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Now I want one where I’m wearing a latex dress with a giant housecat as my sidekick

January 6, 2011

If you’ve ever wanted to know what an illustrated version of myself looks like while furiously typing with my nipples and wearing mittens, then you’re probably really fucking weird. But you’re also in luck because look:

This comes from cartoonist Greg Williams of TWIPS, who is super talented and super nice and super creepy because how did he know that I had a jacket in steel blue. Probably because he, too, understands that the color brings out my eyes. Either way, you can follow him here to check out other tweets he transforms into comics that will give you reason to believe he lurks in the bushes outside your house.

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Bubblegum Infused Vodka or How to Be an Industrious Drunk

June 1, 2010

I bought a gallon of vodka a few days ago. It was $9.99 at Trader Joe’s – where they’ll sell you a rib-eye for the price of an onion. I mean, I’ll probably never drink a gallon of vodka in my lifetime, but the bargain was too hard to pass up. I’d buy a prostate exam for the right price. The best part? It comes in a plastic jug, which I figure should be the standard for any hard liquor. Glass rarely mixes with rowdynness anyway.

I happen to like flavored vodka because many of them tend to me more Skittle than they are alcohol. And if you really want to twist my arm, when I say “flavored vodka” I actually mean, “wine coolers.” The differences are negligible as far as I’m concerned since they both end with me talking about how I always confuse The Mighty Ducks with Darkwing Duck but what if they are secretly the same thing?

So while I’m far from being a mixologist, I do know how to put things in other things. And with that, I’ve essentially shared my recipe for Bubblegum Vodka. I used 16 pieces of Dubble Bubble for about 1.5 cups of vodka and shook it around every couple hours. With every shake I thought to myself, “This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Even worse than that time you Naired your eyebrows.” For the full 24 hours that I let it steep, I felt like an idiot. A cheap idiot. But after tasting the final product I was like, holy shit this actually works. Oh, and there are even leftover bubblegum soaked vodka bombs. They act in kind of the same way as olives in a gin martini but, you know, edible.

My finished product ended up being a disappointing pale pink. To get closer to Barbie’s convertible I added some red decorating sugar, which also made it a bit more like Fun Dip. Just how I like it.

Now I just need to figure out what to do with the rest of this vodka. Using it to make homemade NyQuil seems too obvious.

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Yes I know E.T. is not technically a horror film

January 11, 2010

E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen. The reason for this is because when that fucking desiccated tootsie roll RUSHED out of those corn fields like they were on fire, my four-year-old heart couldn’t take it and from that point on, I would only watch movies that guaranteed carbon based characters or ideally, plots entirely absent of science. For years, E.T. haunted me. Every dark hallway or stairwell was an invitation for him to come hurdling toward me. To do what, I’m not sure. The most diabolical thing he ever did in the movie was befriend a 10-year-old boy and dress in women’s clothes. And while that’s unsettling for some, it’s not necessarily scary.

Still, I was petrified of him. A few years later, however, I saw a behind the scenes special that revealed the means of locomotion for E.T. – wheels. Even at eight years old, where my world allowed a reality in which The Muppets were living beings, I knew what wheels were. I knew they weren’t scary and even though there was a screeching uterus with a nose attached to them, I was able to watch the movie and meet E.T.’s beady eyes without turning away until the Reese’s Pieces showed up.

Despite my victory over E.T., I was ruined for any future interest in the horror genre. Movies that depend almost entirely on the inevitability that something is going to be forcibly removed by a sharp object or vagina dentata are not something my anxiety has the aptitude to deal with. The only horror movies I watch, understandably, are ones so bad that they reveal their parlor tricks as they go along. Films starring wrestlers or Gary Busey, usually. From the beginning, they admit to the fact that they’re full of shit, instead of attempting to peddle the idea that corn syrup and red food coloring are worthy of soiling yourself or more importantly, real.

I’m not a fan of severity, which is why I’m struggling with the fact that in less than two weeks, I’ll be moving. Again. A little over six months ago, I moved from Florida to Oregon. It was my ‘fuck you Southeast I’m going to live in the Pacific Northwest and eat fresh sustainable fish not because I like fish since I really don’t but just because I can‘ tour. It’s been successful so far, but I’m realizing that more than anything, I was simply proving to myself that I could escape from the straight jacket that manifested itself from the familiarity of my former surroundings. Somehow, I did it. But the point is, I’ve done it and I need to move on.

It’s uncomfortable to stare into a future so fertile with doubt and the unavoidable truth that I will ingest Nyquil at least once to comfortably fall asleep before 9pm. But since I have a poor sense of impulse control and an insatiable need to challenge the limits of a rapidly dwindling savings account, I will be Danny Tanner-ing it into San Francisco before January ends.

The way I see it, if I can overcome that creep E.T., I can do just about anything. All I need is for the situation to reveal its wheels.

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