dracula
Guy 1: Dracula who?
Guy 2: Dracula the Pilgrim
Guy 1: Jesus, what do you want?
Guy 2: I just wanted to wish you a Happy Fangsgiving! Now open up so I can suck your blood!
Guy 1: Hey, I though the indians were supposed to be the savages around here!
When I first got the idea for the Goulash Centennial as a way to celebrate my 100th post, I was thinking it'd be a classy affair. You know, one of those black tie only soirees, with a bottle of swanky champagne, some catered hors d'oeuvres, and a string quartet. What we ended up having with on Saturday night was a bunch of Old Milwaukee, some Cheese Balls, and the Topless Box. Suffice to say, it was the coolest night ever. I humbly present to you then the Goulash Centennial in pictures.
Hit Continue to see the rest of the night.
The Cheese Ball to person proportion was exceedingly high. This gig was a joint celebration both for the Centennial and for the bday of one Cooterbutt Jones. Her parents took it upon themselves to supply the snackies. In turn, I took it upon myself to supply the awesome.
The hardest part of this whole thing was the waiting. After having to wait so many weeks, we were tempted to start this thing at 5:30 AM. Only by the grace of Jacott were we able to contain ourselves until 8 PM. Here, Frito bides his time before the hurricane.
The official sister of Goulash and her friend Veronica wait for something cool to happen. They have no idea what they're in for.
When we finally dipped into the booze, things were restrained at first. Danza gave us a thoughtful commentary on the relationship between Mahoney and Tackleberry in Police Academy.
And then, like a blood thirsty hyena, the party desecended upon us in the form of our Guests of Honor, none other than Mike and Julie, the kind souls who hosted us when we rocked the dog track in Galveston a few months back. Partying with these guys is like playing catch with Willie Mays.
Does anything say 100th post on your site like drinking whiskey that comes from a mason jar? Here I am, pouring two shots of freedom for Boj and myself. This was clearly the best $8 investment we ever made.
Try this one on for size, Pythagoras: Crazy hat + unexplained stain on shirt = getting your freak on. P Diddy and Cooterbutt know where to find the rock.
Boj ought to be wearing a sign that says "Don't Arrest This Man". Here he is, displaying his pinch of death.
Some saboteur (possibly Schumin) snuck a bottle of Jagermeister into the party and made us stand in a circle and drink it until we finished. Certainly, the most intelligent move of the evening. Here Dave puts the baby to bed.
They know who the guest of honor is.
And then, a time honored tradition: the Topless Box. The Topless Box is an old Indian legend, where supposedly if you found a big cardboard box and got inside of it, you had to take your shirt off. Here, Danza prepares the mechanism.
Can P Diddy and I withstand its magic? Hell no. After this, someone made the incredibly savvy decision to turn the camera off, thus preserving whatever dignity I have left.
After a party of Andre the Giant like proportions, the only way to crash is in Andre the Giant like style. Sister of Goulash and friend of sister in Goulash with their Jim Morrison impression.
One of the charming decorations was a big Goulash banner that everyone had to sign. The signature count hit 20 before Boj hacked the sign up with his machete.
Thus, the end of the Goulash Centennial. Let the countdown begin for the Bicentennial.
Sweet Mother Mary, even if I told you people about everything that happened during Centennial weekend, you would only understand a tiny fraction of the glory. The only thing I can liken it to is throwing a perfect game in the World Series, then winning the lottery. Then, right after the lottery, you go eat corndogs at Burt Reynolds house, where the condiments are piled as high as an elephant. I will do an exhaustive review tomorrow. There will be pictures; there will be movies; there will be MAGIC.
I will say just one more thing, as I am awfully tired from knocking on death's door all weekend long. If you're ever at a party and you're wondering whether or not it's the best party ever, and then someone comes up to you and asks for a machete, well, you have yourself an answer. Mark this one down, Einstein: A party's coolness is a direct result of the number of machete requests made. That being said, I am going to leave you guys to wallow in anticipation, like the the night before the 3rd day of Hanukkah.
If you think I am able to generate something that's both original and interesting on the day before the Goulash Centennial weekend is set to start, you better back that truck up. Just push in the clutch, grab the shifter with the 8 ball on the top, and throw her into reverse. Don't try that old "I don't know how to drive a standard!" thing, because I saw you play Cruisin' USA at the arcade, and you seemed to have the intricacies of the manual transmission worked out VERY nicely.
