by Matt Dunbar

Bankruptcies and bailouts. Widespread unemployment. A once booming and diverse economy now exclusively based on the production of Shakeweights and whoopee cushion Smartphone apps.

The so-called “Great Recession” has created a new normal in many aspects of day-to-day American life, ranging from unexpected “leisure time” and delinquent mortgage payments to convincing VISA, MasterCard and Manuel’s Easy Credit Anybody Qualifies Loan Shop/Korean Barbecue that you’re legally deceased. But perhaps most alarming of all these changes is the completely unnatural, perverse and depressing phenomenon that many in our generation (read: humanities majors) are currently experiencing – moving back in with our parents.



I’m stricken with a curious sense of obligation to share the lessons I learned from spending half a year residing with my folks at the not-so tender age of 24. I do this primarily with selfless motivation, since many of you may soon be forced to endure a hell similar to the one I’ve only recently escaped from. After reading this, I hope you might be able to avoid some of the mistakes I’ve made, or at least have fair warning of what’s in store. In the words of my father, “Do as I say, not as I do – but definitely don’t do anything that costs retail.”



[Noir in Laziest Days]

A Six Step Guide To Moving Back In With Your Parents

Lesson 1: Wear pants

I list this lesson first because of its importance and because of how relatively easy it is to implement. Our generation’s parents are baby boomers, and despite their increasingly bizarre flirtations with our own hip, progressive trends (iPhones, organic food, Wii, etc.), they nevertheless are instilled with the same “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” mentality that beset their parents during the Great Depression. Thus, despite their better instincts, they are often offended by overt signs of “laziness” – such as, say, a 24-year-old asleep on their leather sofa, surrounded by a half-dozen Powerbar wrappers and a chocolate-stained L.A. Times sports section, wearing nothing but Pink Floyd boxer-briefs.

DO NOT FIGHT THEM ON THE NEED FOR PANTS. At first, I made the mistake of insisting the lack of clothing was a generational and cultural difference, that the people who work at Google never wear pants and they seem to get shit done, that the important thing is that you’re wearing underwear, which for most of college was optional. Just put on a pair of jeans at some point before mid-afternoon (save the khakis or tube skirts for when you ask for money), and you’ll save yourself a good deal of grief.

Lesson 2: Say the phrase “Well, in this economy” at least 40 times a day.

It’s best to incorporate the phrase into a fully-articulated sentiment, such as “Well, in this economy, I’d be lucky to just get an interview in the next six months, let alone a job.” However, this is not completely necessary. I’ve found that by simply saying “Well, in this economy….” aloud as many times as possible and trailing off, parents will typically ease off on questions about cover letters, resumes and other time-consuming activities that distract from Dr. Who marathons and fantasy baseball. For added affect, be sure to leave out relevant reading material about how the global economy is collapsing in on itself and how we’ll all be carrying our currency in wheelbarrows sometime next year. I kept this cover of the New Yorker from October of last year in my parents’ living room for months, often retrieving it from our recycling bin weekly.

Lesson 3: Make yourself the household IT specialist

When it comes to technology, most parents suffer from a severe autoimmune condition known colloquially as “I swear this is not how it worked before” syndrome. Induced primarily by small, unanticipated and essentially meaningless changes to software or hardware, symptoms include rapid mood swings, uncontrollable sweating (if hardware is involved) and irritable bowels. Do not be reluctant to exploit this to your advantage.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that your mom’s phone somehow mysteriously changed from a 16th century text messaging format where you have to input each letter individually to T9. After accidentally text messaging your sister that she should “remember to fork her mousework,” your mother will inevitable turn to you to fix whatever has gone horribly wrong with her phone. It is important to pretend that the problem is more severe than it is before resolving it, both to make your parents feel less technologically inept and to implicitly enhance your own IT specialist value. I recommend saying, “This could be a virus…” before miraculously touching the minimize icon.

