The Menu at "Eats and Sweets"

A sampling of offerings from James Klindt's menu at his new restaurant, Eats and Sweets:

"Honey, I Ate the Kids": a tasty brouillade with eggs, truffles, and generous gobbets of freshly-hacked child's flesh. Served with a side salad (with carmelized walnuts) and baby carrots in a butter sauce.

"This Little Piggy Went to Market": human toes sauteed in a base of chicken broth and our secret herbs, wrapped in pancetta and served on a bed of crisp Romaine lettuce with a side of cottage cheese.

"Prison-Yard Blues": blue-corn gruel served with a salt peter sauce and a side of fries.

"Shut Yer Yap!": human lips lightly breaded and served with an aioli dipping sauce. Can be eaten as an appetizer or a main dish. We recommend pairing this with a glass of Mouton '09 for a gustatory experience you won't soon forget!

"Heeeeeeeeeeerrrrrre's JOHNNY!": axe-carved salt-cured human thigh meat and an iceberg lettuce side salad with ranch dressing. We recommend pairing this with a healthy shot of Jack Daniel's bourbon. Enjoy your meal, Mr. Torrance!

"I Gotta Hand It to Ya, Mildred!": delicate (human) ladies' fingers served on a bed of bacon and a semifreddo egg custard for dessert. Truly finger-lickin' good!

"I'll Kill You, You Fuckin' Cunt!": a rich seviche consisting of sole, pompano, and human vagina. The house specialty. Not available in September. Ask server for pricing.

"And This One's For Ruining My Life!": a lovely cioppino-inspired stew of generous chunks of human liver, kidney, heart, and gall bladder. Served in a tomato base with garlic and our special spices. Comes with our house bread.

"Axe Me Later": the house special. Dishes vary depending on the local catch of the day. Ask server for availability.

"Straight-Up Cannibalism": human meat, served raw. Certain waivers must be signed before eating. Available upon request only.

"Git Yer Ass in the Kitchen, Bitch!": human flank steak marinated in organic tamari sauce with ginger and shallots. Served with our house fries and your choice of Brussels sprouts or julienned carrots. A perennial favorite!

"Wuz the Milkman Squeezin' Them Titties, Too?": white human breast meat served bechamel. Served with bocconcini. We recommend pairing this dish with an Italian Montepulciano for a truly extraordinary dining experience!

"Twenty Years in the Hole": tossed green salad with our house vinaigrette.

"Hey, Bitch, I Been Thinkin' ...": human brains in a semolina breading, covered with shitake mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes. A seasonal favorite.

Bon Appetite!

Everyone Deserves a Second Chance -- The Failure of Critical Thinking, Part Three

Well, you know, sometimes, just sometimes, Comrade X takes pity on his fellow humans and tries, oh yes he tries, to cut them some slack. He tries to step outside his rather narrow Revolutionary Focus to see what others in the non-proletarian world are suffering and he attempts to bring to light their struggles for legitimacy. But you know: that proves most often to be a complete waste of time. Consider the above example.

James Klindt (whoever HE is) has attempted to appear ONCE AGAIN in "the Quad-City [wherever THAT is] spotlight," but this time not as a vicious and cold-blooded murderer but as a restaurateur, a purveyor of delectables in an inauspiciously-named business called "Eats and Sweets." Now, Comrade X realizes that this might be obvious, but certain questions are raised:

1. Did he in fact eat parts of his former "sweet"? Why would he murder his wife AND dismember her if not to get at the juicier parts within, that more delectable marbled human meat? (I'm just sayin'.)

2. How did he manage to get out of prison fast enough to open a restaurant while someone still remembered him well enough to put this ad in the newspaper? Or did he put it in himself? In which case, he is playing on his notoriety as a wife-killing murderer to promote his new business venture, which:

3. Impossibly seems to be a restaurant. Now how did he learn the finer points of microeconomics in prison? How did he obtain a business license? And, more importantly:

4. How did no one at the local paper NOT notice that he refers to himself as a murderer IN THE SAME SENTENCE in which he advertises his new restaurant? And:

5. WHO THE FUCK WOULD EAT THERE? I don't care what kind of food you're serving, James, there's something obviously not right with you and I would be terribly suspicious of any dish you or your cooks put in front of me.

Why would he feel it necessary to mention his criminal past? He seems to be trading on whatever notoriety he had/has in order to boost his business, even if on the back of his dismembered (ex-)wife. Is America the so-called Land of Opportunity so things like this can happen? Should we welcome back wife-choppers into the bosom of society in such a way? Comrade X wonders.

When Critical Thinking Fails AND Becomes the Basis of Possible Litigation

Okay, seriously, how hard is it to put a modicum of forethought into what happens when you put up a sign? Why would you decide, as a professional sign hanger (obviously they didn't use Union labor!), to put the various words in the sign right next to each other WITHOUT EVEN THINKING about what OTHER words might emerge when you did so?

Now, I'm not certain, but I'll check Google, so hold on a second ...

Well, well, well, looks like Comrade X spoke too soon:

"Boston’s Children’s Hospital bills itself as the hospital for children — and now it’s also the hospital for children who want a sex change, a procedure some critics are calling “barbaric.”"

