Good Ol' Crusted Butt

I think it was Julia, but whoever posted the Crested Butte post on the blog should know some facts about Crested Butte.

Try to answer this multiple choice question.

1)Which of the following actually happened in Crested Butte, Colorado?

a) It's where Lang learned to ski.



b) It's where, at the age of 10, her brother Burch fell off a cliff, dropping hundreds of feet, only to climb back up the rocky face of a 14,000 Ft. peak using his twitching, bloodied, twiggy little limbs and the sturdiness of his polo tennis shorts.

c) It's where Lang's maniacal ex-stepfather backed his van into a city pole and then peeled away like a bank robber, carrying all members of her family back to their vacation house, as if no municipal property had been damaged. Karma would, however, catch up to him and, later on that day, he crashed his mountain bike into a local stream and contracted giardia, which made him shit like a mountain goat after feasting on human flesh. While he was bed-ridden, the police came to interrogate and later fine him for the broken pole.

d) It's where Lang beat up a local boy or, as her mother likes to called them, a "townie" after he shoved a dandelion into Lang's bracey mouth. She punched him in the face and then proceeded to kick him in the groin, while he lay motionless on the ground. The following day, he had his fellow local rapscallions accompany him to confront young Lang. One of the ruffians slid on all fours behind Lang, while the douchebag in question pushed her. She flipped over backwards, fractured her arm on the sidewalk, told her mother she had hurt it on the swings, and, consequently, missed out on the following day's horseback trail ride.

e) All of the Above



ANSWER = E

Crested Butte you are my home (breathe...hiccup...breathe).

If You're Looking for Jenny Slate You'll Find Her in Her Own Personal Hell

"Wow! Yeah! Key West! Lucky you!" cheered all of my friends. "You're sure to come back with a bangin' tan! You always do! Wow! Lucky lcuky jen jen jenny jen! KEY WEST IS BETTER THAN NEW YORK."

NO. IT ISN'T. IT IS,I THINK, THE WORST PLACE IN THE WORLD. IT'S NOT BETTER THAN ANYTHING EXCEPT FOR JAIL.

My vacation with my younger sister and parents is proof that some mean scientist is tapping into my nightmares, taking them to a lab where they do science, and then letting them leak into reality. Not to be a brat, but this place is terrible. Here's why.
1) It's freezing and the only thing to do here is walk on Duval Street, which is only occupied by cheesy t-shirt stores. The people here get drunk and stand in groups of four or more, blocking the sidewalk while they read aloud from the T-shirts that slut up the windows,i.e.,"I (heart) to fart" "Please tell your eyes to stop staring at my boobs, thank you." "I'd rather be hangin' with my aunt, " and the best "FBI: female body inspector". I've compiled a list of T-shirt announcements that will follow this post, (what the fuck else was I supposed to do).
2) I stepped on a dead rat.
3)Some chick on a bike ran right into my dad. Here's the conversation that followed:
girl: watch outttttt!!!
dad:(silence)
me: yo!
mom: RON!!!!!RON ARE YOU ALLRIGHT!!!RON TALK TO ME! GIRLS! RON! RON! RON!
gu behind girl on bike: sir, the bikes here work just like cars!
me: pedestrians have the right of way. always.
boy: no they don't.
me: yes. yes they DO.
dad: look, just watch out for other people ok?
guy: sir, you're a tourist. take your head out of your ass.

we cross the street...
me: pedestrians have the right of way DICK!!!!
mom: RON! RON! RON!JENNY NO! RON ARE YOU ALRIGHT! RON RON RON RONNNNNNNN!!!!

20 seconds pass and the guy turns his bike around. here's the kicker:
guy: pedestrians don't have the right of way you LITTLE BITCH. YOU LITTLE CUNT! YOU THINK PEDESTRIANS HAVE TEH RIGHT OF WAY YOU FUCKING CUNT?!

ok, i should be getting onto the fourth reason for why this place is the rimjob center of the world, but i just want to tell the guy on the bike one thing: yeah, we are tourists, and thank god. thank god i don't live in the shit hole that you live in. also, if the bikes work just like cars then pedestrians have the right of way. also, watch the fuck out because i'm literally going to rob your house tonight and draw a cock on your face with a sharpie marker.

anyway, hours pass, we go to the movies, come back to the hotel and my mom thinks that it would be a funny joke to say in a "stage whisper", which, as most of us know, is louder than regular conversation speak, "good night...YOU LITTLE CUNT."

CUT TO THE INNKEEPER CLEANING THE POOP OUT OF HIS PANTS AFTER HEARING NANCY SLATE CALL JENNY SLATE A "LITTLE CUNT".

4)the only thing i was excited about was the "Ernest Hemmingway Home", which was boring and is now the home of 61 stray cats, all named by the caretaker, and all named after famous celebs.I WATCHED AS JIMMY STUART TOOK A SHIT NEXT TO A ROCK.
5) guess what? diarreah attack! haha! hilllllarious. not.
6) i'm still here.

Good things about this trip:
1) my dad farted so LOUD in a cemetery.
2) on of the gravestones said "i told you i was sick."
3)computer room at the inn.
4)my mom called me a "little cunt".

love
jenny

Recipe Time!

To make your own at-home version of Jules' professional dogbreath, mix
-3 parts blood clot
-2 parts Mystic Seaport Clam Chowder residue
-1 part smoker's loogie

allow to sit in closed chapped mouth in front of TV for 6 straight hours. Garnish with alligator lips.

THE BOURNE IDENTITY

is so stressful I have eaten like 3 granola bars to calm my nerves and I HAVE NO TEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEF

Jules' Vicodin Movie Reviews

I had some teeth pulled yesterday
so I'm at home in CT recovering and watching TV and movies. Watching Daytime TV is like having a baby spit up soft foods all over your face for hours, slowly. So I rented the Age of Innocence, starring Michelle Pfeiffer and Daniel Day Lewis. Pretty ladies, pretty taffeta, pretty stupid. No story.

HAVE YOU READ/SEEN ETHAN FROME?? that is a crazy movie, another Edith Wharton. I'll tell you what happens at the end: the hero, E. Frome, finally gets with his mistress, goes on a victory sleigh ride down a mountian and hits a tree and becomes retarded. It's so awkward. I dont remember what I'm talking about. but I am dizzy. also weirdly, there is literally a tiny pane of glass between my family room and THIS:



actually my mom is out playing tennis but if she were here she would run out on all fours and chase the deer, barking, to convince the deer that our Rottweiler, Isolde, dead for 4 years now, is still protecting the house.

vs.

I certainly can't tell the difference.

a try for the team

so this is how we doooo it.

"http://www.trent.ceritus.com/styles/stuff/crazy_old_man.jpg"

did it work? will we see? what could it be. could it be (a soft musical interlude begins in the back ground, violins trembling)
a wicket? a wicket? a beeeeaaauuutiful wicket?
might it be a cracker? a cracker? a whiiitte honky cracker?
stay tuned for the sequel...thanks to the anonymous bather

Boots part II, and tech help for the Count

First I wanted to say that today after i purchased my blue suede boots, I did something I haven't done since Miss Judd's homeroom class in 1991. As I was walking out of the super hip boutique I go, "thanks a lot, I love you." Then i slipped on wet leaves outside and did one of those huge overcompensated jerky back-throws with my arms out to keep myself from falling. which. I. did. thank you. I love you.

there's no way to tell toby how to put up photos via the blog, because if you type the letter commands to show him what they are, then the computer thinks you are trying to show picture and just produces a tiny bloody turd marked "X". so someone, some kind soul, email the Count and tell him how to do it, you know, as a Christmas present, since we all know how santa feels about COUNTS.


I love you.



PS I have typed this whole thing squatting over a bathtub with just the tippy tips of my vagina lips, like a faun's, grazing a bath that is WAY too hot for me. Waiting for it to cool.

i love this shiiiiiit

dear diary,
i think I am in love with you. I literally hit the shit when I think of you and me together at last. will you please tell me how to put fucking pictures in my blog? i love you my blog. please, this mac won't teach me a godloanr thing. not even how to spell galdarn. i like cats. i like people. last night i went to a new german bar callled die bierstube, which I think translates into the beer stoop...anyone, jules? listen, in honor of you and your stomach I would like to write a poem that goes like this:
once upon a time a lonely fart strolled down the
road
he loved paper
ghosts in my hamper
cats
please please please
please me
i want oysters first not second
and give my my faggy pudding

thank yayo for christ. if i went to a german bar last night (which i did, didn't i) is it possible that i would take half a valium and drink beers that were .5 liters long, and then after stealing their glasswear, throw one across the parkinglot and shattering it on the wall as the man who is walking behind me says "thats a little too close for comfort"? more names for cats
jig
jingle
hell
miss crappy
please please me
ding
dong
furry ball
fast your face off
please
shave
give it me
mister woo
wootang the cat
help the starving
remote control cat
please feel my pain
mr. happy
happy mister cat
jason the fucked up cat
cast iron cat
japanese chinese
chink

thanks, i loves you
count duke
(am i still drunk?)
also, really how do I put these pictures on the thing when i have a mac because I would become addicted to the point of satisfaction
sometimes i feel so genius

Just another awkward day

in Colonial Williamsburg

boots and booting

1. still in drunken stinky stupor, bought pair of mid-calf, suede and leather high heeled bright blue boots. whoops. shouldn't be too hard to reconcile these with current wardrobe of thatched-poo tatters.


2. threw up on Houston. Into a trashcan, really. Hung over, etc., passed a deli that was blowing bacon exhaust out on to the street. it was like a pig's butthole was a mouth going "HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" directly in my face, hotly, and I literally lost it.


ooh oooooh it feels so goood to let one rip in Julia's face mmmyeah

J. Friedman @ Happy Endings last night

was adorable and super hilarious, in case you missed it.

In other news, I just had a baby.

dear the eerie calm inside my brain

hello, new friend. my name is gabe. i don't think we've ever met before. i'm glad you showed up, though, don't get me wrong. it's just that i'd gotten used to the old residents (inane jabbering, marijuana craving, soulful black women singing, distorted body image, coffee hum, work dread, never-to-be-used escape plans, snarky come-backs, outdated movie quotations, snippets of pornography with no faces, dead-end phone numbers, delicious recipes, lines of memorized latin texts, incorrect bank account balances) being around. but, by all means, make yourself comfortable.

love,
gabe

HINT HINT: THERE'S NO ONE ELSE HERE

am I even SUPPOSED to be at work right now???? Hmph. I guess I'll just do what I normally do: silently age

CONGRATULATIONS!

OMG. congratulations on the dead ghost of Jacob Marley's undersea diahhrea nightmare, Happy Holyshitputitback,killit,putitback,andthentellstevenspielbergyoustolehisface Day

Number of Doops in Jules' Pants: Priceless

literally that cat (see below) is named Monsignor, according to the website where I found him. that's awesome. Other potential names for cats:
Mittens
Hairball
Irene
Shut up
Fuck you
I dont love you
I never will
Serve me
Sir Serve Me
King Sire
Sire Nuggetbutt
Hot Nugget
Poopnugget F. rom the butt
Literally Shut Up
Mew Mew
Jules
Jules
Julia
Dinner
Lunch
What time is it.

What time is it is pretty good cause you'll be like "WHAT TIME IS IT?" and people will be like "it's 9:45 am why have you posted 6 times on the blog and ordered soo much Thai food?" and you'll be like, "THANKS, Mack, I'm looking for my CAT, if I wanted your two cents I would have snaked your ass like a stuffy drain."

P.S.

Lang got an amazing haircut yesterday. IS NO ONE ELSE AT WORK TODAY??? WHAT THE JESUS IS UP WITH YOU FUCKERS. I'm lonely.
love jules.

I made a Toad in my Pants

it sounds like I have a 45 pund Toad croaking in my stomach I am so hungry. The irony is, if you actually looked in my stomach, you would find








[BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP]
scuse me.

Thank Goodness

There is a place called Crested Butte, Colorado.

OK go back to sleep. I just wanted you to know that. love you.

PS how come as a child I played with hot wax and turn of the century encyclopedias? These awesome children seriously play with a Bald Eagle. THANKS DADDY.

Who's the pretty princess?

It's Lady Jules

Jesus Christ

first of all, let me just say, christmas is awesome. I got KICKASS presents last night (December twenty whatever, not actually christmas, but factually and literally eat my shit, cause present time waits for NO one) including TICKETS TO MEDIEVAL TIMES from the worlds most amazing person, i.e. Matt Deliso. (see prior blog posting re MD ps I just farted in my desk chair, then misspelled fart "gart" which is exactly, I fear, what it was, wink wink.) nudge nudge.

literally.

ALSO let me just say, I am SO pysched a)Haysoo was born and b) I was born and c)the Wiens were born and d) literally that I have tickets to medieval times YAYAYAYAAAA AOOOOOOOOOga AOOOOOOOOOOOOOga

AMONG other things. shit yeah. IS IT TIME TO ORDER LUNCH YET? WHASSAT YOU SAY? It's 10:00 am? sound like lunch to me. Good night. wassail.

I love when

Google pulls the elaborate drapes on my bathtub aside and shows me this:

Out of context/our minds

Actual email exchange between Julia van der Bien and Lang Fisher, dated April 4, 2004, ABRIDGED for the reading ease of small children.


From: Lang Fisher
To: Julia van der Bien

Poop is coming out of my ears.
I love you.

Julia van der Bien wrote:

i am dying.

From: Lang Fisher
To: Julia van der Bien

I am a stroke victim.

Julia van der Bien wrote:

I am Diahhrea Jockey Jazzy Jules and the Clam Chowder Playaz.


From: Lang Fisher
To: Julia van der Bien

I think that if you were a candy, you'd be filled with light airy gas.

Julia van der Bien wrote:

Everybody loves me, don't mean I don't stink from every side, like little babies.

mix this

In 1992 the seattle based rapper Sir Mix-a-lot won his first and only grammy award with "Baby got Back". It was philisophical ballad that ran its soft black fingers over that fine devide between the metaphysical and the ass, a melody that touched the heart of every self-proclaimed romantic who drives a Honda from hear to Bangladesh. So, you can imagine how I felt as I borded my American West flight 55 at 5:30 in the morning in what was to be as triumphant a homecoming as Mix's much anticipated 2005 release of "Baby Got Crack". I was returning to my birthplace, the place where as a child I learned how to walk and read and give karate lessons. The first leg of my flight was vericose and unshaved, but luckily I had the window seat. Unluckily I spilled water on my neighbor as the flight attendant passed me my glass (plastic). Las Vegas. Dreams are made and banks are broken. The heart of the underworld. Nicolas Cage. The slot machines at the airport are just as illuminous and drawing as the cover of a Cosmo to a 14 year-old boyscout whose only phyiscal contact with a woman was when his babysitter changed his diapers, and she wore gloves. I refrained from touching the dirty things and waited for my flight, now 1/2 an hour late. A plastic young woman seated herself and her light pink valure jump suit in one of the chairs locked in front of the slots. My middle aged neighbor commented "she's got one of those thousand dollar gucci bags". It's Luis Vuitton. LUIS VUITTON. By the second leg of my flight I was just trying to survive, rembering the last of Mix's concerts I had been to, where as an afront to the censoring son's of bitches who ran the venue he brought out 6 or seven of the hottest hootchies you've ever seen and convinced them to "put the titties on the glass". I asked my flight attendent (i actually ordered her) to do the same, but she couldn't reach across the isle to actually come in contact with the glass (plastic). And I was home, 12 hours later, crickety legs and all. Seattle is nice, I remembered how it was when My ancestors ran this land. They built totem poles and fished without boeing or starbucks, and so I close with this last thought:
"My anaconda don't want none unless you got bunz hun"

digitalia

Jules to Wieners, Tue, 21 Dec 2004 15:07:31
ok see you at my house at 8, but I can also be viewed at the laundromat from 6-7:30, the A/C train from 5:30-6, in the handicapped stall of the 14th floor ladies room of the historic McGraw building in Times square from 3:15-5:30, and drinking a one-liter carton of whole milk from the carton at my desk from 3:07 to 3:15.
[note how time moves backwards in jules' brain]

horoscope explains why gabe brings samurai sword to rehearsal

from freewillastrology.com, the sickest, most psychic website since the major motion picture feardotcom:

TAURUS
I'll send many suggestions your way in the coming months, Taurus. Some of them will ring true to you, and others may not. Some will be evocative clues you'll meditate on for days, while others may fade from your awareness right after you read them. Through it all, there will be two constants. First, every horoscope will be offered to you in a spirit of love. Second, you will always be free to take it or leave it. And now I present what I consider the most important advice for you to keep in mind throughout 2005, though only you can decide if it actually is: Consistently cut away the smaller, weaker buds in order to direct all the forces of growth into the few buds most likely to succeed.

DO THE PANTY MATH

+

=
in Jules'

SSSHHHHH!! Be very quiet! they have found me...

I am sweating like the little boy in Jurassic Park when T Rex breathes up against the datsun. BUT I DONT GOT NO SAM NEILL. ooh grrrl.

This is where I am hiding in my office

This is a closeup of the zit on my chin

Hickory Dickory Doc

Tomorrow, I take off for the holidays to see my handlebar-mustached dad, Dr. George Burch Fisher, Jr in Hickory, NC . The historic birthplace of the "That thing got a HEMI?" guy from the Dodge commercials. It also home to my neighbor, Congressman Cass Ballenger, who decorates his front lawn with the ever tasteful black lawn jockey. In preparation for my trip tomorrow, I read the local newspaper to see what the poop was on my hometown. The top four stories for Dec. 21 were as follows:

1) Newton Receives Grant for sewer project
Apparently the next town over has a doody of a sewer project plan for a new plant that makes hardwood shelving. That's good for two reasons: #1 No one wants to hang their prom dress on stanky and #2 No one wants to poop in the closet.

2) Background Checks for all coaches

They finally decided, after a few volunteer coaches threw up on the pre-school girls jumproap squad, to do background checks on anyone who signed up to coach a local city sport. It came as no surprise, though, that several of the coaches had prior criminal drug possession charges. Whoopsies.

3)College Put on Probation
Lenoir-Rhyne College was put on probation this week not because its a bad college but because and I quote, "The college needs to improve its library holdings, technology, finances and tracking of students found to have academic weakness." They also said that there was a small problem with the professors wielding machetes and occasionally killing shy students.

4) A "hobby" Christmas
This guy is the engineer on a itsy bitsy train that runs on 900 feet of tiny railroad. The reason why they did an article on him...is because at this time of year...he decorates the railroad in snow.

Anywho, I'm gonna fry me up a hedgehog and slide it under the woodpile for Santa. Happy Holidays, douchebags.


this is my subletter

batman begins

is going to be good. mark my word. there are already two trailers on imdb.com, if you need to check for yourself.



proof that everything exists for a reason

everyone has found themselves at home, late at night, jaws akimbo, doubfounded at the fact that jimmy kimmel not only exists, but has a television show of his own on a major network. well, all, prepare to see proof that there is a larger order in this world, and that everything exists for a reason.
this clip from said late-night laugh-fest will blow your puny, little idiot brain to smithereens, and leave you panting for mercy. let it load--its server must be way, way over-used right now. holy balls.
more info on this living metaphor check out some other sites. wow.
ps: thanks, mike weiss, for opening my eyes.

cold sassy street

hello new yorkers! cold enough forya?
no no no, not the kind of cold that emanates from celebrostan, also known as hollywood, also known as the industry i so desperately seek approval from.
i'm of course talking about the weather! 11 degrees? that's 7 degrees colder than the temperature of my feeble, atrophying heart!
incidentally, it's also 7 degrees colder than my apartment. hello gas bill, you know?! i tell ya.

thanks, eli liedman

i received this digitofiche in my electronique inbox-atrix, from eli liedman, accompanied by a note that read: 'funniest opening sentence EVER'. he is not, in any sense, wrong.
this is a touching account of asperger's syndrome, a whacky strain of autism, as told by some teens who suffer from--i mean, are blessed with--the disease--i mean condition--i mean difference--i mean--
i found it extremely [insert 30 hour pause, followed by me writing a symphony for harps in six seconds, blasting off on a home-made jetpack, hovering in the air for four weeks, humming the william tell overture, slowly lowering myself back to earth, gluing a single rhinestone to every button on my cellphone, and clearing my throat eight times] relatable.

dear free krispy kreme donuts at work this morning

you sick, sick, perverted little fucks. laying all sprawled out on a chrome cafe table like you don't even know what you're doing there. but you do. you know exactly what you're doing.

love,
gabe's b cups

You're Welcome

Who ARE you, obnoxiously calm man?

Today, as I waited 45 minutes for 3 rounds of trains too stuffed to allow onboard any new passengers, I grew slowly angrier and angrier.

Finally, I squeeze onto the third train, my butt flat against the door and my vertebral column wrapped around an adjacent railing. I was literally touching and being touched by 15 different strangers, everyone holding their breath and wincing and not being able to move.

And then this GUY, who should be president or have a heart attack or be in a boating accident DAILY because he is obviously UTTERLY unaware of recognizing crisis, PULLS OUT THE NY TIMES, opens it up and starts HUMMING as he READS it. And he obvies has strangers up his butt, too, he just doesn't care, OR care that he has wrapped several people's heads up with newsprint like gramma's vase on moving day.

Obviously some kinda genius:

p.s. to earlier message addressed to 'ironic' by alanis

dear alanis with the yellow sweater, in the back seat:
i've been thinking. you should grow the fuck up.

love,
gabe

dear jenny's holiday party

i am at you right now.

love4,
gabe

NYTimes: LINCOLN WAS A FAG

According to The Times book review, Kinsey protege CA Tripp has released a historical account of homosexual trends in Abraham Lincoln's biography. This only means one thing: I was right. Everyone I admire is a gay man--like Beyonce, Bill Clinton, and Kerri Russel. Open your minds, America, and stop living in whatever "hetero"fantasy world you refuse to leave. Open your tastefully-lined eyes, take a look at the queer-bomb himself, and tell me he doesn't look exactly like everyone who's ever offered to buy your flabby ass a drink.


dear scones from the green market on union square

you have so much to teach your cousins--the starbucks, the cosi's--all of them. the first lesson in your planner should be called 'moisture.' not that i'm telling you what to do or anything--you clearly have EVERYTHING under control.

love,
gabe

dear 'ironic' by alanis morissette

you have absolutely no business being played over the PA system at my gym. please forward this message to your douchebag friends, 'the first cut is the deepest' by sheryl crow and 'a million dollars' by bare naked ladies. i couldn't possibly do it myself right now. too furious.
love,
gabe