Thursday, December 25, 2008

soon leaving to join my brethren at the movies

I just went out for a christmas day bike ride- I have spent the last 3 days exclusively eating and sleeping and my dad has a pretty nice bike that he never rides... Typically when I come home, I try and take in some of the country side. Or something. I dont have an ipod so I stole my brothers and began layering for the pretty warm but not warm enough winter day. Tights (oh yeah) that are actually long underwear stolen from my brother back when he worked at a ski shop, two pairs of socks, a sweater and a wind breaker. The only gloves in the house that were not for artic ski conditions were a pair of my moms; two sizes too small but seemingly good enough. After that a beanie and my dad's crappy helmet that fits like a magnum over a flacid penis. Or something. Regardless, the helmet is very loose but fits well enough with a hat under it. I was ready. I took off and headed down my road, aptly called Comfort Trail, which is very very twisty and all the bends happen at the apex of medium to large hills so visibility is... nonexistent. I made it off comfort trail and passed the cow farms that sit next to the small clone houses and again and again. My entire area is a funny contrast of farms, 70's single story houses, McMansions, very old houses, and fields/ woods. I like it. Coming over a hill next to one of my favorite farms that has these really fury cows, a hummer is charging towards me. After nearly running me off the road I catch eyes at the driver and it is none other that Paul from the hit TV show Orange County Choppers. Goddammnit I was enjoying the scenery and never really minded the C list celebrity neighbor (about 2 miles away) but his gas guzzling, ridiculous moustache wielding, hell bent driving made me a mortal enemy. The recent influx of middle age men wearing leather chaps (I wonder if middle age is synonymous with closet flamboyance) driving overpriced harleys was bad enough but now my hatred is personal. In fact, all of the male neighbors on Comfort trail have purchased bikes over the last 3 or 4 years and talk bikes, knowing that my dad and I were motocross'ers. Regardless, my anger was subdued by the scenery and good weather and and good smells and blue jays but I think I have a new purpose in life: to sabotage Orange County Choppers.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Last Festivus I gave you my heart...

Each year, without fail, the Germans cannot get enough WHAM! during the holiday season. At first I shuddered whenever I heard this duo or saw their video...but when played at the top of the hour, every hour, on the radio and TV it begins to grow on you.

Wish you all the best and much success in Philly, I'm jealous. Enjoy your last days with Sparks and all the poor/amazing life choices that brings.

Will be away from the tubes until January 7th, going here on the Italian coast with my hosts. I am envisioning olive-eating contests, polar bear swims and afternoons spent with local shop keeper Francesco discussing the merits of Italian and French cheeses.

Okay, none of that will probably happen, but will post of any and all excitement here and on the ol' blog.

Friday, December 19, 2008

To Philly!

What were the names of the departed?

They were John Racine, Katie Hunter-Lowrey, Samantha King Grr, Logan Healy, Allison Silva, Paul Tilley, Kri Wilcox, Cory Cocomazzi, Robert Bottomley and Drew Stephan.

The agreement with 13 states and the city of San Francisco calls for MillerCoors to discontinue manufacturing and marketing all caffeinated alcoholic beverages, including Sparks as currently formulated, by Jan. 10, 2009.


Partying as we know it dies in three weeks.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

In perusing photos planning para la Philadelphia power move, I got to relive when Paul Tilley, destroyer of lives, ripped the door off the hinges in Drew's old apartment. Mo should be happy to know that the beast is spirited away in Germany and will not be attending New Years to damage any more property. Below is the gem of a moment captured on film.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

I am gunning for the Chairmanship of the Delinquent Caucus

Perhaps this counts for something. It must or this suffering is all for naught.

