tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81379596399377276892024-02-20T09:48:43.507-05:00The House of CarlyleTravels through time in his mind, and also his time machineS.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-27144587779171274002011-04-20T22:37:00.000-04:002011-04-20T22:37:55.243-04:00You're a Medical Textbook Model!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h5Kv0Qjxu4M/TazA57gTuzI/AAAAAAAAAVE/EYahERwdXjA/s1600/VesaliusMuscleBody.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h5Kv0Qjxu4M/TazA57gTuzI/AAAAAAAAAVE/EYahERwdXjA/s200/VesaliusMuscleBody.jpg" width="116" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You wouldn't describe yourself as "handsome". Baristas have called you "pretty good-looking" with a telling emphasis on "pretty" that made you doubt their sincerity. Your ex-girlfriend certainly found you attractive, but you looked almost exactly like her father whom she'd been dating for several years before breaking it off and going out with you. You had always suspected you were the rebound guy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But you know what adjective people use to describe you most? Undiseased. People constantly comment about how your face was so healthy-looking, so untouched by exotic skin conditions or tropical parasites. Your mother always said the same thing. She would always bring it up when the two of you were dating. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One day you'll be walking out of the pharmacy when a man will stop you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"You are the most undiseased man I have ever seen. We need to get you into the studio."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You'll reply that you're flattered but not interested.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I don't think you understand. I represent some of the biggest names in the industry. Jeffrey Hutton, Roxanna Vasquez, Patricia Mason, all the big names in medial textbook modeling."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Those were impressive names, you'll think. Roxanna Vasquez was a legend. Her clear, unscarred armpits redefined medical textbook modeling in the 1980s. And Jeffrey "The Glans" Hutton had been taking up all the male genital work since he broke onto the scene in 2002. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"But compared to you they're lepers," the agent said. "Come with me and you'll be moderately well-paid beyond your wildest dreams."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He wasn't lying. The six months that followed were a whirlwind of photo shoots, industry parties and anonymous sex with medical student groupies. Your parts were all over all the biggest publications. Your clean, inoffensive body stood in stark contrast to those of your blistered, festering counterparts. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But one day everything changed. You were preparing for a diabetic ulcer of the foot shoot when she walked in. She had the face of an angel, body of a goddess and the foot condition of a plague-ridden leper. You were barely listening to the photographer's directions as you watched her limp to the craft table and help herself to some wet melon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Her name was Fiona and she obviously knew who you were. You told the photographer to give her your address. That night, as you made love on your futon, you couldn't believe how lucky you were. Your agent would go ballistic over this, but you didn't care. You were in love with the most beautiful woman in the world, a woman who was probably going to lose her foot to diabetes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">YOU'RE A MEDICAL TEXTBOOK MODEL!</div>S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-4784050953294005742011-04-05T13:27:00.001-04:002011-04-05T15:13:45.402-04:00You're a Credit Card Company Assassin!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-ES-EH7T9p40/TYn2Aly9OwI/AAAAAAAAAUk/Ntd32QPEiro/s1600/credit-card-logos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" r6="true" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-ES-EH7T9p40/TYn2Aly9OwI/AAAAAAAAAUk/Ntd32QPEiro/s200/credit-card-logos.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You can't manage your debt because you have an addiction to buying antique scimitars online. Your apartment is full of them and no one likes going to your place for dinner because it looks like the set of an Arab porno. Plus you always make people watch Arab porno while they eat which no one likes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But now you're deeply in debt to who knows how many credit card companies with no hope of paying them back. You meet with a debt consolidation service agent who laughs at your file and calls over the other agents to laugh at you. You wish you had a scimitar with you right now, but the local police have made it abudantly clear that this is not okay. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After he's done wiping his giggle tears away, he tells you what you already know.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"You will never be able to pay this off. Not in a hundred years." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I know," you'll say, "But I need a way out. I'm in love with the barista at the coffee shop on the corner and I know that if I can just get my hands on a few more scimitars I'll be able to ask her to marry me."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I understand," he says. "I think I have your answer. Come with me."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You follow him into the inner offices and down some stairs. He scans a card and punches in a code on a keypad which opens a heavy metal door. Inside is a training area with lots of yelling and running and flames and people wearing black and shit. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Wow," you'll say.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Wow is right," the guy says. You never got his name and it's too late to ask, so he's just "the guy".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"You're going to become a credit card company assassin. You'll pay off your debt with the blood of the wicked until you are free. Then you can marry your precious barista."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You sign some papers and begin your training. Six month later you are in Paraguay, living in a burnt-out factory waiting for orders. You keep yourself sane by writing letters to your beloved. She'll never get them, though, because you'll send them to the coffee shop and she'll have quit two days after you left for training to work at a Hooters by the airport. You'll be killed by your target's bodyguards after getting your scimitar stuck in an air duct. This is really a cautionary tale about online shopping.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">YOU'RE A CREDIT CARD COMPANY ASSASSIN!</div>S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-16798655439979666442011-03-24T09:07:00.001-04:002011-03-24T09:08:10.014-04:00You're the Window Washer With a Horrible Secret!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9EfvYbUUQzM/TYoo2BHUa6I/AAAAAAAAAUs/QkHf-Yhmp08/s1600/window+washer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9EfvYbUUQzM/TYoo2BHUa6I/AAAAAAAAAUs/QkHf-Yhmp08/s200/window+washer.jpg" width="154" /></a></div><br />
You took this job to get away. To get away from all their questions. They can't get to you up here. Strange how here, standing on a platform seventy stories up, you finally feel in control, finally feel safe. <br />
<br />
"I could never love her the way that she needed to be loved," you whisper to the woman on the other side of the glass. "I could only love her the way she wanted to be loved." <br />
<br />
The woman on the other side of the glass doesn't hear you. But it feels good to tell someone.<br />
<br />
You pull the squeegee across your reflection. "I could never leave someone who wanted me so badly. But I knew I was bad for her. I loved her too much to destroy her."<br />
<br />
