Wednesday, January 13, 2010
part of the problem
Attention people of Australia reaching this blog by Googling "granny handjobs": STOP.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
surprise
I'm beyond being surprised at this, but it's truly alarming the percentage of visitors to this blog that come here because of the Joe Jonas/Taylor Swift purity ring Omegle post. Pretty much that and the Wild Abra Appears! post are the only reason people besides Jonathan AKA Bloodface Killah read anything contained herein. Now, I know I can say that and you'll think, "Well, okay, whatever," so let me phrase it differently: if you Google "Taylor Swift purity ring," the Eastern Cynic is the third result, second if you don't count Google throwing in a video link on their subsidiary site, YouTube. "Taylor Swift virginity" isn't such a clear win, with a second-page ranking; the same goes for "Taylor Swift handjob." In contrast, anyone searching for both Taylor Swift and the Marx Brothers would be directed right here.
Sure beats the hell out of having two links on the results page for "how to uncurve your dick."
Sure beats the hell out of having two links on the results page for "how to uncurve your dick."
Thursday, December 24, 2009
well, shit, really?
You know who would be the most excited about Christmas becoming less and less about the birth of Christ and the related mythology and religious associations, and instead turning into a non-denominational holiday in which we celebrate family, friends, and show charity and kindness towards the entirety of mankind? Jesus Christ.
Friday, December 18, 2009
fuego
So there's this dumb bitch on the third floor of my apartment building. I say "bitch" because I don't know her name, and I say "dumb" because she is fucking borderline retarded.
About two months ago, I was coming home and almost keeping pace with an ambulance as it went up my street and stopped, strangely, in front of my building. There was the dumb bitch standing on the steps, and when they approached, she walked up to the window and explained that a cockroach had crawled in her ear, that she thought she'd killed it with a bobby pin, and that she needed someone to remove it. Let's just review quickly with annotations:
1. I doubt there was a cockroach in her ear. If there was—and I'm not willing to suspend disbelief that much—then she must have the most filthy apartment in Brooklyn. And Williamsburg is in Brooklyn. So that's saying a lot.
2. She killed it with a bobby pin? You're telling me that first, a cockroach decided your ear was its new home, and then it was felled by a little strip of bent plastic when it could survive nuclear fallout? That rates just below the "Moon Landing Was Faked" theory on the crazy meter. Meaning it's crazier.
3. Wait, so you were MacGuyver enough to kill the creature, but removing it is suddenly beyond your technical purview? Unlikely. And besides, no person could remain so placid while a dead insect was stuck in their head unless there's a new drug dealer in town with some really choice shit. Either that, or this is your first run-in with the DTs.
Now, I don't believe that there was a cockroach in her ear. I've seen the woman from a few angles, and even roaches have better taste than to crawl inside her body. This is, I should mention, the same woman that I saw buying a single bottle of Guinness at 7-11 at one in the afternoon. On a Sunday. That's not restocking a depleted beer supply. That is alcoholism. Trust me, I should know.
So, fair enough. No one's really harmed by a crazy, dumb bitch thinking she has a cockroach in her ear and calling an ambulance to extricate it, right? Well, sure. It's a drain on city resources, but whatever. It's not like an 80 year-old woman was creamed in the crosswalk by an ambulance carrying a 100 year-old woman with stomach pains. Oh wait, that happened yesterday.
Anyway, tonight I come home and my roommate Danny is talking to his girlfriend on the phone and the dog will not stop barking. Then Danny says something about how there's a lot of commotion and thumping upstairs. No surprise there, really, but he says he hears a woman crying. Well, okay. We both saddle up to go have a smoke and watch whatever show is on. I'm hoping it's not a Brooklyn spin-off of Jersey Shore, but I'm not picky.
There's a fire engine extending its ladder to the fourth floor of the house.
O-kay.
Well, it turns out, after the firefighters use our apartment to get to the backyard and I see a smokey window getting smashed out on the side of the house, that this same dumb bitch has somehow set fire to her apartment. Me and Danny stand outside freezing for a while, and two firefighters pass us talking something about her air conditioner catching on fire. For those not on the east coast, it's 29 degrees outside tonight. The water from the fire hose froze to the sidewalk instantly. Why do you have your fucking A/C on, in your window, or anything but stored in a closet?
Meanwhile, this dumb bitch is sitting on the neighbors' stoop, crying into her palms with no shoes on. She says something to her friends or neighbors about how she had just set up her Christmas tree and the fire department said it was fire safe earlier today. Hey, look, another list:
1. You called the fire department to sign off on your fucking Christmas tree?
2. You called the fire department to sign off on your fucking Christmas tree?
3. You called the fire department to sign off on your fucking Christmas tree?
Yeah, all of these things, apparently. Or, as I thought when my brain was the only body part left that could still feel anything, it was just the latest horseshit from a dumb bitch who needs psychological, substance abuse, and life management counseling.
About two months ago, I was coming home and almost keeping pace with an ambulance as it went up my street and stopped, strangely, in front of my building. There was the dumb bitch standing on the steps, and when they approached, she walked up to the window and explained that a cockroach had crawled in her ear, that she thought she'd killed it with a bobby pin, and that she needed someone to remove it. Let's just review quickly with annotations:
1. I doubt there was a cockroach in her ear. If there was—and I'm not willing to suspend disbelief that much—then she must have the most filthy apartment in Brooklyn. And Williamsburg is in Brooklyn. So that's saying a lot.
2. She killed it with a bobby pin? You're telling me that first, a cockroach decided your ear was its new home, and then it was felled by a little strip of bent plastic when it could survive nuclear fallout? That rates just below the "Moon Landing Was Faked" theory on the crazy meter. Meaning it's crazier.
3. Wait, so you were MacGuyver enough to kill the creature, but removing it is suddenly beyond your technical purview? Unlikely. And besides, no person could remain so placid while a dead insect was stuck in their head unless there's a new drug dealer in town with some really choice shit. Either that, or this is your first run-in with the DTs.
Now, I don't believe that there was a cockroach in her ear. I've seen the woman from a few angles, and even roaches have better taste than to crawl inside her body. This is, I should mention, the same woman that I saw buying a single bottle of Guinness at 7-11 at one in the afternoon. On a Sunday. That's not restocking a depleted beer supply. That is alcoholism. Trust me, I should know.
So, fair enough. No one's really harmed by a crazy, dumb bitch thinking she has a cockroach in her ear and calling an ambulance to extricate it, right? Well, sure. It's a drain on city resources, but whatever. It's not like an 80 year-old woman was creamed in the crosswalk by an ambulance carrying a 100 year-old woman with stomach pains. Oh wait, that happened yesterday.
Anyway, tonight I come home and my roommate Danny is talking to his girlfriend on the phone and the dog will not stop barking. Then Danny says something about how there's a lot of commotion and thumping upstairs. No surprise there, really, but he says he hears a woman crying. Well, okay. We both saddle up to go have a smoke and watch whatever show is on. I'm hoping it's not a Brooklyn spin-off of Jersey Shore, but I'm not picky.
There's a fire engine extending its ladder to the fourth floor of the house.
O-kay.
Well, it turns out, after the firefighters use our apartment to get to the backyard and I see a smokey window getting smashed out on the side of the house, that this same dumb bitch has somehow set fire to her apartment. Me and Danny stand outside freezing for a while, and two firefighters pass us talking something about her air conditioner catching on fire. For those not on the east coast, it's 29 degrees outside tonight. The water from the fire hose froze to the sidewalk instantly. Why do you have your fucking A/C on, in your window, or anything but stored in a closet?
Meanwhile, this dumb bitch is sitting on the neighbors' stoop, crying into her palms with no shoes on. She says something to her friends or neighbors about how she had just set up her Christmas tree and the fire department said it was fire safe earlier today. Hey, look, another list:
1. You called the fire department to sign off on your fucking Christmas tree?
2. You called the fire department to sign off on your fucking Christmas tree?
3. You called the fire department to sign off on your fucking Christmas tree?
Yeah, all of these things, apparently. Or, as I thought when my brain was the only body part left that could still feel anything, it was just the latest horseshit from a dumb bitch who needs psychological, substance abuse, and life management counseling.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
conversations with women
Andrea: Babies are so weird. Avery did not want to be held and is now laying on her blanket happily chattering to a water bottle in the corner.
Me: She's an alcoholic.
Sarah: i don't know if it counts as "hitting on" if they're your boyfriend
Me: love, sarah, is like a deli counter; you gotta keep things fresh.
Me: She's an alcoholic.
Sarah: i don't know if it counts as "hitting on" if they're your boyfriend
Me: love, sarah, is like a deli counter; you gotta keep things fresh.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
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