The Fountain Of Couth

The commencement of the PK Mistress of Mayhem era, inspired and led by the glorious Kermopolis, is a fitting catalyst for today's topic:

THE FEMINIST MALE AND INTERNET BEAUTY(IES)(TM)

Well, I'm probably the only PK staff writer who considers himself a feminist(oh, how this has changed since I first drafted, and abandoned this post...), but let's get to the point:

During my Adolescent Psych Course this week (which is taught by Rhymes-with-Mary-Sari Locker, basically the Agony[in terms of the little death, anyway] Aunt for Maxim magazine--which is rather fitting, as you will see*) I was surfing the net to keep my brain from rusting over as she continued her quest to figure out how to work the wireless keyboard that she uses (it might as well be a cinderblock with keys) to file through the endless PowerPoint presentation which comprises the entirety of our course.** I was cruising Korean sites: Daum, Yahoo Korea, Naver, etc., when I came across a photo of a very attractive young athlete named Allison Stokke. Without a doubt, my first reaction was, "Wow. She's purty." Which was pretty much all I learned from the Korean website comments*** So I headed off to Wikipedia (which article no longer exists...) and the English news sites and that's when I acquired three bits of information that changed everything:

1. She's 18 years old and a high school student.
   
2. Her recent surge in popularity--reaching all the way over to the ROK--is the result of her photo being posted without her consent on the website With Leather (Speaking of adolescent psych--interesting title.) under the heading, POLE VAULTING IS SEXY, BARELY LEGAL by the blog's owner Matt Ufford. A knob who is actually clueless enough to snidely insult a 17 year-old [age when the video he references was filmed] for innocent sincerity. Well, that's if you consider a statement that her lack of attention to weak sarcasm is enough to repel a Matt-attack. WHAT a jackass. I rather predict a spurt of sincerity-training clinics in which women help each other actively simulate discomprehension of sarcasm in order to deter the advances of the fantasy football phlatulanx....
   
3. She doesn't want the photo there, nor does she want the attention. (Surprise, surprise.)
   

Now, as far as I'm concerned, number 3 trumps all arguments. That opportunist gobshyte Matt Ufford can kiss our collective kimchi arse and he better prepare himself to have his "Hey, guyz, she's 18, ya know? All legal--nudge-nudge, wink-wink." slobberhetoric shoved right down his creepy little esophagus while we reach in there for his small intestine. And yes, we will be strangling him with it, thank you.

Bottom line: She's a young athlete who does want to be taken seriously as such and who does not want the kind of attention with which Matt-the-scuzzbag-Ufford is hankering to varnish her career.

But, ahhhh....the savvy reader then ponders: Is this not hypocritical? "Whither, Psychedlic Kimochi?" And the reader would be wise and welcomed to ask. Because if there is one thing for sure, whether it be right or whether it be Gordian Knottedly twatted, the High Evolutionary has an answer for every query...:

Yes folks, the brothers here at PK have been known to post a photo or two of a lovely lass, a mistress of mayhem(lower-case) or even a rapturously-smitten-with-your-current-journalist Korean songstress on occasion. However, as I see it, there are three major distinctions separating the Kimochi wheat from the jackass chaff:

1. We keep it above the belt. All the women whose photos we have posted are well 18+. No real borderline cases either.****
2. Every photo we post (this week's sultry shot of Megan Fox, z.B.) is of a woman who is in the business of looking good and looking good in that business. We aren't prowling high school track & field tourneys to dredge up snaps with which to titillate the Maxim's Minors masturbatory readership. We admire actors, singers and models whose looks are the medium through, and the means by, which they mystify us. Ms. Stokke wants to be known for her pole-vaulting; Miss Fox chose her pseudonym for a reason. (Actually, I have no evidence that her surname is pseudo, but that just means the universe knows what it's on about.)
   
3. Our admiration lingers well on the light side of the force side of the yuk-yuk, satirical, self-effacing, isn't-it-ironic-that-we'll-never-get-within-peeping-into-an-exclusive-nightclub-entryway-distance-of-these-ladies, "shucky-darn and slop the chickens she's purty" line.

Basically, we're boys grown big who love to wax flummox at beautiful women.

Whereas Matt Ufford is scuzz-baggery bipedalized.*****

Now, I will leave it to PK's readers and our new resident muse (and master) to comment on these observations; to run my rant through the gauntlet of objective harmfulness and harmful objectification to vindicate me if I emerge free of the slimy stigmata branding that leathery scudge, or re-educate me if I am measured and weighed and found wanting of gallantry (Or harmless buffoonery. Tomaytoe/Tomahtoh).

But in my defense, I will excite you now with the revelation that I not only described this current event conundrum, the Psychedelic Kimochi custom and my intent to place yet another installment of that illustrious tradition in this very post in which I berate that douchebag Matt Ufford for his posting of Ms. Stokke's photo, and for his attaching to it so cretinous, so unskilled and so illiterate a caption that he may ever so soonly be recruited as one of Mitt Romney's speech writers (in the next 18 months, soonly)....but I also regaled several of my illustrious female feminist colleagues at the tour d'ivoire we all attend with a viewing of, and introduction to, this wondrous (yet humble) weblog and several distinct examples of the Kimochi tradition.******

And I am pleased, if not surprised, to report that the Aweinspiringly Intelligent Feminists actually enjoyed our site and shared the following comments on our Kimochi tradition:

AIF #1: "It's just kind of dumb."

AIF #2: "Well, you guys are idiots, but it's a lot different than the Stokke thing. You're all just dumb and treading water in a pond of adolescent foreclosure. That other guy went under and needs mouth to mouth and CPR. Which is too bad for him as no one is likely to weigh his life over their fear of his ochre-clouded lech breath." (She's taking the Locker class too.)

AIF #3: "It's fine. It's harmless. But don't talk to me again until I have the URL firmly blocked from my memory."

So, you can see, we clearly have the enthusiastic backing of our feminist sisters in the intelligentsia. Try to accomplish that, Matt. You pratt. (Too smug and pat...? Rats.)

In conclusion, I would like to assault our readers with two final observations:

In a sad overreaction to this clusterfest, the Wikipedia page for Allison Stokke has been removed. When I started this article (I am well-regarded as the promptest, as well as the most prolific PK penman) the page was still extant, and it had almost no information on it about the scandal. Now, it's goner than Verbal Kint. So, we have a young woman who may represent the USA in the Beijing Olympics but who cannot afford to have a Wikipedia page devoted to her for fear of getting caught in the wake of the lake of drool oozed into the tubes of the Internet. The sluice keeper on that flood of pathetica? A guy so uberly-uncouth and yet still somehow so enamored of his weak grasp of the written word that he follows the letter of the law, and not the spirit. Fully cognizant that Allison and her parents and all the enlightened people of the Earth want that photo taken down and him to offer an apology in the form of a parachuteless base jump off something really fucking high, the "Pole Vaulting is Sexy" post and its photo remain. What an utter jackass. A man exemplifying such jackassery as should only be rewarded with 10 rounds facing Uwe Boll.******* In fact, such jackassery could only be outdone by pursuing your dedicated journalist's clearly personal opinion which could never be seen as approximating a fact nor should ever be misconstrued as an attempt to sully the good name of Mr. Ufford. Just something your dedicated journalist would like to say to his face, like David to Goliath or Frasier Crane to Derek "At least I'm not a lecherous, ill-lettered git" Mann. That's all.

Well, I am sorry it's come to this Allison, and I and all the lads and lass at Psychedelic Kimchi wish you smashing success at Berkeley and in your quest for the Olympic gold. Knock 'em dead.

Oh, yeah. Second observation:

Ms. Stokke, you are going to get the same attention and offers as your Anna Kournikovas and your Nikki Gudexes and your Lokelani McMichaels and your Amanda Beards, especially after all this year's brouhaha. And if you ever decide to trod that path and do the amorous athlete modeling thing, PK will welcome your photos with open arms: because that would be your decision, your career, your choice.

But we rather hope not. We prefer you just be a pole-vaulter who flies over this cesspool of tastelessness on your rise to Olympic glory. We also encourage you to be a pole-vaulter who just kicks ass. Starting with a particular blogger we all know.

And if you do decide to flay that fucker: PK's got your back, sistah. Instant enlightened lynch mob. Just add water.



And that's what I needed to say in New York City, five years, 10 months after the Twin Towers burned.

*Now you know the real rewards of an Ivy League graduate degree...

**Which isn't bad, but you would think for $975 a credit we could get somebody in here to show the woman how to press the little arrow-thingys right. She also still seems upset about not being a member of the cast of "The Real World" 1992. Whatev.

*** When will the ridiculous "S Line" cease to be the standard of womanly beauty?

• 미모의 얼짱 장대높이뛰기 선수 앨리슨 스토키
• 미모의 장대높이뛰기 선수 앨리슨 스토키 (Allison Stokke)너무 이쁜그녀~ 앨리슨~육상계의 S라인~ 미모의 얼짱 장대높이뛰기 선수 앨리슨 스토키

****Well, there were those letters from the ROK Ministry of Sleaze Prevention concerning the photos taken during the Nancy Lang interview. But those pictures were blurry and the interviewee only looked under 18 relative to her interviewer. Who is still in his twenties, but does give off a solid impression of gleeful lechery.

******Libel, right? Slander's the other one...

******All three of whom have declared run-on sentences their primary pet peeve...

******* "No man enter, no dick leave!"

Psychedelic Kimochi

Transformers opens today on the penninsula. And you can bet I'm more interested in seeing it because of the alluring Megan Fox than to see Optimus Prime's lips.


Speaking of foxes, it will soon be my pleasure, and yours, to welcome the PK onslaught's newest member. Gentlemen, time to throw away the empty beer cans and pizza boxes -- we got a lady coming over.

Equity on Holiday

Take a gander at the picture on the right. I'm sure that you'll recognize several of the folks therein contained and, needless to say, they're a classy lot of defenders, avengers, and contenders.

Who wants to fuck with Superman? Yeah, you guessed it; no one wants a piece of the Kryptonian pie. Wonder Woman? Well, okay, plenty of people want to fuck -with- her, and I can appreciate that, but the fact remains that you really wouldn't want to be forced into telling the absolute, unadultered truth about anything and everything under the sun, would you? (Alas, it appears that I've confused you for me.)

Let's not even get started on Batman, or Bruce Wayne for that matter. Playboy by day, badass by night; he's probably got a dick the size of the Joker's grin, too, and you just know that he's giving it to Catwoman some of the time. At this point, I don't even know what I'm talking about.

They're the Justice League! That's what I was slithering toward. They champion humanity, despite the enormous risk involved, all for the sake of beloved justice. Don't believe in justice? Too bad, as justice believes in -savagely beating- you.

Whoa, whoa, hey, stop. Stop.


The Justice League was participating in their annual goodwill parade within the great town of Corruption Junction, and so they left a few portly gentlemen armed with outdated costumes, a Camaro, and a bucket of fried chicken in charge of the monumental task of serving planet Earth.

The most unexpected event occurred: they failed. It's not what you may think, though, and that's an even greater shock. They received a distress call from the Republic of Korea, and from their hidden abode in the unsuspecting town of Spearfish, the 7-11 guys-turned-fourth-tier-superheroes had planned an unrelenting assault on the nefarious forces plotting against some of the better folks on the Korean peninsula. What they hadn't accounted for, however, was that a dilapidated 1984 Chevrolet Camaro -nicknamed the Hand of Rustice because they're witty like that- scarcely had the capability to make a journey beyond the borders of South Dakota, let alone across the Pacific.

A transcript of the second phone call (slightly edited for objectionable content*)

Man in Need: Where the fuck are you guys! I called you forty -five minutes ago, and...hold up.....and actually, as it turns out, I needed you an hour ago. Don't give me that 'My Beefaroni isn't out of the microwave yet' shit, either.

Caped Crusader: No man, no it's not like that. Hawkman gave us a ten dollar voucher for Ethanol fuel, see, and we thought that would get us there, like yesterday, but it didn't work. I mean, as in the coupon is expired. No good.

Man in Need: Look, if you would just dispense with some, nay, any justice, I'll even throw in a bag of popcorn and-

Caped Crusader: Hey, I'll call you right back. Just accept the charges, okay?

Man in Need: This is...absolute shit. Even Kennan could do a better job than you jackasses, and he's nailed Betsy Palmer...

The story itself may or may not be our business, but what does matter is this: Justice took a breather, and good people suffered. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly won't be the last. More on the issue later, when someone better equipped comes along.

-----------

Anguirus


*In actuality, the Man in Need mentioned Bea Arthur, and not Betsy Palmer. Harsh.

This is How We Move It Down the Line

Folks, today I heard magic (not the kind coming from my upstairs neighbors' apartment, though I heard that, too). Do yourself a favor and check out -- read: illegally download -- the Smashing Pumpkins' new single, 'Tarantula.' Blow your goddamn mind, that will. By the way, if that song isn't, over the course of the next few years, used for some sort of sports broadcast (NBA Finals! NBA Finals! NBA Finals!), people are stupider than I currently imagine them to be...As the summer progresses and temperatures rise, please be sure to drink lots of water. This is especially important for my readers in their sixties, seventies, and eighties* For those of you stranded at sea without potable water, be sure to drink plenty of urine. To quote Brendan Flowers, it's not so bad...Saw Ocean's 13 this past weekend. Thoroughly enjoyable. Better than 12, not better than 11. Biggest laugh-out-loud moments of the film: the Mexican uprising and Andy Garcia on Oprah. Finally, Ellen Barkin is 53 years old, and I, just like you -- if you're male and saw the film -- was thinking the exact same thing: tap, tap, tap. Word to DeAngelo Barksdale...Pulled a Kobe in Game 7 of the Suns/Lakers 2006 playoffs series this Saturday (Jesus, I'm writing like Rorschach in Watchmen; I promise to stop, starting now). We lost 3 games in a row. And, truthfully, it made me feel kinda good, kinda important...New entry into the list of Songs Subliminally About Constipation: Move Somethin' by Reflection Eternal. And you know what, "Reflection Eternal" is the number one bestest Group Name Subliminally About Constipation. I had that epiphany in the bathroom, naturally**...Fuck what you heard, the Blazers are going to pick Kevin Durant, and here's why: Sam Bowie. Isn't it obvious?...Since April, I haven't finished a novel. I started out (re)reading Of Human Bondage, but stopped around page two-hundred-and-something due to supreme laziness/Internet***. I don't regret it, however, because I hadn't gotten to the part where Philip meets Mildred. And, trust me, while perhaps the greatest telling of fucked-up romance/craziness, shit hits a little too close to home. Makes my Tiberious Meat Hammer shrivel -- just a little -- thinking about it...Tom Cruise was born to play Ozymandias in the film adaptation of Watchmen. Can't tell me different. Picture Tom, hair dyed blonde, delivering those memorable words, "I'm not some Republic-serial villain. Do you seriously think I'd explain my master-stroke if there remained the slightest chance of you affecting its outcome? I did it thirty-five minutes ago." Biggest bastard moment in film history, I'm telling you. Again, Tom Cruise was BORN to play Ozymandias (and I was made to love you)...Advertising slogan which, if I -- theoretically -- worked for Proctor and Gamble, would have been fired long ago for coming up with: "Pepto Bismol: Don't It Make Your Pink Tongue Black?" (the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' song woulda been in the TV advert.) Whatever, I still successfully referenced the monolith in Stanley Kubrick's 2001 for an LG phone ad. K-Hot, we are at war with Proctor and Gamble. Don't shoot until you see the blacks of their tongues. Cheez-Ums in the south shall rise again...She was 16 and 6-feet tall, in a crowd of teenagers coming out of the zoo. Sorry, it's only been a few days, but those lyrics, from The White Stripes' 'A Martyr for My Love for You,' are positively literary. In fact, I'm sure many an unpublished writer -- this excludes TMH -- would sell his soul for an opening sentence like that. Me, I'd take "It was a dark and stormy night."...The copy on the small waste basket on my desktop reads, "This sunny and pleasant weather makes me feel something nice will happen." Yeah, that fucking thing is getting the Hans Gruber treatment, not now but right now...


*And for Mrs. Baker, one of my most constant retards, who will turn one-hundred-and-three years young on July 7th. Don't die before then, Mrs. B. Promise? I got a killer post in store for you on your special day. I mean, I got a REALLY GOOD post in store for you on your special day.

** Just so you know, I'm as regular as Norm Petersen and Cliff Clavin.

*** Blame K-Hot.

Sonny Liston Was a Friend of Mine

I don't know who this "Tom Hoisington" fella is but he seems to have a keen grasp on the fight game and razor-sharp writing skills.

MMAWeekly Article

To quote Hemingway in a letter to Marlene Dietrich: My writing is nothing. My boxing is everything.

The Last Waltz (Mido's Theme)

K-Hot knows how much I love ABBA's 'Dancing Queen.' I love it without an ounce of irony. It is a great song.

Idealjetsam knows how much I love 'Fake Plastic Trees' by Radiohead. Seriously, just sing "A green plastic watering can.." at any pitch and I melt like butter.

TMH knows how much I love 'I'm Shipping Out to Boston' by the Dropkick Murphys. So does Martin Scorsese.

Denz knows how much I love Pete and CL's 'T.R.O.Y.' He also knows the angst I feel as a late-twenties Caucasian b-boy drowning in a sea of nostalgia for true hip-hop.

My mom knows how much I loved Raffi, and I hope she knows how much I still do. Raffi, like meat, Paul Pierce, and Stanley Kubrick filming the lunar landing on a Hollywood soundstage, is the truth. Raffi, bless his still-beating heart, gave me just as much imagination as a child as Walt Disney did. No mean feat. Props.

The 18th Letter knows how much I love her and how much I always will. Nothing can compare, can even come close. Word to Sinead.

That said, the most beautiful piece of music ever recorded -- and, yes, I'm including the time I sang 'The Lollipop Guild,' as a kindergartener, in my school's production of The Wizard of OZ -- is 'The Last Waltz (Mido's Theme),' composed by Yeong-Wook Jo, featured in the Korean film Oldboy.

Now, whenever I tell people that The Last Waltz is unequivocally my favorite song of all time, I get a) a look of incredulousness, because, hey, the film from whence it came isn't exactly the feel good movie of the summer, you sickco, or b) a look of bewilderment, because, hey, the song of which you speak isn't exactly familiar to my Occidental ears.

Fine. To address the first point, Oldboy is a modern classic. You find it violent, shocking, a bit creepy or perverted? No prob. But let the composition stand on its own. I certainly don't defenestrate myself, believing I can fly, whenever I hear John Williams's Superman score. Take the music as it is. And, to be fucking sure, it is a sublime piece of music. I know I use that adjective too much, but, in The Last Waltz's case, it fits like epileptics.

To address the second, YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO IT. I WON'T TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER. I WON'T EVEN TAKE AN "I'LL TRY TO CHECK IT OUT IF I GET A CHANCE." Listen, you absorb the profound beauty that is The Last Waltz or I will personally visit your home like Jay and Silent Bob -- and what a shitty movie that was -- and deliver a beatdown. I've been working out; I can do it!

In short, I love The Last Waltz like I love my dick size.

You should too. And like the T-1000, I won't stop until you do*.

"Hi, I'm looking for John Connor..."




* Ideally, you would love both equally.

The White Stripes, Icky Thump -- Review

For once in my god-forsaken life, I'm going to post a review of an album before everybody and their grandmothers have had a chance to listen to it. This, naturally, entails "creative procurement." Oh like you don't do it also.







It's hot and humid, so let's delve into the tracks before I loose any more energy/will to live:



Icky Thump

As previously mentioned, this is inarguably the best White Stripes song yet created. Says me. Released over a month ago, I've had to regulate the number of times I hear it, lest I overplay it and start to get sick of it. Sorta like 'People as Places as People' by Modest Mouse. That once-lovely song has suddenly turned into a cold bitch on me. By the way, why doesn't Jack White just go ahead and release a 90-minute album of him going nuts on the guitar? Like you wouldn't buy it*.

You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)

This sounds like the perfect wake up song. I'm telling you, if this is the first thing you hear in the morning, it is scientifically impossible for you to have a bad day. Believe me. No one sounds like he's having as much fun in rock music as Jack White does, from his singing to sublime guitar wielding. Ironic, I suppose, if The White Stripes are to be classified as blues.

300 M.P.H. Torrential Outpour Blues

Starts off with a nice acoustic melody. A lot more mellow than the first two tracks. I've never admired the complexity of Meg White's drums (but, boy, she can bang the shit out of those mothers), however, in a subdued way, she manages to impress me here with a versatility I've never heard/noticed before. The interspersed electric guitar wailings are actually a tad distracting on this, which is weird, because I fucking love interspersed guitar wailings. It's the acoustic guitar that makes this one. Is it just me, or are White's lyrics a lot less "cheesy old-fashioned" and a lot more "genuinely old-fashioned" on this? Fuck, I think a spider just bit my foot.

Conquest

This sounds like a mash-up between an Ennio Morricone spaghetti western score and the opening song for a Bond film. Not particularly a fan, surprisingly. The brief horn/guitar battle near the 2-minute mark is fucking aces, though. I think White was going for a level of deliberate corniness here, but he failed to hit the mark. Them's the breaks; even Prince Paul has his misses. Thankfully, this is short.

Bone Broke

Back to a more garage rock vibe. "I got another job at the liquor store. Damn!" The pace switchup after the first verse is killer. As is the 'nother switchup at the end of the 2nd. As far as pure rock-out moments go, this is the pinnacle of the "CD" so far. The next time I'm on that dust, I'm gonna put this one on repeat for about 15 hours.

Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn

Bagpipes! And a banjo! I'm not one for drinking songs (when I'm drunk, I like to listen to my upstairs neighbors screw; if they ever get an air conditioner and close their windows in the summer, my life will cease to have meaning), but this would make the perfectest tune to cheerfully quaff pints to. Forgive me: I'm picturing a band of hobbits dancing atop a wooden table.

St. Andrew (This Battle Is In The Air)

Like a cocaine-induced coda of the previous track. Meg White likes helium, apparently. I like Meg White**.

Little Cream Soda

One, two, three, four...duhn, duhn, duhn, duhnna, duhn, duhn, duhn, duhnna. Great opening. A Jack White guitar clinic in the vein of 'Ball and Biscuit.' (I think it's 'Ball and Biscuit,' anyway. Song titles in The White Stripes' oeuvre are oftentimes interchangeable.)

Rag And Bone

See?

Alternately amazing and silly. I found 'It's True That We Love One Another' from Elephant annoying, but a similar theme works here. You know what bugs me, though? That Meg White gets what I like to call the Flavor Flav treatment. It's okay that she doesn't get her own track and a few vocal performances on every White Stripes album, trust me. Or was that part of the divorce settlement?

I'm Slowly Turning Into You

'Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground, 'There's No Home For You Here,' 'For Her (Is Over For Me),' and now 'I'm slowly Turning Into You.' These songs are as similar as the Baldwin Brothers. 'There's No Home For You Here' is Alec, by the way. 'I'm Slowly Turning Into You'? Stephen. But not "Bio-Dome" Stephen -- more "The Usual Suspects" Stephen.

A Martyr For My Love For You

Is it just me, or does this sound eerily similar, upon opening, to something Everlast might have recorded circa Whitey Ford Sings the Blues? Maybe I'm tripping. But I doubt it. (I actually like Whitey Ford Sings the Blues, by the way.) This kicks ace all over the place. When the pace -- and organ and drums -- pick up after the 2-minute mark, I get goose bumps...sorry, I mean I get chicken skin***. I don't think White has ever done anything so...emo? While great, I can't say I'm thirsty for more. Like I'm not eager for Will Ferrell to pursue more dramatic roles, or for butter to get jealous of margarine and decide that it's time to start cutting down on the calories. At least it sounds honest. I once won the lottery.

Catch Hell Blues

"If you're looking for hot water, don't act shocked when you get burned a little bit." While perhaps unintentional, this sounds like a b-boy version of the blues. "Try to catch me!" White shouts while his guitar maniacally screams. It's as though he's saying, "Yeah, but can you do THIS? Thought not." Tough to call it an actual song, 'Catch Hell' is more like a virtuoso guitarist telling his peers they eat gruel for breakfast while he scoffs down steak and eggs. Jack White IS hip-hop!

Effect and Cause

Lyrics, somebody want lyrics? Love the wordplay. "I didn't rob a bank because you made up the law." "If you're heading to the grave, you don't blame the hearse." Good closer. Word to Tom Henke.

___

Conclusion 1: It is a fantastic album. That said, it's not better than Get Behind Me Satan****, Elephant, or White Blood Cells. Maybe it's better than The White Stripes and De Stijl, but I wouldn't know. Because I only got into them when they hit the mainstream. Now, if you will forgive me, I'm going to listen to Goodie Mob's first two albums so that I can neutralize my latter-day conformist tendencies.

Then I'm going to snort angel dust.

Conclusion 2: 4/5 *_*

Conclusion 3: That spider bite really fucking hurts.




* Creatively procure it, I mean.

** 's breasts

*** Because while Psychedelic Kimchi isn't a blog about Korea per se, I can't ignore my influences. I've lived here nearly a quarter of my life. Jesus, I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.

**** Blame The White Stripes for making me embarrassed to ask for CD's in record shops. I'm convinced their next album will be titled "I Ran Out of Toilet Paper."

The Tiberious Meat Hammer!

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=tiberious+meat+hammer

I swear to God I didn't write that myself. Truthfully, I don't know whether to be repulsed or greatly honored. Let's go with the latter by a nose.

"Whosoever holds this meat hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of...Tiberious!"



Eat your heart out, Mjolnir.

Things Fall Apart...

the centre cannot hold..."

TMH, 6/14: "The Mariners are only building hope in me so we can do our annual soul-crushing in July."

July came early this year:

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/baseball/320208_mari18.html

Well, I'll be a real-live nephew of Uncle Sam.

What's in a Name?

Yes, that's my question/comment/lament/ipsism of the day. Normally, I'd have prefaced the whole scenario with some pillow talk, a bottle of the finest MD 20/20 available, and an economy-sized box of extra small Trojans -Bonus Trivia! I prefer the ribbed variant, and wear them inside out, for my pleasure- but the problem is that such an atrocity is simply too much to preface with superfluous pleasantries.

What atrocity, you ask? Well, let's start here. Amidst a treasure trove of flavor, you may notice a Cheddar Cheese Pringles. That's problem numero uno. They used to be known as CheezUms, and they were awesome, but I'll hit that topic in a bit. I reside upon Korean soil, so that's the market that counts. Alas, there's no luck to be had here on the peninsula, either.

This is the dilemma: A man -and by man, I mean psychologically amorphous crack baby residing in a misshapen adult body- should be able to eat CheezUms until he vomits and, by extension, proclaim something akin to 'I'm going to eat CheezUms until I vomit' prior to doing just that. By contrast, just imagine uttering the phrase 'I'm going to eat Cheddar Cheese Pringles until I vomit.' What the fuck is that? Forget about poetry, Mr. John Milton, as we've Paradise Lost right in the here, right in the now. Or do we?

and lo, the star, which they saw in the north, led them not astray

As a tribute to our faithful Canadian progenitor, I checked in with the Great White North, and it looks as if the Maple Menace has become the last beacon of light in an otherwise abyssal world. In the darkest of Procter & Gamble nights, hope springs eternal. I promised Sparkles that I would engage in some decadent consumption, and by god, I plan on keeping such an oath, even if it means that I must resort to desperate measures. Here goes:

Dear Mrs. Sparkles' Mom,

I write to you, esteemed matron, in an effort to mend our sordid relationship. I fully acknowledge that I, in a bygone era of unmatched hostility, had grievously offended you. There is nothing short of utter remorse for the nefarious role I often played at several tribal gatherings. I drank heavily at the majority of these otherwise delightful affairs, perhaps due to my inability to cope with the pressure of comparing myself to the family goldfish. Nonetheless, I place the blame squarely upon my shoulders, especially for that time I put you in a headlock at the local Big Boy where the last of our kinfolk gatherings took place. I cannot, will not lie: I was devastated when you took a spoonful of my corned beef hash, and that you had elected to neglect my desire for the last shot of Jack Daniel's. The sorrow, and the rage, were incalculable, but that does not excuse my misbehavior.

Despite my vulgar performances, of which they be too numerous to warrant explication, I'd like to think that we have shared several moments best described as magical. Surely you recall Sparkles' wedding, the sixth one, that is. After an evening of festivities, the wedding party retired to the comfort of a sensibly decorated Super 8 motel. Enraged by some perceived slight or whatnot, I banged upon your door for a good twenty minutes, demanding to be let in so that we could discuss our quarrel. You didn't open the door, but after a while, some drunk woman found me, and proceeded to perform fellatio on me. I know that you, above all, could appreciate the sounds that permeated the door. That was so awesome.

Speaking of awesome, do you think that you could ship a few dozen cans of CheezUms to me or, if need be, to your son? He owes me a favor or two, mainly because he's been dipping into the angel dust. You know how it goes.

Your humble servant,
Thomas G. Waites

P.S. To help you relive that phenomenal evening, I have enclosed a picture of the T-shirt Sparkles made to commemorate the experience. Enjoy.




_________

Hati