Dude today sucks. Both Korea and USA got eliminated. Sad emo tears are streaming down my face right now. In addition, my belly is full of beer.

For those of you who want to follow along at home, here’s the list of winners and losers. As you’ll notice, I am one of the losers.

Last night I went to the deli to buy some beer and the deli-man is this old Korean guy who makes the same joke over and over again. When he gives you the total, say $8.99, he’ll say “THAT BE EIGHT THOUSAND NINETY NINE DOLLAR!” So last night he makes the joke again, and then says, HOLD ON A MINUTE, are you Korean? And then he got all proud of me for being Korean because obviously that’s quite an achievement, and said that I shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, but that I should be eating raisins instead. Then, he gave me a box of raisins. Which I am eating right now. You know how there are kids who hate raisins and then they grow up to be adults who hate raisins? I’m not one of them. I fucking love fucking raisins, man. They are delicious little rabbit turds. I mean goji berries? Acai berries? Whatever, man. Raisins, this is what I’m saying. When I got them in my Halloween sack (which was my Empire Strikes Back pillowcase, which I still have by the way), I totally ate them. I ate them way before the candy corn. Dude, candy corn is gross. It’s like sugared wax. Why should I eat that when I could be eating dried grapes? You know what else is gross? Necco wafers and Smarties (the American ones not the British ones which taste like M&Ms and are delicious despite the fact that they come in lame Easter egg pastel colors and therefore inferior to M&Ms though I do not approve of those stupid blue ones. I want the tan ones back!). American Smarties taste like vitamins and chalk combined. All of the sudden this blog became about candy. Curious.

Ok so I guess I’m rooting for Argentina now. In a related note: I don’t know anything about Argentinian candy.

Today is Memorial Day. I have been memorializing all weekend, let me tell you. Yesterday, friends and I went to the park, and I memorialized JoMo’s trip to Modell’s to purchase a badminton set, and memorialized JoMo’s seemingly simple and yet overly complicated set-up of the badminton net, and then memorialized Marco and JoMo’s game of badminton and then memorialized Lizzard and Stephanie’s badminton game. It was a lot of work, all that memorializing. I was so busy memorializing on the picnic blanket that I didn’t have time to play badminton, with all that bread and cheese and strawberries I had to eat. Really tough work, you guys. So tough. I should get a medal for all the work I did. You guys should be memorializing me because honestly, I really ate the shit out of those strawberries. I should get credit for that. A medal even. A certificate of participation. Anything.

Anyway today is about memorializing my shitty apartment and cleaning the shit out of it. So, I cleaned the windows. The last time I did this, we had a different president. Anyway, I realized a few things.

1. Windows get really dirty. I know this comes to a surprise to many of you. Hah.

2. When you clean windows everything in your home looks a lot brighter.

3. When you clean windows and these windows happen to be in a shitty apartment, it makes your shitty apartment look even shittier.

So my conclusion is this: if you live in a shitty apartment, don’t clean your windows.

Finally, I’m memorializing the horrible event that unfolded on Friday. I was making simple syrup-that’s when you take equal parts sugar and water and then simmer it. Well, I set the pot on the stove, turned on the burner, AND THEN LEFT THE HOUSE.

FOR ALMOST TWO HOURS.

The pot did NOT catch on fire and my shitty apartment was not burned to a crisp. However, my apartment still smells like burnt sugar. Now you might think: but burnt sugar smells nice, like a candy shoppe! The kind of candy shop that spells it “shoppe,” you know, to be cuter. After all, isn’t caramel just burned sugar?

NO. It does not smell like this. Maybe after five minutes it smells like a candy shoppe. But after ALMOST TWO HOURS it smells more like burning hair. Fact. If you do not believe me, come over and take a whiff and you will be like “dude, are you baking a hair pie?” and I will laugh because “hair pie” is really funny wink wink but then I will tell you NO it is BURNT SUGAR and also ask WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE? And you will say BECAUSE YOU INVITED ME YOU PSYCHO BITCH and I will be like shit you are right, I hate it when you are right.

I took this picture in Berlin last fall. Specifically this was taken at Checkpoint Charlie.

Yes people, that says Snackpoint Charlie.

So when like people were like trying to escape the war and the death camps and all that boring shit (zzzz), they totally made a quick stop to get an eggplant parm and a chicken lo mein. It was crazy! They were like holy shit, next time we should come here for dinner instead of waiting in line for soup. And everyone was like for realz, Fraulein, pass me the soy sauce these egg rolls are da bomb and then everyone laughed because you know, saying something is da bomb is particularly hilarious during WWII. Then they opened their fortune cookies and did that thing where they end the fortune with “in bed.” So funny, even back then. Fact.

