My name is Self-Appointed Expert, and this is my blog. It is part memoir, mostly fiction, and above all just trying to be funny. Some of is based on stuff that happened to me, some is based on stuff that happened to people I know, and a good deal is just entirely made up. So, if you find yourself offended, just remember - it's a joke. When you give me that look, it's a joke. Consider it my homage to the Secret Life of Walter Mitty, A Million Little Pieces, John Hodgman, and Christopher Guest.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

A Hole in Awesome.

This afternoon, for the first time in my life, I went golfing. “For the first time” as in for the first time to ever pick up any sort of club that didn’t have “Putt-Putt” written on the side. I have to admit, I was a bit nervous going in. Granted, with a cute little tennis skirt and a pink LPGA visor, I totally looked the part. But, I worried, would the Elle Woods school of golfing be enough? According to my much, much older and eh, somewhat wiser friends, learning how to golf is hard. (Not hard like getting into Harvard, but still difficult.) And attempting to learn to golf without at least going to a driving range first is “a guaranteed disaster.” In other words, according to all experts, I was definitely going to crash and burn.

Welly, welly, well, you nay-sayers, I hope you like eating crow. Because if “disaster” is the standard for a newcomer, then I’m fucking Tiger Woods. (Don’t worry, white boys, I'm not literally fucking him. I’ll still come back to you. At last half the time. (I think his mom is Asian.)) It was a Par 3 course, and I was consistently hitting 4’s and 5’s. All in all, it was a great day – and I was relieved to find I had a playable level of talent for the game. Relieved because if I didn’t, then this was it for me with golf, forever.

Now, I know a moratorium on a lifetime of playing golf based on one afternoon of golfing for the first time may seem a little extreme, but bear with me. The thing is, as a rule, I don’t typically bother doing things I’m not naturally really good at. I’m not a work hard and eventually master a skill kind of girl. And the reason for that is simple: there just are so many things that I have a natural aptitude for, it just doesn’t make any sense to waste time trying to do something I’m not automatically above-averagely good at. Think about it: why would anyone want to look like a doofus starting from scratch when they were already so amazingly awesome at so many other things from the get go?

Consider the facts. The following is a list of things that I’ve found myself to be really good at without trying: writing, studying, remembering, taking tests, getting into Ivy schools, winning scholarships, interviewing for jobs, blow drying my hair, directing plays, painting, skiing, horseback riding, poker, singing, not getting cancer, laughing at jerks, telling dirty jokes, alluding to funny movie lines, public speaking, email, fucking, not dying, and softball (when I was a kid).

Things I am not good at, and never will be: soccer, running, bowling, getting mad, playing instruments, dancing, manipulating, politicking, not eating, and softball (as an adult).

Things I am moderately okay at, and would consider learning how to do better: volleyball, acting, handjobs, and (now) golf.

Notice how there are more things in the first category (can do well, naturally) than the second (can’t do at all), and by far the fewest in the last (things I’m not naturally good at, but am good enough that it might be worth learning to do well). It’s really quite the little reverse pyramid. (That’s another thing I’m good at: visualizing abstract concepts graphically.)

Anyway, this isn’t to say that I never do things I’m not good at. I run several times a week, and occasionally I will get pissed off. I just never do any of those things well, and I’ve accepted that I never will. The good news is, there’s more than enough things that I do do well to keep me occupied, and lucky for me, many of them are very lucratively overpaid.

And honestly? In the choice between writing really good legal briefs coming in fresh off the street, and having to practice a lot to learn how to give a good handjob…I think I got the better end of the bargain.

Anyone disagree? Yeah. Didn't think so.

Saturday, May 27, 2006

If you are what you eat, then I am A LOT OF THINGS.

Yesterday I posted some of my initial thoughts on the eating habits of summer associates. The tone was a little irreverent, comparing SA’s to foie gras’d gooses and opining about the possibility of consuming raw penguins, but it was mostly supportive of the wining and dining recruiting practices of the summer law firm job. Frankly, I feel I owe you all an apology. My tone was misleading. So, I’d like to take this opportunity to emphasize that I only have one word for the summer associate’s ritual of the midday meal: absolutely disgusting. And by one word, I mean two. Specifically, an adjective and a qualifier.

