I would like a sculpture. However, I would like the sculpture to be pleasing to the touch, furry maybe. And I don't want the sculpture to just sit there, I would like it to also slowly creep around my apartment, sometimes visible, sometimes not - you know, it might go under the bed for awhile, that kind of thing. But that's not all - I would also like the sculpture to defecate in a special box several times a day. Do you have any slow moving furry sculptures that periodically defecate, and limit said defecation to a specific, stinky gravel area that I might keep in say, I don't know, my bathtub or closet? Oh, and I would like to put a thick, chunky brown pudding made of fish and liver into it once a day. That's the kind of sculpture I want. If I wanted a pet I'd get a dog.

is my favorite medieval football porn mag.

Finally, this brings closure to 9/11. Today is a great day!

I couldn't help but notice that the words printed on a letter I recently received from you re: my kid included a word comprised of two letters starting with an N and ending with an O. And that is unacceptable. No pun intended, since you didn't accept my son. Heh. Wow, sometimes I surprise myself with these little bit of wordplay. Anyway, I didn't even have to read the full contents of the letter, I've got one of those what do you call it - FIND ALL functions in my fucking eyes. FIND ALL 'NO'. Boom. There it was. From this cursory search I can only conclude that you have decided that, for some head-up-your-butt type reason, my kid ain't up to Daisy Place snuff. Well listen up. He is. Here's why you're going to let my kid into your pre-school:

One. Brains. My kid's got brains in spades. See this New York Times crossword? My kid colored in the whole thing, and stayed in all the lines to boot.

Two. Potty trained. My kid knows when to hold 'em, and knows when to fold 'em. I guarantee no accidents unless one of your staff makes a point of scaring the shit out of him, with like, a...skeleton mask or something.

Three. Stacking skills. My kid can stack up to four items no problem, regardless of the items. But no heavy appliances. My kid ain't no X-man. HA! Um. But listen. If that IS the kind of school you run, you know, for like, genetic misfits with powers and stuff, then I don't blame you for not wanting my kid. He's a...a muggle, or whatever you superpeople call us. Do not harm me with your weatherkenesis, oh storm wrangler!

Four. Here's a hundred dollars.

Five. Macaroni sculptor extraordinaire! Dammit if I didn't come home one time to find a macaroni solar system in my kitchen. And the detail! Volcanic activity on Europa? SURE! With a dab of ketchup. I'll be.

Six. You ever see that episode of Lost where the Chinese guy can stop time and then Keifer Sutherland kills those terrorists? Was that not the best half hour of television you've ever seen? Man, I love Lifetime.

Seven. Hey, let's be honest, my sixth reason wasn't a reason at all, and was fraught with inaccuracies. My son would've called me on it, and caught all of the mistakes. Think about it.

Eight. My kid will be President. Wouldn't you like to have an alum become President? Think of the perks! Extra gym mats and shit.

Nine. I saw the one with John Stamos. I don't know, it's like he was fine, but he has no presence! You know? You tell me this guy is schtuping all those hot women, then he better make me believe he's an irresistible sunnabitch, you know? Cock of the planet. Alpha rooster, you know. Eh, he could sing decent but no presence.

Ten. Bo Derrick's tits in that movie. Holy shit.

So there you have it. Let my kid into your pre-school or I'll punch you in the neck.

As I passed through the turnstile at the 49th street subway station this morning on the way to my cubicle, I noticed a magazine cover at the newstand. It jumped out at me. A glistening, nubile young woman in a tiny bikini, straddling a massive telescope. Yes, 'Modern Astronomer' magazine had finally stooped to new lows. Even 'Ancient Astronomer' magazine had followed suit, featuring a sexy woman lying among massive stone obelisks that had been arranged to chart the progress of The Night's Pale Eye and its warmth-bringing sister, The Big Juicy Sky Orange. Anyhow, if there's a point to be made, here, and a more lucid person probably could make one, it's that the concept of "the hot chick" as a means of grabbing attention is rapidly going the way of the Beakless Nutcraver (an extinct finch woefully underequipped to consume the one thing it could subsist on). I would hate to be a 20-something hot young actress in Hollywood. No matter how talented I was, I would inevitably be coaxed into a bikini and onto the cover of some shitty manrag in order to glean a moment's publicity. However, said covershot would undoubtedly knock me down a peg in terms of being regarded as a serious actress. Oh dilemma. I can't wait for 'Oscar Winner DP Shots' magazine.

*A Genesis song from 1974! YEAH!

Mmmm. Well well well. If it's so cold outside, and I'm here sipping this delicious ice cold beer, why do I feel so warm? Oh that's right, it's the warmth of togetherness.

Merry Christmas! Wait, I don't want to offend anyone. Merry Christmas to ALL! There we go.

You know, when the Sears Roebuck Corporation invented Christmas in 1936, they didn't intend for it to just be a day of high volume purchasing, they also meant for it to be a day of love and togetherness. A day that would bring out the best in everyone, whether they shopped at Sears or not. That's why all of the characters they invented, like Frosty and Santa and that woman who could have a baby without having sex first, and Jesus and the Green Lantern...that's why they all exemplify that spirit of hope and joy and...and sacrifice. And that's what this story is about - The Story Of The Most Amazing Christmas Sweater I've Ever Seen.

Now, The Christmas Sweater plays a very important part in the fabric of American culture. From Maine to Florida, from California to Delaware, from Target to Walmart, all across this great country, the Christmas Sweater represents the sacrifices we are all willing to make for family. In this case, the sacrifice of looking like a fool to make the person who bought you the sweater happy. Now, make no mistake. The person who bought you the sweater knows this. It's not that they have terrible taste in clothing. It's that they are consciously choosing to put you through an ordeal to prove your love. Wear the sweater and you have passed through these flames unscathed. Refuse to wear the sweater, and you have planted the seed of the story behind "why uncle Andres isn't allowed to Grandma's place for Thanksgiving."

Usually the Christmas Sweater is simple in its ugliness:

A brown sweater with a big white snowflake on it. Simple. Ugly.

A white sweater with a big banana split sewn onto it. And on the banana, the words "Merry Splitsmas". Slightly more complex. No less insidious.

A red sweater with a big blue teddy bear on it. And the eyes of the bear. Are made. Of jingle bells. Why? And why is there a big palm tree behind the teddy bear? WHY.

I could go on describing various other Christmas sweaters, but you get the picture.

This is about the most Amazing Christmas Sweater I've ever seen. The Christmas sweater that, if you are ever given, the wearing of which would make the person who gave it to you indebted to you for life. I know that last sentence was awkward but it is hard not to sound awkward when talking about this sweater.

I still remember the time I saw it. I was window shopping with my girlfriend one Saturday afternoon. We had just had one of those silly arguments only a truly loving couple can have, you know, like about whether or not one of us had said they wanted to eat lunch, and about whether or not that had been a basic statement of hunger or was meant to make the other person feel guilty for wanting to leave the dinner party early the night before, and whether or not that person had really wanted to leave the dinner party early or whether that was just an excuse the other person used because they wanted to catch the end of a certain sporting event on tv. You know, one of those silly arguments truly loving couples can have. Anyway, I was having a hard time seeing out of my right eye now, because of where she had punched me, and I stumbled into a sweater store. It was one of those tiny boutiques that only a person with a trust fund could possibly keep in business. A place that says "I am not here to make money, I am here to have a place to sit that is not my apartment." You know the kind of place. One woman. One item. There was just one sweater on display. Just one. The rest of the store was completely empty and smelled of espresso though there was no coffee machine there. And I could not take my eyes off the sweater.

