wojr - words, occasionally sentences
Friday, July 16, 2004
And You Will Know Her Because Her Right Ear Is Smaller Than Her Left
I so love those old mugshots. Need to find me some more.
HAPPY 5PM FRIDAY EVERYBODY!
wojr
I so love those old mugshots. Need to find me some more.
HAPPY 5PM FRIDAY EVERYBODY!
wojr
Guaranteed to be Funnier than Buffalo Chips
The last "Things..." comic didn't really impress me either, but we're back this week with an all-new comic. Celebrity death and underage masturbation. I can't think of two funnier topics.
I'm feeling pretty confident that the "Things..." strip will be out on a weekly basis. "Bored Crackers" is shaping up for an August launch. That one will most likely be a semi-monthly strip. ("Semi-monthly" means twice a month) And lastly, "Quasi-Nostalgia", the redheaded stepchild of the group, will rear its ugly head when the inspiration hits me.
And all that is just the tip of the iceberg. And by 'tip of the iceberg', I mean the proportionately small part of the iceberg that is visible above the waterline and not truly indicative of the massive portion lying underneath. At least, that's what I think I mean.
wojr
The last "Things..." comic didn't really impress me either, but we're back this week with an all-new comic. Celebrity death and underage masturbation. I can't think of two funnier topics.
I'm feeling pretty confident that the "Things..." strip will be out on a weekly basis. "Bored Crackers" is shaping up for an August launch. That one will most likely be a semi-monthly strip. ("Semi-monthly" means twice a month) And lastly, "Quasi-Nostalgia", the redheaded stepchild of the group, will rear its ugly head when the inspiration hits me.
And all that is just the tip of the iceberg. And by 'tip of the iceberg', I mean the proportionately small part of the iceberg that is visible above the waterline and not truly indicative of the massive portion lying underneath. At least, that's what I think I mean.
wojr
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Wojr University: Thirty Percent of Our Graduates Go Straight to Pan-Handling
Yesterday, the ever-endearing Villanova magazine arrived in my mailbox. I believe I have mentioned this publication here before, lambasting it as the statistical recording of my peers current standing in the race to mate, reproduce and die.
This issue had numerous entries from my graduating year. Thankfully, no tallies in the death column. Since I only knew one name in the whole update, however, the continued existence of the names I saw did not carry much weight for me. (FYI - the one name I knew - Scottie Nolan. Even he has beaten my engaged ass to the altar.) But I will admit I was a little taken back by the many names I did not know.
I don't have many skills in life, but remembering people has usually been a forte of mine. True, Villanova was not the smallest of schools and I did spend much of my time there in an alcohol-related stupor. But to not recognize any of these people besides Nolan? Thus, I came to wonder about these individuals. Who were they? Where had they (or I) been hiding during our collegiate years? But more importantly, had I ever wanted to have sex with any of them? So, I did some research and by "some" I mean cracking open the yearbook.
The first names I found were of unattractive women. If you think that sounds cruel, I can use the term 'homely' instead. I'm perfectly open with both adjectives to describe these women. So, I can understand not recollecting these names right off the bat. I lived in the same dorm as Tom Clancy's daughter freshman year and I can't remember her at all thanks entirely to her homeliness. (That was also proof positive that I'll never marry for money.)
However, besides those furry females and some very odd-looking fellows, most of these people were nowhere to be found in my "research materials." It was like they just materialized from the vapor.
Then I ask myself, "What if they did?"
Imagine this. You run a prestigious university and for the past three or four months, your alumni do absolutely nothing of interest. No one dies. No one marries. No one reproduces. No new pseudo-possible galaxy is discovered by your astronomy geeks. No highly improbable cure for Athlete's Foot is worked upon. No new books, art or missionary trips to Zaire are undertaken. For over a hundred days, your alumni work at their boring uninteresting jobs, leading boring uneventful lives. Well, how would that reflect on your university? What parent would want to spend over a hundred thousand dollars to send their future world conqueror to that school?
