woah woah woah, yo.

HEY, I WONDER IF ANYTHING IS GOING ON THIS WEDNESDAY NIGHT. MAYBE I SHOULD CHECK THIS OUT AND SCROLL DOWN TO THE WEDNESDAY NIGHT LISTINGS!!!!!!!

lang was born

today.
aaww.

"crazy on you"

literally though........

ISSS MY BIRFDAY!!!!

2 minutes ago, i became more years old and my saddle bags are nasty. Everyone come to my party. It will be a time in your life that will mean very little to you, but will make me feel like the princess of Friendster.

And if you don't come, I will sick these guys on you!!

america, america, this you

proof that the wieners are spending all their time working

so, everyone who knows about the internet knows that the wiener philharmonic has been working furiously on a sketch show, 'wine teeth,' which opens on wednesday and runs through february at juvie hall.
we've been a little out of touch lately though, so i wanted to offer you all a little proof that we're spending every second we have on this crazy show.

here's a snippet from an email chain we've got going today to revise a hilarious skit:

jules to wieners, 27 Jan 2005 13:10:30

yeah I mean, we also cant build a barn and have an axe go through someones pubus, so I feel like sloppy miming of stuff would be funniest. toby on the ground gnawing at langs leg ferociously for 3 seconds could be great.

Mike, how could you?

First of all mike, how dare you?

Second of all, I'm not even going to dignify your false accusations with a repsonse, although I could tell the story about how you saw gabe's dog pooping on the street and then you just said you were going outside for a cigarrette, but instead you ATE THE POOPS and then laid one right there, which isn't shocking because you are ALWAYS MAKING POOPS AND USING THEM FOR CHAPSTICK.

Enough. Remember mike, I found you. I saved your life when you were nothing but a street performer doing a bad Amy Grant impression. And this is the thanks I get. oh yeah, sure, i'll be at your house for rehearsal tonight. Except I'm not just coming to rehearse.

I'm coming to steal your shit, literally.
love,
jenny

Don't Drag Me Into Your Pudding Bowl

Jenny. Hey Jenny! Over here.
You flicked the wrong dingleberry when you brought my name into your little "pass the gas" blame game. Huge time. HugetimeUSA6000.
Remember when you got the stinks real bad after chili crispito night at the dining hall sophomore year, and you took an entire box of DiGel so that your new boyfriend wouldn't think you had just eaten a solid kilogram of fried ground beef wrapped in baked newsprint and jack cheese, but instead it just consolidated all your farts into one huge lobe that oozed out with a continuous sound like Bea Arthur trying to sustain a high A flat for 4 minutes? Remember that?
Don't even come NEAR me, I just had 48 oz. of coffee with heavy cream, and I'm "saving all my love" for YOU. You're dead.
Mike

gabe waves a white flag with teeny brown splatters of jenny's poop on it

look. i dont want to fight. not on the blog.

jenny: you are a disgusting piece of dogshit. sorry. but don't take it personal.
everyone else who is reading this: jenny is a disgusting piece of dogshit. sorry.

on another note: who gives?

on still another note: this whole tiff brings up an interesting point that i've made in public before and been argued with. many people do not know when i am writing something on this blog, even though they think they do. sometimes i sign my name, but not always, because it's not always fitting. for example, when i write something from the perspective of the entire group (like an announcement that we've all moved under ground), i wouldnt sign my name.

so, a tip, for telling whether or not i've written something that's on this blog: the answer is probably yes.

love,
anonymous

Also, Jenny Must Confess...

This is going to sound bad, but i never would have taken Gabe on if I though that he had written about my farts.

I thought it was Mike, and please, I mean, it's Mike. What a pussy. What a babyface, dollydoll, pantyundie, puddingsnack, hoochiecoochie, A-cup-bra IDIOT!

I'm sure that gabe is polishing his sword right now, which scares me, and I bet that Mike is "so irate", but I don't care because I just farted and gold fell out of my couch. Weird, yes, but I'm used to it!

love,
jenny

It's On Gabe! Now it's time for Jenny to Unload (not farts)

You know what I think is funny? When Gabe is like, "oh. blah blah jenny's farts are like trash that has blood in it," but then i'm like, "guess what gabe? i'm about to follow you around and fart all of the time and scream GABE STOP FARTING!!! DID YOU JUST POOP?"

here's a little mystery that i may solve RIGHT NOW:
if i'm so DISGUSTING, so ODOROUS, why has gabe, for the past FIVE YEARS, invited me to both rosh hashanna and Passover at his home in philadelphia? If i'm so GROSS, I shouldn't be allowed at the table...unless my farts smell like a) apples and honey or b)the coming of Elijah. And those are the only options, and the proof is there. Nobody would invite a stinky-ass-fountain of gas to the same table that contains LITERALLY THEIR WHOLE FAMILY.

So here are your options:
a) my farts smell like apples and honey, (signifying a sweet new year)
b) they announce the coming of Elijah
c) My farts are bad, but that means that Gabe wants to kill his whole family. even his beautiful dog. sick.

and fine

d) I DID win a golden globe for my farts, (best comedy/musical).

Eat that, g-spot.

OBVIOUSLY,
JENNY SARAH SLATE

http://www.dreamzdocometrue.co.uk

settle down everyone out there. it does exist.

love,
gabe

gabe retorts on jenny, who then farts like always

jenny: wow.

woah. WOAH. really? REALLY?!
that's what i get for writing a blog posting and not signing my name? for reals?
because i'm pretty sure, miz bugle bottom, that you do fart. and THEY don't smell nothing like ambrosia. THEY smell like a hot trash can next to a cabbage mummy in a museum that's been closed for a decade.
and i blame your farts for my zit, because you've obviously been toxifying my airspace since 2001. and i'm pretty sure that if ben franklin hadn't signed his name on the magna carta, you'd still fart. so don't bring up history unless you want wrestle with a sick academic. i've always got my mouthgruard in, and i'm not scared of bleedin.

LITERALLY SIGNED,
GABRIEL ETHAN LIEDMAN

ps: "toot. toooohoooooohoooohoooooohooooooooot. tfffttffffffttteeeeekkiiiiiiyyyyyaaaaaaa!"
--Jenny Slate

Jenny's Farts? Oh, Really? I'll kill you.

That's funny. No, seriously, that's hillarious. I turn my back on this blog for one second and I'm slandered.

I just want, before i do my daily confession, to tell a story about one time when I farted.

I made a tiny toot, and suddenly Jake Gyllenhall came up to me, and he was all weepy, and he was like, "finally, i've made it to Mt. Olympus, home of Hera and her Husband/Brother Zeus. I can tell that I am at Mt. Olympus because it smells like AMBROSIA, the nectar of the gods."

And then I tooted one more tiny toot and Elton John was like, "My stylings in the award winning "The Lion King" are shits compared to the symphony that I just heard.

And then i made just one more tooty toot, and Hnery James rose from his grave and said, "you can say that again! what a piece of prose, " but then Wallace Stevens burst in as a ghost with Edith Wharton and they were like, "it's a new genre."

So i'm not really sure who wrote that posting about [jenny's] farts, because, just like a coward, THEY LEFT NO SIGNATURE, but I'd like to say that it's obviously not true. And to the weakling who didn't sign his/her masterpiece of a posting, i ask you this: Where would the declaration of independance be if Mr. Ben Franklin had not signed it? I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure that he took a risk by signing his name, and that's why we don't pay exorbitant taxes on tea and tarrifs or whatever. All you did was put yourself on a list to get your house robbed and your tits cut.
I'd also like to say that sometimes I go into bakeries and while I'm waiting for my coffee, I rise on my toes and extend my arms, and people are inevitably like, "oh, are you a dancer," and I say, softly, "not any more." But i was really never a ballet dancer, and am bad at dancing, but I do it on purpose because I like people to think that I'm a ballet dancer who has just moved on.

I sign this, proudly and clearly.
Love,
Jenny Sarah Slate

ode to A friend

sliding silver doors, you shut up bitch
help me out
keep me in it
i want you to chug my face
please please please me
james brown, you the man
i want to help a friend in need
don't keep me in the cold
why homeless man why?!
banane-A
Split

dear urban winter trends

i support you.

love,
gabe

the wiener philharmonic now lives in a bunker

it's true. the wiener philharmonic, in preparation for our big show, EVERY WEDNESDAY NIGHT IN FEBRUARY AT JUVIE HALL AT 9:30 PM, has moved into a bunker in fort greene park. it's cold, and snowy, and smells like [jenny's] farts. night has become day, and day has become [jenny's] fart time.
our recent relocation effort is a testiment to how much we care about our upcoming show, and how little we care about our day jobs, our friends, and our bills. please forward any and all correspondence to:
idiot freezing homeless jokers
69 hole in the ground next to the trashcan
fort greene park, brooklyn, 11217
i'm of course able to write this because, as im sure you've read, i swallowed my keyboard on friday the 21st.