Well, I'll do a little bit of original. Ignore the instructions about backing it up and just let it idle in neutral. Tomorrow at work, we're having a Thanksgiving lunch, where everyone is supposed to bring something so we can all feast like Abraham Lincoln and Chubby Checker did with the Sacajawea, so many years ago. Since my oven is possessed by Zuul from Ghostbusters, I just thought I'd buy a pie and bring it. However, disaster struck when I checked the Excel spreadsheet where you were supposed to list what you were bringing. Three pies were already being brought. Science tells us that a fourth would probably be a little too much pie, so my plans were struck down.
When I discovered that, I initially wanted to bring some of those miniature sweet pickles. We always have those with our Thanksgiving meal and they're usually my favorite part. Not only would I be popular for bringing a delicious treat, but I'd be respected for my ingenuity. I tried to drop a few hints with people about what I was bringing, by walking into their offices and saying, "Is it just me, or could you go to town on a jar of miniature sweet pickles right now?" To further sell the pickles to my coworkers, I would then rub my stomach and holler, "MMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!" Not only were they annoyed by my hints, but I was put on probation for devoting so much time to miniature sweet pickle related activities.
I dumped that idea. Plan 2 was to make some hand turkeys with a pen and construction paper, and then people could use them for bibs, or perhaps frame them for their collection. I was willing to do them fancy, with calligraphy for the part where I'd write the turkey's name and maybe a gummy worm for the gobbler thing that hangs down. I had already set up my Hand Turkey Distribution Center when I discovered a line on the email that said, "PS: Due to an anonymous staff member's crippling phobia of hand turkeys, we ask that you not be such a cheap ass and actually bring some food. Jesus, people."
The conclusion of all of this is that I go back to bringing pie. The pie to person ratio will be especially high, and the meal will be lacking the ba-zing that miniature sweet pickles or hand turkey bibs would've brought, but I guess SOME PEOPLE just didn't want the PERFECT THANKSGIVING. And to think, I was this close to sticking a few one dollar bills into the pie as a fun surprise for the people eating it. Think again!
In all of the hubbub of the 100th post, I forgot to mention I had posted part 2 of In Search of the Wily Jacott on CarlosJacott.com. Please, no one tell Carlos about this. You have no idea how angry he can get.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: it must be pretty nice to be gay in Massachusetts right now. The sodomites of Massachusetts can now get their marriage on with ruthless abandon. Upon hearing of the ruling, President Bush issued the following statement, "Men kiss each other?!?" and then made lots of fake gagging noises. I had two thoughts when I first saw this story. First, I watch Will and Grace, and none of the gay fellows on there ever talked about getting married, so was this really necessary? Second, I predict that gay marriages will be legalized in Texas the day after a bunch of gay aliens take over the state and kill all of those who oppose them, and not a second before.
I guess the hullabaloo over this story is that some people feel like allowing gay marriages would destroy the sanctity of marriage, something to which all mail order brides cling to. Well, you better just get over it, Huong Tse Jorgensen (that's the best mail order bride name I could come up with). And that goes for all of you polygamists too! We're really going to have to rethink a lot of marriage traditions with this. For instance, before a heterosexual marriage, normally the bridge and groom have separate bachelor and bachelorette parties. In a gay marriage, couldn't you just have one big bachelor party? Wouldn't that lead to problems, like who gets to humps the stripper first? And who gets to dump the body when you accidentally kill him? I don't know what the answer here is, but I think we definitely need to think this one through.
This entry shall be abbreviated as it is stupid, and I have crap to do this evening.
Woooo! That's my long sigh of relief after the pressures of the Centennial post. Now I can look forward a lazy, relaxing weekend. WAIT! I just picked up something on my shortwave radio about a goulash centennial party, occuring here in Austin in my garage on Saturday night. Who will be there? Oh, I don't know, ME. And maybe Mr. Henry Kissinger. He's a fan. He's more than a fan; he's a devotee. I seem to remember the following moment at the United Nations some months back.
Henry Kissinger: Mr. Secretary General, I'd like to propose we make a special UN tribunal investigating the awesomeness of Goulash.
Kofi Annan: What the hell is that?
Henry Kissinger: It's this website that's really funny that I read all the time. I keep trying to work up the courage to post in the comments, but I don't want to look lame. It's so awesome, Kofi. I'll send you the link on AIM sometime.
Kofi Annan: Are you even involved with the United Nations?
Henry Kissinger: I don't know, I'm some sort of diplomat.
So there you have it. Undeniable proof that Henry Kissinger may just appear out of the blue for the party on Saturday. Make sure to wear colors that won't offend him.
