What's That Name Again?

Hat tip to Duke Nobbins on this misnomered YouTube video title. It's Bernie Mac meets Fat Joe.

Bigger Man

What's up with assholes at the gym cutting the cardio machine line from the opposite flank and then pretending to have been waiting? OK, the dumbshit kids will give me a retarded stare and then yield the stairmaster. It's really sad when a middle-aged, Russian (inevitably) FOB pretends to have been waiting for the machine and not seen me (ah, the scheming fucking Russians)--always the same, lame excuse. "Vat is your point?" he asks, and I really wanted to knock my point in his wily little mug. But the heavily accented chick next to us kindly informed us the machine wasn't working. Fighting over broken equipment. Aye, there's the rub.

The Sudden Jerk

We read our books and Polish newspapers, stare at our PDAs, fix our eyeliner, lips, and blush, enjoy frivolous phone calls on the mobile, snap voyeur photos of camel toes, expose ourselves, talk into our lapels, run scams for money, perform mariachi music and minstrel acrobatics, lament our workaday anomie, marinade in our apathy, grunt passive-aggressively when lightly brushed by others...and then...the B train takea a sharp turn for the Manhattan Bridge, sending us all flying into each other, if only for a measly second; molecules spontaneously colliding in a container sealed by resignation and routine. And then, like a momentary power interruption, we return to our previously staked positions, acting as cool as humanly possible.

mandom.

friends, would you like to smell like charles bronson?

Worse Than a JetBlue Delay

Airline service just keeps floundering.

How Far Will a Monkey Go?

Ah, the infamous bathroom monkey. At this time, there is no word as to the illness of the monkey's tongue.

East Meets West

With my copious bags of fruits and veggies covering the express check-out counter, two jolly dudes behind me shared the following exchange:

"...M&Ms man, you know?
"Yeah, what about them?"
"Rememeber that promotion a few years back? Find the--"
"--Find the gray M&M and you win a million dollars. Yeah, yeah, nice scam."
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I found the gray M&M, man."
"Sure you did."
"I swear man, I found it. Gray--no mistake, I remember it. All the others were red and yellow...Not that one, man, gray."
"So what'd you do?"
"I ate it."
"No shit."
"Can you believe it? I ate the damn thing, the million-dollar M&M. I only read about the prize later."

I looked over my shoulder as the demure, acned Turkish girl bagged the last of my groceries. I couldn't tell which of the two was the M&M gobbler. They both looked pretty damn well content.

Le Bureau

Both of us are fans of THE office.
here's the french version. their pam/dawn is pretty hot, and their michael/brent is more alcoholic father looking.

http://www.fanpop.com/spots/the-office-%2528us%2529/links/18598

Pachydermal Porn

This is ever so cute.

PBF

In honor of my re-acquaintance with Perry Bible, fellowship, I will illegally reprint this classic strip:

The Lookout

“Ma, he’s from the company, I’m sure he’s straight.”

“I don’t care. Your father is God knows where; there is a stranger in the house, in our bedroom, right now.”

“It’s the middle of the day. He wouldn’t.”

“Get up there now.”

“It’s embarrassing—you always say—”

“You want to leave our house exposed to the whole neighborhood? Leave your mother defenseless here?”

Basketball would have to wait. A good guilt-trip is more potent than a well-aimed threat from a well-aimed gun.

The gentle morning sunlight peeked through the shutters, seeping hints of mild April splendor through our second-floor windows. Finches chirped in the backyard, luring my second parakeet, Ricky, to mutiny and join them in unfettered freedom. Poor African Ricky was deaf to their American-tweeting inveiglements.

And there was I, a 6-year resident of the United States of America, an enlightened teenage soul steeped in liberal democratic thought and egalitarian ethos. There was I, directed by my progressive, open-minded mother to mind her bedroom while the black cable guy uninstalled the wires and hardware (unbeknownst to him soon to be replaced by an unauthorized cable box reprogrammed by a former dental hygienist from Azerbaijan to give us coveted access to HBO and pornography).

The awkwardness set in immediately. “Would you like something to drink?”

His back turned, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with an elbow. “No thanks.”

I needed a pretext to stay. Pretending to look for something (I quickly caught myself—must stay away from Mom’s jewelry box—too obvious), I foolishly picked up the first thing I saw—a feather duster. Only one thing to do with a feather duster unless you’re a French maid. He turned, reaching for the pliers, and I quickly dropped the easy giveaway.

What else?—The TV! There’s a Yankees game on…Oh, right. It was then that he solved the problem for me.

“Know what? That drink offer still good?”

“Uh, sure. Juice, soda?”

“Cold water’s fine.”

Shit. I realized the fatal flaw of my innocently proffered beverage. Mom was in the basement doing laundry and the parakeet wasn’t trained for racist surveillance. A good half-decade away from the cellular revolution that swept our family, I was unable to hatch a devious text-messaging scheme. I had to chance it.

“You want ice?” Of course he did.

The sprint downstairs must have been record-setting—if Guinness ever recorded such dubious numbers. Races motivated by antediluvian attitudes and fear-mongering were almost certainly unofficiated. I almost tripped on the way up, but not a drop of water lost—a feat worthy of Eddie Murphy’s Golden Child obstacle course. It seemed I, too, had what it takes to be The One.

I looked around the room anxiously with my parents’ eyes. I always preferred not to know. Drawers intact. Correspondence in place. What am I forgetting?

“That it?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. There you go, Sir.” Absently, I handed him the cup with my eyes fixed on Mom’s hand-painted lacquer jewelry box, on which a frisky troika was pulling a rose-cheeked maiden through a frozen riverbed. He took the cup from my hand without turning, the stepladder wilting under his bulky frame and steady legs. We were both in our own worlds.

