<< prev = comments [14] = pings [0] = next >>


podcrapping
12/19/2006 = 07:00 AM

The main reason for this post is, plain and simple, that the newest podcast is up and I think it's the best one we've done so far.

We, meaning myself, the straight man, as it were; and Andy Martello, the bringer of the prepubescence; and a guest dick joke from Kung Fu Kitten, who rocks my world and intimidates Andy a little bit.

It's pretty long, about forty-five minutes.

However, you don't need an iPod to listen to it (though you should get one if you can afford it, because they're wonderful gadgets that make the music portable and great-sounding), and you don't have to download it to your computer if you don't want to — there is a player available at the main podcast site (http://golfwidow.podomatic.com) and also at our new My Space address (http://www.myspace.com/podcrapular).

(You must get thee hence and friend us. We are Just That Needy.)

Use the players so you don't have to take up your own storage space downloading us. We're sharing our bandwidth with you. 'Cos we're attention whores we love you.

We're also giving out random prizes. Sort of like the Time Magazine Person of the Year Award, except we don't give ours to just anyone.

Also, you get to listen to us cracking our own selves up again, for about five minutes. Good times.

To give you an idea of how my week, my year, my life is going, I have been having odd dreams inspired by shows on Discovery and its affiliated cable stations ... but only about shows I don't really watch, not any about the ones (like Digging for the Truth, Cash Cab, or Mythbusters) where I could really get behind dreaming about some of those main men.

I shall tell you of the two dreams I had, and you can interpret them for me, thus saving me an arseload in therapy bills and/or insurance copayments.

I dreamt I bummed a cigarette from the mom in the television show Little People, Big World.

(Again, I rarely, if ever, watch the show, and I'm pretty sure no one on it smokes, but that's what happened, dreamwise.)

Anyway, she gave me a cigarette and an ashtray, and a Baby Bic, which my dream self automatically accepted as, Well, naturally this would be an easier lighter to manipulate if one has small hands, and I lit the cigarette.

I had, maybe, a half a drag whilst lighting it, which tasted vile. The cigarette itself began smouldering, then blazing, and I crushed it out in a panic and woke up ...

... with the horrible taste still in my mouth and a scratchy smoker's throat, and a wretched sense of guilt.

For ten minutes I was sniffing my pajama sleeves and hair to make sure I hadn't actually smoked anything.

If you smoke, I won't tell you to quit, but if you don't, I'll tell you not to start, because when you quit, you yourself may have guilty-sneaked-puff-dreams to look forward to, four years later.

Then last night, I had what nearly equated to one of those dreams about Paulie Junior from American Chopper.

If you know anything about me at all, and even if you don't I'm about to tell you, so hold your britches, there, people, I don't really watch American Chopper either, and when I do, Mikey's my crush, with Senior a close second and Vinnie a really distant third.

Paulie, in other words, ain't even a kiddie's tricycle in my race. Yet, there he was, in my dream.

I say "nearly" because, in the dream, I told him, I've got certain rules, and there are certain people I might break certain rules for, but you're not one of them. However, if you ever need anyone to write advertisements for you ...

I don't remember what happened next, but I'm pretty sure he didn't offer me a copywriting job.

I think I need to stop trying to pretend that Discovery and its affiliated cable stations are improving my mind and admit that the only reason I watch Animal Planet is to catch a glimpse of Matt Gallant in an old episode of The Planet's Funniest Animals.

(Shut it. He's kind of cute in a geekazoid way.)

Point of fact: Did you know how many drivers own green Camrys when you are outside in wintertime, waiting for a ride? Fucking all of them, that's how many.

Dear Person-of-Prehistory in the Geico Commercials:

You need to get over your own self.

Not because that fake reporter said, "How can it be offensive if it's true?" but because you blew the opportunity to retort, "Well, you have bad hair, but I'd never be so rude as to say so, because I'd be worried about offending you even though it's true."

Come on, it was a throwaway line and you threw it away. Hell, it was so easy ...

... Oh, never mind.

Sincerely,

Golf "I'm Not One Hundred Percent in Love with Anyone Whose Arguments Begin with the Words 'First of All' When They Don't Follow-Up with a 'Second of All'" Widow

Conversation yesterday:

Me (hopeful tone): Did you say "cookie?"
My Friend Who Isn't But Is Sort Of: No, I said "okay."
Me: Oh, nuts.
My Friend Who Isn't But Is Sort Of (hopeful tone): Did you say "walnuts?"

Snack levels in our office have been at a surprising low, considering the time of year. I blame fuel prices.

I changed my mind about the Morse-Portnoy-George cover album and Pleasant Valley Sunday isn't my favorite track anymore — What Is Life is. You need this album. Go. I'll wait here.

(But first, listen to the podcast. Did I mention we're giving out prizes?)

drinking: orange juice
listening to: nothing
congratulations to: everyone who won the 2006 time magazine person of the year award, except paris hilton, whose contributions to the electronic age included a dirty video and disseminating a bunch of her celebrity acquaintances' personal contact information to the known universe