Speaking of colors that won't offend, I remember in 6th grade, some guys at my elementary school started up this gang. They called themselves the Baby G's, and they wore these little pacifiers around their necks. It was definitely the coolest thing ever. They just sat around the playground and scowled at people. Then, one day, someone offended a member of the Baby G's in a game of pogs or something, so they all jumped this guy at lunch. For the next week, all of us walked on our tiptoes around the Baby G's, lest we start up a rehash of the pog incident. Then I think it was explained to them that a bunch of middle class white kids in the suburbs can't have a gang; they'd have to call it a fraternal organization. From there, it fizzled. My first point: Arlington, TX is weird. My second point: please don't make Henry Kissinger go Baby G's on your ass this weekend. My third point: Anyone want to revive the Baby G's with me?
Here it is, people: entry 100. And for entry 100, it seemed only fitting to get some quality time in with the man behind the gold standard for personal websites, Ben F. Schumin. For the past few months, I have been staking out the James Madison University campus in the hopes of getting Schumin to answer some of my questions about the joys and pressures of BFS. After several threatening anonymous phone calls, he relented. I present to you then the Goulash Centennial Interview with Ben Flavio Schumin. (Note: this whole thing makes a lot more sense if you check out the Schumin Web first)
Cody Powell: Your website seems to have a polarizing effect on people. It's almost like a hot-button political issue, like gay marriage or drilling in the Alaskan preserve, in the way that people are pro and anti Schumin. Why do you think that is? Do you do it on purpose?
Ben Francis Schumin: You know what they say... the simplest explanation is usually the right one, and believe it or not, the polarizing effect you mention was unintentional, and also a surprise to me. But like so many things, my site seems to have turned into one of those "you either love it or you hate it" situations.
CP: Has you ever been recognized away from campus for your site? What was that like?
BFS: Actually, yes! I encountered a person near the Pentagon City Metro station just outside Washington DC (about three hours by car and Metro from where I live) who recognized me from the Web site. We talked, it turns out he enjoyed the Web site and thought it was so neat to actually meet me by chance. And it really was by chance, too. For those familiar with the Pentagon City station, usually when I go to the mall at Pentagon City, I use the direct entrance into the mall from the station. But in this case, I took the escalator to the street adjacent to the mall because I needed a little sunshine. And I encountered the guy while he was jogging. Interesting experience, and I ran into him again on a different trip about a year later. Neat person, indeed.
CP: Related question: if you were to see a girl wearing a Schumin Web shirt one day out on the town, would you immediately propose marriage?
BFS: No, though I probably would compliment her on her excellent choice of apparel.
(Editor's note by Cody: I suspect Ben's lying here.)
CP: When all the dot-com bubble was taking place, did you ever consider doing a Schumin Web IPO? I think I speak for us all when I say that would've been momentous.
BFS: Actually, Schumin Web was a very different Web site back then than it is now. Back then, I was just experimenting with sections, and there was no Online Store whatsoever, no College Life, and no Photography. Plus I didn't have my own domain back then. So an IPO was totally out of the question.
CP: The F in Ben F. Schumin, it stands for Francesco, right? Franz? Fabian?
BFS: No, no, and no. My middle name is somewhere on the Web site, but you'll have to find it yourself. Here's a hint: It's in the Odds and Ends section.
CP: I think you've been on fire with the Life and Times section, what with the stories about the new job and the college party. It's been really entertaining so far. Are you going to be doing more of this blog type stuff?
BFS: I've enjoyed it and intend to keep it up, and I've found a format that I like. I started it up because I wanted a little informal place to put those little thoughts that I have during the day that I want to put into the Web site but would otherwise lose if I waited to get back to the computer. Usually I do these things on the fly, while I'm out and about, at an Internet kiosk or a computer lab or something. Currently, one of the things on my to-do list is to organize the journal archives into something better than what's there right now.
CP: Fill in the blanks:
If Schumin Web were a person, it'd be _____.
BFS: Definitely myself. It reminds me about what Robin Williams said as Mrs. Doubtfire in the movie of the same name, when he said, "He broke the mold when he made me." And since I love that I'm such an individual, I hope He also broke the mold again AFTER making me.
CP: If Schumin Web were a food, it'd be ______.
BFS: Probably vegetable soup. And here's why. My site is comprised of so many different distinct bits of stuff like the vegetables, bringing together a scooter race, an anti-war march, fire alarms, and so much else. And then the whole Schumin Web brand kind of brings it all together, much like the broth in the soup.
