It’s been a long time (long time), we shouldn’t of left you (left you), Without a dope beat to step to

I make an alarming number of Timbaland references.

Anyway. For my horrible job I have long interviews with crazy people and then write websites based off of their bizarre delusions. During the interview, I have to fill out long, long questionnaires with their rambling verbal deliriums.

Since the world is ending following a racist bottle of orange Crush being named our president-elect, it’s timely that one of the websites would include something about arming babies for a baby militia. I’m assuming that’s what’s going on here:

baby-militia Also, blenders.

Who wants to make “arm the babies” shirts for You Life?

 

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Imagine what your life would look like

My job is insane, and it’s also filled with bureaucratic cost-cutters who like to ensure that their clients get as little quality out of their purchase as humanly possible. And that includes stock images that would make infant Jesus cry blood.

For example, when asked to re-edit a site I noticed that it included this image (for a website about air filtration systems):

 

what-are-these-people

That woman looks like she’s so repulsed by this man that she might puke on him.

What the fuck are these people? They don’t even look like real people. They look like something out of AI but maybe a low-budget first attempt at it where the sex robots cuddle with one another in order to briefly escape their metal-indentured-servitude while wearing shitty clothes on a floor in an adobe. What’s going on with that cabinet behind them? Is it blocking an exit? Is it filled with logs? This all looks like the cover of the Sweet Valley High where Elizabeth gets kidnapped from her job as a candy stripper at the hospital by that unstable guy who feeds her pancakes. Liz? Is that you up there?

Dude, the itchy blanket isn’t even covering his lap entirely. I see his jeans. And, like, he looks vaguely threatening, right? He looks like he’s pulling her closely to him in order to whisper to her his sweet-nothing fantasies about jerking off to Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto 

Okay, I can’t do better than a tug off to Apocalypto so enjoy the above.

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When Your Dream Baby is Actually a Fucking Nightmare

I had a job once, a job that I wasn’t qualified for, which required me to have long conversations with business owners describing their businesses so that I could write about them. The nature of this blog should be an indicator that I was not successful at this career. Partially because I spent a great deal of time browsing websites dedicated to things that NO ONE should Google (like spending an entire conversation researching Alan Thicke’s career) while talking to these people, and also because sometimes people had CRAZY businesses which would be best kept locked in their imaginations.

However, despite the insanity of a large handful of small business owners, this job generated some magical interactions with people that had hypothetical careers and businesses based on, what I believe to be, significant dissociative disorders. Cognitively I am in no position to judge.

Except I am going to judge. Like right now. Because this shit was wild.

[I don’t have photos pertaining to this consultation until the last paragraph, so instead of photos that relate to the post I’m just going to use my favorite photos of Phil Collins – none of which I own the copyright to]

The woman I was talking to, for over an hour, claimed to be a nurse. (Halfway through the conversation she switched up nurse and clarified that she was actually, “a healer”). But she only practiced one field of medicine, which was edifying people on the nature of dream babies. What’s a dream baby? One might ask (like me). And they would be sorry they did, because she told me what the fuck a dream baby is.
phil collins 1

A dream baby, according to this healer, is a predictive baby that you dream about – but is also real. Even if it’s a dream. What? You might be asking. That doesn’t seem like it could be AT ALL A THING. And I would agree with you. While describing herself now as a gypsy, she went on to say that pregnancy dreams are an ultrasound from God. Even if you’re a man or a very old person incapable of having a baby, if you dream about one you have a fucking baby. It’s with you – no escape. The spirit of dream baby lives in you – AND FUCKING TALKS TO YOU. And that the dream baby….is a real living (?) baby that exists maybe within you, but I don’t entirely know. It was confusing as hell. Here are some of the notes I jotted down while on the consultation.
FullSizeRender (3)

PHIL DRUMS LIVE Hannes Schmid G1030.jpg

Dream baby.

And then we got into the good stuff. The better stuff. Which was a long drawn out conversation about how during conception sometimes it will be off by two weeks. It’s a mystical magical phenomenon called the “missing two weeks” from the date you actually convinced (either in your mind during a dream or conceived during fucking – it wasn’t clarified). The two weeks could be early or two weeks late. She said, – ya know – , for example that, say, if you were a deployed solider and come home to find out that your partner got pregnant while you were deployed it was probably due to the mystery sperm that lay dormant for two weeks and then decided to travel to the egg. Aw, yes. That old chestnut. Dormant sperms.
phil collins 3

But don’t worry! She also sent me pictures to use. And suggested that I always listen to a “spirit baby,” should I dream of one. However, if this is what a fucking spirit baby looks like, I will actively pursue an exorcism instead:

monster dream baby

Edited to protect the identity of the healer. The person looking at this. And most importantly: me.

I mean…that’s a monster, right? If you’re dreaming of that I would wake up to light sage and ask God to re-think his dream ultrasound or whatever the fuck. Because if that spirit baby was talking to me, and looked like that, I could only imagine that it would be speaking in tongues about the virtues of Satanism.
phil collins 4

And that was my job. Enjoy.
easy phil collins

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This was an actual title for an article

learning nothing from strong men

Is it how to walk home casually – and not wheezing – with not one but two of those massive jugs of cat litter and not feel like dying because you keep putting off quitting smoking? If not it’s probably nothing.

Unless it’s this guy….then it’s a whole different story
artie

 

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Raviolo: the case study

I like to make inflammatory remarks on the Internet. I’ve said some truly and exceptionally stupid and abrasive things online because I’m a glutton for punishment and other equally selfish and needy reasons.