Well, perhaps this sign is part of the pediatrics ward at Boston Children's Hospital. But, despite the evidence, Comrade X thinks that it probably isn't.

"FUCK" in Bangkok

Can you see this ?

Did you know I love to look at the map of who is reading this blog and dissect the "chatter"? It's fascinating in a way that working as a spy in Russia was. Did you know I went into a depressive dive when my unknown darling in the ocean off the West coast of Africa stopped reading this very blog?

We've been spurned? Did he-she-it finally run out of eating partners on the raft,ate their computer, and then died? Did she get transferred off her submarine? Are they no longer studying the aquatic life of Eretmochelys Imbricata?

BUT today I am cheered by this one great thing. Someone in Bangkok,Thailand googled the word "FUCK" (in all caps) and got our blog for a result!

Oh joy.

He-she-it only looked at it for 0 seconds, but still!

I'm tired. Make them stop.

How did this happen to us? Is it better or worse than it ever was ?

Everyone sort a- kind-a wants the "world" to end as we know it.

After reading about " The bachelorette"(see previous posts) I want it to end too.

But, basically it's a primal fantasy. Do you want to know why?

Because then we wouldn't have to go to work, wash socks, or cook chicken for dinner anymore!

I'm exhausted from battling for survival in this world. From shielding my eyes from the ever increasing commercialization of every moment and emotion. From running and running to catch up.

Only art can save us (making it-not necessarily selling it [although contact us for pricing and availability] )!

Break out them emergency canned peaches and let the savagery begin,

I'm loosing ground.

y

Derrik's Favorite Candy

Yep. Tiny little penises. Derrik should have given a bag of these to Ali and just walked away ...

Further Adventures in the Failure of Critical Thinking

After a long day of plotting the overthrow of capitalism and devising ingenious schemes which will soon, O My Comrades, be put into practice, Comrade X needs his exercise, and so, on this particular evening, he went to his local gym to get in a little cardio. Well, now, the problem with the cardio machines is that they are located under a huge bank of VERY large-screen televisions, and try as he might to avoid looking at them, Comrade X's attention is oftentimes drawn to these looming symbols and purveyors of bourgeois moral lassitude. But tonight Comrade X was shocked, shocked!, when he saw an episode of what he thinks is called "The Bachelorette," in which a meretricious young woman shops, essentially, for a boyfriend from a group of commodified ex-frat boy look-alikes pretending to be human and trying in vain to win this woman's attention (i.e., vagina) by meeting with her one-on-one and, in something like thirty-second interviews, attempting to convince her that each is somehow unique from the others (for my part, I couldn't tell them apart, as they were identical to me, even down to the volume of hair product each one used).

Well, stupid and actually rather heinous and horrifying premise aside, one of these men, a certain Derrik, decides that his opening strategy is that he is going to tell her (whatever her name was -- Ali, I think, not that it matters) why he has been given -- and still to this day goes by! -- the nickname "Shooter" (I'm sure you see where this is going, O My Vastly Overeducated and Soon to Be Disgusted Readers). So Shooter walks into the room, sits on the couch, and the first thing out of his mouth -- THE FIRST THING -- is his explanation of the nickname. Apparently, in college, he suffered from an affliction (he was unclear as to whether or not he still suffers from this affliction) that no man in his right mind would EVER IN A MILLION YEARS reveal to ANYONE, let alone a woman he is trying to IMPRESS, and AT THE INSTANT OF THEIR FIRST MEETING -- yes, My Comrades, Shooter suffered (or suffers) from premature ejaculation.

Now, Comrade X does not claim to know the way to any given woman's heart, certainly, nor does he want to make essentialist statements about women in general, but it seems to stand to reason (a higher brain function no man on this show uses) that the way to get a woman to be interested in you as a man and a viable sexual partner IS NOT TO REVEAL THAT YOU HAVE A SEXUAL DYSFUNCTION that can only result in dissatisfaction and disappointment for your female partner (and embarrassment for yourself) and to show that you are SO STUPID as to TELL people about it (good luck getting a date NOW, dumbass!). Because, Dear Reader, not only did Shooter tell Ali, he told MILLIONS of viewers that he is, indeed a premature ejaculator. This was astounding to Comrade X, as astounding as if Derrik had decided to call himself Mr. Micropenis or perhaps tell this woman that his name in Russian means "farts-under-the-covers-like-a-high-school-marching-band" or that he suffers from leprosy.

And, to point out some further, perhaps more subtle aspects of this individual's failure to think critically, he later revealed (in an exit interview after he did not receive a rose, the receipt of which apparently indicates that you get to go on to the next round, which for all Comrade X knows is the swimsuit competition), Derrik said that his strategy was to "ease the tension" by telling her this, and that he sees that his strategy "failed." Now, Derrik, consider: isn't the IMMEDIATE "easing of tension" with women EXACTLY your problem? Isn't "failure" the whole issue here? Why shoot your wad, as it were, right off the bat? Can't you save ANYTHING for later? What about a little verbal foreplay first? Why go straight for the linguistic money shot? Oh, you poor, poor man. So feeble-minded (among other things). And, just to show that he is, in fact, completely obsessed by his own dysfunction, he PREMATURELY LEAVES THE EXIT INTERVIEW, walking off camera during filming while saying, "Forget it, I'm going home," and shedding his tie PREMATURELY as he walks down the driveway of the house where the show is shot (as it were), where there is no car waiting for him to take him back to his hotel because he PREMATURELY left the set.

