you're so metro......

my sweet baboo and i spent the morning trading 'you're so metro' lines back and forth and this is the list we came up with. metro being short for 'metrosexual' for all you nonhip cats out there. metrosexual as in being gay without the 'having sex with men' part, that is. as far as i can google it is the first list ov 'you're so metro' jokes on the internet, whatever that means. i'm so metro i think that kind ov shit matters. feel free to send more.

you're so metro you won't order food that clashes with your outfit
you're so metro gay men ask you for fashion advice
you're so metro you have a different purse for every day of the week
you're so metro you had your armpits waxed
you're so metro dykes ask you out
you're so metro you listen to podcasts of 'the view' while you work out
you're so metro you know twelve different shades ov purple by name
you're so metro you have a purse-dog
you're so metro that you use the term metro
you're so metro the girls on 'sex in the city' wonder which one of them is you
you're so metro you're a real estate agent
you're so metro you joined weightwatchers
you're so metro you have kenneth cole's home number on speed dial
you're so metro you call it "american football"
you're so metro your purse dog has its own celphone
you're so metro your girlfriend calls you her "high maintenance bitch"
you're so metro you let her
you're so metro you host stitch & bitch
you're so metro you go out dancing at gay clubs to pick up chicks
you're so metro you know kirstie allie jokes
you're so metro you ask your girlfriend 'does this make me look fat?'
you're so metro you 'only eat good sushi'
you're so metro you drink double-tall-skinny-halfcalf lattes
you're so metro you can order a double-tall-skinny-halfcalf lattes with a straight face
you're so metro you don't believe in competitive games
you're so metro you get manipeds
you're so metro you use a tanning booth
you're so metro you're on a kickball team
you're so metro you listen to the shins
you're so metro you wouldn't take a job at trader joes because of the shirts
you're so metro you think kelly clarkson is underappreciated
you're so metro you use dish as a verb
you're so metro you have an 80s dance favorites playlist on your ipod
you're so metro you think in LOLSpeak
you're so metro you have a favorite powerpuff girl
you're so metro you have Mr.Metro@gmail.com(i checked: it's taken!)
you're so metro your closet has a revolving door

people should come with knobs.

i'm stupid hyper today. like wayyyy yyyyyyyy yyyyyyyy yyyyyyyy yyyyyyyy yyyyy stupid hyper. so hyper i can't even stand it. so hyper that even though i'm gonna sand the joists down in the basement i'm pretty sure i could just use my teeth and get it done faster. so hyper i wish i could turn it down to eleven. stupid daniel talsky and his stupid incredible two hour massages. i blame you daniel talsky! and i blame nice days, great sex, loving partners, new homes, parties, an overall satisfying lifestyle, and even the seattle seahawks. even the seahawks, yes yes. stupid seahawks with their going to the superbowl for the first time ever selves. the general elation you damn ballplayers have spread through this sleepy rain infested city has hit even those who don't give half a squirt ov liquid bodily waste about whether you win, lose, or all die in a flaming bus accident. stupid makng me happy and goofy against my will sports team.


and you, whichever ov my three to seven readers you are: I BLAME YOU. why must you all please me so? why why why? i like you all. that's why i write dumb shit for you. so you can laugh and be glad you're not this kind ov silly and have something to show your kids. that's right! show me to your kids, point, and say: "if you keep eating your boogers, eventually you'll poke a hole in your skull that'll make your brain rot. then you'll end up like him. yes, i know they're tasty. that's cuz we feed you well. just stop."

maybe, just maybe, it might kind ov be my fault. but no matter whos fault it is, i want to have set ov knobs implanted on my person so that i might modulate such feelings ov jitteryness. not that i don't love them, it's just that i get them so very often. an off switch might work, but with off switches you run the risk that someone might just not turn you back on. not that you'd know. you'd be off. also, if it was just a switch you'd be just as hyper as you were right before you or a dear friend who was sick ov your shit threw the switch. no, you'd have to reboot and you might lose any unsaved information. since i don't plan on ever being saved in the christian sense i risk losing quite a lot ov info.

i'm gonna go buy a sander now. it's just that my teeth kinda hurt already. i'm sorry if you read this, but not sorry enough to NOT hit the 'publish' button.

Spring comes early to Seattle.

My lovely bride-to-be saw the first red-breasted robin of the year this morning! it was partially eviscerated on our bedroom floor and i think she stepped on it. ick. i was awakened by her saying 'oh my god! this is nasty' or something like that. i don't really remember cuz like i said i was asleep right before then. after that i just pretended to be asleep so that i didn't have to pick the nasty thing up and cart it to the trash. when i heard beth say 'i don't think i can do this' i covered my head and pretended to be asleep even harder than ever! i hope she doesn't read this post or the jig is up for me. whatever that means. what does that mean?

i was honestly expecting our cat, lunchbox, to keep in her vein ov bringing us human food, but it seems that ship has sailed and we are back to the world ov increasingly varied wildlife. since i expected her to bring crackers next i hope she at least named it crackers before she killed it. given its size i suspect that she mistook it for a chicken and expected us to fry it up for her. it was fucking big, bigger than a game hen but not as big as a capon, with apparently enough feathers on it to be able to decorate most ov the bedroom and still look quite downy. lunchbox kept following me around this morning looking at me and mewling like 'when does the frying begin? i don't hear no sizzlin! don't forget the rosemary!' i should have never introduced her to the gentle majesty that is my fried chicken. luckily even though she does seem to be smart for a cat she was fooled by a can ov wet food.

poor little robin. i'm feeding lunchbox steak from now on in the hopes that she'll bring home a cow, but only if she leaves it on beth's side ov the bedroom.

oh yeah, here's what "the jig is up" means. sorry for all the canuckspeak, but you do get to find out there are at least three canadian dictionaries. whoodathunkit?

When commiting sin loses its luster, try living in it!

It's like rubbing an old penny with your nether juices until it gleams.

I just finished officially moving in with the lovely, irrepressable, and sexually molestable, Beth Yockey. we're gonna get married and all that old sausage, but until then we get to sin sin sin while doing nothing at all! just breathing and walking around i get to infuriate christians, muslims, jews, all sorts of religiously outdated, old testament based, intolerant persons! and let's be honest for a moment: isn't that what it's really all about?

WRONG, FOOL! it's all about the Beth Yockey Love! it would be best if you recognized that now so i can quit repeating it. not that i mind, mind you.

so, i moved all my stuff out ov my joke ov an apartment and into our new shared domicile. i say new, but she's lived here for some time. i myself have lived here twice before. yeah, it's retarded that way. this is the fifth time i moved stuff either in or out ov this place and i'm not going to do it again unless she comes with me. don't worry folks, it's not about breaking up and getting back together cuz that never happened to the two ov us. it's about other shit that someday i'll tell you. but this is a happy post.

the worst thing about moving in all permanentlike is finding places to put all ov your stuff that you straight up didn't know where to put in your last place. or the place before that. or the one before........i'm sure ya feel me on this one. i've been sorting and moving and shuffling around all sorts of crap that i know i want to keep, but it beats the fuck out ov me where that keeping place is. so far in my considering and sorting i've written three(including this one) blog posts and watched disc two ov Aqua Teen Hunger Force's third season. mister productive is what they call me, that's right, but they usually just skip the 'sir' and go straight to snickering into their sleeve. at least i haven't resorted to playing Half-Life 2 yet. Yet. where is the action, action, it's action, action, it makes things happen.........

the biggest problem i'm having can be summed up in telling you what i think should go in a toolbox. so far in my toolbox i have found all ov the following: twelve AA batteries ov questionable usefullness, astroglide, a string i spraypainted red four years ago, a lollipop from the first time i went to burningman(7 years ago, i think it's not good to eat anymore), fuses for a car that i don't have, a strapping wench, safety pins, an eyeglass screwdriver, a broken bicycle chainbreak, one bright orange water wing, a list ov potential advertisers for an organization with whom i no longer work, two gold stereo adapters of different sizes, a steak knife, half a flashlight, feet for an ottoman, cleats for some bike shoes i haven't owned in four years, one allen wrench, a fuckton ov nails, a plant hanger, three pens that don't work and one that does, half ov a completely different flashlight, a silk purse containing: (three mother-of-pearl button covers, a young communist party pin, pubic hair from three different people(please never ask), and various coins from around the world), solder, three bags of different colored stereo connectors, and some other things that i quite honestly don't know what the hell they are. how the fuck do you organize that? it's a real question and i demand an answer now.

please please please wish me some kind ov luck in getting all this shit a good home either in a bin by the curb or an appropriate spot in my home with my sweet baboo. i'd love to fool her into thinking i'm not a packrat even though i'm sure it's far too late for that. anyone need a painted string?

Next time bring mustard.

I awoke this morning at 4 A. fucking M. to the insistent mews of our cat Galaxy 500, aka Lunchbox, now aka Mittagessenkasten. insistent early morning mews only mean one thing around this house: "I brought you a gift!" since stepping on an eviscerated vole first thing in the morning is not my idea ov a good wakeup i decided to take care ov whatever her gift was right away.

Lunchbox has taken her gift-giving to an entirely different level in the last few days. while before she was content to bring us whatever she found in the yard, she seems to shopping with an eye that is unnervingly discerning for a cat. saturday afternoon she ran into the bedroom with a hunk ov cheese. we figured that she had just grabbed some from our lunch that still lay out on the kitchen counter but this was not the case. she had snagged herself a fine piece ov soft gouda from only the Kitty God knows where. i guess she noticed we liked cheese (since we eat it more often that we eat voles, mice and sparrows) and decided to get us something special. so what did she bring us this morning? vienna sausage streaked with some kind ov white sauce that i preferred not to even try to identify. it may be strange and disgusting but it beat the hell out ov voles. if she follows in this vein she'll bring crackers soon.

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.

first off i would like to thanks the tempestuous bitch goddess that is in control ov seattle weather for making sunday the first break in the rain. thanks bitch goddess; i was so hung over that there was no way in hell i was going outside. even if you had decided to make it rain free money and LSD i was feeling so bad i couldn't have crawled outside even in my robe to fill my pockets and lick the front porch. so the next day i'm feeling fine and what do you do? buckets and buckets ov that wet stuff. so inside again for this poor fucker. thanks for today though, you tempestuous slut you.

you'd think that i would have posted this yesterday what with being inside all day and all, but i have a theory about that. you see, Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream. why did he have a dream? cuz he got to sleep in. then, when he woke up from that dream, he had chicken and beer. who am i to argue with greatness, that's what i'd like to know.

lest one think that all i do is drink and lay around the house, i'd just like to say that yesterday i did leave the house for a while, albeit in my sweatpants, and while i was away from the home i was at the gym. i shuffled my feet back 'n forth like an industrious hamster on one ov those eliptical trainers and stretched out and stuff. i even put books on the bookshelf here in the living room. then, and only then, did i allow myself the sweet tastes ov chicken and beer.

pretend i wrote this yesterday, and that all the tenses that should be changed for me to have written this yesterday were just me seeing into the future.

Ant Finger Puppets? Eight Finger Puppets.

holy hell my head hurts.

why, do you ask? why? i'll tell you why. two simple words: manifest destiny. two more words: carte blanche. those are the names ov the drinks i decided it would be cute to create and then consume all evening. here's how you make them:

carte blanche: a glass ov champagne with a shot ov maker's in it. tasty, but it totally kills the bubbles.


manfest destiny: a glass ov champagne with a shot ov tequila in it. this one stays bubbly. the tequila and the champagne embrace like long lost friends and dance the night away like they haven't a care in the world. damn it's yummy.

i tell myself all the time: tequila is friends with no one. do i listen to me? no one listens to me. so now i 'm bedridden and have my sweet baboo bringing me tortas carnitas and blistered jalapenos while i watch the third season of aqua teen hunger force. don't drink, kiddies, or this could happen to you. my sweet baboo's so fucking cool.

titles are good things for some reason.

i'm gonna get maried to some chick i didn't meet on the internet. does that make me weird? i hope so. people have been calling me weird for years and i'm notreally sure why. i'm hoping that this one act ov nondesperate marriage can validate my being called weird wherte years ov taking lsd and then preaching to uninterested rednecks has failed. her name is beth yockey and i think she is just the greatest thing since or before sliced bread. i'm not trying to knock the importance ov sliced bread though. without it, there would be no sandwich. i love sandwiches, but not like i love beth yockey. it's a totally different kind ov love, the yockey love and the sandwich love. i hope you understand.