Last night, one of our board members hosted a lovely holiday party at her home in Newton. It was catered and featured a fairly impressive bar. I felt like a peasant in the King's court. And I did, as a peasant would do. I drank 4 glasses of champaign, and acted like a cretin. We left the party around 8 and caravaned to Club Cafe for a mixer that we had scheduled with the field team of NARAL. For those of you who don't know Club Cafe, it is Cory's favorite gay bar. On Wednesday nights there is karaoke at the bar Cory likes to call "his home away from home". I drank beer and danced around with gay men (Cory's boyz) while my colleagues karaoked. After beer number 4, I informed my party that, welp, it was time for me to go. They actually said no. Like, no, you cannot go, drink this tasty Bud Lite instead. So I did. This happened several times. Finally, I returned to the Space Machine and drank boxed wine with Kallen, and just kind of rolled around his room, like some sort of drunken space worm.

When I got to work today, I had to cancel a meeting with 2 of my coworkers because we all knew we were incapable of intelligent conversation. Instead of having our 2009 planning meeting we went out for pizza and just kind of mumbled at each other. I feel only vaguely human. If this hangover does not pass by sundown I am going to swear off the sauce. No, no I am not. But pray for me my friends, this one is a doozy.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Rainforest Rant

My dearest Sirs and Madams,

I write to you from my little farm house at 8:30 pm. My house mate is here, but locked away in her own room, as she always is after dark. It's a wonder that one who cannot be exposed to the sun keeps confined to her room when it goes down. But, I don't mind, I'm not in the mood for idle conversation. I am in the mood to rant.
As you all know, I have been spending the last 4 and some weeks adjusting to my new life in Brazil. I love it. I love my job to the point that if they paid me, I might never come back. But, they don't, so I will. In fact, I must. Student loans and an unhealthy affinity towards alcohol demand that I start making money again, eventually. But for now, I am here and happy.

Having said that... there are just a few things that have been getting under my skin, both figuratively and literally, that I must, oh must, complain about. So I ask for you patience, understanding and sympathetic ears, for just a moment as I get get it off my chest.

1. Martha , who is really quite a lovely older lady.... always complains. To me. I CAN'T STAND IT. I know, I know, I am the volunteer manager and thus the designated person to receive complaints.. but they are mostly about the lack of food, or being "worn out" or "exhausted" when it only takes about 5 seconds of thought to realize that EVERYONE here works harder and eats less of the food that often runs out than her. This food I mention are the things that have to be made or picked up frequently in order to stay fresh, and depending on the amount of people, yes, do run out. Milk, eggs, tomatoes and bread are the main offenders, as they make up the entirety of her diet. If there is no milk left over in the afternoon, or on the weekends, for example, she will come up to me and say "I see there is no milk." "mmmm, yes... " I respond, wishing I could say "you want milk? go pick it up your fucking self! Who do you think does it everyday?" Because I know she knows full well that it is one of the volunteers who actually do things, but she has somehow exempted herself from all responsibility, as she had made a special arrangement with the director that she doesn't have to partake in the cooking or chores, which would be fine, if she didn't complain. The same complaints go for all the other items mentioned. Bread, for instance, I have had to learn to make myself from scratch (quite well, surprisingly), and yet, if she goes a morning, or afternoon for that matter, with out it I always hear "I see we have run out of bread again" and again I want to say "make it your fucking self if you can't go a day without it... everyone else is out of bread too, what do you think this is, a bed a breakfast?" or at other times I might say: "everyone else is out of eggs too" "everyone else had been eaten alive by bugs too" "everyone else is hot (or cold) too". I mean, really, what does she think this is? a disco?

hrmmm... perhaps. Perhaps a disco where everyone hears the music but her.

The other day, when we were out planting, I was walking up to the nursery to pick up more trees, empty crate in hand, dripping in sweat, covered in mud when she came down a hill from a self-initiated 20 minute walk and stopped me in my tracks to say "that was really unpleasant, it is just too hot out" at first I thought it might be an off-hand comment, just something to say in passing, if you will, as it was clear that the rest of us were in worse condition than her.... but she paused and looked at me expectantly, waiting for answer... a solution? sympathy? "mmmm..yes, it is hot." was all I could think to say. I still wonder if it ever occurred to her, that I too feel heat.

I have said too much. oh well, oh well. The rest of my rant will have to be saved for another post.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008


Robert Won!

Congrats Robert!!

Rob won a prize!

