I’ve found that making up systems is pretty easy. It must be one of those human impulses, to find a sense of logic in everything. Of course none of it is true. I don’t really buy into many systems of thought used to explain human emotions. For example, maybe you’ve heard of psychological term “displacement,” which is an unconscious defense mechanism whereby the mind redirects affects from an object felt to be dangerous or unacceptable to an object felt to be safe or acceptable. So, when your Mom loses her job she comes home and beats your Dad. OK, I guess we can use a term to describe that emotional reaction- but I’m always a little wary of these things. The same goes for dream interpretation. Yes, I think dreams can tell you things, but sometimes people can be too quick to apply a simple system of logic to the infinitely more complicated processes of the psyche.

Having said that, here’s a system I’ve developed (in about 4 minutes) to describe the intricacies of love (feel free to comment on the variety of flaws and over all under-development in the comments). I’m calling it the F.A.I.L-S.A.F.E system of romantic development. Let me explain:

The system is divided into two parts. The first, F.A.I.L., outlines what I imagine to be the ideal person to start a relationship with and then explains why this person cannot exist. The second, S.A.F.E, offers a more realistic set of qualities to pursue in the opposite (or same) sex.

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Dear Mr. Bowie,

First off, we are both very big fans. Probably not your biggest fans, but we are American, both of us. Cool, right? We just read the very kind letter you wrote to your other American fan. You wrote it back in 1967, but it was really nice. Are you still a nice guy? Did you ever make it to America? It’s kind of shitty. I’ve been to England. DJ hasn’t. That’s not really relevant I guess.

Anyway, we were just writing you to say we are both very big fans, though we don’t really listen to your albums too much. I think we probably both downloaded a few for free. You know, like the popular ones: Ziggy Stardust and Space Oddity. DJ knows some trivia about your song “Let’s Dance.” I don’t remember it. This is Roy, writing the letter by the way. Well, I’m typing it. DJ is yelling out his comments to me. DJ says “Hey.”

The album we really like is Hunky Dory. It is SO good! We like a lot of the tracks. The first one, “Changes,” is really good. We like how you stutter on the word “changes.” Did you think of that yourself? DJ says you don’t really stutter in real life. That makes it even more creative. The next song, “Oh! You Pretty Things” that one is good too. We like how you say the line, “look out my window what do I see, crack in the sky…” That’s mostly because of the album “Crack the Skye.” It’s by Mastodon and it’s really good too. “Oh! You Pretty Things” has good piano. You have a good voice.

“Eight Line Poem” isn’t as good as the first two songs. Too slow. You probably get that a lot.

“Life on Mars” is another really creative song. Really good job with that, we were impressed. I’ve listen to that song over 10 times. DJ says he probably has to, but he hasn’t been keeping count. What is the song “Kooks” about? We like that one too. It’s good. The songs after that are good too. Sometimes you sing funny.

Did you ever get to meet Andy Warhol in real life? What is Andy Warhol like? The beginning to this song is weird. DJ says you were probably high when you made it. I guess that makes sense. Do you remember if you were? Do you have something against Bob Dylan? You seem to. Did you ever meet Bob Dylan? What is his voice like in real life? How old is he now?

“Queen Bitch” is pretty bad ass. It sounds really good. What was your inspiration to write that song? We like it a lot.

Well, anyway. Thanks for reading our letter. Like we said, we’re from America, so you know…hope to hear from you soon. Keep making good music, but try to make some songs like the ones on Hunky Dory because those are our favorite ones.

OK, bye,
Roy and DJ

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Many of you may not know this, but I’m a pretty well-read guy. I’m not implying I’ve read any particular library of classic books – I’ve made it a point to never read a single Charles Dickens book no matter how many I was assigned throughout high school, I have a particular disdain for Ernest Hemmingway and, frankly James Joyce can suck my hog (I assume based solely on his name that he’s of the homosexual persuasion). However, I do read the news every day. The real news. The New York Times – not Metro NY, The Post, anything posted on CNN or any of that other silly hogwash. (Morris Day and) The Motherfucking Time(s). That shit is the MAD notes!

Anyway, I was reading an article yesterday about Michael Jackson’s memorial (Michael Jackson: The Memorial, rather) and I came to a phrase that was totally worthy of a tweet, however Twitter tells me “Arrow_on_red” and to “watch a video,” which I never do.  So, unable to share this hilarity in my normal manner for quips of such insignificance, I decided to let it stir for an entire day and be evacuated from my body in a long form post. My original tweet will be followed by my elaboration:

yesterday the ny times referred to the michael jackson memorial as an ‘orgy of mourning’ http://bit.ly/ZSqkY sounds like an awful goth band

(Note how I refuse to use proper punctuation for my tweets.)

Indeed, Alessandra Stanley decided to equate the ramblings of a bunch of aging stars and the sobbing of a child to a sex act involving three or more people. For this, I cannot fault her. I’m almost positive it’s the first time I’ve ever laughed while reading the Times – unfortunately for me, I was drinking hot coffee and ended up with second degree burns inside my nose, but that’s neither here nor there. What I can fault her for, is the exact words she used. An orgy of mourning carries a ton of possible connotations. For one, had her left pinky slipped and hit the shift key, she would have ended up with an “orgy of Mourning,” conjuring images of retired Miami Heat basketball star Alonzo Mourning having all kinds of kinky sex with other people with the last name Mourning.

Pimp.

As my tweet above will inform you, though, this was not my initial reaction. At first, I thought it sounded like a bad high school “goth” band. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what the term goth actually means. In middle school I know we used to call anyone who listened to KoRn goth. I don’t think I used it in high school, but if I did, I’m relatively certain it was in reference to the fat asses who watched Anime (and by association Hentai). In college, I realized both the definitions were wrong as I became more entrenched in what I know as “metal” and listened to idiot girls refer to other idiot girls who happened to be wearing a black t-shirt as goth.

Now, I tend to associate it with darker rock acts and (at the risk of upsetting either a frigheningly fat or skinny mongrel of an outcast) some more feminine black metal acts and people who still insist on wearing trench coats and ponytails. (Ghaal, I’m looking directly at you.) With that, let me set the scene for how Orgy of Mourning came to be:

Greg Schmidt (or Devastatorious as he liked to be called, not realizing how retarded and off-base it was) was a skinny lad, aged 15. At one time, he was very much into N*SYNC, but never told anyone. As a direct result, he was driven head first by the denial of his own homosexuality to black metal. First it was just once in a while, when he was bored of his Metallica CDs, but with the advent of high speed Internet and P2P networks, he found he needed to own and know everything about every band ever, which brought him to his current position in life – trolling message boards, blogs and news sites to point out whenever someone forgot to mention the latest Abigail Williams release.

One particularly rainy afternoon, Devastatorious was ham-handedly playing something resembling a ham-handed Mayhem song on his Line6 Pod Pro, which he got on eBay for “like half of list price.” As he came to what some would call a chorus, his buddy Mike Shea (Khhal for our purposes) came running down with a great idea, “Let’s start our own band!” Of course, this sounded like a great idea to Devastatorious. “Ok, well first things first – we need a totally bitchin’ name,” he explained.

“Well, yeah of course. What should we call ourselves?”
“The most dark and hardcore thing ever.”
“Nothing was darker than when my mother mourned the loss of Sprinkles (the shivering family Teacup Something or other).”
“Fuck yeah, the idea of mourning is deep as hell.”
“What else should we include?”
“How about something sexual? Not because we’ll end up having sex six months from now, or anything.”

As he said this, Greg shot a look to the right to avoid eye contact with his new bandmate. Mike continued looking at him awkwardly for a moment before breaking the silence:

“This might not be cool, but check it out.”
“Ok”
“Remember that totally gay band from back in the day Orgy.”
“Yea, they suck.” No they don’t, he thought to himself.
“Well, how about we take ‘Orgy’ back and make it cool again?”

As if they had both sprung rods simultaneously, Greg and Mike looked up from their in-progress black painted nails and exclaimed triumphantly:

“ORGY OF MOURNING!”

-END-

And that’s how I imagined that going.

Most readers are probably expecting me to bash Perez Hilton over the upsetting video he posted in regard to the savage beating he apparently suffered the other night. Well, expect no more! Here it is.

For those who aren’t aware of what happened, here’s the brave little man explaining the situation in his own words. For those who rightfully don’t give a rat’s ass about what this pansy does or says, please bear with me on this one. I guess at some point over the weekend some music thing happened and at an after-party, poorly named rapper Will.I.Am of the Black Eye Peas approached Mz. Hilton and politely requested “in the future, can you please be a pal and not post anything at all about my band?” to which Mario Armando Lavandeira replied (and this is somewhat accurate): “Not if my life depended on it. Fuck you in your gay ass, you faggot scum.” Shortly thereafter an event occured that was a surprise to no one except Mr. Lavandeira – he got repeatedly punched in the face by someone associated with Will.I.Am.

I have no problem with Perez Hilton – if you can make a living off adding poorly drawn dicks to pictures, I’m all for it. In fact, I used to read his blod fairly often, when I was a younger, dumber asshole than I am today. But for him to be shocked that someone finally decided to take a swing at him is absolutely fucking insane. And to twitter people to call the police for him is more outrageous than him parading around like some sort of gay activist. This jackass could very well be the poster boy for why gay marriage is not legal throughout the United States.

So anyway, in tribute to the site that will one day be featured on “I Love June through October 2007″ on VH1, I decided to make some pictures myself, and instead of just attaching some lame attempt at sounding in-the-know like Perez so often does, I’ll elaborate on my art for my faithful readers. Here goes nothing…

When did looking like the Dutch Boy Paint mascot become fashionable?

A nice easy one down the middle for ya. It’s simple and very direct. In my opinion (and the opinion of roughly 100% of the rest of the American population), anyone who wears a shower cap and a faux-fur coat anywhere outside of his own panic room should have the word “ASS” tattooed on their awful forehead. An earlier draft of this picture has the showercap providing him shelter from a cum-storm. Ultimately, I felt that if I wanted the word “ASS” to have the biggest possible impact I should just give it the spotlight.

I know he’s under the impression that he’s a skinny gay guy now, but Mario, or Mary as I like to call him around the pool house, used to be a big fat bitch. My girlfriend and I recently took a trip to the desolate wasteland of the American Mid-West and made a stop at the Columbus Zoo, which was actually pretty cool. The best part? The freakishly giant nipples on the nursing gorillas. The worst part? Waking up from our mescaline-induced coma to realize we weren’t anywhere near Columbus and in reality we had been ogling Perez Hilton shirtless on Fire Island.

I made this one in case you couldn’t put together the last joke on your own.

Both taken at Wal-Mart while the creepy photographer pulled a wrinkled coin purse out of the secret pocket in the front of his trousers and offered Perez a giant sucker if he would take pictures like a nice boy.

One of my favorite things to do in my own posts is to take pictures of things that are similiar and just mush ‘em together. I think it’s a more effective way of getting my point across than trying to actually explain it to the jobless retards intelligent, contributing-to-society socialites who read this blog. This one may be a first though. I’ve compared Barack Obama to Andy Dufresne, a shitbag D.A. to Louie Anderson, etc., but I’ve never encountered a douche so awful it would be an insult to compare him to himself.

This really needed to happen though. I have a friend who always flashes the same half-hearted smile when someone takes a picture of her and I give her endless amounts of shit for it. Luck for Perez, I’m feeling a bit under the weather today (homophobia::SNIFF:: ) and I’m afraid if I give him any sort of access to my asshole, I won’t be able to sit for a week or so…

Also, I think the “(ANALLY)” added to “Tame Me” is fucking hysterical. If you don’t agree, close your browser and remove your sex organs with a bicycle chain.

This one’s a bit more on track. After I showed mind boggling amount of restraint I displayed in the “ASS” photo, I decided to let it all hang out on this one. And by “all” I mean a half a dozen dicks either entering or sprouting from a particularly close-up bust of Lavandeira. For some reason, this picture reminds me of the only time my mother caught me masturbating. Weird.

One thing I have a huge problem with in Perez Hilton’s pictures is his lack of wit when it comes to the text. “EW” “ACK” and “YUMMY” are not good enough indicator of how he feels about a particular celebrity or how other people might imagine that celebrity views him or herself. I took the opportunity to spell out to Perez what his (hopefully dead and therefore no longer able to reproduce) parents probably think of him. Nothing.

Finally, I think this is truly my pinnacle as a fuckstick celebrity blogger. I mean, comparing Perez Hilton in the previous pictures to the Dutch Boy Paint mascot, a gorilla, and himself were all pretty genius, but to come up with John “who?” Daly was a stroke of genius. Then, to take those two similar pictures and pit them against one another just took everything to the next level.

For those of you who don’t know, John Daly is a pathetic shell of a professional golfer who actually has an alcoholic drink named after him (it’s also known as a Dirty Arnold Palmer, but that’s for another obviously hilarious post). In my opinion, in his never ending quest to get fucked up, John Daly has displayed more backbone and a more winning attitude than Mario Armando Lavandeira ever has or ever will.

Perez Hilton, I sincerely hope you die. Soon.

Here’s a gallery of all the previous pictures plus 13 that Roy added:

perez_hilton_01

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There is a ton of evidence finally being associated with me and it’s high time we acknowledge it. I’m finally being accepted as a straight twenty-something guy. In the four years since I’ve left High School, I have  let H&M, my fragile bones and my love for colors allow me to appear like a homosexual. While, I don’t have anything against gay men, I think it’s important for people to realize I am not one.

Let’s take a look at my progression from “fashion forward” to “don’t touch me or I’ll have DJ knock your teeth out.”

Here’s the earliest picture of me on Facebook:

Look at this guy! Just in some typical lounge wear, you know straightened hair, a painted American Apparel track jacket, patched jeans. I’m not trying at all! What? You want to make out and listen to some indie British bands? Well OK!

See the rest of the fellas on the runaway after the jump…

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Dear Reader,

I’m still back on Long Island. I’m not going to lie, it has been a pretty nice time. The only trouble is the night life, for which there is none. The main reason for that is that all my friends are up in New Paltz and I’m down here. So, while my days are packed with delicious food and drum playing, my nights are left watching movies and updating the site while DJ drinks and ignores it. Below are five potential blog posts I could write. I’ve provided the first paragraph and then a brief mission statement for where I would go  with the post.  At the end of the post there is a poll. Read through the possibilities and then vote on your favorite. I’ll check the stats tomorrow night and complete the most popular selection.

Your Lonely Blog Writer,

Roy

Writing about how much I like this picture is a sixth blog possibility.

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I’ve been hanging out with Regis Philbin a lot recently and he has been chatting my ear off incessantly over his favorite college football team the “Notre Dame Fighting Irish.” I happen to be a pretty Irish fellow (50%), and if you need more proof than just genetics consider this: last St. Patrick’s Day I watched a parade in Cork, Ireland, got drunk off Guinness, saw old men with brogues play jigs with fiddles and woke the next morning to kiss the Blarney Stone. I’m sure I ate a potato and got in a enormous brawl somewhere in the middle of that too, so rest assured that I am familiar with Irish stereotypes. But you know who isn’t familiar with mass generalizations? Theodore W. Drake, designer of Notre Dame’s Fighting Irish Leprechaun Mascot.

Who is this schmuck?

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