The woman lifts her head and turns. She looks up at you, but you can tell she doesn't understand and would never understand.<br />
<br />
"The fact is that I never cheated on her. I made it up to drive her away."<br />
<br />
The woman is still looking at you, concerned. She picks up her phone, says a few words, and hangs up. A minute later your phone rings.<br />
<br />
"Jerry? Jerry, if you don't take off that fuckin' wedding dress we're going to have a serious problem. Don't bring that shit in to work Jerry. This is the last time."<br />
<br />
You'll take off the dress when you're ready. Not a moment before. For now, you just need some time to think.<br />
<br />
YOU'RE THE WINDOW WASHER WITH A HORRIBLE SECRET!S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-9172323610550719452011-03-17T09:24:00.000-04:002011-03-17T09:24:30.247-04:00You're the Two Guys Who Share Gum!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lVus5Bo8aV4/TYILRk2O5hI/AAAAAAAAAUU/14L0WpxE0zc/s1600/pinkchewinggumart1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lVus5Bo8aV4/TYILRk2O5hI/AAAAAAAAAUU/14L0WpxE0zc/s200/pinkchewinggumart1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Today is Thursday, which means you get the gum first. <br />
<br />
Your phone rings. It's him.<br />
<br />
"When do you think you'll be done with the gum?" he'll ask. "I've got a meeting uptown in an hour and I'd like to drive over and get it before then."<br />
<br />
"I have to get my driver's license renewed today. I'm at the DMV right now," you'll say. "Can you come back downtown after your meeting to get it?"<br />
<br />
"Susan has the car today and it would take me forever to make it. Can you get it to me tomorrow?"<br />
<br />
You'll sigh. "You know what the judge said. We have to swap the gum at least once a day or we go to jail."<br />
<br />
"I know. Do you think we could just not do it today?" He asks this almost every day, mostly on the days he doesn't get the gum first.<br />
<br />
"Look, if we could unshave that bear we would, but we can't so here we are and I have the gum and I need to spit it into your mouth before the end of the day or we're both going to jail. So what's it going to be?"<br />
<br />
"I'll come down after my meeting."<br />
<br />
"Good. I love you."<br />
<br />
"I love you too."<br />
<br />
YOU'RE THE TWO GUYS WHO SHARE GUM!S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-40645891455208169412011-03-16T10:26:00.003-04:002011-03-16T16:21:23.954-04:00You're the Haunted Suit Salesman!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-z29eVl2-6QI/TYDJQ2bm9xI/AAAAAAAAAUE/g5A8p_op-Ck/s1600/suits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" r6="true" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-z29eVl2-6QI/TYDJQ2bm9xI/AAAAAAAAAUE/g5A8p_op-Ck/s200/suits.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
A businessman will come into your store and ask to see the new season of haunted suits. <br />
<br />
"Oh, they're right over here. Come this way, sir," you'll say as you wave your arm over racks and racks of the finest haunted suits in the city.<br />
<br />
You'll pull out a grey suit and lay it over your arm. "This is a fine three season flannel blend, two button, double vent, soft shoulder padding which is haunted by the ghost of an irate real estate mogul from Denver." The customer will feel the fabric between his fingers and nod approvingly. He will try it on and although it's a bit tight in the seat, he'll say he can live with it.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later you'll see him pass by the store again wearing the suit, covered in filth and screaming about listing prices and cheating wives.<br />
<br />
You have no idea why people want to buy haunted suits, but you're not going to argue, because you're a ghost too, a ghost who sells suits haunted by other ghosts out of a store that is also haunted, by you, I guess.<br />
<br />
YOU'RE THE HAUNTED SUIT SALESMAN!S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-21191931507405263292011-03-10T17:47:00.000-05:002011-03-10T17:47:20.856-05:00Chuck Norris' 71st Birthday Facts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-hozJm-YL1qY/TXlOn_ro84I/AAAAAAAAAT0/IMSK0-zvTHg/s1600/151209top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" q6="true" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-hozJm-YL1qY/TXlOn_ro84I/AAAAAAAAAT0/IMSK0-zvTHg/s200/151209top.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
1. Chuck Norris doesn't need to recharge his Rascal scooter; it runs on his urge to kill.<br />
<br />
2. Chuck Norris pees pure adrenaline, but has to get up three times a night to do it.<br />
<br />
3. Chuck Norris likes soup and soup likes Chuck Norris.<br />
<br />
4. No conventional adult diaper can hold Chuck Norris' stinky secrets; his diapers are made out of Kevlar and plutonium.<br />
<br />
5. You need to speak loudly when you speak to Chuck Norris. His ears are arthritic fists.<br />
<br />
6. Chuck Norris' hip replacement is made out of a old helicopter blade and a wad of Big League Chew.<br />
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7. Chuck Norris sometimes wakes up thinking he's back on the set of Missing In Action and demands to speak to the director about his inter-racial love scene. He won't be wearing pants and will have pooped in his bed.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-902507390231622152011-02-28T08:28:00.000-05:002011-02-28T08:28:40.226-05:00Charlie Sheen's Twelve Step Program<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-R1A3giy6cW8/TWscA0z1B7I/AAAAAAAAATs/v3q3eoN73Lk/s1600/Sheen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-R1A3giy6cW8/TWscA0z1B7I/AAAAAAAAATs/v3q3eoN73Lk/s1600/Sheen.jpg" /></a></div><br />
1. There is no power greater than you. You can cure your disease with your mind. Do it now.<br />
<br />
2. Now that you've cured your disease, collect a harem of porn stars and prostitutes. Give them new names. Make them swear a blood oath. Do not let them look you in the eye, ever.<br />
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3. You have an addiction. An addiction to winning. Overdose on it. Get taken to the hospital to have the winning pumped out of your stomach.<br />
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4. Make a list of the expensive things you own. Scream it to yourself in the mirror. Break the mirror with your face.<br />
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5. Announce to another human being that you are the new sheriff with an army of assassins. Are they trying to kill you? Kill them first.<br />
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6. You should have more of everything. How many prostitutes are in the room right now? The answer is "not enough".<br />
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7. Realize that your only shortcoming is your interaction with lesser beings. Get on your jet immediately and leave them far behind. Bring guns.<br />
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8. Make a list of all the people who have harmed you. In blood. Not yours though. Your blood can cure cancer.<br />
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9. Get in a helicopter and hover over the homes of the people on the list and demand they make amends for their wrongdoing. Do you still have those guns? Good. Shoot up their cars. Throw a prostitute out of the helicopter to show them you're serious.<br />
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10. You have poetry in your fingers. Use your fingers to create an epic poem celebrating yourself by touching everyday, inanimate objects and turning them into poetry.<br />
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11. Love and hate with violence. Lots and lots of violence. Are you being violent right now? You could be being more violent.<br />
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12. Through the pure exercise of your own mind, turn into an F-18 and fly directly into the Sun, harness its power and return to Earth. Wreak vengeance on the Jews.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-85887878337092922982011-02-21T12:21:00.000-05:002011-02-21T12:21:56.649-05:00Seven Ways to Listen to the New Radiohead Album<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mrSQYgWJ-rU/TV78lrFtwHI/AAAAAAAAATk/EVo1T7rMSuI/s1600/radiohead-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mrSQYgWJ-rU/TV78lrFtwHI/AAAAAAAAATk/EVo1T7rMSuI/s200/radiohead-logo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