In the week that I’ve been at the firm, I’ve learned there are a lot of topics that are off-limits at work. You can’t talk about law (it would make you look like a nerd, and it’s probably illegal under confidentiality rules); you can’t talk about politics (no small feat in a DC firm); you can’t talk about religion (don’t want to look too crazy before you get your offer); you can’t talk about movies (no one’s seen any) or books (no one’s read any) or going to the gym (no one has time); and you certainly can’t make any jokes that are actually funny (because it makes you look like a “racist”). What does this leave you with? (1) The weather – whether it’s going to rain, when it’s going to start to get really hot, how it compares to weather where you’re from, (2) How great the firm is – with the associates using a tone of voice usually reserved for “The More You Know” commercials, and the summers nodding smilingly back at them, and finally (3) Food.

Food, I’ve found, is the topic of choice. Mostly because there’s only so much to be said about the humidity, so you can get through weather quickly, and because summers really have nothing to contribute to the “how great the firm is” conversation (besides “yeah, but will you hire me to work at it?”). Food is great because it incorporates the two main attributes of the other two conversations: (1) it’s universally accessible, and (2) it emphasizes how successful and awesome working at the firm can make you. Where most kids your age are eating tuna salad and mayo from a can, you get to savor seared sushi-grade ahi served with a side of crème fraiche – sitting at tables right next to the Bush Twins, Justice Scalia, and the Commissioner of the NBA (true stories).

So how do you go from eating all the best food at all the best restaurants to being totally and revoltingly disgusting? Well, first you go for two hours in the middle of the day, then you order a full dinner feast (bread, appetizer, salad, entrée, desert, drink, coffee), and finally, you do it every day for 14 weeks. Also, you talk about what you’re doing the whole time you’re doing it – before you go, when you get to the restaurant, as you’re eating your meal, while walking back to the office, and then again whenever anyone is looking for restaurant recommendations, which is all day every day.

It changes you. You start to see Beautiful Mind-esque patterns in menus: there’s always some sort of undercooked fish, exotically flavored oils, complicated words for simple things (pommes frites for fries, aioli for mayo). You start to invent games to play with yourself using ubiquitous ingredients (e.g., “find the fennel’). And soon you realize that even though you’ve been a pretty good conversationalist for most of your life, you can no longer find the energy to contribute anything to your fifth “what’s good here?” conversation of the week. So, instead you find yourself sitting in silence, shoveling food into your mouth or nervously sipping your hibiscus infused lemonade (which you requested to be mixed with half seltzer water, just to prove that you weren’t mute), and hoping against hope that someone will say something about the Simpsons or American Idol or the Da Vinci Code controversy or something, anything, that lets you imagine that you are not some soul-dead drone sitting in a fancy restaurant turning your liver into pate, and are actually some measure of the interesting person you were before you showed up to work at this firm.

But by that point, it’s time to start reading the dessert menu. I hear the citrus flan is pretty tasty.

Friday, May 26, 2006

If you are what you eat, then I am a citizen of the world.

Fennel seeds. Vanilla oil. Truffle oil. Aioli. Crab cakes. Cheesecakes. Reductions. Fruit-infused herbal iced teas. Trios of sorbets. Unnecessarily detailed descriptions of daily specials, using words like "heat," "prepared," "selected," "we have today," and weirdo sorts of fish. Black napkins.

In France, the traditional method for preparing foie gras (which actually dates back to 400 BC Egypt) involves force-feeding a goose until its liver swells to three times its normal size. (I know this because since I started my job, I've been been brushing my teeth each morning with various flavors of foie gras. I recommend the mint.) The idea is that the more fat in the liver, the more delicious in the pate.

After less than a month on the job, it's safe to say that my internal organs must be pretty tasty. We've had pan-Asian, pan-Latin American, pan-French countryside, and even some weirdo pan-Gulf of Mexican seafood fushion. At this point, I'm really just a few servings of penguin shashimi and coconut-flavored U.N. rice staples short of completing my summer 2006 gluttony world tour.

Some people have to join the Navy to see the world. All I did was sign up for OCI, and I got to eat it.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

The New Rules of Feminism, Or How I learned to Stop Worrying and Fuck My Friend's Dude.

