I don't know why people are so worried about an oil shortage. I only change my oil about once every four thousand miles. Gas is what they should be worried about. I use a lot of that.
I don't want to write about Lance Armstrong. But are we really nation of competitive zealot fuckers that we praise anything successful that we can put an American Flag next to? Are we that desperate? Don’t get me wrong, I have hated the French for a really long time. The hair pulling and crotch grabbing distress he has manifested within the French press is the coolest thing to occur in the francophone epicenter other than Napoleon doing a tiger woods fist pump (which he probably did) and Stereolab.
Seriously though, conquering cancer aside, can we admit his recent accomplishments are a bit rudimentary? I'm sure god gave him a "way to hit that bro" on the whole Sheryl crow episode. Sheryl is one of those rare cases where one might wank it to her photo spread only to later find his/her mother flipping through the same photo spread remarking, "i just love her". The situation is both horribly awkward and enticing…but about the cycling thing.
Bike riding is a task achieved by many of the nations 1st graders. I learned to ride when i was 10, but that was only because my previous house had sidewalk that was dangerously uneven at points--i think i was the only 5 year old to be knocked unconscious riding a big wheel. While i mastered this task much later than many of my peers once i learned it i kicked some fucking ass.
Lance also kicks fucking ass on the bike, but he's 33. If I spent from the time I was five until I was thirty three devoting myself to one elementary task i would be pretty good no matter how many testicles i had. His main competitor is an Italian (probably gay) and a German guy named Jan (obviously gay). Plus he I have not seen him throw any sweet tricks like back flips or supermans. One would think after 28 years of riding a wheelie would be in order.
The other thing i read on this subject was that Lance's heart rate was 40 beat per minute. The average human heart rate is 70 beats per minute. Since when did we start lauding laziness, especially bodily organs. In a race, my heart would kick Lance's heart by a lot, by pure mathematics it is almost twice as fast. I am the walrus.
this whole deal was half ass anyway,
dr. koala dick
ps. check your prostrate, right now, hard, ladies too.
30 July 2005
19 July 2005
better than your parent's bed
I wish people would stop being so unexcited about space foam. There's a lot of possibility in space foam—aka invest now. It's not like I am a space foam salesman or anything. However, as a lifestyle expert, I would not be surprised if you next house is constructed entirely out of space foam. Imagine a space foam kitchen, space foam toilet, or a space foam solarium.
I understand most readers will look upon this space foam contention with skepticism. This speculation evolves most likely from their previous encounter with another space product; Astronaut Ice Cream. Astronaut Ice Cream is a brittle crunchy flavored box. Perhaps it is described as ice cream devoid of all the things that make ice cream good. For those of you who have not had it, it’s like chewing a full pack of cigarettes, minus the fun.
To offer a historical context, things got hot in Somalia when the UN, seeking to utilize its Astronaut Ice Cream surplus, introduced it to the starving citizens. History books, allegorical tribal fairytales, and kickass movies like Black Hawk Down, blame Somali warlords and unfavorable weather conditions (it was fucking hot). This explanation however is a bold faced lie. As soon as the strawberry cardboard crunch hit the streets of Mogadishu, senseless taste bud jihad erupted. Astronaut Ice Cream also caused Sky Lab to crash.
What is important is to understand the distinction between two very different space products. One must realize that while you can sleep on space foam, sleeping on a bed of astronaut ice cream is highly impractical. One would first have to discern which flavor/flavors one would use, only to move on to more difficult questions of cream brick layout, viscosity, and colored coordinated throw pillows. I mean, in theory you could construct and sleep on such a bed, but your wife would probably leave you. Possibly for a man who sleeps on jelly beans.
Besides, on a bed of space foam one can only imagine the possibilities intercourse with your significant other. During sessions you might find yourself achieving intimacy levels of stellar intergalactic proportions. Afterwards, you would probably dream about comets and black holes. Also, if aliens do indeed exist, and land, you have a bed made to their exact specifications. Consequentially you might be the first human being to have sex with an alien. You friends might frown upon it, but who knows it could be pretty sweet. Aliens might have two tongues or be really into doggy style.
Your friend in the space foam bizness,
dr koala dick
Ps. I stole the “exact specifications” terminology from mitch hedburg
I understand most readers will look upon this space foam contention with skepticism. This speculation evolves most likely from their previous encounter with another space product; Astronaut Ice Cream. Astronaut Ice Cream is a brittle crunchy flavored box. Perhaps it is described as ice cream devoid of all the things that make ice cream good. For those of you who have not had it, it’s like chewing a full pack of cigarettes, minus the fun.
To offer a historical context, things got hot in Somalia when the UN, seeking to utilize its Astronaut Ice Cream surplus, introduced it to the starving citizens. History books, allegorical tribal fairytales, and kickass movies like Black Hawk Down, blame Somali warlords and unfavorable weather conditions (it was fucking hot). This explanation however is a bold faced lie. As soon as the strawberry cardboard crunch hit the streets of Mogadishu, senseless taste bud jihad erupted. Astronaut Ice Cream also caused Sky Lab to crash.
What is important is to understand the distinction between two very different space products. One must realize that while you can sleep on space foam, sleeping on a bed of astronaut ice cream is highly impractical. One would first have to discern which flavor/flavors one would use, only to move on to more difficult questions of cream brick layout, viscosity, and colored coordinated throw pillows. I mean, in theory you could construct and sleep on such a bed, but your wife would probably leave you. Possibly for a man who sleeps on jelly beans.
Besides, on a bed of space foam one can only imagine the possibilities intercourse with your significant other. During sessions you might find yourself achieving intimacy levels of stellar intergalactic proportions. Afterwards, you would probably dream about comets and black holes. Also, if aliens do indeed exist, and land, you have a bed made to their exact specifications. Consequentially you might be the first human being to have sex with an alien. You friends might frown upon it, but who knows it could be pretty sweet. Aliens might have two tongues or be really into doggy style.
Your friend in the space foam bizness,
dr koala dick
Ps. I stole the “exact specifications” terminology from mitch hedburg
13 July 2005
chiclet, cockroach, sloppy joe
While leaving a local eatery the other day I wondered, who still buys chiclets? that candy has been awful for years. How has a product so renowned for providing a displeasing, even demoralizing experience continued to exist? Is the chiclets presence in our a society a leftover plot of soviet days? aplot perpetuated by terrorist? or perhaps there is a wealthy person with either an extremely sick mind, a penchant for the nasty, or perhaps a twisted sense of humor that is responsible for their existence in almost classy eatieries .
After careful contemplation, doctoral contemplation in fact, I concluded that the responsibility for the chiclets does not lay on any of these scapegoats. Instead, chiclets existed because they always would in a badass capitalist society like ours.
All Andy Rooney bullshit aside, I think we can all remember the first time we tried chiclets. I personally recall mine occurred after a particularly satisfying meal. Looking for a smooth chewable candy to polish it off I selected chiclets from the array of other candies. What followed is hazy; I vaguely recall spitting something out in my grandma's hand and blacking out. I woke up minutes later soiled in urine (possibly not my own), severely parched, short twenty five cents and any sense of decency.
Despite this tragic experience (a foreshadow into how many of my tragic evenings would end later in life), I never took it upon myself to caution my younger brother years later when he himself opted to try the candy himself. Perhaps it was because as a child he was an insufferable twat whom I was constantly forced to beat into line. Another possibility is that even in my youth I understood he was participating in a essential capitalist ritual.
While this juncture would normally lead one into a wicked diatribe on brand names and the commodization of society instead I will just note that it is fun, perhaps even our duty and Chiclets purpose, to teach children a lesson. That lesson being that just like any other commercial product, (cars, drugs, burial relics from saint) if you are willing to buy candy from anywhere, or stray too broadly in your quest for a new candy consciousness, eventually someone will sell you some fucking oddly colored squares that taste like sugar and cigarette tar.
Chiclets are America’s communal kool-aid. They are the Adam Smith litmus test that determines whether or not one is capable of understanding the rules of capitalism and abiding and belonging to surrounding society. Its sugary salivation is the ethos to becoming a citizen. Sure, your grandmother might disown you out of embarrassment, your brother might grow up to become a raging alcoholic, and perhaps sometime in your life you might recount this entire experience at your expense to a man named Samir, calling you from India, to check and see if you have paid you American express bill from three months ago. But seriously from then on, you will know about the superiority of the Spree (hard not chewy).
hover boards unite,
dr koala dick
After careful contemplation, doctoral contemplation in fact, I concluded that the responsibility for the chiclets does not lay on any of these scapegoats. Instead, chiclets existed because they always would in a badass capitalist society like ours.
All Andy Rooney bullshit aside, I think we can all remember the first time we tried chiclets. I personally recall mine occurred after a particularly satisfying meal. Looking for a smooth chewable candy to polish it off I selected chiclets from the array of other candies. What followed is hazy; I vaguely recall spitting something out in my grandma's hand and blacking out. I woke up minutes later soiled in urine (possibly not my own), severely parched, short twenty five cents and any sense of decency.
Despite this tragic experience (a foreshadow into how many of my tragic evenings would end later in life), I never took it upon myself to caution my younger brother years later when he himself opted to try the candy himself. Perhaps it was because as a child he was an insufferable twat whom I was constantly forced to beat into line. Another possibility is that even in my youth I understood he was participating in a essential capitalist ritual.
While this juncture would normally lead one into a wicked diatribe on brand names and the commodization of society instead I will just note that it is fun, perhaps even our duty and Chiclets purpose, to teach children a lesson. That lesson being that just like any other commercial product, (cars, drugs, burial relics from saint) if you are willing to buy candy from anywhere, or stray too broadly in your quest for a new candy consciousness, eventually someone will sell you some fucking oddly colored squares that taste like sugar and cigarette tar.
Chiclets are America’s communal kool-aid. They are the Adam Smith litmus test that determines whether or not one is capable of understanding the rules of capitalism and abiding and belonging to surrounding society. Its sugary salivation is the ethos to becoming a citizen. Sure, your grandmother might disown you out of embarrassment, your brother might grow up to become a raging alcoholic, and perhaps sometime in your life you might recount this entire experience at your expense to a man named Samir, calling you from India, to check and see if you have paid you American express bill from three months ago. But seriously from then on, you will know about the superiority of the Spree (hard not chewy).
hover boards unite,
dr koala dick
06 July 2005
unified theory
I used to work at an Italian restaurant. One of the waiters once confided in me that the restaurant was evidence that entropy theory was wrong. If entropy did exist, he contended, the establishment that currently employed us would have been reduced to a pile of rubble many years ago. At that moment, I agreed with him because I hated my job; because I hate jobs in general.
Comedy aside, that restaurant was poorly managed. But that tends to be the case when you let three Ethiopian Brothers run an Italian establishment. This is not to say they were not nice individuals or entirely incompetent, but if
The humorous punch line of this anecdote arrived three days after this scholarly waiter bestowed his wisdom upon me; he quit the job citing marital dysfunction. I mean it’s not funny, I liked the guy, but the irony is wicked wicked. Seriously, i hope everything worked out for him and he developed the recreational drug habit he needed.
The lesson here (for people who don’t already get it) is that entropy theory is wrong when you don’t understand it. You see, this waiter brought upon the assumption that entropy would have increased in the same area—specifically the location of our restaurant. What he didn't understand was that entropy was increasing very chaotically. While he was waiting for the foundation of a bar/bistro to collapse entropy was banging his wife, probably with vigor. So don't even act like you know what I'm up too, and also if you want to give someone a college graduation present, don't give them enough money to last comfortably until about August without a job, it makes them get really nervous around mid-July, bitches.
i got five on it,
dr koala dick
01 July 2005
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