1. Lying on the roof of the abandoned building where you once went to elementary school<br />
<br />
2. Staring at a broken bicycle <br />
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3. Drinking gin in an Ikea parking lot at 6 am<br />
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4. Naked in the front of the mirror crying softly<br />
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5. Painting your bathroom black<br />
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6. Combing the hair of a child that isn't yours<br />
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7. Baking a cake that you're just going to throw awayS.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-62931286213702677992011-02-14T17:19:00.001-05:002011-02-14T23:07:07.461-05:00A Bruno Mars Valentine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VUA7P8HOgb8/TVl5dmQStSI/AAAAAAAAATc/T_ErLzvHFcE/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VUA7P8HOgb8/TVl5dmQStSI/AAAAAAAAATc/T_ErLzvHFcE/s200/images.jpg" width="168" /></a></div>I would produce a shot-for-shot remake of Glitter starring your grandmother and a select cast from the retirement home for you.<br />
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I would catch a grenade for you, but I would do that thing where I throw it right back at the person who threw it at me and it explodes in their face for you.<br />
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You know that slimy hair mess that's been clogging the tub? I'm not touching that thing, but I will pour a shit load of Drano down there until I'm not showering in three inches of my own filth for you.<br />
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I would serve cocktails in body paint at a Japanese bachelor party and acquiesce to the inevitable demand to play Sex Godzilla Poop Poop for you.<br />
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If you needed a kidney transplant, I would chloroform and ice bathtub a entire cheerleader squad just to give you a choice of kidneys for you. <br />
<br />
I would teach troubled teens at an inner city high school that education can get them out of the ghetto for you.<br />
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Three celebrity judges. Twelve inmates looking for the ideal prison bride and a chance to win their freedom. Me as the prison bride. For you.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-48762880537182132062011-01-21T11:47:00.001-05:002011-01-21T11:48:53.733-05:00A Message from the Soylent Corporation Marketing Department<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TTm3iH9ebQI/AAAAAAAAATI/x6FIB6qJgY8/s1600/soylent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TTm3iH9ebQI/AAAAAAAAATI/x6FIB6qJgY8/s200/soylent.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
MEMORANDUM<br />
<br />
To: ALL STAFF- SOYLENT CORPORATION<br />
<br />
From: MARKETING<br />
<br />
Re: Public Image<br />
<br />
Good Morning Everyone,<br />
<br />
By now you've most likely heard the allegations circulating in the press. What started with a few rumours is now a waking PR nightmare. But we are dealing with the problem and wanted to assure you that everything is under control.<br />
<br />
The first question that many of you must have is whether the rumours are true. In a word, yes. Corporate and Legal are coming straight out with it: we have been recycling human bodies and turning them into high protein supplements. Are we proud of this? We'll say no, but I challenge you to come up with a more brilliant business plan than feeding people the dead bodies of other people in pleasantly-coloured and shaped form for bargain basement prices. We should be given medals for our ingenuity. But no, all people do is scream and gag when they find out. In this age of sustainable living, where is the praise from the environmentalists? Nowhere. We come up with a cheap, renewable source of food but all we hear is "cannibal" this and "crime against nature" that.<br />
<br />
But here we are and we need to deal with the situation at hand. We've dealt with public relations scandals like this in the past. Remember the "Soylent Red is feces" terror? We were able to bury it in one press conference with Gary from Accounting in a lab coat denying the rumours and waving a laser pointer. And as a cautionary measure, we actually stopped making Soylent Red out of feces for a few months.<br />
<br />
Remember when Soylent Purple was causing sexual hallucinations and total loss of bowel control? What did we do? Only turn it into the number one party drug for nine consecutive quarters and sell more Soylent adult diapers than ever before. We all got bonuses. Remember those awesome, smelly parties? I've never been so excited and revolted. None of you have. <br />
<br />
But this crisis demands something more than a cheap press charade and product rebranding. We need real innovation. That's why we're facing this one head-on and launching a bold new campaign. Picture this ad: people coming together, smiling, enjoying each other's company and Soylent products. The slogan comes up: Soylent Green...It's People! It's about community and togetherness. You know it. You trust it. You trust it because it's familiar. It's family. It's friends. While other companies are cramming complicated chemicals down your throat, Soylent is giving you what you know. Soylent Green: Made by people, of people, for people. <br />
<br />
Some of you will be apprehensive. You'll think that we should take the approach of the "Soylent Yellow is rocks" crisis and spin it with a lot of fast talk about geology and dietary requirements. But if we can get our critics to accept this, they will eat their words. And their neighbours. And they will LOVE IT.<br />
<br />
I understand that many of you must be worried for the future of the company. My message to you: don't be. We are going to come out of this crisis stronger than ever by making nutritional supplements out of garbage, dead bodies and whatever else we can find in ready cheap supply. And we will sell it. Because people will eat whatever we put in front of them, no matter how horny, sick, or incontinent it makes them.<br />
<br />
Kind Regards,<br />
<br />
Soylent MarketingS.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-61821706160369482112010-12-31T13:16:00.002-05:002010-12-31T13:21:12.776-05:00Seven New Year's Eve One Sentence Stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TR4b52_WsmI/AAAAAAAAATA/jz-2FCAcS64/s1600/NYEBigBall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TR4b52_WsmI/AAAAAAAAATA/jz-2FCAcS64/s320/NYEBigBall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
1. Because of his father, Carlos had never told anyone that he was born on December 31, but he would always secretly pretend that the entire world was celebrating his birthday.<br />
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2. The music seemed to slow as they stared at each other from across the room with lust and wonder in their eyes, completely unaware that the test subjects had gotten out of their cages.<br />
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3. As they finished their last song and the countdown began, Terry looked across the stage at New Terry with hatred and satisfaction, knowing that once the poison took effect he would start 2011 as the only Terry in the band.<br />
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4. "Two glasses of Pink Champagne please," said Tyler, hoping that that the bartender would recognize the code and tell him where they were holding his daughter.<br />
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5. After his gender reassignment surgery, Brendan -- now Brandeen -- was going to celebrate the newest new year she ever had.<br />
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6. "Kiss me now, or the future will be forever altered," Bob drunkenly told the chesty redhead as, time traveler or not, he was on a mission to get some. <br />
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7. After four years, Cameron had decided he was in love with Christine and -- as long as the guards didn't find the tunnel -- he was going to tell her tonight.<br />
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<i> </i>S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-43902741603377785042010-11-26T10:22:00.000-05:002010-11-26T10:22:01.557-05:00Word of the Day: Don't touch my junk!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TO8rC6NW38I/AAAAAAAAAS0/675-XQ7xQrg/s1600/458146091_0f152f7f50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TO8rC6NW38I/AAAAAAAAAS0/675-XQ7xQrg/s200/458146091_0f152f7f50.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Law school will have to wait. It will have to wait because you're pregnant and you are quite literally carrying the spawn of Satan. </div><div><br />
</div><div>You began to suspect something was wrong when insects and spiders began infesting your home, crawling up the walls and falling out of light fixtures. You assumed it was the changing seasons, although you thought that bugs were supposed to go outside in the spring, not come in. It didn't matter though, because you were moving away to go to law school and become a famous trial lawyer like Aunt Freya. </div><div><br />
</div><div>But when the snakes came you knew that the seasons were not to blame. First little garden snakes would cross your path, but eventually you began to wake up the sound of rattlers and cobras hissing outside your window. Finally, you couldn't leave the house without pythons sliding up your leg and gently enveloping your body in their serpentine tenderness, moving with you like extra appendages, their knowing eyes betraying nothing except their fierce devotion to your protection. </div><div><br />
</div><div>"Maybe I should have made that goat wear a condom," you'll tell yourself, thinking back to your grad trip to Cuba. You wanted to do something wild and spontaneous before you went off to law school to become a famous trial lawyer like Aunt Freya. So you fucked a goat on grad trip. And now you're pregnant with a demon child. </div><div><br />
</div><div>You're now in line at airport security on your way to Rome where a council of elders in Vatican City is waiting to exorcise the demon that is growing in your infernal uterus. Your eyes are red and wet with tears as you begin to realize that you may never be able to have children again and die sad and alone, just like Aunt Freya. You begin to sob again just as you pass through the metal detectors. The security guard motions for you to follow her into an adjacent room where she asks you to disrobe. She begins to inspect your body, running her hands everywhere, finally grabbing your vag like a baggage handler.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Don't touch my junk!" you shout. Just then, your water breaks and the tears of the damned flow onto the floor. The son of Satan bursts forth and attacks the security guard, devouring her face. Hell rises to our plane of existence and humanity is enslaved and time stands still in perpetual damnation.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The Word of the Day is "Don't touch my junk," an interjection indicating one's refusal to have one's person searched at the airport in an invasive fashion.</div>S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-38445337249389845832010-11-18T22:14:00.000-05:002010-11-18T22:14:42.595-05:00Military-Inspired Clothing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TOXjeDi8zUI/AAAAAAAAASk/gAenTFyHYvA/s1600/4B56FEA7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TOXjeDi8zUI/AAAAAAAAASk/gAenTFyHYvA/s200/4B56FEA7.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Trench coat<br />
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Bomber jacket<br />
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Tank top <br />
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Artillery suspenders<br />
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Napalm capris<br />
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Unmanned aerial vehicle beret<br />
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Don't-ask-don't-tell spatsS.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-89530343664149846752010-11-12T00:04:00.009-05:002010-11-12T14:54:34.644-05:00A Twitter Tutorial<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TNzJyhC4NxI/AAAAAAAAASU/2PDmhmQIfFQ/s1600/il_430xN.95852946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TNzJyhC4NxI/AAAAAAAAASU/2PDmhmQIfFQ/s320/il_430xN.95852946.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Do you remember the days when you'd be sitting at a funeral and a completely brilliant yet utterly reprehensible/disgusting/legally-actionable comment would flash to mind but you'd have no one to tell it to? Painful, right? You'd be looking for someone to unleash this little gem on, but would be surrounded by a group of half-wits who just don't "get" the genius of a good funeral streaking joke. Enter Twitter. Suddenly these comments which had formerly been relegated to whispers were the new public currency of wit.<br />
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In piecing together their material, Twitter's humourists have certain models of tweeting which give their raw wit coherent form. When I see a guy on a unicycle, I can't just tweet "Saw a man on a unicycle. He looks like a jackass." The concept needs to be fit into a workable Twitter model. For example: "Wife left me. Just got fired. Having difficulty urinating. Time to buy a unicycle." Or "Unicycles: amusing exercise alternative or pedophile markers?" You can work any concept into a Twitter form and see great results, namely the mild amusement of dozens of people you don't know. Here are a few tried and true models which will guarantee Twitter stardom.<br />
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<b>The Snapshot</b><i> </i><br />
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<i>It's so ironic you got mauled by a lion when you love cats! Did I use "ironic" wrong? Isn't THAT ironic, ha ha! Gosh, that's a lot of blood. </i>(@fireland)<br />
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I'm no Fields medal-winning mathematician/astronaut, but if a picture is worth a thousand words, then 140 characters has got to be worth at least ten times that. This tweet takes a moment in a story and plants it with the reader like a brain parasite. The reader fills in the gaps. Result? Hilarity.<b> </b><br />
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<b>The Hashtag Hail Mary</b><i> </i><br />
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<i>For some reason I can't get Mozilla Firefox to work. I have to use shitty, virus prone, Internet Explorer. Grrrrrrrr. #firstworldproblems </i>(@lpizzle)<br />
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It's a dumb observation or a nonsense statement, but then, bang, hashtag saves it. Witness another:<br />
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<i>Do ghosts shit? #WhyamIstillatwork </i>(@houseofcarlyle)<br />
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The hashtag adds another layer, like refried beans in a dip or a Vietnamese teen in a cuddle party. Hashtags don't just have to be search points for you tweet. Feel the room. Explore the space.<b> </b><br />
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<b>The Confessional </b><i> </i><br />
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<i>In my late twenties, I had a huge hole in my heart that I desperately tried to fill with fancy mustards. </i>(@toddlevin)<br />
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If something is worth doing, it's worth doing yourself. Make the ridiculous personal. Putting a layer of fudge on a steak and calling it "Wonka-style" should be related through experience. It creates accessibility. See another:<br />
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<i>I use chocolate as a substitute for sex, and Skittles as a substitute for masturbating in the ball room at Ikea. </i>(@houseofcarlyle)<br />
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The idea in the abstract is amusing, but when you imagine the author with his pants around his ankles making angry love to himself in a Swedish furniture store, I dare you not to barf laughing.<b> </b><br />
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<b>The "something is like something else"</b><i> </i><br />
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<i>A hot woman pushing a baby carriage is like a photo of a pizza. </i>(@thesulk)<br />
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The more cerebral the better.The reader appreciates having to engage a level of intellect beyond that required to laugh at a fail clip. You can't stretch too far, though. Because an overly-tenuous Twitter analogy is like fencing with Tony Hopkins. See? Try a better one out: <br />
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<i>Low-pressure showers are like bad sex. It's fine. You get used to it. And then one day you experience the alternative and OH! OH OH! OH GOD! </i>(@sween)<b> </b><br />
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<b>Funny AND True</b><i> </i><br />
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<i>Women spend 2% of their lives trying to figure out where bruises on their legs came from. </i>(@thesulk)<b> </b><br />
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This one even your grandmother can enjoy. Foibles! Humour! We're so fallible! <b> </b><br />
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<b>The "Suck It, Somebody Else"</b><i> </i><br />
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<i>Okay amateur photographers, the 1,000,000,000,000th close-up photo of a flower has been taken. It's safe to move on to other objects now. </i>(@DamienFahey)<br />
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It's the insult comedy of the Twitter world. We try not to do it, but it's just so easy. And Twitter is the ultimate punch in the dark. <b> </b><br />
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<b>The Monologue Joke</b><i> </i><br />
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<i>My internet is so slow, it's just faster to drive to the Google headquarters and ask them shit in person. </i>(@roughdiction)<br />
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Imagine Carson stepping up and lobbing this one into the crowd. It's safe. It's timely. We laugh. No one's going to get upset. Go again: <br />
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<i>My wife read that using a laptop on your lap can lower your sperm count and that's why we own 32 laptops now. </i>(@sween)<br />
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Jokes! These are jokes. It's great. Stop complaining.<b> </b><br />
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<b>Sartre's Revenge</b><i> </i><br />
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<i>Some people are their own punishment. </i>(@thesulk)<br />
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Many tweeters are so full of self-loathing that the only thing standing between them and a long walk off a short pier is those 140 characters. These tweets turn deeply inwards. The ha-ha is followed by a furrowed hmm. But wit is wit and funny is funny.<br />
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<b>The Twisted Saying</b><br />
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There is not a lot to discuss with these, because it's the best kind of humour: wit imposed on convention. Take something you know and cover it in latex:<i> </i><br />
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<i>There must be a trick to fighting fire with fire because my kitchen just pretty much has twice as much fire now. </i>(@badbanana)<i> </i><br />
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<i>The best way to destroy an enemy is to turn him into a friend! The 2nd best way is to drop a stove on him from a helicopter. </i>(@robdelaney)<i> </i><br />
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<i>When life gives you tape, make tapenade. </i>(@houseofcarlyle)<b> </b><br />
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<b>Yes, We Can </b><i> </i><br />
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<i>I figured out why I stay here: a nagging suspicion that if I write the one perfect tweet, I can unlock the next level & be able to move on. </i>(@UncleDynamite)<br />
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I'll tell you why I like this one. Twitter is a community of idiocy. It's a complete waste of time. The only reason any of us spend hours a day thinking about it is that we have the irrepressible desire to share our perspective to amuse others. At base, the subtext to every tweet is "Grace me with your approval." Sad? Absolutely. But we are small, pathetic things and we need all the help we can get. We might as well laugh doing it.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-11601220899837333292010-10-28T09:36:00.000-04:002010-10-28T09:36:45.668-04:00Halloween Traditions from Around the World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TMiipX_o7BI/AAAAAAAAASM/ObCiAq2YNHw/s1600/Jack-o%27-Lantern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TMiipX_o7BI/AAAAAAAAASM/ObCiAq2YNHw/s200/Jack-o%27-Lantern.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<b>Rat with the Hat (China)- </b>Children approach houses and yell out from the street: "We are looking for the rat with the hat!" The people in the house reply: "We haven't seen him. You'd better look elsewhere." The children then say: "No no! He's here! He's here!" Then they run up to the house where a bag of rats is waiting and search through it until they find the one wearing the hat. They yell out: "We found him! Give us our reward!" The children are then allowed an eel of their choice and move on to the next house.<br />
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<b>Scurvy Monster (Sweden)</b>- The mayor of town puts on a burlap cape and pulls a wooden cart full of oranges around screaming: "I am the Scurvy Monster! I have all the oranges!" Local children surround the Scurvy Monster and throw pennies at him until he gives them each an orange. Recent practice shows that children have taken to throwing dog feces at the Scurvy Monster and that the Scurvy Monster has begun to carry pepper spray.<br />
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<b>Wily Wally, Don't Fuck Our Pumpkin (Australia)</b>- Wily Wally is a character who visits houses and stuffs mailboxes with root vegetables. But if Wily Wally doesn't think you're grateful for the root vegetables, he will fuck your pumpkin. That is why the whole family must gather outside the house and loudly thank Wily Wally and also ask him not to fuck their pumpkin.<b> </b><br />
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<b>Grannie's Ghost (Brazil)</b>- Children go from house to house pretending to be possessed by the dead relatives of the people who live there and demanding that the valuables of those relatives be returned to them. Petrified, the people in each house surrender the valuables. The children then trade them for automatic weapons and machetes to support the gangs wars they are implicated in.<br />
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<b>Your Father Is A Prostitute (Russia)</b>- Under Kruschev, the secret police would send out packs of children to gather intelligence on their neighbours and report back in exchange for Soviet chocolate and their families' safety. This has been replaced by groups of children roaming around vandalizing homes until the father of the house comes outside and admits he is a prostitute.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-48371731583005648112010-10-11T21:01:00.000-04:002010-10-11T21:01:06.058-04:00Seven Things I'm Thankful For<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TLOzAlhVFhI/AAAAAAAAASE/IzcLz85liy0/s1600/rockwell-thanksgiving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TLOzAlhVFhI/AAAAAAAAASE/IzcLz85liy0/s200/rockwell-thanksgiving.jpg" width="155" /></a></div><br />
1. The first man who put on a pair of jeans with a blazer and said "You know what? I'm going with this tonight."<br />
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2. The phrase "Check yourself before you wreck yourself," for giving me something to say when the salesperson tells me to stop smelling the mannequins.<br />
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3. That one ethnicity I really can't stand (you know who you are), for allowing me to blame all my problems on you.<br />
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4. SLR cameras, because without you boring people would have nothing to hang around their necks at the farmers' market.<br />
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5. My cuddle party group, for being so understanding about all the erections and crying.<br />
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6. Vodka sodas, for giving me the smooth, clean drunk I need to run Little League practice. <br />
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7. The 1988 film "Working Girl," for giving me strength when I thought I had none.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-45405689890756861922010-09-27T15:42:00.001-04:002010-09-27T17:36:39.849-04:00Other GPS Voices<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TKDzMgO-GuI/AAAAAAAAAR8/BPpqiUd3Iuc/s1600/motorola-gps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TKDzMgO-GuI/AAAAAAAAAR8/BPpqiUd3Iuc/s200/motorola-gps.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
A seductive woman, a street-wise Latino, a sophisticated Brit: these are all options available to you when selecting the voice on your GPS. This choice can be pivotal as you are selecting the voice and personality which will be guiding your through you travels, directing you when you're lost, and talking you off when you've gotten that desperate. Celebrities have even gotten in on it. Imagine Kim Cattrall telling you to make a right turn at the next light or Burt Reynolds mixing ethnic slurs in with his directions to your next meeting. Here are a few others which will soon be available:<br />
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<b>1. Albert the lazy-eyed fishmonger</b><br />
Albert is an half-Chinese, half-Japanese fish and seafood professional. More than anything else in the world, Albert wants to sell you oysters. He'll get you where you're going, but he is also going to try to get you to buy a dozen fresh Malpeques and a sack of day-old scallops in a thickly-accented semi-English. Where's the nearest Jiffy Lube, Albert? He'll tell you right after he's done scaling that grouper.<br />
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<b>2. Angry Drifter</b><br />
Angry Drifter does not have a name, or at least won't tell it to you until you've given him a cigarette. He's seen a lot -- too much even -- and he's lost even more. To him, the most efficient route to the airport at rush hour is the one with the least heartbreak, and distance is measured in stories, not miles. If you're waiting for him to tell you which exit you should take for Arby's, you might only get silence, because Angry Drifter could give a fuck about you and your problems.<br />
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<b>3. Bernadette the wedding planner</b><br />
Here's the thing with Bernadette: she's new at this. She graduated with a degree in marketing and thought that she'd be doing PR for Chanel by now, but after a few years of bumping around advertising agencies compiling market research and trying unsuccessfully to fellate her bosses, she finally decided to join her friend's wedding planning company. She has not quite seized on the concept of "owning" her own recommendations, so she will invariably give you three or four different options at every intersection, depending on the theme you're going for and what your budget is.<br />
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<b>4. Red Sox Fan/Closeted Homosexual</b><br />
It's every indecipherable Boston accent you've ever heard, but with a twist: he's into dudes. He'll call you a "queah" when you take a wrong turn, but the self-loathing is so obvious that you can't help but feel sorry for him. If he's drunk, you might get a long crying jag instead of directions to the golf course, or he'll guide you to some guy named Tommy's house where he claims he "just needs to get a few things off his chest." <br />
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<b>5. Heavy-breathing pervert</b><br />
Apart from the alarming noises and grunting, this voice is clear and direct, commanding even, although you might find yourself passing in front of a lot of pet stores.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-47811723142450578002010-09-15T16:58:00.000-04:002010-09-15T16:58:17.389-04:00Seven One Sentence Stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TJEzEpCosQI/AAAAAAAAARw/5NmU_yVjSv0/s1600/strange-love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TJEzEpCosQI/AAAAAAAAARw/5NmU_yVjSv0/s200/strange-love.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<b>1. The Party</b><br />
Dennis didn't care if Susan saw him eating the cake; the clown had given it to him, and Dennis had been raised to do what clowns say.<b> </b><br />
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<b>2. Busted</b><br />
No one at her office had ever suspected that Rachel's breasts were stolen.<br />
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<b>3. One Less Thing</b><br />
He stared at the ad announcing the sale of the trampoline, thinking that he should have paid the extra ten dollars for bold font.<b> </b><br />
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<b>4. Maybe Tomorrow</b><br />
As she stepped offstage, it made Diane feel better that the men in the audience weren't yelling her real name, because "Diane" was her grandmother's name, and her grandmother didn't even know a vagina could do that.<b> </b><br />
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<b>5. The Undead Heart</b><br />
Hua wasn't sure if she wanted to marry Ian, but today -- as with most days -- all she could think about was devouring human flesh.<b> </b><br />
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<b>6. Last Stop</b><br />
Pershant had finally gotten up the courage to poison all the donuts, and as the first packed train pulled alongside the platform, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the noise of the oncoming crowd.<b> </b><br />
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<b>7. </b><b>Under My Dead Body</b><br />
"I wonder how many people ever actually see the underside of a coffin," thought Tess, as she waited for her dead husband's accountant to cum.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-44400331286939968962010-09-14T09:26:00.000-04:002010-09-14T09:26:27.075-04:00You're Invited to My TIFF Party!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TI93alQE0LI/AAAAAAAAARk/B8VYdDYMhYc/s1600/red-carpet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TI93alQE0LI/AAAAAAAAARk/B8VYdDYMhYc/s200/red-carpet.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
The Toronto International Film Festival comes to town every fall, bringing with it the hysteria and flash-related seizures that everyone has come to expect. Actors come to promote their films which few of us will see, as festivals cater mainly to productions which do not contain the requisite number of horny robots to be commercially successful.<br />
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As such, most people really only care about the parties. Unfortunately, like a horny robot orgy, tickets are hard to come by. Fortunately, I am hosting my own TIFF party. I'm sure you have many questions. I have an equal if not greater number of answers.<br />
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You'll first want to know the location of the party. Do you know where the new Thompson Hotel is? Perfect, then you'll know that around the corner is the Estonian church whose basement I have rented out for the event. Andrus and Hele are the live-in caretakers and will be staffing the bar. Andrus doesn't like Asians and Hele still thinks it's 1972, so just play it cool if things start getting intense.<br />
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We may not have the most glamorous location, but we will have a screening! It won't be a festival film, of course, because TIFF didn't approve the venue and the church basement only has a VCR, so we'll be watching my VHS copy of "The Matrix". I'll be stopping the film occasionally to add my own commentary and to reenact a few fight scenes. If you're thinking this will draw out the evening and slow down the party, don't worry as I'll also be fast-forwarding through any scenes featuring Lawrence Fishburne as Andrus is not a fan of black people either. It's really just easier this way, trust me.<br />
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Will there be any celebrities there? In a word, no. Will there be cardboard cut-outs of celebrities there? In two words and an exclamation point, HELLS yes! Imagine showing your friends pictures of you chatting it up with 1989 Charlie Sheen or "Wayne's World" Mike Myers! Is that Sean Connery as James Bond? Crazy!<br />
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We'll have a photographer on site to document the entire evening from the glamorous entry through the parking lot at the back of the church to last call at 11 pm. This is also intended as incentive for all of you to leave your cell phones and cameras at home as Hele might stroke out if she is given any indication that it is not 1972. It's fun to pretend!<br />
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What should you wear? Again, part of the conditions of rental stipulate that we have to observe a certain religious modesty, so think Evangelical Lutheranism meets Hollywood North. Bonnets, long sleeves and dresses for the ladies and vests and fedoras for the men.<br />
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I can already tell that this is going to be THE event of the festival. I can't wait to see you all there. We're going to party like it's 1972. S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-13783084684925985522010-08-27T12:56:00.001-04:002010-08-27T12:56:27.797-04:00Missed Connections<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/THfs5Ss_2ZI/AAAAAAAAARM/ydypHG9blME/s1600/207.x600.feat.missedconnection2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/THfs5Ss_2ZI/AAAAAAAAARM/ydypHG9blME/s200/207.x600.feat.missedconnection2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<b>Small Waist, Big Attitude</b> <br />
Lexington at 24th this morning. Me- brown hair, black shirt, European sunglasses. You- super hot, super fit, wearing a red shirt with white pants. Chinese, maybe. Or Pakistani. You were crossing the street. I was in my Jag. I offered you money to pee on me. You ripped the hood ornament off my Jag. Can I have it back? They're super expensive.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Trenchcoat Stud</b><br />
You- beige trenchcoat and brown briefcase. Me- sweatpants and messy hair. I looked gross but you smiled at me anyway as you got in your car. You told me you'd pick up the kids after school and meet me at my parents' place. You also said that you hoped "that today is going to be one of the good days". What does that mean? You're mysterious, crazy stranger.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Ponytail Princess</b> <br />
I was in line at the MacDonald's near the elementary school. You were in the playground in the ball room wearing pink, fitted Dora the Explorer overalls. I asked you what you were drinking. You said root beer. I was about to get you a 50 cent refill when your grenade of a mother comes up and tells me she's going to phone the police. I ask her what her problem is and she says that I "need to stop hitting on a six year old". Just so you know, you could totally pass for eight.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Dumpster Tears</b><br />
Saw you crying and throwing up in the alley beside Sky Bar last night. Why were you so sad and sick? I asked you if you had any change. You called me a disgusting bum and cried and threw up more. I stole your purse and posted this message with your iPhone. Want it back? Meet me under the bridge over the ravine. Bring liquor and that smile.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Business Time</b> <br />
We were both reading the finance section on the subway around 6 pm yesterday. Or rather I was looking over your shoulder as you read. Your hair smelled of avocado. You were getting off before me and I didn't have anything witty to say so I exposed myself to you. It'll be a funny story for our kids. Well, our adopted kids. I'm sterile.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-91104419402493078502010-08-18T23:00:00.001-04:002010-08-18T23:01:16.476-04:00Five Cyborg Detection Techniques<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TGv142ctdbI/AAAAAAAAAQc/Zw7-jWDAXkY/s1600/kate_moss_cyborg1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TGv142ctdbI/AAAAAAAAAQc/Zw7-jWDAXkY/s200/kate_moss_cyborg1.jpg" width="151" /></a></div><br />
You're having a few friends over for cocktails. Everyone is getting along well and you're getting lots of compliments on your new carpet, but not so many that you suspect that someone told everyone about it beforehand. The only thing getting more compliments than the carpet is your pair of slutty man jeans which, to your extreme pleasure, are fitting particularly sluttishly. You start to ask your friend Bill how his yurt is coming along when he interrupts you by asking where you keep your tungsten. You're about to tell him that you keep it with your DVDs like everybody else but by that time he's already reciting protocols and throwing people through windows. Your friend Bill has been replaced by a cyborg and your cocktail party is ruined.<br />
<br />
Cyborgs are an unfortunate fact of everyday existence, like Snookie or anal bleaching. But life goes on. You need a way to sniff out these machines without being too obvious about it. You can't do blood tests because blood is icky and in this economy who can afford a home metal detector? The following techniques will help you distinguish the men and women from the machines:<br />
<br />
<b>Wine Pairings- </b>If there is one thing that cyborgs always have difficulty with, it's wine selection. Faced with a complicated combination of appetizers and game meats, their heads will literally explode. So when you doubt the humanity of a dinner guest, just slide the wine menu across the table and ask whether they think the Spanish Albariño is a good match for the open-fire-grilled sablefish and Chinese cabbage. The moment you sense hesitation or see a light smoke coming from their ears, drive a length of aluminum through their chest. Then throw out a catch phrase like "Cheque please" or "Everyone stop screaming." Tonight dessert's special will be victory, served cold<b>.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Plasma Screens-</b> Cyborgs are gay for plasma screens. And if it's a gay cyborg then it's straight for plasma screens. Be wary of any unusual compliments or questions that you receive: "Oh, what a lovely new Samsung. May I join with it?" or "That's great resolution! What flavour plasma did you opt for?" When you begin hearing comments like these, just respond politely and reach for the taser.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Early Springsteen- </b>Cyborgs cannot for the non-organic life of them identify the early works of Bruce Springsteen.<b> </b>"Spirit in the Night" or "Lost in the Flood" do not compute with them. I personally always have pre-"Born to Run" Springsteen playing just to weed out the bastards. If someone comes in and can't identify the track, they get Ol' Terminator Finger in the eye. No questions.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Sarcasm- </b>Otherwise known as "Jewish Latin", sarcasm is imperceptible to cyborgs. It takes humans years of awkward family functions, broken relationships, and professional blunders to properly master the art. The machines can't learn it. But neither can French-Canadians, so be careful.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>"Wings"- </b>The engineer who pioneered these monsters initially designed them to boost the ratings of the '90s sitcom by creating a mass following and keeping it on the air. A program ran in their subroutine which made them find the show hilarious. The beings achieved sentience in May 1997 and Wings was canceled shortly thereafter. But the subroutine remained. As such, it's always wise to have a copy of Season 7 on hand. Right beside a high caliber handgun.<br />
<br />
Now go sharpen up a piece of aluminum and buy a copy of "Greetings from Ashbury Park, N.J." because things are about to get hilariously violent.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-20396911450893357082010-08-03T04:57:00.000-04:002010-08-03T04:57:27.290-04:00Humour Website or Revolting Sex Act?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TFdQgU9LAcI/AAAAAAAAAQE/vTWdvaoveLI/s1600/geek_sex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TFdQgU9LAcI/AAAAAAAAAQE/vTWdvaoveLI/s200/geek_sex.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
A. The Grapevine<br />
<br />
B. Monkey Bicycle<br />
<br />
C. The Big Jewel<br />
<br />
D. Doo Wop Gold<br />
<br />
E. Yankee Pot Roast<br />
<br />
F. Albino Blacksheep<br />
<br />
G. The Walrus<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
ANSWERS:<br />
Humour Website: B, C, F<br />
Revolting Sex Act: A, D, G<br />
Both: E <br />
<br />
Note- The Walrus is a Canadian general interest print publication (not a humour website) as well as the term for sticking one's penis through a fish and sexing someone. Thanks for playing!S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-66526781793771897562010-07-31T02:37:00.003-04:002010-08-01T09:47:11.905-04:00Inception: The Home Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TFPEZg7jjhI/AAAAAAAAAP4/Js2KJ4lCgrc/s1600/inception-screencap-2-dreidel-top-575x264.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TFPEZg7jjhI/AAAAAAAAAP4/Js2KJ4lCgrc/s320/inception-screencap-2-dreidel-top-575x264.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Invite fourteen people over right now. NOW! Do not give them anything to eat or drink. Just relax, chill out, just play it cool, because you are both playing it cool and playing Inception: The Home Game.<br />
<br />
Everyone is dreaming. No they're not. Shut up. Shoot me. Shoot yourself. Lie down. Now pretend everything is normal. Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe. Those trees are growing awfully quickly. Just roll with it and get ready. Totems! Everyone punch themselves in the nuts. NOW! Fall over! Who isn't throwing up? Christian? You're a ghost. Just relax. And breathe. Because you're dead. Shut up.<br />
<br />
I'll kill you. No you can't. I'm dead. No I'm alive. I tricked you for your own good. Okay, I should have explained this before, but everyone is an alien. Except for that guy. He's another ghost. Just shut up. We're not here right now. We're on a beach. And everything is fine. Just don't look at anyone. Because they're not there. But if you look at them you'll go into a coma. This is like a dream but not. It's in between a dream and a dream. You can't understand because you're not dead. Shut up. Shut up.<br />
<br />
No seriously, if you open your mouth everything is over. Over over over. Take this gun. Put on this hat. Get on the motorcycle. Drive drive drive. I'm too old for this shit. Everything is narrowing because our control is narrowing. Gun it. Don't look at that guy. It's his dream. Oh shit, he saw us. Quick, kiss me. Now I throw up on you. It's cool. We're the same person. Punch yourself in the nuts.<br />
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Last seconds. Make a decision. Fight or flee. Don't do either. Because you have the choice. In here. Shoot me in the leg. No, the other leg. I'll see you on the other side. No, the other side. Fuck you. I love you. Inception.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-10151917875210826852010-07-30T15:59:00.002-04:002010-07-31T19:28:55.831-04:00Seven New Projects for the Jersey Shore Cast<div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TFMoPojq6GI/AAAAAAAAAPs/251t7Wzztms/s1600/jersey_shore_mtv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="132" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TFMoPojq6GI/AAAAAAAAAPs/251t7Wzztms/s200/jersey_shore_mtv.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TFMoAfSeAqI/AAAAAAAAAPk/ZBUbC7g1MTA/s1600/jersey-shore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TFMoAfSeAqI/AAAAAAAAAPk/ZBUbC7g1MTA/s200/jersey-shore.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">1. Jersey Shore: HIV Outreach Program</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">2. The 44th Annual Country Music Awards, hosted by the cast of the Jersey Shore</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">3. Jersey Shore goes to White Collar Prison</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">4. "L'Enfer, c'est les Autres."- Jean-Paul Sartre's <i>Huis Clos</i>, as performed by the Jersey Shore gang</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">5. Jersey Shore and the Mystery of the Death Spiral of Civilization</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">6. <i>Knowledge, Mind and Language from Hume to Russell</i>, taught by the Jersey Shore </div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">7. Jersey Shore: International Space Station</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8137959639937727689.post-91595809381425298932010-07-22T23:09:00.001-04:002010-07-22T23:14:01.187-04:00A lot of stuff I've recently said in job interviews<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TEj7liltWFI/AAAAAAAAAPM/EkcyjVOaJvo/s1600/interview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_iyYzyZiYgSQ/TEj7liltWFI/AAAAAAAAAPM/EkcyjVOaJvo/s200/interview.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
You look pregnant. Can I have your job?<br />
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I think you'd reconsider if you knew how big my dick was.<br />
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Okay, confession time. Resume? Lies. This suit? Stolen. This watch? Sharpie. <br />
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Be that as it may, you can still suck it.<br />
<br />
Before I came here, I ate most of an entire batch of seven layer dip that was, I'm not fucking with you, OUT OF THIS WORLD. I swear to God, I'm going straight home after this and finishing that delicious bitch off.<br />
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You easily have the sluttiest mouth I've ever seen on a man.<br />
<br />
Can you describe your average day here for me? Do it like Training Day Denzel.<br />
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I was just in the bathroom down the hall and I did that thing where you tuck your junk between your legs and pretend your have a vag. I'm not kidding, I do that like four times a week.<br />
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If you hire me, you're not just getting a guy who tells a lot of super-gay dick jokes. You're getting a guy who tells a lot of super-gay dick jokes AND did an exchange in France.<br />
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Seriously, my dick is huge. I'll show it to you if you want. I won't get weird if you don't. <br />
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I'm definitely a Samantha.<br />
<br />
Okay, Reese Cups are GOOD, but I haven't bought a pack in like two years, so what does that say?<br />
<br />
I guess the thing I like most about your company is that it looks like the kind of place where I could really get some serious spanking done.<br />
<br />
Fuck me? No, fuck you!<br />
<br />
Look, I don't want to tell you how to run your biznass, but how about you lose that frump wagon grossing up the reception desk and get a pair of Japanese man-chicks in there who can spend the days screeching on the phone and slapping the shit out of each other. Now that'll put some meat in the seats.<br />
<br />
Okay, you're obviously being too weird for your own good, so I'm just going to pull out my stuff and set it down on these company brochures and let you soak it in. K? Just breathe, we're all going to get through this.S.H. Carlylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11813392824575456117noreply@blogger.com2