I enjoy a lot of things in life. I enjoy a good limeade (not too sweet), a homemade picnic on a breezy summer afternoon, sunless tanners that don't make you look too orange, and last but not least, fucking guys my friends are in love with.

There's really nothing quite like it. You're out with friends, probably drinking. You catch the eye of your pending conquest across the room - you recognize him immediately even though you've only met him once or twice before. But in fact, you feel like you've known him forever - and in a way, you have, after the hours and hours you've spent listening to your friend pour over the details of his eyes, his laugh, and whether she could possibly have a chance with him. You smile to yourself, press your lips into a pout, flash your eyes, and breathe the hint of a come hither gleam into your glass as you begin to suck on the last of your ice cubes. He is, immediately, intrigued. And how could he not be? You are, in that moment, unrejectable: either he's interested in you and you win, or he's not and it doesn't matter because you were NEVER interested in him to begin with. Because you would never to that to your dear friend [insert name].

You don't even like him. I mean, he's probably okay looking, at worst fairly conventional, but that's irrelevant. Simply knowing that you caught him, and that your friend couldn't, would be enough to get you off even if you didn't end up letting him follow you home and riding him all night. But, of course, that doesn't stop you from actually sealing the deal. And it doesn't stop you from doing the same thing with another guy, to another girl, the next week, and the next, and the next.

The crown jewel of the whole operation, however, is not the conquest, or the feelings of validation, or the straight-up boning. It's the feeling of domination that comes from knowing that your friend, the girl who really loves your fuck of the night, can't do a thing about it, because you are living proof that she never had a chance with him anyway. And though internally she may hate your guts with every red blood cell in her body, on the outside she can only wish you well. Because, after all, you're her friend, and you ended up with a great guy.

She just hopes you're happy.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Nothing says "good job!" like a firm open palm slap on the behind.

Today at the firm we got to watch a video about sexual harassment. It was very informative. According to the video, asking for sex in exchange for advancing someone's career is bad, and making broad over-generalizations about a gender is worse. I'm pretty sure that just giving sex out for free is still okay, though. At least, I hope so, because my career basically depends on it.

The thing about sexual harassment is, I thrive on it. As do most female law students, really. For instance, there's a girl at Harvard who has become well-known for posting pictures of herself online wearing only lingerie, or bikinis, or less, and SHE'S never gotten under a B-! When you think about it, it makes total sense: when everyone at law school is crazy smart, and knowing the black letter law is a given for everyone in all your classes, you have to come up with creative ways to distinguish yourself from your peers. Law professors call it "having that special something that sets you apart." I call it "having boobs."

But sexual harassment isn't all good all the time. It has its drawbacks, particularly for women. Consider the case of my friend, "Laura":
LauraonAIM: ill tell you what, i would LOVE a little more sexual harassment
LauraonAIM: don't just undress me with your eyes, for crying out loud
LauraonAIM: only one of us gets anything out of that

Laura's point is well-made. In the last generation, women have made great strides into the field of sexual harassment. I think we all remember that Coca-Cola ad with the secretaries and the dirty guy without his shirt on. Those working girls were truly the reverse-Rosa Parks of the female sexual harassment movement: they refused to look at anything but the back of that dude's bus. And don't forget all those hot middle school teachers sleeping with their 15 year old students. Or, as I like to call them, the Freedom Riders. But, despite these notable achievements, there is still much work to be done. I look forward to the day when little girls and little boys can freely exchange unwanted touching and sexual attention. When a tug on the testicles is as common as a grope of the breast. When feminists don't burn bras, they let them slide seductively off their shoulders and onto their office floor. And, dare I say it? When my subordinate's promotion depends on my personal penetration.

For it is only then that will we be truly free.

Monday, May 22, 2006

The First Day on the Job: A Note From My Secretary

The last batch of the new summer associates arrived today. As a group, they were pretty standard fare: dark suits, white skin, a vague sense of entitlement oddly coupled with crippling self-doubt. The girls and I managed to get a pretty good view of the new crew when a couple of younger associates took them on a tour around the office, parading them through the hallways like a covey of bewildered and bored looking baby ducklings. As they passed by, I took a moment from proofreading my partner's brief (i.e., translating it into English) and gossiping about Elliott Yamin to try and get a game of "screw, marry, or kill" going with the other secretaries - but let's just say that with this bunch, it was a losing game. Ooof. I think one of them might be related to Humpty Dumpty.

