BumperSmash (!)

Project Run Away... or How Not To Dye Pants

2010-03-06T16:08:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm aware I split an infinitive in this post's title. Good catch. Now shut [very much] up.

As I have mentioned before herein, my propensity for purchasing pants online has burned on me on several occasions, once literally (unaware as I was that slacks manufactured in Turkey are unsafe in temperatures exceeding 65°F... though, to be fair, nothing is safe in Turkey). Most commonly, I miscalculate the conversion between U.S. and European sizes, or forget that some manufacturers have a rather liberal interpretation of "low-rise boot cut". These are total losses, and will be placed in a box labeled "ATTN: Impoverished Locals", hastily dumped on the street under cover of night, and written off on my taxes as "donated automobiles."

From time to time a pair of $6 pants will arrive in my mailbox that fit me perfectly but, perhaps due to the seller photographing them in flattering light, are not quite the color I had anticipated. Such was the case with a recent pair of jeans that were in dire need of a darkening. Given my innate knowledge of textiles and my ability to perfectly disguise any life-prolonging mending magic I cast upon my favorite jeans, one would think that a simple dye job would be well within my capacities.

One would be wrong.

CHAPTER I: Instructions Are For The Timid

Have you ever made Tang? Check. In my book, you're qualified to dye something. There's a box with powder in it; so long as your plan doesn't involve wearing the garment you wish to dye and just swallowing the powder, you should be fine.

Pay no attention to that nagging "DO NOT" list on the side of the box, as it can only weaken your resolve, rattle your confidence, and likely convince you to buy something you don't really need -- probably in the name of "safety", from the Latin for "without the aid of balls."

After all, this is a simple procedure.

CHAPTER II: This Is An Increasingly Difficult Procedure

In my case, only one item really needed dyeing (the jeans: black), but since I wasn't about to purchase a costly bucket, I was using the kitchen trash can for the dye bath, leaving me with plenty of room to throw several other items in need of an updated look. The only thing keeping me from some fresh fly threads was a lack of the most abundant compound on earth, water.

To the bathroom.

Using what could loosely be referred to as logic, I decided to pre-soak the clothes, assuming [correctly] that wet fabric would absorb the dye more evenly than dry. Using what could loosely be referred to as profound retardation, I decided to turn on the shower full blast and just hold the clothes in front of the stream until they were properly saturated.

As I held up the jeans, the shower soon flowed down my forearms and cascaded majestically from my elbows onto the bathroom floor, briefly awarding me the title of America's Hairiest Water Sculpture. Not wanting to alarm Briana, who was preparing to leave for work in the adjoining living room, I muted my panicked cries and calmly removed my newly water-logged wardrobe.

The trash can was placed in the tub, and the jeans et al. placed (and the stream of scalding water directed) therein. If a soak was good, I figured, a bubbling hot tub of black dye would surely cut the required time in half, and I could reward my forward thinking with a soda.

With the clothes percolating underneath, I tore open the dye packet and began to pour its contents into the trash can.

CHAPTER III: Oh Fuck Oh Fuck Oh Fuck

Whatever happened, happened quickly.

Were there a Zapruder film of the incident, the bulk of the action would span three frames. In frame one, I would be crouched over the tub, holding a small brown packet of an unknown substance upside-down over a large blue trash bin. In the second frame, the entire back half of the tub and much of my face would be a deep, midnight black, my eyes already registering a vague sense of frenzy. By the third frame, I would be violently pitching myself backwards trying in vain to escape a toxic cloud of jet black dye that is by now coating everything in the southern third of my apartment, including several vital organs.

Now in survival mode, I dumped the remaining dye in the tub, began spitting what appeared to be Pepsi with wild abandon across the walls, and, apparently channeling my fire emergency training, dropped to the floor (see: pond). While I assumed that the airborne dye would take more than a few minutes (hours?) to fully settle, time was of the essence... Operation Hide This From Briana was about to commence.

CHAPTER IV: Pay No Attention To That Giant Ebony Nebula Behind Me (And Here's A Fun Idea: Why Not Wait To Pee Until You Get To Work?)

With Briana mere minutes away from walking past the bathroom en route to her day job, I took a quick survey of the devastation. Not too bad, actually. A cursory glance at the bathroom, however, would belie the truly sinister nature of the damage. Microscopic particles of inky dye clung to every exposed surface of the bathroom, invisible until a large bald male made the slightest of contact with them, at which point they would explode into a black streak of semi-permanent coloration. Every item in the bathroom was the opposite of a scratch-off lotto ticket.

My previously discarded shirt was quickly enlisted as the primary hand mop and just as quickly became the only successfully-dyed article of clothing of the afternoon. Kleenexes were employed sparingly. The shower head was aimed at previously-unheard of angles. That the bath mat had been purchased in charcoal gray was a godsend, as puddles of black disappeared into its shag. I worked furiously, black beads of sweat steadily forming only to drip upon the linoleum and set back my progress. I flailed wildly. I looked not unlike Ving Rhames fighting a ghost.

Against all odds and the laws of physics, the bathroom was made presentable in a matter of minutes, although I spent an hour and a half un-detailing various nooks and crannies -- both the bathroom's and my own -- following Briana's departure ("How's it going in here?", "Love you too.")

In an unrelated story, my new Diesel Boot-Cuts arrive tomorrow.

Low Resolution

2009-12-24T23:13:00.000-08:00

I'm wrestling with rededicating myself to this blog as a resolution, so expect this blog to start smoking by January 6th. Still, it seems less difficult than the other two resolutions I've committed to:

1. Salsa Lessons.
I can't believe that I'm serious. Meet the instructor. Holy shit.

2. Dunking.
For this one it will prove helpful if anyone out there [um, that's you, Audio and Ing] is willing to bet that I can't do it.

Thoughts? Disparaging remarks? Until then, here's a photo from an WNBA game that so perfectly captures the ineptness of the sport that I daren't say more.

[whimper]

2009-09-25T20:23:00.000-07:00

I'm fully aware that I've not updated BumperSmash since, apparently, returning from Florida.

While there are several reasons for this, all of them would be lies. I was originally waiting for my magical Super 8mm film (featuring both Dougie/Ingie & Dandy/Sommer weddings) to get processed so I could incorporate the stunning images therein into my otherwise video-challenged blog, though now that I have the film back I'm going to need about sixteen months to color correct and otherwise edit the footage into something remotely coherent. Since the camera wasn't functioning properly, the movie features roughly 27,000 shots, each three tenths of a second in duration, so any prolonged viewing sends an audience into a wedding-themed epileptic seizure.

That said, I'll get back to you (hopefully with said footage) soon[ish].

For now, I need advice on how to not take Top Chef to bed with me. I dreamed the other night that I was in a Quickfire Challenge that was to tell a sordid story through the culinary arts "the more out there the better." So, I pan-fried a Cajun pickle and rested it upon a bowl of spicy baby Blue Crabs and told Tom Colicchio that it was an STD ("There's a tickle in my pickle because I have crabs.")

And Padma wasn't even nude, so I have to tweak these dreams somehow. Please advise.

Love Boat: An SPF 100-Soaked Dispatch From America's Nether Region

2009-07-14T17:13:00.000-07:00

Upon hearing news that Brother Andrew was to wed the lovely Sommer on a boat in Tampa (in July no less), I promptly moved Multiplicity to the top of my Netflix queue in hopes of researching and, ultimately, genetically engineering a clone that might attend the ceremony in my stead. However, a complete lack of scientific acumen and an $11 budget meant that, two weeks later, all I had to show for my efforts was a sore wrist and a foil-lined shoebox full of my DNA rotating slowly in the microwave.

That is not to say that I wasn't looking forward to seeing my little brother tie the knot with his better half; on the contrary, I was merely hoping that such a blessed event would in no way be tarnished by my abhorrence of all things Sunshine State.

And as I have no doubt imparted to you, Dear Reader, countless times in countless watering holes across this fine country, I speak from experience. In only four short [long] months of living in Miami, I came to know the region's noble peoples, its diverse wildlife, and of course its world-renowned culture. And, often in South Beach, all three.

Admittedly, in the summer the weather can get borderline uncomfortable.

So it was with some trepidation (and plenty of climate-specific clothing options) that I made my way across lo these many miles to Tampa International Airport last weekend. To the eternal credit of both my brother and my parents, the accommodations were not only tolerable, they were beyond reproach. The Fair Briana and I were afforded all the creature comforts associated with a typical beach vacation, in stark contrast to the creature comforts just outside most Florida hotel room windows.

Admittedly, said vacation bliss was largely due to the fact that I could catch up with the fam all whilst celebrating the burgeoning love of the happy couple. The ceremony and reception were held aboard some sort of party barge, and both were romantic and divine, and that was not only due to my proclivity for dinghy jokes. Maritime matrimony is truly the way to go, especially when there's an open bar and air conditioning and wonderful kinfolk, many of whom were positively delightful (and understanding of my refusal to dance in public... tall men shouldn't dance, ever, write that down).

Raise your hand if you know why Florida sucks.

So congratulations, kids... I love you both. But irrational hatred is much more fun to write about than love, so:

Ten Observations From The Weekend:

1. For all the shit I lay upon thee, Sunshine State, at least you aren't goddammed Texas. Whenever somebody utters the phrase "It could be worse..." they are inevitably referring to something terrifying that happened to them in Texas. My stopover en route to the wedding was in Dallas, and when I stepped out of the plane I was 85% sure that the grounds crew had screwed up and just angled the jetway back into the port-side engine's intake. Gale force winds with a payload of airborne magma greeted the passengers until we collapsed inside the concourse in search of a balm to sooth our newly-acquired 1st-degree burns. With three hours to kill, I passed some time asking a friendly local waitress about the creative ways she's thought of killing herself every time she wakes up and remembers she works at an airport in Dallas. If some guy had crept up behind me at the bar and shot me in the head, I am confident that I would have rented a car and driven across the nearest border before allowing myself to die.

2. Dear Austin, Texas: Sorry about all that. You get a pass. And of course whenever one Ms. Frazier sets foot in the state... but I think that goes without saying.

3. From Dallas to Tampa I thought I had miracled an empty seat next to me despite the plane being "super full" when I had asked for an exit row seat at the desk. Shortly before take-off, I saw a rather vivacious older woman coming down the aisle dressed in her most comfortable travel outfit, and who was to spend the entire 2-hour flight cleaning and otherwise-pampering her nails.

4. Mama Bear and I spent the first evening sipping adult beverages outside the Fox, which was all class, evidenced by their waitresses wearing tuxedo jackets and absolutely no pants. This made my getting rejected from entering the club for dress-code reasons harder to take ("Only collared shirts, and no sneakers allowed, sir." "I see. What about pants?"). As we imbibed and watched the local patrons coming and going, we soon realized that the dress-code was not exactly intended to attract only the most refined clientele.

5. Papa Bear and The Suze must have lost a bet with God, because they drove to Tampa. I've driven on Florida roads, and please believe that doing so puts both your life and those lives of millions of local insects at risk.

6. In what is widely regarded as my least well-thought-out idea (2nd place: buying all my jeans online), I decided a while back to dedicate myself to American Airlines in an attempt to some day actually use frequent flier mileage. I even have a credit card that earns miles with every purchase, but I must be doing something wrong because at the time of this writing I have enough saved up for a free flight provided it both takes off from and lands at the same gate. But I am dedicated, even though flying American means not walking past the age of 40 as my knee cartilage is systematically raped by whoever sits in front of me. Every flight is a battle of wills as some [without fail, huge] person gently reclines into my splintering shins and I unwillingly teabag the SkyMall. Over the course of the trip, I will attempt to bruise the kidneys of the affronting party through a series of subtle adjustments into/around his/her gastrointestinal tract, though this tends to provoke a series of retaliatory bounces that only fans the flame of my wrath (in the form of quiet whimpering). There are of course some techniques I've developed over the years in an attempt to save what's left of my patellas, though most of them would require expensive surgery or a wacky incident involving a cursed voodoo artifact that leaves me trapped inside the body of a much smaller person.

7. Congratulations, you are the only person who actually read this far.

8. An Open Letter to the Guy One Row Up and Across the Aisle From Me on the Flight From Tampa to Dallas: No fucking way are you reading that Hustler on this airplane. And oh look; it's still in the plastic, so, I guess that means that you're the guy buying porn in the airport. Please, do explain the thought process to me. Go ahead and click the COMMENT button down there and fill me in. Perhaps something unforeseen happened to you in the cab on the way over here and you thought, "Shoot... I can't believe I left all my porn at home, right when I need it the most." In a way I'm envious, I suppose; such complete disregard for how those around you (including the elderly woman sitting right fucking next to you, quivering) must be liberating. But what concerns me most is that, if you are batshit insane enough to read that Hustler on the plane, you might be batshit insane enough to "use" that Hustler on the plane.