“You should be all set. There a bathroom here?”

Perfect—he’d be gone for 2, 3 minutes at least!

Elated, I gave him directions to the downstairs bathroom. Like a drowning man barely beating suffocation for that sweet, nourishing gasp of oxygen, I snatched the lid off the box. Looks good. Relieved, I started for the stairs, to graciously welcome our guest from the bathroom with the candy bin and a $5 note. But before I could fete my operation’s success, or grasp there was no way for me to verify the contents of the box came a loud thud and the jarring crack of skull meeting thick wood drowned out by an agonizing “Jesus Christ, my fucking head!”

It was too late to look away. The man was sprawled out on the stairway, taking the first hard-earned break of the day. With heavy hand and breath I went back inside the room and took the cordless. Somewhere in the distance, my grandma’s voice carried from her upstairs cloister.

“Did he put in the TV yet? All day without the TV!”

Clericus for the Restofus

Since when is soccer about fruitful sharing, friendship, and promoting pastoral values? I thought sport was a modern replacement for casual warfare, to keep men's bellicose instincts from incurring true carnage.

Dancing the Night Away

I wonder what Tim Hardaway had to say about this. Thanks to the Velvet Mafia, we may never know.

Confabulations

It's been a big week for two of this blog's most avid readers. Congratulations are in order for:

DukeNobbins (of Why Duck Media) for his prestigious operations research fellowship nomination.

Schwam, Ph.D. for successfully defending his microbiology candidacy.

And a belated congrats to M.J. from the Hawkeye state for her acceptance to historic Columbia U. graduate school, and her impending move to the East Coast with a Jewish leptosome.

New Socialism

I suggest our government hand out free mass-market copies of The Fountainhead to the good citizens of Venezuela. Interesting how demagogues lack in any originality--they just keep repackaging tired old gospels. This definitely IS your daddy's socialism.

Found Art.

I find it, amuuuuuuuuusing.
Here's one from the 23rd street F train station. It's from a new Fox morning news show. Starring one of their famous blonde hoes.

Another Blaze Bites the Dust

I'm not sure which angle Bohemigrant feels more affinity with: the man's proclivity for skiing, onanastic exhibitionism, or concealed toking implements. One thing's for sure: in tandem with a Maine town's recent car smoking ban, Vermont and the rest of the Notheast cluster (sans MA) is quickly losing its standing and reputation for independence and individual liberty. Watch out you New Hampshire snuff-filmmakers and game hunters!

Global Warming

Why have you ruined my life?
I used to swim in oceans, ski on snow.
You took it all away.

Thousands of French dames dead.
And all for what, Exxon?
The sod bleeds green.

Polar bears drowning, oceans rising
I have a nose bleed, global warming.
You ruined my fucking life.

woohoo!

friends, pastor Ted is Cured! .......
or is he?

Tennis Fever

For those of us lacking an endless rolodex of friends or a sports social network, finding a tennis partner in New York can be a Herculean task. Especially when you live outside the designated tennis-friendly zone stretching from Baby Stroller Belt of Central Park to the Dog Walker District of Park Slope. There are a few websites using a minimalist interface to partner you with anonymous boys and girls in your area supposedly just as eager to whack a yellow ball. These, however, are about as reliable as a Power Cell battery from a subway car merchant. What of us longtime Brooklyn residents, immigrants whose parents failed to coerce them into competitive early-development activities out of the crib?

As with all matters twentysomething, college, and, more often than not, white, all roads lead to Craigslist. If you come from south Brooklyn (the “real” south Brooklyn, where I have lived since 1990, not the one that ends at Windsor Terrace), your best chance—or prayer—is to type in something like “25/m, 3.0, seeks partner for fun and improvement.” The ubiquity and comfort of Craig’s all-purpose web tonic has flattened modern compositions of hitherto complicated solicitations to first-grade shorthand, from indecent proposals for Halo LAN parties with intimations of romantic potential to upskirt voyeurs posing as refreshingly munificent property owners.

My first venture into the world of virtual tennis soul-mates ended strangely when my partner (24/f), initially psyched over the prospect of expanding our sessions into weekdays, suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. Onward and upward, thought I. Of course, with Craiglist’s matrix of random magnetism, downward was the inevitable course. A year later and a year wiser, I accepted an offer from a 30/m, who insisted on a 7 AM rendezvous at the Dyker Heights courts (true to our Soviet roots, he was even more determined to avoid the permit inspection than yours truly, God bless him). He was an IT engineer with a decent serve compared to mine, but our ground games were fairly even. Mostly, I was heartened by his enthusiasm for the sport, evinced by the ungodly Saturday-morning wakeups…for about a week. Two Friday-night benders and three unanswered emails later, I had been dumped again. Was it time to cut and run?

Succor came in the form of an auxiliary potential I had been cultivating on the side. Flabby, and a bit on the creepy side, he was a nice guy and a spirited player who was serious about trying to get better; a stickler for the niceties of the game. Indulging him, I turned a blind eye to his for jailbait on the courts; we got on famously. For a few weeks we’d meet at the venue most convenient to me and play a set or two. Then, beset with guilt over making him ride his bike to my home court week in and week out, I assented to a match at the Caesar Bay courts on Bay Parkway.

There was something different about these courts. They were nice, for one thing, with a fresh layer of sea-blue paint, a noticeable lack of cracks in the asphalt, and mostly raked leaves. For another, there were no groups of adorable but incommodious children hogging up 30 percent of the playing space. Finally, there was no “Sergey the tennis expert” asking you to vacate his “tennis school” (commandeered corner court). With an official 180-degree twist of the baseball hat, I was ready to jam! Only one person stood between me and the elusive fruit of athletic ecstasy: a middle-aged black woman named Peggy. My partner had warned me about her. “Yo…check it out…she said it’s five dollaz without a permit—but it’s really seven.” Nice racket, I thought, but filed this caveat away under my partner’s whimsy, as he droned on and on about corruption.