The thing is, when you're a successful legal secretary in a top-100 law firm like I am, it's always really awkward to have to meet the summer associate you've been assigned to work with. It's one of those rare moments in life when two professionals can encounter each other, have them both assume that the other professional is a complete idiot who is totally below their station in life, and have them both be entirely confident in their assumptions.

So, most of the time, I choose not to introduce myself at all. The way I see it, if they're big and smart and fancy enough to get into a top-tier law school, they're big and smart and fancy enough to find my desk and initiate a normal human interaction with me.

I am, without fail, always disappointed.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

The worst part of reviewing these two items? Admitting I watched them.

During my post-finals, pre-internship, visit to my parents' house, I've had a lot of downtime. I've filled it going for walks, playing with the dog, buying suits, and of course, watching a lot of TV. In that time, I have learned a very important thing. It’s not just that I hate bad entertainment. It infuriates me.

Case 1: The New Adventures of Old Christine.

I should have known better. The premise of the show is that Christine 1, the main character of the show, is a divorced mother of one whose ex-husband has just started dating a younger woman, also named Christine. So, you have Christine 1 and Christine 2, old Christine and Christine new. I should have known better. But I was seduced by three things: (1) Julia Louis Dreyfus on Seinfeld, who is one of my inspirations in life. More so than Madeline Albright, Eleanor Roosevelt, Sarah Silverman, and Superman combined. (2) Julia Louis Dreyfus on Arrested Development, playing a fake blind woman. Because blind people are funny. And (3) Julia Louis Dreyfus NOT on Watching Ellie. Critics assured me that in “Old Christine” Julia had reformed since her days playing a weird ex-lounge singer/tv voice actress or some nonsense whose weekly 30 minute shows were supposed to depict 30 real-time minutes of her character’s life. 30 minutes of a voice over actress’s life. It was 24 meets horseshit.

Old Christine is aptly named. It’s made from the same goo they use to crap out new episodes of Two and a Half Men each week. Things I hate about this show: (1) Every character except Julia’s is just designed to spout out script to give Julia something to react to. You literally never see another actor reacting to a bit of dialogue. It’s just Julia’s face the whole time. (2) The guy who plays Julia’s brother does a really bad Napoleon Dynamite meets Joey Tribbiani impression. If I wanted to see someone do an out-of-place Napoleon Dynamite impression, I’d go see Jon Heder in The Benchwarmers. Or Just Like Heaven. (3) They make Julia look all cute all the time by dressing her up like a 19 year old. Julia made her mark wearing suits shaped like cardboard boxes on Seinfeld, and I’ll be dead in the cold cold ground before I recognize her natural hips!

There is, however, one redeeming plot point to the show. Julia’s character is addicted to cough medicine. I get a real kick out of that for some reason. Put a little ‘tussin on it.

Case 2: The Laws of Attraction.

This movie made no pretence of not being an awful, soul-crushing chick flick, so out of fairness and a sense of the humane I can’t really bash it too much. That being said, I’m going to skip the plot summary beyond saying that it’s about two divorce lawyers who fall in love, because any detail more than that will make me ill. Things I hate about this movie: (1) Pierce Brosnan. The best thing he’s done in years is reacting publicly to getting dumped by James Bond. (2) Julianne Moore. Didn’t she get nominated for an Oscar? The extent of her character development is over-emphasizing her diction when she’s making a legal argument. (3) Making the pretty girl a huge nerd. In otherwise normal conversation, Moore cites legal precedent and admits, unprovoked, to watching the weather channel. All in the first 10 minutes of the movie. And (4) The rest of the plot. Divorce lawyers find love and get married. Sigh. This movie is so superficially bad it’s hard to write a biting review. Nothing I could possibly say about the movie would be as insulting to its makers as what is said in the movie itself.

