(From August 20, 2008)
(From August 7, 2008)
So in the process of checking my email I noticed the following link: "Betty White Defends Golden Girls."
"The Golden Girls are UNDER ATTACK?" I thought.
"For what?"
The story indicated that the three remaining Golden Girls with functioning cardio-vascular systems were being called out for not attending Estelle Getty's funeral.
"Oh." I thought. "That's not such a big deal."
But before I knew it I found myself reading the COMMENT THREAD that accompanied the article.
I was a good twenty comments in before I had even realized I was doing it.
So here I was reading with no small amount of interest the opinions of anonymous strangers on a non-subject that one minute earlier I had been completely unaware of.
Is this of how little value my time and attention have become?
The internet is a dark, lonely, insidious kind of hell.
BDS
P.S. Speaking of old people, anyone else getting a bad Ross Perot smell coming off this T. Boone Pickens clown?
I swear to you, he is not to be trusted. I expect great evil from him in the future.
(From June 25, 2008)
Gentlemen,
I would first like to thank you for all the hard work you do. It is truly indispensable. As the impresario Sol Hurok once said, "The sky's the limit if you have a roof over your head." (Of course he was a Russian Jew, and as everyone knows they don't often repair roofs so much as fiddle on them.)
My respect for your craft not withstanding, may I offer a few hints that will no doubt improve your work experience and the experience of those around you:
1) KQRS is not the only radio station in Minneapolis. While I'm sure my Vietnamese, Mexican and Somali neighbors love Led Zeppelin as much as red-blooded American workingmen maybe give them a little KFAI once and awhile. Also, I think the computer program KQ uses to select its playlist is faulting. How else can one explain playing Wang Chung's "Dancehall Days" and AC/DC's "Back in Black" in succession. No human being or properly functioning robot would do this.
2) You shouldn't drink so much beer while roofing. I say this not out of concern for your safety, but because it tends to make you MUCH LOUDER.
3) Despite what you may have heard about the virtue of the ladies in my neighborhood, few of them will respond favorably to, "Yeah, bitch! That's the fucking stuff!" shouted from three floors up. Might I suggest flowers?
4) If your man-titties are larger than a B-cup, put your Jeff Gordon t-shirt back on.
Best wishes,
Brian David Shuey
P.S. I'd like to thank you for not hooting, barking or whistling at me when I was in the shower this morning. That showed real class.
(From June 4, 2008)
(From May 28, 2008)
So it seems I may have a cavity. (In one of my teeth, that is.) Specifically tooth number 19. That is the first molar on the left side of the mandible. For those who don't know their teeth numbers.
This would be my FIRST cavity. Ever. In either my adult or primary/deciduous teeth.
And I am not happy about it.
For years I have smugly bragged about having avoided tooth decay for the whole of my life. Blessed with few physical gifts—save disarming good looks and a whip-smart intellect—my record of perfect dental hygiene was a selling point in the never-ending struggle to breed and produce offspring. Had I not been told at an early age that my enamel was the strongest ever encountered? So strong it would dull the mightiest dental implements. All this time I have been regaling potential mates with tales of my periodontal prowess—and how it would benefit our children in tough times ahead.
The way I saw it, in the post-apocalyptic nightmare world left over after China annihilates all remnants of North American civilization what attributes could be better suited to survival than a large brain, a short compact frame and a set of strong, sharp teeth?
Being too tall would put one at a disadvantage, as zoo-raised African predators and packs of vicious wild dogs scoured the short prairie grass in search of prey. My progeny could survive and even thrive by remaining unseen and scavenging carrion, breaking open the bones with their mighty teeth and feasting on the protein rich marrow.
In a few thousand years they would be poised to take their rightful place at the apex of a neo-Neolithic hunter/gatherer culture.
This was my theory, anyway.
But it will all be for naught should this toothache prove to be an actual breach in the structural integrity of my one remaining unassailable physical attribute.
I have a date with the X-ray machine in one week. I shall keep you all informed.
(From March 13, 2008)
So it’s happened again.
I was just trying to make a little extra money-- moonlighting as a receptionist at THE EMPEROR’S CLUB-- and whom should I end up talking to? Now former New York governor Eliot Spitzer. Here’s the transcript of our conversation, currently sealed by the Feds.
(Don’t tell them I shared it with you.)
BDS
Client 9: "Hello, I’m calling about ’Kristen.’"
Me: "Oh yes, the brunette. Yeah, she’s dishy."
Client 9: "I know she’s ’dishy.!’ I don’t need your goddamned opinion on the matter. Just set it up."
Me: "Okay. No need to get in a huff. Just making conversation."