9. Yet one has to admit: Hustler is a great name for a porn mag.

10. The second time around at the Dallas Airport was better (i.e. shorter) but I did witness a couple walking to their flight that warranted a double take. The guy, a younger Asian gentleman, was wearing the traditional garb one associates with the Far East. But his girlfriend, bedecked in traditional American garb save for a rice hat that I assume was the Family Size model, was just some white girl. Now, perhaps I'm jumping to conclusions, but I'm guessing she doesn't opt for that hat when she's going out for A&W cheeseburgers with her friends between sexting sessions. If I'm the dude in that situation, I have to believe I'm a little offended that she's using me as an excuse to don a bamboo flying saucer on her head. Of course, if the Fair Briana came home tonight and announced that she discovered Native American ancestry in her family tree, I'd probably use it.

BONUS. The last leg of my journey was spent sitting next to a very nice ex-Halliburton executive who actually had the guts to order a white russian on a plane and used the phrase "sphincter-clencher" twice.

That Insane Photoshop Job Is Very Slimming On You

2009-06-17T22:56:00.000-07:00

I grew weary of BumperSmashing there for a while.

Truth be told, I'm still lacking inspiration (at least until the weddings of Brother Andrew/Sommer and Ingie/Dougie, respectively). And while I'll use as an excuse that I've been busy, it's less of the "I'm writing the great American novel" variety of busy than the "I'm going to spend the next four hours popping this bubble wrap and catching up on Whale Wars" variety.

To bide the time til the wedding postmortems, here's a slice of life courtesy my place of employ's hallway decor:

The 2nd floor hall features a trophy case that proudly houses our "Best Local Election Coverage, 1978" Emmy, and a series of posters celebrating just some of ABC's most celebrated series (Lost, and Lost).

Now I know these are idealized publicity photos, but holy shit:

"That sound you hear is my face."

Remember at the end of Cocoon when the aliens turned back into their original form? Or perhaps this?

Potent Potables: Stag Party Ruminations

2009-05-12T22:04:00.000-07:00

Bachelor parties are generally considered to be something akin to the film Fight Club, not so much in that the first rule of Fight Club is to not talk about Fight Club, but rather that at some point you will contemplate shooting yourself in the brain to make the evil go away as you watch the collapse of civilization while early Pixies plays in the background.

At the request of a certain scraggly-sideburned Stag of Honor, however, I will neither post [m]any pictures nor relate any of the more tawdry goings on from last weekend's Coors-soaked mountain high jinx, though I maintain that nobody of import is likely to Google "professor + kamikazes + boob-shot + terrifying." Now that I write that, however, that may well be a Funkadelic album, and certainly describes my dream episode of The Wonder Years.

That said, I'll here highlight the few PG-13 moments from our magical 48 hours of self-discovery and/or hangover recovery.

1. In an alarming development, I've [quite literally] stumbled upon a new, previously-undiscovered level of drunkenness; specifically, the "Bruce Springsteen is a douche" level. While I can not recall even once thinking about disliking The Boss, much less denouncing his entire life's purpose, I apparently spent much of late Friday night chastising everything from his songwriting acumen to his role in popularizing the bandanna. No doubt I was another highball away from shitting upon an American flag and insisting John Wayne preferred men.

2. Speaking of shitting (there's a segue I had hoped to avoid), Denver International Airport should consider handing out a free roll of toilet paper to arriving passengers. Only the most peripatetic of poopers know how altitude can adversely affect one's regularity, as I was woe to discover during six glorious trips to our well-appointed commode Saturday, tying Streiter's single-day record.

3. We sent Gerrit away from Casa du Sheflin with instructions to pick up enough 5 Hour Energy Drink to send Amy Winehouse into cardiac arrest. Upon his expeditious return, we were soon to discover that not all amphetamines are made alike. Given my staunch support of the energy drink genre, I was both unprepared for and embarrassed by Amp, which is all he could legally find.

Do not under any circumstances drink, smell, look directly at, nor mention in my presence Amp. While the label touts its JACKFRUIT CITRUS flavor, I found it more closely resembled HEMORRHOID CILANTRO. To recreate the experience, get a pineapple, cut it into 1 inch squares and marinate for 6-8 hours in balsamic vinegar. Now, turn around and bite the penis off the llama that somehow snuck up behind you.

The effects? Negligible, though my projectile vomi-spitting was admittedly youthful and extreme in its neon green coloration.

4. I am presently authoring an amendment to the Constitution that will require background checks prior to iPhone ownership. Alternatively, if Eric Streiter is permitted to continue his usage of his "Sounds Of Space Chipmunks Fingerblasting" application, I should be permitted to shoot him in the throat.

5. Pride precludes mentioning my performance at the batting cages. John John can rake, however. In an unrelated story, I'm learning to use my left thumb when hitting the space bar.

6. Nothing else happened, though we at long last resolved the question of who makes the best sundaes in the industry.

John's tire was the only flat surprise of the weekend.

Fortunately, I can take this entire weekend to recover, as the only event I'll be attending is tomorrow morning's Bay to Breakers, which is the San Francisco version of a marathon, which is to say that it's less than a third of the distance, has a lax dress code, and requires everyone to be naked and drunk. I smell another blog post and urine.

Or that could be Jackfruit.

When Asked About His Team's Execution...

2009-04-21T15:21:00.000-07:00

Stop me before I draft again.

Despite my proclamations to the contrary, baseball is most assuredly not a thing of beauty. To be sure, the game can be charming in its simplicity , its dedication to its fans, its sounds, and its cherished place in the American experience.

Truly, baseball is but a structured mélange of talent and the grotesque.*

Perhaps an "action shot" would better serve Mr. Mossi.

So it was with great folly that I spent the eve of Major League Baseball's Opening Day in the the friendly confines of Washington Square Park, preparing in earnest for the most money-intensive of my fantasy baseball league drafts, the La Rocca's Home Run Pool.

When it is 77 degrees in the city, the grass is green, and the more emotionally-needy ladies of North Beach are wearing their bathing suit bottoms in their traditional fashion (internally), it is easy for a wide-eyed innocent such as myself to succumb to the cruelest of life's pitfalls: hope.

It's the same old story. "When all is clearly right with the world," one thinks, "surely I could not possibly fuck up the next 5 months of my life by drafting Adam LaRoche."

Not to put too fine a point on it, the brand of hope in question is not the pedestrian "I wish for a safe and prosperous future for my loved ones." Nay, the brand of hope in question is more the "For the love of all that is Holy, let us hope that Alexei Ramirez figures out what to do with that big piece of wood they keep sending up with him to home plate."

These are the glorious possibilities, these dreams of my drafting a rag-tag bunch of youngsters that will exceed their modest preseason expectations and slug their way to a triumphant championship for my proud "No Glove No Love" franchise.

And so it was that, surrounded by the dazzling sights, sounds, and less-than-dazzling smells of Washington Square, I finalized my draft game plan, opting to draft batsmen with high upsides rather than those so-called-established players I dismissed as last season's news. Carlos Lee? Not interested... it'll be Jay Bruce and his .176 BA for me please. I spit upon Lance Berkman's guaranteed 30+ dingers. I'll take the prolific Chris Davis, who is now hitting at a scorching .179 clip, which I believe gets you summarily executed in Latin American countries.

No Glove No Love skipper Nate Gallant expects
big things from Ian Stewart this season.

Finally, I awoke yesterday morning [technically, as it was before noon] to the news that my veteran catcher, Brian McCann, can no longer see out of one of his eyes, which I can only assume will prove a problem when facing, you know, moving baseballs.

*Yet another surefire BumperSmash (!) contribution
to Bartlett's Book of Familiar Quotations

You Will Get Nothing And Like It

2009-04-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

BumperSmash will be on the back burner indefinitely as my [considerable] free time is dedicated to my five, count them five fantasy baseball teams, whose exploits will be no doubt make their way to the annals of BumperSmash once the season is in full swing.

Pee Papparazzo

2009-03-27T15:12:00.000-07:00

After skateboarding to work on this beautiful Friday afternoon, I decided a trip to the men's room was in order. The KGO restrooms are the standard fare; the men's is a urine-soaked purgatory covered in plaque-colored tiling, while the lady's is a richly carpeted Xanadu, scented with a potpourri of extinct flowers and attended by towel-and-mint-wielding attendants.

I opted for the bathroom on the main floor, as it is located near the worker's lounge where I could warm up a bowl of my latest crock pot stew ("I Can't Believe It's Not Poison") whilst I was hosing the porcelain. So as I was tending to my business, somebody took up residence at the adjoining urinal.
As per the time-honored Code of Men, I did the standard half glance over and half nod, which is a gesture meant to convey "Hey there... I hope you have an enjoyable time pissing next to me for the next 15 seconds but don't get any ideas" through one manly bit of body language.

This is what I saw.

I have to stop using this restroom. There are far too many strange guests of our afternoon show running happily about. Two weeks ago I peed next to Jimmy Carter.

Perhaps I could author a coffee table book consisting solely of close-ups of the sides of celebrities' faces, all of whom are taking a leak and trying to ignore me. "Pissing Greatness: My Career In Television"

Did The Airbag Go Off Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

2009-03-26T20:46:00.000-07:00

Whilst watching the first of 8 consecutive hours of the NCAA tournament, I took an opportunity during a commercial break to grab a healthful snack in the form of a 3-day old fish burrito.

Upon reentering the living/loving room, mine eyes fell upon the television at the following, rather unfortunate, moment... I'm going to suggest that the new Chevy Traverse advertisement could stand to lose this portion of the sales pitch:

"Hey! Aren't you Howie Long?"

I could not eat the burrito.

What Dreams May Come or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Giant Penguin

2009-03-17T07:36:00.000-07:00

Presently it is 5:45 in the ante meridiem and, mere moments ago, I was hiding out from the mob in a clothing/aquarium store that featured a six-foot-tall free-roaming penguin, some scattered electronics, and hundreds upon hundreds of thick, long-sleeve shirts (only available color: dark red).

Were one to consult a dream dictionary, a cursory interpretation of my nightly meanderings through the netherworld would tout an unprecedented window into my repressed fears, desires, and unholy marriages of the two. But such theorizing can only go so far methinks; if you dream of getting an epic blowjob from a woman named Burrito, you went to bed horny and hungry... you are not wrestling with some sort of important career decision. Unless you're currently boning your day-shift manager at Señor Sancho's.

But this morning, as I awoke startled and smelly, I made a stunning revelation regarding my most recent dream; I could trace even my most fanciful hallucinations to the events of the previous day, a day spent in and around Berkeley with the Fair Briana as we awaited her car windows being fixed. Long story.

So I present to you a laundry list of a few of the dream's more prominent characters and props along with what sparked them.

1) Who/What/WTF: Towards the beginning of the dream, Gary Oldman (dressed as Commisioner Gordon) was shot in the chest for being an informant. That's how all good dreams start out. What planted the seed: Briana and I went to see a matinee of "Coraline" and three of the thater's five screens were showing "Watchmen," which sent me on a diatribe about how ridiculous it is when people say things like "Finally, a serious comic book movie." The new Batman flicks are no exception, nerd.

2) Who/What/WTF: Vincent Pastore, a.k.a. Salvatore "Big Pussy" Bonpensiero, was the guy doing the shooting. What planted the seed: after deciding that we are no longer into "Tell Me You Love Me," the better half and I thought it's time to check back in with Tony and Carmella, season four. Alternatively, I'm terrified of pussies.

3) Who/What/WTF: Gary Oldman's body falling onto an enormous cutting board. What planted the seed: cutting up carrots for Briana's tofu Thai feast, which stood as my only contribution apart from moral support.

4) Who/What/WTF: A vaguely Scandinavian family, all wearing dark Ray Ban sunglasses. What planted the seed: the family was an obvious amalgam of the many inconspicuous tourists that were roaming the streets, but the glasses were spurred by my astute observation that there was "some sort of blind person convention in town or something."

5) Who/What/WTF: A 20-feet-tall woman wearing rain boots. What planted the seed: Mr. Bobinsky, from "Coraline."

6) Who/What/WTF: The afore-mentioned giant penguin, who was looking at an aquarium and, in a comedic moment I can not hope to do justice in writing, gave a passing female shopper a condescending look. What planted the seed: I walked by a credit union on Shattuck Avenue and took a few seconds to figure out what their logo was supposed to be.

7) Who/What/WTF: The store I was hiding out in (Gary Oldman had survived the attempt on his life) had a huge display of eggs for sale. They were labeled Mackerel, Herring, "Fish", and Baby Penguin [?!]. What planted the seed: this one's a two-fer. The eggs themselves were a conversation point over brunch at La Note, where we took great pleasure in ordering, and subsequently consuming, our "oeufs." The contents of the dream oeufs were courtesy our pre-dinner run to the the local soon-to-be-its-own-zip-code Safeway, where I inexplicably felt compelled to buy fish sauce despite reading the list of ingredients.