As for redeeming points, Parker Posey plays a minor role. She alone (and, indirectly, her roles in Waiting for Guffman, House of Yes, and Hal Hartley’s Amateur) is the only reason I finished the movie. Frankly, Parker? You owe me.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

10 interesting things about me.

10. I was born in a Holiday Inn. I mean hospital.

9. At the age of 8, I adopted a chicken and then spent weeks teaching it to fly. It taught me persistance, grace in defeat, and that my brother is a jerk.

8. I was the youngest co-pilot in American Airlines's history. When I was 4, the pilot let me take the wheel for 5 full minutes. He would have let me land it, too, but my dad wanted us to go back to our seats.

7. Sometimes I like to steal jokes from the Office and pretend that I made them up myself. (See Thing 8.) Also, the Rules of Attraction. (See Thing 10.) There aren't many of those in the latter.

6. I once took a class called the American Presidency. At one point during lecture, the professor made a joke: "Well, none of you in this room have never been president, so..." The class laughed, but at that moment I was actually sitting next to the former president of Ecuador.

5. I firmly believe that taking up knitting is the homeopathic alternative to having your vagina surgically removed.

4. My hobbies include fencing, knife throwing, street luge, and lying.

3. I lost my virginity in a dare. And by dare, I mean drunken haze.

2. I've always wanted to have someone name a baby after me, which is a problem if you write an anonymous fictional blog.

1. I am, in reality, Batman.

The end.

One of my favorite stories.

Scene: University of Michigan Law School, morning. Students are milling around Hutchison Hall before classes start. Student group members are hawking various activities at the student group table outside HH101. The Black Law Student Association is promoting its date auction. The Women's Law Student Association is selling baked goods to raise money for its charity of the month.

Teri: Does anyone else find it funny that WLSA is having a bake sale the same day that BLSA is auctioning off people for sale?


Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Fact and Fiction

I have this week off, so I decided to fly home to spend a little time with my family and my dog in the interim before I start work. En route to home, I got stuck in a layover in Charlotte, NC, so I stopped at the airport bookstore to see if I could find a copy of "Opal Mehta." Since they didn't have one, I decided to get "A Million Little Pieces" instead.

Just picking it up, I felt like a badass. I felt like a rebel. Sure, I was saying with my intended reading selection, I know he's been vilified by god (Oprah) and country and lovers of the literature genre classification system worldwide, but I was fucking buying his book anyway. Without even cracking the first page, I knew I supported him, his story, his embellishments, and most of all I supported him making Oprah and her stay-at-home army of millions feel like fools for getting "duped" - and look like fools for getting pissed about it. Fuck them, I thought, and I strode up to the cash register, credit card in hand and smirk on my face. Fuck them right in their mid-afternoon programming ears.

I handed over my banned literature of choice. Proudly.

The cashier gave me a look. "People are still reading that?" she asked.

Okay. She had a point. I was sort of getting on the bandwagon a little late, but I was still getting on at the right time - after the smoking gun, after Oprah's power trip, and after the press turned reading a fucking paperback into a moral statement (without, noteably, applying the same standard to their coverage of the Bush Whitehouse). But yes, fuck you too, cashier, I was still going to read it.

"Well, you're still selling it," I replied.

I spent the rest of that day and the day after that soaking in the book. It was really, really good. Not just good for being written by a former addict. But seriously good, and really well written, and incredibly honest and insightful.

Yeah, that's right. It was one of the most honest books I've ever read. And honestly? It makes it better that parts of it were made up. Over and over again, Frey repeats the line "I am an Addict and I am an Alcholic and I am a Criminal." His entire book was based on his shortcomings, on his flaws, on his tendency to take the easy way out - and on his inability to face himself for what he had become as a result of all that. His story was his flaws. And though it was inspirational that he overcame a lot of them in the course of the book's narrative, he never made himself out to be the hero that Oprah originally tried to turn him into. If anything, he showed himself over and over again throughout the book to be exactly what he turned out to be in this scandal: a classic tragic hero, crippled by his own shortcomings at the moment he was closest to achieving his most salient personal victory.

If I were James Frey, I would be proud of my book, and I'd be proud of what it meant to people. But most of all I'd be proud of myself. And I hope that he is. And I hope that Oprah rots for making his life in recovery even one degree more difficult than it already was.