Look at Drew self-promoting his "other" blog again. Totally shameless.

While self-promotion happens from time to time in the tubes, gratuitous photoshop displays of affection from your friends are a web rarity. Let us all take a moment to celebrate Rob, who won a prize today! First prize senior project to be exact!

My guess is that it is time for a Blingee tribute to Rob!:



I made a post, on another blog! It was time for poor little ol' PCC to get some love, so here we go.

Monday, December 8, 2008

john just left

my liver will never be the same.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Cold Plantin' Trees

On to Thursday:
As December is a low time for volunteers, there were a total of four of us that came out on Thursday morning for the group reforestation project. I got up early that morning in order to get back from the milk run before 8. As it was, I arrived at 8:01 and saw that evan and jess (who you already know well) along with Toni, the aging Spanish nursery manager, were already down in nursery, loading baby trees into crates to be carried to the field for planting. I cursed their wretched punctuality, that made me late with out actually being late and rushed down to join them, leaving the milk boiling for those who had the luxury of time.
The task of the day was to carry all of the trees down the path, over the foot bridge (a log over the river) and up a hill to the place where they were to be planted. As I was "late" evan and toni had already gone with the first crate of trees. I met jess in the nursery and we lifted our first crate. It was heavy. really heavy. "haha.. really? how the fuck are we supposed to get this all the way up there"? I asked. she didn't know, so we tried anyway and actually managed, though painfully. After the first one we switched partners so I was to carry with Toni and Jess was to carry with Evan. This we did. Over and over.
At one point, when we were reloading in the nursery I glanced up to a table full of plants and asked Toni if we were going to bring all of those trees to the field, more out of conversation than anything. He responded, speaking Portuguese in his thick Spanish accent: don't think of it like that, because then if we don't get to all of them we will feel like we left the job incomplete. Just think of these 10 trees in the crate, and the importance of them. All of the food they will generate, the nutrients they will bring to the earth and the home they will create for the birds. These ten trees are all that matter right now.
It dawned on me the scope of the job we were trying to do, and that as much as it would have given consolation to my aching mussels, rebuilding the rain forest by hand wasn't something you could check off the to-do list before lunch. In fact, it was something that could never be checked off, as hard or as long as we worked. And that if everyone thought the way I thought, in terms of short term satisfaction, nothing would ever get done. Because the jobs that are really important don't have a man-made finish lines.
Still, as the hours went by, I couldn't help but relate the diminishing amount of trees on the table to the about of time I would have to spend lugging heavy crates uphill and wondering why my sense of accomplishment was irrevocably related to a end rather than a process.

But.... I wish my little trees health and prosperity, put in a good word for them, yes?

all work and no play makes me an emo girl

i am surrounded by the accoutrements of a formerly fun person gone dull. red bull, camel lights, half empty paper cups of cold skim cappucino, emergen-c, sudafed, stacks of legal texts, pens and hi-liters. nails gnawed to the nub, eyes ringed in pewter half moons, hair tangled and clothes rumpled, i anxiously scan pages of garamond 12 pt font which, despite the laws of physics, change size and bounce off the page. the stories of your exploits are the only thing that brings joy to my drugless, sexless, rock n' rollless life. fun is a tantalizing foe. i have ten days left. please help me climb out of what is thus far the nadir of fun in my life. come visit me for my party lest i be taken away in a wahhmbulance never to be fun again.

An average day in the jungle

as we have all been focused on fun for the last few weeks, our daily lives have gone to the back burner. But, just to keep you all updated on what really happens here in the rain forest, I will outline an average day, brief enough for even Cory to understand. Let's take Wednesdays as an example:

-- 7:30: I wake with a start, seeing the light coming through the window and wondering if I have over slept. I take a quick look at my Ipod, my only clock, and see that I have little time to spare.
I run down to the kitchen and grab one of the clean plastic bottles on the counter, making as brief as possible the conversation with Muffi, the before mentioned house mate, who is already up, binoculars in hand, documenting the morning's variety of toucans and parrots and hawks that care to make an appearance.

