And a "Good Luck" goes out to Zolton
as he is doing his first 30-minute comedy set tonight. They grow up so fast, don't they? Though, really, he doesn't need luck....he'll be killer.
What he does need is a better sense of judgment
Because he actually described me as "multi-talented" in his blog. Yeah, I found that hilarious too.
Which brings me to the "getting to know your blogger" topic of the day
I'm assuming that when he describes me as "multi-talented", it means that I am a writer, comic, and a film-maker, which I don't really consider "talent" in so much as I consider it "avoiding a real job." This reminded me of a recent interview I did in which the interviewer asked me the question, "of the three areas you have worked in, which one would you drop the other two for?" After much thought, I realized the only answer to that question is "none."
See, I realized very early on two things about myself:
- I will never be completely content with anything I achieve, because I'll always crave more.
- The only thing that really drives me crazy is staying still when people around me are moving forward.
The first point I consider an asset just as much as a curse as it is this mindset that forces me to improve. However, I also never just stop to enjoy the scenery so to speak. (Agent Lady... stop with the nodding.) I am the epitome of "if you've ever been hungry, you'll never be full." And, hey, that explains my current State of Lardass as well. See how that dovetailed nicely?
The second point, however, stems from the fact that I am pathologically competitive, but still very supportive of the success of colleagues. And until this interview I just thought I was "healthily competitive." Then I had a moment of enlightenment/epiphany/seraphims chanting heavenly praises and realized that the ONLY reason I am NOT a prick who begrudges the success of those around me is BECAUSE I am involved in three fields. See, in every career...and especially creative fields.....there are often long periods of being stagnant with occasional boosts. And as we have already established that "being stagnant" is not on Jenn's "Warm and Fuzzy" list, I just choose to throw myself into multiple fields as it is very rare that all three are stagnant at the same time. For example, in the winter I was just kind of doing my stand-up thing, just working around and paying my dues, which was fine because I was also in the middle of pitching a sitcom. Then the sitcom fell through, but that was fine because The Patriot Ledger released a huge article about my stand-up. And at the moment, nothing all that spectacular is happening with writing or stand-up until the end of May, but that's completely cool because I just heard 3 of my short films will be getting national distribution. So most of the time, I'm always moving....granted I may just be walking in circles, but it gives me the illusion of moving forward, and that's really all I need to stay good ol' supportive Jenn. And the fact that I know I'm moving somewhere allows me to be non-prickish/bitter to those around me, which is awesome because I have a really talented group of friends...most of the comics I call my friends absolutely deserve to get to the next level, friends like Suzette deserve to get that nationally published column that they've been wanting, and there is not a fiction writer I know who deserves to see his book in print more than Gene (speaking of, someone please fricking publish him already, or I fear he's going to kill a random no-talent, famous, hack writer with an inkjet printer cartridge.....he's very disturbed and will find out a way to accomplish this).
And the cool thing is that when they all get famous, they'll remember all the random "new writers market!" emails and plugs for new comedy rooms I've sent them and they'll reciprocate purely out of guilt. Huzzah!
DEJENNERATE.COM BLOG
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Friday, April 29, 2005
Surely wooden teeth can't be THAT noticeable?
Fucking OUCH, people.
Yep, Round 2 of Jenn's Fant-a-bulous Toothache has begun, this time in the form of TMJ. For those who do not know, TMJ is essentially a condition when your jaw is wound too tightly. Most people don't have issues with it most of the time, but occasionally it can flare up and affect all the nerves in the jaw so it feels like you have about five toothaches. Supposedly stress can trigger it, however I personally have found no connection between the two, so I'm just assuming that my body felt I was entirely too happy-go-lucky these past weeks for its tastes, and this was much easier than giving me cancer or crabs or something. Probably less oozier too.
Oh yeah, and there's not a whole lot they can do with it either except have you wait it out while continuously testing the "hey, tequila IS a pain killer" principle. Or you can wear a mouthguard that is not at all unlike the dental stylings of Jaws from the James Bond series. Or you can just stagger around the house at 3:00 in the morning occasionally letting out a deep moan, which is definitely not the most desirable option, but it explains why Gene's cat, Moki, was dryhumping my ring finger.
Early predictions
Based on my calculations of past TMJ fits, I believe this latest bout will only put me out of commission until tomorrow. Which is cool, because I have a show in a new room in Portland, Maine tomorrow and it wouldn't be all that desirable going on stage talking like I have a dick in my mouth. That type of shit only works at Cheaters, anyway.
Fucking OUCH, people.
Yep, Round 2 of Jenn's Fant-a-bulous Toothache has begun, this time in the form of TMJ. For those who do not know, TMJ is essentially a condition when your jaw is wound too tightly. Most people don't have issues with it most of the time, but occasionally it can flare up and affect all the nerves in the jaw so it feels like you have about five toothaches. Supposedly stress can trigger it, however I personally have found no connection between the two, so I'm just assuming that my body felt I was entirely too happy-go-lucky these past weeks for its tastes, and this was much easier than giving me cancer or crabs or something. Probably less oozier too.
Oh yeah, and there's not a whole lot they can do with it either except have you wait it out while continuously testing the "hey, tequila IS a pain killer" principle. Or you can wear a mouthguard that is not at all unlike the dental stylings of Jaws from the James Bond series. Or you can just stagger around the house at 3:00 in the morning occasionally letting out a deep moan, which is definitely not the most desirable option, but it explains why Gene's cat, Moki, was dryhumping my ring finger.
Early predictions
Based on my calculations of past TMJ fits, I believe this latest bout will only put me out of commission until tomorrow. Which is cool, because I have a show in a new room in Portland, Maine tomorrow and it wouldn't be all that desirable going on stage talking like I have a dick in my mouth. That type of shit only works at Cheaters, anyway.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
I don't even know what the fuck it's about, but the title made me happy
Court rejects Rush Limbaugh Appeal
"Bewitched" Statue in Salem Causes an Uproar
"But Mayor Stanley Usovicz strongly supports the statue, saying it would be a fun spot for tourists to stop and have their pictures taken. He also says it would be located far from Gallows Hill, where 19 accused witches were hanged."
Because the whole hanging thing? Puts a damper on the joviality.
Fun with probabilities
Now those of you who know me know I dogsled in the winter. Those of you who know me especially well know that I was training this winter to do an amateur's dogsled overnight race. And those who know me decently enough to know that I am a shallow, money-glutton pig know that I ended up bailing on the race to take a paid comedy gig that night. So basically, my plan is to try the race again next year, which means I have to train.
Now, the only places that really offer dogsledding around here is New Hampshire and Maine. So, as I'm going up to Maine Saturday for a comedy show, I thought, "hey....I could do some dogsledding." And you are probably thinking, "No, dipshit, you can't. See....I don't know much about dogsledding, but I have sledded down multiple hills in my youth and I'm pretty sure I couldn't do that without this stuff called 'snow'. And...check your calendar, twat... it's almost May. You silly, silly doucheass."
Well, you don't have to be so rude about it. I'm not your little blog-monkey, you know....I'm a woman with needs and feelings and...wait, no I'm not. Never mind.
And, while we're on the topic, you'd only be half right. Yes, most dogsledding takes place on snow. But during the summer, the dogs still need to keep in shape, and--if you didn't know--dogs are not overly fond of aerobics nor do they have the financial means to obtain a gym membership (and they aren't overly proficient with pedometer, either, by the way). So, many mushers take their dogs out on dogsledding paths during the summer months on a sled on wheels. It trains the dogs and keeps the musher in shape as well. As one of my friends owns a kennel up in Maine, he asked me if I would be interested in this activity, in which I said "yes." Dogsledding in May, woo hoo!
Until I realized that dogsledding in, say, May can cause some pretty interesting complications.
Namely:
- Sleds on wheels can not possibly be able to negotiate winding trails with the proficiency of a winter sled. For this, compare the average maneuvering capability of an ice skate versus an in-line skate.
- Just going by the laws of physics, sleds on wheels will likely go a hell of a lot faster than sleds without wheels, especially down steep hills or off cliffs.
- The concept of a normal dog sled brake is that the brake steps into snow which makes the sled impossible to pull. As we've already established, currently, there is no snow. Therefore, I'm assuming there will also be no brakes with the exception of the occasional obstructing oak tree.
- Speaking of the fluffy, white stuff -- part of the appeal of dogsledding in the winter is that snow is quite cushiony when your sled tips over. Gravel and jagged rocks? Not so much.
What are the chances that I'm actually going to make it to my show Saturday without looking like a Picasso model?
Court rejects Rush Limbaugh Appeal
"Bewitched" Statue in Salem Causes an Uproar
"But Mayor Stanley Usovicz strongly supports the statue, saying it would be a fun spot for tourists to stop and have their pictures taken. He also says it would be located far from Gallows Hill, where 19 accused witches were hanged."
Because the whole hanging thing? Puts a damper on the joviality.
