Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Operation: F#ck this Sh!t

Since news of the bailout rejection resulted in a collapse of the stock market yesterday, I have received countless requests for safe harbour from my beloved American readers. I should warn all of you that moving to Canada is not going to solve all of your problems, probably just the ones that involve not having health insurance, or a job, or an affordable education, or a place to live, or stuff to eat. And even those privileges are pretty sketchy - one in six Canadians live in poverty, so the odds are somewhat stacked against you.

You see, the reckless actions of the U.S. government has deeply affected Canada, too, not to mention ALL THE OTHER FUCKING COUNTRIES ON THE PLANET. We might do okay in the long term - thanks for asking. But this is only because Canadian banks have rather strict rules about lending money to people who don't have jobs or any reasonable means of paying back a loan. I know that sounds harsh, but what can I say? We totally hate Freedom.

So instead of laughing at Americans for electing a ridiculously irresponsible government twice, I have decided to open my home, and indeed my heart, to my disenchanted brothers and sisters seeking political and economic relief in Canada. Operation: F#ck This Sh!t is a contest designed to offer sanctuary, better beer, and a fulfilling sense of self-righteousness to eligible Americans who have been teasing Canada with their imminent arrival over the past eight years.

Emigration is a very serious commitment. Although our cultures are quite similar, I think it's only fair to point out a few reasons why moving to Canada may not be the answer for everyone:

1. It's about to get really fucking cold.
2. You can't bring your gun(s).
3. Contrary to popular belief, nothing is "free" here (i.e. - healthcare, education, social services). You will be taxed up the wazoo for everything you eat, drink, earn, buy, sell, and drive.
4. You will have to learn the metric system.
5. You will be required, on occasion, to mingle with the Quebecois.
6. You must submit to voluntary re-education on the rules of football.
7. Your spelling may suddenly be deemed as incorrect.
8. Almost all of our bands/musical artists suck, and non-Canadians will hold you personally responsible for this.
9. If you like politics, you'll be bored out of your mind.
10. You may be decapitated on a bus.

If these reasons have not dissuaded you, and you still believe that Canada is the right place for you, a limited number of vacancies will be made available to the most entertaining and compatible applicants. Just leave a comment stating why you're the best choice for Rocketresidency, or if it's really salacious (yay!) - send a private e-mail to iwannalive@katrocket.com. Yes, that is a real e-mail address. Sadly, there isn't room for everyone, so make your entry count. Winner(s) will be announced in a future post.

Update: This contest is open to fellow Canadians who are looking for a warmer winter in a cooler city.

The Fine Print: Must be 18+ to enter. Canadian passport and toque not included. No children, pets, or nanas allowed. Spouses will be considered if they are cool/good-looking /enjoy doing housework. Smokers, potheads, and social drinkers are welcome. Immigration Canada requires that all immigrants to Canada must be able to drive a taxi, even if they are capable of doing way cooler things, like brain surgery or quantum physics. Preference will be given to applicants who put out. This is not a real contest, so you should probably vote for Obama.

Monday, September 29, 2008


U.S. House votes down bailout deal

Okay so now what?

Name-calling and finger pointing is always a good time, but seriously, do any of you tools have a Plan B?

My idea: you should ask your buddy Jesus for a loan.

UPDATE: You can buy the awesome Jesus Saves bank here.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

I Think My Dentist Might Be Spying on Me

I broke a molar this morning. I was just eating a sandwich, minding my own business, when I bit down on something hard and went "whoa! what's that?" and it was a part of my left maxillary third molar. That's the back left tooth on your upper jaw. The pros call it Number 16.

I was only mildly surprised by this. I had some dental work done about 8 months ago (on the other side of my mouth) and I remember my dentist had warned me that this particular tooth was "in danger." He used those exact words "That tooth is in danger." He asked me to come back in a week and get it "taken care of", but this was right before he handed me a bill that put my fucking heart in danger, so the matter was closed. I couldn't afford more dental work at that time, so it would have to wait.... wait until it breaks while I'm eating a sandwich.

It wasn't painful or anything, so I was not planning to call my dentist. I still can't afford a big dental bill, so I thought I'd do what most uninsured people do: let it rot in my head until it's too painful to tolerate and then begrudgingly put the cost of a root canal on my Visa. But then something truly bizarre happened.