7:45-I start the 20 minute walk to the neighboring farm to pick up the milk for the day. I enjoy this walk tremendously, as it gives me time not only to wake up, but to think. I arrive shortly after 8 am to find entire family awake and umm.. around. Particularly Marcos, the young (20-25?? years old) farmer who also cuts grass and drives a cab etc... he is standing in the window of the house with his new baby, that I had yet to meet. His mother-in-law having run out to fill my my bottle with milk, I had no choice but to give some sort of attention to the baby. "how many days old is he?" I ask, regretting it the second the words come out of my mouth, remembering that it is Koreans, not Brazilians that calculate their baby's age in days, instead of months. He smiled, "2 months." "ohh, Ja"??? was my clumsy, embarrassed, response .. "he's beautiful" still unsure whether or not I thought he was. I quickly turned my attention and conversation to the puppy that had been biting my ankles, until the mother- in-law returned with my milk. I bid adieu, wishing that at least one day would pass with out an awkward encounter with Marcos, and made my way back to my farm.
-8:30- I return to the kitchen and pour the milk into a pan on the stove, asking Muffi, who was still watching birds, to watch the milk as well, as I had little time to get ready for the interview I had scheduled to translate for Jess at 9:30 in town.
9:15- Marcelo came to pick Jess and I up for the interview with the secretary of agriculture. I come out of the interview more than two hours later, knowing more than I even thought possible about eucalyptus trees and small farming.
Some time-- the bus never showed to take us back home, so we had no choice but to start walking and hope for a ride on the way, otherwise known as hitchhiking. No one came. So, we walked the 2 and a half hours home, arriving sometime after 2.
Some time after 2-- Jess and I feasted on the left overs from the lunch that we missed and I returned to my computer in the hopes of making some sort of work type progress. oh and g-chatting with all of you all.
4:00-- I look behind me to see Jess reading a book on the couch/bed. I see that she is 7/8 of the way through a lengthy book she had started only a day or 2 before. I fill with envy and guilt, as I think of the 6 or 7 half-read books I have lying around in my house, my 8-track mind unable to focus on a single one. I stop what I'm doing and spend the rest of the day reading one and only one book.

Live Blog from the Giggle Room

Currently sitting in the bath-tub in the bathroom furthest from the sleeping chamber of my hosts. I live in a world of constant fear of waking them when stumbling home drunk - this week with Sam King has only heightened this fear. To prevent this we have resorted to containing all drunken activities in the apartment to this particular room: the 'giggle room'. As of right now I'm sitting in the bath-tub and Sam the King is perched next to me on a stool "cold drinkin' white wine" at 6:28 in the morning. What have we been doing prior to this? Not important. Okay, well let us recap:

- street beers all over the place and all over 'cho face
- a well balanced diet of cultural attractions and meat products (Sam King is officially a carnivore)
- giggling
- skyping
- exploring abandoned east german childrens amusement parks
- christmas markets and mulled wine pyramids
- communism
- nude photo galleries
- did we mention meat?
- Sam's ever-lasting hunt for an accordion
- Elektro-techno-disko dance parties
- Turkish Rambo taxi drivers
- KRImmunism

Sam the King has to catch a bus in 10 minutes, we must go. We expect your concessions by sundown (+2 Greenwich Mean Time).

