The quick and the sick

I could go on and on about this, but nothing I could ever say will really capture the layers of crazy in this new mother's story about some creative approaches to cooking with breast milk. See, that right there… already it's almost too much for me to handle. So I'll leave you with this quote from the article:

"So, the moral of the story, YOU CANNOT MAKE CHEESE OUT OF BREASTMILK. Don't even try."

However, for the disenchanted, "Definitely you could make cream soup out of breast milk, and perhaps milk shake and smoothies too. Or as pancake. Many things!" Good to know.

Hey baby, I love yo' mustache

According the supposedly "reputable" publication, The New York Times, it's so hot to be menopausal. For the record, coming from a living, breathing, non-gay male, this is totally not true. Unless you're talking hotter like hot flashes hotter, in which case, yes, I guess menopausal women are technically hotter. But it's not like that makes me care about the old hags. Ha ha, sorry mom!

The three were chatting when Ms. Caruana, who is in menopause, suddenly blurted out, "I'm having a hot flash."

The conversation lurched to a halt, followed by uneasy chuckling.

Ms. Caruana, though, was unashamed. "Why hide it?" she said later of the episode, which occurred in March. "I kind of call my menopause my 'red badge of courage.'"

Oh, that's funny, considering that's the only red thing about your body these days, if you know what I'm saying. Now, it's not that I particularly have anything against menopausal women, just like I don't really have anything against fat people (this is kind of a lie, but whatever), it's just that I'm trying to set the record straight here. I'm sure many fat people are perfectly fine human beings, but that doesn't mean they're hot, and when they think they are and go lumbering around with their sixteen ass cheeks cascading out of a pair of ill-fitting shorts, somebody has just got to do something. So, uh, basically I guess I'm trying to say that the same goes for menopausal women. You're not hot, so… um… stop thinking that for whatever reason you suddenly are.

PS: Sorry for that period joke up there, guys.

A gold medal in the epilepsy event

While it's currently being condemned almost universally as a hideous piece of uninspired shit, the London 2012 Olympic games logo seems to be falling upon some even worse luck. As if being the ugliest logo in recent memory wasn't bad enough, it's now being attributed to causing seizures.

As the flow of complaints about the quality of the £400,000 brand gathered pace yesterday (the emblem was likened to a "broken swastika" and a "toileting monkey"), one viewer, Christopher Filmer, rang the BBC to say he suffered a seizure while watching the footage on television and his girlfriend had also suffered a fit and needed hospital treatment. "The logo came up on TV and I was thinking about the 2012 games and then I was out."

Seriously, look at that thing; it's a monster. It's Kelly Osbourne. It's Harry Osborn's face in Spider-Man 3. Are the 2012 Olympics hosting only events involving hipster dance parties full of… uh… toileting monkeys?

It amazes me that somebody was paid 400,000 pounds to piss off the world. Actually, it may turn out to be a genius marketing move in that it might have, in fact, been the only way to get anybody to give a shit about the Olympics again.

Regardless, in a city where I am constantly reminded that I am doomed to be a talentless failure in the field of graphic design, disasters such as this give me hope, and possibly also an epileptic seizure.

Of the two, you will run into reference types much more often

I will never understand poetic spam. Sure, I can see the purpose of poorly constructed ads for Cialis or home refinancing loans, even if they annoy the shit out of me. Ultimately, I can understand why there is somebody out there who is forced to put these meager offerings together and send them to a massive contact list, and I imagine their own realization of the fact that their job is totally ineffective only contributes to the care which they invest in their work, which then, in turn, makes the ads even less effective, and so on and so forth. At least, failures as they may be, those types of spam messages have some kind of purpose in mind. But relatively often I'll find a message containing a haiku, or a single cryptic line and can't see why anybody wasted the bandwidth on it. I mean, I guess it's kind of entertaining, but if you're really that bored I would think buying a Playstation 3 or masturbating for a couple hours would be a way more satisfying investment.

Anyway, what prompted this little post was the email I got today from Dru Orabi, and maybe if my name was that fucked up I'd have fallen into a life of sending asinine spam emails. He wrote me the following, "He beamed again, his face red as he turned and headed for a back room." There are untold volumes of context surrounding that sentence I'm sure, and we'll never know. Oh Dru, you merciless tease.

Playing for the high one, dancing with the devil

Las Vegas is a terrible, despicable place.

I mean it!

For those of you who have made it this far in your lives without going, fear not, you're not missing much. Well, that's not entirely true, you kind of are. You're missing out on spending hundreds of dollars on effectively nothing, being hungover for a week, not being able to get a cab on the street (fucking backwards savages), tons of fat people, and getting scammed by crackladies who were only able to swindle you because you were on the verge of blacking out and if, at any point, I run into her at the various crack dens I frequent, I will fucking kill. I mean it Sasha, or Trish, something like that, I will fucking kill you with my fucking fists. And since I'm one of those creative types (known in the heartland of the country as "faggots"), I'm going to do it in such a manner that when I say "fucking fists" I really mean it, they're going to be fists that fuck. You know, like fist fucking. Fisting.

Anyway, after reviewing my aforementioned list, you can plainly see that you can find most of those spellbinding attractions pretty much everywhere, except for the inability to get a cab like every other civilized place in the goddamned world. If you can't guess, last week I went to Las Vegas and it pretty obviously sucked.

I've even started calling it Las Vague-Ass when I talk about it, but since it sounds exactly the same as its real name, it's pretty much a joke only I get… which actually accounts for a vast majority of my jokes. And it's not like it even makes that much sense to me, Las Vegas is hardly vague at all, in fact, it's quite blatantly in your face about pretty much everything. The entire strip is lined with little Mexicans who flick trading cards at you with pictures of naked women with their names and a number you can call if you want to turn your fists into fucking fists for 99 dollars. So yeah, not that vague at all, but the ass part is really, really appropriate.

One night my friends and I tried to go to one of Las Vegas "premier" nightclubs (all of which suck unless you're a thirty five year old executive with a pocket full of Rohypnol), but were denied entrance because, according to the bouncer with a package of Oscar Meyer weenies cascading down the back of his neck from the base of his shaved head to the beginnings of his bacne, "there are already too many guys in there. Ladies only." It was probably for the best because the odds aren't great (odds not being great in Vague-Ass, go figure!) that of all the shitty nightclubs we had already gone to and would go on to visit this was the one in the entire godforsaken city that doesn't suck two French-braided dicks. Regardless, in a drunken rage I threw my entire collection of prostitute cards at the man, a decision I now wholeheartedly regret, and said, "Fuck you, Kingpin, you'll be in Vegas the rest of your shitty life." Incredibly the bouncer didn't break my legs on the spot and I made it home to write about how much I hate that fucking place.

Las Vegas sucks almost as much as when the similarly named Vega would win in Street Fighter II on Sega Genesis and his shrill battle cry afterwards would pierce you through your head. When playing as him I'd purposefully lose just so I wouldn't have to endure what sounded like a train whistle blowing through a dying cat's ass inside a paper bag. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense to play as a character only to lose, but I had a lot of free time as a child, not to mention I hated Vega that much, and, if I could play as Las Vegas, you can bet I'd let myself get myself get the crap kicked out of me over and over again too.