Reluctantly, I committed to a game one damp Saturday evening. As usual, I showed up early, banking on the punctuality of my cohort. The challenge: getting past Peggy without a permit or money (my prideful parsimony would not permit me to part with the fiver). Implementing my go-to move, I sauntered in, with cocky self-assurance—or in a naïve stupor. Luckily, I was able to shadow a couple that had just walked in and consulted our formidable gatekeeper on a court suggestion. As soon as the threat had visibly passed and I was safely ensconced at the far end of the park, my exhalation was abruptly cut off by a booming, game-stopping “YO!” Peggy’s unmistakable shriek must have upset a few winners—a point or two for sure, between the 8 courts. I was in for it. Taking a slow walk of shame back to the tennis warden, I decided to plead with the lady, who stood, arms akimbo, looking like she’d been waiting for a fuckup like me all day.

“Ha-ha, baby! Shit, f-I did dat, I’d have to let ev’body play free.” The logic was irrefutable, the demeanor unflappable; still, I wasn’t everybody. I just wanted one free, friendly game of Brooklyn tennis with my sketchy freckled partner, that’s all! You must needs oblige me, Peggy! But it was not to be. I namedropped my partner before remembering that his expired ID wasn’t even on him—the dude bragged he’d only had to mention he was renewing it (well, you know how these things go with the City) and waiting on the card, when pressed. Figuring Peggy had nothing to lose by letting a guy tack to an almost-member with a possible permit on the way, I had to try.

I waited for him on a bench by the water, watching Chinese, Russian, and Puerto Rican fishermen impress their kids with fresh pulls of jetsam-fed bass and bluefish. 45 minutes later, my accomplice finally surfaced, offering the usual line of lame excuses. Meting out the requisite scolding, I bit my tongue and prepared to go through the motions of a lackluster tennis game, perhaps my last with this laggard. He hastened toward the tennis courts. Then it hit me—Peggy! No sooner had he led his bike through the gate, me still gathering my stuff, than I heard that hardened, coarsely glib voice—this time without its exuberant jollity: “Oh no, you don’t, Frank!” Her shrill scream jolted me—not in the least because my partner’s name wasn’t Frank at all.

The soothing feel of my car keys jangling in my pants pocket could not break me away from social obligation. Marching up to the club entrance, the scene unfolding between my eyes recalled my stepping into a cheap glue trap in my closet the day before. Meanwhile, the overcast Bensonhurst evening had conjured more characters on the scene. The standout was a tall, gangly, bearded Russian professional named Alex. He sported blue-tinted, out-of-fashion sunglasses. Computer or civil engineer during the day, Alex was now trying to engineer amity, or at least détente.

Peggy was in no mood for peace. It seemed “Frank” had tried to bulldoze his way in after Peggy curtly denied him proper entrance. She was disinclined to swallow any more horseshit about renewed permits that were in the mail. It wasn’t business—it was personal—as evidenced by 2 claret pools engulfing unblinking pupils. The clash of wills was exposing the dark side of tennis before my very eyes. It also created at least 3 different impressions of this melee. “Why you not just take bike outside?” Alex suggested. What was clear to all present was that Peggy was taking the stand of her life. She was full of wrath and ready to wrangle. Cross the line, motherfucker, and you’re mine.

“I’ve lived in this fucking community all my life! She can’t do this to us...she’s pocketing that money…how do we know she even works here?” It was equally, and more painfully, clear that Frank was taking a stand of his own. I stood by my partner—not tall—but I stood by. Like getting your ass kicked by the enemies of a friend you don’t particularly like, or going to an in-law’s birthday party, it was a moral duty. While admiring my own sense of the same, it had come to the attention of those that paid it that Peggy was about to clock Frank—and Frank was about to jab the handlebar into her fiery eyes. Even Alex’s assurance that Peggy certainly was in Parks Service’s employ went unheeded. I took the bridle on my partner while Alex handled Peggy. We exchanged looks, both shrugging to acknowledge our roles as seconds come duel time. Unscrewing his water bottle, Alex led a reluctant Peggy toward a paint-chipped bench. Shaken, she sunk in defeat. Alex rubbed her shoulders a moment or two, before resuming his game.

Before I had a chance to sprint toward my car and hurry away, Frank was leading me to that back court, open spoils to the victor. “Looks like it might be raining. We’d better get a set in at least,” he said, pumped. The man had a point.

Best of Clay Davis

If you haven't been watching The Wire on HBO, you better ask somebody. And now, the best of Senator Clay Davis, curated by YouTube:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=f81Tfw60tTs
and now, the juked Generation Z version:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=HrfCixsd2N8

Monster Love

Back in high school, Bohemigrant I and II used to slack around the halls of E.R. Murrow High School sharing the dubiously rewarding pastime of razzing on the "visibly disfigured." Included were albinos, spazzes, and, yes, the handicapped. As a result of deep-seated sexual frustration and the green-eyed envy monster, we begrudged these fellas their pity play. We are not proud of this, but there you have it. The name we gave these then-nauseating hallway dry-hump and makeout sessions? Monster Love. Apparently the famously open-minded citizenry of the Netherlands is not ripe for Monster Love. One day, we may yet change a few minds and open a few hearts...

lost seinfeld ep.

this is old but some of you might get a kick out of it.

bear suit

what's this all aboot?