Friday, December 5, 2008

I pray for peace and self control

the ability to keep up with blog posts is one that I do not have. But, I do my best. I really do. And I also want to prove to one and all that people have more fun in Brazil, with out even trying. So, I will tell you a tale that is meant to educate as well as entertain. It is about a city called Vicosa. This city lies in the State of Minas Gerais, where I live. It was to there that a volunteer named Jessica and I ventured last week. It all started on a Thursday (As LR shrewdly observed, there are no weekdays in Brazil, all the days are grouped together into a very long and continuous weekend, which I feel merits at least one fun point in and of itself). Moving on.
We hitched a ride with Marcelo to Rosario da Limeira, a place readers are already familiar with. As it happened a young volunteer named Dan had an accident the day before involving a pull up bar and some stone stairs coming into contact with his head a little harder than desired. As a result he had to be driven into town to have his stitches looked at, or something. Along the way we picked up an aged farmer who smelled of old sweat and spoke in an accent I strained to understand. However, he gave off a positive enough vibe, and thus did not inhibit fun in any way. Upon arriving at the little town square, Jess and I debarked and went straight to the corner bar. We had 2 hours to wait for our bus, and decided to spend the time drinking beer and playing cards, which we did. The bus eventually came and we eventually got on, and eventually arrived in Vicosa.
We were under the impression that a past volunteer was going to pick us up from the station and babysit us for the weekend, but there appeared to have been some sort of miscommunication, because there was no one waiting for us. Nor did anyone show up throughout the hour we waited outside. So, we shrugged our shoulders and got into a cab and asked him to take us to a hotel. He drove 2 blocks, charged us R$4 and let us out in front of The Palace Hotel. Upon discovering that they charged R$80 a night for a room we turned around and walked straight back out. We wandered around the city until we found a place that only charged R$40.
After settling into our new home, the events of the weekend progressed as follows:
-Dinner and Caparinhas at pizzaria torre (I must remind you that caparinhas are fun in liquid form, much more so than whiskey, which is insanity in liquid form)
-wandering around downtown looking for a bar and ending up getting beers at a tiny cantina where the 7 employees who were closing up for the night were wearing matching blue tracksuits with the name of the cantina written down the leg on a wide yellow stripe, as if they were competing in some sort of ridiculous sports event, instead of selling beer and cigarettes on the sidewalk to drunk american girls, at midnight. We tried to make friends with them, but they were hesitant to comply. So.. we entertained our selves for a time, until a kind passer by (who will come up again later) informed us that all of the cool kids, having real fun, were at a bar about 10 minutes down the road. We thanked him for the tip and arranged to meet him later, at the bar.
Upon arrival at the bar, we discovered that, indeed, this was where the fun was hidden and partook in the revelry until morning. Unfortunately, we saw no more of the handsome stranger that night.
-the next day greeted us with a horrible hangover and we booked it straight back to the pizzaria to console our minds in a mountain of carbs, then returned to the hotel to sleep the day away.
- after dark, we made our way back to the place of fun for round 2. Highlights:
Alisson, the boy.
His drunk friend who fell in love with Jess and yelled about Barack obama, then stole her pen... but gave it back.
Alisson the boy, again.
His other drunk friend who fell in love with Jess. but didn't steal her pen, or yell about barack obama. He yelled about something, but I wasn't paying attention.

So, that night... at some point, I made the mistake of sort of, but not really, but sort of, telling Alisson the boy, that I would go to some party, or something, with him the next day. I wasn't really sure if I wanted to or not, even though, day drinking is extra points in the fun off. But I said I might go, and if I did, I might meet him at 3 or something. I never showed up. I also made the mistake of letting Alisson the boy walk us back to the hotel that night, which enabled him to come inquiring after me when I failed to appear at the designated time and place.
Jess and I were comfortably watching 3 Men and a Baby dubbed into Portuguese and eating take-out, when there was a knock on the door, and the hotel man said that some dude was waiting for me in the lobby. I felt I had no choice but to go out and see what all the commotion was about. Indeed, it was Alisson the boy. We went through the awkward "why didn't you come?" "I said I might" conversation in which he convinced me to go get a drink with him to talk things over. I discovered that I did, in fact, enjoy his company and we spent the rest of the evening having fun, oh and witnessing an energetic gang fight, with arrests and all.
At some point in the middle of the weekend we ran into the same handsome stranger that suggested we go to lion bar (for that is what the place of fun is called). He asked why we never went, we said "but we did" he said "I didn't see you" we said "we didn't see you." After this intellectual and stimulating conversation, he invited us to another party, gave us his card and told us to call. This we did, on Sunday. For having checked out of the hotel after an exhausting and fun filled weekend, we arrived at the bus station only to find that the next bus home was at 6:00 the following morning. So, it was back to the hotel for another day.
"Why didn't you call last night about the party?" was his first question when he picked up the phone. The truth was, because I was with Alisson, the boy. "sorry, we had other plans" is how I responded, wondering why people in Visoca, that I barely knew kept calling me out on my flakiness. It was arranged for us to meet up that afternoon for coffee, which we did. Then he took us around the university. The University of Vicosa, is the 3rd best university in the country and the the only beautiful part of the city. The poorly kept-up roads, low cement buildings with cracked paint, dirty walls and sliding garage doors reminds one distinctly of a favela. But, the people, we had by this time discovered, more than make up lack of aesthetic beauty, and the University campus is really quite lovely.
Then we got beers, and after that at some point we got dinner and more beer. And soon it was 2am.
we changed our bus tickets to a later time on Monday, as nilo (the handsome stranger) offered to introduce us to some professors at the university that could help Jess with her research (which was really the initial point of the trip, before fun took precedence... She was to interview, and I was to translate). The tree of us managed to speak to 4 professors, so the weekend was successful in terms business as well as pleasure. Take that mother fuckers.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Audio evidence