Exactly twenty minutes after my tooth broke, my dentist office called me. I'm not kidding here. It was the receptionist, making her daily round of nagging calls to deliquents like me who are overdue for a cleaning. But I was so weirded out about my dentist calling me immediately after a dental accident that I must have sounded like a paranoid lunatic to the poor woman. I said really stupid things, like: "It's as if you knew my tooth was in danger, and installed some kind of micro-tooth alarm that alerted you my critical molar failure!!" There was a lot of uncomfortable silence after that.

I told her what had happened, "just twenty minutes ago! ", but she wasn't as impressed by the remarkable coincidence as I was. She was even more annoyed that I refused to make an appointment on the grounds of my sustained brokeness. She kept pushing me. When did I think I would have the money to fix the tooth? Could I at least afford $150 for the cleaning? She kept harping on and on about the fucking cleaning. Maybe she gets a cut of the cleaning scam, I don't know, but obviously it was going to take a lot more than $150 to fix my problem.

I was getting uncomfortable with her aggressive cleaning-based interrogation, so I firmly insisted I would call her in a few days, when I get paid, and have some time to assess my financial situation. And then I tried to lighten her up with some more lame humour, so I said "I'm sure you'll smell my paycheck twenty minutes after I cash it." More unbearable silence, this time followed by a click.

I think I need to find me a new dentist.

Recycling is fun

Today's post is brought to you by yesterday's post on my other blog.

Monday, September 22, 2008

The 'Stache is DEAD TO ME.

So get this: over the weekend, while you were playing in the sunshine with your children and puppies and kittens, I was unceremoniously booted off the contributor list on Burt Reynolds' Moustache.

The fact that I have never written a post or a comment on this blog is not the point here. And yes, it's true that I may have uttered horribly unkind things about the 'Stache in mixed company, but everyone knows that's just the hipster doofus in me, talkin' shit about the things I love most in order to appear much cooler than I actually am.

I demand a reasonable explanation for this surprise deportation, because I would argue that I am quite possibly the most important contributor to this blog, coming only second to Mr. Pistols At Dawn, editor-at-large. I designed the magnificent new Burt header, which is the first thing that every visitor sees and admires about this otherwise dull and lifeless piece of blogginess. It's worth mentioning that I did all this in exchange for the promise of sexual favours from Mr. At Dawn, which were withheld from me on a technicality: apparently this "Pistols At Dawn" fella is not a real person.

I was willing to live with this heinous act of perfidy in order to retain the immense prestige of being listed as a contributor to Burt Reynolds' Moustache. It was as if they had said to me: "You're not good enough to introduce to my parents, but it's cool if we sleep together so long as no one finds out about it." And believe it or not, I thought that was a pretty fair deal at the time. I didn't want any of my other blogs to know I was sleeping with them either.

But here I am, thrown aside almost immediately after using my mad creative skillz to orchestrate what might be the most radical rebranding of a blog that no one reads. It's enough of a tragedy that the 'Stache's editorial committee originally declined my phenomenal first version on the grounds of "moral decency":

[click to enlarge - it's cool, I know you wanna see "it"]
you are here

Fools! There is absolutely nothing moral or decent about Burt Reynolds! Or his Moustache, for that matter.

You are dead to me, 'Stacheholes.

Happy Birthday, Poobomber

Yesterday was Poobomber's birthday. The Blogger Formerly Known as Doorknob Dan and Dopeypants turned 33 on Sunday. But I couldn't write this on Sunday because I refuse to worship any gods on Sundays, and if I had made an exception for Dan, then I'd be getting annoying text messages from all the other gods, saying shit like "Yo beeotch, what up? What's this guy got that I don't?" and then I'd have to explain it like this:

-- Poobomber isn't all arrogant like other gods. He doesn't use pretentious terms like "disciples", "lambs", or "Poobians" to describe his followers. He calls them exactly what they are: "Stalkers".

-- Poobomber knows CSS and HTML. I don't see Allah programming his own blog.

-- Poobomber is way funnier than Buddha, and I have it on pretty good authority that Buddha totally rocked An Evening At The Improv last month. But seeing as Poob was a writer for SNL, AND a Catholic priest, I'll have to see them go head-to-head on The Root of All Evil before I decide for sure.

-- Although George W. Bush does frequently e-mail Jesus, he saves his raunchiest stories for Poobomber, because even the President admits that "there's just some thangs that the Big J is reely uptite about."

-- Poobomber was a viking, and although Charles Taze Russell obviously stole Poobomber's "door-to-door" methodology for his own Jehovah's Witnesses, he never experienced the same level of success, thanks to his refusal to burn people's houses down and steal all their stuff. You can't just threaten people with pestilence and famine. Follow-through is the key to saving souls.

-- When certain gods (who shall remain anonymous) insisted that non-believers be locked in an iron maiden until they could make room for religion, Poobomber was a member of Iron Maiden.

-- Most dieties don't offer entertaining Top Ten lists, such as Things Not To Say, or Fun Things to Do With a Cadaver. I know some of you might be thinking "what about that Moses guy and his Top Ten Commandments?", but please note that I said "entertaining".

So in closing, I'd like to apologise to Poobomber for being a day late, but I hope he understands that I was just trying to keep it real with my friends in high(er) places. I'm not really worried about going to Hell for writing this post, since I'm convinced we're already living it here on Earth, but I'm sure if there was a Hell, it would be a lot like The Other Side of Normal, and Sarah Palin would be my waitress.

Happy Birthday, you fucking weirdo.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Shadduppa your feet

This morning it was nice and sunny, so I decided to conduct my production meeting outside on the balcony today. My production meeting usually involves me, my coffee, and a notepad where I draw doodles of myself rolling in money.

But the pleasant early morning silence was broken by a loud clip-clop sound, like a horse, which is fairly unusual in my urban neighbourhood. I stood up for a closer look, hoping to catch some handsome mounted police officers, or maybe a surprise Tuesday morning rodeo, or perhaps some fool banging coconuts together.

The noise got louder and louder and then I spotted her: a young woman in 3-inch stilettos, navigating her way to work on the street below. She was about 60 feet away from my building and I'm 6 floors up, but her footsteps could be heard all over the neighbourhood. It could've been a case of strange acoustics or just some truly obnoxious shoes, but she was certainly not light on her feet. She was trying to do that supermodel walk thing - sort of like a marching chicken - the knees go way up and one foot is placed directly in front of the other. Looks alright when Naomi does it on a runway, but it's quite a racket when performed by an office chick who can't walk in heels. I could still hear her shoes long after she had disappeared from my line of sight. She would make a terrible ninja.

I really don't know where I was going with this. But I made this cool graphic, so I guess my production meeting was more productive than usual.

Girl who can't walk in heels: 0, Rocketstudio: 1

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Last Call

During my college years, I worked part-time as a bar manager for a student pub at the university. It was one of the smaller venues on campus, but had a solid reputation as the place to go for good live music, since it was housed in the same college as the music department. We had a popular house band every Tuesday night, Johnny Hotstuff and the Smokin’ Trio, and they could play any kind of music, although they opted to present themselves in a punkabilly fashion – a weird blend of the Stray Cats meets the Sex Pistols.

Johnny Hotstuff (not his real name, of course) was remarkably talented. He was a music student studying jazz guitar, but he favoured rockabilly and blues when he played with his own band. He was a sweet and polite young guy, shining bright with frontman energy and fair good looks. He packed the bar every Tuesday with a steady following of smitten college girls, and since those girls preferred expensive exotic fruity cocktails to cheap beer-on-tap, he was great for business.

The other thing that made him great for business was his willingness to play every week for beer, instead of money. Well, this might have been a profitable arrangement for the boss, but it really sucked for the staff, because it left us to deal with four rambunctious musicians in the wee hours of every Wednesday morning. By the end of their Tuesday night set, the Smokin’ Trio were usually a little bit drunk and stoned. After dismantling their gear and packing it away, the guys would sit at the big booth near the front of the stage and share a couple pitchers of beer, while the staff cleaned-up the bar around them. We all wanted to go home after a long shift, but their party was just getting started at 1 A.M.

Most of the boys lived just steps away, in the Fine Arts dorm next door to the pub, so I didn’t mind much that they hung out after the show. No one was driving anywhere, and I figured they had earned their reward, so I would often send the other staff home to catch a few zzzz’s before class, and wait for the guys to wrap up their night before I locked up.

It was in those early morning hours on a chilly October night when Johnny Hotstuff suddenly remembered something that send him into a wild panic.

“HOLY SHIT!! I totally forgot I drove here tonight!!!! OH NO – how the hell am I gonna get home???”

Okay, I have no idea how can a person forget something like that. I really didn’t think that was possible, but I guess Johnny could be a bit of a blond bimbo now and then. The drummer invited Johnny to crash in his dorm room and drive home in the morning, but it was much more complicated than that.

“I can’t!” Johnny cried, “I have to get home! My god, I totally forgot that I’m meeting the recruiters tomorrow at nine for my induction. I don’t have to do the exercise tests, but they’re giving me a physical!...FUCK I hope they don’t do any blood tests or anything!...”