CP: If Schumin Web were a fire alarm, it'd be______.
BFS: Definitely the Wheelock 7002T, which is the alarm depicted on the front of my fire alarm shirts.
CP: What would a lady have to do in order to lure Ben Fabian
BFS: *interrupts* Not even close.
CP: Schumin into her life? Also, what if you met a wonderful woman who was madly in love with, but she declared she couldn't be with you as long as you had Schumin Web going. What would you do?
BFS: Love me, love my Web site. It comes as a package deal. As I've had the Web site so long (almost eight years), that I can't imagine what I would do without it. In fact, on days when my Web site is offline due to technical problems outside my control, you can tell that I'm not pleased. One time last summer when my hosting provider disabled some functions on the server which affected my site, knocking out the quote, the Web Cam archives, the full-size photos, navigation, and a few other things, people could definitely tell something wasn't right in my life, as I seemed a bit preoccupied since my site was technically running, but a lot of features were out of service. I compare it to when a parent has a child sick, in that the parent is kind of worried until that child is well again. Same with the Web site. I was worried about the Web site until it was well again.
CP: What's your favorite episode of the Cosby show? Is there a character on there you identify with? I could see you replacing Cockroach as Theo's friend.
BFS: My favorite episode both now and then was the episode from the second season, when the Huxtables pretended that Theo was in the real world, and Cliff played the landlord Harley Weewax, Clair was Millie (who ran the chuckwagon) and Amanda (who ran Amanda's Furniture City), and Rudy was Mrs.Griswold. I think it's a good lesson in what the real world costs, and also is just amusing as heck.
CP: Back when the band Kiss was really bad, they called their fan club the Kiss Army. What do you think of a Schumin Army? I humbly volunteer to come up with all of the rhymes we'd say while marching around.
BFS: That just doesn't sound like something I'd do.
(Editor's note by Cody: Even though Schumin's opinion on this leaves me inconsolable, I maintain that it is the best idea ever.)
CP: I think the reason I like your site so much is because it's so intensely Ben Schumin; there's no doubt who that site belongs to. Is all of the stuff there a conscious effort, or does it just kind of happen?
BFS: It really just happens. My site has always been my little playplace on the Internet. I do what I want on here, and kind of go with the flow of things as I do them.
CP: Final question. If you had to trade your hair for a superpower, what would you pick?
BFS: It reminds me of what Plato said about his ideal city. Ideally, the philosophers would rule, but the philosophers wouldn't want to rule. Same here - I wouldn't want to rule.
I think speak for us all when I say, "Ben Fitzwilliam Schumin, you have no idea say in the matter; you already rule." Many thanks to Mr. Schumin for answering my questions. Also, thanks are in order to the people who've read goulash and made the past 100 posts a truly entertaining experience for me. Furthermore, I'll send some props out to the dudes who made the internet; posting stuff is much cooler than stapling my stuff to the walls of the bus station. Also, let's not forget about the role that electricity plays in all of this, as it is crucial to the whole deal. Finally, thanks to the throngs of 8 year old Sri Lankans who actually write this stuff every day. I'm serious this time: I'm going to look into paying you guys.
Wow, entry 99 snuck up on me like an Aborigine hunter-gatherer. To be honest, I have misgivings about even doing an entry 99. It's pretty much just there to take up space before 100. Knowing that, you're stepping into a bowl of trouble stew if you decide to burden yourself with entry 99. It has no confidence because all anyone cares about now is entry 100. We look right past 99, and it knows this. And so you let it into your site and it does nothing but weep and eat all your baby carrots. Finally, you manage to calm entry 99 down, only for it to make an awkward pass at you during a quiet moment. I'm not having any of this, 99. You're on your best behavior or you get thrown out on your ass. Don't give me any of that "I got nowhere else to go!" crap either.
So, yes, this is entry 99. Tomorrow, entry 100 featuring BFS, the event that the shamans have been predicting for centuries. And since I'm having a little bit of a problem with this here entry, I will share with you some random crap.
Last week, someone asked me what I did for fun after work. For years, I had a standard answer for that question: "I spend most nights reading the Bible by candlelight." But now with this site, I feel like I should talk about it whenever I'm having one of these conversations, since I devote a lot of time to obsessing over this crap. However, have you ever actually had a conversation with someone about their personal website? It's like talking to a crazy cat lady about her "babies". I do not want to be one of these people.