A voicemail that Cory left for me at 5:19 am on the morning of Tuesday, November 25.


[Ed. Note - "Nola" is the name of a friend of ours here, not the name of the city. Though, figuratively, Cory really did make out with the city several times, too.]

It's Christmas in Killarney

Howya Bean Flickers, Holy Joes, Brassers and Slappers!

I would like to extend an invitation to attend our merry holliers celebration: Christmas In Killarney!!!
December 20, 2008 8pm
Each year we gather 'round a yule log, sip mulled wine and sing and dance to such classics as Up On the Rooftop, Christmas in Killarney, I'm Dreaming of a White Collar Crime this Christmas, It's Going to Be a Blue Blue Christmas Now that Daddy Lost His Job and All I Want for Christmas is YOUR Two Front Teeth (which reminds me...time for a new list?!) Seriously, though, in keeping with the tradition and spirit of Christmas In Killarney, this is going to be a moderately wholesome event. It doesn't mean you have to be wholesome, it just means you have to look wholesome and attempt to hold up a conversation for at least some portion of the evening. Bill O'Reilly would be so proud of us!

Cocktail party attire and/or the always-a-crowd-pleaser-gaudy Christmas sweaters are required. There will be ample decadent holiday treats and alcohol but don't be a greedy grinch, please byob. Oh yeah and all the heathen non-Christmas celebrators are invited too but if you even try to eat christ's body or drink his blood, you are so excommunicated from my house.


come to my house saturday night (after cory's show is good). Sirs and madams not appearing invited.

Monday, December 1, 2008

sucking up is fine

i support your motion sam. I will work to establish more rules as I think of them (submissions certainly accepted).

i have began a growing list of categories. They are as follows, each counting for 10 points respectively (with style and creativity point multipliers available):

1. Dignity Depository

2. Visuals: props, photographs, images (preferably not of your genitals though will still take into consideration)

3. pain/ suffering

4. sexuality/ hook up/ makeout sesh with grandma, logan, or kri

5. while sober

6. day drunk

7. Bonus round / trick multipliers:

best use of the general public
best photo not of your balls
best night with nate hartwell/ joan dubinsky (if you can find either of them)
best single night
best long term facial hair
best use of cory in womans underwear
best cuddle sesh
largest stolen object
strongest drink
best bribe
worst hangover
best use of logans towel
best infringement of sir or madam not appearing into your day to day life

Post your ideas and I will enter them into the mainframe.

You may participate in the fun off regardless of your attendance at the commencement celebration through video/ teleconference (speaker phone?), or skype? The polls close December 29th with the final victor announced on the 30th so they may end their year crowned in glory, basking in the sweet glow of sams arm sweat, cory's scantilly clad red thong, nestled between grandma and drews man sized chests who have long given up and maria and kdhl being drunk and unruly... (you can finish this story if you would like... please?)

can i give a prison tattoo to the winner?

if anyone objects, ummmm, just let me know.

Lincoln: our proclamation is more fun than yours.

Whereas, the time of overlap during my trip to Berlin and Cory's trip to New Orleans was insufficient.
Whereas, proper documentation of actual fun was not presented to the public from Team New Orleans.
Whereas, John "Grandma" Racine is currently vacationing in NOLA.
Whereas, Paul Tilley's Mom has sent two batches of delicious cookies. May the record show one batch chocolate chip, the other pumpkin.
Whereas, there has been public outrage in regards to the lack of inclusion from other members of the blog-o-sphere.
Whereas, prior guidelines and point systems were hastily thrown together and not properly understood.
Whereas, Logan is competing by himself, sadly.

Therein, We hereby challenge every Sir and Madame Not Appearing to compete in a no holds bar, winner take all, Round Robin Fun Spectacular.

In addition to the prior established superlatives, we ask our fair, handsome, and charming Judge to create a point system. We suggest the following in regards to documentation:

-Verbal documentation exclusive to blogging, texting and drunk dialing, should be awarded 5 points.
-Visual documentation, exclusive to photos and sketches should be awarded 10 points.
-Audio/Visual documentation, exclusive to videos and flip-book animations should be awarded 15 points.

Any and all articles procured from strangers should be judged by their merits of awesomeness by honorary Dr. Judge Robert Wa-Bottomley.

We suggest that our fair Judge build on the strong foundations of the aforementioned superlative categories to establish a clear and defined point system that can be easily understood by the public. We also request a clear deadline to be set for all submissions in the superlative categories and a firm date for the naming and crowning of the winners of the Sir and Madame Not Appearing no holds bar, winner take all, Round Robin Fun Spectacular.

Yours Truly,

Team Berlin

It's Christmas in Killarney

Howya Bean Flickers, Holy Joes, Brassers and Slappers!

I would like to extend an invitation to attend our merry holliers celebration: Christmas In Killarney!!!
December 20, 2008 8pm
Each year we gather 'round a yule log, sip mulled wine and sing and dance to such classics as Up On the Rooftop, Christmas in Killarney, I'm Dreaming of a White Collar Crime this Christmas, It's Going to Be a Blue Blue Christmas Now that Daddy Lost His Job and All I Want for Christmas is YOUR Two Front Teeth (which reminds me...time for a new list?!) Seriously, though, in keeping with the tradition and spirit of Christmas In Killarney, this is going to be a moderately wholesome event. It doesn't mean you have to be wholesome, it just means you have to look wholesome and attempt to hold up a conversation for at least some portion of the evening. Bill O'Reilly would be so proud of us!

Cocktail party attire and/or the always-a-crowd-pleaser-gaudy Christmas sweaters are required. There will be ample decadent holiday treats and alcohol but don't be a greedy grinch, please byob. Oh yeah and all the heathen non-Christmas celebrators are invited too but if you even try to eat christ's body or drink his blood, you are so excommunicated from my house.

Living the Dream

Wonderful little piece from The Stranger:

Dear Racist Asshole

I'm the one who found your lost cell phone on the street. My first instinct was to find out whom it belonged to and return it, to do my Good Samaritan deed. It wasn't password protected, so I looked around on it to find some identifying information. That's when I found all your Election Day text messages between you and your other racist buddies. "Did you hear that Hallmark has a new Obama presidential Christmas ornament? Now everyone can hang that nigger from a tree!" and "The White House is now tearing out its Rose Garden and replacing it with a watermelon patch." There were ones worse than that.

Bless you, you white-supremacist fuck! Two days after the election, I couldn't have found a better celebratory gift! I texted everyone in your contacts with this message: "I admit it, my racism is a sham! The truth is I love black cock—in my mouth or up my ass, it doesn't matter, it all makes me blow my load!" I figure a racist like you is probably also homophobic, so I'm sure you have some explaining to do to your chums. Out of decency, I didn't text your mom. Even she doesn't deserve to know what a racist piece of shit her son is. You might want to password-protect your next phone. I took a lot of pleasure in beating this one to death with a hammer. (Obama probably wouldn't approve because he's a decent, upstanding guy. Me, not so much.)