So in addition to forgetting that he drove his car to the gig, it also slipped his mind that he had a very important appointment in the morning – he was enlisting in the military reserves to earn some money and “serve the country”. This came as a bit of a shock to me. I didn’t peg Johnny for the army type, but he explained that he came from a long line of soldiers and it was not only his desire to serve, it was also highly expected of him. But he got the appointment dates mixed up in his head, and now here he was, just seven hours before his appointment, half-baked and three sheets, freaking out over a major error in judgment.

I couldn’t help Johnny reverse the series of events that led him to his nightmarish epiphany, but I was the only sober person in the room, and I knew I could at least help get the guy home. A taxi was out of the question, since Jimmy needed his car the next morning to get to the recruiting office, so I offered to drive him and his car to his house, then he could just pay for my cab ride home.

Well, it turns out that Johnny lived a good 30-minute drive from the bar, right downtown near the lakeshore. I didn’t know much about Johnny’s personal life, but we had a chance to bond during that long ride, and he talked my ear off in between repeated apologies and thank-you’s for helping him out of a big mess.

Johnny told me about his dad, his uncles, his cousins and his grandfather – all military men with a wealth of exciting stories. It was the early 90s and the Gulf War had just ended, so he hoped he wouldn’t have to see combat. He was doing it for the adventure of it all, and for his family. All Johnny ever wanted was to be a working musician, but his family didn’t think much of that. If he just did a couple years in the army, and got it out of the way, then maybe he would be free to go. He joked about auditioning for the military band – anything to save him from a deployment overseas.

“I sure as hell don’t wanna die!” he said with a laugh.

Those words still haunt me to this day.

We got to Johnny’s place and parked the car, then he invited me up to his apartment to call a taxi, since students didn’t own cell phones back in those days. He lived on the top floor of an old three story Victorian-style home that had been converted into a bunch of small studio apartments. We made an awful lot of noise getting inside – Johnny was a bit wasted and dropped his keys a couple times, and then tripped and fell in the front foyer near the stairs. I was laughing and he was a loud talker, so we accidentally woke up Mr. Landlord who occupied the main floor. He was a hippie-looking dude, probably mid-thirties, wearing a wife-beater and sweatpants, rubbing his eyes and squinting.

The Landlord was pissed off. “Do you have any idea what time it is?! It’s almost 4 AM!”

Johnny apologized, introduced me, and explained the situation in a rambling manner that made no sense whatsoever, which did not impress Mr. Landlord one bit. We headed up to Johnny’s one-room bachelor pad and I could see his panic rising as he paced back and forth while I was calling for my taxi.

“Man, I have such a fucking headache,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead.

I watched him go to his tiny bathroom, grab a bottle of pills, and return to his kitchen where he poured out two glasses of water. He handed one to me and took his pill with the other, insisting it was probably the stress of the evening that had led to his pain. I tried to assure him that everything would be alright, that he could always reschedule his appointment, and that it was not the end of his world. We chatted softly for about fifteen minutes until my cab arrived, then he hugged me tightly at the door, and thanked me for the hundredth time.

“You really saved my sorry ass tonight, Kat.” he said. “I won’t ever forget this.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Johnny.” I replied, “You’ll see – everything will sort itself out.”

I like to believe that Johnny felt better about his situation by the time I left, but I’ll never really know, because that was the last time I ever saw Johnny Hotstuff. In fact, I could have never imagined that I would be the last person to ever see him alive, and that his last words would be “See you next Tuesday.”

Johnny Hotstuff died in his sleep from a brain aneurysm around 6 AM Wednesday morning, just 90 minutes after we said goodbye. I got the news on Wednesday night, when one of his ex-girlfriends called me. The unthinkable had happened – Johnny was dead, and everyone was buzzing about the mystery woman he had brought home to his apartment that night. Could she have murdered him? How could someone kill such a great guy like Johnny? The cops were looking for that bitch right now.

Although I wasn’t terribly close to Johnny, his sudden passing hit me like a transport truck. I’m not going to lie to you, most of my immediate thoughts were selfish ones. Several days would pass before anyone knew his cause of death, and I instantly assumed it was alcohol poisoning, or a drug reaction, or something that could have been my fault. I was with Jimmy all night. I served him his last beer. I watched him take some kind of pill. I knew he wasn’t feeling well, but I just left him there alone.