Even if he lied and it really wasn't that bad.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Al Gore Opens SNL

Sigh. If only this were real. But I can settle with it being hilarious.

Friday, May 12, 2006


Becoming a 3L (officially) is a lot like having your 29th birthday. Sure, it's better than the next milestone on the horizon (i.e., having to work for the man), but it's still not really that great.

This House Is Not a Home

A number of people have emailed me expressing doubts about my last post about being homeless at Harvard. You go to HLS, they questioned, couldn’t you at least get a job at a high-powered law firm for a summer and spend the money on a room in Gropius?

Well, first, I’d like to point out that not all HLS students go into the private sector. I, for one, am committed to the public interest, which is why I’m on LIPP (the Low Income Protection Plan) – and why I’m living in a REFRIGERATOR box, and not in some everyday cardboard number or common city dumpster. Also – Gropius? Please. I thought the whole point of getting a home was to move in somewhere nicer than where you’d be living if you were still out on the streets. If I wanted to get syphilis from sleeping in a pile of my own filth every night, I’d just go back to shacking up in the Sheppard Street sewer drain, thank you very much.

Furthermore, for those of you who’ve taken Secured Transactions or the like, I’d like to remind you of a little something I learned in my Bankruptcy class. It’s called being “judgment proof,” as in, if you don’t have any assets for anyone to take from you, there’s basically nothing the law can do to you. It’s the one thing that princes and paupers have in common: the law can’t touch you.

Now, if only I could invent something that would make me “schizophrenia proof.”

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Living in the Square.

I have a confession to make. I am actually homeless. Not hopeless, as you might infer from my completely ineffectual attempts to learn Corporate Law before my exam tomorrow. But homeless as in I do not have a home. Officially, I live in the Porter Square T Stop.

Some of you might be thinking, “But wait, I just visited your bedroom in Hastings Hall last weekend – and we screwed passionately for three hours on your extra-long twin mattress, underneath pictures of yourself and your friends and a banner proclaiming ‘This Room Is [SEA]'s Bedroom.'’’ Lies. It was all lies. It’s time to come clean. Or at least, as clean as some rainwater and an oily rag I found on the street can get me.

I am, in reality, a small town girl whose life went awry when my crack-addicted mother moved to the North East and took up with a cheap trick named Jim - forever dooming herself and my family to a life in the gutter. Or so we thought. As it turns out, the gutter is a great place to study for the LSATs – you’re miserable, you’re starving, you’re aimless, you face the threat of gangrene on an hourly basis. In short, I was ready for law school.

My life as a homeless person has improved a great deal since enrolling at Harvard. The shame of begging for spare change and half-eaten leftovers doesn’t sting so badly when I’m wearing my HLS sweatshirt (which I pilfered from the clothes donation bin at the Hark). In fact, wearing the shirt has been surprisingly good for business. I think people think I’m being ironic. Which they appreciate, because most homeless people are just depressing. And the clerks at CVS have gotten much better about not giving me funny looks when I go in to buy my Listerine each night before the shakes set in. Seriously, the Harvard name – even if it’s written on a ratty t-shirt – is like a golden ticket out of delirium tremensville.

Imagine what my diploma will get me! The shopkeeps at Dunkin Donuts already give me week-old munchkins if a promise not to use their bathroom during rush hours. I bet once I’m a grad, I might even get a bearclaw!

Anyway, I should probably get back to work. These fiduciary duties aren’t going to learn themselves. Plus, the wheel on my shopping cart has been acting up. I don’t know about you, but lugging 6 bags of cans to the recycling depot by hand is NOT my idea of fun.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Does it count as plagiarism...

...if you just requote yourself? Here's hoping not, because I just managed to dig up about 4-5 posts that I wrote for this blog before I deleted it and started over last November or so. Because they're still funny/interesting to me now, I decided to repost them here.

I just hope to god I cited them correctly.

But does he wear a funny hat?

Posted on: Tue, Apr 19 2005 6:48 PM

They elected a new pope today. What a relief. It's been almost two full weeks since I've been able to make a good "Is the pope Catholic?" joke.

On the bright side, "Is the dead pope Catholic?," did help to tide me over.

My friend, Dred.

Posted on: Tue, Mar 29 2005 1:50 AM

So I have a legal question, and if anyone can answer it I'll be glad to sign over my diploma to you because I've been obsessing about it, and I can't figure it out.

You know the Dred Scott case? Dred Scott v. Sanford, seminal constitutional law case that held that black people were property and not citizens. Holding aside, the case was crazy because Dred was Dred Scott's first name--which is weird because case names only usually cite the parties' last names.

So why did they include his first name?

And why was he named Dred?

Me So Hungee

Posted on: Fri, Apr 1 2005 12:16 AM

Terri Schiavo died today after going nearly two weeks without food/water.

The real story, however, is that Ms. Schiavo went into a coma 15 years ago after her brain turned to mush because of complications arising from a potassium deficiency. The punchline? The potassium deficiency was the result of severe anorexia/bulimia.

And we needed 25 state/federal courts to tell us she didn't want a feeding tube?


Too soon?

    New material?

    I've been making the "I'm going to light you on fire" joke a lot recently. It's probably time to mix things up.

    Maybe I could start making "I'm going to lock you in a bubble full of water for a week, feed you through a tube, cause you liver damage, lose a world record, and pretend it's magic" jokes instead.

    Can anyone explain to me...

    ...Why we get mad at James Frye for making stuff up, and at Kaavya Viswanathan for not making stuff up?

    Widen-her? I barely know her!

    [Scene: Lamont Library, afternoon, crowded, mid-finals preparation time.]

    [A bookish young man sitting at a study carrol starts to gather his books.]

    [A beautiful woman in a stunning white spring coat approaches.]

    Woman: Are you leaving? [Flips long brown hair.]

    Boy: What?

    Woman: [Flips hair again.] Are you leaving? [Gestures to the study carrol.]

    Boy: [Huge sleepy grin, like he's known her forever, which he clearly hasn't.] [Pause.] [Smiles again.] Oh. Yeah. Thanks. Bye. [Exit right, still grinning.]


    A sad post.

    From Slate's daily news summary:

    A suicide bomb went off at a market in the northern Iraqi city of Tal Afar, killing about 20, mostly women and children. The WP says the bomber "attracted a crowd by hawking flour at half-price from a pickup truck."


    Can you imagine getting tricked into dying with discounted flour? Discounted flour sold out of a pickup truck?

    I guess I shouldn't be talking. I once lost an uncle buying bait out of a Chevy (dysentery).

    Tuesday, May 09, 2006

    A Correspondence

    My dearest Georgie,

    I know it's been a long time since we last talked. Things were said that shouldn't have been. I know I'm not proud of that last "America is the Great Satan" comment or 7. But, baby, we've just been through too much together to throw it all away on something as silly as me not believing in the Holocaust. Sure, I'm a de facto dictator with a penchant for illegal nuclear arms, and you're a "democratically elected" son of a bitch who loves Jesus...but, you know what they say: opposites attract. Let's not make this a nuclear war. Come back to me, baby. I can change. You know I can change for you.

    President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad


    Dear Moody Djibouti,

    This is a hard letter for me to write. And not just because the secretary lady went home an hour ago and I usually do these things on the dicta-majingy. This is hard-heart-wise. And not heartwise like Big Time's boo-boo on his ticker. Feelings heart-wise. Because, Moody, you broke my heart. You broke it square in two. I've loved a lot of men in my life - Jesus, my daddy, Saddam Allah (heheheheheh! just kidding on that last one!). But I'll never be able to love anyone ever again in the way I loved you. And you know what they say: If you love someone, you've got to set them free. And by set them free, of course I mean invade their country and set up a puppet regime. Expect my boys on Tuesday.

    Don't ever call me again.


    Monday, May 08, 2006

    New Theory

    There is no such thing as a "really good" orange.

    They should call it the Brutus Salad.

    Dear Cambridge Commons,

    Your caesar salad sucks. How do you fuck up a caesar salad? All you do is (1) chop some lettuce, (2) toss in some dressing, and (3) whip out some croutons. And part (3) is optional!

    In conclusion, not only do your caesar salads suck, but you suck, too. I hate you, Cambridge Commons. I hate you like I hate people who are different from me.