O tempora, o mores!

The Toy of the Revolution (Because We Like Toys ... Still, At Our Age)

Isn't this just the cutest little anarchist toy you've ever seen? Aww, come on, you know you want one!

When Critical Thinking Fails

Comrade X never ceases to be amazed at the complete dearth of critical thinking skills in this world. He offers the ill-thought-out logic of the sign above. Surely the person who wrote it, even if completely overwhelmed with anti-capitalist, anti-oil-company fervor, could see the complete illogic of the boast (and why is it that the stupidest among us actually DO boast of their stupidity? One is reminded of the Dittoheads who would blindly repeat utterly ridiculous, racist, homophobic, anti-rational, anti-liberal [oftentimes even anti-conservative!], anti-humanist phrases uttered by the incomparable -- no, that's not true, there are many to compare to him -- Rush Limbaugh, that drug-addled collapsed black hole of complete idiocy. Where is he now, I wonder?)? Are these the people we want in Our Revolution? I think not. And lest you think this is an isolated incident, Comrade X offers this from Irritable Blog Syndrome itself, a response to our post in horror of the Friskies cat food commercial (v. "Hey Purina! Cats Don't Take Psychedelic Drugs!" 3/18/10):

"Anonymous said...

Wow. You're an idiot. You spent how much time deconstructing a 30 second commercial? Example #2,987,483 why the blogosphere is filled with idiots. I only clicked on this link because I was trying to find out who the singer is because she sounded a lot like Kim Deal."

Now, Comrade X is certainly a proponent of free speech, and did not delete this comment from the blog, but he wants here to point out the many ways in which this post has failed in terms of critical thinking and added to Comrade X's despair for the sorry state of human rational capacity, not to mention writing skills:

1. This person cannot recognize the difference between humor and what he (for the sake of pronoun simplicity, Comrade X will continue to refer to this fuckwit as a male) mistakes as a serious attempt at "deconstruction," which of course this person doesn't even understand because:

2. Deconstruction is an attempt to point out the ways in which texts fail to make meaning, not the ways in which the meaning of texts is completely ludicrous. But this guy wouldn't know that because:

3. He is an example of the absolute worst aspect of what he refers to as the "blogosphere": the anonymous flame. He complains that we complained about a commercial, and takes umbrage at the very act of complaining while himself committing that very act. Oh, and did I mention that he's an idiot because:

4. He used the term "blogosphere," as if the vast ethereal activity of the internet had shape, form, solidity, and material existence. It is not a sphere. That should not even be said in an attempt to make a metaphor, because the use of metaphor is only useful in an attempt to better explain something, and the use of "blogosphere" not only does nothing to better explain the complicated nature of the internet online environment (even that fails as a metaphor -- we have yet to come up with a good way to describe this phenomenon), but actually confuses it, as if the "blogosphere" were a coherent and united unit of individual parts, as opposed to millions of individuals all acting separately and at times in unison to achieve a multitude of tasks in an unstructured and non-ruled manner. So:

5. HE is actually example #2,987,483 of "why the blogosphere is filled with idiots" (I have corrected the syntax here). Can people not see their own stupidity? As I have been trying to point out: no. Even Comrade X doesn't see his own stupidity. I am certainly not immune. But at least I TRY, unlike this individual. And why the specific number? Is that an attempt at humor, or did he actually count all the "ways in which" etc.? And if it was humor, then that indicates that this person has a sense of one, but then goes on to completely disabuse us of that notion by:

6. Being OBVIOUSLY a "friend" and follower of a website that is merely a clearing-house for old Purina cat food commercials, which this person has an unhealthy interest in, even going so far as to:

7. Wonder about who sang the stupid song. Really? You CARE about that? REALLY? What the fuck is WRONG with you!? Freak.

AND THEN the idiot goes on to tell me WHY he clicked on the link, AS IF I FUCKING CARE after he just told me I was an idiot! What the fuck? Like I need to know WHY he was there? Or what his stupid interests are? (Who the fuck is Kim Deal anyway?) WHY DO PEOPLE THINK THE WORLD GIVES A SHIT ABOUT THEM? Why are people so consumed with a sense of unearned self-importance? Comrade X is under no such delusion. He recognizes his unimportance in the vast scale of things, even in the small scale of things, and would certainly never write someone to tell them they were an idiot (which in itself seems to be THE EXACT THING this person claims is wrong with Comrade X: that he wastes time on unimportant matters, like, you know, writing people to tell them that they are idiots), and even if I did, I would NOT bother to tell them WHY I was looking at their particular piece of idiocy in the first place.

KEEP IT TO YOURSELF! NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT YOU! Confine your comments to the Friskies cat food page, or perhaps the Kim Deal fan site, you pathetic twit, you fucking Friskies Dittohead.

Is the Revolution here yet? Comrade X grows increasingly impatient!