The sweater was navy blue, with bright red shoulders and green sleeves. At the neck and cuffs, padded suede. The sweater was thick and hearty like a potato stew, but warm and snuggly like a fabric softener commercial. Its many knotted cables twisted around one another like ivy made of wool, tendrils upon tendrils of slightly scratchy but oh so soft plushness. Flecks of color seemed to dart to and fro within the sweater's navy blue depths, like tiny playful woolen sea creatures drifting through the waves of quality knitting. But this was all secondary to the amazing design on the chest of the sweater, an intricate design that had been wrought from white, grey, and five shades of beige. It was a design of unparalleled complexity. Two reindeers, rearing back on their hind legs, their front hooves touching, and their antlers locked as if in a majestic mating ritual. A mating ritual their parents would surely have disapproved of, seeing as both reindeer were clearly male. The intricate criss-crossing of their many branch-like antlers formed the central image of a giant snowflake. But wait, it wasn't just a snowflake, it was also...a star. A very special star to be precise, for under that massive star, was a snowman nativity scene. Three wise snowmen bearing gifts for a tiny snow baby in a snow manger surrounded by snow animals. And above it all, above the reindeer and the antlersnowflakestar, flew Santa Claus himself, riding not in a sleigh, but in that cool flying car from the 'Back To The Future' movies. And those weren't nine reindeer tethered to Santa's Delorean, it was the starting lineup of the best baseball team of all time, the 1927 New York Yankees! On Combs! On Koenig! On Ruth and Gehrig! On Meusel and Lazzeri and Dugan and Collins! Wait, that's only eight. On back-up catcher Johnny Grabowski! There we go. And in the hands of each Yankee was a laser pistol, which they were firing at the many attacking tie-fighters. And that's what the sweater looked like. At least that's what the sweater looked like if you only glanced at it briefly. If you took a close look at it, you soon realized that that reindeer-snow-manger-Santa-Yankee-space-battle was just scratching the surface of an even more complicated design. The details were mind-boggling. Santa's beard, for example. It wasn't just a beard, it was also a fluffy cloud, on which three angels with lifesaver candy halos and harps made of licorice made snow angels. Made of cloud. The door of the Delorean had been keyed, probably by a jealous Rudolph as he spitefully eyed Lou Gehrig's glowing nose from afar. The interlocking N and Y on the Yankees' caps were made of a ballerina and a toy soldier. The humps of the snow camel in the snow nativity scene were actually ski slopes down which the Muppets were skiing, and those Muppets were dressed like your favorite characters from The Love Boat. The snow baby Jesus was giggling. Dammit, even though the snow baby Jesus was made from chunky, fuzzy wool, and even though that wool was all clumped up to represent snow, the detail was there. Jesus was giggling. And why was he giggling? The answer was right over his head in a cartoon thought bubble, where key scenes from the 'Soup Nazi' episode of Seinfeld were playing out. And there, forming the background of the entire sweater, behind it all, impossible to see close-up but clear as day if you stared at the sweater from a distance, was Mount Rushmore. And George Washington was winking.

I cannot think of a good reason for having told you that tale, other than this: if someone you love, or who it is in your best interest to say you love in order to avoid the hassle of a family squabble, gives you a Christmas sweater, wear it. And thank the character that The Sears Robucks Corporation named God that it's not even close to as amazing as the sweater I've just described. May Jesus and the Green Lantern bless you all this Christmas! Good night!

Oops. I mistook my blog publishing tool for google again.

I just added this to my AV section as well. A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of performing at a live recording of this very popular podcast: The Sound of Young America! My favorite sketch group, Elephant Larry, were there too, and so was the guy who created Spy Magazine! Pretty sweet. This particular bit is normally accompanied by a visual presentation, but this crowd seemed to enjoy it just fine with just my awesome words coming out of my face.

Stick a fork in me. I gave my clothes to a secondhand shop and I stocked my fridge with beer. I kept two robes, one for wearing and one for the hamper. Give my Scrabble tiles to someone else and let them finish my game. I only played two words anyway: "GOOD" and "BYE". I hereby retire. From society. Do you like my bathrobe? This is the hamper robe. The robe for wearing is in the hamper. As you can see, I'm still adjusting to retired life. From hence this forth and on, I shall simply be known as "The guy in a robe who is always drinking a beer". I am available for hire ASAP. I know this contradicts the whole 'retired' premise, but I don't have a backspace key on this out-of-control laptop! Sure, hire me. Hire the GIARWIADAB. If you can make sure that that I'm in a room comfortable enough to lounge about in a robe...in. Um, and you can make sure that I am indeed drinking a beer, then I will gladly provide the services of a guy in a robe. With a beer. That's he's drinking, What? Laptop careening! Hey, I could be a conversation piece:

"Hey, what's up with the dude in the robe drinking a beer?"