The police thought I was responsible for his death, too. By Thursday morning, an investigation was underway, and affidavits from Mr. Landlord and the boys from the Smokin’ Trio led them right to my door. They knew I was with Johnny that night, so I told them everything I just told you. I was scared shitless, but the officers were very nice to me. They took me to a precinct, and took my statement, my photograph, and my fingerprints. I had read plenty of novels and watched lots of TV shows where innocent people suddenly became murder suspects, but do you ever really think it could happen to you?

It took over a week for autopsy results to confirm that Johnny Hotstuff had been a ticking time bomb for quite some time. He had an undiagnosed blood clot in his brain that had most likely been there for several months, maybe even years. I was absolved of any responsibility in his death, but not from my own guilt, and a growing obsession that I could have done something to save him. Maybe I hadn’t saved his sorry ass at all? Maybe the drinking made things worse? Maybe if I hung out just a while longer, I would have been there to call 911? If he had just made it to his army physical, they would have detected the blood clot and done some surgery? I just couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that any of us can leave this earth at any time, with no long goodbyes and no fanfare.

I was in a very poor state of mind during the six weeks that followed Johnny’s passing. His funeral was a private family-only affair, so a musical tribute night was organized by his friends and fellow students just before Christmas that year. I wasn’t planning to attend, since there were still many people who refused to believe the coroner’s report and the results of the police investigation; folks who still suspected I lent a hand in Johnny’s early demise. My best friend convinced me to go with her, insisting that some closure and a chance to talk with his family would put an end to my sleepless nights and fits of depression.

That night changed my life, because it forced me to rethink all of my ideas about death. Johnny’s mother bought me a glass of wine and invited me to talk quietly with her at a dim corner table. She hugged me, and thanked me for getting her son safely home, and for being kind to him when he needed it most. She told me she didn’t believe in God, but she knew for sure that we are all here for a good time, not a long time. She smiled when she told me her son had enjoyed a very good time indeed.

“None of us know when our time is up,” she said. “So that’s why it’s important to do everything right now. It’s so sad that we wait around for life to happen. One day we will all find out how much we’ve really missed.”

That talk with Johnny’s mom jump-started my evolution. From that day forward, I began to live my life like a series of episodes in a long-running show enjoyed by a small, but fiercely loyal group of viewers. Over the years, I learned to worry a lot less about my future, and focus on individual moments, instead of wondering where all those moments would take me. I took up photography again at that time, because I became interested in documenting the events in my life - as they happened, without any sentimental filters of romance or bitterness to distort my memories. I started to travel the world without the luxury of a big bank account, knowing full well I can’t take any of it with me, armed with one goal: I need to see everything I can today, right now, before it’s too late.

It’s been fifteen years since I’ve thought or spoken about that night, but looking back, it’s absolutely clear to me now: Johnny Hotstuff saved my sorry ass.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Got ten minutes?

Two posts in two days at my other blog is a feat I'm not likely to ever repeat.

Experience this historic moment for yourself.

Friday, September 5, 2008

Life of the Party

I ran into the Buzzkills at a party last weekend. This is not their real name, of course, and I wouldn't dare call them that to their face, but Jim and Lori Buzzkill are a white, affluent, middle-aged couple whose mission in life is to suck all the joy out of every single party they attend. They bait every guest into an argument that highlights their moral superiority, so I always die a little inside when I spot them at various social functions. I can't figure out how the hell they keep getting invitations. They're either world class party crashers, or they're in possession of some seriously damaging photos of somebody.

The Buzzkills are extremely political and contentious. This is not to say that they just argue about politics - lots of people argue about politics, and I don't have a problem with that. My annoyance lies in their abrasive stance as environmental anti-globalization vegan warrior activists. They somehow manage to politicize any topic of conversation, whether it be about a recipe for jerk chicken ("people who kill chickens are the real jerks"), or the cute new shoes you bought on sale this week ("too bad there's no good deals for the starving babies who made those shoes"). I knew I was in for a long night when I arrived late to the party, because the Buzzkills had already managed to turn a pleasant "yay! the kids are going back to school!" conversation into a raging debate about whether or not the government should provide funding to religious schools.

The Buzzkills enjoy "educating people" about the shocking ecoglobonomic consequences of shopping at dollar stores. They also love "sticking it to the Man", even though Jim is an accountant, which makes him a far bigger Man than I'll ever be. But by far, their favourite topic is The Environment. They make sure that everyone knows how green they are, and how many personal sacrifices they make for the sake of future generations. Now, I'm all for recycling and doing my part to control my personal consumption of non-renewable resources, but not at the expense of being a giant asshole and alienating everyone around me.

They actually made a friend of mine cry last year when she brought some homemade brownies to one of their barbeques. Yeah, I don't know what the hell she was thinking, but that thoughtless bitch brought her delicious, shameful dessert in one of those disposable plastic containers, the kind that harm the Earth. This heinous move earned her a ten minute lecture about how she's the reason our planet is dying. Her and her fucking diabolical brownies were ruining it for everyone, even the people who haven't been born yet. Selfish twat.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I have zero tolerance for the Buzzkills. They talk a whole lot of shit, and I've always found them far too hypocritical and militant to be taken seriously. They rant about oil companies and evil drilling practices, yet they drive a car -- oh, two cars, in fact ! - but hey, they're both Priuses, so they're doing great things for the Earth. When I mentioned that I have never owned a car, and opt for transit, walking or biking instead, Lori actually laughed and said "But you're not doing it for the environment, honey - you just can't afford a car." I really wanted to slap her, but I have to admit she was half right. I really can't afford a car, because I choose to spend that kind of money in Europe for a month out of every year.

Okay, back to the party... Lori gets into it with my buddy JayJay, who is like the Jesus of the hipster doofus crowd in these parts. He's a wise and gentle soul with a vast legion of friends and admirers, and in the ten years I've known him, I've never heard a single unkind word uttered against him, nor have I ever witnessed him talking any shit about anyone else. When JayJay rolls his eyes and shakes his head, you know he's just encountered a real piece of work.

He was sparring with the Buzzkills on the hot button topic of plastic water bottles. Jim says that people who buy bottled water are fucking everything up with their ignorance and arrogance: "a most lethal combination". JayJay was drinking from a bottle of water at the time. The whole situation reminded me of a George Carlin bit I saw recently, where he calls out planet-hugging asshats and says "The earth doesn't share our prejudice towards plastic." It's funny because it's true. So Jim got me all riled up, and I spat back as much of this as I could remember:


Of course, I didn't deliver it as well as he does, but people laughed, the room lightened up, and the Buzzkills got the message loud and clear. Jim was so angry that he grabbed his drunk wife and left the party.

The host called me a couple days later, still laughing and cheering my tirade, and informed me that the Buzzkills think I'm a bitch and do not wish to ever see me again. According to the other guests, The Shunning has made me quite a hero of the people.

I'm forever grateful to you, George - you are missed, and thanks to you, the life has come back to the party.

Happy Birthday, Grant Miller

It's Grant Miller's birthday tomorrow, so Rocketradio would like to take a moment to congratulate Mr. Miller on this glorious and historical occasion.

Some of you may not be acquainted with the powerful CEO of Grant Miller Media, but that's because he seriously does not have time for you and your bullshit. Do you have any idea how fucking busy he is?

So I put the Rocket Research team into overdrive this week, gathering biographical information about the 14th Best Personal Blogger in the universe in order to bring you a little closer to The Man behind The Empire when you make a comment on his blog or send your best wishes, along with your certified cheque or money order.

The facts below are presented for entertainment purposes only, and are not admissible to a court of law.

- A reputable source tells us that Grant Miller "likes disco, eating orange peels, and the feel of melted cheese between his toes."

- Grant Miller can imitate Andy Rooney and Warren Beatty better than Andy Rooney can imitate Warren Beatty and Warren Beatty can imitate Andy Rooney. No one can imitate Grant Miller. There are no substitutes for Grant Miller.

- Grant Miller is a best-selling author of erotic fiction.

- Grant Miller is a maverick of haute couture, and designed his own line of clothing long before other, much lamer celebrities jumped on the fashion bandwagon.

- Grant Miller has single-handedly prevented the United States of America from further political implosion with his Award-Winning Series™ on The Unelectables.

- Grant Miller is never afraid to admit when he's wrong.

- Grant Miller is a disciple of the Holy Trinity of baseball, politics, and lame jokes.

- The secret to Grant Miller's phenomenal rise to power may lie in his innate ability to compile an incredibly useful list.

- Grant Miller probably won't see this post because he has more important things to do than reading my blog.

- Fuck you, Grant Miller, for not reading my blog.

Happy birthday, Grant Miller.

I baked you some cupcakes using your very own special recipe. I even removed all the tiny bones, so you won't have to worry about taking your dentures out or anything.

Have yourselves a Great Miller weekend, everybody.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

holy crittercakes

Today's post is over at r o c k e t a l k, but since you're here already, please enjoy this fucking hilarious photo: