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unique visitors since July 27, 2005 |
(Ed. note: I apologize in advance for posting this. And a shout-out to Peter LaBarbera, because I'm sure he's reading.)
Mal-confidant Kevin points us to this little gem on craigslist and suggests that it isn't too late for all of us to join the "ex-gay" movement. And by "movement," I mean — ugh, never mind ...
[WARNING: No pics, but the verbiage is a bit, umm ... fetid.]
Doesn't Rick Santorum believe this is a sin?:
"He tends to come from behind."
— Ed Gillespie on Sen. Rick Santorum
Reported at Towleroad, completely unironically: "Scientists have discovered more rings around Uranus."
Malcontent readers believe, by a margin of 55-45, that snarky comments made about gender-confused "American Idol" contestants do indeed constitute homophobia. (Some of you need thicker skins!)
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The next poll is actually a short survey.
Have you ever wondered what kind of behavior and etiquette others use in public restrooms? Well, we have, because we're sick fucks. Take the completely confidential survey now ...
UPDATE: I should have figured out how to do this sooner, but you can watch a running tally of the results here.
Is Santino Rice of Bravo's "Project Runway" a fecalphiliac?
Given the way he was carrying on incessantly about poo-poo in this week's episode, he must think that brown is the new black.
Then again, with all the verbal dumps he takes on his fellow contestants on a regular basis, he might just be an expert on the subject.
But c'mon, Santino. Maybe you can polish a turd.
[Watch video – 4:09, WMV format, high bandwidth]
[Watch video – 4:09, WMV format, low bandwidth]
You know that post I just did, linking to the comment I wrote telling where I was and what I was doing exactly 10 years ago on New Year's Day? Remember? Rose Bowl, 80 degrees, humiliating defeat? Here is the rest of the story:
So after the game, I returned to Washington, D.C., blissfully unaware of how much farther my spirits were about to sink.
I would wager that, like me, most residents of the eastern United States remember vividly what happened, or began to happen, 10 years ago tomorrow: the infamous "Blizzard of 1996."
I had gone to see a movie on Saturday, Jan. 6, 1996 with a friend of mine from college. We were still commiserating about Northwestern's Rose Bowl loss. As we entered the theater, the night air was crisp; the sky hung low and heavy. (I don't remember what movie we saw – probably this or this, judging by the release dates. A crucial literary detail, I realize.)
When we emerged, there was already a good coating of snow on my buddy's Mustang ragtop, and it was still coming down hard. It would snow and snow and snow, all day Sunday and into Monday. A few days later, it would snow and snow and snow all over again.
In the end, Washington, D.C., a city totally incapable of dealing with even a dusting of powder – that is, unless it was going up the nose of the mayor at the time, in which case, residents considered it a political resumé-builder – much less mountains of snow, was completely shut down. The rest of the Northeast was essentially paralyzed too.
It was during the area's second pummeling at the hands of that cold bitch, Mother Nature, that cabin fever really began to set in. Fed up with my slow-going commutes on desolate roads better suited to Samoyeds, I joined several coworkers after work one evening in a quest to drink ourselves oblivious.
Like any sane and broke Senate staffer would do, we chose the Red River Grill, noted for its extremely cheap beer and drink specials. I opted for the swirled margaritas, which should have been a giveaway for my colleagues right there. (The Red River Grill, which occupied a building that was previously a Bermuda Triangle for restaurants, was re-purposed in 2005 as "Union Pub.")
Anyway, by the time I had sobered up, I had met the woman who would eventually, for a time, be my fiancée.
One of my most memorable moments from that night (or, more precisely, the next morning) was my desperate hunt in the huge Capitol Hill rowhouse that she and several roommates shared (a common existence for low-level congressional staff) for a place to relieve my distended bladder. My search ended in the basement, where I found a toilet standing amidst unfinished walls, with studs but no sheet-rock. I triumphantly threw open the lid of the loo and had barely unzipped before I was whizzing merrily away.
I urinated for what felt like minutes, carefully squeezed off the last few drops and then toggled the toilet handle.
Nothing.
I tried to flush again.
Still nothing.
I flapped and flapped and flapped the handle as if trying to strike life-saving fire out of flint, but still nothing happened!
This was when I learned that I had just fouled a non-working toilet that wasn't even hooked up to plumbing. Number one, I felt like a monumental retard. But number two (if you get my drift) the situation could have been much, much worse.
Some walks of shame are more embarrassing, more memorable – and colder – than others.
But I never did find out who was unlucky enough to happen upon my micturative misfire.
So where were you during the Great Blizzard of '96?
Copy editors in Juneau, Alaska, are either deeply oblivious or laughing themselves silly right now at this heart-warming holiday headline about a local, unfortunately named food pantry (reg. req.):
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(Thanks, Emerson!)
Maybe I should start a regular feature called "Stun-Gun to the Genitals Watch," because it just seems to keep happening.
So Robbie and I were talking a bit earlier about what a thoroughly delightful phrase "Bulgarian Transvestite Gypsy Folk Singer" is and how he was thinking about trying to work it into as many random posts as possible.
And I shared with him how, a few years back, I made it a point to work the phrase "stun-gun to the genitals" into everyday office banter, for no reason other than that it was such a bizarre thing to say, and it never failed to crack up my coworkers.
Then not a few mintues later this afternoon, while over on Gay Patriot, I came across this story:
Men Line Up For Testicle Shocks
As Robbie said, "freaky."
From today's Hotline Last Call (sub. req.):
"A guy who is at his best painting anus-against-the-world picture" -- the Montgomery Advertiser, illustrating the importance of proper spacing.
Sadly, the item has since been corrected.