What Happens When Capitalism Doesn't Even Bother to Hide Its Disdain for You

Yes, "Buy 3 for the Price of 3." Kwik-E-Mart has, in the words of the probably-not-so-immortal Ricky Ricardo, some splainin' to do. Comrade X stared at this sign in wonder for probably a full minute, trying to figure out if he'd missed something. Yes, that's how much of a grip capitalism has even on him! 3 for the price of 3? Do they mean 3 things for the price of three OTHER, less expensive things? 3 for the price of 3 WHAT, exactly? Or perhaps they put that banner up because:

1. They contracted out to an advertising agency that hates them and wants to make them appear stupid (as if the name "Kwik-E-Mart" didn't do that already).

2. Banner manufacturers don't get the finer points of capitalist price competition.

3. The owners of Kwik-E-Mart recently had brain surgery which didn't go so well.

4. It's some kind of high school prank (personally, Comrade X hopes that this is the real reason).

5. Perhaps "3" is the name of a product and you can buy three of something else for the price of the product named "3." (Yes, I realize that this is really a stretch.)

6. Umm ...

7. Oh, I've got it! I hallucinated the entire thing!

3 for the price of 3. Oh, that's a "special deal," alright.

Fucking hell! What kind of world do we live in, my Comrades? Exactly -- a retarded one.

Comrade X Declares May 19 "National Fuck It Day"

Ah, Comrade X remembers being just a young little tow-headed tyke, a wee boy happily playing stick ball or kick-the-can or some other innocent childhood game with neighborhood friends, when, suddenly, tyrannically, he is ordered inside by a parent. What? No! We're not even finished! Well, Comrade X realized, even at that young age, that power must be spoken back to, power must be shown the limits of its authority, power must be resisted for the sake of resistance and freedom and everything that Comrade X holds dear, and so, my Revolutionaries, Comrade X delivered this gesture to said parent, asserting his autonomy and simultaneously saying to the world, "No! Thou shalt not defeat me! Thou shalt not oppress the weak!" (Yes, Comrade X used to talk like that. He was raised in a non-normative household.)

Oh, sure, Comrade X had his ass beaten right royally that day, with a multitude of common household implements, but in retrospect, when he looks back through the misty veils of time and memory, he realizes that it was all worth it, that that beating was a lesson, an invaluable lesson, in the Dialectic of Oppression which shaped irrevocably Comrade X's never-to-be-swayed Revolutionary Consciousness.

And so Comrade X declares May 19 "National Fuck It Day," and expects all his Revolutionary Comrades to go out into the world and once, just once (but of course feel free to do it at EVERY opportunity!), to say to power, power in any form, "Fuck you! I will not be oppressed!"

Comrade X eagerly awaits your stories of liberation and resistance! Rise up! If Starbucks gives you foam on your no-foam latte, you tell them you're mad as hell and won't take it anymore!

ONWARD!

Comrade X Thinks Freddie Mercury Might Have Been Gay

In case you're wondering, too, please watch this video and let me know what you think. Pay special attention to the shorts, of which Comrade X just purchased a pair. Do you think they'd make ME look gay, too?

Comrade X Goes to the Library

Okay, so Comrade X finally figured out that you can use the library to get things you want FOR FREE, yes, for free, without having to pay HUGE amounts of money for stupid books that you wouldn't want to read under normal circumstances. But this isn't what Comrade X wants to point out -- what Comrade X wants to point out, as usual, is the INSANE patrons of said establishments, the freaks and detritus that frequent these emporiums of a kind of bourgeois knowledge that even the bourgeoisie don't want to participate in, which means, of course, that the proletariat use this institution to raise themselves "above" their condition, and join the ranks of those they hate. Well, Comrade X is of course not subject to such trickery, but he has noticed that the people who use said institution are INCREDIBLY FUCKING RUDE, and if the library as a library, as Jefferson defined it, is to survive, then people must, of necessity, BE NICER for it to do so.

For instance, this afternoon, Comrade X went to the library in his neighborhood to pick up the Black Sabbath box set (The Complete Black Sabbath 1970-1978: oh, yeah!), and as he was standing in line, he noticed:

1. The woman in front of him with her two completely uncontrolled children picked up their materials and just stood there, as one of the kids, with a copy of Elmo 2: The Puppet Massacre or whatever it was, walked around in circles babbling incomprehensible gibberish while the other child with her Barbie: Fifty Years of Outlandish Tits DVD stood in the way of everyone and screamed while the mother, unable to deal with the situation due to her bourgeois inability and unwillingness to deal with her child's growing solipsism, waited for her children to calm down while the rest of us stood there, our time obviously not as valuable as that of tantrum-throwing four-year-olds;

2. Two people, a couple, of unusually ugly appearance, checked out the three Spanish-themed DVDs the library had in its displayed collection, which they found because:

3. This big-ass fat guy had just returned twenty (!) DVDs and was checking out twenty (yes, 20!) more (who the fuck has time to watch all those DVDs?) in a huge stack, and both of them:

3. CUT IN FRONT OF COMRADE AS HE WAS PATIENTLY STANDING IN LINE, but:

4. The worst, as Comrade X was leaving, he was walking down the hall to the front door, when a woman opened the door, and said to him, "No, you first, PLEASE!" with a roll of her eyes as if she was being SO PUT OUT that she HAD to open the door for Comrade X when it would have been just as easy for her to stand there and wait, if it bothered her so much. BUT THAT'S THE THING! These people here, they're SO FUCKING SELF-ENTITLED that they think that if they do something nice for someone, it's an IMPOSITION to do so and that they shouldn't HAVE to do so and that they are somehow being cheated of something they're entitled to if they do the MINIMUM they can in the service of public harmony. WHAT THE FUCK? What is it with these fucking idiots? They're SO self-centered that they think that the world should be doing things for THEM at ALL times, and if they have to do something for someone else -- even of their own volition -- they are somehow being imposed upon and cheated of their -- what, their rights? What? WHAT DO THEY THINK? FUCKING HELL!

So fuck you, bitch! Open the door! It took you, what? Less than a fraction of one second of your time? Why do you have to be such a bitch about it? This is just like the hippie that accosted Comrade X and his friend on a trail yesterday while they were hiking for MOVING OUT OF HIS WAY, as if ANYTHING anyone does to accomodate them is somehow bad and reprehensible (a story for another time)! WHAT THE FUCK AGAIN?

Comrade X is baffled and sickened.

What is it with people? They go out of their way to be nice and then blame the people they're being nice to. Unbelievable.

Oh when, oh when, will the Revolution start?

Comrade X Gets a Haircut

This sign resides in the window of the salon (yes, salon -- but NOT a BOURGEOIS salon, no, indeed, more a proletariat salon for the ... discerning oppressed underclass, which, of course, makes at all okay) where Comrade X gets his monthly haircut (yes, monthly, because when the Revolution comes, there WILL be televisual coverage, and Comrade X doesn't want to look like some sort of deranged hippie in front of the cameras -- that would discredit the cause! I thank you all for your understanding in this matter). The motto inside, unofficial, of course, is "An armed society is a polite society." Now, neither Comrade X nor the salon's owner or staff endorse outright mayhem, but really, think about it -- would YOU want your monthly dose of feeling like a human being (because really, nothing makes you feel more human than having your shaggy detrital excrescence shorn from your head) taken from you by some crazed armed gunman? Of course not! And so, Comrade X feels safe inside the confines of this salon, which is something he can't say when he leaves its comforting interior environment (plus, they have this CRAZY pink bathroom that is pinker than pink and SO shocking that you just have to stand there for a minute and hope you don't wet your pants while you take it in).

And, for once, Comrade X doesn't feel like he needs to carry a weapon because he assumes everyone else in there is doing so. Which might prove to be a fatal mistake, I don't know ... but considering the run-ins Comrade X has with the general public at his gym, well ...

Comrade X Drinks the Official Vodka of the Revolution

Hammer + Sickle Vodka. From Russia. How appropriate. Comrade X took this picture in his humble proletariat kitchen which he couldn't sell right now if he wanted to (and he does), but that isn't the more pressing problem, the pressing problem is that he can't seem to stop typing or make any sense at all because this vodka seems to be laced with crystal meth (how Pacific Northwest!) and he's listening to this crazy-ass music about shooting people or something (he thinks someone is singing "She's daaaaayyyyy-ed, she's daaaaayyyyy-ed," but he can't be sure because it's all moving waaaaaay too fast like in the old days and -- oh, wait, they could be singing "Cheeeeese daaayyy, cheeeeeeese daaayyyy" -- and what's with this Pandora anyway? It doesn't make sense. So capitalist! You can bookmark a song but can't listen to it again -- you can only go back to a page that allows you to BUY it, oh sure, "free" Pandora [and didn't the mythical Pandora really fuck up humanity?], just a big fucking clearing house for selling music from iTunes and don't they have enough money anyway?). Okay, okay, Comrade X realizes that this post is quickly getting out of control and that it needs some kind of unifying idea to keep it on track but he keeps thinking about how he was assaulted AGAIN at his gym the other day by this crazy-ass big fat guy with these impossible horse teeth (can teeth really be that big?) who starts taking to him out of the blue -- again with the unsolicited conversations! -- and he (Crazy Tooth) has two pairs of shoes for some reason and he looks at Comrade X and says, "Which of these is more stylish?" and Comrade X looks at him and says, "Uhhh ... " and the big fat crazy-tooth guy says "This one?" and holds up a backless sneaker, you know the kind, the kind people too lazy to actually PUT ON their shoes buy, and Comrade X says, "Yeah," and then the other guy says "Cause this other pair looks like kids' shoes, right?" and he holds up a completely nondescript, laceless white sneaker like he works at the Foot Locker and Comrade X says, "Yeah, uhh ... " and sort of does that laugh you do when you're trying to defuse a really potentially volatile situation with a crazy person and then Chomper Charlie goes into this completely incomprehensible monologue ostensibly about his shoes and walks over to the mirror on the other side of the row of lockers, talking the whole time, and Comrade X is a little stunned because he doesn't quite know how to handle the situation, and then the dental nightmare comes back in his backless sneakers and says something like "I look like I'm going to the beach, right? Right?" because he's wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and Bermuda shorts (and I swear -- a rope belt like fucking Jethro!) and the backless sneakers and Comrade X says (yet again) "Uhh ... " and Big-Tooth Billy goes, "Ha! Like I'm goin' to the beach, right! Yeah, you know, these bitches around here, they all sleepin' around," to which Comrade X can only respond with a nod and a blank look and all the time running flight scenarios through his head and picking weak points in Jiggle Gut's defenses when he hears, "Yeah, they all sleepin' around, even the white bitches!" to which Comrade X feels compelled to reply, "You know, they probably don't really sleep around -- everyone around here is rich or married to someone rich, right? Wouldn't sleeping around be risking a lot?" which of course was the ABSOLUTE WRONG THING TO SAY because Bermuda-Short Billy Bob goes into a HUUUUUUUUGE diatribe about the "bitches" to which Comrade X can only add, "Yeah, but, hey, they aren't sleeping with YOU, are they?" to which he responds "Heeeeeeyyyyyylllll NO!" and then turns and laughs, at which point Comrade X sneaks out of the locker room, not quite fully dressed, but that's okay, better to dodge a bullet half-naked than catch one fully clothed.