And another photo: My friend and I were walking around Wall Street area just for the goof as they say, and we happened upon the Wall St. bull.

Here is a person touching its balls. Rubbing them for luck, I presume. I don’t know who this person is, but I am positive this person is going to have really good luck just like everyone else on Wall St. I should note that there was a group of tourists WAITING IN LINE TO TOUCH ITS BALLS. And, in addition, people taking picture of said balls. I suppose I would fall into the second category.

But seriously dudes check it out. The bull has gigantic balls. And he is a lucky bull because there are many people who want to touch its balls. Note how shiny its balls are. They have been touched many, many times.

OK, one last photo. I recently took a look at a West Village apartment. The dude tells me, listen it’s on the ground floor, but it still gets light. So I go take a look because I am curious.

That’s the front window. As in facing the front. Yes those are stairs blocking the window. Yes the apartment isn’t technically ground floor. It is more like basement floor. Which is to say lower than the ground, or, if you will, underground. It is also a very small apartment. So it is a perfect apartment if you do not like light or space. It is also a perfect apartment for those who love to spend money on rent. If you like the smell of trash, then it is perfect because the building’s trash cans are conveniently located outside your window. Rats and heat are free though, which is nice. Oh, also, the other windows face the air shaft. So it is also a perfect apartment for those who do not enjoy air, or enjoy air that has been in one place for a long time.

I am currently cleaning THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF MY APARTMENT. It’s a big Korean/Asian thing to clean THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF YOUR HOME to usher (Usher!!!) the New Year. Since I’m leaving for California tomorrow, I have to clean THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF MY APARTMENT now before I leave.

I have made…some archeological discoveries whilst cleaning, I will share them with you because I love you all and I think it’s important that you understand what I have discovered because they are pieces of history and they are valuable and will make me very, very rich.

-A bottle of ketchup. It looks like regular ketchup. Heinz brand. Because Hunts brand really does suck it, I don’t know why anyone bothers to get anything else but Heinz. Seriousy. Don’t be a prick, spend the extra dollar and get the Heinz. Anyway it is ketchup. It is red, it is thick, it is ‘chock full of lypoprene’ which sounds like something my bathing suit is made out of or something baseball players put on their junk because it itches. The only problem with my ketchup is that IT EXPIRED IN TWO THOUSAND AND FIVE. That is (nearly) FIVE YEARS AGO. HALF A DECADE AGO.

-A can of Campbell’s Vegetarian Vegetable Alphabet Soup. I rarely eat canned soup, unless I am very, very desperate. Like when I was in grad school and had $5 in my bank account. What can $5 get you in NYC? Well, it gets you a can of soup and a bagel. It does not get you salad, however. You know how people reminice about their “salad days”? Well clearly they did not live in NYC because you cannot afford salad here. Lettuce costs more than $5. Anyway the point is, my “salad days” were more like “soup days”. I happen to like soup, it is kind of like drinking a food pyramid. Kind of convenient. Anyway, this can of Campbell’s Vegetarian Vegetable Alphabet Soup expired in TWO THOUSAND AND FOUR. Which is when I was in grad school. SIX YEARS AGO. SIX! HALF A DOZEN YEARS AGO!

-I found a bag of what might be brown sugar, but it looks more like a brown brick that is ROCK SOLID. If I had a thousand more of these, I would build myself a wood-fire pizza oven. A PIZZA OVEN, PEOPLE. Everyone likes pizza, am I right? Just say yes even if you don’t agree. Pizza is like advanced phD level toast. You know how much I love toast.

-I also found the following:
Godiva Chocolate Liquor, a third of a bottle
Frangelico, almost finished. Maybe a few tablespoons left
Kahlua, half a bottle
Amaretto, three-quarters of a bottle
Triple Sec, quarter left

I should make some kind of adult beverage out of this business. Like an adult milkshake. But probably not with the triple sec, that stuff is kind of weird. Is there such thing as Double Sec? I mean maybe triple is just too much. Maybe I just want double? You know, I’m trying to moderate more. Triple just seems extreme. Double is fine, thank you.

-I FOUND A TRASH CAN. A REAL TRASH CAN. Tucked away on the pantry floor. Holy shit. A garbage can. I can see why I hid it away. it is a real piece of shit. I wanted to throw the garbage can in the garbage can. I’m not sure how to do that, so I just gave it to my neighbors.

-A box of 3-hole-punched paper. Curious. I have no idea how it got here, nor do I ever remember needing it or using it or buying it. It is a gift from Santa. On his days off he works at Staples. It’s a recession, everyone’s taking on more responsibilties.