I could be a relationship aide:

"Honey, I'd rather not discuss this while there's a dude in a robe drinking a beer here."

Are you a modern artiste struggling to come up with an idea for your next installation? Picture this: a large white room, somewhere in the depths or reaches or echoing corridors of the MetMOMApolitan Museum of A Few Awesome Things Plus Lots of Crap, you know one of those rooms that sometimes just has a pile of fucking sand in the middle of it and THAT'S the installation? Well picture this: me. In a robe. Drinking a beer. Standing in the corner, sort of staring at some indeterminate point on the wall. A plaque reads "September 12th". BOOM I just came up with your installation.

Here is a helpful enormous illustration:

Okay, that's not me, it's Sara. And she's not drinking a beer, she's eating a giant bowl of lime JELLO. But I'm pretty sure that's a robe. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to make the leap from Sara to...to...okay wait. I'm watching 'Dirty Dancing' as I type this, and I'm starting to feel bad for the actress playing Baby's older sister. They have this woman playing borderline autistic. It's one thing to be a lousy singer and have no rhythm, but by Swayze's Buttocks that poor girl was directed to act absolutely retarded in that film. Oh well. Hey, Baby's momma got big ole titties too. And I miss Jerry Orbach. And what year is 'Dirty Dancing' supposed to take place in? The music is 50s or maybe 60s mixed with 80s pop and they're dressed sort of 50s no wait...I guess it's just timeless. Which is maybe why it's such a popular movie to this day.

And that concludes my Doctoral Thesis on the Pachonga.

Hey, how few periods is too few periods? You think maybe the fact that NATURE (remember her) gave women a monthly cycle might mean something? Hey, how about they make a hormonal patch for guys that makes us fart just twice a year? You might experience some abnormally heavy flow, fellas. It seems we take an awful lot of drugs designed to negate or alter um...the reality of existence. For example, I take Prilosec, a pill designed to mask the fact that ALL FOOD CAUSES PAIN.

Oh hey and this:

I always used to assume that the hits from my company's server were just me checking out my own site after updates, but since I've been home sick the past two days, I've noticed that at least three other distinct users from my workplace have been checking out my site. That's either cool or creepy. I'm settling on creepy.

YES, I'M REALLY SICK, YOU NIMRODS!

Here's a fun test. I'll give you a brief description of a commercial, and you have to guess what product the commercial is for! Answers are below the commercial descriptions.

1. Two or more people are in a car, having an innocuous, boring conversation about nothing in particular and then BLAM they get into an accident!

2. Dollar amount. Dollar amount. Dollar amount. Priceless.

3. A guy's cellphone provider is represented by a huge crowd of people that follow him wherever he goes.

4. Two macho suburban neighbors compete to see who can have the nicest yard. First one guy mows his, then the next guy mows his. Then one guy hires a landscaping company, then the other. The commercial ends when one guy has successfully trimmed all of the trees bordering their yards into beaufitul topiary of zoo animals. The other guy gives up.

5. A father is awakened by his toddler son one Sunday morning. "Daddy, I fed the fish!" says the boy. The father goes downstairs to see that hilariously, there is breakfast cereal floating in the fish tank! The kid dumped his cereal in there, milk and all! Aw! The father looks into the camera with an expression that says "I have an idea."

6. A young guy is having some friends over for poker and pizza. His friend goes to the fridge and says "hey do you think your roommate would mind if I took one of his beers?" The party host warns the friend not to take the beer. He does anyway. Sirens go off, and the friend gets swept up in a net trap. Meanwhile, his ringing cellphone goes unanswered as he dangles in the net.

7. Three hot chicks have cocktails in a dance club, and the conversation turns to why one of them has size ZZZZ breasts and can't stop sweating or swearing.

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1. Volkswagen
2. Mastercard
3. Zombiephone
4. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder medication - the guy who gives up finally took the medication
5. Holy Brothers In Christ Military Boarding School For Toddlers
6. Prudential Life Insurance (the phone call was the dude's mother telling him his father had died)
7. Zooz 'one period every ten years' birth control pill.