Priceless item from Lloyd Grove's column regarding The Hotline, a must-read online journal for political junkies:
The Hotline blows: Writer Richard Bradley, whose name was Richard Blow when he edited George magazine years ago, has had just about enough of The Hotline referring to him as "Ex-Dick Blow Richard Bradley." Yesterday Bradley E-mailed Chuck Todd, editor of the D.C.-based political tip sheet: "It's true, of course, that my last name was Blow before I changed it, but no one ever called me Dick, at least not to my face, and I think it's a little weird that The Hotline seems to be hung up on this bit of name-calling. (You've done it about half a dozen times.). ... I know the Hotline traditionally employs a lot of young writers eager to display their attitude, but even so, isn't such snarkiness a little immature for a serious publication?" Yesterday, after my inquiry, Todd apologized to Bradley, and E-mailed me: "We regret any discomfort caused by the inclusion of his former name, but we hoped it would clarify for our readers who Richard Bradley is." Uh, huh.
The Malcontent only aspires to attain such levels of snark. [Thanks, Quinn]
"It's probably the best ride I've ever had."
— Navy SEAL veteran Jack Hall, on his ride in the Wienermobile
Other former seamen could not be reached for comment.
There is apparently something about the Hamptons that makes little children there spontaneously lose bladder control.
I swear to God, I would have taken a picture of this if it wouldn't have led to a potential kiddie porn rap, but we saw the following on Saturday in East Hampton:
We were walking up Newtown Lane when we saw a little girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old, in a tree box. She was squatting down, holding onto the small fence surrounding the tree for balance, and bare-ass naked, in front of some very high-end furniture stores. Her butt was thrust outward to keep her pants unsoiled by whatever was about to come out of her.
Even more strangely, her family was standing around her, cheering her on and making pissing noises to ease her through what appeared to be severe pee-shyness, rather than quickly escorting her to any of the nearby bathrooms that permitted public use.
I ask why the Hamptons seems to elicit such behavior only because Gawker posted a quite similar story a couple of years ago, writing it off as "normal."
So are the Hamptons' over-privileged spawn of yuppie scum really just Manhattan's publicly urinating homeless of tomorrow? I'm just wondering.
And finally ...
Our hotel was nice enough, as far as last-minute Hamptons reservations go, but the walls were ... well, a wee bit thin – as evidenced by the following clearly overheard conversation:
MAN: Hey baby!
GIRLFRIEND: Yeah?
MAN: Guess who's up?
GIRLFRIEND: Who?
MAN: Mr. Pee-Pee!
Things remained quiet long after that exchange, so we can only assume that Mr. Pee-Pee is still up at this very moment.
What do you do if you are about to meet one of the biggest actresses in Hollywood? If you're me, then obviously you dump your entire lunch down the front of your pants.
I was in a hurry and was going to eat at my desk. I was just about to set down the hinged plastic container of food, when it collapsed in upon itself. Greens with blue cheese dressing, and chicken strips with pesto went cascading down my sartorial splendor and onto my new Taryn Rose shoes.
I had to spend several minutes in the bathroom with a wet wad of paper towels the size of my head, and the faint funk of blue cheese persists around me.
If that weren't bad enough, I'm still ... very ... hungry.
POTUS potty: C students never had to learn to cover their work so that nobody copied off them, so I guess this makes sense:
I am supposed to do what, where?
It's a very Freeca car ... the kind you don't bring home to agrarian-industrial collective.
It's a super Freeca! A super Freeca! (Ow!)
I had the "Western breakfast" on my flight. It was OK, but where else on Earth can you find sausage whiter than the cream they gave me for my coffee?
I don't want to be the Ugly American, but I like my sausage the natural color of the lips and assholes that went into it -- although maybe the pigs are just following the latest senseless American fashion trend.
Speaking of coffee, it was good and strong, but I have noticed a severe lack of sugar substitutes on my international travels.
In America, we have approximately 650,000 different artificial sweeteners to choose from. So why are the Chinese so skinny, while we're all a bunch of fat bastards?
Maybe it's because of what was put in front of me tonight: several courses, most of which were just frightening. I was literally scared by my food.
Take, for example, the bowl of brown glop that had a few random things floating in it. One seemed like some sort of small, doughy ball. Another appeared to be a slice of mushroom. While still another piece looked like -- I am not making this up -- a horny toad.
Actually, it looked as if his back had been excised from his body and deposited in a bowl in front of me. I flipped it over a few times with my chopsticks, fascinated by the stubby spikes. In the end, I concluded it was another sort of mushroom, but I did not eat it.
There was also what from the other side of the room I swear to God looked like a monkey's head with the top of the skull made into a little lid. Fortunately, it turned out to be a hollowed-out papaya with a warm, gloppy, soup-like substance inside. Unfortunately, despite what looked like little bits of fruit floating in it, the viscous mixture was almost entirely without any taste to it. Even more unfortunately, the more I ate, the more it started to taste like lukewarm vomit.
And there was not one plate of General Tso's chicken to be found.
How appropriate that Esquire's second annual "best-dressed issue" would carry an ad that is generating controversy for what is not being worn: something to fully cover the male models' pubes.
Over a span of four pages, the Dolce & Gabbana hunks wear progressively fewer and fewer articles of clothing until the final page, which showcases four shirtless guys, a couple of whom are showing off their coordination between carpet and curtains. (The hall of mirrors in which they pose also gives a few glimpses of America's crack epidemic.)
Clearly, Details has given someone an "inqueeriority" complex!
The Malcontent has the (final page of the) ad in all its glory -- without the Texas media prudes' quite-literal figleaf ... after the jump ...
... after the jump, faint-of-hearts ...
The video of soccer hottie Sebastian Kehl's wardrobe malfunction has been in great demand lately. The Malcontent does its part to ease the bandwidth crisis. (Thanks, Megan!)
[Watch video -- 2.5mb WMV, NSFW]
