Monday, June 09, 2008

Negligence/Sexiness?

I trust the inaugural media review is covering up for the blatant racism well, so I'll just put up some silly pictures from today's news.


No, you can't come back here and see what they are beforehand. Is this censorship? It is! DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL, I'LL HAVE YOUR TESTES FOR BREAKFEAST.

No, I know it's spelled, "Breakfast." Yeah, but you see I was trying to make "testes" rhyme with it, so I said, "Breakfeast." Like, breaking a feast.

No, I don't know how you'd break a feast!
Well why don't you ask Thorbjorn if you think he knows?

What?

Oh, right. I locked him out. Whoopsie. :)






SMILEYS!!!!!

0 0
  }
----

see? he's got a big nose!






           0             O
       -{ {-          -( )-
          1             11
          ) )         --) )
         11           11                   
------------------------



sex! yayyYYYYYY!



anyhow, here's some pictures.
Hillary, post-defeat.




Okay, I lied, it's Bill.




















By the way, this is my last post for a while.
Posted by Maurice at 09:16:23 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Friday, June 06, 2008

"If You're Feeling Sinister" album review


Welcome to The Daily Fix's first official album review. Now, those of you who have read album reviews before in sources as illustrious as Spin (or Rolling Stone, if you're a sheep) already know that the music has to take a backseat to the author. On that topic: those of you who frequently read The Daily Fix won't recognize me as your usual correspondent, Maurice. That's because I'm Thorbjorn. ON TO THE MUSIC!

Now, you probably won't recognize the album I'm reviewing today, "If You're Feeling Sinister", by Belle & Sebastian. That's because it's a Scottish indie band, and I had to swim to Scotland to get my hands on a copy. And let me tell you - this is some good shit!

Belle & Sebastian is pretty much one guy, Stuart Murdoch. He made the band at some point in the early eighties, naming it after his love of Disney film characters. Murdoch, featured on the cover of this album, claims to have started the "transgendered indie singer" trend by changing his gender to match his woman-voice. Murdoch has claimed the inspiration for most of the songs on this album were inspired by an incident in which he was molested on a bus from Edinburgh to Glasgow by a metalhead on his way to a Danzig concert. According to Wikipedia, the album was released in 1996, but nobody ever listened to it except for me. It's remarkable how many albums are like that...

Hmmm: what's next? Sorry folks, I'm reading along with a Rolling Stone review as a template to learn how to write these things. Ah yes - I'm supposed to pick the songs I like the most so you can just limewire this shit instead of buying the album. BEST SONGS:

~ "Seeing Other People" ~ This song, inspired in part by The Thomas Crowne Affair, is a classic tale of teenage bisexuality we all experienced back in grade school. The music is mostly lifted from Bach chorales and transcribed into piano, but Murdoch turns this religious and reverent music into perversity, and boy, damnation has never sounded better! Humming this at work will make feminist secretaries want to fellate you.

~ "Get Me Away From Here I'm Dying" ~ This 5-chord pop masterpiece features guest vocals from Rihanna before the whore copied that chick from The Cranberries. A catchy melody and rhythm section makes this one of those songs that guitar students on college campuses across America like to play on the quad with an acoustic guitar until I punch them. Fun Fact - Bob Dylan has covered this song over a dozen times since he died in 2005 and was replaced with a Robert-zimmermarionette.

~ "Judy And The Dream Of Horses" ~ This is the only cover on the album. Originally done as a free poetry jazz jam by The Doors but never recorded because Bill Graham referred to it as "boring as fuck," Murdoch has vamped it up with a trumpet part, and a 18-string electric guitar specially made for him by Rickenbacker. The outro syncs up perfectly with The Velvet Underground's "Heroin," except for the key and tempo.

or
Posted by Thorbjorn J. Chinkchong, Esq. at 23:18:38 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Because It Wasn't Enough When Everybody Else Was Doing It

Remember when Bill Clinton won the Democratic nomination, way back when in the 1990s? He danced with Hillary. Remember when Al Gore won the Democratic nomination, way back in 2000? I sure do! He danced with Tipper. John Kerry probably danced with someone when he won the nomination, but I don't remember because he wasn't legally elected like those other two fellows.

(Man, remember the Gore presidency? Remember that awesome cabinet he assembled? Remember how he signed the Kyoto protocols, and thwarted that totally evil terrorist plot to blow up the world trade center due to his having intelligence multiple weeks prior to said attacks, and cured cancer by allowing stem cell research, and then after that, he toatlly was on, like, the cover of Wired? Man, that was great. Everybody loved President Gore!)

Anyhow. Now that Barack Obama has assumed the position of "most visible living target in the US," what dance will he do?

I know! I know! Let's ask our friend, "Barack Obama's illegally-acquired African slave!"



"Oh, suh, yessuh! I just be's a negro minstrel, but I'se be thinkun that Massuh Barack be's dancun' like we nigros down in his celluh be dancun'! Yessuh, Massuh Barack kin be col'-hearted an' use the whip at times, but other times he shucks and jives jus' like a real nigroo! Which he ain't! He's a white devil,  like you, Massuh Maurice! He just done and painted hisself, so he could win some Demagogueic Nombleynayshun!"






Well, there we have it.
Posted by Maurice at 09:00:56 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Monday, June 02, 2008

A Short Etymological Discourse



     Hi, I'm Maurice the friendly word toad! Today we're going to discuss the word bindle! A bindle is what hobos carry over their shoulders!

No, not children!

No, not your furniture!

No, not virgins!

Okay, maybe we've got the wrong idea. A bindle, as we all know, is a little knap-sack at the end of a stick, lovingly tied so that all the aforementioned things can't get out of the bag. See? But what are the origins of such a word? Bindle is quite a nonsensical word, but as we will see, when you've a magical singing toad on your side, the origins of no word are beyond your grasp! Just repeat after me:

"I like words! They are fun!
cook them in the oven until they're done!
I like toad! I like toad's eggs!
I promise never to eat toad's legs!"

WoOoOoWwOwOwOwOwOwOoWoWoWoWoWoWoOoOOw! That rhyme sure did work, didn't it?

Okay, so it didn't. But only now, after you have learned humility by chanting a ridiculous poem in public, can you learn the true beginnings of the word bindle.

You see, the root of bindle is, as you might have previously imagined, bind. This, in turn, directs us to the practicew of binding things. Like hobos. To railroad tracks. To kill them. IT'S NOT A CRIME IF AN ANIMAL DOES IT
Posted by Maurice at 08:48:07 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Hats 'N Things

Who knows were the money blows when the cold wind goes? I do! Oh, mother! Another precious opportunity for misdoing, also known as Lewis! Louis, Louis, you've gone amiss, and I must purchase ammo.

Ammo to shoot things with! After all, you're not a New England Patriot unless you're on the payroll, and you're not on the payroll unless you're one of two things:

1) An employee of the New England Patriots (r) Organization

2) A vicious imposter who is wearing the skin of Bill Belichick by night and a persian rug by day.

Yes, that's me. You've heard of a naked man with that baseball cap and a handy camera having Leopold's lunch and dandy too? I cannot profess to having heard of such an imposterer as he.

"Imposterer": Webster's diction canary defines "Imposterer" as "The second coming of 'Akbar the Adulterer' also known as a blue parrot with a shingle on its head that transmits radio waves at twelve tons of solid waste per second. Completely made up, fictional, not real, false, erroneous, concocted by government agents, sexy (but still a lie), and me no likey the touching of my inky palms to the cool wheaties box of your dank affection. The word of the day."

So there we have it. The word of the day. Have fun, all you amateur imposterers out there!
Posted by Maurice at 14:05:34 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Complete Bus For Got The Memory-Approved Convulsive DIsorder

All good things must come to an end, I suppose.

Remember the time I tricked Chuck into thinking I had cancer? No? Well, it's back there, in the archives. I'm sure you could find it. Remember when Chuck thought I was a lady? Well, that too is in the anals.

Yes, the anals. The annals are different. You see, I have devised a clever new way to remember history, involving a dedicated, non-hygiene-concerned tattoo artist, some leather straps, an ergonomic surgeon's table, and most importantly, Xanax. Lots and lots of Xanax. I think it's important that Xanax begins with an "x" and ends with an "x," because otherwise I could not get away with taking them so copiously. "I might forget 'x,' the last letter in the alphabet, if only I do not take my Xanax," I say to Nurse. Nurse is not a tolerant woman, oddly. Curse the Nurse! Lasterday she utilised a heavy quilt in entrapping me, whereupon this grievous incident I was injected in the buyttock with some foul medication. I immediately felt much stronger, and yet filled with an aggression and emptiness I had never known to be inside me. My nipples swelled to the size of grapes, and my testes shrank...

...Twelve months later, in Tucson, there was a grapefruit and then we all ate it. "Sistuh! Sistuh! Come quickly, Y'hear?" I cried, but the truck holding my stuffed animals was departing at speeds I used to think only I could travel at. I jumped on a wheel, went to Omaha City, where the grass was green and the girls were all terrible whores. There, I drunk a whiskey-barrel in three nights and blew a flying elephant from the sky with my trusty Smith & Wesson.

No, a watch. What'd you think? A gun? What? Everyone knows Smith & Wesson make watches and flashlights. In fact, I think I can recall their motto now: "Here at Smith & Wesson, if we do not make a flashlight or watch that suits you perfectly, we will arrive at your domicile with our world-reknowned firearms and shoot you 'til you're dead!"

I wrote this using Excel.
Posted by Maurice at 08:42:56 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, May 08, 2008

A Longing For Some Development

Warpling & Schuster regret to inform you that you're dead.

Before you freak out, wonder: just how does a publishing company know I'm dead?

Because if you aren't dead now, you will be. Later. Or sooner, depending on when you show up on their doorstep with all those illegally acquired publishing-comfits you stole. And the "Warpling & Schuster" racquetball team's leotards (with tasteful logos).

Yes, the dangerous world of corporate theft. If you ever get shanghaiied by a crazed manager with a staplegun, remember that it's all your fault there are now metal stapley thingies in your brain.
"But what if I got a brain staple by a surgeon, Maurice?"
THEN YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH.


What can I say? Whose fault should it be, eh? Do you think the nice people at the Roomba Company ("need someone to help you operate your Roomba vacuuming robot because you're elderly and thus incapable of manipulating ridiculously simple technology? Then fuck off!") care about whether or not you're getting crushed by a gigantic robotic vacuum? Well, you'll find the answer when nobody comes to rescue you when you're trapped inside of the dustbag.

How d'you think that'd read if it happened to Jane Goodall? "My Life Among The Dust-Bunnies"?
NO! SHE'D EAT 'EM AND KILL EM BY GUM LIKE ANY OTHER GOOD AGRARIAN HUNTER-GATHERER






This blog post has been sponsored M.A.D.B., or Mothers Against Drunk Blogging.
See what happens, children! It comes out all funny and painful to read!
The blog too!
Posted by Maurice at 08:52:40 | Permanent Link | Comments (1) |

Monday, May 05, 2008

From The Secret Diary Of God

I read Time magazine the other day. Not willingly, though. I was bound and gagged(?) and then forced to read their touching testimony to William F. Buckley Jr.

I didn't know William F. Buckley (Jr.) and Jeff Buckley had so much in common! Like their last names! It's like they came f- waiiiiiiiiiiit a second there cowboy. What if they did? They didn't did they? DID THEY????? Oh, wait. That would be silly!


They're both dead, too.


William F. Buckley (the younger) hated poor people, apparently. Well, that's unfair. He was a Republican. So OF COURSE he hated poor people. Also, where was the outpouring of love and support for the Buckley family? Remember when Reagan died? Why didn't people care like that?

Answer: Because Reagan had been legally a vegetable for about a decade before his "untimely" (Who the hell called his death "untimely," again? What the hell? A cat could've beaten him in a wonderlic test! PARIS HILTON could've beaten him in a wonderlic test! And then after he was president, he only got dumber! Which is a completely and totally legitimate reason that he should have been dead.) death.

Oh yeah. I've been thinking, and I've decided to let her go. Now the only problem will be getting her out of the well. Precious didn't sit so well on her.


The image “http://www.infinit.com/sections/medias/silence_lambs_06.jpg” cannot be displayed, because it contains errors.
In loving memory of the Republican party
1854-1865
Posted by Maurice at 08:49:19 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, May 01, 2008

Wild Sharks Could Not Drag Me Away Because I Am Not Swimming

Here at Blog.vom, we appreciate enterprise for what it is: a front for slavery!

Wage slavery, fools!

That Willie Nelson, always swimming in whiskey rivers. When will he learn? Probably never, looks like he's drowning. Oh well; there are other country music stars to admonish. WAIT! Damn, he owed me money. Guess I'd bettergo swimmin' and find it...


You know, kids? If I may take time out of my allotted space usually reserved for some type of obscenity in italics, I'd like to tell you something very important: alcohol's bad. Very, very bad. Why, just the other day, Uncle Maurice inserted a stick of dynamite (damn you Nobel and your cursed invention!) into his rectum and lit it. Haven't been the same ever since. Of course, that has absolutely nothing to do with licquor, but if everything did then we'd all be drunk.

There we go, flawless logic.
Posted by Maurice at 08:42:00 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

THE FINAL INSTALLMENT IN THE LONG HARD UNCOMFORTABLE ALLIGATOR-RIDDEN ROAD TOWARDS OBSOLESCENCE!!!!! REJOICE, WORMS!

The problem with child labor is that it’s in all the poverty-stricken places, and isn’t getting imported into the prosperous nations it ought to exist in. For example, I need (desperately) an eight-year-old butler to cater to my every whim. “Roberto, commence the fanning!” I would cry, and hence Roberto would come toddling forwards from his cleverly hidden quarters (also known as the “dryer”), carrying with him an immense palm frond. This palm frond would be utilized in the most ingenious of ways, as an air-circulation device. Who needs strength of character when an eight-year old Puerto Rican boy is hand-feeding you grapes, I ask? Nobody, that is who. Not even the Dalai Llama could resist Roberto’s charms, I feel.

But enough about my upbringing! Or, perhaps not. It is important to realize that it is not in my, Roberto the writer’s tiny scarred hands that the power rests in. Rather, it is John Moses Tarkington that holds the power over me. I am frenzied, hurried, driven mad by the delusive power of my literary glory! Or not. I believe John Moses Tarkington and I tire easily, and require sustenance. To the ink bar!

Posted by Maurice at 13:58:38 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |