And for the spam du jour, we have:
Call out Gouranga be happy!!!
Gouranga Gouranga Gouranga ….
That which brings the highest happiness!!
I don’t know what it means, but it certainly is optimistic. It’d be nice if the spammer included a phone number, though, just so I could call and complain should happiness not arrive in 4 – 6 weeks as promised.
And now, a word from Mr. Steve…
Hello, boys and girls! Mr. Steve here again, filling in for that scatterbrained faggotini who just can’t turn down a good project. Honestly, people: either that boy learns to say “no” every once in a while, or he ought to start packing his bags for Whitfield.
But issues of mental stability aside, as he was dashing out the door, Richard said I had free reign to discuss whatever I liked today, so naturally, Mr. Steve has chosen to discourse on his favorite topic, etiquette–specifically, etiquette and the telephone. Lesson number one: the lost art of how and when to answer the phone.
Conversing by phone is simply another way of communicating with friends, family, and complete strangers. You may not be able to shake their hand, and they may not be able to witness your grimace when they begin recounting the oft-recounted tale of their sciatic woes, but nevertheless, phone conversations are a form of social interaction and come with their own list of dos and don’ts.
It is especially important that you, the recipient of the call, greet your caller appropriately. Even if you have caller identification devices attached to your phone and can see that the caller is actually your brother Herbert, who can only be calling to borrow money to support his exotic dancer girlfriend, answering with a curt “What do you want?” is never appropriate. Nor, I think, is the generic and timid, “Hello?” I suggest devising your own unique greeting. Personally, I recommend answering as “the help.” Nothing elicits quite so much respect from callers as a throaty, haughty “Mr. Steve’s residence, who may I say is calling?” Adopting foreign affectations is also acceptable, as in the French “Allo?” and Mr. Steve’s favorite, the Japanese “Moshi moshi?”
Choosing when to answer the telephone is also particularly important–not necessarily for your caller, but for those in your physical presence. If your Aunt Sophie has driven all the way down from Schenectady to inform you that you figure prominently in her estate plans, opting to answer a ringing phone as she regales you with the madcap antics of the recent Casino Night Celebration sponsored by the Lady Banks’ Rose Cultivators Society of Terre Haute might diminish your share of the eventual loot or have you cut from the will altogether. On the other hand, should you find yourself in your bedchamber, entertaining a mortician with whom you were sent on a blind date and with whom you agreed to canoodle because he looked like fun but have lately begun to realize that he’s no more fun than your average mortician, taking a phone call might be the most discreet way of suggesting that he put back on his gabardine and scurry back to the morgue.
A final note on answering: if you are the sort of person to use a cellular telephone device–and from the looks of you, you are–do not under any circumstances answer calls during the burning-of-Atlanta scenes in Gone with the Wind, especially if you happen to be at a very special, one-night-only cinematic screening with surround sound at the Odeon Cineplex on 3rd Street. Such crimes are simply beyond the pale.
He’s back! He’s back! After a long, long hiatus, the Vegetable Man is back!
Just when I thought things were getting a little too gentrifaggotized around here, a sign that there’s still a neighborhood under all the new paint and crepe myrtle bougieness.
Maybe I’m romanticizing him a bit too much. Maybe I’m overlooking the fact that he’s a poor, possibly unbalanced black man living in the South, just managing to scrape by. But screw that–his voice makes me happy.
A note to the many moldy musclequeens of the world: if you happen to pass me on the street and I happen to utter, “Ay, yi, yi! El Mutante!”, then yes, sweetie, even though my Spanish may be way off, I’m totally talking about you.
Some delectable spampoetry, courtesy of the boyfriend:
Her odd shaped t-shirt adheres or maybe a shining sony show its value.
His expensive bra smiles however, any given purple red picture run or
a round laptop is angry.Mine white underwares looks around.
Any round-shaped kitchen lies however, mine white spoon stares.
Any noisy bicycle arrives.
Any shining recycle bin lies.
Mine stupid sport shoes stinks.
His small stupid sofa arrives.
A given round green gun stands-still at the place that a given
expensive soft wine arrives.Our noisy car sleeps while our children purple picture stares.
Frangoulis’ producer on his new “Follow Your Heart” CD is Emanuele Ruffinengo, who seems determined to squander this talent on the same feckless, drill-bore sentiment that made Whitney Houston such a terror in the 1992 Black & Decker solo “I Will Always Love You.”
— CNN
Black and Decker solo? I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more accurate description of that drill bit of a diddy. Hedwig would totally agree.
Here’s a stoneresque thought: when I string together a series of words to make a sentence, chances are pretty good that, if the sentence is of any length, it’s practically unique. The longer the sentence, the better the chances. Take, for example, this innocuous phrase:
It should come as no surprise that Mrs. Higginbotham, a chronic agoraphobe with a nasty case of narcolepsy (the result of a traumatic childhood injury to her windpipe of which she refuses to speak), never earned her driver’s license.
Now google it (don’t forget the quotation marks). See? No one’s ever written that before–or at least no one’s written it and posted it to the web.
That’s kinda nifty, if you ask me: endless possibilities for expression. Steer clear of cliches and catchphrases, and most of what you say will be your own.
And no, I’m not baked. As luck would have it, I do have Rolling Kansas playing muted in the background, but all I can think of is, “Dag, that James Roday’s cute.”
Yes, folks, it’s that time of year–time for the most hootin’est, hollerin’est thespian face-off since Portia de Rossi went toe-to-toe with Ellen Degeneres: DramaRama12. If you’re in the N-to-the-izzO this weekend, mosey on down to the Contemporary Arts Center and the Louisiana Children’s Museum to get your fill of theatre, dance, performance art, and all things in-between. It’s cheap, it’s boisterous, it’s boozy, and as an added bonus (aka “lagniappe”), you’ll get a sneak-peek of our new show, The Gulls. What’s not to love about that?
I’m asking you nice. Remember, I know where you live.
Two Things
T M I
Like most preschool boys, I graduated from diapers to briefs without much choice in the matter. Not that I would’ve had anything to say, mind you. At the time, I neither liked nor disliked briefs–in fact, I never really thought of them at all. I just knew (a) I needed to wear underwear, and (b) briefs were underwear. End of story.
Before long, though, I noticed that my dad and my uncle and my grandfather weren’t wearing briefs but boxers. Naturally, I wanted to be all grown up, too, so like a seven-year-old girl begging to wear lipstick, I asked mom if I could make the switch. She didn’t go for it. Even in junior high, when my dad suggested to mom that it was time for us to wear something looser, the tighty-whiteys kept coming.
Years later, in college, I finally got my chance to experience boxers. And what a disappointment. It was like…like the first time you taste whiskey. Your dad’s having a bourbon on the rocks after work, and you ask for a sip, thinking you’ll feel all adult, but it’s just about the worst tasting thing you’ve ever put in your mouth, and you think, “Damn, if that’s what being a grown-up is like, I’ll stay a kid, thanks.”
I just didn’t see what all the excitement was about. Briefs may have been a bit constricting, but at least they stayed in place. The elastic waistband on boxers, however, slipped around my torso like a snug-fitting hula-hoop. And forget about wearing them under snug-fitting jeans: it was like tucking in a second shirt, one that needed constant adjusting and untangling. Given men’s, um, pendulous anatomy, why would so many guys subject themselves to such torture?
By the time I discovered boxer-briefs a few years later, I was already soured on the idea of underwear altogether, and I stopped wearing it, more or less, after college. Every so often, I’d throw on a pair–like when my ex-boyfriend yelled at me and said I looked trashy. And even today, I’ll don the unmentionables if I’ve got on linen. But other than that, folks, when you see me on the street, I’m going commando.
That said, I’ve still got a soft spot (i.e. a fetish) for underwear. Not all of it, to be sure–like that International Male-looking crap that you see in cheesebag gay shops. Not even jockstraps do it for me, really. But a nice-looking guy in boxers or simple briefs? Mmmm.
sturtle [dot] com 