Lesson 4: Incorporate your parents into your drinking regiment

This is a tricky lesson, and I only advise attempting it if you’ve been living at home for at least three months and have established relative detente on other fronts. Once again, understanding a generational rift is essential to successfully executing this lesson. For most of us, college was an all-out shitshow of Popov, projectile vomiting and emergency contraception that we are still in the process of recovering from and likely never will. For our parents, college was about “experimentation.” They took a hit every now and then to see if their Steely Dan record would say anything cool when played backwards, but binge drinking was rarely the de facto recreational activity it is for us.

Thus it’s of little surprise that when downing a Mickey’s with dinner, one would encounter looks of bewilderment and confusion from parents. However, if properly discerned, those looks will also betray a certain reluctant curiosity. Upon reflection, the explanation is surprisingly obvious: Your parents are old, they are just as unhappy that you’ve moved back in with them as you are, and, thanks to the likely state of their own job and/or marriage, they are in way more desperate need of escapism than you are. If they haven’t tried abusing alcohol yet, you can be that gateway.

Lesson 5: Pretend to not enjoy doing “nothing” half as much as you really do enjoy doing nothing

The syntax may be confusing, but the lesson is simple. I put quotation marks around “nothing” to signify that one person’s definition may differ from another’s. For example, one person may consider watching all of NBC’s offerings on Hulu a highly productive endeavor, while others may call it “really pathetic, Matt.” Sadly in this case, your own definition of “nothing” is irrelevant.

There are several tactics you can adopt to achieve the pretense that you somehow prefer waking up at 6 AM, commuting, and staring at your Outlook inbox for 9 hours to not doing any of that. The easiest is to simply manipulate your facial expressions whenever your parents are around to reflect a deep, brooding discontent. I like to call this, “unemployment constipation face.” Copy this archetype.

When your parents ask what’s wrong, simply tell them “Ahhh, nothing. Its just I thought I would be out of the house by now.” They will naturally sympathize, and will secretly be relieved that you’re not enjoying yourself and that your stay will indeed be temporary, thereby allowing your stay to indeed be prolonged.

Other options include emailing them Craigslist job posts that you are highly overqualified for, with a subject line “Think they’ll take a college grad for this?” Or spending 3/4 of your day at a coffee shop “job hunting” – I recommend Panera, they have free wi-fi and won’t directly confront you about not buying anything and raiding free samples for at least a month.

Lesson 6: Avoid timetables, timelines, and time travel



I would say avoid the concept of time entirely, but this is an incredibly difficult feat to execute without Rod Serling showing up in your living room and turning your entire family into pig-men. Paradoxically, the best strategy here is to initially propose your own timeline, but make sure it is obtuse and convoluted enough so that you have enough maneuverability later on: “So, if by May I’m not out of here….which really I should be, considering my constipation face…anyway, that will be my trigger month, where you can initiate rental payments on a pro-rated basis and keep those payments in escrow until September, when I’ll file for arbitration. But be careful, they may Rule 5 my ass and I could end up playing for Kansas City.”

I am not what most would call a man of high-dollar tastes. The only suit I ever owned was from J.C. Penney’s and I readily admit to not seeing a problem with calling a pot of Kraft Mac n’ Cheese with hot dog chunks in it dinner. When it comes to The Hooch, things are different -- I love the good stuff but I don’t obsess over it. Okay, yes, I fucking do, but I still understand there comes a time when the only point to drinking is to get loaded. Like when you get dumped by a woman with a mustache or you need to forget how you sharted in that Old Navy changing room when you tried to pull a left cheek sneak. And that’s where the cheap shit comes in. But, being the discerning prick that I am, I still want to bitch about it. And, if at all possible, make a poop and/or dick joke at the same time. That being said, welcome to the inaugural edition of Plissken’s Shit Booze Review.

First on the chopping block is a delightful little beverage I procured the other day at the 7-11 across the street called Earthquake High Gravity Lager. Brewed in LaCrosse, Wisconsin, this bad boy weighs in at a whopping 12.0% alcohol by volume and is sold “on special” at two for three bucks. Bring a fiver and you’ll have enough left over to get one of those eternally rolling hot dogs or some plastic cheese nachos. Trust me, you’ll want something on your stomach before this shit hits it.