smokin aces

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0138620/
so this guy, whoever he is just put out a movie called smokin aces. it's another one of those "LET THE ACTORS PRETEND TO BE HITMEN!" movies. It oozes of Tony Scott, Michael Bey oversaturated color. Featuring a cast of the most annoying human beings http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0475394/
this movie will make a ton of money no doubt. it kind of reminds me of that Dustin Hoffman , Ed Burns movie that came out a few years ago. I have a new rule, "NEVER watch anything with Jeremy Piven in it." His character in smokin aces is named Israel so all the ads have "let's get israel" "let's shoot up israel", annoying.

fantastic four

i present you guys with the fantastic four movie of 94. the last 10 minutes, this movie was never meant to be released.

cool links

http://www.eatmyhamster.com/f/Incredible+Watermelon+Creations?rurl=/items/freshstuff




http://www.oncotton.co.uk/peter/index/A4PAPERCUT_000.htm

The Gas

So New York stunk of gas (err, ethyl mercaptan) today and our monotoned mayor told us it was harmless. YOU TELL THE PEOPLE PUKING ON THE TRAINS IT WAS HARMLESS, BLOOMBERG! I was late to work.


Skinny Models

I'm tired of reading about these; why are skinny models being discriminated? Why are fat people so full of plus sized (did Luntz think of that phrase?) rage? Listen when I say skinny models I'm talking lean, naturally skinny, not "anorexic twins" skinny. The problem with the fationistas (oh I went there my friends, I went there) is that they don't see a difference, what they see is their own gluttony. Why does everything have to be fat-centric? I've worked on many fashion shoots and I can tell you the majority of the models are in good shape and healthy-looking. Runway models are usually freakishly proportioned and very young. That's just how their bodies are. To say you have to meet these requirements to work here is unfair to the models and the designers. Maybe with these new regulations, they can give fashion shows ratings like they do with movies, music, and video games.


fationista,
there I said it again, for the last time I promise.

Resolutions

I suppose I've been mum on the Iraq "War" for some time now, but Duke Bloggins--if that is his real name--persuaded me to revisit the issue in light of Dubya's upcoming unveiling. Briefly, if we are to do a surge, let's not kid ourselves--7,000, or even 20,000 troops will not cut it. A "surge" to me would involve 100-200,000 American troops methodically knocking down doors and crushing the opposition--whether Al Qaeda, Mahdi army, Shiite death squads, or Baathist brigades. What happened to: "If you're not with us, you're against us"? I think the so called insurgents, regardless of their stripes, have proven that they are not with us.

It is time to stop waging a PR campaign and start prosecuting a real war. That's right, bombs flying, stray bullets cutting down innocent civilians. None of this 21st century surgical warfare bullshit. There is no such thing as a moral war. Right? Was the Civil War fought morally? Even World War II? Regardless of the justifications (and I am not brushing over the WMD embarrassment), we are there now--and we do have a political and economic (if not moral) debt to the Iraqi people. So, President Decider, do what you best--decide--resolve resolutely. If you are not prepared to do what you SURELY FUCKING KNOW has to be done, pull our troops out gradually and admit your failure. The "battle for hearts and minds" should be the battle to pierce the former with our bayonets and splatter the latter all over the streets of Sadr City.

For the first time in a long time, let's try to do the hard thing, the right thing. Then we can go back to dealing with social security bankruptcy by washing our hands of it and drafting gay marriage bans.

Christmas Thoughts

Sitting in a dental chair for my first dental cleaning in at least a decade, I was thinking how I used to dread the dental appointment. Even with my near-flawless set of pearly whites, I never felt right sitting in a chair while a tooth mechanic in a labcoat inserted surgical instruments inside my mouth. Then, of course, came the braces years, my orthodontic rite of passage into the American middle class. From mold to braces, rubber bands to retainer, it was great fun. Having achieved a reputation of great eclat as a dandruffed immigrant in junior high, nothing at the age of 12, save perhaps a pair of L.A. Gear Lights and a public delousing, could have further enriched my social C.V.

But I tell you, as my parents' friend was slicing and dicing my gums, assiduously eradicating every last vestige of the plaque that has been feasting on my incisors since the free ride I gave it sometime in high school, I thought, Woah, it's really not so bad. Of the many pairs of professional hands that we submit outselves to in the course of our daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly lives, dentists are perhaps the most authoritarian--and should be the ones to which we most easily acquiesce. Sure, they dispense redundant advice--but reinforcing simple doctrine saves gums! (One feels a physician, facing the even slightly baffling complaint, is always a legal hurdle away from applying leeches.) The internist will give you a perfunctory checkup and indifferent care. A specialist will violate your personal spaces. Even barbers can talk your head off if they're so inclined. (Thank god for that humidifier the dentist jams in your mouth!) Once you're in that chair, it's their game--you're just a ball--and they will decide how high and where you bounce.

For me, yielding to the oral hygienist's care is like flying on an airplane. You give yourself over to the trained pilot's care, and trust he will get you there--some expected turbulence notwithstanding. If not he, then who? Of course, the parallel falls flat when considering the possibility of flying lessons--does anyone outside the Third World and old books still prefer fishing line and slamming doors to Novocaine, forceps, and tweezers?

It is undeniable: dentists are the best friends we don't want, but desperately need. They are our celery and spinach! So grab that mirror, pick, and scalpel, Doctor, and do your thing!

Merry Christmas to all.

Ping Pong

From the "why they hate us" column, Donald attacks the lately apologetic* Rosie for accurately, but bitterly, muckraking on the D. This guy's is about as classy and secure as she intentionally funny. Now, I wonder how this will be reported in China?

*Hat tip: DukeBloggins

Hacks, Thugs, and Midgets

Wow. In one game, the Knicks go from sad sports spectacle coached by an atrocious GM wanna-be to a circus act complete with midget wrestler and a whiny ex-player-in-chief, becoming the subtitle of the latest Tom Waits album.

(As a footnote, "Melo" goes from casual toker and Stop Snitchin' advocate to sucker-punching bitch.)

The point is,

time mag

When did Time magazine become an institution of pussys?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061217/ap_on_re_us/time_person_of_year

Entwined

On the uptown D (the original B express)

As the doors opened at 42nd St. and a girl jumped up and out, I allowed the seat below me to stay vacant for a more worthy occupant. But the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Just as a seat-hugry woman who looked to be in her sixties boarded and lit up with joy at my passive gentlemanship, an Indian slacker with a slicked indie-rock hairdo carrying a rolled-up poster made a beeline for the seat, displacing the poor lady right in front of her nose. As I contemplated intervening, the understandably captious lady made a sarcastic remark I couldn't hear over my new mp3 player.

The slacker glibly retorted: "Go fuck yourself, lady!"

As I considered the issue of justice and started making peace with my conscience, the lady, now making a deperate lunge for a cross-car seat, seemed to be pulling me with her. Then I realized she was, dragging me after the headphone cord wrapped around one of her coat buttons like a willful puppy. "Whoa, whoa there, lady!" I warned as the Indian let out another flurry of invective. And, with a nibmle move, I extricated myself from her woolen leash.

Diddy Kiddies (Smigel Strikes Again)

Borat? Borat Who?

A pretty good cap on the Borat phenom: http://youtube.com/watch?v=1_98F7JeHdE

Move Over, Sam Champion

Everyone's favorite southern weatherman is also a familiar face from the past.

Globalize This!

This story speaks for itself...as pointed out by M.B., Esq., 5 cm is a huge, 2-inch difference. India is really making the prophylactic headlines this month.

Oia

Rosie the Shaq

http://youtube.com/watch?v=UnSuZz3gWuE

edit: this is actually the second time she's done this on tv. i remember watching her show during oscar season when crouching tiger was nominated for best picture against whatever movie she was into. she pulled the mock chinese in that episode too. love that edgy 1980's humor that kramer tried to bring back.

erg

bohemigrant 1 is having a little trouble updating.. blame 2.

backup dancer has seizure but the band plays on

btw, can these girls sing for real?

It's Hard to Find Good Mexican in NYC

So there was Bohemigrant, just idling away a few morning minutes googling a website of a trendy little cantina he'd spied. All he wanted was a Cali-style fish taco...when countercultural saturation foiled his efforts.

Dance, Puppets, Dance

The incredibly ridiculous McDonald's phone hoax, video-blogged for your enjoyment. Won't anyone think of the real victim here--Wes the exterminator? The guy will be doing jail time for doing his darndest to appease a phone terrorist and protect an innocent young girl.

Would You Like Malaise with That?

A classic case of an incompetent president chasing history and legacy in his autumn (perhaps winter) years, Jimmy Carter is better off building homes for Katrina victims or raising money in telethons than offering up more bugaboos over the all-powerful American Jew-Zionist Complex. He may have good intentions as a Christian, but he is a moron as a politician and a statesman.

GODDAMN

I just finished watching the giants game. Their secondary is just horrible. Will someone please crack Will Demps' kneecap please? Eli with his terrible passes. Bad coaching, undisciplined team. Stupid penalties. Man that's frustrating. oh well, when's baseball season?

Gwyneth Palt Row

Duuude. Americans are so totally capitalistic. And that's like, ewww, I wanna have some stimulating dinner conversation now...perhaps about how much of a puppy Tony Blair is...or how best to enhance British dental care. I am soooo glad to be here in merry old England, where I can have deep thoughts to text Madonna and not pay long-distance surcharges. Superficiality is like so totally American!

Polonium, Wherefore Art Thou, Polonium?

At this point, Bohemigrant's paranoiac tendencies swing into high gear, as Poison Gate moves closer and closer to home (in a manner of speaking).

Also, DukeNobbins recommends everyone check out the next issue of Faces Strategic Communications. It promises to be riveting!

Kiss of Death

Say what you will, but at least this guy died practicing his craft, unlike a certain other wildlife hunter we all know.

Some Pix from Ancient Greece

L to R: Panos, T., "Jimmy," Bohemigrant II at one of the best rembetika joints in Athens. I swear, Jimmy is a stand-in for Gandolfini.

Stray dog (a common Greek dweller) taking a nap on the Parthenon steps.

the POST

Once in a while the New York Post offers up a gem. (hey soldiers die every day but how often do you get three celebrity hoes together in a car right?) Hoes before prose today.

sexiest man

George Clooney IS Rocky Dennis.


ps. i promise to never show pictures of people barfing, only pictures causing you to barf.

Yassas!

As promised, Bohemigrant II is moving shop to ancient Greece for a week. Please direct all queries/complaints to my homey Bohemigrant I. Part of my weeklong assignment will be cross-cultural comparisons of native Greeks to the American diaspora.

Michael Richards Goes Crazy

Michael Richards doing his best impression of a Grand Wizard cum Chris Rock on crack. Who said there's no life after Seinfeld?

youtube

bohemigrant I, bohemigrant II and progeria boy have been rehearsing a youtube broadcast. Wait for it!
in the mean time , vomit.

Spare No Effort

In the midst of the OJ Comeback Tour furor, it's worth mentioning that one of Bohemigrant's own was once considered (albeit preliminarily) for a supporting role in Judith Regan's fire-and-brimstone editorial office, assisting the Princess of Darkness herself. Whatever regrets/bad blood may have existed post-rejection, should dissipate with the public lashing she will endure for the remainder of 2006 (as the cash registers ring to the tune of James Frey's iPod playlist).

PC Fratboys

Exclusive footage from a hidden webcam at Phi Delta Theta; or, as I like to call it, the coolest frat on the CU campus.

Opa!

Only 4 more days till Bohemigrant II temporarily
bohemigrates to this stunning locale.

Gotta Have It

Bohemigrant paparazzi catch up to gaming enthusiast Duke Nobbins in New York's hip Union Square. DukeNobbins enjoying his interim handheld Play Station, moments before breaking our cameraman's jaw whilst jostling for position, and chucking the PSP at an elderly Jewish passerby complaining about the campers' inability to "share the sidewalk.

Guidos in Cabo

Italian Americans representing abroad. (Put out an APB on India House Ed.)

Highfalutin Editors on the Offensive

Looks like Iran's Maureen Dowds and Paul Krugmans have gone Juan Cole/Ward Churchill over their chances in finishing off Israel, which appears to be 50% destroyed at Bohemigrant press time. More backwash from the Dems' rout? Ahmadinejad nepotizing nephews into Kehyan's editorial offices? Now that they are taking a more strident stand on the ole' Israel-annihilation platform, will they "bring it on"? Stay tuned for more bluster...

World's Smallest Violin

Ah, poor Carpathian gypsies hoodwinked again. By a Kazakh Jew, who else?

"These people are poor and they were tricked by people more intelligent than us," he said. "They took one of our 75-year-old ladies, put huge silicone breasts on her and said she was 47. Another man they filmed to look like the poorest person in the world, and one of our men who is missing an arm had a plastic sex toy taped to his stump."

Rage in the New Year

If you haven't heard yet, you better ask somebody. Better yet, check out Rage Central for all the info on Miami 2006. SoCo is about to get hotter than a Brooklyn banya. Changes for the 2006/07 rage include: salsa, Red State hospitality, Cubans, and girlfriends. So bring your swimsuit, dad's credit card, and propensity for moderate to heavy raging! (New ragers always welcome.)

Mets Shiti field

The mets may have signed a deal with citigroup.
The new stadium will be called shittiefield.
http://www.newsday.com/sports/baseball/mets/ny-spstadium1111,0,1997391.story?track=rss

gino the guido

It's Guido week on Bohemigrant, so post your best guido-related material. I apologize for this clip, which is more grotesque than anything.

The Immigrant Feminist

For whatever reason, the Polish Borat story got me thinking about Russian (and perhaps, Russian-Jewish) women again. That's right, the prototype for successful, complete women everywhere. I challenge you to find a group of ladies that can better balance professional careers, maternity, home economics and management, and self-maintenance. That's right, a Russian woman in America is capable of juggling a 9-7 job, 2 kids, a 3-course dinner featuring homemade borscht, and still have time to get that pedicure and bikini wax. I'm not being facetious--I really believe these women don't get the respect they deserve. This is to you, ladies, if one of you should ever stumble upon this page!

booyah!

Some music for ya'll to digest the news of the k-fed britney breakup that no one cares about. Ah hillybilly love. It's the un Reese/Ryan marriage. But hollywood celebs don't stay together these days., I remember the days when the ugliest man alive billy joel could stay married to a hottie like christy brinkley for over a decade. Unfortunitly that union created the billy joel daughter, with the looks of billy and the brains of christy.

Leniency for Hussein

So by now we all know Saddam will be hanged (not hung, mind you) sometime in the next 3 months. Sound about right? Amnesty International, naturally, disagrees, citing procedural irrgularities. So far so good. Now the EU is decrying the sentence due to the implementation of capital punishment. What happened to cultural and moral relativity, boys and girls? Oh, alright, I'm being a little glib. Personally, I never really saw the philosophical problem in hanging, electrocuting, guillotining, or shooting a convicted mass murderer. Mainly because I feel vengeance, the only real subjective factor in making the case for or against, is a legitimate justification. The case is closed and shut on Saddam--unless some bombshell contradicts everything we think we know about this guy. People interviewed by the BBC (heh) expressed satisfaction at the conviction but winced at the hanging sentence. Alright, so the white graphic artist at Times Sq. doesn't like the idea of an icky, medieval punishment. What about the thousands of Kurds who were gassed, or the Shiites who were brutalized and imprisoned, their families raped and murdered? Do they feel the same? Would you?

wow creepy

God says bang a manwhore and your kids will be creepy looking too.
don't look too close, he'll eat your soul.

Egolitarian Ethos

What is the last time you have opened up the pages of the L, New York Press, TimeOut, New York, The Voice…and not been met with some derisive mention of the so-called “B&T crowd”? Chances are, you’re leafing through the pages of a mag right now, whilst on the shitter, scanning through some caustic commentary; or, perhaps a fawning review of the latest trendy fusion brasserie, or admiring the latest avant-garde music venue that was formerly a Polish sausage-stuffing plant; and skipping over those gratuitous, seemingly harmless mentions of the ubiquitous New York “Bridge and Tunnel” gang.

Well, haters, your reign of unchecked hating’s over! Here’s one irate ex-Soviet who has just completed his last complementary Berlitz language tape, and he’s not amused. No longer content to watch from the sidelines, and armed with acid tongue and command of subjunctive mood and subordinate clause, I charge valiantly forth as a field marshal with a score to settle!

It seems you can’t turn any which way these days and not hear disparaging remarks about the guidos and guido-wannabes who, come TGIF time, shun scant homespun alternatives and flock to downtown Manhattan on the weekends. They come from all bridges, and all tunnels: Nassau County, Brooklyn, Queens, (Bronx?), perhaps Westchester, Connecticut, Staten Island, and—that most dreaded of all provinces put upon God’s green earth—Jersey. Although the particular peccadilloes of America’s worst social offenders are rarely identified anymore (explanations are the bane of Generation Irony), one imagines thick gold chains, tight Armani Exchange shirts (Juicy Couture for ladies), and gobs of gelled, spiky hair as prime social offenders.

Cross me off the list of “outer borough” champions. Forests of spiky hair and shirt collar boners send me into intense convulsions on a weekly basis. Put me on the list of hipster-assailants and anti-transplant bushwhackers. What I hate, and have always hated, is the unwarranted social elitism of people who believe that New York City starts in Prospect Park (if they’re feeling generous) and ends at 125th Street. So what if Chelsea from Chelsea, who chooses to spent her leftover rent money husband-fishing in the Meatpacking District, is forced to brush shoulders with Joey from Jersey, who likes to spend his credit on flashy rims and ecstasy? I thought that was the beauty of living in a real, diverse, cosmopolitan city?

Troops of the B&T brigade are often the scion of hardworking parents—first, second, third generation immigrants—the people who built this city, provided infrastructure for Duvet, Balthazar, and Bowery Ballroom. Yet Alex Trustfund and Sally Artstudent turn their noses at anyone who dares take more than 3 trains stops—or worse, a gas-guzzling automobile, into “New York” to violate the sanctity of their Saturday night.

So—yeah, perhaps the workaday crowd of Mikeys, Nickeys, and Igors likes to wind down at a fratboy bar or get down on a Eurotrashy dance floor lined with coke residue and flavored prophylactics. Maybe they opt for car shows and Rangers games over the latest fecal installation at Galapagos. Does that make them any less objectionable than you? Any less important? These are the guys who will rent you the Ft. Greene fixer-upper you’ll be sharing with four unemployed roommates, move your parents’ trust fund stocks into low-risk stocks, and handle your personal injury/divorce settlements ten years from now. What have YOU done for THEM lately?

When hipsters make their annual pilgrimage to Coney Island, converging on the holy Siren Fest stages, they tend to disregard bordering Brighton Beach, a neighborhood with much more flavor than nostalgia-heavy remnants of the soon-to-be-dismantled Coney Island boardwalk. These are people who (with a few, talented exceptions) move to New York to soak up some mystical mist, to drink from the broken fountain of inspiration, to lend authenticity to their extended visitation; tourists come to observe the austerity of those they will soon displace from yet another former hood. Yet they miss the forest for the trees.

Not that I’m complaining—the yuppification of downtown Brooklyn and the hipsterfication of the warehouse districts on the river have given me more culinary, bacchanalian, and musical reasons to escape from the cultural wasteland of southern Brooklyn… So where was I? Oh yeah: I’ll take FOBs over snobs any day… At least, that’s what I was trying to get at…

LAME!

yahoo article on sean combs wanting to play james bond

"Diddy says he wants to be the first black James Bond. The rap star put himself forward for the role at the MTV Europe Music Awards in Copenhagen last night."

Will someone please put this male Paris Hilton retard out of our misery. Please.

the jerk prize

i expect to see a lot of these manana.

Beasts

happy halloween freaks! no idea what to dress as for halloween? fear not friend, the design department of bohemigrant has two recommendations for you.

warrior ashlee simpson




white trash spears.

Official Chicken Noodle Soup Dance

This may be the most singularly ridiculous new dance that I have seen.

Jim Webb Shoots Back

I don't know what's more disturbing--James Webb's fiction, or the revelation that Cambodians suck their children's members.

Webb's Folly

As Gov. Allen atempts to bury his xenophobic monkey remark by going on the offensive, one wonders how a certain publisher did not snap up this guy back in the day...

This Man Taught Me How to Lift Weights

My brother bequeathed his Bob Paris book to me once upon a time. Looks like Alan Thicke did a little checking-out himself.

Happy Halloween

hi guys, Halloween came early this year.

http://www.kelsphotocreations.com/pageantretouching.htm



more here
http://www.kelsphotocreations.com

coming soon: worst comedians

Russian Springer Moment

An oldie but a goodie.

This Is How Belarussians Get Down

I and I

Possibly the greatest music video EVER! I hereby challenge our reader(s) to throw down and put one up against mine! (Bohemigrant II reporting)

Wimpy, ineffectual NY Times continues to push its propaganda campaign against the Jew, suggesting the shrinkage of our hrams under the guise of "sexual maturity." We'll show them! It's womanizing time!

Top That.

Ahh 1980's magic.
Teen Witch (1989) is a drama/horror/musical/documentary. It starred the lovely Robyn Lively as Louise, a girl descended from witches of Salem. Won't you please check out this cocaine fueled peice of film.

Why We Fight

Were I less prudent, I'd title this humble screed The Bohemigrant Manifesto. Fortunately, the lesson learned from watching another group of revolutionaries, the erstwhile editorial masthead of New York Press (who failed to live up to lofty promises and self-acclamation before imploding over poorly drawn Danish cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad in the name of Free Speech and the year of our Lord 2005) has stuck.

But…I am not. Therefore, call this what you will. A Prologue, a Preface, a FAQ to who and what we are. The answer to the first two questions is simple and succinct: dorks out to wreak cyber-vengeance on the world with razor-sharp verbal and, more often than not, video “wit.” When we are as outraged as all that, we let the videos do the talking for us. Yep…we’re that major.

Our enemies: the hip, the not so hip, the broken-hipped; even the hippos…if they cross us, you better be sure—we’re gonna’ cross them. In fact, even if they don’t…chances are, we will. We do have more time on our hands, you know.

