Leap day, suckas! Since I go out of my way to be nice once every four years, I decided I would take advantage of today and help my sister move into her new place. Rather than regale you with a bunch of exciting moving stories, I'll just say that when I was finished and I got back to my apartment, it smelled like someone had been making toast in here. I can't tell if my olfactory functions are hallucinating, or if I'm dealing with a dangerous new breed of super criminal. In the unlikely event someone broke into my apartment just to make toast: there is no need for all the subterfuge, toast maker. I like toast too, and I'll gladly let you in so you can use my toast facilities, provided you share the toast. I am not responsible for what happens to you if I let you in and you don't share.
Since the Oscars are tonight, you may be expecting me to comment on them. Well, let me tell you something, folks. Here at Goulash Junction, I do as a please; if that means writing about toast burglars instead of the Oscars, so be it. If I were to comment on the Oscars though, I'd say that whole awards show is one big baloney sammich. As a matter of fact, that goes for all awards. I decided in the 3rd grade, right after I was named a Wood Elementary Wonder Kid at an assembly, that I had to immediately stop caring about awards because I would only be disappointed from then on. In a sense, I went out on top, like James Dean. Certain award shows still get their due reverence from me (Nickelodeon's Kid Choice Awards), but I really don't care for any others, because I've experienced the glory and I know just how fickle it can be.
Okay, I am having a hard time stringing together coherent sentences, so let's just call this one a mulligan and move on to tomorrow.
Everyone on the internet sure has gotten their panties in a bunch about gay marriages. As the operator of the web's 439,618th most popular site, I would like to weigh in on this.
Message to homosexuals from America at large: you may charm us on reality tv shows, infuse our hair styles with passion and vibrancy, and delight us with your brassiness on sitcoms, but it'll be a cold day in hell before you get married in the US of A! If we acquiesce to letting a class of valid, tax-paying citizens get married, the next thing you know, we'll be letting women and black people vote. Thank God the Whig Party is there to oppose such hedonism. 54º40' or fight!
Okay, this issue doesn't really matter to me, but when I have the opportunity to zing one at the Whig Party, I seize the day. However, there is something vaguely related to homosexuality that does get my goat, on which I will now ramble incoherently. There's been a rumor going around the state of the Texas that Governor Rick Perry was caught in bed with another man. More than once this week, someone has emailed me this information and in each instance, I responded decisively with, "You are an idiot; never email me again." I had hoped that would be the end of that imbroglio.
But no, these weinerbiscuits decided to up the ante a little bit. After that email made the rounds a bit, I started to get emails saying that a coming out rally would be held in front of the governor's mansion in Austin this week to motivate the governor to make his homosexuality public. If I may allow myself to be the spokesman for the sane portion of the Austin community, I must boldy ask: what in the hell is wrong with you people? Not only is it completely unclear what you're trying to accomplish with this rally, but the impetus behind it was some hearsay passed around through email forwards. Do you folks start shaking Bill Gates down for money every time you get that email saying he'll send you a dollar for forwarding this message? Probably not, and yet with one email, you're to grab some bongo drums and start running around the Governor's Mansion, chanting about doing it in the butt. I expect a little better form Austin's liberal weirdos.
Don't me wrong, folks: I do enjoy the delightfully kooky nature of Austin some times, but I can't imagine we're going to be seeing the governor soon at any citywide gay sex parties because of this. Sorry I had to be the one to say that. And now that I look, the rally was had on Tuesday. So really, no one listen to me.
When I left off yesterday, we had just agreed to meet up with our friends in San Antonio and drive up to Austin together. Our friends were in Corpus Christi, we were in Laredo, and those two cities are each about 3 hours from San Antonio. Since both groups were getting on the road at the same time, the plan seemed perfect. In fact, it was the perfect plan, as long as one disregarded the fact that our friends were being transported to San Antonio by a gang of lascivious hussies. Our plan was literally one kegger or Ludacris concert away from being blown to crap city.
Having bested Eric in a Best of 3 series of Paper Rock Scissors with a bewildering Scissor-Rock-Paper strategy, I perched my sweet behind in the front seat and let Eric drive us through the wilds of South Texas. Being in post-Mexico shell shock, we rocketed right up to San Antonio and called our friends to see where they'd like to meet. "Well, there's a minor problem," they said. "We're struck in some traffic , so we'll be like an hour late." Traffic between Corpus and San Antonio? I don't think so. It was more like, "We hit an unexpected delay as our ladies are currently scouring Old Navy for some fresh meat."
But anyway, an hour late is not a big deal. Since I just spent the past 4 years in San Antonio, I attempted to direct Eric to a cool part of town where we could kill some time. His feelings sore over the outcome of the Paper Rock Scissors game, he promptly disregarded all directions and drove around aimlessly for a while. Miraculously, we soon found ourselves in the parking lot of the one place that hung-over 20-something males are notorious for frequenting. You know what I'm talking about here, the Botanical Gardens. Our thirst for knowledge never quenched, we decided the Botan was the perfect place to kill some time. We got out of the car and prepared ourselves for some motherscratching horticulture.
Immediately upon our entrance, the cashier told us he needed to see a military or student ID from each of us. He was very insistent on this. "Is the botanical gardens on lock-down?" someone asked. "Naw, I'm just trying to save you some money, dude!" he replied. And then he proceeded to carry on with us the most bizarre conversation that's ever taken place in the San Antonio Botanical Gardens. In a matter of seconds, he accused me of using my student ID to break into women's rooms and then he quizzed us on whether his coworker was legally old enough to have sex with him. Suffice it to say, this man was a golden god, and we decided right there to try to capture him on video when our
I don't know if it's possible to rock the Botanical Gardens, but we certainly tried. We fed some ducks, we saw the highest point in San Antonio within the loop, we got some quality time in on one of those big swinging benches, and we frolicked in the Fern Grotto. If you happen to be an heiress looking to woo me, a fern grotto would be a good start. That place was cool for cats. With the way we were carrying on around that joint, I was almost afraid someone's grandmother was going to hit on me. After an hour or so, we wound it up, tried to get that guy on video (failure), and got ready to meet up with our friends at the Trinity campus.
When they didn't show up on time, we called our friends again and were not surprised to learn they would be another hour late. At this point, I was too worn out to get mad, so I made sure to put his car down on the "To Be Peed On" list and then I rolled with the punches. They showed up a while later, we made it to Austin okay, and the people of Mexico will forever tell the story of El Tornado Blanco. It was a good trip.
Check out Part 1 of Happy Day George Wachintong.
When our friends told us they were leaving Mexico to follow the strumpets to Corpus Christi, it was all I could do to stifle a hysterical temper tantrum. While normally the world's most indecisive man, I was resolved not to go with them. I had waited all year for Mexico, and no chlamydia buffet was going to take that away from me. I was all but prepared to turn my fists of death upon my friends, if it came down to it.
After voicing this opinion a few hundred times to the group in the most offensive way possible, the driver picked up on my hints and offered his car to those of us wanting to stay in Mexico. The two going to Corpus would get a ride with their sweet ladies to Austin the next day, where the car would be waiting. It was the perfect plan. After hollering the best Spanish translation of "Booyuckis!", we took the keys and bid farewell to our friends and their succubuses. In true sitcom fashion, the three nerds of the group had told a group of attractive, wanton women to get lost so we could spend the night in Nuevo Laredo alone; we had a birthday to celebrate.
With our friends gone, Paul, Eric, and I went at Mexico with a fury normally reserved for buffet lines and backyard wrestling matches. We hit every establishment in the city, eating everything in sight, and yes, having a beer or two in the process. Confirming that our trio was radiating a universal sex appeal, a group of females and then a collection of friendly homosexual men tried to join our ranks. Their advances were flattering in a confusing and scary way, but we made it clear to them there was only one dude we were interested in hooking it up with that evening: the birthday boy himself, George Washington.
After several hours of going Tasmanian Devil on the streets of Nuevo Laredo, we made our way back to our room at the Motel 6. Eric, having drawn the short straw, was forced to sleep in a bed by himself, while Paul experienced the distinct pleasure of sharing a double bed with a smelly, intoxicated man known to do a little bit of snoring, aka CWMP. We slept like wee babes that night, and woke up the next morning feeling far better than we had any right to. We packed up our things and set off in search for a spot of breakfast, when Paul's cell phone rang. It was one of the guys who had gone to Corpus, and he wanted to know if we could change the plans for the meet-up in Austin.
Apparently, my instructions to Paul to tell those guys to go screw themselves didn't go through clearly, and Paul agreed that we'd meet them in a few hours in San Antonio and then ride up to Austin together. This plan was slightly worse than our original one, which would've delivered me straight to my apartment, but I decided to be a team player to keep from being stabbed. Had I only known what this rendez vous in San Antonio had in store for us, I would've actively sought out the stabbing.
Tune in tomorrow for Part 3 of Happy Day George Wachintong, where we find ourselves with a lot of time to kill in San Antonio and decide to take in a little bit of nature.
If I had to sum up this weekend's trip to Mexico, I would do it with the following: When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade; when Mexico hands you a potential catastrophe, you make catastrophe pie. Read on for my lengthy and possibly uninteresting explanation.
After a heavy dose of unfeathered hurly burly on Friday night in Austin, five of us made our way to Old Mexico on Saturday afternoon for George Washington's birthday, a major event in Nuevo Laredo. Our heads hurt and our bodies ached, but spirits were high, because we knew were about to do the Father of Our Country proud. Our international exploration started off in the usual fashion, with a gaggle of budding international entrepreneurs offering me chiclets, and when that failed, 4 foot tall prostitutes. After fending off these scamps with a barrage of purple nurples and indian rope burns, we entered our first bar and in doing so, encountered disaster.
Seated at the bar were three American girls, a little younger than us. My heart was buoyed at the sight of these intrepid explorers, as Nuevo Laredo isn't typically considered the single American woman's paradise. After a moment's consideration, I decided against giving them all celebratory wet willies, and sat down with my friends at a table to enjoy some spirits. A short time later, one of these girls came over to talk with us. To me, this is not a major occurrence, as I am universally considered an urbane and delightful young man. To some elements of the party though, these women represented something that had to be held on to, like the Rosetta Stone, and they decided unilaterally that only the cold grip of death could pry these women away.
In the course of the ensuing discussion with these ladies, two facts came to light. Fact the first: they were going back to Corpus Christi (3 hours away and very far from our respective domiciles) in a few hours. Fact the second: these girls were 18-19 years old, and could quite possibly be considered skankdified. To me, this was a clearly posted Stop sign. Not only do I have a ladyfriend of sorts in Austin, but I am opposed to both sexually transmitted diseases and driving 3 hours away to procure these sexually transmitted diseases from girls who just got out of high school. And let's not forget that I've looked forward to this day for the past 52 weeks and couldn't be coerced out of that city even if one were to offer a pony ride with Carlos Jacott.
Looking around the table, I hoped to make these thoughts known to my comrades. Two of them were clearly in agreement with me, while I couldn't quite size up the other two. It was approximately 3 seconds into my giving of the stink eye to these undecideds that they both yelled out, "We're going to Corpus!" Perhaps now it would be salient to point out that we had taken only one car down there, and the owner of this one car was the most vocal about the trip to Corpus. I did not take that news well. Even worse was the realization that maybe my charming demeanor was both a blessing and a burden. I cursed my luck and began to brainstorm ways so that three of us could stay in Mexico and return to Texas in a timely and undamaged fashion, while the others pursued their certain doom.
Tomorrow: Part 2 of Happy Day George Wachintong, where the three of us finagle our way into staying in Mexico that night and then arrange for a bewildering rendezvous with the others, who had left for Corpus.
I am way too dirty, tired, and gross from this weekend's Mexico trip to do anything fanciful here. Just let me share one little bit of wisdom. Any day where you can spend 10 hours in Mexico, and then walk back across the border with a hot dog in hand, money in your pocket, and a song in your heart counts as a victory. More tomorrow, when I've been de-Mexicoed enough to talk about it.
After much thought, I decided that if Carlos was going to hate the site, I should at least have some fun with it. I humbly present to you then my list of reasons for countersuing Carlos. Not only that, but I put all of the rest of the site back up. Hopefully, that will turn this from an "oh sweet jesus!"-style legal fiasco to a "ha ha ha, you scamp"-style delightful misunderstanding. In the event that doesn't work, let's all start looking into a Goulash Defense Fund right now.
Hopefully, all of the Jacott intrigue has been put to bed. Let's focus on something more soothing, like the proper cockfight etiquette for my trip to Mexico this weekend. Nothing gets a cockfight afficionado riled up quicker than some brash newcomer, walking around like he owns the joint. To honor the rich and storied history of fighting roosters, here's a quick run down on do's and don'ts for your next event.
Have a good weekend, everyone. I will attempt to post some bewildering and terrifying pics from my Mexico trip on Sunday.
We're now at Day 3 of Jacottgate, and I have no news to report. No lawsuits, no middle of the night visits from Carlos's enforcers, and certainly no blubbery apology from the man himself. I briefly considered replacing the snippy note currently found at CarlosJacott.com with an image of me handing Carlos a box of chocolates, with the caption, "Why don't we just agree to disagree?" While that would be the greatest thing in the history of the internet, I am going to refrain from doing that until Carlos antagonizes me some more, or I get really bored.
Now that CarlosJacott.com has essentially been sent to the taxidermist, I am wondering what I should start working on. Don't get me wrong; Sweet Lady Goulash always treats me mighty fine. My muse demands more venues, that's all. From a hysterically emotional standpoint, I am tempted to register IHateCarlosJacott.com and let my bruised feelings run wild. If the man thinks I'm insulting him when I'm trying to do something complimentary, wait until he sees my actual negative material. That could get a little complicated though, since IHateCarlosJacott.com would most likely result in me fleeing the country to evade a swarm of lawsuits. While the people of Honduras are quite personable, I don't think they're ready to accomodate the fast-paced lifestyle of one Cody Wayne Maxwell Powell.
All I can say is, I'm glad that I'll be in Mexico in a few days, where it's 80 degrees and no one has ever heard of the Internet. And if Carlos wants to hunt me down there, he's going to have to deal with the one eyed bartender whose servant I'll be once my wallet is tapped and the American embassy refuses to return my calls. Indentured servitude has its priviledges.
Today is a sad day, as I have made my last ever post to CarlosJacott.com. It's been said before, but I'll say it again: it's truly unfortunate when your favorite character actor misinterprets a bizarre act of kindess and threatens to sue you. For such a great comedic actor, he really is lacking in the sense of humor department. Unless, of course, this is all part of some grandiose and majestic gag that he's playing on me, in which case he is truly the master. Despite my fervent wishes, I think that's a little unlikely. Even if Carlos isn't playing a joke on me, I am still happy that my efforts there will surely go down as the coolest misunderstood gesture of all time.
The people of Nuevo Laredo better understand that all of this rigamarole means they must try extra hard this weekend to entertain and horrify me. But if ever there was a crack team ready for such an endeavor, it is the citizens of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. I'm always struck by how many people there are sitting on the streets, trying to sell gum, but then I think, "If they take gum this seriously, just imagine the energy they devote to everything else." It is a stirring sight to behold, and there's a little lesson there for everybody.
I just got to thinking about something. If I wanted to, I could just do a find and replace on Carlos's site, replacing his name with someone else's, and thus make it a totally new place for a totally new actor. If I kept doing that, I could just go from actor to actor, collecting law suits. In a way, I'd be like the Johnny Appleseed of the internet. Instead of spreading appleseeds around the country, I'd be spreading my paycheck to people like Ed Asner, Malcolm Jamal Warner, and Robert Stack. It's definitely something to think about.
I received a bombshell this morning that rocked the fragile equilibrium of CarlosJacott.com. Noah Baumbach, who directs a lot of the movies that Carlos has been in, answers questions from his fans on his website. One wrote in and asked Noah if Carlos was associated with CarlosJacott.com (question 252 here). Carlos responded with the following:
I have absolutely nothing to do with that web site. I'm one of my least favorite actors so it's unlikely that I'd devote free time to that tripe. Why someone else would is beyond me. I'd sue but I just don't care enough
My response to Carlos's response:
Ouch. My bad.
To elaborate, I think Carlos may have some confidence issues. I don't understand how he could misconstrue CarlosJacott.com as something mean or spiteful, but apparently he has. Since he is clearly not a fan of anything regarding that site except the impending legal action, I am going to be taking CarlosJacott.com down tomorrow. I thought it was a cool and amusing site, but I'm not going to be taken to court over a story about Carlos getting kidnapped by a Japanese prune juice company. I certainly had a good time doing it, and I'm glad Carlos revealed his lack of sense of humor now, as opposed to 6 months from now, when I planned to begin blasting a model of his face onto Mt. McKinley.
On the bright side, can anyone imagine a cooler way to wind up a website? If it's going to go down, it needs to go down in spectacular fashion.
Three day weekend today, so no big, fancy entry for you savages today. However, since tomorrow is my dad's birthday, I thought I'd distribute a few choice age-related insults in case any of you see him tomorrow. Try these on for size:
I wouldn't say my dad's old, but he urinates primordial soup.
I wouldn't say my dad's old, but the best man at his wedding was Australopithecus africanus.
I wouldn't say my dad's old, but whenever you cut him off in traffic, he'll yell out "Go back to Mesopotamia!"
If you happen to see him tomorrow, definitely unload one of those on him. To make sure his ancient ears don't garble the message, you'll probably want to send the insult via telegraph, as that is the only method of communication he's comfortable with (because he's old, get it?).
My, Valentine's Day is already upon us! For some, that means a night of romantic canoodling with your sweetheart, while for others, it's just another evening of drunken weeping and internet porn. I'm not here to judge. What I am here to do is make sure that dude/sweet lady of your choosing becomes putty in your hands come February 14th. If that sounds like your kind of thing, just follow my step by step instructions for Valentine's Day and get ready to have some sex.
Step 1: Look Your Coolest.
For the gents, this means extra wax for your handlebar mustache. Do you have a leather jacket with a dragon on it? If so it, wear it. For the sweet ladies, that means not wearing a shirt.
Step 2: Bring Your Dude/Sweet Lady a Gift
Nothing warms someone up quicker than a token of your affection. If it's a dude you're after, I'd suggest getting him a bottle of Brut cologne and a switchblade. If you're romancing a sweet lady, nothing tells her you're serious better than giving her a bouquet of flowers and a wedding dress.
Step 3: Distinguish Yourself in Some Way
You're looking good, you're giving gifts, and you're almost there. To seal the deal, you need to do something awesome to impress them. How do you do this? It helps if you're autistic and you can count things really quickly or you have the nation's train schedules memorized. If you're not autistic, just fake it. If someone spills a box of something, shout out a number. If someone says a city, make up a figure for its population, latitude, and longitude. Note: this may not work if your dude/sweet lady happens to be autistic and can dispute your figures.
Step 4: Take Your Dude/Sweet Lady Somewhere Special
If you're going to seal the deal, you need to take your special person somewhere incredible. A trip to the dollar movies and a dinner at Denny's isn't going to work on this, the most romantical of days. What I'd suggest instead is to find a celebrity who lives near you, and then with your date, break into his house. Show your lover the lives of the fabulously rich and famous; if you want to steal something while on the inside, just go with it. Not only will this trip make a cute story for the grandkids, but you'll appear very brave when fending off the attack dogs with your shoes.
Step 5: Get Your Freak On
You've done your part, now it's time for your date to do theirs. Drive out to a really bad neighborhood and stop the car abruptly. Say your car is powered by love and it is now out of gas. Then say you're not going anywhere until your date joins you in the back seat and gets serious about your transportation. There's a 90% chance this will work, particularly if your date is stupid. In the freak occurrence that it doesn't work, tell your lover you have cancer and your request for one last bout of fornication was turned down by the Make-A-Wish foundation. Then say you'll make a special point to die on their front yard if they don't comply with this, your last request. You may need to walk around with an IV in order for this to work, but it's practically foolproof.
It isn't easy to create the perfect Valentine's Day, but if you're serious about your dude/sweet lady, it is your only choice. Good luck, everyone.
Short entry today, as I am not a happy man. Here are a few reasons why.
1. I parked under a tree at work today. While I was shaking the money tree indoors, it began raining outside. When I came out for lunch, it looked as if my car had been appropriated by the Swamp Thing. It was easily mistaken for one of those old timey vehicles constructed solely of sod and twigs.
2. When getting money from the ATM in order to wash aforementioned car, I left my card in the machine. Apparently, no one had told Bank of America that the Bride of Swamp Thing waits for nothing, whether it be man or machine.
3. When I returned to the bank an hour later to see if someone had returned my card, the teller told me that my card was either destroyed by the ATM or it was currently being used to finance an Eastern European snuff film. I had a crappy mint on the way out of the place.
4. My office has smelled like ketchup all day long. Not sure what to make of that.
I feel that with today's events, I can confidently conclude that my nemesis, Professor Borofilios, both exists AND is dead set on my destruction. If you see a debonair man with a velvet cape, a diamond scepter, and something that looks like a Death Ray, walking towards my apartment, please hit him with your car. Many thanks.
Here are a few emails mistakenly sent to me today.
Dear Phil Collins,
What is Phil short for? I'm thinking Phillip, but my friend says Philbert. Is that even a name? And remember that old video game QBert? He says that game is secretly an homage to you, Philbert Collins. At the very east, that is questionable. Set us straight, Phil(lip)(bert).
Dear Phil Collins,
Well, we're getting closer to making Qbert 2 a reality. Is it cool with you if we still pattern each level after Genesis songs? And since we're talking about it, can the main character still be a naked Philbert Collins? You have the final say on this, as you are our muse.
Boogaloo Brown, CEO of Philbert Interactive
Dear Phil Collins,
It is with extreme dissatisfaction that I send this email. After thousands of rumors on various message boards and years spent playing the game, I have finally made it to the mythical Level X of Qbert. My excitement at reaching this milestone was quickly supplanted by bewilderment and outrage, as this final, super secret level was nothing more than a vide called "Phil Collins' Waffle Party". Thank you for making a mockery of all of my hard work. I hate you, and I hate Genesis.
PS: What were you topping those bad boys with, strawberries? I know I saw some whipped cream in there.
Oh man, it's coming up. I look forward to it like a kid staying up for Santa Claus or Michael Winslow waiting for the call about Police Academy 9, and it's now less than 2 weeks away. I am speaking, of course, about my trip to Nuevo Laredo, Mexico for George Washington's birthday. Now that I think about it, the Santa Claus comparison doesn't even work. When Santa Claus visits, he doesn't offer you prostitutes and prescription drugs right away. Sure, he may build up to that, but an offer of pills and women is pretty much the standard greeting when you cross the border into Nuevo Laredo.
I could imagine some people would be taken aback when strange foreigners start coming up to them and asking if they are down for a drugged up sex party. Not me. If anything, I find such honesty refreshing. How many times have I had to act like someone's friend, only to find out they couldn't get me hookers and drugs even if they tried? Not that I partake in things like that, I just like to be around resourceful people. You never know when you're going to have an emergency that requires a callgirl and a bottle of kidney medication.
I got swept up in the excitement there. Allow me to reiterate: I am going to Mexico in less than 2 weeks for George Washinton's birthday. I can't explain the significance of the date for the people of Mexico, but it appears that part of the town by-laws for Nuevo Laredo is that everyone goes ape shit that weekend (bizarre explanation found here). I went last year and it was probably the best weekend I've ever had. Now that I've had a year to savor the flavor, I am ready to go at it like a cagey veteran. If any American diplomat is reading this, please leave your contact info in the comments; once Mexico gets a taste of this, they're not going to let go.
Finally, get down on the boogaloo with the latest installment of Jacott In Japan over at CarlosJacott.com. Had I written this thing 30 years earlier, you'd been seeing it all on Kojak.
Note: all of this was written on Friday.
I'm staying home sick from work today. Whenever, I stay home from work, even when sick, it's kind of like a Home Alone situation. Yes, I will run through the halls screaming in my underwear, but I will also take the time to see I eat nutritious meals and wrap my Christmas presents. Since it is an extra special day, I am going to go ahead and keep a running track of all my activities.
9:15: Wake up. Ouch. Apparently a dragon has taken up residence in my throat. I think for a moment about going in to work. I certainly have the energy to go in, but I don't want to risk it. I go back and forth for a few minutes before I decided to let a flip of the coin handle my fate. Heads = no work, tails = work. I flip the coin. It's too dark to see it in here. Everyone feels the tension; my heart is pounding like a tom tom, old men are crying into their handkerchiefs, young ladies spontaneously go into birth.
I make the necessary emails to my comrades at work and get ready for my big day at home.
10:30: Decide to make breakfast. For a second there, I thought Eric cooked all my eggs last weekend, in which case, he would've paid for his transgression with man blood. How about this for a rule: whenever we reference part of our body, we need to preface it with the word man. That way, we get man face, man bones, etc. It makes you sound like an alien, which is my favorite thing to sound like.
Every time I crack eggs, I think of Ghostbusters. That's got to be the best egg related movie scene ever. That movie was to eggs what Janet Jackson was to crazy moon nipple clamps. Ghostbusters put eggs on the map. On a related note, after the first smell of food, I realized again that I am not feeling well and thus probably shouldn't make elaborate meals for myself. Nevertheless, I soldier on.
11:30: Apparently my parents don't regard me as a self healing super cyborg. They want me to go see a doctor. Talk about a one way ticket to lamesville. I do have some fancy health insurance at work, but I don't know how to use it. If I went in then, the whole thing would probably end up costing me a several thousand dollars due to my incompetence. I do have a health insurance card, but what do I do with it? Do I swipe it? Do I show it to the doctor? It is for precisely this reason that I haven't gone to see a doctor in a few years. Instead, I just wander the streets until I find someone wearing glasses, and then I ask him, "Do I look well to you?" And obviously, I'm not dead yet, so it seems to be working.
First bite of my breakfast: I am missing out on my calling if i don't drop this software crap immediately and become a fry cook at the Waffle House. It's almost a delight to dry heave my way through this meal. Second bite of the meal: I'm not sure if I cooked the sausage thoroughly. Trichinosis on top of my Chinese death flu? That'll make for a good obituary.
2:00: Feed a cold, starve a fever; we all know how that works. What if you're just generally sick, though? Here are a few ideas.
Feed a cold, starve a fever, bathe a general sickness.
Feed a cold, starve a fever, karate chop a general sickness.
Feed a cold, starve a fever, serenade a general sickness.
I opt for the last one, as I fall asleep with my TV inexplicably turned to CMT. I will chalk that up to delerium. Wake up 2 hours later, feel better, then quickly feel much worse.
4:30: Hot dogs for lunch. I am probably the world's biggest fan of cow lips and anuses in weiner form. Strike that, in any form. And speaking of which, they should make more every day items out of hot dog materials. Imagine a cuckoo clock made out of hot dogs; it'd be the greatest combination of time-telling and C-grade meat in the history of mankind. I put this in my Million Dollar Ideas notebook.
The rest of the day just went downhill from me babbling about hot dogs, so I'll cut it off there. The good news is that I'm now feeling much better, and I've been skipping and singing like nobody's business since Friday's ugliness. The bad news is, I'm pretty sure my sickness was no accident. Yes, my numerous enemies have resorted to poisoning me. Big mistake, evil operatives, because there's nothing that gets my panties in a bunch more than a poisoning. Even if it's well intentioned.
Hey livejournal users, you can now follow all of the exciting goulash happenings here. I don't know who set that up, but thanks.
I've got some good news, and some bad news, people of goulash. The bad news is your mother and I are getting a divorce. The good news, I'm going to start driving a Camaro. Okay, not really.
The good news is that for some reason, lots more people are reading the site lately (that ad in Soldier of Fortune really paid off). The bad news is that soon, I may have to start paying more for bandwidth for this site. As such, I'm going to start implementing some cost-cutting procedures here at goulash. Here's what I'm thinking:
You're right, it's not going to be fun. But in the same way old men have grown accustomed to prostate exams, you will grow accustomed to the new way of operating around here. If not, you have my permission to rain dubloons upon my head so I can entertain you and only you, in the non-sexual format of your choice.
A few people have reached the site lately by searching for info about Cockroach from the Cosby Show. You'd have to be a bug eyed mule to think I'm not going to exploit this for all its worth. With these visitors in mind, I hereby present a little bit of Cockroach-inspired fan fiction.
The Wrath of Cockroach
by Cody Powell
It was a dark, cool night, better suited for curling or making snow angels than crying your eyes out in the Burger King bathroom. There would be no snow angels tonight for Cockroach, though; while the retarded dude who worked the deep fryer washed up, Cockroach sat on the seat of the toilet and wailed like a pig being exorcised. Every minute or so, he'd stop boo-hooing long enough to shout out, "Theo!!" and then angrily flush the toilet a bunch of times in a row. He considered fashioning a noose out of the seat cover, but his inability to tie a good knot only added to his despair.
After 4 hours of Cockroach's profanity-laden weeping, the customers at Burger King began to complain. Angel, the assistant manager, was reluctant to go in there and handle the situation, since he'd tangled with Cockroach in a situation like this before and almost had his ear bitten off. Danger was part of the job at BK though, so Angel sucked it up and opened the bathroom door.
"What's the problem here, Cockroach?"
Cockroach, in an attempt to drown himself, had stuck his head in the toilet, so all he heard was "Bloorble bleeble blaable." He raised himself up, threw a toilet paper roll at Angel's head, and then plunged back into the water.
Sensing death was coming, Cockroach relaxed completely and accidentally peed his pants. Right as Cockroach began to see the light, Angel tore him away from death's icy grasp.
"What is all this, Cockroach? You need some paper towels or something?"
"What use are paper towels when my life is over?" Cockroach said, his lip trembling.
Having played this game before with Cockroach, Angel knew what he had to offer. "Would a free Lord of the Rings goblet turn that frown around? What do you say?"
"Alas, much like Frodo, I once had a steadfast companion. He has been snatched away by the most fiendish of creatures, and I am now cursed to die alone." Cockroach began, very solemnly, to wrap his head in toilet paper.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Angel said.
"Theo!" Cockroach said. "My everything, sweet Theo. I have been barred from the Huxtable house, never to return, and my heart is as heavy as the world's biggest pumpkin."
"Ohh. What'd you do to get thrown out? Steal something? Grope Rudy?"
"Worse, much, much worse. In a fit of madness, I..." Cockroach suppressed a sob. "I ate the last of their peanut butter," he said. The mere mention of it made him crawl back over and put his head in the toilet.
"That doesn't sound that bad, Cockroach."
His mouth full of toilet water, Cockroach yelled, "But it was right before peanut butter and jelly night!"
Angel paused to consider this. "Still, it's not that bad."
This gave Cockroach a momentary pause in his hysterics. "Hmm, so maybe you're saying Dr. Huxtable overreacted?"
"It seems that way," Angel said.
"Maybe I'm not the bad guy after all?"
"I don't think so, Cockroach."
Cockroach burst into tears of joy. He gave Angel a slobbery kiss on the cheek and began to gather his things. "I think I'll go back to the Huxtables to straighten this thing out," he said.
"You're going to talk to Dr. Huxtable about it?"
"Hell no, I'm burning that son of a bitch's house down!" And with that, Cockroach exited the bathroom.
I don't mean to get everyone riled up, but today's a big day here at Goulash. As of right now, you are getting the business from entry #150. Yeah, we're talking sesquicentennial, hombres. What is the proper gift for the 150th anniversary? A new pair of culottes? A wheelbarrow of miniature sweet pickles? A play date at Terry Bradshaw's house? Whatever the case, I'm going to love it. You are all way too generous.
You may remember that for the 100th entry, we had a throw down here in Austin the likes of which hadn't been seen since the Police Academy 4 wrap party (see best night ever). It was a lot of fun, and I was tempted to do something similar for the Sesquicentennial. I came to the conclusion though that celebrating every 50 entries would be kind of sad, like when a football player launches into an elaborate celebration after a first down. We only celebrate after the touchdowns around here because we're professionals, and that's why we're saving the revelry until we hit 200. If you want to cry about that, then how about I really give you something worth crying over? I've got a one way ticket to Spanksville for Mr. Boo Hoo and I'm not afraid to use it.
So anyway, let the record show that we're now on the downward slide for the bicentennial, which will be in mid-April here in Austin. I really could've summed all that up in about a sentence, but then I've been wanting to threaten to spank you guys for a while now.
In other news, no new responses to my James Brown personal ad. What is it with you people? I can comprehend why I get the cold shoulder treatment from females who aren't related to me (a few reaons: eczema, kleptomania, crippling fear of breasts), but JB? He's the godfather of soul! Get on it, internet people! Secondly, would someone here be willing to help me make some images for Goulash (I'm talking to you, Willie Ed)? I'm trying to fancy the place up and it just isn't working for me. In return, I will be your butler for one weekend. Finally, since it's so cold right now, I thought I'd let you guys know I came up with a good saying for when you're talking about frosty weather: "Is it chilly in here, or did I just get violated by a rectal thermometer made out of popsicles?" It's a little graphic, but it'll do the job.
Everyone is dying to hear what I have to say about Janet Jackson and Boobygate. The best thing to come out of all of this is that I can now tell Tito Jackson that I've seen his sister's boob (note: this will also work with Jermaine and LaToya). Imagine if you're playing him in a game of Scrabble or something and he starts talking trash (inevitable in games against him). You can put him into place with, "Tell it to your sister's boob, Tito!" Not that anyone needs something else to make fun of Tito Jackson about, but it never hurts to have a little ammo in case things get rowdy.
AHHHHH YESSSSS!!! I got a response today to the James Brown personal ad that I posted yesterday. I don't want to move too fast, but I think I can definitely say that love is in the air. Here's the response:
Me hospital nightshift clearing drain traps to the main storm pipes. You wearing black tee shirt that said "Do Not Resuscitate"
You asked after the handful of syringes I just pulled from the traps.
Me prouldly showing you a the fake eye I recovered that night.
Remember our chance encounter? If so message me, if you haven't been 'recovered' yourself already.
And to think, I was ready to give up on romance after all the scorn and derision my prison pen pal had heaped upon me. Get ready for the sweetest loving you could ever imagine, mystery James Brown lover! I will keep everyone updated on the progress I make here. Should things go too far, I may have to ask a certain James Brown imitator to seal the deal for me.
I forgot to update CarlosJacott.com last week, but i made up for it today. I couldn't help but notice that someone wrote in to Noah Baumbach's site and asked him if Carlos's site was kosher (question 236). You're lucky I don't box your ears for that one, Ben in Denver. I don't know what to make of Noah's response to the question, but it is a verifiable fact that the Jacott Revolution is picking up some steam.
Speaking of picking up some steam, weinerbiscuit, is starting to spread around the web like poison ivy. Exhibit 1. The thing you know, Carson Daly will be saying it on TRL and I'll be forced to kill myself in shame. Can't wait!
Well, in connection with Thursday's entry, the people at Yahoo came to their senses and posted the personal ad I created for James Brown. So, with all due reverence, come and get him, ladies.
For those of you in solitary confinement, today is the day of the Super Bowl. If you've ever had the misfortune of watching an NFL game with me, you know I am obsessed with noting the amount of times the announcers say the word football. The telecast is always littered with references to football players, football fields, football games, and my own personal favorite, the National Football League. Either these guys are broadcasting the game to a bunch of Martians with no short term memory, or there's a crazed gunman in the studio whose sole desire is to hear the word football repeated over and over. Or maybe the announcers are just dumb, I don't know.
Today then, as part of my community service for the miniature pony fiasco, I am going to count the number of times the announcers say the word "football" during the game tonight. Yes, it will be tough to monitor the announcers while simultaneously playing quarterback for both teams, but I'm confident i can do it. My hypothesis: there may not be an abacus large enough to count all of the instances of that word tonight. I'm going to try to count it anyway, though, because I am all about the science. I'll update tonight with the final tally. Until then, keep me in your prayers.
Final tally: 46. I was holding out high hopes for breaking the 50 barrier, but then I stopped counting in the 4th quarter, due to alcohol + close game + cheese dip. Let's just go ahead and say 200.