calling all bosom buddies

David Brent was right--Dolly Parton is more than just a big pair of tits. For one thing, she can exude patriotic bodaciousness like no one else. (Nevermind that this may only be because the wobbling of her boobs creates the effect that her tribute-to-America pantsuit is waving proudly above the land of the free.) Someone needs to sign her as a spokesperson for something...



A-ha. I've got just the thing.

October is breast cancer awareness month, which means it's the one month a year that reminds you that you should have been feeling yourself up for the last eleven months, so you try to make up for it by being extra paranoid and checking every day until November comes along and then you get paranoid about all of the extra attention you received from your partner during the whole boob-check month and suddenly your concern over possibly having cancer is eclipsed by the ensuing pregnancy scare. Ah, fall. It's my favorite time of year.

So let the paranoia begin--in two months we'll wash it all away with a big helping of turkey and pie. But in the meantime, why can't we have a little fun? Why does breast cancer awareness have to be such a somber topic? Don't you think more awareness could be raised through comedy rather than scare tactics and marathons? Isn't there some way to raise funds and concern about cancer without having to resort to such barbaric tactics as exercise and depression? I sure think so. And so do others.








Nice. That last one just follows the natural progression of ideas--check here for more. And, if none of these are your style, you can lend some support with a simple click. So during this month, click on the thingy, squash your boobs (or your loved ones' boobs--ask permission first), and remind others to do so as well.

Holy bazooms, folks, there's so much material here that this just doesn't seem like enough! That is why I propose a Breast Cancer Awareness Contest. Submissions may come in any form, as long as they bring attention to the boobies:

- Writings (plays, haikus, T-shirt slogans)
- Art (papier machee, steel sculptures, pipe-cleaner doo-hickies, Halloween costumes)
- Music (songs, cello pieces, drum solos)
- Photos (oh my God, please don't send me photos)

And anything in between. Submit to me via email (for art pieces, pictures are acceptable)--anyone may enter. Deadline is 31 October 2007. There are no objective judging criteria. Instead, I will judge the submissions myself, à la Tyra Banks with the helpful assistance of my Resident Boob Expert. This will involve me wearing a wig and some weird outfit and taking every opportunity to draw attention to myself. (As my sidekick, the RBE will act flamboyantly catty and roll his eyes incessantly.) The Winner will receive an awesome prize in the shape of--what else--boobies (it doesn't matter what it is--you know you want it!!), Second Place will receive a honk on the boob of their choice (note: it does not have to be theirs), and Third Place will get a friendly slap on the ass.

Encourage everyone to enter--pass along my contact info to bored co-workers, relatives, etc. And in the meantime, use as many of these emoticons as possible. Remember, it's for a good cause:

for next time, might i suggest some sort of peer editing process

People, it's happening--we're engaging Iran.


Well actually, I suppose it's not really an engagement. An engagement implies something official. This was more like a promise ring. You know, the kind of 'commitment' you make to someone just so she'll have sex with you already? Like that. Except right before foreplay you pop her in the nose.

Oh, Lee. I understand you were under an intense amount of pressure from all sides on this one. You were denounced on the Senate floor, your alumni were threatening to buy yachts instead of donating to the university, the media was up your ass the entire week, you probably had an attack of ideology the night before the event and went through a fitful speech revision at 4am ("You exhibit all the signs of a petty, cruel dictator"? That's fucking Shakespearean GOLD, baby!!). It was a tough break, kid--really. And I still want to think the best of you, even though you were pretty damn rude to your guest, President Ahmadinejad.

Don't get me wrong, it felt pretty fantastic. You did what everyone fantasizes of doing, sticking it to that thuggish asshole. (Who here has not stood in front of their bathroom mirror, pointedly tapping their toothbrush on the glass, admonishing their stately reflection for its heinous human rights abuses against the proud people from the cradle of civilization?) For a few shining moments you were our fucking hero.

But then it started to feel wrong. Like when the boys on the playground knock the fat kid over on the tarmac. Sure, it's hilarious at first but then your conscience starts poking at you, and you realize that no matter the slapstick value it's wrong to torture fat kids. Especially when you suspect they might be mildly retarded as well. And then you feel bad--guilty, queasy even--and you realize, it's just like the lesson you learned last summer: kicking puppies might feel good at the time, but it's wrong, so wrong. Especially if you do it on a global media stage.

Regardless, you made a good point--it's not really about free speech. Rather, we as Americans have the right to listen to anyone and anything we want to. And just to let you know, in case you need some cheering up, this one great argument was very nearly absorbed by the citizens of your academic nation:



Well, it's no sheep-herding trophy, but...that'll do, Lee. That'll do.

génial

This clip from Flight of the Conchords is dedicated to anyone who ever had to endure the awkward "let's go to the discotheque" conversation in French class. You know who you are.



And this one is just for fun.

education is sexy: idealistic panties and other political lingerie

How stressed out is this guy right now? Like, soooo stressed out.

Like, ohmygod I didn't move my car and it's street
cleaning day stressed out.

No, more.

Like, ohmygod I can't remember my last period, who was that guy anyway? stressed out.

No, even more than that.

More like, ohmygod I totally invited the president of Iran to speak at my university and now an American fatwa has been issued against me and my children and my children's children stressed out.

Yeah, that's it.

The president of Columbia University, Mr. Lee Bollinger, invited Pres. Ahmadinejad to speak and answer questions at the university on Monday and it is as if the entire universe has imploded. There have been rallies and demonstrations all weekend (and tomorrow) denouncing the invitation and calling for everything ranging from a withdrawal of the invite (which is what happened last year) to an outcry for all New Yorkers to make Pres. A's visit as unpleasant as possible. I was a bit confused by the latter, since I kind of have a feeling that NYC is not considered the friendliest place on Earth anyway, and any further mistreatment by its residents only serves to confer a high title of extreme bad-assiveness to the target. Either way, it made me laugh. Thank you, random angry guy, you are an ironic genius and I love you.

For an enlightened liberal university, people sure have their idealistic panties in a bunch. Their reasoning: he's a jerk so we shouldn't listen to him. My reasoning: yeah he's a jerk, but he's also in charge of a country--a country we seem bent on invading before Jan'09. As one of my professors told me when he heard that I wanted to study in Iran: you better go while it's still there. I could tell that he thought he was hilarious, but was still kind of sad about it. How do you say 'fuck you and your tragically comic repartees' in Persian? I will have to ask my professor tomorrow.

Anyway, I'm all excited--like it's Christmas Eve or something. Except, instead of Santa there will be Ahmadinejad, and instead of reindeer there will be secret service agents, and instead of presents there will be massive protests. I would bring the traditional cookies to welcome the president, but it's Ramadan, so instead I'll have to settle for a glittery pink "I [heart] Ahmadinejad" poster. You know, to give the media spectacle some perspective. Maybe I'll even start a counter-rally. When he comes through the campus gates we'll scream as if the Beatles had just arrived and swoon at his hairy good looks. Maybe some hyper-excited co-eds will even throw their idealistic panties at him. We'll just have to remember to smile--gotta look good in those FBI file photos.

terrorism and vaginas--HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

This post is for Brian, who has the worst birth day ever thanks to al-Qaeda. Brian, I just want you to know--despite the fact that everyone wanders around all day looking morose, it isn't your fault. Remember, bin Laden doesn't hate your birthday, he just hates your freedom. I mean, I'm sure even he likes gifts and cake. Unless he's some sort of monster.

Speaking of gifts, I didn't get you one--but I did find the perfect one at Threadless.com:



It's a vagina, get it? A giant green chomping vagina. Brilliant! You and Crotchety could both get one and then wear them around together. You'd be a hit--everyone loves a matching couple and references to genitalia! At least everyone I know.

And now, to complete your belated birthday, the French rendition of "Happy Birthday":

Happy beerrstday to you,
happy beerrstday to you,
happy beerrstday dear Brriaann,
happy beerstday to youuu!!

back to school

In honor of my return to school this week, I am posting the video below:



Pleasantries aside, I realize now--9:45pm on Sunday night--that I should have started my reading in July. I have been reading nonstop for nearly the entire weekend, and I still have a couple hundred pages to go before Tuesday. I guess that's what you get when your professors assign readings for the first class before you decide that you actually want to take it. Ah, the memories of college are flooding back. At least I feel somewhat prepared--the fearful, doomed stares on the other students' faces reassure me that UofC has somewhat acclimated me to the sheer amount of reading that we will be expected to complete each week. Unfortunately, before I realized this, I insensitively laughed at one classmate after he expressed concern over the number of articles and books assigned in a particular class. Whoops. Way to make friends on the first day.

Actually, my concern centers more around the fact that I have been placed in the 'highest level' of Math Lab in connection to our economics classes. My placement was based on the results of a math quiz following the math tutorials forced upon us during student orientation. I don't remember much of the quiz besides a red haze of frustration and a hastily penned essay in lieu of an answer on the last exercise explaining how I would solve the problem if only I actually knew how. Consequently, I refuse to believe that these results are accurate and am instead convinced that God hates me and has employed his math minions to inflict pain upon me and my loved ones, to whom I shall be whining incessantly until my economics requirement is fulfilled. God, what have I ever done to You to deserve This? May your supply always outweigh your demand, you Meddling Communist Bastard. Why don't you make yourself useful and strike down some of the undergrads clogging up my language class instead? Half of them are going to drop out by Thanksgiving break anyway, once they break up with the girl/boyfriend whose exotic culture and language seemed so much more academically appealing when raunchy class-skipping sex was involved. Just think about it--you'll see that I'm right.

I now see that with that last sentence I have shot myself in the foot--much like the US foreign policy I have been reading so much about for the last four days--and you are all now completely and irretrievably distracted by memories of your own raunchy class-skipping sexcapades.

Lest anything I write here become forever entangled with your disgusting thoughts of sluttitude, I will end here for now. Perverts. You'll get another post once the sock is removed from the doorknob.