Our friends: few and far between.

Our casus belli need not be explained. We seek not to destroy, but to create. We honor our forebears by pissing on their virtual graves. Our manhood is secure (and we’ve got the digital cameras and Photoshop to prove it). We love italics. We are the two, the few, the new. Watch out, world. Bohemigrants are on the rise…

Those Darn Weeeeeeds

Here's story we can use to bolster enlistment efforts. Duuuuude.

New Yorker Festival

Check out an interesting New Yorker Festival debate.
http://www.newyorker.com/festival/videos/fevi_video1a

frikkin caffeine pills

let's all remember the joy of the early 90's

Cory Lidle, Remembered

What to say about the bizarre tragedy that befell Yanks' 5th starter Lidle yesterday afternoon? Many things came to mind at first: shock, confusion, betrayal, sadness. As the dust starts to settle, however, I think we all have to ask ourselves some tough questions:
-Why did Cory Lidle hate America so much? What did American ever do to Cory Lidle?
-Should Cory have pitched Game 4?
-Is Carol Higgins Clark OK?
-Will Barry Zito make a better Cory Lidle than Cory Lidle?
-Why didn't Cory try something new? Perhaps with chemicals.

Gyroball

this is the Gyroball

It's open season for Daisuke Matsuzaka, start the bidding Yankees.
START NOW. 26, World baseball championship mvp. Forget the elderly free agents.
Daisuke Matsuzaka
I'm a little sad that the Boss didn't listen to me and fire Torre. Who knows maybe he'll finally show some emotion and spark the team next year.

George reads BoHemigrant

also
does anyone know where I can get a poster sized picture of Willie's crazy face?

Fire Torre.

There I said it, Joe Torre should be fired. After what I just witnessed, i think Lou Piniella could do a better job with this 200 plus million dollar team. Maybe I should stop rooting for the Yankees all together, I survived the 80's with Henderson and Winfeld. I even survived the Deon Sanders/ Mel Hall days, but this this lost was so brutal, I don't know.
here's what other yankee fans and some redsox fans are saying
yankee forum

Now that the baseball season is over maybe it's time I root for the Discovery channel. GO jamie and adam!

South Park

The season premiere of South Park was pretty damn funny
South Park takes on WOW. View it before comedy central takes it offline

video

Minor Indiscretions

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

more of the same

first, Go yanks.

ok friends here it is.


http://smallsuperstar.blogspot.com/




biff's song



just found this gem a few moments ago. you might get a kick out of this piece of unintentional comedy aswell.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1490397

Check IT!

I'd pay to see this movie.

American Copycat

Why do fed-up grown men take out their frustrations on innocent women? In this case, the guy isn't even angry at the particular girls and woman he slaughtered. He was just using them as an object to exact some perceived revenge. Also, if you are going to literally bite a bullet anyway, why must you drag down others who are perfectly content to keep existing?

Thrilla

It's like thriller only more, agressive.



and something else
tattoo fun from cnn

Daily Show Sticking Up for the Jerkers

We all remember Carl Monday's muckraking piece on the public library onanist. Now the Daily Show hits back!

China runs their animal Olympics the way they run their human Olympics: with much discipline and entertainment. I mean, who doesn't want to see a kangaroo boxing a clown? Or a competitive pig diving event?

In the News

Did you know baseball players use drugs to perform better? well, as it turns out from this article
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061001/ap_on_sp_ba_ne/bbo_drugs_grimsley_other_names

they do! Speaking of inflation of stats did you know Pam Anderson's breasts are fake? (harhar har that ole gag)
http://thesuperficial.com/2006/09/pamela_andersons_nipples_look_depressed.html



Side note, Roy's (from the Office) last name is Anderson so if Pam had married him, her name would have been Pam Anderson.

During the Steroid heydays beginning in the mid to late 90's, players were getting injuries that were rare previously. Remember the good old days when fat pitcher would pull his back or skinny runner would twist an ankle stretching a double into a triple. Well friend if you now look at the disabled lists, it's all Muscle tears and joint/ligament problems. At first they thought it was because of the weight room. Players went from Robin Yount to Jose Conseco. Mark Mcgwire had admitted he used Androstenedione to keep him on the field because the previous years he had been constantly injured. (Mcgwire had once broken an arm swinging at strike two) While this might be true, towards the end of his career his knees were gone. He was still a big dude, he just couldn't make contact. It was the same affliction on Jason Giambi, Mcgwire's teammate in Oakland. Giambi's leg muscles had outgrown the ligaments connecting to the bone and were starting to tear. As a result he was swinging under the ball batting 190 something and my Yankees tried to void his contract. So what they took to keep them healthy and extending their careers had caused their demise. It's easy to point out guys like Giambi, Mcgwire, Sosa and Bonds but how about Jason Grimsley. Grimsley's stats were not very impressive but good enough to keep him in the league for 14 years. Yankees announcer Michael Kay had pointed out in a broadcast that Grimsley was a good guy but not the brightest bulb in the barn. Hence the Ned Isakov-an naming of names. Tejada that's twice! First with Palmeiro's B12 now this!
When the steroids were banned, the players fled to the HGH or Human Growth Hormone. Doctors had been giving many Athletes HGH during post-surgery to help them recover faster. The players noticed it's effectiveness and the fact that there is no current standardized test for it, HGH was perfect. Best yet, HGH doesn't super-size you turning Barry Bonds into Rocky Dennis Bonds. These guys work their entire lives to be professional ball players and have made much bigger sacrifices than shrinking testicles. Is it cheating or competing , or evening out the playing field. When a HGH test is finally found to be effective players careers will be much shorter and games will be more boring. Starting at first base, THIS GUY!