Client 9: "I didn’t call here to talk to you, you fucking insect. I’m a busy man. Let’s just get this done."
Me: "Very well. When did you want to see her?"
Client 9: "This Thursday. I need her to be in D.C. by eight o’clock."
Me: "This Thursday? So, quite the romantic I see."
Client 9: "What? What the hell are you talking about?"
Me: "Well, Thursday is Valentine’s Day. I just think its kind of sweet that..."
Client 9: "Sweet? I’m paying for pussy you imbecile! There’s nothing sweet about it. If I were sweet I’d be spending the night with my wife."
Me: "Yes, I see your point. So, Thursday in Washington. Will you be arranging transportation?"
Client 9: "Yes, I’ll have a car there by 2 PM."
Me: "Sir, I suppose I should point out that by transporting ’Kristen’ from New York State to the District of Columbia and, well, for the purposes under which you intend to employ her, you will likely be violating the Mann..."
Client 9: "I don’t need a lecture on the fucking Mann Act! I was A-G for the entire state of... Wait, forget that last part."
Me: "Forget what part, Prince Charming?"
Client 9: "Listen, if anyone asks, I’m Rudy Giuliani."
Me: "Whatever you say, sir. Now how would you like to pay?"
Client 9: "Same as always, I’ll wire the four thousand to your account."
Me: "I’m sorry sir, but an hour of ’Kristen’s’ time bills-out at five thousand."
Client 9: "Five thousand! Fuck you!"
Me: "So you really want to do this? Try to haggle with me over the price?"
Client 9: "Listen you turd, I didn’t get where I am by taking the first thing that’s offered. Last time we met-up I could still smell the Saudi on her. I want a price cut. Forty-three hundred tops."
Me: "Very well, sir. Forty-three it is. (Quietly) Something tells me she’s going to be able to spin your little encounters into quite a lot more-- and soon, too."
Client 9: "What was that?"
Me: "Oh nothing, sir. ’Kristen’ will be waiting at the usual pick-up spot. Have a safe and pleasant Valentine’s Day."
(From March 9, 2008)
(From February 21, 2008)
So I bought an exercise bike the other day.
I don't know what's funnier? That I nearly had a heart attack carrying the 100-pound box up three flights of stairs?
Or that I took three cigarette breaks while I was assembling it?
I'll tell you something, though; you haven't REALLY watched Charlie Rose until you've done so while peddling 20 miles per hour with the really cheap seat of an exercise bike trying it's damnedest to "discover" your colon.
I will never look at the plight of the Palestinians quite the same way again.
BDS
P.S. Why an exercise bike? It was that or give-up beer. And since it's a time-tested combination of beer, Zoloft and reruns of M*A*S*H that prevent me from going on a three-state killing spree, I thought it was the way to go.
(From November 20, 2007)
Mr. Shuey,
How do you get your scarf back from some guy you don't really want to have to see again but really want the scarf (and no, we don't have any friends in common, I'm still new in this town.)
If you need more back story let me know, but I really do want this scarf back.
"Lady Chestington"
United Kingdom
How do I get my scarf back from some guy I don't really want to see again? I start by not sleeping with guys. That way I will never stumble out of their apartment, bleary-eyed at nine in the morning having left articles of clothing behind. (I don't want to imply you slept with this guy, but I'm getting that vibe.)
This is a situation that I'm sure many young adults have dealt with at one time or another. Here are a few tricks I've learned to avoid leaving things behind:
1) Use your shoes: Small items will fit nicely in them. Keys, wallets, jewelry and cell phones. Stuff your socks in after to keep things in place.
2) Carve out a spot for yourself: This can be hard in some people's apartments, but there is usually at least a few square feet of floor space not covered in junk. If this isn't the case, pile some of their shit on top of their other shit to make room for your stuff. This is not rude. Rude is having a guest over without first considering that that person will have to disrobe in order to have sex with you. And that this guest, having woken-up next to a total slob will want to gather her belongs and get the fuck out without tearing the place apart, making noise and inevitably waking up the slovenly host who will no doubt burp, yawn, scratch his nuts and say, "Fancy breakfast, love?"
3) Drink less.
And how do you get your scarf back?
You don't. At least not without seeing this schmoe again. You shouldn't try sneaking-in and retrieving it. Like most places, Breaking and Entering is a crime in England (See: s9 under the English THEFT ACT of 1968.) And since they've got all those nifty CCTV cameras around it's unlikely you'll get away with it.
So either take the loss of the scarf as a lesson learned, or suck it up and call the guy.
Good Luck,
Mr. Shuey
(From September 13, 2007)
THE VOYAGER HAS LANDED
By
Brian David Shuey
SCENE:
P'Tang, a gay outer space alien is sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast. His boyfriend, Korg bursts in, clearly agitated.
