Tag Archives: awards

Million dollar sammich

Whassup, Internet? I watched ten minutes of the Oscars. Hilary Swank had her dress on backwards, and Chris Rock is black! Oh, oh my. Swank swank swank I like to say it swank. Antonio Banderas sang some song about Shrek with Beyoncé. I think.

It’s that time of the year where Mr. H and I start looking at our bank account, thinking “Hmm, there’s money in here, we should really give to charity or take a trip to Pluto or something.” But then Magic Larry’s secretary always calls to say I owe a whompin’ tax bill. I am trying to see if I can deduct money I spent this year if I first thought about spending it last year. Oh well. Maybe we’ll just vacation in Baltimore, where there is a hotel decorated with that incredibly louche primate depicted above. You can see I lack Mr. H’s fundamental photography skills, like holding the camera still. I can’t help it if I am a jittery person. Maybe we should just stay quietly at home and achieve our goal of seeing every zombie movie ever made.

Mmmm, and here is my hotline to satan that Lambchop mentioned the other day. He lets me live. He says we should have quesadillas tonight, and who am I to argue?

And the Oscar goes to…

O best beloved internet, today I took some time from my busy schedule to worry about getting that bird flu and whether or not Hilary Swank will wear Vera Wang. Then that baby of my acquaintance stopped by. Here’s the thing with babies: They are swirling existential voids. People think babies don’t know anything, but they are wrong. Babies know they are helpless and insignificant, and this rightly pains them. This one is constantly suicidal, throwing himself at electrical outlets with tongue extended. He is also good at seeking out buckets containing one inch of water. I feel bad stopping him since he seems to really know what he wants, but I am pretty sure assisted suicide is illegal, even in this godless liberal state. Not that I looked that up, so don’t believe junk you read on the internet.

This disjointed rambling brings us to the results of our Vomitola election. I know you’ve all been irritated and jittery waiting for these results. I praise those of you who voted multiple times, especially for me.

And the winner is —

Cease! Desist! Impudent whores, I claim this puny electronic fiefdom in the name of superior intellect.

While I am no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh and the mother’s milk of the vine, one cannot build a nation by telling the little creatures that they do not have to toil if they do not wish to do so. Indeed, I rather admire the notion of enslaving the sans-culottes. However, I simply cannot abide the necessary company of rogues and japesters required to bring this to fruition. Let them exist under the iron rule of my ministers, out of sight and distance of hearing.

Thus, I see no other course than to appoint myself Monarch in Perpetuit. It is for your own good, you incompetent strumpets! Democracy is pointless and ugly simply because the pointless and ugly are allowed as much of a say as I. Now yield me my due as sovereign, and I will endeavour to rehabilitate the status of this intellectual cesspool.

-Melvin I

Public Works

I was sitting in a cafe in Mitte with an old friend and a girl came to our table with an entry form for a contest in the Kulturbrauerei (culture brewery). It’s a group of studios, galleries, and spaces where things happen. At any rate, they are building a word in giant steel letters that will adorn the plaza, and are handing out flyers to people who do nothing but sit in cafes all day thinking up words to be cast in giant steel letters. Naturally, we entered Vomitola! We will no doubt soon become a landmark in Berlin’s Underground art culture!

Plus, I stole her pen.


Grouch the Oscars

Oh, No one needs a re-cap on how lame it was that Bill Murray didn’t win, or how much Annie Lennox resembles a papery Nosferatu. Never mind that orange effigy passing itself off as Charlize. I am primarily disappointed that there was no Nipple Spill.

At my house there was couture, pink champagne, and a small army of hecklers.

P.S. Did you see that Hansel??? He is so Hott right now.


[Co-clam’s note, since I did not want to push down that loverly shot of the true Oscar: my term for Annie Lennox was ‘gratitude leafblower.’ And Marcia Gay Harden neatly supplanted Catherine Zeta Jones as this year’s Official Flotation Device. Peter Jackson, oh jeez. He needs to be Queer Eyed, stat! That is all – CS]

Fashion Police Update

I have been encouraging the receptionist on my floor to not only Inform on those who violate the dress code, but to prepare a full Joan Rivers style report every day, on everyone’s dress. Why stop at simply policing open-toed shoes and corduroy pants (strictly VERBOTEN)? We should report the magenta blazers, the bulky shoulderpads, the cheap perfume, and the continued presence of holiday sweaters. Just this morning I saw some cellulite hugging oatmeal pants in the copy room! We should also give commendations for snazzy eyewear and slimming pencil skirts. I shall be preparing a full review for HQ!

I have not seen that old plastic faced gorgon, Ms. Rivers, do her thing at the Oscars. I have not seen an award show, or a star-studded tribute of any kind while I was in Berlin. So I actually plan to have a Grouch the Oscars night at my house. Which will involve champagne, tiaras, and lots of jeering. I suppose it will also involve watching the oscars.