So, wouldn't you "punch up" the alumni newsletter? If the New York Times can do it, if the film industry can do it, why can't a tiny alumni magazine do it? Use a little creativity (a.k.a. outright lies) to paint your 'product' as the best option out there. Because when you get right down to it what is that alumni magazine but marketing. Simple altruistic advertising telling you that you are part of a very special community, reminding you that you are not alone in your struggle to live, love and reproduce. Now, all they need is your credit card number and they can make sure you remain a member of that special group.
Please be advised that representatives of Wojr University will never ask for your credit card information. Dollar bills can simply be inserted in their g-strings.
wojr
Yesterday, the ever-endearing Villanova magazine arrived in my mailbox. I believe I have mentioned this publication here before, lambasting it as the statistical recording of my peers current standing in the race to mate, reproduce and die.
This issue had numerous entries from my graduating year. Thankfully, no tallies in the death column. Since I only knew one name in the whole update, however, the continued existence of the names I saw did not carry much weight for me. (FYI - the one name I knew - Scottie Nolan. Even he has beaten my engaged ass to the altar.) But I will admit I was a little taken back by the many names I did not know.
I don't have many skills in life, but remembering people has usually been a forte of mine. True, Villanova was not the smallest of schools and I did spend much of my time there in an alcohol-related stupor. But to not recognize any of these people besides Nolan? Thus, I came to wonder about these individuals. Who were they? Where had they (or I) been hiding during our collegiate years? But more importantly, had I ever wanted to have sex with any of them? So, I did some research and by "some" I mean cracking open the yearbook.
The first names I found were of unattractive women. If you think that sounds cruel, I can use the term 'homely' instead. I'm perfectly open with both adjectives to describe these women. So, I can understand not recollecting these names right off the bat. I lived in the same dorm as Tom Clancy's daughter freshman year and I can't remember her at all thanks entirely to her homeliness. (That was also proof positive that I'll never marry for money.)
However, besides those furry females and some very odd-looking fellows, most of these people were nowhere to be found in my "research materials." It was like they just materialized from the vapor.
Then I ask myself, "What if they did?"
Imagine this. You run a prestigious university and for the past three or four months, your alumni do absolutely nothing of interest. No one dies. No one marries. No one reproduces. No new pseudo-possible galaxy is discovered by your astronomy geeks. No highly improbable cure for Athlete's Foot is worked upon. No new books, art or missionary trips to Zaire are undertaken. For over a hundred days, your alumni work at their boring uninteresting jobs, leading boring uneventful lives. Well, how would that reflect on your university? What parent would want to spend over a hundred thousand dollars to send their future world conqueror to that school?
So, wouldn't you "punch up" the alumni newsletter? If the New York Times can do it, if the film industry can do it, why can't a tiny alumni magazine do it? Use a little creativity (a.k.a. outright lies) to paint your 'product' as the best option out there. Because when you get right down to it what is that alumni magazine but marketing. Simple altruistic advertising telling you that you are part of a very special community, reminding you that you are not alone in your struggle to live, love and reproduce. Now, all they need is your credit card number and they can make sure you remain a member of that special group.
Please be advised that representatives of Wojr University will never ask for your credit card information. Dollar bills can simply be inserted in their g-strings.
wojr
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Marlon Brando: Not A Fan of the Condom
I can't lie to you*, I have enjoyed reading all about the affairs of Marlon Brando's estate. It is just interesting reading, especially given the scope of Brando's progeny. Really with all those kids he made, I wonder how the man got so fat. All that boot knocking should have shed some pounds off of that frame.
Now, if I was one of twelve kids, I would not have cared who my dad was or how big my inheritance was. The sheer fact that all those kids were being sheltered, clothed and fed would have been enough for me. Forget about college tuitions or annual trips to DisneyWorld. With twelve kids, it becomes cheaper to buy a Playstation than take them all to the movies on Saturday afternoon.
Hell, