Nilla Waifers

Coming directly on the heels of Yount/Bird/Ross/Lynn debacle, and none too late, I present to you another spatial oddity. If folks paid attention, they'd notice that Jadis the White Witch and Jareth the Golbin King are indeed the same person:

MacGruber > Everything

Things We Like

Get on Board or Get Lost

The Fall.

If you possess anything less than a tacit devotion to this band, then immediately click here and delete any record of your visit to this site, for you know not the difference between Mark E. Smith and Markie Post. Grating and relentless, Smith barks at you until either you get it or you go back to reading Pitchfork. I'm talking total aural deconstruction. Smith knows that breaking down years and years of shitty, safe musical taste isn't easy, so relentlessness must be the course. But if that's all the Fall were, it wouldn't work. Wrapped around Smith's clamorings are some of the most tightly-wound pop riffs since the Invasion. Riffs of every size and shape, all tied together with the general theme of just being good. Still at is some 30 years on now, his intensity somehow hasn't diminished, and somehow every new record still has at least one crack number on it. So put down your godawful Arcade Fire 180 gram, score some Fall, and send all thank you cards/Edible Arrangements to dance.words@gmail.com

The Atlantic Monthly.

Nearly a bill and a half years old, this 'zine should be in a full 99% of all US master bathrooms (Kanye West can't read, thus the 1% shortfall). I mean the stuff covered each month should appeal to any sentient being, but I realize that immediately eliminates a large percentage of folks. But if you're capable of drawing breath subconsciously, then read on. The long-form pieces are without peer, and shorter numbers actually have of way of learning you something worth knowing. What a novel concept. So well researched and written are the articles that the backissues are worth keeping around for revisists, a concept unembodied since, I dunno, Nintendo Power or Beckett Monthly. And trying to figure out what the hell Chris Hitchens is talking about at any given time is about as fun as it gets! Bonus points: thanks to the ads, my closet has experienced a five-fold increase in Panama Jack hats and monogrammed hoodies (the complete absence of any meaningful political bend, a feature which puts the Atlantic on an island all its own, is also nice). http://www.theatlantic.com/

Desk Fans.

A paen to these miniature wonders is long overdue. Their daily contribitions to the cubicle stiff are endless and invaluable, with each one doing its part to make the day slightly more bearable. When I need to flatulate into my fake leather chair, it's there to cut the noise; when I mutter biting critiques of people a few scant feet away, it's there to cover me; when I'm sweating uncontrollably from the eighth Four Loko, it's there to dry the pit stains. You get the picture. When my fan broke one day, it was pure hell to listen to the various sounds human beings make throughout an eight hour day: tuneless humming of tuness top 40 radio (a vile combination for sure), inhaling Hardee's Breakfast Platters, mouth breathing, the like. So, now I have a storage until in the parking lot containing pallets of my favorite desk fan because hey, I can't count on my work computer's fan to be on all day, right?

(me and my favorite desk accessory)

The Humor Mill

This recurring section will be dedicated to the timeless act of punnery. We know what we're doing here, so if you don't like it, Joe Buck yourself. Each and every one these Markie Posts have been vetted by the the Punmaster General, and are a certified tour re morse of white noise. Helen Reddy, set, go!

'Cause it's pun-8-7 on tha underGLOVER cop!

Happy Disco

With the Bird/Yount controversy still wreaking havoc on the major news networks, I've decided to confuse things further. I've never heard Bob Ross sing, but if he did I'd bet my Suddenly Susan season 1 dvd (region 1) that it'd be in a high falsetto:

Yount It!

I'm calling for an official investigation to disprove that Larry Bird and Robin Yount aren't the same dude. The matching Midwest half-staches are incontrivertable.

The Homones

If the Ramones had been from, say, Chelsea, here's how some tracks may have turned out:

-Gimmie Gimmie Cock Treament
-I Do Wanna Go Down to the Basement
-Buttcream Bop
-Beat on My Brat
-Texas Asshole Massacre
-Rockaway Reach(around)

Since it didn't happen that way, you can't say I'm wrong.