Wednesday, May 30, 2007

something else



so i just realized just now, almost 30 years since it debuted, and 10 since i discovered it, that the terribly ambiguous blondie song "atomic" is, in fact, solely about hair.
that's right--hair. and i find that really wierd.
i mean, i suppose the word 'atomic' is a really powerful adjective. blondie uses it again in the song "rip her to shreds" to describe the fashionably tragic subject's nose job ("her nose job is real atomic...) but it's no surprise that the term 'atomic,' when used as an adjective outside of its natural explosive confines, is as ambiguous as the song in which it's contained. it can be good and bad.

so what's atomic?

i think that coffee is atomic. i needed it today, on the rare occasion i drink it, but it definitely proved itself to be fiercely atomic.

penises are atomic. not because they're solely sexual, but because this ingenious ksubi apparel company has decided to characterize its eyewear look book with penises dressed in little wigs and sunglasses to make them resemble faces...faces with really long noses.

*67 is atomic. otherwise known as the ubiquitous caller ID block, dialing *67 before your desired number and voila! the receiver won't have any idea whose calling them, which means you can prank away, a la serial mom, "is this the cocksucker residence?!" hahaha

of course, those three aformentioned embodiments of atomic are both bad, and good. coffee, while a tasty, legal stimulant, can also be an addictive little devil.
penises, while stamens of procreation and outlets of sexual pleasure, can also be a virtual beehive for chlamydia and other not-so-fun std's. (note: std's are not atomic)
and *67, while providing a million ways to avenge people and terrorize your officemates, can also turn into an unhealthy addictive disorder and if you get caught, well, the ball's in your court.

so have an atomic day! ;-)
i'm out, bitches.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

p.m.



post meridiem; latin for 'after-noon.' this is used to disambiguate hours of the day, in the 12-hour clock system. also, in english, it stands for 'pre-midnight.'

but in bryan time, it stands for 'phuck me' because it's the most boring time of day. even when i'm busy, the afternoon is perpetually excruciating.
i don't drink coffee (often--just on edit meeting tuesdays), or do coke, or allow my body to be jump started by any other sort of artificial energizer.
today, howev, might call for a more drastic measure.
i find myself at this very moment, 2:57 p.m., listening to 'california dreamin' but only making half the effort at singing it, just enough to support the chorus. so it goes like this:

all the leaves are brown
(the leaves are brown)

and the sky is grey
(the sky is greeeeey)

i went for a walk
(went for a walk)

on a winter's day
(on a winter's day)

and you get the rest.

i swear, if paris hilton ever does a version of this song, i'll launch a worldwide attack against the blond bitch AND those annoying flats she always wears. has nobody noticed they completely ruin the outfit? i'm not knocking flats altogeth, but for her, they're no valid excuse. they're a total cop out, and for that reason, i feel the need to temp assume the title of fashion police and perform a totally mitigated citizen's arrest.

and speaking of gross,



am i the only one to notice that salma hayek's hair is absolutely disgusting?! or the only one sane enough to admit it? she looks like she's wearing a hat made out of cocker spaniel! somebody spray that bitch with some FRONTLINE! i'm getting itchy!

i know she's pregs and stuff, but nobody lets themselves go this much, and in this manner. and yet tabloids and gossips blindly proclaim that she looks absolutely fantastic, and has that telltale glow pregnancy typically induces. does she? i can't tell--there's a wooly mammmoth on her head that's kind of blocking the view.

now, don't think you're smartypants susan yet--i know there are plenty of you bastards out there that think this hair thing she has going on is only the most recent style to hearken to the 80's, but you're terribly, horribly, and remarkably wrong. let's set something straight: this is not a trend. this is not a fashion statement. this is bad, understyled, overprocessed hair. and true, the extra, uh, volume may, in fact, be due to an ethnic thing, but sal, you've got more money than a third-world country, and that's where flat-irons are made. get with. penelope, please pick up our girl and haul her ass to a sally beauty!

and that's the f-ing truth.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

another day off



{NOTE: THIS IS NOT, I REPEAT NOT AN IMAGE OF MY OWN THROAT. I STOLE IT OFF GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH FAIR AND SQUARE}

so today marks day two (2) of my at-home ailment marathon. my throat is on fire and none of my beautifully-colored mystery pills has alleviated it. let's get one thing straight: i already have one cock--i don't need two; the second, of course, being the streptococcus bacteria (although if, by chance, i did have two, today would no doubt be the 78th day of my at-home marathon...with an end nowhere in sight!)
i'm sick, and neither the golden girls, ab fab, nor the pleasurable musings of craigslist personal ads have made me feel better (although guiltily aroused is a far different story). and what's worse is this is, quite possibly, the first time that i find myself actually, dare i say, wrong. i was utterly convinced that any lucky recipient of horrendously painful tonsillectomy proced would, for the remainder of their immunity-boosted lives, remain free of any further throat infections. well, as it turns out, i was...uh, not right.

but thank heavens for new york magazine.

so let's talk about how women's advertising is far shameless than men's. would you EVER see a commercial for a men's urinary tract infection treatment? or a laxative specially formulated for men?
and the actual delivery just kills me. one women's lax commersh is a cute little cartoon with ribbons metaphorically (and in a quite vulgar manner) representing the supposed, uh, movements, and then hugging the woman in 'question' by the end of the commercial. so basically, this gentle, benign commercial involved the representation of the #2 moving through its tract, and THEN just getting all over the woman! and what's worse, the verbage is just horrific, containing all sorts of words, like 'cramps' and 'irregular.' i have one word for that: TMI.

so let's translate that to a man's version.
man's deep voice: when i find myself irregular (which a man would never admit), i choose the gentle choice: man-o-lax. it doesn't contain harsh stimulants or cause cramping (a reeeeal masculine word) and you can take it at night (what, with a beer?). for my irregularity (there's that never-used word again), i choose man-o-lax.

i mean...can you even?



the other day, in my ever-evolving crusade to revolutionize the world of metaphors, i came up with a real doozy. while giving a dear friend some rich advice while sipping the most incred semi-organic mojito i've ever experienced, i used the following phrase to make sense of the situation, which involved two people: one is romantically interested in the other, but, unforch, the other doesn't possess reciprocal feelings, valuing more of a friendship than a romantic venture. so i said, "it's like you're fishing with the wrong lure--trying to catch a bass with a marlin decoy. and besides--he's just in the wrong body of water!" can you STAND it?!

and lastly, thank heavens for tupperware.

i'm out, and this time, my promise of fidelity will hold true ;-) i'll write SOMEthing tomorrow.