Dear Science,
Why the fuck can't I just go outta my house, go downtown, and go to the fucking Pokemon zoo? Is that so much to ask? I just wanna see some fucking Pokemon. Animals are boring. They don't talk and they don't do shit. They just shit. I don't care about shit. Gimme some animemals.
Now, you could do the pussy thing and just engineer animals that look like Pokemon. As I said, that'd be the pussy thing. You gotta make sure they have all their powers and shit. What the fuck is the point of a pokemon with no powers. I wouldn't visit Goldine at the Zoo. That fish can suck my dick, along with Magikarp. Lazy Welfare pokequeens living off the EXP of upstanding, hardworking joes like Geodude.
What's that you say? Wouldn't they just break out of the zoo if they had their powers? That's a good point except you're still being a pussy. You've gotta develop some kind of stasis cuffs for 'em. Like that time Team Rocket tried to put Pikachu in a rubber bag, except those guys are assholes. Do it right. Engineer the Pokemon. Put 'em stasis cuffs. Keep 'em drugged up, doped up, whatever the fuck you have to do. Because, son, let me tell you, when the ruskies engineer their own Pokemon, and they will, they are going to have their powers and they're all going to be damn able to draw silver sharpie penises. Sorry Ric.
So, science. Get off your sterile ass and get on this shit. Jesus Christ, how many times do I have to tell you.
The New Thomas Jefferson.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Irishish
Dear Yard-Partyers,
Do you fucking know anything about the Irish? This is how they greet newcomers:
See, they're being all polite and civil-like. They aren't draping themselves in garish green pieces of shit from whatever animal it is that shits vinyl. I bet you those things aren't even native to Ireland. It's a nice fucking country. Or, wait, maybe it's this other one.
How should I know? I don't take no shit from Wiki captions. Fuck 'em, I've got a brain, I can figure this shit out for myself. Anyway, seeing as I was not greeted in either of these fucking fashions, I can safely assume that you've got your Ireshit mixed up.
There I was, parking Greg (That's the Datsun), at the Dog Park, and I'd just gone around the passenger side to let L'il Cheetor out. And what do you fucking know, some fucks across the street are sitting in their green lawn chairs screaming at each other over the bagpipe CD they probably got at fucking Hallmark. Do assholes like this even shop at Hallmark? Rite-Aid, maybe. Who gives a shit.
So, there they are, shouting shit like, "And then the fucker runs out of Cheer Free. Gooooood, I need some more cheese." Let's out the weirdest fuckin' donkey laugh. I look over and see the half empty natty box at fucking 12:32 or some shit, and then the music stops to switch tracks. And these assholes start shouting at me as if I'm the one not being some kinda fucking upstanding citizen for looking at 'em as they sit in the yard getting drunk off green piss.
Well, L'il Cheetor and I had a good walk and we come back to hear that the bagpipes have given way to "Land of Confusion." Fucks are real Fucking Irish. I start to wonder what Ireland thinks of this Holiday. Fuck if I know. Guess it depends which picture is right. Weird fucking holiday.
To Cultural Generalizations!
The New Thomas Jefferson
Do you fucking know anything about the Irish? This is how they greet newcomers:
See, they're being all polite and civil-like. They aren't draping themselves in garish green pieces of shit from whatever animal it is that shits vinyl. I bet you those things aren't even native to Ireland. It's a nice fucking country. Or, wait, maybe it's this other one.
How should I know? I don't take no shit from Wiki captions. Fuck 'em, I've got a brain, I can figure this shit out for myself. Anyway, seeing as I was not greeted in either of these fucking fashions, I can safely assume that you've got your Ireshit mixed up.
There I was, parking Greg (That's the Datsun), at the Dog Park, and I'd just gone around the passenger side to let L'il Cheetor out. And what do you fucking know, some fucks across the street are sitting in their green lawn chairs screaming at each other over the bagpipe CD they probably got at fucking Hallmark. Do assholes like this even shop at Hallmark? Rite-Aid, maybe. Who gives a shit.
So, there they are, shouting shit like, "And then the fucker runs out of Cheer Free. Gooooood, I need some more cheese." Let's out the weirdest fuckin' donkey laugh. I look over and see the half empty natty box at fucking 12:32 or some shit, and then the music stops to switch tracks. And these assholes start shouting at me as if I'm the one not being some kinda fucking upstanding citizen for looking at 'em as they sit in the yard getting drunk off green piss.
Well, L'il Cheetor and I had a good walk and we come back to hear that the bagpipes have given way to "Land of Confusion." Fucks are real Fucking Irish. I start to wonder what Ireland thinks of this Holiday. Fuck if I know. Guess it depends which picture is right. Weird fucking holiday.
To Cultural Generalizations!
The New Thomas Jefferson
Monday, March 16, 2009
So, I Been Getting a Lot of Confused Emails...
Dear World,
We got off on the wrong fucking foot last week. I mean, here I am, barging the fuck in, trying to give Ric Ocasek a hand with his doodle exhibit and I didn't even take the time to introduce myself. It's my fault, really. Sometimes, I just fucking forget shit.
First, though, we gotta clear up a little misunderstanding. I am not that fuck, Thomas Jefferson. He's just some old dude. I'm The New Thomas Jefferson. Big fucking difference. You're going to have to get that straight or we're gonna have some problems.
Old Fuck:
See, that guy's just not me. 1940? What kind of asshole was alive in 1940. You? Also, I face the other way, the right way. Once you get to know me, you'll see I'm an all right guy. This one on the other hand, you gotta watch out for. Look at him. He's so fucking smug. You can tell he's been up all night, though. Bags under his eyes the size of daschunds. And look at that fucking creepo smile. This asshole's trolling for some potty-trainers, you ask me.
I guess you did, otherwise why'd you be here? 'Cause you think this is some fucking funny shit? You can't figure out how else to relate to some human fucking beings except to show 'em shit like this on the Internet? Go back to 1940.
Lemme tell you something about this guy, though, Thomas. Thomas is a fuck. Hit on my sister, once. She's sitting in the turn lane at a this red light in Chalice (that's her Mazda) and starts to notice this fuck in the car in front. He's giving her this big shit-dripping leer in his rear view mirror so's she can see he's lipsyncing to The Human League. All of a sudden, he just pulls right out into the intersection and then throws it in reverse and backs up in the lane next to her. Now, thankfully, he missed Chalice, otherwise this'd be a whole different story. Anyway, he's just sitting in his car (Jackie (that's my sister) said it was some kind of Hyundai), and suddenly he thrusts his fucking crotch up above the steering wheel. Fucker's not wearing his knickers. What are you, you fuck, some kind of Porky Pig fuck? Jackie said he was real tiny, too, like if Pillsbury Doughboy was a penis. That how you get your Hoo-Hoos, asshole? Jackie's a strong girl, though, she can take it.
Fucking listen to me. If you run into this Okapi's pube of a man out there, fucking break his ribs and get out. Just get the hell out of there. He's a pick-pocket and an anarchist.
The New Thomas Jefferson.
We got off on the wrong fucking foot last week. I mean, here I am, barging the fuck in, trying to give Ric Ocasek a hand with his doodle exhibit and I didn't even take the time to introduce myself. It's my fault, really. Sometimes, I just fucking forget shit.
First, though, we gotta clear up a little misunderstanding. I am not that fuck, Thomas Jefferson. He's just some old dude. I'm The New Thomas Jefferson. Big fucking difference. You're going to have to get that straight or we're gonna have some problems.
Old Fuck:
See, that guy's just not me. 1940? What kind of asshole was alive in 1940. You? Also, I face the other way, the right way. Once you get to know me, you'll see I'm an all right guy. This one on the other hand, you gotta watch out for. Look at him. He's so fucking smug. You can tell he's been up all night, though. Bags under his eyes the size of daschunds. And look at that fucking creepo smile. This asshole's trolling for some potty-trainers, you ask me.
I guess you did, otherwise why'd you be here? 'Cause you think this is some fucking funny shit? You can't figure out how else to relate to some human fucking beings except to show 'em shit like this on the Internet? Go back to 1940.
Lemme tell you something about this guy, though, Thomas. Thomas is a fuck. Hit on my sister, once. She's sitting in the turn lane at a this red light in Chalice (that's her Mazda) and starts to notice this fuck in the car in front. He's giving her this big shit-dripping leer in his rear view mirror so's she can see he's lipsyncing to The Human League. All of a sudden, he just pulls right out into the intersection and then throws it in reverse and backs up in the lane next to her. Now, thankfully, he missed Chalice, otherwise this'd be a whole different story. Anyway, he's just sitting in his car (Jackie (that's my sister) said it was some kind of Hyundai), and suddenly he thrusts his fucking crotch up above the steering wheel. Fucker's not wearing his knickers. What are you, you fuck, some kind of Porky Pig fuck? Jackie said he was real tiny, too, like if Pillsbury Doughboy was a penis. That how you get your Hoo-Hoos, asshole? Jackie's a strong girl, though, she can take it.
Fucking listen to me. If you run into this Okapi's pube of a man out there, fucking break his ribs and get out. Just get the hell out of there. He's a pick-pocket and an anarchist.
The New Thomas Jefferson.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Silver Sharpie Penis
Dear Columbus,
It’s fucking hard to park in you. It is. I don’t get it. I just want to take my Datsun and I want to put it some place while I go look at Ric Ocasek’s Doodles. ‘Snot much to ask. ‘Snot much at all. But God Damn it, the gallery closes at fucking 6 O’casek and it’s already 4:44 or some shit. How can I appreciate these Doodles when I only got an hour and some change. Now I got to waste it finding a parking space and fishing myself out of my own fucking pocket. Fuck. Dude’s got fucking 175, y’know, fucking things in this gallery. That’s like 3 a minute. I don’t think he turned ‘em out that fast. Look more like five minutes. Five minutes a doodle. Five-min-doo. Yeh.
So pissed off about fucking parking, I don’t even know how look at this stuff! What is this, Ric? Are these your blueprints? Your blueprints for Columbus’s new fucking parking garage subdivision? I’m seein’ some alligator heads and some music notes and a bunch of shapes an’ shit. Color’s pretty as fuck. That’s pretty cool I guess, but I wouldn’t call it a party. Party’s where you drink a bunch of Absolut or some shit because you saw it on RuPaul. And why, Shannel? Why not Rebecca. Rebecca puts on make-up by sticking her God Damn head in a toaster. Bring back Ongina!
Sorry, Ric, I got carried away. That’s not what party’s about. Party’s about throwing ‘em back and then trying to figure how you’re fucking going to get yourself back home. How you gonna do it? Huh? Who’s gonna drive you home? Nobody, that’s fuckin’ who. ‘Cause ain’t nobody got no car, because they can’t find no fucking parking in fuckin’ Columbus ‘cause the city takes Ric Ocasek’s Magic Marker Masterpieces and sticks ‘em in a sterile gallery instead of demolishing Chittenden and building that shit there.
This a beach? Now this beach. . . in negative? Life’s just a fucking beach when you can make Sixteen-Hundred Fucking Bucks off a Polaroid and five minutes in Photoshop. Some woman’s ass? Did she know about being in that picture? I hope she’s getting a cut of that big buck. I gotta be honest: I’m weirded the fuck out. I don’t know whatcha goin’ for. I got mixed messages. This called Noise Colored Party. Where’s the fucking color? I see the doodles, but where’s the rest? What about the fucking room? And the Noise? No sound in the fucking gallery. Not even a mouse fucking stirring to fucking fuck his girl. He’s fucking horny and he ain’t doing it. Too God Damn awkward. No music to muffle my voice while my girl and I discuss your work. And some nice, professional lady gotta come up and tell me about price points and stickers or something? Half the experience is the presentation. Don’t they teach you that shit in Rock School? Dead silent white room full of judgment. Can’t say anything other than “I like this one” without feeling like I’m insulting some fucking widow. I can see this party, but right now, it’s bangin’ abstractly in a fucking vacuum.
This is some super-serious fucking party. Make my nuts put on business suit ‘fore I let ‘em attend. Super-serious party. Super-serious price point. $800 or some shit?! Fuck. ‘Cause I think I just spotted the crown jewel. The family jewel. $1100 Penis. Silver Sharpie Penis. $1100. Silver. . . Sharpie. . . Penis. You from Super Bad? What the fuck is this? This is some Emperor’s New Clothes shit? Everyone’s bein’ all God Damned stone-cold and I’m sittin’ here screaming, “Can’t you all see the Emperor’s Silver Fucking Sharpie Penis? It’s right there floppin’ in yo’ fucking face!”
Here’s how we do it NTJ style: I take my sister’s Mazda down to local dump yards and I get fucking fridges. I’m talking, big ass, William Perry, antique shit here. We need some God Damn turquoise 50s fridges. Fridges of all ages, sizes and colors, races, creeds. Maybe some of ‘em so old, they radioactive. I don’t fucking care; I don’t take no shit from fridges. That shit comes up to my biological cells I tell it to fuck right the fuck off. That’s what I do.
So, we take these doodles and we give ‘em each a name. “The Assassination of Franz Ferdinand.” “Mr. Eurasure Goes to Washington 1776.” “Fuck.” Step 7: Put ‘em on the fridges. Paint the walls red. People come in, they get the idea. These some fun fucking Doodles. High Art? Maybe if it was all colored inside the Fucking lines. Fun as fuck? Silver Sharpie Penis! Wacky Magnets. The whole deal. On the last fridge, I’m gonna write out a sign in eraser dust, it says “DO NOT OPEN.” Maybe put some burnt up boots in front of it like Repo Man. People gonna open that shit. Inside is a silver penis cake. Maybe the whole fucking fridge is built outta silver sharpies. Maybe the whole fucking building. Maybe your whole fucking parking garage. That’s how you fucking do it.
Your Fucking Friend,
The New Thomas Jefferson
P.S.: Good luck with those fucking parking garages. You tell those fuckers not to take no shit from physics.
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