The Pour



Notice the complete lack of head. If I wanted this little head, I’d be dating a prudish Catholic girl from Indiana with her jaw wired shut. Don’t believe the hype kids, head on your beer is a good thing, delivering both increased aroma and flavor that are critical to the enjoyment of a proper pint. Poorer examples will often lack this trait, as their body has been overly thinned by large additions of adjuncts such as corn or rice. These adjuncts contribute simple sugars to the beer which are much more easily digested by yeast than the sugars brought forth from barley alone. Simply put, a shit ton of it in a beer like this means a lot more alcohol without making the beer thick and hard to slam. Undesirable traits one looks for in what is essentially liquid crack.

The Aroma

Earthquake is hard to explain. How do I put it exactly? Imagine a pile of sweet corn. Now imagine a pile of old aluminum siding. Now make those two piles fuck and then somehow have a child in defiance of all that is holy. Now smell that child. That is what Earthquake High Gravity Lager smells like. Corn siding.

The Flavor

As I savored the first sip, I noticed something unusual -- I didn’t go blind, so it passed the first test. As the rush of knowing I wasn’t poisoned faded, the flavor did not. The alcohol scorch dominated the first sip, making its presence known in a punchy fashion that takes your breath away. Sort of like going into the unisex toilet at work right after that guy Carl who always eats the microwave burritos out of the vending machine. Following the shock of the 12.0% comes a strange saccharin sweetness, a side effect of using large quantities of the aforementioned adjuncts. While I did find it unpleasant at first sip, I noticed that it faded over time. Most likely, this was simply a side effect of my taste buds dying. Either way, once that first gulp was down and over it became almost bearable. Not good, but bearable.

The Verdict

It’s shit. But you knew that going in didn’t you? Does it get you where you want to go? Yes, but it also may lead to you waking up at 3 A.M on a Greyhound bus to Ogallala, Nebraska with no pants on and a penis permanent markered on your cheek. Drink it very cold and with caution. And have some Tylenol ready for the morning

6/10 stars

SnakePlissken thinks 12 steps are more appropriate to fall down than follow.

Earlier this year, I decided it would probably be a good idea to not be so damn fat. Getting healthier overall laid more seemed like a worthwhile possible side-effect as well. Naturally, I went about googling ways to not be fat, as I assumed it would mean more than just skipping my morning hot cup of butter-flavored Crisco. That googling led me to find out some truly startling mostly maybe possibly true information.

Bread is an asshole.

Yep, that's what the internet said to me. The internet wouldn't lie to me, would it? I mean, it brings me porn. Oh wait, hold on. I knew a girl in Sacramento who did the same thing and she turned out to be crazy.

Regardless, I decided to trust this whole "bread's a cocksucker" theory, in the interest of science, and consume a KFC Double Down. For the great unwashed, this new product from The Colonel is a sandwich that boasts about its lack of buns and judicious application of all things unhealthy.


KGC? Obviously this refers to their line of grilled products, but somehow to me it invokes imagery of communism, jackboots, and possibly Dolph Lundgren.

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

]
Ha HA! Now who's crazy?

This thing was wrapped up so tightly upon delivery, I was concerned it may be an omen of greasiness to come. Little did I know how right I was.


The last time I saw breasts this bare it cost me a dollar plus cover and a creepy hipster with Kanye West asshole glasses tried to score coke off me in the men's shitter.


Further exploration shows inside lies a gloppy combination of cheese, bacon, and The Colonel's "secret sauce". Cue the masturbation joke. All gloppiness aside, the structure of the sandwich is sound. I expected the two chicken chunks to slide around against each other like Rosie O'Donnell's ass cheeks in July, making handling difficult and awkward. This was not the case. At least not for the sandwich.


Upon first nom, I ran into a weakness. Rather than submit to my powerful jaws easily, the chicken was stubborn, tearing along its grain. I literally bit off more than I could chew. This tendancy is the sandwich's fatal flaw; the Death Star exaust port if you will.