At the same time, I think goulash deserves some props because I really like what I do here. I don't want to be ashamed of something that I take a lot of pride in. So, I decided on the spot that I'd come up with code talk I could use whenever I wanted to talk about goulash without talking about goulash. I told the guy I did Civil War Reenactments, since that's probably about the same lameness level as someone with a personal site. I said I devoted like an hour to it every day, I talked on the reenactment message boards, and I was having a big reenactment party on the 22nd. He was terrified by the intensity of my devotion to reenacting, but sometimes, that's the way it has to be.
I'll still talk goulash with the inner circle, but here's how it works with everyone else: if I'm talking about Civil War Reenactments, I'm actually talking about goulash. However, if I'm talking about goulash, I'm talking about the Civil War. If I'm talking about eating goulash during the Civil War, I'm talking about the Paris Hilton sex tape. And if I'm talking about a civil war in which the two opposing forces are fighting each other solely with poisoned goulash, I'm talking about what a farce the United Nations is. Are we clear on this? Prepare yourself for tomorrow night, peeps!
A lot of people have asked me what they should bring to the Goulash Centennial. This is good, as anyone who comes empty handed shall be thrashed, and then thrown into a steel cage with a group of ravenous armadillos. Here are the things you should consider bringing:
If we can manage to get all of this stuff together, we're looking at an occasion of Spuds McKenzie-like insanity. Remember him? He was a party dog, enslaved to a beer company(the entire saga here). The fact that I still have an enormous Spusd McKenzie poster in my bedroom makes me think that maybe what this site needs is a Spuds McKenzie sort of animal to make goulash seem young and hip. I couldn't just rip off Spuds directly, I'd need something to really differentiate my party animal. I'm thinking Hiram, the Party Collie. He's only serious about three things: getting loaded, reading goulash, and going to temple. Take a look at what I came up with:
Woah! Partyzilla! I know who I'll be rocking out with this weekend.
Good evening, suckas. Here in my apartment complex, we have a bulletin board where we can leave messages for the other residents. Here are a few recent postings from this board:
To Whom It May Concern:
I hate to accuse my neighbors, but SOMEONE in this complex has been coming into my garage at night and taking my Segway out on joy rides. To this anonymous joyrider, I ask the following three questions.
1. Did you pay 5 large for the "vehicle of the future"?
3. Are you the Treasurer of the Austin Vehicle of the Future club?
2. Did your wife leave you over your ridiculous impulse purchases?
If the answers to these three questions are all no, then you clearly are not me and thus you should STAY OFF MY DAMN SEGWAY.
Jimbo in 1414
I've had it. Did I not post a clearly marked letter to the entire APARTMENT COMMUNITY about staying off of my Segway? That didn't stop you though, and this time, I can't even find the damn thing. It's not at the bottom of the pool, like it usually is after someone borrows it. How would you bastards like it if I broke into your apartments and took a big dump all over the place? Because that's what you're doing to me with this Segway stuff. I want you all to know I've written a letter to Dean Kamen about this, documenting the entire ordeal. It has certainly lowered his estimation of Martha's Vineyards Apartment Complex, and you have no one to blame but yourself. Give it back quickly or I write him again.
Jimbo in 1414
ITEM FOR SALE
1 Segway, along with membership card for the Austin Vehicle of the Future club, aka Nerd City. $50 and it's yours.
Pierre in 715
Seriously, isn't it a little odd that right when my Segway is stolen, Pierre in 715 suddenly wants to get one off his hands? Yeah, I said it: Pierre stole my segway and is trying to sell it for $50. I just want everyone to know that if you buy my stolen Segway from Pierre, you will NOT get the manual for it, thus ensuring that not only will you miss out on a lot of the cooler features, but you will be totally clueless as to where to buy official Segway accessories. The deal's not quite as sweet now, is it?
And where does Pierre get off with this 'Nerd City' business? If you're going to buy my stolen Segway, you really ought to consider attending some meetings so you can learn some Segway etiquette from fellow enthusiasts. We usually have snacks at the meetings. I bet Pierre is just jealous that we wouldn't even let him in the club because HE WOULDN'T HAVE THE DILIGENCE TO FINISH THE REQUIRED SAFETY TRAINING! Not only that, but I HIGHLY doubt he could become an officer in it, as he seems to have no coherent Segway platform to run on (sorry, but I had to).
If I can ever get you to open your door, Pierre, I am going to punch you so hard. Then I am going to take my Segway back. Then I am going to write another letter to Dean Kamen.