Fun with probabilities
Now those of you who know me know I dogsled in the winter. Those of you who know me especially well know that I was training this winter to do an amateur's dogsled overnight race. And those who know me decently enough to know that I am a shallow, money-glutton pig know that I ended up bailing on the race to take a paid comedy gig that night. So basically, my plan is to try the race again next year, which means I have to train.
Now, the only places that really offer dogsledding around here is New Hampshire and Maine. So, as I'm going up to Maine Saturday for a comedy show, I thought, "hey....I could do some dogsledding." And you are probably thinking, "No, dipshit, you can't. See....I don't know much about dogsledding, but I have sledded down multiple hills in my youth and I'm pretty sure I couldn't do that without this stuff called 'snow'. And...check your calendar, twat... it's almost May. You silly, silly doucheass."
Well, you don't have to be so rude about it. I'm not your little blog-monkey, you know....I'm a woman with needs and feelings and...wait, no I'm not. Never mind.
And, while we're on the topic, you'd only be half right. Yes, most dogsledding takes place on snow. But during the summer, the dogs still need to keep in shape, and--if you didn't know--dogs are not overly fond of aerobics nor do they have the financial means to obtain a gym membership (and they aren't overly proficient with pedometer, either, by the way). So, many mushers take their dogs out on dogsledding paths during the summer months on a sled on wheels. It trains the dogs and keeps the musher in shape as well. As one of my friends owns a kennel up in Maine, he asked me if I would be interested in this activity, in which I said "yes." Dogsledding in May, woo hoo!
Until I realized that dogsledding in, say, May can cause some pretty interesting complications.
Namely:
- Sleds on wheels can not possibly be able to negotiate winding trails with the proficiency of a winter sled. For this, compare the average maneuvering capability of an ice skate versus an in-line skate.
- Just going by the laws of physics, sleds on wheels will likely go a hell of a lot faster than sleds without wheels, especially down steep hills or off cliffs.
- The concept of a normal dog sled brake is that the brake steps into snow which makes the sled impossible to pull. As we've already established, currently, there is no snow. Therefore, I'm assuming there will also be no brakes with the exception of the occasional obstructing oak tree.
- Speaking of the fluffy, white stuff -- part of the appeal of dogsledding in the winter is that snow is quite cushiony when your sled tips over. Gravel and jagged rocks? Not so much.
What are the chances that I'm actually going to make it to my show Saturday without looking like a Picasso model?
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
This is just a little "told you so" to Zolton
Maggots apparently appreciate human orifices
Great night at EVOS
EVOS has become my preferred Tuesday night comedy hangout. They usually always have some kind of crowd, Kris is one of my favorite people in Boston comedy (which I assure you has nothing to do with the fact that he calls me "Naughtikins." OK, so maybe just a wee little bit), and afterwards we hang around the bar and make twat references. You can't really ask for more from a Tuesday in Lowell, folks. Last night was no different, and I probably had the best set I ever had there.
Oh, do you have a clip?
Why, funny you should ask. You see, I got a snappy new digital camcorder this weekend.....thanks to my AWESOME parents who do a really stellar job at pretending to understand why I want to go to seedy neighborhoods in Boston to tell jokes in hole-in-the-wall bars. And since "snappy new DV camera" has just made "craptastic analog camcorder" extinct, instead of making video clips for my website through a marginally effective video capture card that randomly deletes sound whenever it feels I need more challenges in my life, I can just input the video directly into my computer. So to those of you who have been whining "When are we going to see you perform?"....just keep your pants on (or don't. I don't care. What you do in the privacy of your cubicle is none of my damn business.) You are going to GET clips. More clips than you can shake a stick at. (Though why you would shake a stick at them is unknown to me...beating your computer with a stick afterwards, sure...but shaking? Video clips don't seem like they would respond to idle threats). It's my goal to have a couple up this weekend, and last night's show is a great place to start because I broke the bank with the "very naughty" material.....and really, what other reason do you come here for than emotional scarring?
Maggots apparently appreciate human orifices
Great night at EVOS
EVOS has become my preferred Tuesday night comedy hangout. They usually always have some kind of crowd, Kris is one of my favorite people in Boston comedy (which I assure you has nothing to do with the fact that he calls me "Naughtikins." OK, so maybe just a wee little bit), and afterwards we hang around the bar and make twat references. You can't really ask for more from a Tuesday in Lowell, folks. Last night was no different, and I probably had the best set I ever had there.
Oh, do you have a clip?
Why, funny you should ask. You see, I got a snappy new digital camcorder this weekend.....thanks to my AWESOME parents who do a really stellar job at pretending to understand why I want to go to seedy neighborhoods in Boston to tell jokes in hole-in-the-wall bars. And since "snappy new DV camera" has just made "craptastic analog camcorder" extinct, instead of making video clips for my website through a marginally effective video capture card that randomly deletes sound whenever it feels I need more challenges in my life, I can just input the video directly into my computer. So to those of you who have been whining "When are we going to see you perform?"....just keep your pants on (or don't. I don't care. What you do in the privacy of your cubicle is none of my damn business.) You are going to GET clips. More clips than you can shake a stick at. (Though why you would shake a stick at them is unknown to me...beating your computer with a stick afterwards, sure...but shaking? Video clips don't seem like they would respond to idle threats). It's my goal to have a couple up this weekend, and last night's show is a great place to start because I broke the bank with the "very naughty" material.....and really, what other reason do you come here for than emotional scarring?
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Just because I love stampeding large mammals as much as the next blogger...
Herd of Buffalo upsets Maryland
Pope is Forgetful, Brother says
Ah, so he FORGOT his Hitler past, is that it?
Oh yeah, like I'm the only one who thought that. I personally have ten bucks that same conclusion was running through Gene's head.
Favorite quote from Fever Pitch
"You know Fenway Park opened the year the Titanic sunk..."
And the review
Eh. The movie was nice for the Boston shots and everything, and opening with the song Dirty Water took me directly to my happy place known as The Comedy Studio (mmmm.....scorpion bowls....). And it wasn't the most horrible romantic comedy I have ever seen, but I was disappointed...which is saying a lot as I had no hope for the film whatsoever. I just thought they could encapsulate the Red Sox fandom so much more then they actually did. But, it had its moments. Not the worst choice you could make at the theater.
Because that honor is reserved for this forthcoming trainwreck
The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy Movie
I'm sorry folks, I got no hope for this. The books? Damn near the funniest things ever written. The mini-series from Britain? Fucking SWEET, in a campy kind of way. But satire is not Hollywood's strong point, and this is one of the most satirical books ever written. You hear that sound? That's a celluloidal trainwreck approaching.
But wait, didn't Douglas Adams write the screenplay?
And Stephen King wrote Christine and John Carpenter directed it. Your point?
And while I'm bitching....
Why the fuck are they remaking House of Wax? And instead of Vincent Price we've now got to contend with......Paris Hilton??????? Between remaking Japanese horror and blaspheming the scream queen era, I'm thinking I'm never going to see a new horror movie ever again.
An interesting side note...during the making of this film, a sound stage and a studio where this film was being filmed burned to the ground. Apparently, they needed a more concrete hint.
Herd of Buffalo upsets Maryland
Pope is Forgetful, Brother says
Ah, so he FORGOT his Hitler past, is that it?
Oh yeah, like I'm the only one who thought that. I personally have ten bucks that same conclusion was running through Gene's head.
Favorite quote from Fever Pitch
"You know Fenway Park opened the year the Titanic sunk..."
And the review
Eh. The movie was nice for the Boston shots and everything, and opening with the song Dirty Water took me directly to my happy place known as The Comedy Studio (mmmm.....scorpion bowls....). And it wasn't the most horrible romantic comedy I have ever seen, but I was disappointed...which is saying a lot as I had no hope for the film whatsoever. I just thought they could encapsulate the Red Sox fandom so much more then they actually did. But, it had its moments. Not the worst choice you could make at the theater.
Because that honor is reserved for this forthcoming trainwreck
The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy Movie
I'm sorry folks, I got no hope for this. The books? Damn near the funniest things ever written. The mini-series from Britain? Fucking SWEET, in a campy kind of way. But satire is not Hollywood's strong point, and this is one of the most satirical books ever written. You hear that sound? That's a celluloidal trainwreck approaching.
But wait, didn't Douglas Adams write the screenplay?
And Stephen King wrote Christine and John Carpenter directed it. Your point?
And while I'm bitching....
Why the fuck are they remaking House of Wax? And instead of Vincent Price we've now got to contend with......Paris Hilton??????? Between remaking Japanese horror and blaspheming the scream queen era, I'm thinking I'm never going to see a new horror movie ever again.
An interesting side note...during the making of this film, a sound stage and a studio where this film was being filmed burned to the ground. Apparently, they needed a more concrete hint.
Monday, April 25, 2005
So it's 3:00 a.m.
And I am currently watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show while yelling the audience participation lines at my television. So rest assured, no matter how you spent your Sunday, it can't be any more pathetic than mine is right now.
Speaking of, I am starting to go through rather severe Rocky Horror withdrawal...as in Rocky Horror the REAL way: at midnight in a theater with a bunch of screaming/dancing/humping 20-somethings and I am fully allowed to throw rice and at the screen and scream expletive-laden audience participation lines. So I may have to recruit friends for The Help Jenn's Semi-Annual Transsexual, Transylvania Withdrawal to accompany me to Harvard Square on a Saturday night in the very near future. This is a fair warning to those who this may apply.
Favorite Rocky Horror Line:
Janet: What have you done with Brad?
Frank: Nothing. Why....do you think I should?
And just a sidebar...
I used to be in a Rocky Horror cast. I played Frank N. Furter. Think of that and try to sleep at night.
And I am currently watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show while yelling the audience participation lines at my television. So rest assured, no matter how you spent your Sunday, it can't be any more pathetic than mine is right now.
Speaking of, I am starting to go through rather severe Rocky Horror withdrawal...as in Rocky Horror the REAL way: at midnight in a theater with a bunch of screaming/dancing/humping 20-somethings and I am fully allowed to throw rice and at the screen and scream expletive-laden audience participation lines. So I may have to recruit friends for The Help Jenn's Semi-Annual Transsexual, Transylvania Withdrawal to accompany me to Harvard Square on a Saturday night in the very near future. This is a fair warning to those who this may apply.
Favorite Rocky Horror Line:
Janet: What have you done with Brad?
Frank: Nothing. Why....do you think I should?
And just a sidebar...
I used to be in a Rocky Horror cast. I played Frank N. Furter. Think of that and try to sleep at night.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
DVD-O-RAMA
So I'm releasing a brand new trouser stain on the comedy industry. For those of you who do not know, in Buffalo I made a couple short films that were accepted to a couple small film festivals. Well, one of these such festivals contacted me and wants to release one of my films...A Day in the Life of a Boy Band...on their "Best of" DVDs. Which means it will get a national release. And with it, I get to choose 2 other submissions to go on the DVD, so I'm chosing my other two shorts :XXX ABC (yes, it's an X-rated alaphabet) and Every Bitch Wants to Be Bettie Page (which is an opus about a single woman whose dog wants to be a 1930's stripper). Oh, and they are animated. Did I mention that? Yay for R-rated Saturday morning cartoons!
I'm quite excited about this. Sure they were made in different time by a raunchier, less-structured Jenn but they are quite giggly, if only for nostalgia value. I'll keep you all posted.
A Girly Bitch Session: The Fat Chick Edition
You know, it's a good thing that I'm actively trying to lose weight. Because, if I stayed fat, evidently I'm eventually going to have to go naked. And I'm really not into making mall-walkers take a long flight over the cuckoo nest.
See, I went to a fashion specialist yesterday who specializes in dressing for TV. This stems from a cable television show I caught of myself doing stand-up -- a show I thought I looked fairly normal while I was performing, but on television I looked like a rhinocerous with Prader Willis Syndrome wearing a red polo shirt. And that's really not a flattering look for me. So, as I've been doing a bit of comedy for cable recently, and I don't want the viewing population to take up an eating disorder on my account, I went to this specialist. And she was actually really helpful and gave me some tips about the kinds of shirts, etc. that will flatter my Pilsbury Doughboyian physique on low-grade basic cable. So I departed to the mall yesterday, armed with this new knowledge.
First of all, it appears that just on the basis that I am a tall, fat woman, I am shit out of luck. Apparently, the fashion industry spends an inordinate amount of time in areas where obese circus midgets are the standard representatives of the fat population. And as fashion specialist said, "longer is better"...apparently this is a go-to argument for more than one subject topic...every shirt I tried on looked like I was about to walk down the runway modelling Playtex's spring line of over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders.
And then there are the colors this year. Ladies, when the fuck did we decide that Dayglo is sexy again? Let's face it, Dayglo has its time and place...but Dayglo has never enticed anyone to give the "come hither look." Pastels, dark colors, retired Crayola colors...all potentially sexy. Dayglo has a problem being sexy wearing crotchless panties and carrying a bottle of gin. All right, I think you catch my drift.
And then let's go with the cuts. Apparently the new rage is the "poncho look". Oh, this would look just would swimmingly on a fat chick, huh? Yeah, I want the viewers tuning in at home to think I am a dismembered, yet fully talking head on top of a 6-seater sectional, thanks.
So I left with absolutely nothing. And if I can't find anything today, I'm seriously considering flipping my proverbial bird at the the fashion industry and go with full-frontal nudity and Sketchers as my on-stage wardrobe. Just on pure probability, some viewer is bound to have a fat fetish.
So I'm releasing a brand new trouser stain on the comedy industry. For those of you who do not know, in Buffalo I made a couple short films that were accepted to a couple small film festivals. Well, one of these such festivals contacted me and wants to release one of my films...A Day in the Life of a Boy Band...on their "Best of" DVDs. Which means it will get a national release. And with it, I get to choose 2 other submissions to go on the DVD, so I'm chosing my other two shorts :XXX ABC (yes, it's an X-rated alaphabet) and Every Bitch Wants to Be Bettie Page (which is an opus about a single woman whose dog wants to be a 1930's stripper). Oh, and they are animated. Did I mention that? Yay for R-rated Saturday morning cartoons!
I'm quite excited about this. Sure they were made in different time by a raunchier, less-structured Jenn but they are quite giggly, if only for nostalgia value. I'll keep you all posted.
A Girly Bitch Session: The Fat Chick Edition
You know, it's a good thing that I'm actively trying to lose weight. Because, if I stayed fat, evidently I'm eventually going to have to go naked. And I'm really not into making mall-walkers take a long flight over the cuckoo nest.
See, I went to a fashion specialist yesterday who specializes in dressing for TV. This stems from a cable television show I caught of myself doing stand-up -- a show I thought I looked fairly normal while I was performing, but on television I looked like a rhinocerous with Prader Willis Syndrome wearing a red polo shirt. And that's really not a flattering look for me. So, as I've been doing a bit of comedy for cable recently, and I don't want the viewing population to take up an eating disorder on my account, I went to this specialist. And she was actually really helpful and gave me some tips about the kinds of shirts, etc. that will flatter my Pilsbury Doughboyian physique on low-grade basic cable. So I departed to the mall yesterday, armed with this new knowledge.
First of all, it appears that just on the basis that I am a tall, fat woman, I am shit out of luck. Apparently, the fashion industry spends an inordinate amount of time in areas where obese circus midgets are the standard representatives of the fat population. And as fashion specialist said, "longer is better"...apparently this is a go-to argument for more than one subject topic...every shirt I tried on looked like I was about to walk down the runway modelling Playtex's spring line of over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders.
And then there are the colors this year. Ladies, when the fuck did we decide that Dayglo is sexy again? Let's face it, Dayglo has its time and place...but Dayglo has never enticed anyone to give the "come hither look." Pastels, dark colors, retired Crayola colors...all potentially sexy. Dayglo has a problem being sexy wearing crotchless panties and carrying a bottle of gin. All right, I think you catch my drift.
And then let's go with the cuts. Apparently the new rage is the "poncho look". Oh, this would look just would swimmingly on a fat chick, huh? Yeah, I want the viewers tuning in at home to think I am a dismembered, yet fully talking head on top of a 6-seater sectional, thanks.
So I left with absolutely nothing. And if I can't find anything today, I'm seriously considering flipping my proverbial bird at the the fashion industry and go with full-frontal nudity and Sketchers as my on-stage wardrobe. Just on pure probability, some viewer is bound to have a fat fetish.
Friday, April 22, 2005
And for the Ice-pick Toting Contingent
Check out Classic Horror for my latest review, The Comedy of Terrors
Check out Classic Horror for my latest review, The Comedy of Terrors
For Charlie
Elephants migrate through diner - perhaps through EVOS
And no, I'm not sure exactly when my blog became hostage to random inside jokes.
So the topic of the day is, Mormon Undies
I was just made aware through a charming group of ladies I hang out with online that Mormons have their own underwear. And I bet you think this is a set-up for some kind of zinger, or punchline, or maybe a charming anecdote. Well, we don’t do that shit around here.
You still don’t believe me, do you? Fine. Here’s a picture. Assclown.
Personally, the concept of a religion needing their own “special” underwear seems a little odd, especially since-- going by my 29-years of non-Mormon undie-wearing--normal undies seem to complete their main task – namely, preventing my bush from being caught in my jeans' zipper. But apparently, in the Mormon culture, undies are deemed as “sacred” (stop giggling, Gene). They started off as temple garments that polygamists wore, and then eventually they were issued to everyone in the church. And once you go through the temple, you have to wear these underwear for the rest of your life. Even when sleeping. They even have to wear special to-the-knee shorts in the summer. If by chance you are in the market for some, the Book of Mormon recommends Great Lengths.
And ladies, apparently, you have to wear your bra OVER this ensemble. Because, you know, you want to blindfold rocks before you put them in a slingshot. Maybe it’s more chaste if they can’t see what’s coming. Or, more appropriately, can’t see what they are missing.
Elephants migrate through diner - perhaps through EVOS
And no, I'm not sure exactly when my blog became hostage to random inside jokes.
So the topic of the day is, Mormon Undies
I was just made aware through a charming group of ladies I hang out with online that Mormons have their own underwear. And I bet you think this is a set-up for some kind of zinger, or punchline, or maybe a charming anecdote. Well, we don’t do that shit around here.
You still don’t believe me, do you? Fine. Here’s a picture. Assclown.
Personally, the concept of a religion needing their own “special” underwear seems a little odd, especially since-- going by my 29-years of non-Mormon undie-wearing--normal undies seem to complete their main task – namely, preventing my bush from being caught in my jeans' zipper. But apparently, in the Mormon culture, undies are deemed as “sacred” (stop giggling, Gene). They started off as temple garments that polygamists wore, and then eventually they were issued to everyone in the church. And once you go through the temple, you have to wear these underwear for the rest of your life. Even when sleeping. They even have to wear special to-the-knee shorts in the summer. If by chance you are in the market for some, the Book of Mormon recommends Great Lengths.
And ladies, apparently, you have to wear your bra OVER this ensemble. Because, you know, you want to blindfold rocks before you put them in a slingshot. Maybe it’s more chaste if they can’t see what’s coming. Or, more appropriately, can’t see what they are missing.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Andrea
This is to note I have updated my blog. I know you were quite concerned over this matter.
To the four Backsidian comics from last night’s after show
Ass twats and warthog pissing.
Now, on to your regularly scheduled blog.
Hardy Boys Case: 696871: Jenn scars another old lady
Folks, I don’t plan on sending senior citizens into an institution where people routinely believe Jesus is living in their house plants or randomly dry hump items commonly found in a broom closet. It just kind of happens.
As I’ve mentioned before, I have a HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE movie collection, of which the population appears to grow daily apparently through purchases, trading, or perhaps my DVDs are just fucking each other now. I’m really don’t have time to monitor their shenanigans. So as Saturday is my “must go to Best Buy and buy new shit” day, I came home with about 5 or so new DVDs that I ABSOLUTELY MUST HAVE RIGHT NOW.
Now, it is important to note that I am rather opposed to the concept of plastic bags. They are bad for the environment, they clutter up my house, and if you get enough of them in my kitchen cupboard it won’t be very long before they start plotting to suffocate me during the night. I don’t have any actual proof of this, but chances are if you lock something in a dark crowded place with no food, drink, or tittie magazines, eventually it’s going to plan on killing you. We learned this from People Under the Stairs, people. I’m just saying, if they had just thrown the zombies a stale Twinkie and an old issue of Jizzing Gerbils every now and then, Wes Craven wouldn’t have been called in at all.
So as I dislike any and all plastic bags, I refused a bag at Best Buy. When I came home, I had to get the mail so I clung the movies to my chest much like a school girl does with her text books. An old lady visiting the complex stopped to talk to me, so I engaged her in conversation for a few minutes. As I was telling her a story, I noticed that she kept glancing at my chest rather horrified which, fine, is not all that unusual (after all, not many people have seen matching rolling dunes of cottage cheese before. It’s quite the wonder to behold). She stopped the conversation with me abruptly and barely uttered a good-bye before she staggered away.
It wasn’t until I got back to my condo building that I realized the issue.
The five DVDs were stacked against my chest.
The one that was facing her was named Orgazmo.
So now I’m envisioning her nightly prayers.
“Lord forgive me for tainting my eyes with Mormon porn, a honking silver codpiece, and a skinny kid named Choda Boy with a dildo on his head….”
And just for the Orgazmo fans out there:
“STUNT COCK!”
This is to note I have updated my blog. I know you were quite concerned over this matter.
To the four Backsidian comics from last night’s after show
Ass twats and warthog pissing.
Now, on to your regularly scheduled blog.
Hardy Boys Case: 696871: Jenn scars another old lady
Folks, I don’t plan on sending senior citizens into an institution where people routinely believe Jesus is living in their house plants or randomly dry hump items commonly found in a broom closet. It just kind of happens.
As I’ve mentioned before, I have a HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE movie collection, of which the population appears to grow daily apparently through purchases, trading, or perhaps my DVDs are just fucking each other now. I’m really don’t have time to monitor their shenanigans. So as Saturday is my “must go to Best Buy and buy new shit” day, I came home with about 5 or so new DVDs that I ABSOLUTELY MUST HAVE RIGHT NOW.
Now, it is important to note that I am rather opposed to the concept of plastic bags. They are bad for the environment, they clutter up my house, and if you get enough of them in my kitchen cupboard it won’t be very long before they start plotting to suffocate me during the night. I don’t have any actual proof of this, but chances are if you lock something in a dark crowded place with no food, drink, or tittie magazines, eventually it’s going to plan on killing you. We learned this from People Under the Stairs, people. I’m just saying, if they had just thrown the zombies a stale Twinkie and an old issue of Jizzing Gerbils every now and then, Wes Craven wouldn’t have been called in at all.
So as I dislike any and all plastic bags, I refused a bag at Best Buy. When I came home, I had to get the mail so I clung the movies to my chest much like a school girl does with her text books. An old lady visiting the complex stopped to talk to me, so I engaged her in conversation for a few minutes. As I was telling her a story, I noticed that she kept glancing at my chest rather horrified which, fine, is not all that unusual (after all, not many people have seen matching rolling dunes of cottage cheese before. It’s quite the wonder to behold). She stopped the conversation with me abruptly and barely uttered a good-bye before she staggered away.
It wasn’t until I got back to my condo building that I realized the issue.
The five DVDs were stacked against my chest.
The one that was facing her was named Orgazmo.
So now I’m envisioning her nightly prayers.
“Lord forgive me for tainting my eyes with Mormon porn, a honking silver codpiece, and a skinny kid named Choda Boy with a dildo on his head….”
And just for the Orgazmo fans out there:
“STUNT COCK!”
Friday, April 15, 2005
This one may be just for me…
Now you guys know that my favorite website besides here is Classic Horror, because Nate so kindly posts my praises and rantings on classic horror movies that no one here gives a diarrheatic rat’s ass about. So I was reading through some of the old reviews last night and we actually reviewed a movie called Killer Workout about a killing spree in an exercise class.
Its alternate name is Aerobi-cide.
I’ll pause for maniacal giggling.
And if that isn’t hilarious enough for you– Doc Rogers’s review of it is. A choice quote from his review:
“No matter how many bodies turn up, everyone still keeps doing aerobics--they never close the gym.”
So, guess what’s being added to Jenn’s Netflix list?
And where the hell has “Dispatches from Jenn’s Netflix Queue” been?
And rest assured some readers have actually asked this question. Apparently some of you have been looking to me for movie guidance, which is really damn scary considering I am the proud owner of this page. But in all honesty, I’ve been sitting on 3 Netflix movies for about two months, which is really, really dumb because I get charged monthly. And seriously, The Deer Hunter is not that good to be charged $35.98 for it and not even be able to keep the damn thing. Kind of like a prostitute, really.
Well, really, we’d prefer that you stick to Netflix and stop plaguing us with posts about wooly mammoth twats.
Noted.
MUST……RESIST…..TEMPTATION
Aw fuck, forget it. I know I’m going to see The Amityville Horror remake. I get all tingly and aglow when I see ghosts scaring the crap out of assclowns who are reluctant to leave their levitating-condom, random-demon-riding-the-sex-swing, dead-naked-grandma-in-the-shower-waving-a-hologram-Satan-dildo abode. There’s no use fighting this affliction, despite the fact that eventually my “Film School Student” mentality will kick in and I will spend the rest of my evening gutting out my eyeballs with garlic press (not the one between Amy’s boobs, however, as I am a firm believer in the preservation of boobart.)
And it almost has to be better than Amityville 2, doesn’t it? OK, I’ll take better than House 2, at this point.
Now you guys know that my favorite website besides here is Classic Horror, because Nate so kindly posts my praises and rantings on classic horror movies that no one here gives a diarrheatic rat’s ass about. So I was reading through some of the old reviews last night and we actually reviewed a movie called Killer Workout about a killing spree in an exercise class.
Its alternate name is Aerobi-cide.
I’ll pause for maniacal giggling.
And if that isn’t hilarious enough for you– Doc Rogers’s review of it is. A choice quote from his review:
“No matter how many bodies turn up, everyone still keeps doing aerobics--they never close the gym.”
So, guess what’s being added to Jenn’s Netflix list?
And where the hell has “Dispatches from Jenn’s Netflix Queue” been?
And rest assured some readers have actually asked this question. Apparently some of you have been looking to me for movie guidance, which is really damn scary considering I am the proud owner of this page. But in all honesty, I’ve been sitting on 3 Netflix movies for about two months, which is really, really dumb because I get charged monthly. And seriously, The Deer Hunter is not that good to be charged $35.98 for it and not even be able to keep the damn thing. Kind of like a prostitute, really.
Well, really, we’d prefer that you stick to Netflix and stop plaguing us with posts about wooly mammoth twats.
Noted.
MUST……RESIST…..TEMPTATION
Aw fuck, forget it. I know I’m going to see The Amityville Horror remake. I get all tingly and aglow when I see ghosts scaring the crap out of assclowns who are reluctant to leave their levitating-condom, random-demon-riding-the-sex-swing, dead-naked-grandma-in-the-shower-waving-a-hologram-Satan-dildo abode. There’s no use fighting this affliction, despite the fact that eventually my “Film School Student” mentality will kick in and I will spend the rest of my evening gutting out my eyeballs with garlic press (not the one between Amy’s boobs, however, as I am a firm believer in the preservation of boobart.)
And it almost has to be better than Amityville 2, doesn’t it? OK, I’ll take better than House 2, at this point.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
And I really didn't think I could top the Alex Trebeck thing...
Qantas Airlines Tightens Security After Camel Suit Stunt
Tornado Uncovers Pot Operation in Florida
So I guess this puts a damper on promoting any high-speed cyclonic monsoons to F.P.D. Narcotics Division desk jobs. Equal Opportunity, my ass.
Sebaceous Member of the Undead- thy name is Jenn.
I am just starting off by saying that I absolutely can not go out tonight. No, I mean it. I've been on a whirlwind comedy tour since Saturday and I think I've banked eight hours of sleep total since Monday. I can usually bang in 3-5 hours per night and be pretty cool, but if I start sleeping anything less than the Director's Cut of Ben Hur, I'm a damn zombie, man. Not nearly as desirable as being a robotic zombie that lives underwater (because being chased by a psycho-babbling Peter Cushing is never a BAD thing, per se), but I have definitely joined the ranks of the living dead. I've got the oozing and the squishiness to prove it.
OK, so that may still be from the George Lopez dildo. Or a Baby Jesus butt plug. Let's just move on, shall we?
I finally became aware that this zombification was taking hold today while I was working for my weekly tidings. Now some of you know that I do mostly freelancy humorific shit, but I also have a writing job in Providence in which I come in, type some fun-to-read stuff, work which a bunch of super-cool humorous-type people, and go about my day. And sometimes we have cake. You really can't top that, folks. Really, there's a lot worse ways to make a living than as a writer. Like being a Nurse in a Nightie. OK, so that might not be bad for some of you male/lesbian types to watch so to speak, but I'm thinking it would not be all that fun to participate in. When you have patients and medical staff both wearing ultra-breezy gowns with no underwear, some patient is going to end up being inadvertently allowed to perform an balls-lancing surgery or something. Well maybe not, but some kind of confusion is bound to take place, and it will probably be oozier and squishier than I am right now.
Anyhoo, back to zombification. (Is my lack of sleep apparent at all through this meandering fucking post?) So, today I am in Providence, happy as a subtly climaxing bearded clam, when I hear the call of nature. As I am a fat chick, this translates to "White Chocolate Reeses." So I go down to the vending machine and for some reason it refuses to take my dollar. I flatten it, straighten it out, try spanking it with a Ping Pong paddle....it would not go in. And after my 85th attempt I realized why.
It was a fucking Canadian dollar bill.
You know, the ones they stopped printing sometime in the early 90's to move to the Loonie coins? The ones that are not even REMOTELY the same color as our dollar bills? That one. Yeah, well apparently I haven't cleaned out my wallet in....oooh....10 years or so, and that locomotioned itself to my main money compartment, which is a bit like walking down Main Street and stumbling across a Cherokee arrowhead stuck in a telephone pole. It's pretty cool for nostalgia value, but you'll spend the next couple hours going into a borderline-psychotic, overly analytical shame spiral trying to determine exactly where the fuck it could have came from.
Until I remembered two things:
- I grew up within walking distance of the Canadian border
- the drinking age in Canada was 19
Yeah, so it came from Clifton Hill. And most likely Rumours NightClub, a wax figure of Frank Sinatra, and a late-night "wa-hoo!" ride on a Spanish Aero Car were involved.
Qantas Airlines Tightens Security After Camel Suit Stunt
Tornado Uncovers Pot Operation in Florida
So I guess this puts a damper on promoting any high-speed cyclonic monsoons to F.P.D. Narcotics Division desk jobs. Equal Opportunity, my ass.
Sebaceous Member of the Undead- thy name is Jenn.
I am just starting off by saying that I absolutely can not go out tonight. No, I mean it. I've been on a whirlwind comedy tour since Saturday and I think I've banked eight hours of sleep total since Monday. I can usually bang in 3-5 hours per night and be pretty cool, but if I start sleeping anything less than the Director's Cut of Ben Hur, I'm a damn zombie, man. Not nearly as desirable as being a robotic zombie that lives underwater (because being chased by a psycho-babbling Peter Cushing is never a BAD thing, per se), but I have definitely joined the ranks of the living dead. I've got the oozing and the squishiness to prove it.
OK, so that may still be from the George Lopez dildo. Or a Baby Jesus butt plug. Let's just move on, shall we?
I finally became aware that this zombification was taking hold today while I was working for my weekly tidings. Now some of you know that I do mostly freelancy humorific shit, but I also have a writing job in Providence in which I come in, type some fun-to-read stuff, work which a bunch of super-cool humorous-type people, and go about my day. And sometimes we have cake. You really can't top that, folks. Really, there's a lot worse ways to make a living than as a writer. Like being a Nurse in a Nightie. OK, so that might not be bad for some of you male/lesbian types to watch so to speak, but I'm thinking it would not be all that fun to participate in. When you have patients and medical staff both wearing ultra-breezy gowns with no underwear, some patient is going to end up being inadvertently allowed to perform an balls-lancing surgery or something. Well maybe not, but some kind of confusion is bound to take place, and it will probably be oozier and squishier than I am right now.
Anyhoo, back to zombification. (Is my lack of sleep apparent at all through this meandering fucking post?) So, today I am in Providence, happy as a subtly climaxing bearded clam, when I hear the call of nature. As I am a fat chick, this translates to "White Chocolate Reeses." So I go down to the vending machine and for some reason it refuses to take my dollar. I flatten it, straighten it out, try spanking it with a Ping Pong paddle....it would not go in. And after my 85th attempt I realized why.
It was a fucking Canadian dollar bill.
You know, the ones they stopped printing sometime in the early 90's to move to the Loonie coins? The ones that are not even REMOTELY the same color as our dollar bills? That one. Yeah, well apparently I haven't cleaned out my wallet in....oooh....10 years or so, and that locomotioned itself to my main money compartment, which is a bit like walking down Main Street and stumbling across a Cherokee arrowhead stuck in a telephone pole. It's pretty cool for nostalgia value, but you'll spend the next couple hours going into a borderline-psychotic, overly analytical shame spiral trying to determine exactly where the fuck it could have came from.
Until I remembered two things:
- I grew up within walking distance of the Canadian border
- the drinking age in Canada was 19
Yeah, so it came from Clifton Hill. And most likely Rumours NightClub, a wax figure of Frank Sinatra, and a late-night "wa-hoo!" ride on a Spanish Aero Car were involved.
You really can't make up shit like this
Alex Trebeck Sued Over a Horse
All right, be back later. And this time, I really mean it.
Alex Trebeck Sued Over a Horse
All right, be back later. And this time, I really mean it.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
The Life of a Writer
Most of you who have visiting my site for any length of time know that my fancy is writing. No, I don't mean my actual fancy as I have not yet trained my labia to hold a writing implement. I meant I do writing for a living. Though, I'm with you on the fact that training my labia to hold a ballpoint pen would be a much cooler fancy, and probably a more financially prosperous one at that.
I really wasn't expecting this post to end up in the nads so soon. Damnit.
Anyway, almost every morning at about 7:00, I get a call from Agent Lady, which works out fabulously because that is about the time I'm usually staggering through the door from an opus of comedic mirthment, and she is usually just booting a lesbian supermodel out of her memory foamy canopy bed. So it doesn't affect the flow of either of our days, so to speak. The content of our conversations is relatively boring: usually a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo, some highly questionable scene "buzz" (I know I'm not buying that NBC is looking for a sitcom to appeal to the Feline AIDS-sufferers Against Catnip demographic. That's clearly more of FOX's deal, don't ya think?), and it usually ends up with a couple helpful tips on where I can send shit so she can rape me of 20% of my gross pay. She's really no more than a pimp in a tailored pin-striped suit in that regard.
And before you ask, yes, she reads my blog. And she's probably wondering how much of my shit she has to sell to graduate to a canopy bunk bed.
Nothing blog-worthy usually appears from these conversations, which is why she doesn't make it in my blogs nearly as much as she could. Only today is her lucky day as she was fully planning on finishing today's conversation with these words:
"Oh, one more thing. John wants your next article to be about the humorous side of shin splints."
Now John is one of these editor types who works for a medical publication that happens to take humor from writers who know Agent Lady from time to time. Even taking that into account, I'm sure you can see the problem with this request. First of all, I originally thought he meant humerus, as in the humerus bone, which is located nowhere near your shin by the way. In fact, it's on a completely different extremity, which frightened me as John is in fact a surgeon and he should be knowledgeable of all things humery and fibula-icious. But when it was determined he wanted the HUMOROUS side of shin splints, one would have to assume that there is a humorous side to shin splints. At this point, I'm thinking "not so much." Sure I could weave gut-busting tales on how one could get a shin splint: an unfortunate lawn bowling accident, doing the nasty on a gymnast's pummel horse, getting a leg stuck in a migrating elephant's rectum, but the actual injury? I'm thinking no. It strikes me as fruitful of an endeavor as reading a Choose-Your-Adventure book where the author forgot to put in the "The End" pages.
Most of you who have visiting my site for any length of time know that my fancy is writing. No, I don't mean my actual fancy as I have not yet trained my labia to hold a writing implement. I meant I do writing for a living. Though, I'm with you on the fact that training my labia to hold a ballpoint pen would be a much cooler fancy, and probably a more financially prosperous one at that.
I really wasn't expecting this post to end up in the nads so soon. Damnit.
Anyway, almost every morning at about 7:00, I get a call from Agent Lady, which works out fabulously because that is about the time I'm usually staggering through the door from an opus of comedic mirthment, and she is usually just booting a lesbian supermodel out of her memory foamy canopy bed. So it doesn't affect the flow of either of our days, so to speak. The content of our conversations is relatively boring: usually a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo, some highly questionable scene "buzz" (I know I'm not buying that NBC is looking for a sitcom to appeal to the Feline AIDS-sufferers Against Catnip demographic. That's clearly more of FOX's deal, don't ya think?), and it usually ends up with a couple helpful tips on where I can send shit so she can rape me of 20% of my gross pay. She's really no more than a pimp in a tailored pin-striped suit in that regard.
And before you ask, yes, she reads my blog. And she's probably wondering how much of my shit she has to sell to graduate to a canopy bunk bed.
Nothing blog-worthy usually appears from these conversations, which is why she doesn't make it in my blogs nearly as much as she could. Only today is her lucky day as she was fully planning on finishing today's conversation with these words:
"Oh, one more thing. John wants your next article to be about the humorous side of shin splints."
Now John is one of these editor types who works for a medical publication that happens to take humor from writers who know Agent Lady from time to time. Even taking that into account, I'm sure you can see the problem with this request. First of all, I originally thought he meant humerus, as in the humerus bone, which is located nowhere near your shin by the way. In fact, it's on a completely different extremity, which frightened me as John is in fact a surgeon and he should be knowledgeable of all things humery and fibula-icious. But when it was determined he wanted the HUMOROUS side of shin splints, one would have to assume that there is a humorous side to shin splints. At this point, I'm thinking "not so much." Sure I could weave gut-busting tales on how one could get a shin splint: an unfortunate lawn bowling accident, doing the nasty on a gymnast's pummel horse, getting a leg stuck in a migrating elephant's rectum, but the actual injury? I'm thinking no. It strikes me as fruitful of an endeavor as reading a Choose-Your-Adventure book where the author forgot to put in the "The End" pages.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Wisconsin Considers Legalizing Cat Hunting
Didn't The Bunny Farm try legalizing hunting pussy a while ago?
Whoa. That was cheap.
Give me a break. I just survived another evening with very FUBARed comics. It happens. Do you want me to tell you about our 10 minute conversation on testicle piercing? Then shut your damn Boston cream piehole over there.
Testy, Testy!
Yeah, yeah. I'm feeling a bit like a half-waxed wooly mammoth twat today. Pay no mind at all.
Um..a half-waxed wooly mammoth twat?
Hey, wooly mammoth twats are undesirable to begin with. I mean, they are cavernous, sienna-hued, kookily hairy, and smell a bit like government horseradish. Plus they are capable of giving birth to some weird-ass shit like more twatty wooly mammoths and small metropolitan cities and what not. But a wooly mammoth with half-Brazilian and a wax strip the length of inkjet banner paper on the yet-to-be-Brazilianed labia? That's some nasty looking shit there.
Is this post going anywhere at all?
You mean, besides in the gutter or under a bridge in a sketchy part of town or some equally undesirable location where one might find a trollish gnome porking a naked mole rat with a block of head cheese and a tightly wound copy of Wilt Chamberlin's Living Will? Mmmm....probably not.
Shouldn't you just wrap this shit up right now and try it again tomorrow?
Perhaps. Besides, the Email Contingent will likely have much to discuss on half-waxed wooly mammoth twats to keep me occupied for the rest of the day, until I go to EVOS tonight and disturb friends Zolton and Streetwhore with this very conversation.
Wait a minute....Was that a shameless pimp for your show tonight?
Oh rest assured, there was shame involved. All right, so just a little tiny bit. Like enough to be carried on a naked mole rat's recently circumcised foreskin. Um, if it was cut and half. You know.....like a peanut butter and fluffenutter sandwich. The diagonal way.
You scheming douchetard.
Oh Yeah??? Well....um....you got me there.
Didn't The Bunny Farm try legalizing hunting pussy a while ago?
Whoa. That was cheap.
Give me a break. I just survived another evening with very FUBARed comics. It happens. Do you want me to tell you about our 10 minute conversation on testicle piercing? Then shut your damn Boston cream piehole over there.
Testy, Testy!
Yeah, yeah. I'm feeling a bit like a half-waxed wooly mammoth twat today. Pay no mind at all.
Um..a half-waxed wooly mammoth twat?
Hey, wooly mammoth twats are undesirable to begin with. I mean, they are cavernous, sienna-hued, kookily hairy, and smell a bit like government horseradish. Plus they are capable of giving birth to some weird-ass shit like more twatty wooly mammoths and small metropolitan cities and what not. But a wooly mammoth with half-Brazilian and a wax strip the length of inkjet banner paper on the yet-to-be-Brazilianed labia? That's some nasty looking shit there.
Is this post going anywhere at all?
You mean, besides in the gutter or under a bridge in a sketchy part of town or some equally undesirable location where one might find a trollish gnome porking a naked mole rat with a block of head cheese and a tightly wound copy of Wilt Chamberlin's Living Will? Mmmm....probably not.
Shouldn't you just wrap this shit up right now and try it again tomorrow?
Perhaps. Besides, the Email Contingent will likely have much to discuss on half-waxed wooly mammoth twats to keep me occupied for the rest of the day, until I go to EVOS tonight and disturb friends Zolton and Streetwhore with this very conversation.
Wait a minute....Was that a shameless pimp for your show tonight?
Oh rest assured, there was shame involved. All right, so just a little tiny bit. Like enough to be carried on a naked mole rat's recently circumcised foreskin. Um, if it was cut and half. You know.....like a peanut butter and fluffenutter sandwich. The diagonal way.
You scheming douchetard.
Oh Yeah??? Well....um....you got me there.
Monday, April 11, 2005
OK, so I found this cool
Mammoth and tusks found by L.A. builders
And how do I explain this?
OK, kiddies, I'm going to do something I usually don't do, because I have literally nothing on tap. Namely, I'm going to burden you with my love life. Now you probably already assume I have a Hot, Hot, HOT love life, what with me being a comedian and all, therefore SURELY hot men in the form of comedy groupies/bartenders/bookers/strumpets who live in the club's dumpsters would be doing congo lines into my boudoir for a taste of this cul de sac of titillating mirth. In which case, I would make the conclusion that you all spend entirely too much time in the Latin Quarters S&M Dungeon. You sick, sick fucks.
And point the George Lopez dildo away from the screen when you're talking to me. I don't need to be seeing that kind of stuff around here.
Anyway, so the newest man in the life of Jenn is a very charming young man who spends his summers in Texas. Why, might you inquire? Because he works as a professional bull rider. Let me say that again.....I....the "bluer than blue balls" comic....am dating a professional bull rider. Now I'm sure that opened a Pandora's box of mental images that none of you ever wanted to have in relation to me...except of course for the Latin Quarters S&M Dungeon Contingent who are now picturing something involving a matador costume, an ox tail whip, and a hemaphroditic rodeo clown. See...now the dungeon just turned into a whore house. You see the power I have over entire fictitious bureaucratic infrastructures? MWA-HA-HA.
The thing is, I have been dating him for a couple weeks now, and for the life of me I can just not tell my parents what he does for a living. Mom won't be bad....she probably won't even make the bull riding/riding the one-eyed bull connection. I mean, this is a woman who went 50 years of living thinking the sign for "Fuck You" was the index finger. Hence she was essentially telling people who were cutting her off in traffic that they were "No. 1", not to mention she brought multitudes of foam sports fingers on herself. But the rest of the family? Oh, their minds will go there right away. And really...whose WOULDN'T? I just hinted at it and all of you were waving around ox tail whips and George Lopez dildos. And I don't know if I wanna scar the family that badly yet what with psychiatric institutions and house arrest bracelets being so expensive. So for now, he is simply going to be a taxidermist. And those of you who are having some sick bestiality necrophilia fetishes should stop blaming ME and seek some professional help or check the want ads for middle management opportunities in a slaughterhouse. Jiz-marinated top round doesn't bother us vegetarians, after all.
Mammoth and tusks found by L.A. builders
And how do I explain this?
OK, kiddies, I'm going to do something I usually don't do, because I have literally nothing on tap. Namely, I'm going to burden you with my love life. Now you probably already assume I have a Hot, Hot, HOT love life, what with me being a comedian and all, therefore SURELY hot men in the form of comedy groupies/bartenders/bookers/strumpets who live in the club's dumpsters would be doing congo lines into my boudoir for a taste of this cul de sac of titillating mirth. In which case, I would make the conclusion that you all spend entirely too much time in the Latin Quarters S&M Dungeon. You sick, sick fucks.
And point the George Lopez dildo away from the screen when you're talking to me. I don't need to be seeing that kind of stuff around here.
Anyway, so the newest man in the life of Jenn is a very charming young man who spends his summers in Texas. Why, might you inquire? Because he works as a professional bull rider. Let me say that again.....I....the "bluer than blue balls" comic....am dating a professional bull rider. Now I'm sure that opened a Pandora's box of mental images that none of you ever wanted to have in relation to me...except of course for the Latin Quarters S&M Dungeon Contingent who are now picturing something involving a matador costume, an ox tail whip, and a hemaphroditic rodeo clown. See...now the dungeon just turned into a whore house. You see the power I have over entire fictitious bureaucratic infrastructures? MWA-HA-HA.
The thing is, I have been dating him for a couple weeks now, and for the life of me I can just not tell my parents what he does for a living. Mom won't be bad....she probably won't even make the bull riding/riding the one-eyed bull connection. I mean, this is a woman who went 50 years of living thinking the sign for "Fuck You" was the index finger. Hence she was essentially telling people who were cutting her off in traffic that they were "No. 1", not to mention she brought multitudes of foam sports fingers on herself. But the rest of the family? Oh, their minds will go there right away. And really...whose WOULDN'T? I just hinted at it and all of you were waving around ox tail whips and George Lopez dildos. And I don't know if I wanna scar the family that badly yet what with psychiatric institutions and house arrest bracelets being so expensive. So for now, he is simply going to be a taxidermist. And those of you who are having some sick bestiality necrophilia fetishes should stop blaming ME and seek some professional help or check the want ads for middle management opportunities in a slaughterhouse. Jiz-marinated top round doesn't bother us vegetarians, after all.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Indiana Man Receives Village Idiot Award
I will just take time to mention that Dan Quayle is from Indiana. And he didn't receive the award. I am now very, very frightened of this state.
Interestingly, Indiana offers a wide spectrum of racial tolerance
As Indiana apparently is the home of both Abraham Lincoln and Fuzzy Zoeller.
OK, some of you will get that; those who are rather unaware of the drama that is professional golf will not.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Zolton forced me to stay out entirely too late at his show last night. I wanted to leave at 10:00, mind you, because I had shit to do and blogs to post so I wouldn't get 5,000,000 hits on my site from Furry and other anonymous Obsessive Compulsive visitors (this site is in FULL compliance with the American Disabilities and Full-Throttled Neuroses Act by the way). But, NOOOOOO, I could not leave at 10:00 because Zolton twisted my arm, or perhaps shackled me to the radiator, or some other kind of heinous bondage activity. Or maybe just mentioned the words "booze" and pointed to the bar. I don't know. So I ended up staying until Way Fucking After 10:00. Not that I really could leave anyway because the bar was absolutely packed wall-to-wall with oh-so-pretty-potentially-made-of-plastic-and-double-sided-tape teeny-boppers constantly trying to get past me by getting their scorpion bowl straws stuck in my tits or ass. Hey, Ashton Kuchter, I am not a damn voodoo doll. Tapping me like a fucking maple tree will not get me to ooze Love Potion Number 9, so keep your damn probing to yourself, all right? Geez.
I will just take time to mention that Dan Quayle is from Indiana. And he didn't receive the award. I am now very, very frightened of this state.
Interestingly, Indiana offers a wide spectrum of racial tolerance
As Indiana apparently is the home of both Abraham Lincoln and Fuzzy Zoeller.
OK, some of you will get that; those who are rather unaware of the drama that is professional golf will not.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Zolton forced me to stay out entirely too late at his show last night. I wanted to leave at 10:00, mind you, because I had shit to do and blogs to post so I wouldn't get 5,000,000 hits on my site from Furry and other anonymous Obsessive Compulsive visitors (this site is in FULL compliance with the American Disabilities and Full-Throttled Neuroses Act by the way). But, NOOOOOO, I could not leave at 10:00 because Zolton twisted my arm, or perhaps shackled me to the radiator, or some other kind of heinous bondage activity. Or maybe just mentioned the words "booze" and pointed to the bar. I don't know. So I ended up staying until Way Fucking After 10:00. Not that I really could leave anyway because the bar was absolutely packed wall-to-wall with oh-so-pretty-potentially-made-of-plastic-and-double-sided-tape teeny-boppers constantly trying to get past me by getting their scorpion bowl straws stuck in my tits or ass. Hey, Ashton Kuchter, I am not a damn voodoo doll. Tapping me like a fucking maple tree will not get me to ooze Love Potion Number 9, so keep your damn probing to yourself, all right? Geez.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
OK, I lied
I didn’t come back. Nor did I blog yesterday. Yes, I’m a bad, bad blogger.
Big congratulations are in order
To friend Furry, who just got a new 3-bedroom apartment. See up until this point, Furry lived with her children in a 2-bedroom apartment, and shared a room with her daughter. Now Furry gets her OWN bedroom which means I can ship her some hot Latino pool men without scarring her children (Furry…I hope you had the prudence to choose the bedroom with the fire escape).
And even WORSE….this means that Amy and I can visit AT THE SAME TIME. MWA-HAHAHAHAHAHA!
And a late congratulations
To friends Jenny and Marky for buying their first house! Of course, I will not be sending them any hot Latino pool men as they are still relatively newly wed and their sex life does not yet need to be spiced up with threesomes yet.
HEEHEEHEE
I know Jenny just turned really red. And Marky is laughing at her. Call me psychic.
There’s so much wrong with this headline, I don’t know where to start
World’s Smallest Dog Did Not Die of Medical Malpractice
My favorite headline of the day
Pothead Granny spared jail
And just is case you wanted to know what the Department of Homeland Defense is ACTUALLY doing
Secret Service guarding ducks and eggs
I didn’t come back. Nor did I blog yesterday. Yes, I’m a bad, bad blogger.
Big congratulations are in order
To friend Furry, who just got a new 3-bedroom apartment. See up until this point, Furry lived with her children in a 2-bedroom apartment, and shared a room with her daughter. Now Furry gets her OWN bedroom which means I can ship her some hot Latino pool men without scarring her children (Furry…I hope you had the prudence to choose the bedroom with the fire escape).
And even WORSE….this means that Amy and I can visit AT THE SAME TIME. MWA-HAHAHAHAHAHA!
And a late congratulations
To friends Jenny and Marky for buying their first house! Of course, I will not be sending them any hot Latino pool men as they are still relatively newly wed and their sex life does not yet need to be spiced up with threesomes yet.
HEEHEEHEE
I know Jenny just turned really red. And Marky is laughing at her. Call me psychic.
There’s so much wrong with this headline, I don’t know where to start
World’s Smallest Dog Did Not Die of Medical Malpractice
My favorite headline of the day
Pothead Granny spared jail
And just is case you wanted to know what the Department of Homeland Defense is ACTUALLY doing
Secret Service guarding ducks and eggs
Thursday, April 07, 2005
No, I don't find this amusing at all...
Star Wars Fans Line up at Wrong Theater
Be back later...it's 4:00 in the morning, and that's all I got.
Star Wars Fans Line up at Wrong Theater
Be back later...it's 4:00 in the morning, and that's all I got.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
And for the police drama fans out there…
So the article ran about me in the Ledger, which has brought a phenomenal amount of new gigs and whatnot, which is all cool. But fame apparently has a price. Of course, I am talking about being stalked. Every time I left the house on the day the article was run, I came back to find the article wedged in my door, in my mailbox, etc. I seriously got at least four articles this way. Um, isn’t that how a Law and Order: SVU episode starts????
And, yes, I know these deposits-o’-Jenn-goodness were the products of several proud condo building residents, but none have seemed to come forward and admit to this behavior. So please do so, so I can thank you all properly in person and I can stop wondering if I’m going to end up in a Kiss the Girls Slaughter Shack in the near future.
Did I just make a James Patterson reference???
Gene, I deeply regret any muscle tension that just caused.
And in the news…
Pope made into a comic book superhero
He wears an anti-Devil cape and chastity pants. Yeah, I really can’t top that either.
So the article ran about me in the Ledger, which has brought a phenomenal amount of new gigs and whatnot, which is all cool. But fame apparently has a price. Of course, I am talking about being stalked. Every time I left the house on the day the article was run, I came back to find the article wedged in my door, in my mailbox, etc. I seriously got at least four articles this way. Um, isn’t that how a Law and Order: SVU episode starts????
And, yes, I know these deposits-o’-Jenn-goodness were the products of several proud condo building residents, but none have seemed to come forward and admit to this behavior. So please do so, so I can thank you all properly in person and I can stop wondering if I’m going to end up in a Kiss the Girls Slaughter Shack in the near future.
Did I just make a James Patterson reference???
Gene, I deeply regret any muscle tension that just caused.
And in the news…
Pope made into a comic book superhero
He wears an anti-Devil cape and chastity pants. Yeah, I really can’t top that either.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Furry and Amy, this is to inform you I will be going to New Zealand for awhile...
Wooliest sheep ever discovered
The Chrissy's Roast Department
As some of you know, us comic types held a Roast of Chrissy for her 39th birthday at The Backside Tavern. While I just ASSUMED I had the most HIDEOUS b-day gift (Season 1 of Who's the Boss? on DVD. I will pause for a collective "Ewwwwwwwwwww!"), Ms. Jan Flanagan topped it by giving her some utterly DISTURBING shit found, I assume, in the “feminine products” aisle...shit I wouldn't touch with a 30-foot STICK and probably would run out of the store screaming and arms flailing if I saw it. Now, I ask you....what the HELL are "moist feminine scented wipes"? And are they for feminine parts and are scented? Or are they wipes scented to smell like feminine parts? I am not sure which one is more unnerving, frankly.
And in the "Look at me! Look at Me!" Department
Jenn Dlugos in the Patriot Ledger
Wooliest sheep ever discovered
The Chrissy's Roast Department
As some of you know, us comic types held a Roast of Chrissy for her 39th birthday at The Backside Tavern. While I just ASSUMED I had the most HIDEOUS b-day gift (Season 1 of Who's the Boss? on DVD. I will pause for a collective "Ewwwwwwwwwww!"), Ms. Jan Flanagan topped it by giving her some utterly DISTURBING shit found, I assume, in the “feminine products” aisle...shit I wouldn't touch with a 30-foot STICK and probably would run out of the store screaming and arms flailing if I saw it. Now, I ask you....what the HELL are "moist feminine scented wipes"? And are they for feminine parts and are scented? Or are they wipes scented to smell like feminine parts? I am not sure which one is more unnerving, frankly.
And in the "Look at me! Look at Me!" Department
Jenn Dlugos in the Patriot Ledger
Monday, April 04, 2005
No longer in pain
Tooth pain has finally relented which means…yay! No more pain killers for me! Which is great because now I have to get over pain killer withdrawal. See, when my dentist told me “yes, you may take THIS dosage of pain killers,” he probably should have told me “hey, you might be feeling some side effects after you stop taking them.” Like, say, a headache that will ruin my whole damn Saturday. So, as far as I can determine, I spent $1000 to have pain pushed to the north end of my cranium.
But Shitty Saturday was completely made-up by Side-splitting Sunday
Because I first got to spend the day with a bunch of my friends from my old improv troupe. Now comedians getting together are always a fricking hoot, but improv artists getting together? That’s insanity. It shouldn’t even be legal, really. Especially as we have tendencies to get thrown out of places due to Unauthorized Use of a Fork/Restaurant Customer’s Anus Combo. And that didn’t even involve anything remotely sexual. See, because we’re creative.
So we decided to do the “Whose Line is it Anyway?” thing and speak the entire afternoon only in questions, which was fine when we were speaking to each other. But, you have to remember, we are comic improv artists and have this remarkable ability of keeping our composure when something hilarious is erupting. Hence, we really, really fucked up our waitress. Here’s a snippet:
Me: What is the soup today?
Waitress: Vegetable medley.
Me: Do you have cups or bowls?
Waitress: We offer it in both.
Me: How big is the bowl?
Waitress: Um, standard bowl size, I guess.
Me: Well, a standard big bowl or a standard small bowl?
Waitress: Um, medium-size bowl. Like a cereal bowl.
Me: Like one of those little kid's cereal bowls?
Waitress, No, like a bowl that would come when you buy a set of dishes.
Me: Like a fine-china fruit bowl?
Waitress: Ma’am, would you like me to bring a bowl to you?
Me: Could you?
(Waitress returns with the bowl)
Waitress: Here’s the bowl.
Me: Is that the bowl I’ll be getting with the soup?
Waitress: Yes, would you like a bowl?
Me: Do you recommend the soup?
Waitress: Yes I do.
Me: Do you recommend a bowl or a cup?
Waitress: Ma’am, why don’t I just bring you a bowl, and I’ll just charge you for a cup.
Me: Would that be any problem?
Waitress: (inaudible grunting that sounded a lot like “pain in the ass”)
The poor waitress had to suffer through 6 people doing the same thing to her, and she did not catch on at all because no one broke composure once. And that’s not even counting the dessert course. When she brought us the check, we told her what we were doing, we were an improv troupe, and left her a huge tip. She should be out of therapy any day now.
And then I rounded out side-splitting Sunday at the Comedy Vault to see Zolton. A fun evening overall….we made up a new adjective, “ballish” (which apparently means “something that resembles testicles”), and was home by midnight.
But TONIGHT…
Is the Chrissy Roast at Backside. Updates as warranted.
And I MUST, MUST, MUST have this.
Mr. Potatohead releases: Darth Tater
Tooth pain has finally relented which means…yay! No more pain killers for me! Which is great because now I have to get over pain killer withdrawal. See, when my dentist told me “yes, you may take THIS dosage of pain killers,” he probably should have told me “hey, you might be feeling some side effects after you stop taking them.” Like, say, a headache that will ruin my whole damn Saturday. So, as far as I can determine, I spent $1000 to have pain pushed to the north end of my cranium.
But Shitty Saturday was completely made-up by Side-splitting Sunday
Because I first got to spend the day with a bunch of my friends from my old improv troupe. Now comedians getting together are always a fricking hoot, but improv artists getting together? That’s insanity. It shouldn’t even be legal, really. Especially as we have tendencies to get thrown out of places due to Unauthorized Use of a Fork/Restaurant Customer’s Anus Combo. And that didn’t even involve anything remotely sexual. See, because we’re creative.
So we decided to do the “Whose Line is it Anyway?” thing and speak the entire afternoon only in questions, which was fine when we were speaking to each other. But, you have to remember, we are comic improv artists and have this remarkable ability of keeping our composure when something hilarious is erupting. Hence, we really, really fucked up our waitress. Here’s a snippet:
Me: What is the soup today?
Waitress: Vegetable medley.
Me: Do you have cups or bowls?
Waitress: We offer it in both.
Me: How big is the bowl?
Waitress: Um, standard bowl size, I guess.
Me: Well, a standard big bowl or a standard small bowl?
Waitress: Um, medium-size bowl. Like a cereal bowl.
Me: Like one of those little kid's cereal bowls?
Waitress, No, like a bowl that would come when you buy a set of dishes.
Me: Like a fine-china fruit bowl?
Waitress: Ma’am, would you like me to bring a bowl to you?
Me: Could you?
(Waitress returns with the bowl)
Waitress: Here’s the bowl.
Me: Is that the bowl I’ll be getting with the soup?
Waitress: Yes, would you like a bowl?
Me: Do you recommend the soup?
Waitress: Yes I do.
Me: Do you recommend a bowl or a cup?
Waitress: Ma’am, why don’t I just bring you a bowl, and I’ll just charge you for a cup.
Me: Would that be any problem?
Waitress: (inaudible grunting that sounded a lot like “pain in the ass”)
The poor waitress had to suffer through 6 people doing the same thing to her, and she did not catch on at all because no one broke composure once. And that’s not even counting the dessert course. When she brought us the check, we told her what we were doing, we were an improv troupe, and left her a huge tip. She should be out of therapy any day now.
And then I rounded out side-splitting Sunday at the Comedy Vault to see Zolton. A fun evening overall….we made up a new adjective, “ballish” (which apparently means “something that resembles testicles”), and was home by midnight.
But TONIGHT…
Is the Chrissy Roast at Backside. Updates as warranted.
And I MUST, MUST, MUST have this.
Mr. Potatohead releases: Darth Tater
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