But there also arose another issue:

A magnificent case of greasefinger. Only the lube-wrangler on the set of Ass Spelunkers #3 could top what results from the handling of this product. I recommend you fight the temptation to unwrap this thing unless you like your fingers to leave subtle meat-smelling fingerprints on everything all day.

But how does it taste? Not bad, really. If the bacon and cheese had been of higher quality it might have even been good despite its flaws. But they weren't, meaning this epicurean disaster can only achieve mediocrity. But, in a way, KFC seems to revel in that fact ... like the slow kid in class with mittens pinned on his sleeves who's way too proud about his ninth place t-ball trophy. Good try, KFC...good try.




6/10 flushes


SnakePlissken proudly sniffs his fingers after fried chicken.

When I think shit food, I think Italian. Not because it’s bad. Oh, fuck no. I mean shit food in the way that every single dish is out to clog your arteries and make you die of an infarction while you’re masturbating awkwardly in a changing booth at the Fashion Bug. I mean, what’s not to love about a cuisine where even the vegetarian dishes can turn a white tablecloth orange if accidentally spilled? Oh, right. The rip-offs. The “authentic” stuff out there that lures you in with your trust of all things Italiariffic, only to leave you searching for the nearest 7-11 that sells both Imodium and Depends. That being said, it’s time to take on one of the worst offenders: Subway.

I love a good sandwich. A lot. If I had my choice between the perfect sandwich and the perfect handjob, I’d take the sandwich. I’m not saying I don’t like handjobs. Quite the contrary. I’m just saying I really fucking love sandwiches. And Subway is to sandwiches what Captain Hook is to handjobs, preparing greasy luges of bread set to rocket out of your colon like a doomed Georgian athlete.

So, after my daily trip to the liquor store, I stopped by the local Subway for a foot long of blasphemy. There were two choices on the menu with “Italian” in their name, the Italian B.M.T. and the Spicy Italian. I settled on the Spicy Italian after deciding that I simply couldn’t eat anything with the initials B.M. anywhere in its naming scheme. Considering the gustatory dynamite that would comprise this big bastard, I selected the parmesan oregano bread, hoping the cheese would create a gluing effect in my lower GI tract, thus countering the natural laxative effect of cheap cold cuts. And do I want it toasted? Why not? I was.

Here’s what Subway says a Spicy Italian should look like.

Look at that thing. I kind of want to marry it and move to a country where it’s legal to eat your wife.

Here’s what it really looks like.

Yeah, that’s the Russian Bride effect. Looks great on the internet, but when it shows up, it’s ugly, mean, and probably will wake you up by putting cigarettes out on your arm.

Fortunately, I know it's what's inside that counts, right?

Shit. That piece of bread looks like it could try out for Jersey Shore 2. Better dig deeper.


Ok, well that's not so bad looking I guess, even though it resembles the Jolly Green Giant's first dump of the day.


Much to my surprise, it handles well. Not much topping leakage or bread crumble. These are the first favorable traits I've noticed.

But then I tried it. It tastes, well, cheap. Like licking Lindsay Lohan, only slightly less greasy. The salami and pepperoni are the exact opposite of what they should be in a quality sandwich. Most likely, I don't want to know what's in them as they probably contain at least half the periodic table. I don't even want to speculate on the half-life of Subway salami. The olives, which I normally love, were oppressively briney, dominating the flavor profile. As for the tomatoes, well, they were red. If they had a flavor they might have been nice. Same goes for the lettuce. Ugh, iceberg. Unless it's sinking the Titanic and killing Leonardo DiCaprio, I'm not interested.

So is the king of cheap sandwiches worth it? No, not at all when you consider the quality of what you're getting for your money. Why not spend an extra buck or two and visit a local establishment instead? Not only will you support your local economy, but you'll get a much better product for the money you spend. Don't settle for less when more is everywhere.



3/10 flushes


SnakePlissken eagerly awaits being sued by Lindsay.

I fucking love Chinese food. I do. And if you don't, you're probably just a racist. You need to get past Pearl Harbor, dude. It was over a hundred years ago. And you still can't be sore that they kicked our ass in Vietnam. Fuck. Let it go. Enjoy their tasty cuisine and the rich tapestry of flavors that is Panda Express.

Being a fat guy, I already knew where one was located. Right through the Oregon State University book shop, past the mini-mart, take a right turn at that table full of hippie assholes jamming to Phish, a left past the vegan burrito place where the asshole phish-listening hippies work, straight down the hall that smells like asshole phish-listening hippie farts, past the crazy bible guy who opens the door for you while screaming "In the name of Christ!", and then left at the water fountain that squeals like Emmanuel Lewis in a trash compactor when you use it. And you're there. Simple, no?

The first thing to do when approaching a shitty Chinese joint is scope out the back room situation. But, do it carefully. The Chinese are a naturally wary people and emit a neurotoxic gas when startled. You're looking to see who's cooking this shit up. I've eaten a lot of crappy Kung Pao made by white guys with dreadlocks named Pooky, and I can tell you this is a situation where indeed the Chinaman is the issue, dude.

This particular day, I needed a lot of grease to soak up some of last night's adventures with The Kickin' Chicken, so I went with a two-item combo of the least healthiest things on the menu: Orange Chicken and Beijing Beef, with a side of chow mein noodles versus fried rice.

I found the clear plastic take-away container to be ideal as in no way could it absorb any of the precious grease contained within.

Included with the meal (upon my request) were a couple packets of Kikkoman soy sauce. This is the good stuff, folks ... no hydrolyzed protein substitutes and caramel coloring here. Sort of like spinning rims on an '87 Ford Tempo, but what the hell.

Fuck you, high blood pressure!

I first sampled the most popular dish served at Panda Express, my old favorite Orange Chicken.

Wow. This stuff hasn't held up well over the years. What was once a past favorite of mine has devolved into an over-sweet under-spiced ball of grease, more batter than chicken. This is only made worse by the fact that it was scooped out of a bin that had seen more time under a heat lamp than George Hamilton. This is easily the most disappointed I've been since Haagen Dazs discontinued Sticky Toffee Pudding flavor.

Next comes the Beijing Beef, which bears a strong resemblance to Mongolian Beef with a kick.

The website describes this dish as "crispy on the outside and tender on the inside". I guess it wouldn't sell if they told the truth and said the dish "captures the full texture and chewiness of a premium brand prophylactic". Once I got past the jaw-numbing chewiness, I found the flavor to be not too bad. Not too sweet and with just enough kick. Perhaps if this was fresh and contained a few more of the "crisp bell peppers and sliced onions" the description touts it wouldn't be bad. Perhaps.

Lastly, I ate the Chow Mein. Probably because it was the most healthy. I figure that way it'll just push the other stuff right on through, no harm no foul.

Hrm. This stuff tasted off. Like smoke and burnt. It can't really be seen in the above, but the noodles themselves had a little char to them. Hmm. I'm not sure if this flavor is intentional or not, but I know it's not exactly pleasant. It distracts and dominates the flavor of the whole dish. I wouldn't have finished, but this damn combo meal was $5.60 and 75% noodle. On the positive side, it did lead to a series of farts that smelled like a campfire which, if nothing else, was an entertaining change of pace.

So that wraps up my adventures with the bottom rung of Chinese cuisine. I went into it with high hopes based on my past experiences with the chain and was shown truly how much they had gone downhill in a few years. Perhaps quality is location specific, I really don't know. I do know I probably won't go back to a place whose sole redeeming factor is the issuance of bad-ass black plastic forks that look stolen from the Death Star commissary.


4/10 flushes

SnakePlissken guarantees this article 100% Ashton Kutcher free.

Once upon a time, in a magical place called "the '80s", I was a young lad and my old man sat me down and told me the three secrets of life. He said, "Don't piss on the third rail; you're proof the pull-out method doesn't work; and never make a pizza out of McDonald's."

Well pops, I'm sorry. I had to impress the SGPDX crew on white trash potluck night. What else could I do, I'm dealing with people who think bacon is a condiment.

The Construct

After studying the assembly of other McPizzas, I decided on a plan of attack. There were some nice examples out there, but my masterpiece would be special; a deadly creation of cunning design the like not seen since LeMarchand's Box. A quick trip to a Wal*Mart Super Center for ingredients seemed appropriate given the occasion. To my shock, this one had a McDonald's in it, though this did explain the unusually large stable of electric scooters at this particular locale.

I arrived at the MisterSatan household, various components in hand, and the Ritual of McDamnation began.


Note that for this application cheaper is better.


First comes the sauce.


Next comes the fries. Those evil fuckers.


The burger layer is added in defiance of all that is holy.


Judicious applications of cheese will help counteract the natural laxative effects of McDonald's.

Gathered round this greasy creation the oven clicked, signaling it was at temperature, and a hush fell through the room. We eyed each other nervously. Is this really a good idea? Should we turn back? Should I call my mom and cry a little? No, children, it's far too late for that.

The Reveal

Soon enough it was out of the oven, piping hot and ready to lay waste to our digestive systems like a cheese ensconced IED. But there was a problem. A big problem.



It looked good. And it smelled good. Some scratched their heads in amazement and others began to worship it. Personally, I found its appearance as confusing as that of a Thai ladyboy.

The Mastication

On paper, this was a weird combo. The kind of thing you'd expect to pop out of a telepod, scream across the room, and latch onto someones neck. Sadly, a shotgun-toting Geena Davis was absent in the event of that occurrence, but sometimes weird combinations work. This was one of them. The fries held up surprisingly well to the sauce, not becoming mushy and saturated as I expected. Their base foundation also served to keep the bottom bun of the burger off the sauce, allowing the bread to toast slightly. Quartering of the burgers in addition to good cheese adhesion allowed the slices to be eaten with minimal mess and topping loss, a challenge even for normal pedestrian pies.

Overall Impressions

I hate to admit it, but it was pretty good. God, I think I'm more embarrassed admitting that than the time I got caught reading Playboys at the bookstore when I was thirteen. But, would I do it again? I suppose if I was getting ready to ride the lightning I'd give it another go, but as regular meal? God no. I can't afford to put in an automated lift to get upstairs.

But that doesn't mean you shouldn't try it.

I give the McPizza



8/10 flushes

SnakePlissken eagerly awaits pics of your versions.

The Colonel and I have had very differing ideas on what fried chicken should be for quite some time now. I think it should be hot, fresh, and tasty. He thinks it should resemble a grease-filled water balloon breaded with wallpaper paste. Thus, the Colonel and I see each other as often as Amy Winehouse sees Betty Ford. But, after a little prodding from the more drunken members of SGPDX and some inspiration from Patton Oswalt, I decided to give the KFC Mashed Potato Famous Bowl a whirl. What's the worst that could happen?

First Impressions

"Five ninety-nine" said the man-child drive-thru worker, his voice cracking and pitching. I pretended not to notice in hopes he wouldn't spit in my food, as, judging from his robust aroma, he was a Marlboro Red man capable of producing astounding quantities of sputum at the drop of a hat. Moments later, the phlegm-free hand-off was made and my car was filled with a slightly disturbing aroma akin to old canned vegetables and my Grandma. She's been dead since '98.

The Reveal

Remember that show Let's Make A Deal? You know the look the contestants had on their face when they traded their Popeil Pocket Fisherman for what was behind door number three and it ended up being a fucking donkey in a dress or a lifetime supply of Lutefisk? Well that was the look on my face when I saw this.



I wish they would have cracked an egg in it to keep my coat shiny and manageable. Maybe that's being a bit harsh, but it does look a bit like the commercials I've seen for premium dog foods. I hope this doesn't lead to me dragging my ass on the carpet.

The Mastication

It came with a spork!



Which, as it turns out, is the high point. I like all the things that went into this. I like chicken, corn, gravy, cheese, and mashed potatoes. But, packed together like a raftload of Haitian refugees, it just didn't work for me. It was absolutely flavorless despite its multitude of components. A perfect example of more is less. It doesn't even burp good, and now I smell like a dumpster at Hometown Buffet.