-I found a pair of binoculars. Nice. It was in my pantry, next to a can of chile peppers in adobo. Because that is where one keeps binoculars.

I found some other stuff too, all historical artifacts that will make me very very rich. I’m going to the Natural History museum tomorrow to sell all this stuff, I am sure they will be very happy. If not, I’ll give it to the Met. I hear they’ll take anything.

Hello friends, I have returned! I am EXTREMELY HORRIBLY INSANELY INTENSELY JETLAGGED. Jesus. It’s bad. I woke up this morning BEFORE THE SUN (dude BEFORE THE SUN!!!!) and really wanted spaghetti. Spaghetti, you guys. And I know this is hard to believe, but it is really really really hard to find someone who serves spaghetti in the morning. It is just not a breakfast food for some stoopid reason. Italians don’t even eat spaghetti for breakfast. There is some kind of lame conspiracy going on. Anyway I would make my goddamn spaghetti myself, but I know for a fact that if I did that, it would taste disgusting and also, it would not be exactly what I wanted. When you have a craving, you have to like GET ON THAT EXACT craving or else you’ll feel sad and unsatisfied. NO people, I am not pregnant. I just want goddamn spaghetti. Sue me! So now I have to wait for some spaghetti joint to open. Apparently that means I have to wait for lunch, local time. My problem is that I am SIX HOURS IN THE FUTURE where it is already lunch, and in fact, PAST lunch. Tick tock people. Dude I think I just drooled on myself. Spaghetti sounds salty and chewy and warm and cheesy. Good god, someone save me.

Anyway, Paris and Berlin were effing AWESOME. I’ll post some pictures soon. I’m not a big fan of posting vacation photos though, so I will “keep it real” and try not to “annoy the shit out of you”. Instead I’ll post funny stuff, like the group of people on Segways at the Holocaust Memorial.

Ah yes, Segways and the Holocaust, two great tastes that taste great together. Segways will never, ever, ever be cool you guys. Seriously. Sometimes I see cops on Segways and I feel so bad for them. Like you know when they got the Segway beat a little piece of them died and they had to cut off their balls. And if they are women, they had to grow balls first just so they could cut them off. Being a Segway cop is worse than being a bike cop. Here’s what I do know though: Nothing is more badass than a cop on a effing horse. Horses own. Segways suck. The end.

My posse and I roll into a supermarket because that is how my posse rolls, and we are looking for ice cream because we are a very hard posse, and we roll into the “ice cream & frozen novelties” section. And next to the Klondike Eskimo Pies and next to the Popsicle Brand Fudgsicles, we see this.

READ CAREFULLY.

FROSTY PAWS.

IT IS ICE CREAM FOR DOGS.

Ice cream. For. Your. Dog. For your goddamn dog, you guys!

A few things:

1. This “treat” is right next to shit people eat. Like nestled between frozen novelties specifically created for HUMANS. Between the Klondike Bars and the Fudgsicles. As if to say “IF YOU LOVVEE KLONDIKE BARS, THEN YOU’LL LOOVVEE FROSTY PAWS!” I can foresee a situation where someone quickly picks this up because of the cute packaging and then goes home and then, upon discovery, becomes sad. And maybe, just maybe, a little curious. Like, hmm, what if I tried this? And after a few sniffs and rudimentary licks and a double-dare from your stoner of a roommate and then a choke and a gag, the depression truly sets in. Not to mention the fact that when you want ice cream, you really want fucking ice cream and now you are left without ice cream. Or a dog. That is the true sad story there.

2. The packaging looks very close to a kids’ cereal, which makes the whole thing even more disturbing.

3. JUST BECAUSE PEOPLE EAT ICE CREAM, DOES NOT MEAN DOGS SHOULD.

4. DOGS DO NOT NEED ICE CREAM. They lick their own buttholes. They eat garbage. They don’t need ice cream, you guys.

This kind of goes along with what I was saying before about dogs not needing sweaters because they are born with them. They don’t need ice cream. They don’t have to eat the same food as you. In fact, they shouldn’t. I imagine, and correct me if I’m wrong here, that when packs of dogs were running buck-wild, they did not eat ice cream. A raging mutt did not hunt and catch a squirrel and think, god I can really use a Frosty Paws right now. They also did not think, man life would be so much cooler if I were in someone’s handbag.

Ugh. I can’t stand that dogs are turning into people. We have enough people on this planet. Let dogs be dogs. THUMBS DOWN!!!!

Out of curiosity I googled “what to do if your toaster oven catches on fire” and then the first hit was a review of my fucking toaster oven on Amazon. Here are some quotes:

“The turd of toasters”

“Great way to burn down your house”

“Substandard product”

“Worst product ever, buy fire insurance”

“Expected better from Black and Decker”

These were all one star reviews. The average review was two stars, and it’s only because one asshole gave it four stars and killed the curve. Either way two star rating is pretty bad because it’s not like Amazon stars are like Michelin stars, you know what I mean? Fucking hot mitts and pot holders get 5 stars on that thing. You have to SUCK IT HARD to get low ratings. Seriously. I am a big fan of Amazon ratings by the way. I’d love to edit a book of awesome product reviews, but I’m pretty sure that book exists and I’m pretty sure no one read it.

The good news is that I bought this toaster for $20 at Target and it’s probably because they wanted to unload this garbage.

The other good news is that my apartment smells like a toaster oven.

The other good news is that I probably have to get a new toaster because I think this shit shorted out. This will be my second toaster oven in one year. My god. I mean I really love toast soo this is kind of heartbreaking. I feel like I lost a friend. A shitty, asshole friend who stole my money and broke all my dishes.

I just made myself toast. I put bread in the toaster because that is how you make toast. Then the bread caught on fire inside the toaster oven. I am not sure how this happened. Like how does bread just spontaneously combust? I don’t understand, but here is what I understand: fire = bad in 90% of all places.

So, I freaked out and then opened the oven door to blow the flame out and then the toast caught on even MORE fire because remember that thing where you need fuel and oxygen to feed a fire? Well I just gave it a shitload of oxygen so then it was like a raging campfire inside my toaster oven. So I freaked out and then closed the oven door in order to cut off oxygen, but I guess the oven door does not create an airtight seal. So it was just on fire for like EVER. So I contemplated throwing the entire thing in the bathtub, but eventually opened the oven door again and blew it out. For a splitsecond I had this vision of my apartment catching on fire, and you know what I thought? Oh man I am so glad I have renter’s insurance and also, I really want toast. Seriously, that is what I thought.

So the question is, who wants toast? Plenty for everyone, don’t be shy. You can get it with butter, peanut butter, or fruit jam (”Fruits of the Forest” flavor, whatever that is. It’s one of those flavors you are like WTF, I better get this shit because it sounds hilarious and possibly delicious. But it’s actually just a mix of berries, but I guess they didn’t want to call it “Mixed Berries” because that obviously doesn’t sound sexy at all. I mean would you rather get Fruits of the Forest or Mixed Berries? I rest my case.)

There’s more where that came from.

Also, do you think I should try toasting again? I cannot believe I messed up toast. That’s hard to do. Like advanced idiocy.

This is total bullshit, people. I am very cross. Also I sound like Kathleen Turner. When I talk, her voice comes out, which is weird because I’m not Kathleen Turner, but there she is. Also I want to add “darling” to the end of everything. Because it sounds right in that voice. “Give me my soup, darling” or “My cough medicine smells like a jock strap, darling.”

Ricola gives you bad breath. This is what I’ve discovered. Being sick, also gives you bad breath. SO it’s like a double layer of awesome. Awesome, stuffed inside something rad.

Double Stuff Oreos to me are foul. If they wanted double the awesome, they would have 4 cookies and no white stuff, all in a sandwich. They would magically stick together somehow, I dunno how. That’s not for me to figure out.

Man this is like a blog entry with a random string of feverish rants.

Crocodile.

See? Now it doesn’t make sense.

Apron.

I think I had mentioned that a lesson learned was to GET DELIVERY when YOU ARE EFFING SICK, instead of going to the grocery store like you are some kind of superhero.

So I did.

I got delivery from a place I always get. I got what I always get, which are veggie balls (heh I said balls). They are spicy. Spicy is good. Veggie balls are good. Food is good. Right? NO.

I bit into a veggie ball and got…A BOLT.

HOLY. SHIT. Seriously. Those are my veggie balls (heh I keep saying balls). That is a BOLT. Luckily I did not bite ON the bolt. It went into my facehole, and then immediately sunk to the bottom of my mouth and I thought…hmm…what is this thing. Is it a rock? NO. IT’S A BOLT.

So the good news is that it wasn’t rusty. The bad news WAS THAT IT WAS IN MY VEGGIE BALLS.

So I called the manager, who was so apologetic and very sweet and made ammends. And I’ll keep ordering from this place again, but I was like “you know, these things happen…I guess.” So he says,

“I know this is going to sound weird, but…can you give me the bolt?”
“What?”
“Do you still have it? I want to show the kitchen.”
“Yeah sure, but…it was in my mouth, is that OK?”
“I don’t care where it’s been. This should not have happened.”

So, I wrapped it up in plastic wrap. You know. To go. He sent over a delivery person to pick up the bolt.

But, hey, good news, I’m still sick.