This may violate some confidentiality clause, but I got this email in my inbox at work:

Subject: Vandelized [sic] Finger

All,
Does anyone know who is vandalizing Jay’s big
red finger?
There is a reward for capturing the perp.

Thanks,

• One of Stereolabrat’s better posts
• You know what? Personal fucking helicopter, that’s fucking what!
• No one is safe with the bump key around! No one!
• get one of them Gore-bulbs, man!
• Wired talks about Nerdcore.
• I’m already having difficulty sleeping.
• Excellent post on splogs
• Analysis of 20000 MySpace passwords
• Awesome 2D to 3D drawing tool
• New competition for Wikipedia - created by Wikipedia’s first editor-in-chief. Blast! The beauty of Wikipedia is that there is one of them - the whole internet can view, edit and contribut to one resource. This is one of the few instances where competition is not beneficial as it dillutes the overall effectiveness of the competing products.
• Good article on click-fraud
• This is one of those things I like to watch when I’m a little down and need a good mood-lifter.

“I don’t know how this band expects to take 80 shits in two hours.”
“What in Mary’s tits are you talking about?”
“Right here. It says ‘English Beat: two hours of 80 shits!”
It was almost too good to be true. Someone got careless with the spacing when they were trying to write “80s hits!” The irony (of course) is the first description is more apt.

Someone stole our pool balls.
“Where are all the pool balls?”
“Don’t look at me. Everyone knows I can only fit seven in my ass.”

“Look over there,” Steph sez, jabbing me in the ribs. The same couch that scared Kemp out of any form of sexuality now was home to a forty-some guy–in full on schmooze–with his arm wrapped around an obviously sub-eighteen girl. Her look was contained terror. My first instinct was to go over and tell the guy to fuck off; that wouldn’t have been right. Like the kid that falls off the jungle-gym, you’re not always going to be there to pick them up, dust them off. She needed to learn how to deal with these kinds of situations. I was maybe four seconds away and I had my eye trained on them, so this was a safe environment for a nice little life-lesson. She didn’t do so well; her problem was that she was trying to use obvious body language to communicate with this guy: looking away, looking at her cell-phone when this guy really needed a jab in the ribs.

Eventually they part. The girl comes to the bar. “I didn’t know what to do… I mean, I told him I just turned sixteen.”

“The irony is,” I say, “your whole life you are taught to be polite but a lot of situations call for a solid ‘fuck you.’”

Later Steph elbows me again. “The guy at the water-cooler; that’s the guy!”

It sure was. This guy needed to know he was a disgusting fuck-tard and I felt it should be me, not Steph the polite, bookish XYC DJ, to impart this to him. It got heated pretty quickly because here’s the thing: fuck-tards don’t like having it called to the attention of their severely stunted fore-brain that they are fuck-tards. He was thrown out, but not before offering up a reason for his actions. “Dude, let me explain… I’m from Raleigh.”

A blessing came in the form of A horrible, two-hundred-some pound woman sitting on the arm of a couch in a skirt that would still be inappropriate for a woman half her size if it were twice its length. Each time she bellied up to the bar her horrible pinched mouth with lip-stick applied by David Lynch would order a Vodka and the nowedonthavevodka youdonthavevodkawhatkindofbardoesnthavevodka would volley. She would then return to the arm of the couch and with the grace of a newborn calf splay her legs so her Amstel Light-loving troglodyte could ham-fistedly fondle and poke at the considerable mound barely contained by the tiger-print panties. “Thank God for her,” I say to Kemp. “You’re going to coast through this next year of celibacy.”

The perennially strapped-for-cash Antonio was in rare form the other night. Obviously drunk and it was no surprise to me that he was kicked out for stealing from the charity jar—he was especially desperate; reeking with hunger for more sweet alcohol. Before his ejection he asked Russ for a thousand dollars. A thousand. Dollars. Russ had leant him money before but this was a real all-in manner of request. When I heard this I felt a little insulted because Antonio asked me for only three dollars. C’mon man!

It’s tough to see me lately, and it’s not because I’m ignoring you. I’m very busy, but maybe we could mesh our schedules? Check out my calendar. This link also appears in the nav-menu at the top.

I’m excited about attending temple with Mer for the Rosh Hashana service. I’m especially enthused for what I can only imagine will be a veritable smorgasbord of gefilte fish—a delicacy which shares the ranks of haggis and chitlins as Fear-Factor-worthy fodder. Ah, gefilte fish… It tastes fine, but wins hands down in terms of scariest looking food ever. If you have not seen it in the ethnic food section of your local grocery mart, imagine an albino hobo taking several bleached shits in a mason jar filled with cloudy urin. Very choice.

You saw the computer monitor commercial that featured thousands of colored bouncing balls going down a street ins San Fran., yes? It had some nice acoustic music accompanying it and at the show last night I suddenly realized I was in the presence of greatness when the dude on stage, Jose Gonzales (from Sweden), started playing it. After the show the sound-woman played a disco version of the song and I thought oh this is funny what a funny cover of the song. Turns out the soulful JG song was actually in all fact a cover of the disco song. He also did a badass version of “Teardrop” by Massive Attack.

Also I think that chick from Death Vessel has been hitting the bicep curls a little too much.