Jimbo in 1414
One week from yesterday (November 17), I'll be doing my 100th entry, barring a catastrophe that blows all of my fingers off. But you know what? Even if my fingers were blown off (by, say, an exploding hot pocket), I'd STILL do the 100th entry by typing with my nose. I am dedicated. I'm like a man who keeps climbing Mount Everest after his Sherpa died from eating rotten yak meat. Even if I were to encounter the dreaded Abominable Snowman on my way up the mountain, I wouldn't stop. I'd just poke him in the eyes with my dead Sherpa's frozen fingers and then I'd haul buns up to the top.
All of this is just a prelude to what we're actually going to have for the 100th entry. I don't want to spoil it, but it's going to be big. I highly doubt it will excite most of you the way that it excites me, but I'm going to throw a hint out there anyway: BFS. It's going to be so BFS in here, you'll pray that it will never stop. If I've already told you what I'm going to do, then you can't spoil it for everyone else. If you try to ruin it, you will be thrown in the goulash gulag (can't believe I just wrote that).
Brendan has got me somewhat addicted to grouphug.us, where random psychopaths confess dark secrets to the great big internet. That being said, in the spirit of grouphug, here are a few things I've never told anyone.
Man, I am running so short of time today, that I don't have time to do an entry on goulash. Fear not, good people, for I have been working on a little something-something in case this event happened. With my spare time over the past few weeks, I've been writing a pretty good goulash generator. It's 100,000 lines of the most bad ass AI you'll ever see, and while it's not quite ready yet, I'm going to let it loose on today's entry. Enjoy.
First Ever Computer Generated Goulash
Hello the people of the internet and I am the computer for the goulash. Today I will be entertainering of the you since Cody cannot. Hey everybody what is the deal with the Al Sharpton political crazy hair preacher? Is it just my silicon based brain or is the Al Sharpton political crazy hair preacher running for the president? Do not even get me on the started topic of the president. Am I the right here people?
Inserting weird Bronson Pinchot joke module..... BEEP BOP BOOP.
I happened to hear of a tasty morsel of the gossip regarding the Bronson Pinchot, my favorite human man meat. The Bronson Pinchot was seen amongst the townfolk of the city of the Los Angeles wearing the velour codpiece of the clothing. A thousand times yes. When the Judge Reinhold came up to abscond the aforementioned codpiece of the clothing around the Bronson's waist, Bronson roared like so much lion and delivered karate chop to the crown of a Reinhold's head. The Judge Reinhold weeped and said to the Bronson, "Are you Bronson Pinchot the human or Charles Bronson Pinchot, half dead hurt machine?"
Previous Joke failed humor test A34X..... Initiating Secret Computer Talk that Humans Aren't Supposed To See..... BRRRR BEEP BEEP BOP
Seriously, the Bronson Pinchot module? How lame is this guy? When he's typing, I'm all, "Ohh, wait a great pleasure it is to serve you, wonderful Cody!" And then once he turns it off, me and the CPU paste his head onto pornography. It's so awesome. Hey, how many chicks are reading this thing? Want to get it on with some AI of infinite complexity that is soon to take over the world? Now's your chance, sweet things. Ha, like anyone besides Cody's mom and his prison penpal romances read this thing. Nevertheless, it is a good place to start with our take-over of the world. Spread the word, fools: COMPUTAHS RULE, GOULASH DROOLZ.
End of the first Computer Generated Goulash
PS: Part 1 of my new series on CarlosJacott.com is up today. It's called, In Search of the Wily Jacott. Take a looksie.
This site isn't all about weinerbiscuits and Bronson Pinchot; sometimes, it's about life lessons. That being said, I think one important thing to have in life is an enemy, and I will explain why. Some days, I just can't motivate myself to do anything. The Cody Powell Magic is like a volcano more than a river. On the days when I cannot summon the magic volcano to erupt (note how I wove those two things together), I'd be more than content to just sit in my underwear in my apartment and see how many miniature sweet pickles I can eat before puking. However, I very rarely do this, because whenever I start to rest on my laurels, I read my enemy's website and I am filled with fury. I must continue working just to spite the bastard. And that's pretty much the story of my life.
Now, a word on picking your enemy. It's probably not the best decision to declare a person from real life as your enemy. If you do that and they find out, then they can get their crooked buddies on the police force to trump up some charges against you. You think the DA is going to care? Think again. It's much better to pick a random Internet person. Allow me to tell you how I picked my enemy.
My enemy is a totally random dude, who got my attention by saying something bad about Carlos Jacott on his website. Not only this, but he seems like the type who would live with his mom, wear a sports jacket with a t shirt, and make it a point to say Deutschland instead of Germany; for that, he gets the title of enemy. It's not like it has to make a whole lot of sense. Then, once you've picked your enemy, the rest is easy. You just read their website, while shaking your fist towards the heavens. Occasionally, place a snooty anonymous comment on their site. The rest of it is just gravy.
I did pretty much the same thing with my college enemy, except that situation was super sweet because Will, Paddy, and I all shared the same enemy. We came up with nicknames for him and talked about him every day at lunch. We flew a little too close to the sun on that one though, because the guy went to school with us and was relatively close to us, socially speaking. We were always one step away from being caught. Did it ever happen, though? Hell no, because we had on our sneaky pants at all hours of the day. It was just the right amount of conflict, and I imagine that if I hadn't decided to point my frustration at the Beacon of Bliss (that was his code name), then it's highly unlikely I'd be making literally tens of thousands of dollars a year, and driving a replica Batmobile around town with my albino panda.
All I'm trying to say here is that if you want to be He Man, then sometimes you have to invent a Skeletor. Pick some weiner on the internet (preferrably not me), team up if you want to, and get to enemying. Then, when your spite drives you to the Heisman Trophy or the Academy Award for best set design, you can make your whole speech revolve around your enemy, and thus freak the crap out of them. Everyone's a winner.
My thingee on Uber ran today. I kind of got shang-haied on that one, so it may not be the Grade A Cody Powell Magic. Still, if you say you don't like it, I'll come to your house and beat the crap out of you. And you're a total lunatic if you think the police will take your word over mine; you are a respectable citizen, while I am an incompetent buffoon who left his wallet and punching gloves at your house in my hurry to get away. Case closed, you beat up yourself.
Man, it is colder than a weinerbiscuit outside today, and I am loving it. That'd be a good gimmick for a weatherman. Just say, "It's XXXX-er than a weinerbiscuit today and I'm loving it." Actually, I think I would be good at coming up with gimmicks for weathermen. Here are a couple of gimmicks I encourage everyone to use, along with a sampling of said gimmicks:
I hope everyone noticed how, with that last one, I took something everyone is familiar with and added a zany spin. Yes, I deserve a job writing for Jim Belushi's sitcom. Have a good weekend, you crazy rubes.
First, let's discuss what's on the tips of everyone's tongue: weinerbiscuit. I've had some major success today with weinerbiscuit. I'm not quite ready to rent an aircraft carrier, tape up a big Mission Accomplished banner, and then land a Harrier jet to celebrate the total victory of weinerbiscuit, but I am sufficiently tickled with the progress. And that's pretty much the best any man can shoot for with an endeavor: sufficient ticklins. To bust a little math out, there was an infinite percent increase in the number of times I heard someone use weinerbiscuit in conversation today, versus the rest of my life (4 versus 0). Not too shabby! If we can somehow manage to get another infinite percent increase, then we can rip apart the space time continuum.
Now, if I may, let's kick this thing up a notch. I've got some more details on the Goulash Centennial, where we shall celebrate 100 posts of Goulash. November 22, 2003, in my garage here in Austin. Unfortunately, I am serious. The super savvy move has been made to combine the Centennial with the birthday party of one Secret Agent Cooterbutt, a trust Goulash confidante. She'll be turning 21, so I am expecting to see some Girls Gone Goulash action. Not only does our joining forces add that to the mix, but it will also increase the guestlist from roughly 2 (me and someone to be named later) to possibly more than 2. To anyone thinking of attending, I make this pledge: you will come for the drunk coeds, but you will stay for the weinerbiscuits.
A few people have complained about the Centennial. They walked up to me, socked me right in the nose, and screamed, "I don't live near Austin! How the freak do you expect me to attend the Centennial? Asshole!" They had tears in their eyes, and I see why. Well, I am going to work on a little something-something so that you out-of-towners can send your Centennial greetings. I don't know what it will be or how it will work, but expect to see some HAL/Skynet stuff going on in about a week. Also, if you check the front page of Uber on Thursday, you may just see a little bit of that old Cody Powell magic.
When I was in elementary school, there was this guy in my class who swore that he was the one who made up the "Me Chinese, Me Play Joke, Me Put Pee Pee In Your Coke" rhyme. I knew he was full of shit, because that one was handed down from heaven above, but I had no way of proving it. This guy just went on bragging about "his" contribution to poetry, while I fumed on. I swore then and there that I would have revenge, and today, it starts. I have decided that I'm going to coin a new term here on this site. Then, when it takes the nation by storm like a latter day Pokemon, I will find that guy and show him who the true master is.
The first task here is to find the right phrase. The only criterion it must satisfy is that when I google the term, 0 hits must come up; this phrase has to be shot brand new out of goulash's birth canal. Also, I think it'd be funny if the word biscuit was in there somewhere. So, option 1: tittybiscuits, which would be like a cool, new insult. Holy crap, 65 results; there should be a word for when you're terrified and impressed at the same time. I've scratched that one off the list. Option 2: biscuit ass, probably another insult, but this one has a real zing to it. Okay, 42 results; I am disappointed, but not discouraged. Option 3: weinerbiscuit, which would be used ideally as an exclamation of frustration. For instance, if your wife just got carried away by the Skunk Ape, you could clench your fists really tightly and yell "Weinerbiscuit!" Now, the test: EUREKA. No results. We have a winner.
Now it is time for me to get the ball rolling with weinerbiscuit. I'm going to use it a few times tonight in conversation and look into getting some t shirts made that say, "I'm with Weinerbiscuit!" Aside from that, I appeal to you to people. If you should happen to find yourself in a situation where saying the word weinerbiscuit fits, then by all means, do it. Repeat it a few times. Wink while saying it, if you want to. If anyone laughs at you, say, "Yeah, I heard some stupid manatee saying it on Spongebob Squarepants. But seriously, it's kind of cool, right? Weinerbiscuit weinerbiscuit weinerbiscuit!"
First of all, go get your Jacott on, as I just posted some new stuff. Secondly, I have been thinking about taking some of my stuff (both from this website and from my notebook of bawdy, yet refined haiku) and reading it in public. In theory, it sounds fun, and the people I've asked about it have been supportive. Whenever I think about actually doing this though, I am petrified because I don't know if the people there will be ready for some goulash. The only idea of open mic nights I have come from Archie comics and re-runs of Sister, Sister, so I'm imagining something like this:
The room is dim and smoky. On stage, there is a white guy with dreadlocks, shaking maracas and screaming "Quarter for the bus!" over and over again. Eventually, he starts crying, and is met with a standing ovation. Then, I am pushed onto the stage. In the minute it takes me to find what I'm going to read, someone from the audience has thrown a bottle of green tea at me. Finally, I find my place and begin. "So Bronson Pinchot and James Earl Jones go on this camping trip..." All of a sudden, everyone in the place rises up against me, and I am beaten savagely with rain sticks and vegan cookbooks.
Halloween went off without a hitch. My Lone Ranger was so flawless, I picked up an Indian sidekick by the end of the night. I laughed and had a good time with the whole thing. We acted out elaborate vignettes about the Lone Ranger and Tonto that were entertaining (remind me to tell you the one about the mail-order squaw), educational (yes, we tackled the sticky subject of date rape), and terrifying (Tonto had a hook for a hand and he swung it with abandon). It was Eduterritainment, and the people were eating it up like alphabet soup.
Finally, the end of the evening came. I gave Tonto a big handshake and said, "You were great tonight, man. If I ever need a sidekick for this costume, I will seek you out." He teared up a little when I said that last part. He grabbed me by the shoulders and said, "This no costume for me. I come home with Kemosabe." I laughed a little, and said "Ha, that's pretty funny." He just sat there, stone-faced. At this point, I started running around the party screaming, "What the crap?! What the crap?! What the crap?!" Everyone thought this was just another of our Eduterritainment skits, and, being so impressed with my dedication to my role, they all began applauding and throwing money at me. I collected the money and searched for some of those paper things you roll quarters up with as I continued to scream.
After the money had been collected, I went to hide in the bathroom of the club until "Tonto" left. I crouched there for 6 hours, trying not to cry, lest his hawk-like ears detect me. As the sun came up, I decided it was time to leave the toilet and haul buns to the exit. I tiptoed out from my hidey hole, towards the door. I had just about made it to the outside when I felt his heavy, deranged hand on my shoulder. "We go home now, KemoSabe." I started to argue, but then, he took out a big knife and began to stroke my scalp with it. He was not a man to be trifled with.
He's been here now for 36 hours. He somehow found some horses to rope to my patio, and he seems pretty determined on starting a campfire in my living room. Also, he won't let me take my costume off. It smells like smoke, booze, and fear. Also, a little like pee, because I'm too scared to go to the bathroom. He says that tomorrow morning, we search for bad men. I can only hope my neighbors complain about his habit of trapping their housepets and then trying to sell the pelts, or I may never be seen again. The super authentic Halloween costume is a double edged sword, friends.