Overall Impressions

How can something so bland give me such terrible heartburn? Ugh. Will I ever eat this again? Sure, if I had just polished off a box or five of wine, or I was getting hazed into some sort of fraternal order, I might be up for it, but at noon? And dead sober? Never again.

I give the KFC Mashed Potato Famous Bowl



3/10 flushes


SnakePlissken thinks forty cents for an extra honey mustard packet is fucked.

Are you a girl? Is it Halloween? Be a sexy 1900s steel conglomerate tycoon!

Or maybe a sexy anorexic? Sexy institutionalized mental patient? Sexy convict--in traditional stripes or modern orange?

Or, I know! A sexy lady bug! Perhaps a sexy bumble bee? A sexy gardener! (I swear I *made that one up*, Googled it, and voila.)

Sexy girl scout! Sexy tin man! (Think I'm joking? Click that link.)

My favorite, though, has to be the sexy clown. I can see where one might be tempted by that, if only because it's so fucking revolting that it might just kill the whole "sexy costume" thing dead.

There's nothing wrong with the odd sexy costume, mind. Elvira's been around forever, and everyone likes the vampires. The unitard-wearing cat costume is timeless. But look what's happened to the cat now. Subtlety, people!

Sure, I myself once went to a party as a vampire victim, which involved a white cotton gown, red lipliner bite mark, and a candleholder--'twas sexy, though I admit the primary impulse there was "I already own all these things." And it wasn't basically a lycra mini dress, with or without a foofy tutu of some sort attached.

But jeez louise, enough is enough. I realize I am going to sound like the most prudish mom ever with what I am about to say. Too bad. I keep getting these costume catalogs in the mail, and all the little girl costumes--every single one--has a short skirt on it and is some sexy girled-up version of something or other--fairy, pirate, princess, etc. Oh sure, the catalog copy calls them "cute" but we know that "cute" is often (as in this case) a euphemism for "sexy, on a little kid."

And the boys aren't a whole lot better off. All they get is the oh-so he man stuff. Cop, yawn; firefighter, yawn. Pirate, superhero, astronaut, yawn. Luke Skywalker, Buzz Lightyear, ninja. Yawn.

About the only costumes that aren't revoltingly gendered are the Harry Potter ones. But really, would it be so strange to have a girl dress as a (non-anorexic) skeleton? Or a boy as a clown? Are girls allowed to be Spiderman, or boys to be cheerleaders? Aren't monsters and magical creatures supposed to come in, you know, both sexes?

Bah. The point of the carnival should be to invert conventional expectations, not to dial them up to eleven.

Bitch_PhD is proud to report that her son wants to be a ghost this year. In the traditional sheet-with-eyeholes.

Amanda McKittrick Ros is a cult figure in Irish literature and popular among 20th century writers such as Mark Twain, Aldous Huxley, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and many more. Why? Her abuse of alliteration is unabashed and completely side-splitting even now, about 70 years later.

According to Reuters, "The World's Worst Novelist" event at the Celebrate Literary Belfast festival took place yesterday in Ireland and challenged enthusiasts to read aloud from her [and others'] books for as long as possible "without cracking up."

Why so funny? Procure a peek:

Or, her poem titled "Visiting Westminster Abbey," beginning:

Photo Location: the infamous, impervious intellectual.

Hat tip to Miss Snark.

Swanksigns is a website "dedicated to the art of mocking public works". Users are invited to contribute photographs of bizarre, iconic street and warning signs. Each sign is accompanied by a comments thread at which visitors can post potential captions and explanations in attempt to make very funny signs even funnier.


Photo Location

Here lies someone who may be more into taking a bath than Ernie. Everyone likes to get sudsy now and then, but Carye Bye, curator of the Bathtub Art Museum, brings a new degree of appreciation to this international pastime.

Photo Location

The museum exists only in digital form for the time being; the world may not be ready for a physical museum dedicated to bathtub art. Until that day comes, be sure to browse the many exhibits, read all about Carye's pilgrimage to the Bathtub Racing Capital of the World, learn how to bake a bathtub cake, and maybe even send in your own hand-made bathtub postcards for the museum's collection.