Okay that's enough of that.

But while on the subject, a party who wishes to remain nameless is offering a handsome reward for anyone who can get her significant other to stop snoring. Handguns are to be considered a last resort, unless you know a guy.

Frippery

2009-03-04T16:53:00.000-08:00

As my daily interweb regimen has been devoted almost exclusively to a potent time-wasting cocktail of Scrabble, exhaustive fantasy baseball research, and laughing at this guy's before/after photo, BumperSmashing has proven to be a low priority.

However, a desultory instant message from one Nicholas Desbiens, a dear pal from the Marshy Fields of central Wisconsin*, has rekindled my blogging fire via a fond reminiscence of a particularly miraculous card trick we performed one sweltering summer's day at a Minneapolis journalism camp.**

But I'm not going to write about that yet.

To bide the time, I'll share with you an entirely infantile chestnut from the vault courtesy the online yearbook I somehow stumbled upon, most likely whilst google-stalking ex-girlfriends.***

In yon high school days, the acme of hilarity was the fact that Chris D. and Sean B. were, for lack of a better term, inseparable.

There you have it.

SIDE NOTE: Our assistant principal was named Harley Davison.

*Please note that Marshfield is home
to both the world's largest round barn
and the world's largest urinal.
Suck on that, Europe.

**Holy fuck I was dorky.

***Only kidding, honey.

Of Tubed Wasabi and Other Goings On

2009-03-03T16:07:00.000-08:00

Given that the only newsworthy event of the previous week[s] was The Fair Briana's Triumphant Return, the editing staff here at BumperSmash have had a galling time forging a post worthy of our collective approval, and, moreover, one that adheres to the unique blend of journalistic integrity and entertainment you the reader expects but rarely deserves.

I am now, however, happy to report that contemporaneous with Briana's return were a series of minor happenings that, en masse, are mildly entertaining.

(1 : 100,000 Scale)

1. "So, Round Eyes Thinks He Can Make Sushi"
High on my list of Least Well-Thought-Out Gifts was my lavishing upon Briana a pseudo-gourmet sushi set. Taking into account the fact that I bestowed said gift while she was still living in Wisconsin, where access to sushi-grade ahi is not exactly the point of fishing, I suspect that by this holiday season I'll streamline the process by doling out Glenn Beck Studio Store gift certificates to loved ones and explaining where hamburgers come from to random children I pass on the street.

Sensitivity in the field of gift-giving notwithstanding, Briana and I decided to try out the new set by treating Krumbo and Celeste to a delightful evening of authentic Japanese cooking and/or traditional food poisoning. After preparing just the right amount of rice, we took our neatly portioned ingredients over to Chateau Celeste and soon set up a dedicated spilling-shit station. The floor and counter space newly rich in nutritional content, we eventually put together what could technically be called sushi in that it contained raw fish and was cut into roughly bite-sized pieces.

Unfortunately for all those involved, Chez Gallant was in charge of the nigiri, for which the ingredient list included delicately sliced ahi tuna, a shoebox-sized brick of gluey rice, and just a scintilla of scarily-labeled tubed wasabi, henceforth known as the bottled hellfire of a million lost souls.

I can safely say that the only reason Mike and Celeste are still on speaking terms with yours truly is because I sampled the nigiri first. Upon placing the roll in my mouth, I almost immediately noticed a mild sensation of heat. My next ten minutes were spent with lips upon the refrigerator's water dispenser as the other dinner guests expressed amusement at the lingering effects of my spice miscalculation.

2. "Your Wii BMI Rating Is: Whale Shark"
Another exciting [see: spirit-crushing] development since Briana's return was our unveiling of the Wii Fit, which was designed to help the American gaming public gain the same healthy body image of Nintendo's Japanese programmers.

As you have no doubt guessed, I was absolutely thrilled with Wii's assessment of my athletic prowess. Upon taking the preliminary Body Mass Index test, my meticulously-crafted "Mii" morphed from a cartoon likeness of myself to a cartoon likeness of a flesh-colored 6'5" bowling pin and I was promptly given a week to live. Then, grainy footage of Pearl Harbor newly crisp in my mind's eye, I was told that I am not only morbidly obese but also have the body of a 51-year-old.

3. "Honey, In This Economy, We Can't Afford Not To Buy These 3-Pound Bags Of Imitation Cinnamon Toast Crunch"
At the risk of being crass, I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want to get in Target's pants. It's not that I love Target; it's that I want to get it into the back seat of my old car and get it pregnant.

Probably Not The High Point Of Tony Bennett's Career

And thanks to Briana (and, more to the point, her car) I was recently able to get to my local Target location and do some shopping with just me, my best gal, and a bargain-induced bulge in my trousers. Bless her heart, Briana still makes a shopping list, but luckily I was able to do some solo exploring (two floors worth of big big savings) and came away with an industrial strength crock pot, six pairs of tiny tiny boxer briefs, a very haute shower curtain rod, enough sugary cereal to reanimate the recently dead, and, in a daring bit of last second mid-checkout-line bravado, a junior-sized box of Junior Mints.

The purchase that got away, I'm sad to report, was a cheap braided area rug that I was talked out of after a series of "We can find something better"s despite, admittedly, some tearful begging on my part. Truth be told, it wasn't the perfect fit for the look we're going for in our apartment ("Fuck, is everything we fucking own from fucking Ikea" chic), but when I'm on a roll at Le Targét, almost any rug will do.

Lo The Floods They Did A' Cometh

2009-02-17T15:29:00.000-08:00

Over the past three days I've noticed some subtle changes in the view from my kitchen window. Whereas I once had a view of your typical California parking lot, this morning I couldn't help but find the vista somewhat less serene.

The good thing about torrential rain is that it provides an excuse for my doing what I do best, namely sit on the couch in various states of undress and illegally download music in front of televised women's volleyball. If I'm really feeling motivated, I'll clean out Gladys' fish bowl or even do some spring cleaning.

But not this weekend; thanks to The Merry Krumbster, I spent 9 hours frying up various incarnations of turkey-based meat products.

You see, after graciously accepting a slightly used cast-iron skillet from Mike, I scoured the interweb for tips and tricks on how to restore and re-season my newly-acquired cookware. After concluding that most of the precedures described online were devised as a joke by teenagers on acid ("Now, use a halved potato to scrub off any excess wheat germ") I opted to take things into my own hands.

Step One: Removal of Toxic Oxidation

For reasons I can not hope to explain, I poured day-old coffee grounds and kosher salt into the pan and attacked the skillet with both great prejudice and a heavy-duty sponge. About ten minutes into the process, I looked up from the sink and realized that anybody who had bothered to glance into my window during this time had witnessed a large pasty bald man from the waist up, vigorously pumping his right arm up and down. Given that I was also shirtless, I decided that I would wait for the police to arrive while moving on to:

Step Two: Seasoning & Scorched Earth

If the online resources are to be trusted, seasoning requires only some food with a high fat content, a stove top or oven, and a doctorate in Advanced Thermodynamics. As for the food portion of the equation, Briana is not yet back from her Midwest Odyssey, so my kitchen pantry left very few seasoning options outiside of Bisquick, two types of hot sauce, and expired Toaster Strudel. Since venturing out-of-doors to Trader Joe's was not a viable option, I prayed my bachelor freezer might provide some inspiration.

Six turkey burgers, a pound of turkey bacon, and two pints of canola oil later, I was making some progress, as evidenced by my having to disable the smoke detector in the living room. When my eyes began to sting from airborne bacon, I concluded that any further "seasoning" would be foolish without consulting somebody with more experience working under these conditions. I finished the skillet in the oven set at broil and spent the rest of the night lying on the floor below the noxious blue haze and breathing through a wet towel.

Step Three: The Making of Toxic Egg Dishes

By the next day the skillet was no longer in gaseous form, but was, amzingly, still hot to the touch. In the name of metallurgy-based fine cuisine, I talked myself into formulating a breakfast menu worthy of my new cookware. Completely unable/unwilling to do that, I opted for the predictable menu of Turkey & Spinach & Mushroom Frittata with Turkey Bacon and a side of turkey bacon. Though the iron content of the meal was probably a tad on the high side, the results were surprisingly delicious.

Enjoy your meal.

I just have to avoid magnets for a few weeks.

In a related story, perhaps iron poisoning helps explain my dream last night in which I was in a plane crash with a George W. Bush look-a-like and about 100 girls all dressed like the daughters in "Little House on the Prairie."

And oh, going all the way back to the downloading of music in my skivvies, somebody please help me figure out the organ sample used in this song. Since I'm probably violating several copyright laws, I can only tell you that the band's name rhymes with Fortishead. Anyways, it isn't the theme song to "Taxi," as I originally posited.

This post really changed direction there in the end.

AT&T Is Just Not That Into You

2009-02-06T15:31:00.000-08:00

How to Lose A Customer in 10 [non-consecutive] Days:

December 3, 2008:

Field a phone call from well-heeled prospective customer (henceforth referred to as The Mark) who is interested in having life-affirming U-verse cable/internet package installed in his apartment at big, big savings. Before allowing him to speak to a customer service expert, be sure your speech recognition phone menu system can not tell the difference between "YES" and "NO" and that your on-hold music was selected by insane Belgian octogenarians. Secure the first available (see: arbitrary) installation date, which is supposedly a goddam month and a half from now.

January 16, 2009*:

Given that The Mark expects you between the hours of noon and 2:00pm, call him [at work] at 3:55pm to let him know that you've been "ringing the bell over and over but nobody's answering."

Optional: that morning, deploy covert observation expert to laugh at The Mark unplugging current cable box and TV and DVD Player and pulling the entertainment center away from the wall and cleaning up dust bunnies/tumbleweed in anticipation of imaginary AT&T installation appointment.

Later That Day (Revenge of January 16, 2009):

After upping the on-hold musical ante, inform The Mark that you are unable to reschedule until the installation expert calls dispatch to confirm that the appointment was indeed missed. When The Mark offers to put his goldfish on the phone to help explain how stupid that statement sounds, assure him that you understand his frustration and will call back within the hour with a new appointment time. Under no circumstance should you call back.

January 17, 2009:

Make sure you staff your phone lines exclusively with Eastern Bloc customer service experts who exhibit only the most tenuous of grasps upon the English language. Offer a bonus to the operator who can get The Mark off the phone the quickest by promising to call back within the hour with a new installation date. Under no circumstance should you call back.

After not calling back three separate times in a 10 hour timespan, return from happy hour and reward The Mark's fourth phone call that day by allowing him to speak to a supervisor. Tell him that all the supervisors are busy and that you'll have a supervisor call him back. Refrain from laughting when he threatens the lives of your loved ones. Grudgingly give in, but first put him on hold.

Contrary to what you might expect, it is okay to employ a helpful supervisor. This allows you to inform The Mark that he has somehow been scheduled for a March 28 installation. Make sure you record the inevitable "You have got to be fucking kidding me" for playback at the next AT&T Holiday Party. Agree to bend the rules and dispatch an installer on the 19th, MLK Day. Go home, but be sure to call taxis for those who have been drinking.

How can I crush your will to live today?

January 18, 2009
Deploy two service vans to the street The Mark bikes en route to play tennis. Be sure that one driver is asleep and his coworker is smoking with his eyes closed.

January 19, 2009
Have a young-ish looking technician arrive late, but not too late; remember, you want to beat the AT&T record for lengthiest chain yank. Have the technician thank The Mark for unplugging everything (again) and moving the furniture (again) and accept a cup of joe from the gracious host. Now have the technician tell him that he can't install anything because the outlets aren't grounded. Finish the coffee whilst explaining that somebody on the phone should have warned him about that. Leave.

January 20-24, 2009
See January 17, 2009

January 25, 2009
Have the supervisor apologize for the slight misunderstanding. Reschedule for January 31. Take this opportunity to mock The Mark by sending him several "Start enjoying your new service‏" emails.

January 30, 2009
Call The Mark at 8:30am and leave a message saying he somehow already missed tomorrow's appointment and ask if he'd like to reschedule. When he calls later that day to speak to the supervisor's supervisor, you know what to do. Tell him tomorrow's appointment is still a go and that the morning's phone call was just a glitch. Give the automated phone system a raise.

January 31, 2009
Be sure the installation team is only 5 minutes late. Thank The Mark for making coffee and unplugging everything (again) and moving the furniture (jinx!) and assure him that the outlets look up to code. Now ask to be let into the locked basement.

Fucking run for it.

*70 degrees and sunny... bonus points.

Breaking Breaking News

2009-02-02T18:00:00.000-08:00

You will know I have won the lottery when I do this.

Homework Assignment

2009-02-01T12:56:00.000-08:00

Someone help figure out which writer for the kinda-good "Psych" went to the University of Wisconsin. He very subtly gave a shot out to the alma mater by giving football players in the latest episode names of Bevell, Fletcher, Dayne and Bollinger.

I assume the character of Bucky was written out.

Mad Libs Gone Awry

2009-01-31T15:44:00.001-08:00

If one could somehow condense the six months Dougie and Ingie and I spent in Providence down to thirteen seconds, I daresay it would look something like this.

Olde Tyme Doppelganger-palooza

2009-01-29T15:07:00.001-08:00

I've been extolling this one since they were both in their playing days...

Amelie Mauresmo, Paul O'Neill*

*In any order.

The Year In Review (As Prognositcated By Kurtis Blow)

2009-01-28T18:59:00.000-08:00

Clap your hands everybody
If you got what it takes
'Cause I'm Kurtis Blow and I want you to know
That these are the breaks.

Brakes on a bus, brakes on a car,
Breaks to make you a superstar
Breaks to win and breaks to lose
But these here breaks will rock your shoes
And these are the breaks.
Break it up break it up break it up!

If your woman steps out with another man
(That's the breaks, that's the breaks)
And she runs off with him to Japan
And the IRS says they want to chat
And you can't explain why you claimed your cat
And Ma Bell sends you a whopping bill
With eighteen phone calls to Brazil
And you borrowed money from the mob
And yesterday you lost your job
Well, these are the breaks.
Break it up, break it up, break it up!

Throw your hands up in the sky
And wave 'em 'round from side to side
And if you deserve a break tonight
Somebody say alright!
(All right) Say ho-oo!
(Ho-oo!) And you don't stop!
Keep on, somebody scream!
(Owwwww!) Break down!

Breaks on a stage, breaks on a screen
Breaks to make your wallet lean
Breaks run cold and breaks run hot
Some folks got 'em and some have not
But these are the breaks.
Break it up, break it up, break it up!
Break down!

To the girl in brown, stop messing around
(Break it up, break it up)
To the guy in blue, whatcha gonna do
To the girl in green, don't be so mean
And the guy in red, say what I said.
Break down!

Brakes on a plane, brakes on a train
Breaks to make you go insane
Breaks in love, breaks in war
But we got the breaks to get you on the floor
And these are the breaks.
Break it up, break it up, break it up!
Break down! Yo!

Just do it, just do it, just do it, do it, do it!

You say last week you met the perfect guy
(That's the breaks, that's the breaks)
And he promised you the stars in the sky
He said his Cadillac was gold
But he didn't say it was ten years old
He took you out to the Red Coach grill
But he forgot the cash and you paid the bill
And he told you the story of his life
But he forgot the part about... his wife. Huh! Huh!
Well, these are the breaks!
Break it up, break it up, break it up!
Break down!

(pin drop)

2009-01-21T15:29:00.000-08:00

While my home interweb access was out, I took the liberty of going through a bunch of old photos and videos and embarrassingly-overwrought term papers in anticipation of posting some of the choicest items known to the Fat Gallant. 'Tis amazing what one can do with a computer without the internet's constant Maybe-just-maybe-there's-a-Shakira-nip-slip-since-the-last-time-you-searched-let's-go-find-out-RIGHT-NOW nagging.

Sadly, AT&T's crack customer service department conspired against me and I am still in the decidedly-nip-slip-free Dark Ages. But stay tuned for awesomeness to come. Until then: excuse the lack of Smash.

On the bright side, the Fair Briana paid an unannounced visit on Sunday morning, which was like a ray of sunshine on an otherwise-cloudy day, assuming that you are sexually attracted to the sun and enjoy cooking shrimp linguine for it.

Also on the proverbial bright side, the United States' customer service department is on the up-and-up.

If It Pleases The Court

2009-01-16T15:26:00.000-08:00

Let the record show, Your Honor, that my client was unaware that the co-defendant's denotation of "Wanging Chung tonight" involved incendiary devices and an armored car.

Radio Silence, Inane Chatter, Grumbles

2009-01-13T15:28:00.000-08:00

While not having home interweb access for almost three weeks now should serve as ample excuse for not Bumping the Smash, truth be told I have had plenty of opportunity to do so from my desk at work.

Instead, I've been making an attempt to acquaint myself with the finer points of facebook, specifically those points which allow me to accidentally grant facebook access to my hotmail account and email "Check Out My Facebook Profile!" invites to every person I've ever known and/or boned. My actual inbox today: 388 new messages.

Lost somewhere in those emails was a message from Andrew "The Dandy Fop" Gallant linking to an enlightening-for-me/staggeringly-boring-for-you article about a kid name Andrew Ciarfardini (pronounced [sneeze]) I used to live next to in Cincinnati.

Since you, dear reader, presumably did not at any time live anywhere remotely near him, you'd no doubt rather watch NBC's New Year's Day programming than read the full article. Basically, it turns out that while I was busy establishing a career in the always-dignified world of television journalism, he was finding his niche in the Bush White House.

Anyway, since this is my blog and you're avoiding doing something more constructive, I can and will reminisce about Mr. Ciafardini, albeit briefly, and, for that matter: anything, else, of, my, choosing.

Short story shorter: Andrew was, in retrospect, about as big of a vapid Republican shill as you'll ever see in a prepubescent child.* Granted, in those days it didn't take much to get on the collective bad side of me and my other neighbor, one Mikey D. Krumboltz. I based my resentment of Ciafardini solely on the fact that, while he was always welcome to come over and hang out on my family's swing set at his leisure, his family's backyard was surrounded by an enormous Guantanamo-grade steel fence perimeter that required both his and his parents' permission to enter. The swing set therein, however, was the stuff of legend in the neighborhood's 8-year-old boy community and, to my recollection, looked something like this.

In my blossoming, Blue Icee-fueled worldview, anything so awesome (or, in Cincy vernacular, coolsome) was surely best appreciated not by a fascist Ciafardini regime but rather the "cool fort!"-starved huddled masses; namely, me and Krumboltz. Sadly, as our being in the second grade severely limited our access to any handy munitions stockpiles, a violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie usually consisted of carefully deploying whipper snappers underneath the tires of the Ciafardini family station wagon and running home at high speed.

This post got way too long, but in a petty attempt to impugn the entire family, I mention that Andrew's then-4-year-old sister once reprimanded my mother for allowing our bathroom's toilet paper to hang too low from the roll (seriously); so she too, in her own way, is now undoubtedly out there somewhere encouraging the use of hand guns.

*A dick before he grew one.

Good-night, Wet Prince

2009-01-03T15:09:00.000-08:00

And flights of angels lay thee to thy bubble nest.

Darnell
2008-2009

It is with heavy heart that we report the passing of Darnell, beloved betta of Nathan and Briana. Early this morning Darnell succombed to whatever it is that bettas succomb to and passed away peacefully in his fish sleep.

As recently as last night, Darnell exhibited the playful spirit and pluck that so typified him in life, perfectly executing a jumping love tap to his caretaker's index finger. While this gave us all hope that he was on the road to recovery, the gesture was, in retrospect, merely his way of saying good-bye.

He is survived by his best pal Gladys, who was too grief-stricken for comment, and his adoptive parents, Nathan and Briana, of Oakland. Services will be held upon the return of the fair Briana, whom he loved so well.

Until that time, be careful what you pull out of the freezer.

Jules' Progeny Prodigy

2009-01-02T15:23:00.000-08:00

And Visions of Sugarplums Lying Passed Out On The Couch

2008-12-24T14:51:00.000-08:00

The lovely Lindsay recently caused a nostalgic stir amongst KPTV alum by sharing some vintage pics of a particularly besotted night at a certain Ms. Wilson's Northwest Portand condo.

Unfortunately for the dignity of all those involved (not to mention Ms. Wilson's neighbors), the night was dedicated to the time-honored tradition of Century Club induction.

For those of you not familiar with the game, I have no idea how you're reading my blog; if you spent more than twenty consecutive minutes with me between the years 1996 and 2007 I have begged you to attempt the Century Club at least seven times. Most of you caved at least twice.

Regardless, How Join the Club:

1. Find the shittiest domestic beer available and purchse enough of it to kill one grizzly bear per Century Club participant. Now purchase one more 12-pack.

2. Invite only those persons who won't let you (A) drunk dial your girlfriend from 8th grade and talk about feelings, (B) take a cab into the city and get that sweet tattoo you just thought of, or (C) shop on eBay again. And from personal experience, be sure to deny entry to any "friend of a friend."

3. Pop one of DJ Fat Gallant's patented Century Club mixes into the tape deck.

4. Admonish DJ Fat Gallant for being one of six living people to still make mixtapes.

5. Take a shot of ever-warmer beer every 60 seconds (each song change) for the next hour and 40 minutes. As per the house rules, bathroom breaks are strictly forbidden until song #50 and any skipped shots are punishable by an extra shot or, if you're Shannyn Sossamon, the removal of an article of clothing.

6. At song #100 collect your trophy.

7. Cancel any plans you may have for the next 72 hours that would require a functioning brainstem.

My "now stick your tongue out" pose is unconvincing;

I think I may actually be preparing to harf on Lindsay.

Absent from the above photo is Audio Aaron who, in a stupifying bit of irony, had something wrong with his liver and couldn't make it out.

To right that wrong, I spent the last two days holed up in my Oakland apartment drinking bootleg eggnog and bringing the afore-mentioned Century Club Mix into the 21st century [barely]. There are even some subtle shifts in the track listing since the last go round in honor of Audio and, specifically, his stint at NESN.

Of course, you'll have make it to #100 to appreciate it, and by then you'd be lucky if you can still spell NESN.

So Happy Holidays, bitches:

DJ BumperSmash (!) Presents:

A Very Special Century Club Reunion Tour Mix

(CLICK ABOVE TO DOWNLOAD)

Either we're deep in the game or a ghost is punching Angelo in the face.

BONUS: On the KPTV alum page see if you can spot the asshole who thought picture day was tomorrow. Hint: it's me.

29 Words For Dipping Sauce

2008-12-19T15:28:00.000-08:00

Welcome to winter in the Midwest, where breakfast starts at beer o'clock sharp, women aren't afraid to show a little skin, late-night snacks do not fuck around, and (at the risk of burying the lede) this man is straight.

Let that sink in: this man... is straight.

All due respect, but with that haircut he could be wearing Austin Scarlett as a hat and look less gay. Yet, according to all my sources [my brother and my girlfriend, respectively], he is married and may or may not be something of "a playboy."

Mmm-hmm. Me too.

Regardless, I had to share that with you because laughing at that photo accounted for a startlingly large portion of my trip. Back to what matters: visiting the fam and the friends and the apple of my eye in the sun-drenched Midwest.

This is a good place. It's a place of values. Of substance. It's a place I will always call home. It's also a place that gets a bit nippy from time to time. Unfortunately, as I currently live in California (where inclement weather requires a two thirds majority vote in the state senate), I was without my usual Wisconsin winter outfit for this trip.

No matter. The secret is to layer. Then layer again. Now once more. Good... there you go. Now, isn't that more comfortable? And for you ladies out there, no more worrying about those unsightly panty lines.

ABOVE: An unidentifiable woman, or, possibly,
man, stands in front of an unidentifiable
part of some Midwestern state.

Of course, some of the more enterprising locals have found a way around spending all that time and money purchasing goose down mittens and flannel-lined jeans and fleece-insulated parkas; oh yes... there are other ways to add layers.

To illustrate the point, let us go out for brunch with Brother Andrew and his lovely fiancee Sommer. After studying the menu, Sommer opts for a modest bagel and lox platter. According to its description, the platter includes a side salad. It is about $7. Also, it is the size and shape of a fucking river barge. Look at this thing. Sommer seems unfazed as the table groans under weight of the healthy, healthy vegetables. Forty-five minutes and two hernias later, we asked our waitress for a doggie bag and an industrial-grade wheelbarrow to cart home the leftovers.

I could wax interminably about the spectacular portions and magical golden-colored awesomeness of Midwestern foodstuffs, but the good people of Palomino's went ahead and neatly summed it up for me.

Besides, there are other ways to stay toasty. In case you can't tell, that bloody contains not only the standard fare but also mushrooms and a booze-soaked brussel sprout. And taking into account how desperately I craved another round, it may or may not have contained actual mammal blood.

Then there's our ubiquitous and foamy friend, barley juice. Smooth, delicious, and handy for beer-battering anything within arm's distance and sticking it in a deep fryer. But despite the fact that at least two respectable breweries are visible from any vantage point in the greater Milwaukee area, including bomb shelters, I think it's best to leave your liver in the hands of professionals.

Shitcanned? Good. Time to unwind. You've been working hard.

Me? I like to take the edge off in the private 16-foot pool then hit the jacuzzi. Then repeat for 21 straight hours.

Go to Sybaris. Let no one talk you out of it. I won't get into details for fear of retaliation at the hands of the Fair Briana, but having that special someone with you is advisable. I took a lot of grief from certain interested parties, but when it's 10 below outside and you're wearing white robes and doing regrettable sultan impersonations, you'll thank me.* Also, it was our birthday. So there's that.

Time for some exercise. Limber up and head to Koz's for some miniature bowling. As I have an obligation to my New England roots (not to mention Audio Aaron), I should point out that this is not duckpin bowling. However, the object of the game remains the same. Namely, drink several pitchers of lukewarm domestic beer and invent elaborate strike celebrations. Amanda Joy's apparently requires rolling up one of her sleeves and dancing right in the face of the competition. Well played. Good times had by all, including the manual pinsetters. This vocation almost certainly requires a working knowledge of gravity bongs and quaaludes.

Next and final stop: Wolski's, provided you can (A) find the place and (B) not wrap your car around a telephone poll locating a parking spot. Holy shit their website is easily the lamest thing I've ever seen.** They get everything else right, though. You know a bar believes in a stiff pour when, in their dart room, there are holes in the wall at least 6 feet from the nearest dart board. Throw in a (gasp) cigarette machine and some bawdy video poker, and next thing you know it's closing time.

And time to go home. But I'd be remiss if I didn't share the comment card from my dad's room at Red Roof Inn. Perhaps Nellie should revisit her cutesy signature.

Non sequitor there. Sorry.

Okay, I'm done.

*You're welcome in advance.
**And I used to work on MDA telethons.***
***I'm going to hell.

Still More Doppelganger

2008-12-19T12:06:00.000-08:00

A quick deflection, as the Celebration Of All Things Midwest post will take a while:

I can no longer watch Six Feet Under without thinking that Brenda (Rachel Griffiths) is a true-to-life version of a William Haefeli cartoon.

Anybody? Am I way off on this one?

Oh. And somebody teach me how to do Dave Elsewhere's strobe move (@ 1:16 here).

Watch For Freeze Back

2008-12-18T03:40:00.001-08:00

It's 5:15am in Chicago; I am in a Midway-bound cab.
Road signs are reminding me that it is cold.
Expect a megapost ASAP.

Et tu, Brute?

2008-12-09T16:47:00.000-08:00

The universe continues to conspire against your humble BumperSmasher. Well, not "the universe" exactly, and not "against me" exactly, but something, as they say, is up. Strings are being pulled. Higher powers' fingers are being pulled.

After going without the interweb for two weeks (see previous post) I spent 75 non-consecutive minutes with a friendly AT&T representative ordering the works... I say non-consecutive minutes because the customer service specialist was forced to call me back three separate times due to "slight flooding in the building." An inauspicious beginning to the AT&T-Me&B marriage, but they can do no worse than Comcast; or, as I experienced for exactly 730 days, the length of their standard "Now Grab Your Ankles" contract, Sprint.

Once settling on a date that my modem and cable box and bonus equipment would be installed (January 16th... Dear AT&T: Maybe, um, hire some more guys?) I hung up my phone and returned to listening to something or other on my trusty VAIO.

Exactly ten seconds later this happened.

I proceeded to calmly voice my displeasure.

Mere minutes later, while navigating the television listings, I noticed Presumed Innocent started in less than half an hour on Encore. At that very moment, Presumed Innocent was being burned on my computer, as only a day prior I rented it after concluding that (1) I had somehow never seen it before, (2) I wanted to, and (3) "it's never on TV."

I had some prior experience with this phenomenon when, years ago in Portland, the mood struck and I rented A Christmas Story in the middle of July. Then, at work the following day, I walked into the KPTV control room and said "I watched A Christmas Story last night," and four other people said, "Me too." The mood had apparantly also struck the powers-that-be at TBS.

Speaking of the holidays, I leave Thursday for the pristine climes of the Midwest.

I'll be sure to check the top of my Netflix queue to see what the in-flight movie will be.

Actual photo from my last trip to O'Hare.

Perfectly Cromulent Writing

2008-12-06T16:37:00.000-08:00

While I applaud The New Yorker's steadfast adherence to the tenants of responsible journalism, I must grudgingly submit that I quite often don't have the foggiest fucking idea what it is that their reporters are talking about. Take this gem from the December 8th issue, which I was perusing whilst BARTing to work this fine sunny afternoon:

[In reference to Timothy Geithner being Obama's choice for Secretary of the Treasury]

"...there was also something weird about the spectacle of the Street’s once fearless free marketeers exulting over a government appointment, as if they were nomenklatura members cheering a new Politburo chief."

A vivid image to be sure... I know I'll never forget the hysterics surrounding the appointment of Hamas politiburo chief Khaled Marshaal.

Oh wait, yes I will. There. I just did.

Fortunately, whenever The New Yorker makes me feel like Leon Spinks at a nuclear arms proliferation summit, I can count on the vaunted ABC7 Production Team to restore journalistic equilibrium. Yesterday, in an edited, scripted, and producer-approved story, we used the word "majestical."

In other news, if CBS Sports doesn't kindly remove its mouth from the dick of Tim Tebow, I'm going to blow up a building.

p.s. - Seriously?

Help Me Help You

2008-12-05T17:45:00.000-08:00

Seven comments on Night Terrors but no Very Short Fiction to speak of? I was looking forward to your collective creativity shining through like a ray of sunshine in the otherwise-dark night that is the blogosphere.

Also, click on that "FOLLOW" thingamajig over there on the BumperSmash menu and tell the world you were among the first to join what will soon be considered the internet's hottest new site. And some topless fan pics in my in-box would be appreciated, too.

Not you, Audio. Put the camera down.

Interweb? No. Night Terrors? Oh yes.

2008-12-02T16:42:00.000-08:00

After months of my taking advantage of the unsecured wireless network known as "WENUS," Casa du Nathiana is without access to the web, severely crippling my fantasy-sporting, blogging, Skyping, emailing, music downloading, Amazon.com-ing, and celebrity nip-slip perusing. I refuse to give Comcast any more of Briana's money, so until I find an alternative (or Jim "The Wenus" Wenuczowski returns from Thanksgiving break) my posting frequency will most likely flag.

Somehow you'll get by.

Update: two nights ago I had a nightmare of the 1st order, meaning that it was so intense that I both (1) woke up Dom-DeLuise-sweaty and (2) was too shaken up to go to the bathroom for 15 minutes for fear of the killer waiting in my closet even though I really had to go. In the hellish chimera, a killer known as The Wolfer was slicing up women with a bowie knife, collecting exactly 45 pounds of blood in a giant bag and resupplying their corpses with said blood via I.V. so that he could practice tearing into their flesh (hence the Wolfer), then writing songs about the killings and sending the recordings to local radio stations to mock the public.

Mr. Sandman, send me a dream!

Do you people have nightmares like these? Additionally, I have one or two plane crash death dreams per month. Surely this gets me a prescription to Valium or medical weed or something equally awesome that I don't know about.

For the record, the worst nightmare I ever had featured Ray Combs throwing me to the floor from the top of an unmattressed bunk bed and carving Satanic symbols into my chest with a giant carving knife before ultimately stabbing me through the heart with it. Two weeks later, back in reality, Ray-Ray hung himself with his bedding.

You know what that means.

Also for the record, I often dream about normal things like talking dogs and cars that can fly!

Warm Milk Didn't Work; Pontification Perhaps?

2008-11-28T15:09:00.000-08:00

One of the more underrated thrills of having the flu is the insomniatic onset of dementia.

A certain macabre calm sets in late at night when, after thousands of minute body adjustments result only in different regions of your head becoming alternatively solid/liquid, you make peace with the fact that sleep will not come any time soon.

It's 4:54 in the ante meridiem. Embrace it. (The situation, that is. Too tired for the other.)

For this morning's TheraFlu-induced revelries, I found myself recalling an article heralding the merits of Very Short Stories, an old concept that [kinda sorta] recently reemerged in [kinda sorta] meme form and even more recently became a mental exercise for the Generation Me to summarize themselves.

Basically, one has six words to conjure up a story. The most famous and, probably, best, is courtesy Hemingway: "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never used."*

I think the concept is far more fun/effective in narrative form, and besides, had I been in an autobiographical mood this morning, any memoir in my debilitated condition would be something to the effect of "Exhaustion and phlegm reign eternal, internal."

That being the case, here's what I found scribbled on the back of an envelope next to the bed this morning, which I share with you in hopes of myriad new submissions from you, left in the COMMENTS section.

Six Word Fictions:

Now to hide the bloodstained uniforms.

Repent, dear husband; I survived you.

Turns out expiration dates are important.

Their marriage left their passions unresolved.

My prison penpal hadn't mentioned probation.

"What college fund?" lamented the gambler.

But his guide dog could swim.

The obituary downplayed the prostitution aspect.

*Often quoted as "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn."

Of Flora and Fatalism

2008-11-21T16:29:00.000-08:00

Gladys (in the bowl on the left) and Darnell swim beneath

the skeletal remains of our once proud house plant.

One of the standing orders Briana left me was to take good care of our modest plant collection. I would have stood a better chance had she told me to grow a second dick while she was away. And, let's face it, I'd have fun trying. And there'd be minimal repotting.

Mine is not a green thumb.

This is not for lack of trying. In fact, I have to remind myself not to over-water the plants. I prune, I pamper, I feed them exotic plant foods whilst singing smooth jazz standards to them. In turn, the plants stay awake at night trying to set themselves on fire rather than spend one more day in my care.

If vegetation can scowl, this plant is almost certainly doing so. It looks like we planted the fucking thing upside-down.

Now, animals I'm cool with. Those fish love me, and eat freeze-dried bloodworms from my hands. Even cats, which I loathe, love nothing more than to lay atop me all day enjoying the gentle rhythm of my breathing, siliently plotting the deaths of all things decent and holy. If the cat happens to belong to Ingrid, there's a good chance that said cat feels sufficiently comfortable in my presence to sleep on my chest with its twisted little ass resting mere inches from my chin.

So what the eff am I doing to these plants? Something is clearly very, very wrong. I fear that if someone ever introduces me to a dog named "Fern," I'll pet it and it will instantly develop heartworm and bolt for the nearest interstate.

Briana, come home soon, and kindly ignore the dead leaves strewn about the kitchen floor.

Cooooooostanza

2008-11-18T18:12:00.000-08:00

Working in the field of (and therefore watching copious amounts of) television has rarely been this unbearable.

Make It Stop
Please God Make It Stop
We Are Alone In The Universe

Not since this debacle have I been less able to shake annoying jingles.

An NC-17 Doppelganger-palooza

2008-11-14T18:41:00.000-08:00

As an attempt to assuage the Tampa Bay Rays' profound disappointment in coming up short at the World Series, I submit to you, my humble reader, the Phillies' covert use of psychological warfare.

To be brief [debriefed?], it is not easy to defeat an opponent into whose chin you want to stick your Johnson.

The Cougar's Secret Shame

The Eurotrash
The Brazilian

Family Circus Meets BumperSmash (?)

2008-11-13T20:51:00.000-08:00

To anybody who takes the time to go through this whole post: congratulations... I assure you that you are the only one to do so. This post seemed like a good idea at the time (specifically, a couple of hours ago). I thought it would take about 5 pictures and about half an hour.

It did not.

Obviously, I had myriad idle time today. So, here's the route I take to BART after work... thanks to my cheap-ass-yet-much-beloved longboard I can leave work at 11:35ish and still catch the 11:41 train.

So, without further ado, here's an incredibly boring slice of life, which is rendered even more boring because when you are taking in the scenery, you are not riding a skateboard in the middle of the night without a helmet.

The Epic Journey*: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part XIV, Fin.

*In no way epic.

Nerd Alert

2008-11-12T16:54:00.000-08:00

New phone.*
Bought a Wii.
Telling you about it via a blog.
Oh, and Top Chef on DVR after work.

In other news, Happy Belated, Dougie.
Love to the fam.

In the meantime: here's a nifty (or, fancy pants) flash game.

wOOt!

[LATE EDITION: SPECIAL HOLA TO MELISSA.]

*Courtesy Krumboltz the Impaler

Unnecessary Update (!)

2008-11-09T09:30:00.000-08:00

Post-Election State of the Nathan

Almost done reading: Nobody's Fool, by Richard Russo
Marinating in the fridge: Chicken
Legally betting at: ESPN Streak For The Cash
Watching until football starts: Magnum Force
Determined to remember: Doug's birthday
Pajama pants: Comfortable

One month from seeing my baby and my family and the snowy hell that is Chicago, Illinois.

Today I Am Remided Of...

2008-11-04T11:15:00.001-08:00

"Shibboleth."

As part of the whole, this clip may register as saccharine; 'tis not to be interpreted as a clumsy election day analogy (much less a race-based one) but rather a reminder that, today, it is history we'll be writing.

Tails and Feathers

2008-11-03T15:43:00.001-08:00

Peevishness

2008-10-28T23:21:00.001-07:00

Many are my pet peeves.

For one thing, Blogger is making everything italicized right now for some reason. This was not where this post was going, which should be obvious because how would I know until I started typing, Silly?

Instead, I thought I'd share a recent example of one of my [numerous] work-related annoyances. Specifically, both our esteemed anchors and producers take great pride in the fine art of the segue, which is all well and good until one realizes that, sometimes, attempting to connect two stories makes you (and, by extension, our entire newscast) look and sound ridiculous. Here's a copy-and-pasted gem from last night's 9pm:

NUCLEAR POWERED AIRPLANES MAY COME TOO LATE TO SAVE THE FROGS AND SALAMANDERS IN YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK.

I coul... Hey! No more italics.

Anywho, I could go on for several paragraphs regarding my newsroom's incompetencies (how does one work in a field of journalism when one regularly spells quote as "quoat"?*), but it's my day off and I'd rather not get my blood a boilin'. I'm already missing my lady terribly, thank you kindly.

So, without further ado, here are two exquisite shows with which you may want to familiarize yourself**:

*Seriously
**Not ending a sentence with a preposition = journalism!

Because Sometimes You Have To Treat Yourself

2008-10-27T20:26:00.000-07:00

Oven-baked Bosc pear with cinnamon, nutmeg, and Maker's Mark, atop Vanilla Bean ice cream, drizzled with a reduced balsamic and flakes of dark Ghirardelli chocolate. Served with a glass of port.

Breakfast was imitation Cap'n Crunch served upon 10-day-old skim milk.

An Action-Packed Day Thus Far

2008-10-23T17:22:00.000-07:00

I'm not proud of myself; I owe L-Dub an apology.

She was innocently watching Oprah whilst sitting next to me at the Teleprompter station, and unfortunately for her (and, in my opinion, for Oprah) the Olsen Twins were being interviewed. Then, they were interviewing one another. Subjects included their frantic schedules, how they felt about each other's dating life, and wanting to be taller.

Hair was discussed.

Then one of them revealed that she had a hollowed-out bagel for breakfast and before I even knew it was happening I snapped.

"If I have to listen to any more of this I swear to God I am going to shoot myself."

Sorry, Lauren, and thanks for the ride home last night. Send me a link to "Dance if You're Horny" so I can share your song with the world (consisting here of 4 people).

In unrelated news, here's an excerpt from tonight's 5pm newscast, copied and pasted directly from the script. I mean, c'mon, people.

NEW AT SIX: AMERICA'S PICKLE PACKERS EXPLAIN WHY THEIR INDUSTRY ISN'T OVER A BARREL.

Briana Gets Pwn3d!

2008-10-23T15:36:00.000-07:00

Mike & Celeste Contemplate How to Spend Our Money

One of the last orders of business before Briana's departure (see previous entries) was for us to establish a college fund for any future Krumboltz. We did so slowly, but surely, by hosting a game of In-Between.

The game would have been much more out of hand, or, as the case may be, out of pocket, had the minimum bet been the customary 5 cents as opposed to the 2 cents we opted for. Nevertheless, here's an [unstaged] example of how much it can hurt to see an ace come up after an ill-advised "Pot it!"

Let's See... I'll Take the Love Seat for $225

2008-10-22T20:30:00.000-07:00

As the polls show McCain gaining ground and a tonight's TV listings allude to my beloved Red Sox golfing, I think I'll turn my ire towards Wheel of Fortune.

Whatever happened to the showcases in which contestants were forced to spend their winnings on unfortunate patio sets and trips to Orlando? There was nothing better than watching the color drain out of a winner's face upon realizing he/she had to spend his/her remaining 800 bucks on a lime green barcalounger.

Speaking of Boredom...

2008-10-17T17:20:00.000-07:00

Briana's driving Nebraska Interstate 80 today.

Before crossing the border into Nebraska, I would always had to pull over my car and make sure I wasn't carrying any firearms for fear that I would shoot myself in the face upon realizing I still had half the state left to cross.

Even Interstate 80's own website seems to detest that stretch of highway, implying that the best part of I-80 is getting the fuck off I-80. And I quote: "Interstate 80 in Nebraska is notable for its 25 safety rest areas, which are spaced about 35-50 miles apart and often offer tourist information."

So while I do have you in my thoughts today, sweet baby, I assure you that, in those thoughts, you are nowhere near North Platte.

I'll leave you with the crown jewel of I-80, The Great Platte River Road Archway Monument.

Somehow a photograph can't capture the sheer splendor of a prefabricated giftshop hovering over 4 lanes of blacktop.

Idling Mind

2008-10-17T16:29:00.000-07:00

Downtime is a big part of this gig.

Fortunately, having a verdant and industrious brain, I spend that downtime constructively. Namely, I watch sports and, during commercial breaks, play online games.

Sometimes I chew gum.

Regardless, the gauntlet is thrown, people: I encourage you to check out Bookworm and/or Gems Swap 2 and walk (well, sit) an 8-hour shift in my shoes.

King Midas himself couldn't get more gold bricks than this:

And if you're a glutton for punishment, feast your eyes on GS2 level 19.

If you can hit level 20 and prove it with a screen shot, I'll mail you a check for $100.*

Better still, suggest a game that you think I'm missing out on... God knows I have time to give it a trial run.

*Made out to Brawny Smurf

Witty Reporte

2008-10-14T23:18:00.000-07:00

A Steve Greenberg cartoon.

frown

2008-10-14T15:23:00.000-07:00

Briana left this morning for 4 months of sunshine and boat drinks.

That's right, she's headed to Milwaukee.

So I'm sad.

Luckily, I'll soon have something constructive to do to help pass the time: this thing.

Drive safely, Milady... I'll be getting ripped abs and eating the best sushi on earth and pining for you in the meantime.

Final Fantasy Baseball Standings

2008-10-09T21:55:00.000-07:00

You've been waiting 162 games for this post... come get some.

A Film by Brett Ratner
5th of 9

Pasqual's Headhunters*
2nd** of 12

Bay Area Hitters
2nd of 16

Big Time Keeper League
11th of 20

ADDED BONUS:

Least appropriate team names, 2008:
5 In The Pink
Urine For A Treat
Suspicious Bulge
Nice ( . ) . )
I Meant Caulk
Silent Flacidity
Ripe For Pipe
Slippery Shillelagh
Love Stains Eternal
Prof. Slipperyfinger

Dirty team names are a point of pride for any serious fantasy player, and can really take the sting out of a losing week, month, or, as is often the case for poor moi, year.

P.S. - If you can offer any suggestions for future namesakes, please deposit them in the COMMENTS section below, which I read biannually.

How's that for interactive?

*2nd consecutive league in which I've overtaken Audio Aaron on the final day of the season... last year's hockey championship being the coup de grâce, of course.

**Read it and weep, Georgie... thats $20 for my finishing in the top 3, and another $20 for beating your litigious Michigan ass.

Makisupa News, Dude

2008-10-08T15:13:00.000-07:00

Uh oh.

Phish is reuniting next year?

Somewhere in yonder Rocky Mountains, a certain phan is beeming. Beeming I tells ya.

Keep her away from sugar for a while, Dougie Boy.

I would normally relate the tale of seeing Phish from the 2nd row at Alpine Valley at this point, but (A) certain squares who declined to go always get peeved, and (B) I'm fairly certain blog entries can be submitted in courts of law, and neither Kaukauna nor I would welcome any jailtime.

Truth be told, though, listen to that show and see why being a hippie can be worth all the dating of hirsute women and the building of elaborate gravity bongs.

So, my friends*, let us rejoice...

*Fuck you McCain

An Emasculatory Development For Yours Truly

2008-10-04T16:56:00.000-07:00

Having already been soundly throttled by the fair Briana at both billiards and tennis (in consecutive days no less), I tactfully suggested a trip to my latest backyard find, the Par 3 wonderland that is the Montclair Golf Course.

Average hole length? I'm haven't the foggiest clue. However, it's farcically short. I'm fairly certain that you could spit a three over par.

Alas, since Briana hadn't held a golf club since 7th grade*, we opted for the adjacent driving range, which was essentially a double decker sports bar with artificial turf mats strewn sporadically about. The yardage markers (decrepit, hand-painted oil drums) were hilariously inaccurate and the target area was military-grade scorched earth.

Yet despite these handicaps, and one nuclear strength bloody mary, Briana put on a display of mental and athletic fortitude worthy of my praise and, ultimately, envy.

Her inner dialogue: "Steady head. Knees stay bendy. Easy now... keep the eyes and head down. Slowwww back swing... don't turn those hips yet. Accelerate through the ball. Oh fuck yes that was sweet. Strike a pose. Now strut. Shit yeah... where's that bloody mary?"

I've unwittingly stumbled upon yet another pastime at which my beloved Briana Jo will keep me perpetually humble.

Also, pissed.

*7th grade gym requirement. Memorable golf tip? When swinging, pretend you're in a pickle barrel.

As Opposed To A Flat Ravine

2008-09-30T15:57:00.000-07:00

As promised, some vistas from our excursion to the pristine chunk of rock and seashore known as Steep Ravine, right off Highway 1.

Not pictured: The raccoon[s?] that was/were brave enough to trot into our camp in search of our yummy camping stew, made yummier still after I rediscovered my favorite condiment ever, MSG, known in European circles as Aromat.

Sidebar: Ladybugs in the Muir Woods are, um, plentiful:

From Steep Ravine

Sidebar II, "Revenge of the Sidebar": We watched Bulworth last night, Briana for the first time and I for the first time in years. This movie has been severely re-edited for DVD, and, now, borderline sucks. Briana thinks I am making all this up. Furthermore, as I can't find any online evidence of said conspiratorial re-editing (seriously, this film used to be pretty interesting, if not downright inspired), George is getting upset. If any of you loyal readers can bring forth proof of the massive chop-job done upon the once-great Bulworth, I will mail you an autographed photograph of Barack Obama.*

Fortunately, the evening was salvaged by one of the more fun-to-watch films of all time, Dead Again. Cozy Carlisle, baby.

That reminds me of two movies that Douglas and I rewatched whilst living in Portland... movies we went from remembering fondly to hating with the white hot passion of a thousand suns and, accoringly, loathing ourselves for ever thinking were decent in the first place: The Abyss, and Glory.

Both of them horrible.

*Autographed by my neighbor Carol.

Getzan Getz Some

2008-09-24T20:58:00.000-07:00

This should have been posted a couple of days ago, but in my hurried (and, it should be noted, lackluster) preparation for camping at Steep Ravine (a devine time had by all... more on that soon), I didn't find the time to say:

CONGRATULATIONS

DOUG & ING

The news made my day, week, and year.

At present, however, my day is on the verge of being ruined because I can't place a quote that's running through my head. I think its from a TV show, but perhaps 'twas a flick. All I know is that our protagonist (a nephyte politician?) does something stupid in front of a lot of people (at an interview?) and turns to an advisor of some sort (who is sitting down... I don't know why I know that) and says, "Uh oh. Was that bad?" and the advisor, trying to stay upbeat, admits, reluctantly, "It wasn't great."

I recall it being quite funny.

Help me. These things torture me for days.

Anywho, stay tuned for epic tales of bravery and resourcefulness regarding last night's battle with the elements and, more fantastically, Godless Raccoons of Death.

Special Double Feature

2008-09-17T19:01:00.000-07:00

Hold your collective breath, bitches... BumperSmash (!) proudly presents the first-ever DoppleYahoo!ganger-Mug-a-Palooza:

Wes Littleton

AND

Jiff Ramsey

That film had its moments by the way, and is one of three known Eddie Murphy films not to feature a fatsuit.

Some Of My Finer Moments

2008-09-16T21:29:00.000-07:00

As part of my exhaustive research for this post (typing "TYME" into google), I discovered that the Automated Teller Machine of choice during my formative years was actually an acronym for "Take Your Money Everywhere".

Huh. Who knew?

Moving on:

I suppose the thought process of TYME's crack naming committee had something to do with the "time is money" adage.

However, what the naming committee somehow did not foresee was a certain Wisconsin student's penchant for getting fall-down drunk his junior year abroad in London, England and frightening local shopowners by asking to be pointed in the direction of the nearest time machine.

Or maybe they did foresee that and I'm just not giving them enough credit.

Must Miss

2008-09-13T16:08:00.000-07:00

So I was taking in some college football on the boob tube and, in between Michigan Wolverines' fumbles, I saw saw a preview for "My Best Friend's Girl."

It begs the question: can you think of a less appealing comedic duo than Dane Cook and Jason Biggs? I can think of only one.

Speaking of which: here's a great book in which the author explains how Bio-Dome was part of God's plan.

No, really.

State of the Gallimaufry...

2008-09-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

..."gallimaufry" being a word [derived from Gallant] I discovered whilst revisiting the columns of Digby Anderson... required reading from my all-time favorite college course, Plants and Man, which, despite being a ludicrously-difficult course test-wise (multiple choices from hell*... average scores were often well below 50%), did allow us to brew beer in lieu of a mid-term.

But I digress.

gal·li·mau·fry means medly or hodgepodge, so with the title of this post I am inferring that there are any number of things about which I might update you, my discerning reader[s?]. Sadly, most of the afore-mentioned things are rather boring unless they are happening to you. This phenomenon is intrinsic to all blogs and other people's stories about other people's cats.

Disclaimer aside:

1. I'm getting a new bed! Whoopity-Poo! It's from Keetsa and it is ultra-firm**.

2. Some idiot cleaned one of our betta's tanks with the slightest amount of dish soap only to find out that doing so is advisable only if you want your fish to sleep with the fishes.

3. Camping at the Steep Ravine in a couple weeks; rumour has it that one can actually dig one's own hot springs on the beach at low tide. This will provide at least one humorous anecdote (and/or horrible burn) I assure you.

4. Briana just got up so I'm going to go make coffee before she... oh she just did it.

5. I'm going to go anyway. There are several other little components of the gallimaufry but they'll have to wait.

*ACTUAL EXCERPT FROM UW-MADISON's BOTANY 240: PLANTS & MAN MULTIPLE CHOICE TEST:

"Warning: some of the multiple choice answers may be true statements in themselves but do not address the opening statement. I have used that strategy as a standard maneuver to select between those who understand the question vs those who only know that an irrelevant statement is true. Make sure your option is not only true, but also that it addresses the point raised by the opening statement for the question. The form requires numbered options as well as numbered questions, so to avoid confusion, the option numbers are preceded by a letter eg. j9. If you fill in two blanks you get no credit like a wrong answer. Do fill in something for each question, because a blank gets no credit just like a wrong guess."

**I'm sorry, but that is what she said.

For Goodness' Sake

2008-09-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

Watching McCain/Palin overtaking Obama/Biden in the polls is crushing my spirits.

I can not blog "funny" until I see some sign that this coutry isn't doomed to willingly deal [yet another] crippling blow to our own economic/diplomatic/moral/educational/etc. future.

It's "Fight Club" on a grand socio-political scale. Hopefully we'll knock ourselves unconscious before we do too much more damage.

We are being milked.

Fuck.

It's Just Been Rainin' On My Face

2008-09-04T20:22:00.000-07:00

I'm Not Cryin'

FADE IN:

INT. - 2pm - A LIVING ROOM IN PORTLAND, OREGON

Three 20-somethings, NATHAN GALLANT, DOUG SHEFLIN, and JOSH CINELLI, enter the room and plop exhaustedly upon a dilapidated couch. Doug carries with him a basketball, and it is clear from the boys' sweat-stained clothing that they were very recently playing a game of pickup.

DOUG

(TO NO ONE IN PARTICULAR)

So hot.

Josh grabs a remote control from the cluttered coffee table and points it at the television. TBS' afternoon presentation of "Field of Dreams" flickers to life.

INSERT: SCENE FROM "FIELD OF DREAMS" - THE DAUGHTER OF KEVIN COSTNER'S CHARACTER HAS FALLEN OFF A RICKETY GRANDSTAND AND AS A RESULT IS CHOKING ON A HOT DOG. AN OLD-TIME BALLPLAYER RUNS TOWARDS HER, BUT STOPS JUST SHORT OF THE CHALK ALONG THE FIRST BASE LINE.

DISSOLVE TO:

SAME LIVING ROOM - 31 SECONDS LATER

The boys sit in apparent discomfort. While each continues to wipe sweat from his brow, a CLOSE UP OF THEIR EYES reveals that much of the wiping is actually of the corners of the eyes. Nathan sniffles audibly.

FADE OUT

THE END

True story.

An eerily-similar scene transpired years later in a [dilapidated] Providence, Rhode Island living room whilst watching "Big Fish" with Ingrid and, again, Doug. That particular time I was so embarrassed by my girlish blubbering that, by the time I noticed that my respective roomies were also waterworks (thereby officially making it OK to wipe), a veritable reservoir of sadness had accumulated in the little bowl at the base of my neck.

Dare I suggest that these are particularly difficult situations for guys?

Yes, dare I do.

Man etiquette dictates that (1) the stronger sex must hide any evidence of film-related bawling, especially from other men, and (2) a man must not purposely see any other man cry. This is why, invariably, there is an extraordinarily largely amount of airborne particulates in a room when a movie gets sad; moreover, sad parts prove a perfect time for the refilling of drinks and/or the checking of voicemail and/or remembering you have to get up early so you should head straight to bed without saying goodnight because you don't want to ruin the end and besides you just remembered you've seen this movie anyways.

If these options are not available (or if getting up from the couch would cause the pool of tears from your neck to soak through the top of your gray and therefore moisture-sensitive t-shirt), man etiquette decrees a Stare-Straight-Ahead-At-The-Television-Under-Any-And-All-Circumstances posture. In either the "Big Fish" or "Field of Dreams" scenario, Doug could have been on fire and I would not have noticed.

Uh oh. This post got all long on me.* I'll end it by imploring you, my faithful reader[s?], to respond to this post with your tales of lachrymose movie-going, or at least those films that proved to be a fountainhead of your shameful whimpering. And before you hesitate to do so for fear of ruining your street cred, I'll admit that I cried at the end of "The Iron Giant," so nothing you write could possibly trump that.

*That's what she said.

Doppelganger-palooza

2008-08-29T21:11:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing people wish they could alter about my personality, it would be my smell. When I explain that personalities don't smell, they say they were just trying to broach the subject politely.

If there's a second thing people wish they could change about me, it's my penchant for thinking that somebody "looks exactly like" somebody else. Actually, just thinking that wouldn't be a problem; I tend to point it out. Repeatedly. But now, thanks to the interweb, I can share with you, my loyal readers [Ingrid and Audio] some of my favorite examples of the phenomenon.

For my premiere Doppleganger-palooza, you get a double doozy! Kenny, of La Rocca's fame, always reminded me of a young Bruce Bochy, but then it came to my attention (over several vodka tonics with friends) that his true likeness is that of Mark Loretta. I grudgingly concede to the Lorettaphiles, but I'm not too far off.

Behold!

Kenny and an unidentified ho-bag.

Mark Loretta prepares to throw wide to 1st.

I remind Kenny that he looks like Bruce Bochy.

Bruce Bochy weighs his options. (SpoilerAlert! He has none.)

Briana's Subtle Shifts

2008-08-26T22:23:00.000-07:00

Hooray! It's Art Day!

2008-08-25T16:40:00.000-07:00

Courtesy Vinnie and, to a lesser extent, Yours Truly.

Tanuja finds inner peace in my old North Beach apartment...

Fish In A Barrel

2008-08-22T18:34:00.000-07:00

I vowed "No more Yahoo! Sports mugshot posts."

Then Jamie Walker came into my life.

Remember that kid who ate paste
in 8th grade? He's on the Orioles.

Guitar Hero For Those Of Us Without A Video Game System

2008-08-21T21:23:00.000-07:00

1. Go HERE. The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2. Go to Random quotations. The last four words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album. If you want to do this again, you'll hit refresh to generate new quotes, because clicking the quotes link again will just give you the same quotes over and over again.

3. Go to flickr's Explore the Last Seven Days. Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4. Put it all together, that's your debut album.

5. If you're cool, you'll get into intravenous drug use.

My first attempt ruled, though I think we may be Icelandic or something:

My band, Nokdumuk, released our first album, thing to be acheived, with this album cover (which is a video, so we, as a band, are breaking all kinds of ground here; I think the cover will be made like those old "motion" stickers that moved when you tilted your viewing angle).

UPDATE: I just spent an hour trying to find those stickers somewhere online. Surely somebody out there knows what I'm talking about. When scratched they made that zipper sound.

There's a dong joke there somewhere, but I'm above it. Someone get me those stickers.

Still Bitter

2008-08-21T17:26:00.000-07:00

It's been well over three years since Threadless rejected my t-shirt submission due to copyright infringement concerns:

Click for larger version. Is the text extraneous?

This was, of course, well before I met Andy Dick in La Rocca's. But really, Crispin was a far bigger trainwreck than Andy methinks. Let's go to the tape.

I remember watching that show live. 'Twas jaw-dropping.

As an aside, Briana thinks, nay, knows, that I have something of a problem with t-shirts. I covet them... ache for them. Many of them are too tight according to Doug. Many actually are too tight.
But dem's the breaks says I.

This post got away from me.

Well, here's my new favorite shirt from GirlAndRhino:

Their site seems to be down, but come get some when you're in my hoodie.

Important Update

2008-08-15T17:48:00.000-07:00

This is fast becoming an Installment.

I proudly present the Yahoo! Sports Mugshot du Jour:

Cody Ross...
Holding it in til this photo shoot is over.

Kitty Butler's Dresser

2008-08-13T20:33:00.000-07:00

If you had any idea what this entry's title is a reference to (and be thankful that you hadn't), you would have somehow been duped into seeing Tipping the Velvet, a magical BBC mini-series with all the subtlety of a flame-throwing day-glo Visigoth on methamphetamines.

Within the first 15 minutes of the show [the title of which is a euphemism for cunnilingus] our virginal Victorian protagonist goes from shucking clams (spoiler alert!) to becoming the personal dresser for a male impersonator with a penchant for changing outifts in rooms with many, many sexily-placed mirrors.

The dialogue and narrative arc was very believable, provided you are riding a unicorn through the golden streets of Atlantis whilst reading this.

In Tipping's honor, I offer one of my favorite all-time movie quotes which, in 4 glorious seconds, conjures up more dramatic resonance and better underscores a character's guarded vulnerability than those hacks from the BBC could possibly fathom:*

"I love the PowerGlove... it's so bad." - Lucas

*I actually love the BBC** but, let's just face it,

they don't know Ninja Gaiden.

**The BBC was also the name of a pizza from

a restaurant I worked at in high school;

the Bacon Broccoli and Cheddar used

mayonnaise*** in lieu of tomato sauce.

***Spelling mayonnaise is a motherfucker.

This Shant Become Habit

2008-08-13T13:27:00.000-07:00

This is the easy way out; posting videos musn't be a regular feature of such a discerning, socially-gemane, highbrow blog such as mine. My fish are not interesting to you. I know this. But Gladys was trying to eat Briana and I'm going to pretend that her doing so was an astute (albeit cute) comentary upon the current offshore drilling conundrum.

But this one I just like:

So.... fake? Anybody?

Gladys' Love Tap

2008-08-08T11:06:00.001-07:00

An Extended Period Of Time

2008-08-05T16:41:00.000-07:00

It's been forever and a day since I've been to a food court. Normally, this would prove an altogether awesome thing, as it would suggest that I haven't been forced to go shopping in a mall recently and became so emaciated and muddle-headed that "Panda King" or "The Great Steak & Potato Co." or "Sbarro's" somehow sound palatable.

However, on the way to work today my nose picked up something that triggered a "Cinnabon" synapse deep within my grey matter, and I wanted nothing more than to bury my clean-shaven face in a cinnamon swirl.

I settled for a bagel with turkey and cream cheese from "Cafe Insalata."

Briana's reading Skinny Bitch, so this may be the last occasion I ever eat meat with a clean conscious. Through her, I will no doubt discover that turkeys can compose simple poetry and play Chutes & Ladders, provided we love them better.

Me. Tired. Beer. Too. Much.

2008-08-04T17:32:00.000-07:00

As my brain has atrophied due to three days' exposure to Madison and, accordingly, my debonair and ascetic peers, I offer you my favorite Yahoo! Sports baseball mugshots.

Kobayashi, Francisco, and Laird.

I mean, seriously, Kobayashi is clearly an assassin.

As for the other two, let's just say that they look like two McDonald's employees who aren't allowed near the fryers.

Sconnie Tomorrow Mornie

2008-07-30T17:49:00.000-07:00

Kaukauna's wedding beckons.

Off to Madison.

I've spent the better part of two days standing in place spinning in circles preparing for Friday morning, hoping that I can cancel out the hangover spin.

It will not likely work, but Mikey and Becky will still get my very best on Saturday afternoon, as those two lovebirds deserve no less. On the contrary, they deserve much, much more.

I love ya, Cowboy:

Desert Island Installment #1

2008-07-28T18:22:00.000-07:00

As I have posited this exercise to every living thing I have ever met, I have a handy response to virtually any desert island querie. I still can't decide which breakfast cereal I'd take along (Life, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch are all heavy hitters in that particular debate), but I have thought about such questions with staggering regularity. So often, in fact, that I should probably avoid traveling to any desert islands for fear of an ironic death.

That being the case, we'll forge into the Great Known with the requisite "Three Desert Island Albums, No Mixtapes Allowed, In Any Order."

Beatles - White Album

Pixies - Doolittle

Public Enemy - Fear of a Black Planet

I am suddenly reminded of an enormous 100 disc CD player I had in college. When put in shuffle mode, there were certain songs that would get played far more often than the would "random" would ordinarily suggest. We (the roomies and I) realized that the thing clearly had a personality, and began to look for signs of intelligence. And while I never caught my CD player playing chess or reading Seneca, you could tell who was sitting in the room by which songs it chose.

Now I'm wondering what the rest of my top ten desert island albums would look like. Hmmm... more to come indubitably.

Hey! Look! I'm a wunderkind.

2008-07-22T22:20:00.001-07:00

If you're reading this, I can blog from my phone.
If you can not, this has been a waste of 40 seconds.

Muss Dis Mana

2008-07-16T22:59:00.001-07:00

No Way That Just Happened

2008-07-14T20:21:00.000-07:00

As promised, here's my abbreviated axiom regarding the existence of alternate universes as proven by Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS, specifically Dave Roberts' 9th inning theft of 2nd base and the subsequent game-tying single courtesy Bill Mueller off of Mariano Rivera (the first of many strange goings on that resulted in Boston winning 4 straight games over the hated Yankees.)

Quite simply, I still don't believe the base-burgle (and the subsequent 7-game Sox victory over the then-invincible Yankees) ever took place. Here's what makes more sense:

It didn't happen.

I haven't decided what exactly did happen, but Occam's Razor and the history of the American League East would suggest that Dave Roberts stole 2nd, then Bill Mueller popped up to 3rd. I, however, would like to advance that Dave Roberts stole 2nd but was somehow called out in yet another Yankee gift . This not only seems possible, it seems probable.

This must be what happened.

I didn't realize it at the time, but when Roberts was called safe I had slipped into a traversable wormhole into what I must now consider to be My Reality. This, of course, is only one of many realities that the fleet-footed Roberts forged that evening. When Roberts was called out (in what I can only refer to as the Probable Reality), I must have flipped the fuck out. Flipped. The fuck. Out.

As I was in New York City at the time watching at The Riv, I probably had a lot of company in spewing vitriolic verbal venom in the general direction of the T.V.

Dozens of half-full $9 Budweisers were made airborne.

But here's the best part: were it not for the wormhole, I, for the rest of my life, along with millions of like-minded Boston fans, would have to argue that the series "might have" "turned out differently" had Roberts been awarded 2nd base. Everyone else, in particular millions of smug Yankee "fans" would guffaw loudly at any such theories and speak of Yankee Magic and 1918 and blah blah blah.

But guess the fuck what, Billy? I'm in the universe where the Yankees choked harder than anyone had ever choked before in the history of organized sport. I can prove that the Roberts steal mattered. It mattered. It wiped the smirks off the collective pin-striped face of the sense of entitlement. There's nothing else I can say about what happened; I haven't sufficient knowledge concerning the intricacies of the spacetime continuum. Surely, though, logic dictates it should have never happened.

But it did happen.

Any Objections?

2008-07-14T16:42:00.000-07:00

I believe I'll start posting actual "personal" photos over there in the "Never Learned to Read?" section. Nothing too personal though.

Not that I'm doing anything worthy of such documentation, but I don't recall where I found half of those pictures and I believe in doling out credit when said credit is due. That being the case, props to my gal pal Stacy because hers are the absolute tops, babe.

Coming later tonight: a postulation upon the existence of parallel universes as suggested by Dave Roberts stealing 2nd base in Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS. If that doensn't have you pressing Refresh on your browser of choice, nothing will.

That, but more likely you'll be busy looking up "pr0n."

Football Tent Pole

2008-07-09T20:55:00.000-07:00

I may well be imbuing a different brand of nostalgia than you're used to, but I think I speak for all sports fans of discerning taste when I applaud NBC for bringing back the greatest SportsCenter duo of all time. Nights of the Sabbath just got hella hilarious.

Also, NBC: way to go on 30 Rock. That science is tight.

An Ideal [Excuse to Drink w/ Oscar Wilde]

2008-07-08T21:09:00.000-07:00

A couple of quick notes:

(1.) For those of you lucky enough to live in this sweltering tinderbox of scorched earth we call Northern California, I encourage, nay, decree, you to do your grey matter a favor and check out An Ideal Husband at the staggeringly-gorgeous Bruns Amphitheater.

And for all you lushes out there, it's BYOBB.

Also, the ingenuous, fair, and literate Briana is stage managing the production, so anything that goes wrong can be directly attributed to her; lightning strikes and/or locusts are somehow her fault in my book. Mine is an awesome book.

(2.) Shifting gears and updating a previous post, the funky handyman Hajji, a.k.a. Rodger Collins, gave me a sneak preview of his new CD, and I don't mind telling you that it kicks your ass and the ass of anything you have hidden inside your ass, pervert.

You'll be hearing a lot of track #2 in the future if I have anything to say about things. Which I of course I do not; but I wish I did, especially if I could throw my voice.

Installments

2008-07-05T14:43:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that the failings of my past blogs was due to my not having anything to write about. Or, more to the point, not having anything remotely interesting to write about. I can only go to the "I Played FreeCell at Work Today" well so often.

To remedy this, I've decided to install the first of many installments (hence the name) that will hopefully amuse and inspire reader commentary. There will be the requisites, e.g. "Desert Island Albums" and "Marry Bang Kill," as well as the new classics: "Baseball's Greatest 'Staches".

This one came up last night with Timmy Sondreal in town. We will, in our winter years, open a bar in which the only wall hangings are framed photographs of moustachioed ballplayers. More on Tim at a later date (when he shares the photos he took), but one quick note: he had a date within 30 minutes of landing at San Francisco International Airport. Kavorka.

That being said, on with the show. I only vaguely recall this guy, but I recall with startling clarity his hairy horseshoe.

You are encouraged to offer suggestions or, God willing, links to some of your favorites. Rollie Fingers is too easy, and Ingrid: Jack Morris' is a given.

Funky Handyman

2008-07-02T16:25:00.000-07:00

It's one of dem bomp chicka WAH WAH chick-a-chick-a-chick-a WAH WAAHHH Wednesdays.

At noon today our maintenence man, Hajj, buzzed the door to come fix our "vintage" oven; if the stove is plugged in, any one of the four burners will every so often light itself. This is rarely a good thing unless you can plan to install spontaneous combustion machines into the homes of your enemies.

After I answered the door in my jammy-jams, Hajj came in and, after a brief how-do-you-do, preceded to the kitchen, home to the offending appliance. Whilst walking through our [impeccably-decorated] parlor, he started, well, grooving. Head-bobbing, backside-wagging. The mixtape from an earlier post was playing on the hi-fi, and he was diggin' that strange.

"Never heard this version before... that Ike and Tina?"

Over the next 30 minutes I sipped a cup of ultra-yummy joe whilst Hajj made things right and talked tunage. It turned out that my unassuming handyman, née Rodger Collins, released several well-received albums, toured with some big, big time acts, and even had an extended stint in Vegas with some guy named Elvis. In a remarkable coincidence, he mentioned he was a pallbearer for the late Ike Turner.

So Hajj, thank you kindly for putting the strut in my step today. I encourage all my loyal readers to funk along with me and the Foxy Girls in Oakland.

That's right he said it.

Moreover...

2008-07-02T12:13:00.000-07:00

My favorite part of any ballgame is when I've had my third beer and the umpire takes his mask off between innings and I stand up and shout "Holy shit... It's Enrico Pallazzo!"

Never fails. Never.

(too esoteric, Audio?)

That Was A Decideldly-Outside Joke

2008-07-01T10:51:00.000-07:00

As an explication to the post three prior, I offer you this.

Imagine my duress when I posted Mr. Richie's ode to fine art as my Yahoo! avatar only to receive no fewer than three inquiries as to the origin of the orange bust with the freakishly-well pronounced chin. For shame, ye bumpkins, for shame.

Hmmm... what would be the artistic equivalent of the uncanny valley? Because that blind chick's statue was almost certainly a definitive example.

More 80's-era edification is sure to follow. Speaking of which, am I on the outside looking in if I didn't recognize at least half of the inside jokes herein?

Musics In Lieu Of Verbosity

2008-07-01T10:50:00.001-07:00

Radio Silence

2008-07-01T10:32:00.000-07:00

As many of you (well, two of you... hello to Ingrid and Audio) are aware, I have been patiently awaiting my DNS to update after I changed my CNAME to blah blah blah. My readers shouldn't have to look at that horrible ".blogspot." portion of the BumperSmash address; I decree it.

Alas, I have now waited well over the requisite 48 hours for said DNS to update (no, that means nothing to me either) and am still left with an Under Construction page at what should by now be the home to the rawkingest site in cyberspace, home to my ever growing legion of adoring fans, the female portion of which fills my inbox with photos of themselves in various states of undress.

But can they find BumperSmash? No.

So I'll probably post another mixtape and call it a day.

Hello.

2008-06-27T14:43:00.000-07:00

It's pronounced "Webelo."

2008-06-26T20:42:00.000-07:00

Herein lays a self-congratulatory official posting of an Arrested Development spec script I wrote back in the New York days. For you laypersons, a "spec script" is an episode of a popular television program one writes and then forces others to read late at night while under the influence of powerful spirits.

Actually, there's more to it than that (in theory), but this blog is nothing if not anti-educative. So if you accidentally stumbled upon this page researching spec scripts, (A) your search engine must really suck hard, and (B) don't rip off my script's jokes. Go here instead and make me proud.

This script was intended to fit neatly inside the early parts of the 2nd season, somewhere around the "Amigos" episode. If you don't know what that means, I'm sorry but we can no longer be friends. This is not the final draft (you'll notice a few capitalization mistakes and this version's final montage is utter garbage because I didn't know how to write them yet) but I'll stand up and fight for it.

One Ms. Jennifer Arndt deserves no small amount of gratitude for her help with writing the script, as pretty much every word of it was intended to make her laugh.

So: here it is.

I encourage your inner editor (probably an asshole) to offer commentary, criticism and any other honest assesements. Of course, as per my strict policy of unrepentant self aggrandizing, any criticisms will be summarily ignored.

Unfortunate Juxtaposition

2008-06-26T13:14:00.000-07:00

WGN just ran a promo touting the "New WGN America: TV You Can't Ignore."

It was all pretty impressive until the next promo was encouraging viewers to tune in to the 12:30am Becker.

The Cubs are getting bitchslapped by the Orioles by the way.

Along those same [waist?]lines, Lou Piniella's gut is a thing of beauty.

"Jesus, Lou, are you smuggling a fucking medicine ball?"

Please add alternative captions in the comment section below... it was going to be "Jesus, Lou, did you fucking eat Alan Trammell?" but thought it may prove too esoteric (he's the bench coach and one of Ingrid's greatest heroes).

[expletive deleted]

2008-06-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

A word of warning for those of weak knee: I will no doubt find it necessary to use profanity from time to time when describing the daily goings on of my rich and phrenetic life. If you find such digressions disturbing or in any way offensive, I suggest to hang out with others of like mind.

Here's a quick test: "Whilst shaving my head this morning, my ancient and ever-dulling electric razor almost lopped off my fucking earlobe."

Taken aback? No? That's good. That's fucking good.

I bet you hesitated to click on that hyperlink. Not to worry; I vow to never knowingly direct you to any sites of dubious content. Actually, don't click that last one lest you feel compelled to further investigate. Under no circumstances should you do so... it is without question the worst thing that's ever happened.

The BumperSmash Charter

2008-06-25T20:40:00.000-07:00

As many of you by now know, BumperSmash is (and will forever remain) the appellation and future home of the most delectable lunchtime treat in the rich history of starch-based foodstuffs. Don't let the eponymous nature of this blog fool you; I fully intend to pursue the financial windfall that will supervene the grand opening and subsequent franchizing of my brainchild. Until said time, however, I've decided it wise to lend its name to my new blog as a shrewd attempt to lay claim to the BumperSmash empire.

While blogging can not provide the toothsome, even curative smashed potatoes that future generations will associate with BumperSmash, I fully intend to offer many challenging observations and Circean tales of daring heroism in their stead.

Most will involve dong jokes.

Tunage

2008-06-25T16:28:00.001-07:00