Ten Things Only People Who Had A Wart On The Side Of Their Left Foot In The Early ’00s Will Understand
1. Mac’n’cheese is the best. Because of what you have lived through, no one will ever understand this quite the way you do!
2. Bacon. Right? LOL!
3. You like the word ‘awesomesauce,’ you call anything without gluten ‘G-free,’ and you greet people by saying ‘Wasabi, kemosabe?’ If you agree with any of the previous sentence, you did not really have a wart on the side of your left foot in the early ’00s. You fell into a trap laid by the superior intellect only a person that had a wart on the left side of their foot in the early ’00s could possess.
4. You have a friend that tried to get a wart just like yours, but during his quest, he ended up getting his foot chomped off by an alligator. And then his entire leg. Followed by his midsection, heart, and head. You watched the entire thing happen, but didn’t do anything, because, well, wart.
5. You enjoy reading lists about warts and wart-related issues.
6. You have taken an online quiz about what city you should really live in, but still live in the city you’ve always lived in.
7. You become irritated when people post lists about having a wart on the bottom of their right foot in the ’90s. Or worse yet, the army of aged husks from the ’60s that yap on and on about how great sac warts were back then. You won’t hear it. These people all suck, because they have not experienced what you have. Having a wart on the side of your left foot in the early ’00s was the quintessential wart-having experience, and anyone that says otherwise has warts that are dumb, and also very, very stupid.
8. You have purchased anti-wart cream.
9. You have shamed, belittled, and badgered anyone who doesn’t believe warts are beautiful, because, after having a wart on your left foot, YOUR opinion is the correct one, and if someone doesn’t share your perception of beauty, they are a body-shaming bully.
10. Overweight people with warts are disgusting.
Sometimes, when you haven’t bought groceries for a long period of time, you are forced to make do with what you have on hand in your pantry. I’ve created many exotic dishes this way—there was one time I only had four pounds of fresh mangoes, a cup of brown sugar, two sticks of celery, a pile of cranberries, a tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil, two yellow onions, a few ounces of apple cider vinegar, a half cup of minced ginger, three garlic cloves, a pinch of salt, and some love. From this, I was somehow able to craft a batch of what I named Third World Cranberry Mango Chutney, for that is how I imagine suffering people cook. They make what they can, and then create folk music on garbage can lids. After that I pan-seared a twelve ounce steak in some butter and poured the chutney over it. I took one bite and threw everything away, because I realized that I do not like chutney, and the taste had ruined the steak.
So, the other day, I found myself with literally nothing but some very old grape jelly, and half a can of black beans. I put those beans in a pan, then added the jelly and let it simmer for five minutes.
I named the dish Jelly Beans. They did not taste good.
American ‘cheese’ is to the coagulated milk world as hot dogs are to the meat world. But what the hell do I know, I’m just a guy that wipes too hard.
I’ve been locked into a Cubist epoch for the past seven days. At the outset, I was extremely prolific, producing two paintings over the course of two days. Since last Friday, however, I have been toiling away on what I have decided must be the last of my Cubist works.
A floccinaucinihilipilificator might suggest this piece belongs in a dumpster behind an orphanage.
But it doesn’t. It is pulchritudinous. And sublime. And very, very lumpy.
Here is my ‘Late Cubism’ masterpiece, entitled Self Portrait, or also, The Bulge.
If you missed yesterday’s post, you have to be asking yourself “What the f*&k is an epoch?”
It’s okay, I was flummoxed too.
Two hours into my Cubist phase, even I was still thinking epoch was murdered by Notorious P.U.F.F. Daddy back in nine-six. I couldn’t have been more wrong. What in the world could Cubism have to do with rap music anyways?
Nothing, until now. In yesterday’s post, I also claimed I wasn’t creative enough to produce a Cubist work. I couldn’t have been more wrong there either. Would an uncreative person have the revolutionary idea to combine Cubism and rap music into one fluid art movement called rapism? That looks bad. Try again. Would an uncreative person have the revolutionary idea to combine Cubism and rap music into one fluid art movement called Curap? No, an uncreative person would not have that idea. That’s why I had that idea.
If yesterday’s painting was an example of my ‘early Cubist phase,’ then today’s installment is surely ‘high Curap.’ Here we see the artist (me) rip through the fabric of our tangible universe and stumble into a dimension all his own.
The painting again makes use of cubes, there’s some liquor in there, and double meaning is incorporated—the ‘G’ in question stands of course for Georges Braque, and also for the way that rap music uses the letter, as an abbreviation of ‘guy.’
The epoch rages on.
After reading The Cubist Epoch by Douglas Cooper, I have decided to enter into a Cubist epoch of my own. While I do not possess the vision, creativity, or even paint necessary to complete a true Cubist work, I do have the desire to sarcastically mock the movement, much in the same way the book told me Marcel Duchamp did some 100 years ago.
So, I sat on my balcony, taking in the scene, wondering how Picasso and Braque would analyze and break down the space and figures before me. I opened a blank canvas in Microsoft Paint, and created the following tableau:
We can see me up there on the balcony, some cubes, the titular Behatted John, and of course, the prostitute wanting to get in on that dollar sign above the man’s head.
Not a bad first try if you ask me.
The speculation surrounding season two of the HBO series True Detective ends here. As a northern midwestern Hollywood insider, I’ve got the juicy, succulent details.
Vince Vaughn plays Matthew McConaughey (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), a detective who drives a Lincoln while revealing his thoughts on what it’s like to drive a Lincoln.
Colin Farrell portrays Vince Vaughn (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), an alcoholic police officer trying to dry out. At one point, Vaughn, the character, believes he is the brother of Santa Claus, but then comes to his senses and starts a fraternity.
Series creator Nic Pizzolatto makes an appearance as police chief Woody Harrelson (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), while wearing a pregnancy vest and carrying on an affair with a busty paralegal.
Matthew McConaughey (the real person) is absent from the cast, for he is believed to be isolated somewhere in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, rubbing his fingers together, writing dialogue for the next run of Lincoln commercials.
Matthew McConaughey, the detective, discovers a disfigured body along the Pacific Coast Highway, believed to be corrupt politician Colin Farrell, played by Woody Harrelson. The corpse presents a multitude of esoteric knife carvings along his perineum—this obviously wasn’t the killer’s first rodeo. Naturally, Vince Vaughn’s character, Matthew McConaughey, wants to get to the bottom of things, so he calls in Vince Vaughn, played by Colin Farrell, a choice that chief Woody Harrelson (Nic Pizzolatto) has a major objection with.
Of course, the whole time, we’re wondering if the actual Matthew McConaughey will hop in his Lincoln and descend from the mythical Sierra Nevada peaks in order to help out with the investigation. After a few episodes, the actual McConaughey does come down out of the mountains, and is entangled in an impromptu metaphysical ‘act-off’ with Vince Vaughn’s fictional character named Matthew McConaughey that is not actually based on the real human Matthew McConaughey, in order to define the true meaning of Matthew McConaughey.
Matthew McConaughey, the actor, produces a notebook and begins to read: The laws of physics state that Matthew McConaughey, whether in liquid, gas, solid, or plasma form, cannot be defined by two separate bodies, for Matthew McConaughey exists everywhere, in everything. He is inside you. He is inside me. He is inside a Lincoln. He is the universe. Matthew McConaughey got himself pregnant and gave birth to God.
Security roughly escorts McConaughey, the actor, who drops his notebook, from the set, while McConaughey, the character, goes back to performing the scripted material. He picks up the notebook.
The cover reads, in childish handwriting, Matt’s Journal of Hopes and Dreams.
In the pages of Matt’s journal, the actor McConaughey’s plot to murder corrupt politician Colin Farrell, played by Woody Harrelson, is revealed.
McConaughey, the detective played by Vince Vaughn, chases down the security guards that carried out McConaughey, the actor.
The head guard looks confused and claims that he did not escort McConaughey, the actor, from the premises. Detective McConaughey closes his eyes for a moment to think. When he opens them, the guard is gone and an empty Lincoln MKC sits before him. The car drives off.
The face of Matthew McConaughey, the actor, is superimposed over the final scene before everything fades to black.