Thursday, March 29, 2007


Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Our Spam Man In Taipei

[The First message As a Taiwanese seeking for God for many years], [個曾經尋求真神多年得救的台灣人]

The First message As a Taiwanese seeking for God for many years, here I ask everybody to think about B.S.E., bird flu, F.M.D.(Foot-and-Mouth Disease), earthquakes, typhoons (hurricanes), and the wars. Why are there so many disasters coming one after another? Is it not because we hurt the earth and the lives that are created by God? I hope that everyone who reads this message would reflect on this and think about how to protect and cherish all that God loves and cares about and to hope. (P.S. Please translate this message into your language and send it to your friends.) Make the world holier and more beautiful, and the lives hereupon free and happy and to cherish and control. We forget about true importance of life. Three or so masters we should remember, 1) 566 BC year,a perfect man, Buddah, who teaches the truth. 2) 1 BC year, a savior, Jesus Christ, who sacrificed his life to deliver his teachings. 3) 570 AD year,the prophet, Muhammad, who also gave up his life for God and his people. And D.) 2007 AD year, Britney Spears, who shave her head, that's all, but still. People should learn what all those masters teach: how important is to love, manage and cherish yourself your family and our earth, every day everything is love and the saint and the prophet's guide and effort. If the animals are sick, you should guarantine them and cure them. Don't kill them. Wear plastic, eat plants. Flip-flops. Paper hat. Let the animals die naturally, this will prevent the virus from mutation and cause more damage. Chickens and ducks have the rights to live on the earth. We can't take away their rights and even use their bodies to made food and clothes. We should take care of them and let them die naturally. The important thing is that don't let them eat the food which is made of meat.

[Mr.CHANG CHEN YU in TAITUNG, TAIWAN. THANK YOU VERY MUCH. [p.s. My dogs eat vegetarian food for many years and no problems except the usual.]

Monday, March 26, 2007

Matchmaker, matchmaker

He wrote:


My name is Barrister Paul Ledeen; I am an attorney based in the United kingdom. I have decided to contact you to handle an investment portfolio. I need your assistance in repatriating the funds and property left behind by my late client before it will be confiscated by government and declared unserviceable by the bank where the huge deposits were lodged.

My Client died intestate and every attempt to trace any member of his family has proved abortive and unsuccessful.

Do note that who you are does not matter and you will be better informed when I hear from you.

I want you to respond by sending:

1. Your full names
2. Tel & fax numbers
3. Complete Address

When you send the above information I will furnish you with more information about the estate and process of transfer to you.

Yours Faithfully,
Barrister Paul Ledeen; Esq.
London, U.K

So I wrote:

Dear Barrister Ladeen:

I am not fooled by your officious letter. You are a lonely man, swimming in a murky sea of law and money, and while who I am may not matter to you, this flimsy ruse involving investment portfolios, property repatriation, and disappearing clients is, I know, only a cry for companionship.

Do you know Inna of Cheboksary?

She is a broken but serviceable woman from the home of the Russian Beer Museum, fecund and willing, hopeful and determined, currently engaged in an global search for love and companionship and I would suggest that you and she will make for an excellent merger.

I propose a face-to-face meeting in Paris due to the, you know, romance factor. Plus, Inna can wear a beret. Take the Chunnel.

I want you to respond by sending:

All of your full names
Cell numbers (nobody uses fax anymorel)
Coat and inseam measurements
Complete tax returns for the past five years
Proof you've shaved off the soul patch

When you send the above information I will make arrangements for the assignation, Paris in Springtime and whatnot, and spiritedly pursue my goal of hitching Inna's wagon to yours, whereupon you can both cease the endless internet spamming for fulfillment and get on with the business of making the childrens, which is, I am happy to tell you, Inna's passion.

Yours faithfully,
Merlin Sulchek

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Spartans! Don't Take HGH!

Friday, March 23, 2007

Mr. Stiffy

Me, I'm more curious about the one out of four men who gets results from the sugar pill. So is Dr. Blondehottie, I think, from that slightly minxish, is that Viagra-in-your-pocket-or-are-you-waiting-for-your-prostate-exam? look.

And who orders thousands of Viagra pills, even at an 80% discount? I mean, holy pole vault, Batman.

Fact is, four out of four men will make every attempt link manually with bestlovepharm in the hopes of replacing their balding internist, Dr. Helfenstien, who's been giving them the sugar pills, with Lena, the Swedish proctologist, and her promise (a thousand Arabian nights) of eternal priapic bliss.

(When taken correctly.)