Jenny's Daily Confession

I put pants on this morning and i went outside. I went to the organic food market and bougt some thai soup that is well on it's way to becoming my diarreah, and it's still in the can.

that shit looks hot.

i, on the other hand...not so much...maybe...no. I've lost the pants and my B.O. is getting out of control, but I'm kind of like, well, whatever. It's not like there's anyone here exept the wilting plants and my imaginary friend "lottery".

LOVE,
JENNY

outrage

back in the 1460s, when we started this blog, a major staple of its content, other than inaccurate predictions of what weather GOD would be creating from his magic throne in the sky, was excerpts from our infragroup emailz.
we've seen one today from jules already, but this one just arrived from jenny. to put this in context, jenny currently has 30 kilos of angel dust coursing through her system, and was last seen with her left arm lodged through the windshield of a saab.

her email read, in part:
"he's gonna be pooping on a toilet an i'm just
gonna be all "biznass" and just burst in and be like, "ok. i've got so
many great ideas, but let's hear your base first. like, what have you
come up with since we last met?" and just be a total annoying cunt as
he freaks out because he's sittin' like a lady in a toilet, because
girls and boys poop the same way, except i scream when i poop. and
then i chastize myself for being so low, dirty, and untouchable. i
wipe with my hand and then send it to mike in letters, and it makes
him cry, which makes gabe mad, and that's how one time, i got my tit
cut and my fridge filled with blood, and dirty sheets from the trash.
love,
jenny"

hasselhoff = infinite pussy

or at least in my mind.
let me explain.
sarah taylor 500's genius contribution to our blog reminded me of something another genius, michelle collins 69000000 once showed me at one of those stations at the soho apple store (totes inappropes). check this insane work of art and amazingness out.
and dont worry, this is absolutely work-safe material. when i said 'pussy,' i meant cat.

bongoz

another email excerpt, from gabe, in response to a promotional flyer that jules just designed for our UPCOMING SERIES OF SHOWS, EVERY WEDNESDAY NIGHT IN FEBRUARY AT JUVIE HALL:

gabe to wieners, Fri, 21 Jan 2005 15:48:00
mf, yall, so bored, im dying [my pubes]

jules to wieners, Fri, 21 Jan 2005 15:54:59
maybe this will excite you?
[flyer attached]

gabe to wieners, Fri, 21 Jan 2005 16:00:50
you just made me insane with joy. i've eaten my keyboard and moved to
vancouver. i'm typing this with the hangball part of my throat,
staring out at the pacific ocean with a look of disgust.

He Has Pec Implants

My favorite person, Say-tay Taylor, has emailed this work of brilliance to me. You know he has implants in his pecs. I remember when, and gababy can also attest to this, during the first week of its long run, he took his bow in Jekyll and Hyde on Broadway. His meager 8 ft. 4 inch frame subtly strutting out on stage, shooting finger guns out toward the audience. I cried right into my American Eagle knit henley. I knew that I was looking at the man who had written the anthem for the demolition of the Berlin Wall: "Lookin for Freedom" I believe it was called.



Also, on that aforementioned website, look at the first two postings. They are from Lang, but I'm almost positive that I never posted anything...except maybe when I was robo-trippin on the Tussin.





'what're you waiting for, a golden invitation?'

first: i fucking hate when people say that.
yes, i am waiting for a golden invitation. what're you waiting for, a golden shower? [unzipping fly] rsvpasap, lol.
why did someone at work just ask me if i'm waiting for a golden invitation? literally, i'm asking YOU why. last time i heard that one, i was so bored i fell off my 1992 desktop calendar. word?

second, when i returned to my desk, furious, i was instantly mollified by the presence of this in my gmail inbox. from jules honda to mike b, a golden invitation if i've ever seen one:

"mike why dont you come on over here and let me look at your two nifty tits, your wallabes, your shock absorbers, funsacks, baby bumpers, eyes n tremblers, honkers, dangleberries, tit lottery, flight deck, handles, num nums, top set, fuck udders, rib cushions, shoulder boulders, flesh pipes, cmon. let me see your nards. cmon."

excellent.

Jenny's New Idea

I don't know how to spell RINOPLASTY, but I have to say something about it:

For years I thought it was "Rhino-Blasty", like they say "Shrink" for psychiatrists. I thought that they were calling the people who had big noses "Rhinos" and that they were going to "BLAST" the rhino part of them away. And that's why it was called "Rhino-BLASTY".

I only realized that i was so wrong when I drank two bottles of whine last night and watched "true life: I'm getting plastic surgery" for the 21st time. Why hadn't I noticed before? Probably because of the HUGE DOUCHEBAG who calls himself "eye candy" as he shaves his body, puts glitter on, tries to blow his OWN SELF and then gets calf implants. That clouded my brain.

This entry is part of my new resolution to make inconsequential confessions everyday in order to not completely fade away into my own daily rituals of staring at my toilet and giving myself lice checks because it "feels so good. i mean, i'm sorry, but it feels so so so good. yeah, right there jen. yesssss. jenny. jenny JENNNNYYYYYYY!!!!! YES YES YES!!!! I love you!"

I've had lice 2 times: once in second grade (my mom put my entire life into trash bags and my room was clean and fresh for the first time....to bad i had bugs in my head), and once i got the eggs at camp and they hatched when i got home. we were in teh supermarket and my mom said "DON'T MOVE".

I also act like I have no money, then make myself admit that I'm actually fine, then take money out of my account and flip out because i'm an idiot and i spend all of the money. ALL.

I'm writing this from a trash can.

Ok. I'm writing this from lang's office because she's kind enough to give me a job, which I'm not doing because I'm writing my "confessions". Suck on THIS, St. Augustine, you fucking perv!
love,
jenny

talent

why can't i get johhny weir out of my head? because THAT'S WHERE HE BELONGS. please, if you don't know about the number one most amazing figure skater you've ever seen, open your motherfucking brain and google him. im a pretty big fan of the sport, but never have i ever been so so moved and blown to bits by a teeny teen queen in a spandex onesy on shoes so complicated.
this boy's skills are sharper than the pangs in my testicles right now, trying so so hard not to think about him. freak out on his official site. make sure to look at every single picture (obvi), including the ones of him in middle school hanging out with his friends and the ones where he's so fake tanned and sexed-up, and don't miss his favorites page. if he mentions christina aguilera one more time, this kid's gonna get strung up and abandoned, matthew shepard style.



johnny weir: gabe liedman is your fan. email me.


unbelieve

my favorite person in the world received this message to her friendster inbox. it speaks for itself.

hello.am idris by name from nigerial and am very
hard working gay with serious with all what am
duying in life .but what make me to join the
friendster is to look for a lady of my choice or a
woman to marred as my furture partnal with a
strong relationship but i need some body seriou
that will not break heart in furture and care about
me am my our children so if you have intres you
can mail me to gansal2004@yahoo.com .
a will be awaiting for your positive repond urgent .
thank .
idris '
may god be with who you are .
bye.

i was right, right? boom.

talent

if you're in the biz like i am, weird shit crosses your desk. as the lowest piece of shit in a piece of shit production company, it's your job to open the mail that belongs to no one. they usually contain the headshots of the worst people you've never met. today was different.
a big white envelope was handed to me this afternoon, and it changed my life. its return address reads "THE PRINCESS PARTY, P.O. Box #691538, Los Angeles CA 90069" [i can't believe '69' is in there twice either, but chill, there's more]; in the center of the envelope, right above my company's address, it says "PEACE & JOY theprincessparty.com"; and in the lower lefthand corner it says "NOTE: I WOULD LOVE TO HOST A KIDS SHOW. I HAVE MANY IDEAS $$$" [sic].
needless to say, the envelope did contain a headshot (in color, LA style) for a woman with no last name. please check out their website for at least 21 hours, as i have done, and know i am better for it. princess party: i bet you DO have some sicknasty ideas $$$!

Jenny's Back from Fartland, Mass

In case you've been wondering why the cast of "The View" has been smaller for the last couple of days, it's because i've been at a health and fitness spa in the berkshires, where i farted away 3-4 pounds a day. My butt is made of fire, looks like two golf balls.

I'm a liar. My butt looks the same, but it hurts more than it usually does. Now that I'm back in brooklyn, seated once again, in my underwear in front of my dusty computer, I wonder about two things: when did i get an "adult metabolism", and when did i get "B.O."? I seem to have both, which is weird because i'm pretty sure that nine months ago my sweat tasted like ambrosia and i ate 7 meals of cheesesteaks a day, plus, no joke, my favorite "after school" snakck was a can of cherry pie filling. Now I smell like hummus and eat only cans (empty ones), to stay slim. Something seems to have changed in the past nine months or so.

And what's with that baby that fell out of my vagina a week ago? I was like, "oh man. i better not fart in this yoga class," but then there was this baby in my stretch pants and i had to go outside and shake it out, and roll it in an extra yoga matt, and by the time i got back in I had missed my favorite posses and I just felt really annoyed. Plus, stretch pants are stretchy, but not that stretchy, so that's a drag too. EVERYTHING HAPPENS TO ME!

Like, the other day I was robbing this house, and the TV was so heavy and nobody who lived in the house was home to help me carry it out (typical), and that sucked because i had really put in the effort the rob the house and i didn't even get the one thing that i actually wanted. It's hard. That's hard. But I'm pretty thick skinned.

I just wanted to check in, say "hey" and "i'm back" post something low-key and non-political.
I love you.
Love,
Jenny

Jules can't be fired...BY HER SELF

Thank God I am not at work today so I can google things like VICTORIAN HOOKERS and get the most ideal amazing jackpot ever.

BLAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH

Weather forecast in Julesville: 46% chance of infanticide

I got the coolest new fish in my fishtank. It's literally a tiny little shark with soooo much energy. Every time I think about him I get electrocuted a tiny bit. He is the best fish. Now I secretly wish all the others would die so that I can have all tiny sharks. I hope that's not an indicator of what kind of mom I'll be, "glancing" away from the playground "for hours" until the older, dorkier kids "fall off the swings" so that I can replace them with cooler, more energetic sharks.

If I rolled with an army of tiny, friendly sharks, I would truly be unstoppable (barring


insane laziness,


and a slight drinking problem.)

tips: how to be a better graphic designer

according to an educational video disc that i rented from my local store, becoming a kick-ass graphic designer is super-easy if you can follow these steps:

1. get murdered for something you've overheard. should be simple enough.
2. make sure that your corpse ends up somewhere where it can receive a slow, sensuous french kiss from a royal, egyptian cat.
3. invest in a ricky martin makeover.




HSBCPS

everything's been worked out, so feel free to chill

HSBC

apparently, this is a photo of my bank's branch near my office.

how the m.f. do you lose a massive cash payment? the customer service woman should've known how pissed i am because i was barely cursing. union square bank tellerz: sleep with one eye open, one eye on the revolver you keep on your bedside table, one eye on your revised will, and one eye on your yet-to-be-severed penis.

HRH Princess HJ

Hmmmm, I can't seem to cradle this Gladiolis properly.

mm! I know! I need an intense manicure!


Yes that's the ticket.

further proof that earth has hit a critical desalinization point

as if the tsunami in asia and landslides in LA weren't enough proof for you, i just sent jules my resume and a formal cover letter that started 'dear ms. vanderbein,' like we've never met. sickening, no?

return of the free krispie kremes at work

well, great, welcome back, you trans-fatty fuckers. my ample man-breasts have been drafting a thank-you note since your last visit, but they keep spending their postage allowance on pepperoni and popcorn shrimp hot pockets.
anyway, you've left me with no other option. i need to flee. no one wants to see my triple-g rack bouncing around onstage this february.
to keep in touch: please affix a letter or a print out of an email to the back of a fox trained to hunt down the stink of weed-sweat.

Science: officially better than food?

Everyone knows my heart belongs to the Dining section of the times, and that my pulse skips a beat every time I hear Frank Bruni's huge Shakespearean collar ruffle in a truffle-fart wind. Usually I am inconsolable until Wednesday, when there ol' Frank will be, peddling adverbs from inside his brocaded chamber robe.

But can I PLEASE alert you to this SECTION of the NEWSPAPER???? Literally the Science Times has the AWESOMEST headlines/bylines. please listen to this pressing NEWS:

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, Amygdala: Word as Earworm
By JAMES GORMAN
Can a word be an earworm, a tune that lodges itself in the brain and will not be moved?

me: I NEED TO KNOW!! I'VE ALWAYS WONDERED ABOUT THAT!

Is It Dutch? Japanese? Why Not Ask the Rat?
By NICHOLAS BAKALAR
A team of Spanish neuroscientists has shown that a well-trained rat may be able to determine what language you are speaking.

me: ARE YOU SHITTING ME?? THAT HAS HUGE IMPLICATIONS FOR PET-OWNERS!!!!!!!

Plague Ants, Plantains and Scorched Plantations
By CARL ZIMMER
An entomologist believes that he has solved a 487-year-old ecological mystery regarding ants and the island of Hispaniola.

me: WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY?? WAS IT A CRIME? DID ANTS DO IT?? WHERE IS THE ISLE OF HISPANIOLA???

Blasting Into the Core of a Comet to Learn Its Secrets
By WARREN E. LEARY
This week, NASA is to launch a spacecraft called Deep Impact, hoping to smash into a comet's nucleus at 23,000 miles per hour.

me: REALLLLLLLLLY?????? THAT'S SO FUCKING INTENSE!!! 23,000 MPH?

The Secret Lives of Just About Everybody
By BENEDICT CAREY
Psychologists say that most normal adults are well equipped to start a secret life and that keeping a secret is a key to healthy development.

me: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT????? THE NEWS IS THAT I SHOULD START A SECRET LIFE? THIS IS THE BEST NEWS! MAYBE I WILL GO TO HISPANIOLA!!!!!!!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

[jules looks right, then left, screaming at top of lungs, hurtles self out office window]

I love you, science.

Wiener-Sun Courier Times

Foreign Correspondent Anne van der Bein


reports from Naples, where she and my mom are tootsing around for a week, with this letter, entitled, "heyyyy girl whuts up young, ms julia ROBERTS - jk, gotcha":

"Naples is nice. Saw caravaggios paintings today, he definetly chilled and was
a tight dude.

There are def sketchy things happening in this city, like
how the hotel reception guy just offered me some of his beer - i
accepted, obvi.

Tomorrow we climb mount vesuvius.. hopefully it wont blow
on my ass."

I'm sure you will be safe, Anne.

love,
Constantly Impressed by My Sister

SCIENCE! volume 2

Scientists on Earth have succeeded in downloading human thoughts, and outputting those thoughts to HTML files. Their first guinea pig was Hollywood's doofiest darling, Nia Vardalos. The results are shocking.

nightshirtz 24/7






oatmeal for breakfast?

who knew? man, after one day, i'm sold.

love,
gabe

Sir Thanks a Lot

Why am I shivering--nay--reverberating with excitement right now? Because at approximately 3 a.m., when my boyfriend comes home from work and hops in to bed with his soundly sleeping little angel, I am going to MAKE HIS NIGHT. How, ladies? With a little help from a remote-control electronic device.

And I'm talkin bout Sir Farts-a-Lot, a 4" plastic console that tucks under sheets and pillows, fits easily into trike baskets and tennis underwear, and makes one of 7 varied fart noises when you push a button on a tiny remote control FROM UP TO 50 FEET AWAY, AND THROUGH WALLS. Rest assured that all of the fart noises sound hyperrealistically like gas from a butt, especially when muffled. One of them sounds like a baritone goose orgasm, it's fucking awesome. Another sounds like a rotten pumpkin exploding. He is going to think I am making 40,000-hertz farts continuously for an hour and a half. I cannot WAIT to hide this fucker
in the car with my mom and dad
in a baby carriage
somewhere in the West Village Marc Jacobs store
in the bathroom at a dinner party
in the dining room at a dinner party
in the chicken at a dinner party
under a sleeping cat
in a hamster cage
in a potted plant
in the back of EVERY wienerscene during our February show...

PFFFT

gabe had a burrito for lunch today

i think i should've ordered a chicken one, instead of a voodoo cult leader one. live and learn.
boom!

to say that i 'have' a comb would be a gross understatement

Does anyone have a comb?

I have to go to a concert all of a sudden, in stinky work clothes. and my hair is a mess. anyone? you guys?

PS to guidehorse posting

if you're not an idiot, check out the page's 'common misconceptions' page.
and the oscar for outstanding performance by a website in my pants goes to . . . .

put enough of my favorite people in one movie

and you can have all my money. check this out. bruce willis? b. murphy? clive owen? forget about it. throw in tommy lee jones, and i'll even let you borrow my sense of entitlement.

You WISH you were vision impaired

A thousand thanks to Matthew Deliso for bringing this to my attention. GUIDE HORSES: http://www.guidehorse.com/press.htm

HOLY SHIT. THese things make seeing eye dogs seem LAME, which is, for obvious reasons, nearly impossible.

They are not ponies, but rather, MIDGET HORSES, that lead the blind, ANYWHERE. they are smart, loyal, stocky, and TINY, like dolls. THey are like Sean Astin only quadripedal and IN LITTLE SNEAKER BOOTIES.

please look at photos of these preposterous HORSES on escalators, doubled up in human beds, and on PASSENGER JETS. It is SICK to give something SO FUCKING CUTE to someone who cannot EVEN SEE IT.



see you NEVER because I just stabbed my eyes out.
muxh love, frin juleas

Thank you, C Train Doors at 8:53 a.m.

for snapping off my beerfart right behind my butt this morning at the exact right time, leaving the waft like a fresh young bride, abandoned on the platform, waving me off adoringly, instead of getting me killed by following me into the train and being so powerfully and rapaciously stinky and so obviously the work of the butthole of the cock eyed girl covered head to toe in mascara.

dear gabe's alarm clock

speak the fuck UP, girl. come on! how am i supposed to know it's time to put on a pair of briefs backward, hide a stained polo shirt under some cashmere, and sprint to the subway without brushing my teeth if i can't HEAR you? be a team player, okay?

reaching my subconscious goal, slightly late

i got drunk in bed last night.
well, technically i got drunk before that, but the hollow warmth and loose lips that typify a milder "buzz," as the youths say, descended into full-scale inebriation only when my head hit the pillow. i was spinning like bob barker on one of his delightful barker's beauties.



and what do i have to show for my boozy work? sure, i slept well, but that could've been the ambien. or the pot. maybe all that autoerotic asphyxiation before i turned in, but i doubt it. well, better luck next time, eh buddy? if there is a next time--aha ha ha ha! almost kept a straight face through that one.

MMMMemories, in the corner of my 'vator

my building is in the process of updating the elevators with all the features appropriate to a landmark wall st. office tower: cherry veneer paneling, faux marble linoleum floors, and best of all, tiny tv screens that project news and weather headlines. they also project the "word of the day," which today was "adroit," meaning (like i have to tell you insanely intelligent blog readers) clever.
they used it in a sentence too: "the college student was adroit at getting into the club with no ID."
my face lit up, and i crackled with laughter. how fitting! my elevator-mates, considerably older than myself, looked at me with confusion. no doubt they have forgotten the herculean feats one used to employ to catapult themselves into the trendiest hotspots, that or there were no clubs in the 1890's, when they were my age. assholes.

Why I will write a sitcom about my workplace

What follows is a flash report on the conversation between two ostensibly warm, caring, engaging, and intelligent MANAGERS at my office. This seriously just happened:

ROB: I just don't know what to do about these kids in my neighborhood, I'm pretty sure they're dealing drugs.

TONY: You know what I would do? I'd get in the car, drive past them, and shoot 'em. With a really powerful bb gun. Take out an eye or something. You know, I got friends...back in Brooklyn...

ROB: Nah, I wouldn't shoot them from the car. I'd probably shoot them from my house.

Vigilante justice makes me tingle.

Grooming is genius

OMG I just googled "grooming," to find a picture of a dapper gentleman but I got SO MUCH MORE (obviously.)





and perhaps best of all,


Yowzzz, obvies the bogie I wiped on my boyfriend's wall at 3 am last night is now living in Antwerp and has had several litters of children. They are for sale.
http://www.skyn.be/english.html

and no, I still can't make links.

oh my sky!

the scaffolding that's been around my office since i started here in september of 2003 just came down, and i can finally see the glorious, gray, drippy, shitty, polluted, depressing, shittyshit sky. hallelujah.

SCIENCE!

courtesy of a genius named lynn kim, glut your hearts and brains on these unbelievable works of science.

love,
gabe

Men's deoderant is Jules' pits

The reason that I wear men's deoderant is not that I am man-worthily stinky, but rather that most men's deodes smell like a combination of ice, sea salt, juniper berries, rock crystal, Spanish steel, adrenaline, and diplomacy. I can't HANDLE how delicious arm n hammer is, and please don't let me NEAR old spice, because I WILL try to make butt to it.

aw damn. I'm bout to find me a man around my office just so I can go smell awwwwl up in im. mmyow. mmyayow.

Survey

HEY! This is a professional survey! It's NOT Jules van der Bien running something deeply personal by you to see if she's different than anybody else! THIS IS THE U.S. CENCUS BYEROUW, o-KAY??

1. Do you have any siblings?
2. How many per capita people live in your roof?
3. DO YOU EVER SIT IN A CHAIR FOR 4-5 HOURS AT A TIME AND THEN SUDDENLY YOU REALIZE THAT YOU SHOULD PROBABLY STRETCH BEFORE YOUR SPINE IMPLODES AND YOU OPEN YOUR LEGS SLIGHTLY AND YOUR CROTCH SUCKER-PUNCHES YOU IN THE FACE WITH A HOT PLUME OF SMOKE SMELLLING EXACTLY LIKE A COMBINATION OF REHEATED COFFE, ROTTEN BACON, AND PENIS?
4. is your baby registered with us, or is it a secret baby? also, do secret babies exist? please advise.
Love, the Sensus Burro.

Guess Why Jenny's Crying, (don't worry, her titties are fine)

I don't know if I told you guys this but I had an operation where I got my brain taken out of my head.

They put poop and cloth in there instead. That means that today I have done the following:

Left my apartment, (first huge mistake), because the buzzer buzzed and I thought, "oh yes! a package! maybe it's somebody dancing! maybe it's me!I love jenny!"

But then, since I was wearing no shoes, a pair of tattered sweatpants with, seriously, a hole in the crotch, and my boobs untamed in my "sporty tank", I decided that I should give it my all and lock myself out of my house. Did you know that it's winter outside and that winter is bitter cold, like the heart of Eva Braun? I did when, in bare feet, i ran crying across the sidewalk, (yes, across the sidewalk....2 steps) to stand next to a pile of dog poop and bang on teh window of an unmarked van.

"I'm locked out of my apartment!" I screamed, as the man ignored me for TWENTY MINUTES, while promising that he would be off of his phone soon. I stood there for TWENTY MINUTES, staring at the poop next to my bare feet and starting to cry. Then I left two voicemails and went back to huddle in my shitty "foyer". When my rescue came I was autistic and crying. My feet were white and my asshole was leeking blood. My mouth was dripping milk and my stomach had exploded all over my thighs, which were made of two thin, glass vases.

I looked a mess!!!

I'm back inside now. I had some eggs and I've cleaned up a bit. The moral of this story is that I scream when I burp, and my boyfriend screams when he barfs. Remember that, even if I'm not able to write any more today because my brain is made of poops and rags, I love you so very much.

I love you Jenny.
Love,
Jenny

Shhhhhh! Wink wink

I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO hungry, I am secretly about to eat my trainer.

For the Record

two of my favorite names are Rip Torn and Gale Storm.

Which leads me to: obviously I should change my name to Jewels Gems. JEWELS GEMS. soooo genius and only 500% porny.

Obviously the huge golden trophy of Atlas holding a large family sedan up with his package above a plaque that reads "seriously though, you are a genius" goes to one J. Bailey, a boner fide "Wiener Favorite", and minter of the keepsake 8-cent souvenir name "Jules Honda." Clearly because I am reliable, cheap, and asian.



am in talks with parents

to legally change name ASAP.

actual audio recording from 17th and broadway

"oh, uhm, i'll just have a tall coffee of the day please. thanks."





right now

i'm trying to get comfortable at work. impossible.

poor man, poor attitude, poor circulation

ooooh! owwww! oy vey.
mike's sciatic nerve is KILLING HIM. you see, he is a temporary employee at a bustling (read: more desolate than dave coulier's condom drawer) wall st. firm, and he spends a good part (read: interminably long stretches) of his day sitting in a standard (read: ancient, mystery-stained shitbench) office chair. recently, his left leg had been throbbing, with a pulsing discomfort stretching from the back of his upper thigh to the back of his knee.
could it be his body is telling him something? is it time to employ his extraordinarily expensive education on a career that requires movement, and possibly provides health insurance not paid for by his mommy?

actual video footage from 17th and broadway

"i didn't stuff it, i was just washing my hands!
feed me brains."

"BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNSSSSS"

"BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNSSSSS"

"BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNSSSSS"

"BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNSSSSS"
"BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNSSSSS"
"BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNSSSSS"
"BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNSSSSS"

Jules likes animals more dead

Well that's not true exactly. I met a cute black lab named Max this weekend, and he was adorable. and the dusty saddlebag of third base would have been well beyond my grasp had he been dead. but these awesome people from Minnesota, brought to my attention by a generally boring but sincere older friend (The NY Times), do amazing things with taxidermy. Bibus, the guy who creates elaborate genus and species orders as well as full bios for his animal creations, is like one part Santa's Toy Workshop, one part Tim Burton, and one part tiny Japanese boy's Pokemon collection. And one part elephantitus balls. and one part vermouth.

also I exploded a can of regular (not diet) ginger ale all over my computer screen, and I can't help but feel like fatty Dennis, played by Wayne Kight, aka "Newman", in Jurassic Park. Like a big fat disgusting computer programmer with a sticky computer screen and a stomach full of funyuns, when what I REALLY wanna feel like is THIS:


I guess I'll just wipe up with these??
hmmm.

PS the link to the taxidermists site (truss me, girl, you wanna see it): www.roguetaxidermy.com

PPS gifts of pickled squirrel foot necklaces can be made out to:
Jules van der Bien
c/o Her Wildest Dreams
17 Inches Into Her Mahogany 'Fro
Insane, ASS $100,000,000