KORG: (holding some smoldering, metallic debris) "Damn fucking space junk!"
P'TANG: "What is it? What's the matter?"
KORG: "This just landed in the back yard. It crushed my good bobo bush."
P'TANG: "Oh shoot, I was going to use bobos in the salad tonight! I've been bragging to Christopher and Stephen all week how good the bobos were this year. Now I'll have to use ones from the store. We should really call someone and complain."
KORG: "It won't do any good. This isn't a government satellite. Look at the writing"
P'TANG: (tries to read aloud) "V-O-Y-A-G-E-R. What is that? What do you think it means?"
KORG: "I think it's some kind of probe. It came with a shiny metal disc with some weird instructions engraved on it. Like a recording. I think we're supposed to play it."
P'TANG: "Oh, don't! What if it's a weapon or something?"
KORG: "No planet that produces shitty, backward-assed stuff like this is going to be able to send a weapon to another galaxy."
P'TANG: (inspecting the disc) "Ooh, I think I figured it out. You put this pointy thingy in the surface of the disc and spin it."
KORG: "I'm not fooling around with that. Just put it in the Nexophone."
P'TANG: "What makes you think the Nexophone will play it?"
KORG: "Look, I paid 600 xenars for that Nexophone, and the kid at the store told me it will play ANY format in the universe. It will even translate it."
P'TANG: "That kid at the store could have sold you anything! I remember how you were looking at him."
KORG: "Not now with that shit, P'Tang! Just play the thing."
(P'tang fusses with the Nexophone, annoyed, finally the disc begins playing)
FROM THE NEXOPHONE: "Greetings from Earth!" MESSAGE CONTINUES "Greetings from Earth." Nexophone continues to play the 44 different messages in 44 different Earth languages, translating all of them into, "Greetings from Earth."
KORG: "You gotta be fucking kidding me. My BEST bobo bush, just so these idiots could say, 'hello?"
P'TANG: "Ooh, there's more. There's pictures!"
(NEXOPHONE BEGINS SHOWING IMAGES OF EARTH)
KORG: "Oh, these really are a simple bunch of fucks! 'Look at us! Little pink and brown hair-less freaks who have mastered flight!'"
P'TANG: "Stop it! I think they're quaint. Charming, even."
KORG: (Points at screen) "Oh really? You think THAT'S charming?"
P'TANG: (Looks on at an image of a nursing mother) "Ewww! Oh no, what is it doing?"
KORG: "Apparently, their young eat the bulbous, fleshy bags hanging from the thorax of the adult females."
P'TANG: "Oh man, that's just fucking GROSS!"
KORG: "Quaint, indeed."
P'TANG: "Still, the PLANET looks nice. Sort of reminds me of Verillia 3."
KORG: "Verilla 3? Ha! Verillia 3 is a pleasure planet where young Verillian boys massage your…"
P'TANG: (interrupts) "Yes, I'm well aware of what you used to do before we met. I don't need a reminder."
KORG: (abruptly) "We should invade them!"
P'TANG: "What? It's just a bobo bush, get over it!"
KORG: "No, it's not about the bush. We should invade them on fucking principle alone!"
P'TANG: "What's gotten into you?"
KORG: "Look, they're like idiot children. They need to be taught a lesson. They send a probe out into the vastness of space, that says, "Hello, we're infantile little brats taking our first tentative steps beyond the confines of our own jerk-water planet (which, by the way, here are directions to should you care to visit.) We wanted to make sure anyone who finds this message knows how clever we think we are to have figured out how to calculate the circumference of a circle, but are for the most part just soft, pink, squishy, defenseless little creeps."
P'TANG: "And just where were you planning to get an inter-galactic ship for this 'invasion' of yours?"
KORG: "You said it yourself, Christopher and Stephen are coming to dinner tonight, we can use theirs."
P'TANG: "But I wanted to go to the lake after dinner!"
KORG: "Damn it! You can go to the lake any time!"
P'TANG: (sulking) "Well…"
KORG: "Well what?"
P'TANG: "I was just thinking that the metal the disc is made out of is kind of pretty. I could use it for the ankle bracelets I've been making. You know, the one's I was going to see if Christopher wanted to sell in his shop. If we invade this 'Earth' place I could bring loads of it back with us."
KORG: "You are seriously the gayest outer space alien ever."
END
(From August 25, 2007)
So I was at the Blockbuster Video on Hennepin and this dude walks in with his two young sons. And hey, it's Twins third baseman Nick Punto! |
(From August 13, 2007)
(From July 26, 2007)
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