But never have I captured such a strong reaction as when I said this:
ravioli

In 2016 I learned that people fucking love some ravioli. Like a lot. It wasn’t totally fair that the first comment came from a handsome gentlemen actually from Italy with a glib response:

ravioli

In these comments he’s also informing me that the grocery store that’s behind my very apartment has some delicious ravioli. And then how to cook.

And then I learned that ravioli comes in all kinds of intriguing and diverse flavors and styles, and suddenly ravioli bonds were being forged on my FaceBook timeline:
ravioli

And not only were friends tethered together through a mutual acquaintance and appreciation for pillow-y food treats, it generated confusion:

ravioli

BUT I HAVE A RESPONSE FOR THAT CONFUSION. (I also paraphrased the postmodern bit from an episode of a radio show that I like).

And then it started to manifest in delicious suggestions by beloved friends:
ravioli

ravioli

Totally accurate: I am spoiled. I probably do want it fresh. And I’ll take anything with vodka.

And then I got called out:
ravioli

And somehow bringing up Dunkaroos brought up an entirely different, though I’d venture, equally important conversation about yummy snacks and the halcyon days of the WWF.

ravioli

revelations

Starting to accidentally insult people:
ravioli

And I begin to question who am since most of my favorite food is courtesy of this chef:
ravioli

So I needed to chime in on my own behalf and my own gamine naivety that I think is basically film worthy.
ravioli

It’s true. I eat candy and grilled cheeses almost every day and sometimes in multiples per day.

And much like Kim Kardashian’s ass before me, my self-reflection destroyed the Internet:
ravioli

Many additional voices jumped in with feelings on ravioli, no one was on my side. Not a soul. And then in a shocking twist of irony, the very lunchroom – site of twice a day grilled cheeses – decided to put this out for lunch.

ravioli

It’s fucking fried ravioli (like THAT’s gonna trick me). This lunchroom has never ever ever had this out before.

 

I then brought my parents into the debate. To the best of my knowledge they’re Italian food loving asses would be the best judge on pasta.
This is my father’s response:
ravioli
To give you some context of this email: my father is a great man who I love dearly. However, he is also the person that in response to the news that I got him Yankees tickets and that I love that he’s my dad responded, “wow!” I think I can count the things he’s said he’s loved on one hand. Evidently not only does ravioli makes the list – it makes the list in all caps.

My mom acted just like you’d expect my mom to:
ravioli

ravioli

I love that she conceded that *some* restaurants are capable of making homemade ravioli

FINE.

I decided to go to South Philly to get ravioli because, I don’t know. It seemed like the place to go (somewhere in the Italian market). I won’t share the name of the place because I don’t want anyone to think that destination influenced decisions. Despite the whole going to South Philly thing…whatever. They were homemade. Or handmade? Like not frozen is what I’m getting at.

I tried to get the person I was there with to take a photo of the blessed event but he was crazy stoned and started getting insanely paranoid about using a smart phone in public because he doesn’t own one or know how to use them. So this was the result. I’d like everyone to know that I showered for this occasion and you can’t even tell. Fuck a job.
IMG_2294

Result:

Dude…I’m not getting it. I know that I’ve missed out on some seriously important things in life that I eventually came around to, but are my taste buds corrupted from too many years of persistent candy eating? I mean, they’re just pockets of dough filled with crumbly ricotta – which no one likes. They’re not repugnant like relish or pancakes, but they weren’t delicious like welsh rarebit or Diet Cokes. Maybe if they were filled with welsh rarebit or diet soda I’d be, like, “oh heyyyyyyy sorta adorable looking pasta thing!”

Do I need a do-over? Or not restaurant ravioli? Bigger question – do I need many people to make me many different kinds of ravioli?

In the end I treated myself to a cannoli. I gave myself a boxing name (Janie ‘the cannoli’ Cannarella), and then just ate all of the cream and whipped cream.
FullSizeRender (2)

 

 

 

 

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Filed under food, Uncategorized

(white) Gods of Egypt

I heard Gods of Egypt bombed at the theaters, which is a pleasure and a joy to hear. I think that imagining Egypt as a land ruled by almost exclusively white Gods is maybe the funniest thing I’ve heard of in a really long fucking time. It begs the eternal question: have Egyptians always worshiped Gerard Butler?

gerard butler

Right?

I can’t imagine why this movie did so horrendously in the theaters. Could it be because it stars mostly blinding white actors in a movie that takes place in Egypt? Which is in Africa? I mean…that doesn’t make sense. Who WOULDN’T want to see another revisionist fantasy starring Gerard Butler and Geoffrey Rush?

Maybe it’s the movie’s film posters?

gerard butler

In every single poster for this movie “Egypt” looks to be on fire

To help the film’s cause I created some alternate posters for them to use. I hope this helps balance out the whooping disparity on how much this film has made so far versus how much it cost to make it:

look at this blah blah blah

LOOK AT THIS EGYPT LAND

and:

who even cares

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For all your Facebook needs

Based off of a conversation happening online yesterday, I shared a photo of what I direct message to people when they decide to have Facebook fights with me about my opinions. Which, shockingly, I get into pretty often.

Realizing that it might have more of a purpose than just to be a snide remark to the douches that feel the need to annoy me online, I’ve spruced up the photo and here it is:

VENN DIAGRAM

 

Use it in good health and when you find it necessary.

 

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Filed under comics, my prerogative, politics, science! technology!, the interwebz, Uncategorized