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

And Then A Friend Writes:

Still, for every cut of greased washboard abs coming at us like a flip book, which okay, gets a tad oppressive, we enjoy at least as many benefits: fashion-fit T-shirts, for example, in which we all look more casually but unmistakably manly, are now readily available. 

Plus, we know realize that bling looks blingier on a shaved chest.

You have to see the bright side. 

Tuesday, March 20, 2007


There's three things you should know about the new film, 300.
Or maybe four. Or two --

1) It's not very good.

2) Its not being very good hasn't stopped critics from hating it.

3) Critics hating it has become a rallying cry, which is, in 300, pretty much what all the dialogue eventually leads to, specifically shouting, specifically Jerry Butler shouting, using that kind of deep diaphramatic operatic Australian thing that Mel Gibson perfected in Rob Roy, er, Braveheart, and makes your buttery six pack look even hotter: SPARTANS! CRITICS SUCK! HOOOOAAAAAHHHHH!

2) It has made a lot of money.

1) Making a lot of money, in America, is fair substitute for being good, no, even better than being good since, hey --

4) Yeah, well, it's either pro-war or anti-war, pro-Bush or anti-Bush, but, by the way, everyone dies except Xerxes and the deformed traitor Democrat, er, Spartan castoff and about 4.9 million Persian soldiers who couldn't fit into the goat path to get digitally decapitated and bloodlet -- but what about the 700 Thespian volunteers who fought with the 300 but don't get a movie made about them because, I dunno, maybe they sang songs from West Side Story or something, actors all, but still, I guess if you're Frank Miller it doesn't make sense to do a graphic comic book novel thing about a bunch of volunteer soldiers, Greeks, who, you know, may have not been so hard bodied or given to leave their runts-of-the-litter newborns out to die in the elements because, WTF, who wants to look at that noise 24/7 -- which means, yeah, most of the Americans who are going to see the 300 wouldn't be around to plunk down their twelve bucks and get all moist watching that excellent half-naked white chick writhe in smoke and motion control while the pustulent, boil-pocked Democrats, er, Oracles waited for her squidspasms to subside so they could suck face. Ew.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Signs Of The Apocalypse

Monday, March 12, 2007

Gotta Dance!

Friday, March 9, 2007

And Now This:

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Dear Inna

From: “Merlin”
Date: March 6. 2007. 8:58:23 PM PDT
Subject: YOUR LETTER!!!

How you doing?

My name is Merlin, I am not nearly as old as you are and I think you sent me an email letter by mistake. I am a pretty cynical person who doesn’t like to do much of anything, especially sport and camping, I do go to the cinema but it usually pisses me off, especially since so many people seem to think it’s okay to call their friends on their cell phone in the middle of, say, Pans Labyrinth, and tell them that they’re going to be done with the movie soon and what up? Or Moms who bring their three year olds to The Departed and sit right down front with Big Sippers and gummi bears and think it’s okay.

I don’t work in a shop.

But, look, I got your letter and felt pretty crappy when it got to the part where this nimrod Aaron dumped you and told you he had a wife and kids, and I’m just hoping that you didn’t send him any naked pictures because besides being just gross it’s no doubt what he wanted from the getgo, not a relationship with some Russian chick from Cheboksary. Which I had to look up in Wikipedia, not the best source for information but it’s where we are, now, culturally, and I learned that you’re in the home of Russia’s only beer museum. Do you live hear the hydro-electric plant? Any trouble with that (e.g. static electricity, hair standing on end, stunted growth, ringing in your ears)?

The thing is, Inna, you can’t just spam out a letter to America and hope to meet somebody. I mean, the guys who write back are probably not the kind of guys you’re going to want to hook up with, and if they are you can probably meet the same guys in Cheboksary, or Novocheboksarsk for that matter, guys with hair growing out of their ears and fat handles and Beevis and Butthead tattoos who work in cubicles and go online to play World Of Warcraft and choose hard body warrior avatars with names like Elrod and get to the bazillionth level and then, I don’t know. Just explode in a gooey mess of flesh and diet Pepsi.

You gotta get out. Walk down by the Volga. Go to the beer museum. Get some fresh air. Buy a sweatshirt at the Gap. No, on second thought, stay out of the Gap. You don’t need children. You need a life. In Cheboksary. You come here, you’re gonna live with Daryl in Pittsfield and he’s gonna have a beer museum in the basement and you will never, ever be happy because English is too hard to learn, with lots of exceptions none of us who grow up here can even remember, look at who we put in the White House.

And whatever you do, don’t send more photos.

Have a great day,


Monday, March 5, 2007

Nero Strums

I'm an old cowhand from the Rio Grande
But my legs ain't bowed and my cheeks ain't tan
I'm a cowboy who never saw a cow
Never roped a steer cause I don't know how
Sure ain't a fixin to start in now
Yippie yi yo ky-yay

I'm an old cowhand from the Rio Grande
And I come to town just to hear the band
I know all the songs that the cowboys know
'Bout the big corral where the doggies go
I learned them all on the radio
Yippie yi yo ky-yay

I'm an old cowhand from the Rio Grande
Where the west is wild all around the borderland
Where the buffalo roam around the zoo
and the Injuns run up a rug or two
and the old Bar X is just a barbecue, yeah
Yippie yi yo ky-yah
Yippie yi yo ky-yay

Sunday, March 4, 2007

There's A Pork Chop In That Purse

Thursday, March 1, 2007


In other news, clearly related, the ever-deepening global shitstorm led me to watch Direct Shopping Network last night. I am just there, channel surfing through tears, and there they are: rings. To my surprise, there are many rings for sale. Untold numbers. I finally contemplate the possibility that DSN has come into possession of all the world's rings. While all are truly ... something, one stands out. It is, in the words of the Pamela Anderson look-alike who is selling it, "very very unique". Not just unique, but "very very unique".

Imagine sand, wet, formed into a pocked blob, and then spray-painted gold. Not so much gold actually, but more the color of cat pee.

This is the main body of the ring.

The ring is placed on its side, facing you. It jogs metronomically 20 or so degrees totheleft-totheright-totheleft-totheright on a plastic beige mini-turnstile draped with a white linen hanky.

Let me give you a minute.

Okay, so then imagine that in the center of the gold pocked blob which is the ring there is a blue-green uhm, jewel. Not just blue green, but a "blue-green color that I (Pamelalike) has never ever seen before". Right away, I suspect that Pamelalike has never ever seen this blue-green color before because the color is neither green nor blue nor any combination of the two, but instead ... also the color of cat pee.

The jewel glimmers starrily through the star filter, as the jogging -- which I assume is meant to give you the impression of the ring slow dancing, or possibly just trying to get away from you -- never stops. But the jewel is only the centerpiece. And it would certainly, by itself, justify the original cost of the ring, even before Pamelalike, apparently induced by unseen forces hiding inside her hair, clutches her short skin-tight 1-button-will-do silk jacket right below her breasts and announces in astonished heaving saliva-rich gasps -- her exposed belly pooching rhythmically in time with astonishment -- that she "WILL slash the price of this fabulous piece" in spite of her "better judgement". But the jewel, which has a name like Beightjxk or Beetlejuice or something with a surfeit of consonants, and in the end a name nearly as "very very unique" as the stone itself, is not the end of the fun. One's eye, under Pamelalike's animated and sensual pied-pipering, is now directed to the jewel's four corners, from which wind itsy bitsy "diamonds of exceptional value", like streams of once gooey lava, now coagulated and dried and skeletal and in any case, introducing abruptly in the mind of the viewer the word: 'crypt'. From those diamond studded streams, erupt gold "stems of plants" and these, quite unlike stems of plants, zig-zag, thrust upwards and resolve in paired gobs of praying hands, which in turn clutch teeny-weeny hearts made of, yes, I know, it's almost too much to ask, but as luck would have it: "amazing diamonds from Africa".

The name of the exact village in Africa escapes Pamelalike, but is then, within a garbled crackling phhhzzztt, fed to her off camera by a more knowing drone: "Mongolia".

Mongolia, Africa. Great town. Love it there.

Inside the ring; that is, on its underside, darkly, where I would have expected to meet my father, Darth Vadar, is a gold honeycombed "underthingy". She repeats: "underthingy". It is, leit motifs running wild: a pocked and cat pee colored but sadly blingless band, drilled with irregular holes and curving along quite separately from the phantasmagoria above and then crudely bound to the sides in lumps of gold plated solder.

"So your finger can breathe", I said aloud, trying to help.

Original price: $2,460.00; sale price: $299.00. Which makes sense.

Pamelalike shows the ring to us once again, even if by now, I believe she is sharing her secrets only with me: this very very unique "I love it!" masterpiece from Mongolia, Africa ... under, over, around, then puts it on, or partly on, as her finger is too big for it.

Close-up. And for a brief time-not moment, her 1 inch squared-off fake fingernails, which are the exact hue of raw chicken, contrast incredibly with a bedazzled quilt of kitty urine-colored stars exploding from a giant knuckle.