Fucking hell and oy!

Damn, Comrade X needs another drink. Where's that Hammer + Sickle? Das vedanya, Comrades!

What time is it? Revolution Time!

Thanks to Comrade E for this poorly-made tin Chinese clock (the Worker's Revolution seems to have created a Worker's Give-A-Shit Attitude about quality) depicting a profile of Mao with a bunch of Revolutionaries, one of whom waves Mao's Little Red Book in time with the clicking of the second hand (which has on its tip a fighter jet). Truly an amazing find and cherished by Comrade X as a symbol of the coming Revolution, a symbol that tells him that the time is right! That we will prevail! That we will not simply make clocks (and why does a Chinese clock depicting Chinese revolutionaries presumably for the purpose of keeping their ire up as they wake up each morning to the shrill tinny bell of the alarm and see, first thing, Mao and a depiction of themselves, essentially, worshiping Mao -- why does such a clock have Arabic numerals? Don't the Chinese have their own numbers? This seems strange to Comrade X), but will make QUALITY products for ... wait, hold up: that makes no sense. What WILL we do after the Revolution? I'M not going to work in some factory. And I certainly don't want crappily-made products cluttering up my house. SOMEBODY has to make stuff -- but who? That is the challenge Comrade X throws out to you fellow Revolutionaries: where's our stuff going to come from after we ridicule all the OTHER stuff out there to cause the Revolution? First one with a workable answer wins an authentic Chinese Revolutionary clock! Actually keeps time!

Why Sorority Girls Should Not Exist

At a recent dinner with a co-revolutionary, Comrade X found this sign in the restaurant's bathroom. Now, this restaurant is by no means sympathetic to the Revolution, and in fact Comrade X was there merely to find ways to exploit its weaknesses and perhaps find ways to appropriate its resources, when, after a large amount of beer (which, of course, is the preferred drink of the proletariat, along with vodka, bourbon, tequila, ouzo, schnapps, gin, vermouth, Campari, malt liquor, Sterno, Mad Dog 20-20, Manischewitz, moonshine, Boone's Farm, Carlo Rossi box wine, Robitussin, etc.), Comrade X found it necessary to exploit the weaknesses of this establishment through its restroom, and so, upon entering, he shut the door, turned around, and saw this sign.

Ha! Comrade X imagined the scenario: some stupid vacuous rich snotty cliquish slut of a sorority girl (because no man would pass out in a men's room, ever, under any circumstances -- and if he did, his friends, equally drunk, would merely come and smash the door in and drag him out and make him drink more until he either died of alcohol poisoning or they got tired of the game and went in search of even drunker women), after too may Fuzzy Navels and Sex on the Beaches and other stupid concoctions designed specifically for the sexually repressed Bourgeoisie, locked herself in the bathroom (the WRONG bathroom, because she was in the men's room, but, to give her credit, it is impossible anymore to determine which is the men's room and which the women's when the signs are composed of impossible-to-decipher glyphs or other symbols. The men's room at this place, for instance, had what appeared to be a merman, and the women's room, I suppose, as I did not check, had a mermaid [though it could just as easily have been a top hat], but in a plastic cut-out, in a dark hallway, after a lot of beer, who can tell? One restaurant in town goes so far as to label their different restrooms "hops" and "barley." Now how the fuck are you supposed to know which is which?), passed out due to her inability to hold her liquor (STUPID BOURGEOIS PIECE OF SHIT!), and when her overly-made-up-and-always-completely-overdressed friends informed the staff of their drunken retarded friend's long-overdue return, some poor worker had to crawl THROUGH THE ROOF to get into the MEN'S ROOM and open the door and have the stupid bitch dragged out.

I ask you: what is the moral of this story?

Urban detox joint juice

First you get addicted to one and then you have to go to quasi-Christian meetings, where you are forced to drink the other.

Here we have Joint Juice. The juice from joints? Let's call it bong water, shall we?

Or is it Juice for your joints? It helps your knees? And your elbows? Are you sure? What's in it? Do tell. A big blue raindrop?

And then we have "Function:Urban Detox"? (Is that ENGRISH? Or RUSSiangLISH -- I love the "Function:" part.) I'm so sorry but it's highly unlikely this will help you detoxify yourself from URBAN life, even if it does have the rod of Asclepius on it. But I can imagine some overworked inner-city police officer discovering this in the aisles and saying to his girlfriend, "Do you think this will help?", or I can imagine this conversation:

Corn: "Yo, Satan, how are we going to use up all this extra corn syrup ?"

Satan: "Why don't we just add some colored water and sell it to humans?"

God: "Hey, that's a good idea! Do you think they will buy it?"

Satan: "Fuck yeah, they are zombies."

Through a series of events that CORN -- the evil plant that is taking over America -- engineered, we Americans are a sorry lot. We are fat, we wear dumb red hats, we are lonely, we are all on drugs, we don't know how to use a semi-colon, we guzzle weird beverages, we get diabetes, and ultimately we have to go to Kaiser Permanente where our organs get harvested for nitrogen which is then used for the soil that the corn itself has depleted! It's all a vicious cycle.

So, get out your swords and sickles, people, and head to Iowa.

Its all corn's fault! Standing so impossibly tall and sturdy and so close together in those fields. Being big bullies to the other poor crops. Not letting those farmers plant anything else or even rest for a minute.

Corn is RELENTLESS.

This from Michael Pollan's book The Omnivore's Dilemma:

"With the advent of the F-1 Hybrid( a strain of engineered corn) , a technology with the power to remake nature in the image of capitalism, Zen Mays entered the industrial age and, in time, it brought the whole American food chain with it."

Well FU corn and all your by-products.

P.S. Okay, I never really envied vacuous imaginary ladies with impossibly long legs

(like corn!) and weird dresses (like corn!) AND REALLY WEIRD BOOTS (which I sort of want -- see previous posts). I actually envy Michael Pollan. He's the man.

Don't Be That Bitch, Comrade Y! She Gets Weird Press!

Recently reviewing Comrade Y's post about Kelly Wearstler (5/2/10), apparently her arch-enemy and fantasy doppelganger, Comrade X decided to view the readers' comments on that particular article, as he often finds clues to the cracks in the ideological superstructure which he can exploit in service of the coming Revolution (by the way, he also looked at the accompanying slide-show, which was, to say the least, absolutely self-serving and ridiculous AND showed a boot -- yes, a BOOT! -- that she wants, like ANYONE fucking cares!). Well, usually: instead, he found only four (see, Comrade Y, she's not THAT fabulous) comments:

"Now I know who the pretty one who wore the weird dresses is. I liked her."

Torturous syntax aside, this particular reader is being, seemingly, intentionally opaque. Where exactly did this reader see the putatively fabulous Ms. Wearstler wearing "weird dresses"? At the International Weird Dress Bienniale? And is this comment supposed to mean something to someone? Aren't comments supposed to INVITE readers to respond or think about them, rather than absolutely STOPPING them from doing so? And who the fuck cares if you liked her or not, retard? We here at Irritable Blog Syndrome hate her, and, by extension, all who like -- or liked (apparently this reader might not like her anymore -- watch your verb tenses!) -- her.

And then there's this utterly incomprehensible encomium to something Ms. Wearstler did in some place Comrade X has never heard of and will never go to (what it was is unclear -- apparently it is de rigeur to avoid clarity at all costs when commenting about this woman):

"Wearstler's work at the Viceroy in Anguilla is truly remarkable. The clean lines, the intriguing gnarled distractions from clean lines, the sense of openness, of fresh sea air in the spaces, and finally, the luminous enchantment of relaxing within a work of art; I can't wait to return."

So there's clean lines and then a DISTRACTION (and a gnarled distraction at that, like that matters) from clean lines? She does something and then distracts you from it? What the fuck? Openness and sea air and blah blah blah -- glad you get to go back and see it again, you bourgeois asswipe. Keep us updated. Try not to masturbate on anything while you're there.

Now for a more level-headed analysis of the phenomenon that is Kelly Wearstler:

"Now tell who really wants to admire a pretty rich successful woman who seems to have it all. Maybe I am just not a nice person, but I don't. If I see Kelly's several million dollar home, beautiful sons and the good life in L.A, in one more magazine....I promise to pray she gets a zit on the tip of her nose which lasts for a full two weeks."

Who wants to admire her? (Well, Comrade Y does, sadly [get over it, Comrade!]). But this particular reader's hatred of Ms. Wearstler allows Comrade X to forgive him/her his/her syntactical and punctuation errors. But you know that some bourgeois fatass somewhere is sitting in his/her chair at the country club thinking, "Ha! See what a public school education gets you? Bad grammar and jealousy! Ho! Jose, another martini, if you will. Hurry now!" And seriously -- a zit? I can think of far more insidious tortures for this bourgeois waste of space.

(Although Comrade X IS rather bothered that the only negative comment was written by a semi-literate writer.)


And of course, there's always the frat boy whose arrested adolescence leads him to embarrass himself publicly and seemingly unselfconsciously:

"Among all the photographs in this story, it would have been nice to see her glorious Playboy spread."

Oh, come on. And: did she really do a Playboy spread? Now THAT is the sign of a good mother! No, not self-obsessed at all ...

Bitch.

Prepare for domination!

This particular product was brought to the attention of Comrade X by the ever-vigilant Comrade E, who was obviously shocked at the blatant message by the Androcentric Bourgeois World Order. The Oppressors have become so lazy and arrogant that they no longer feel the need to subtly push their agenda -- they are now proclaiming it loudly! For instance, the advertising language on this product says:

"All the world loves a lover [of capitalism!]. All the world loves Mandom [but hates femaledom? Or loves being dominated by "The Man"?]. Man o man [oh, man!]. That's MANDOM [caps in case you didn't get the message the first three times]."

What is this? What have we come to? Now they are giving us hair product (side note: what is the difference between "hair liquid" and "hair tonic"? Just another way of selling us one product TWICE, by giving it two different labels!) that, in all probability, contains some kind of brain-numbing element (think: military-industrial-entertainment-hair product complex), making us more susceptible to the now-overt messages of the Capitalist Hegemony. Bow down in abject servitude! Love MANDOM!

Comrade X gets excited for a moment, thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, we have brought down a corporation.

Imagine if you will Comrade X's surprise when he saw this little card on the counter of a Starbucks one day. Now, some of you will surely ask, "But Comrade X, what were you doing in a Starbucks, the most visible and obvious of all the corporate entities against which you fight?" Well, the answer is twofold:

1. Comrade X likes their mochas (yes, even Comrade X is not above the hallucinatory appeal of the chocolate-flavored coffee beverage, and finds himself pulled by the very forces -- oh, so seductive! -- he daily fights against. Lo, how frail is Man! Even the most committed Revolutionary might, like Homer (not the one on the Simpsons, you media-saturated readers! The other one, that Greek guy), nod occasionally! But rest assured, Comrade X does not fall for the whole "experience" Starbucks is trying to create to assure customer recidivism. No, it's just that they put something in the chocolate syrup, I swear ...

2. Observation of the enemy, as Sun Tzu said (or might have said), is the key to winning the battle (or maybe it was having the high ground, I can't remember).

So, Comrade X finds himself at the counter, ordering his $3.50 mocha (outrageous!), when he spots the card above. What?! Starbucks Red? Can it be? Are they supporting the Revolution? Have they crossed over to the side of righteousness and revolutionary fervor? Are they ready to dismantle themselves from within and pick up the mantle of the oppressed proletariat? Cheered by this seemingly good news, Comrade X of course purchased said card, loaded it up with money (as the Revolution needs funds, he thought he would help the coming class war and current corporate dissolution). The oppressed "barista" put the card in a useless and wasteful card holder (assuming it was a gift? Or to cover the fact that we were co-conspirators in the Revolution, like hiding Mao's little red book in a Chinese newspaper?), and that was that. With a knowing wink and a look of (assuredly feigned!) confusion on the part of the oppressed worker, Comrade X left the establishment. Later, however, when he removed the card from its concealing package to revel in its glorious message, he noticed this written in the bottom corner, in very, very small type, on the inside of the top flap:

"enjoy $" Of course. How could Comrade X have been so blind? Enjoy money! The whole thing was a ruse, a joke, a message from the all-powerful capitalist overlords telling Comrade X EXACTLY what they are doing with all the money Comrade X has spent at that particular establishment over the years, and all the money he just put on that stupid card. Enjoy money! OF COURSE they enjoy money! How could I have been so blind? And and AND, what is worse, they are telling Comrade X to enjoy money, as well! It is a command, delivered from the controllers of money to those dispossessed of it, inflaming their desire for it, forcing them to work harder for lower wages to try to obey this demand! Enjoy money! Drink Coke! Love the Starbucks "experience"!

Bah!

How can I enjoy money if I give it all to them? Comrade X is upset. He needs a mocha.

It so isn't

Fuck you, bitch. Wait, can I be you ?

This from the New York Times Style section.
http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/27/profile-in-style-kelly-wearstler/

Impossibly fabulous. Impossibly tall. Impossibly fabulous. Impossibly tall.

Something about those big orange lines on the wall and the orange in the painting fill me with such dread and rage that I can barely breathe.

See if you can read the rest of the article and and scroll through this woman's life without strangling the nearest person/thing/pet/boyfriend/grandmother.

I read these type of things and buy into it. Don't we all ? Isn't that the whole point; to make us feel inferior,ugly,dumb,pedestrian? It's a big HUGE obvious ploy for us to buy,buy, buy, but yet I STILL BUY BUY BUY INTO IT !!!

IT MAKES ME WANT TO SHOOT MYSELF AND THEN GRAB TUFTS OF HER HAIR AND YANK IT OUT.

Is it possible that this is not a myth ? Does this really exist ? (Actually I have seen it first hand.)

That's the sad part. It does exist.

(Impossibly conflicted feelings-- There, I confess)

xo--Y

Happy May Day, Comrades!

Well, Comrades, I hope you are celebrating May Day, the birth of organized labor -- and radicalized labor, at that -- right here in the United States of Bourgeois Oppression. This is its birthday. I'm not sure what day it died, though, but I do know that it was moribund for quite a while until Herr Reagan finally suffocated it with a pillow.

Rise up!

Oh, and I got you all a present: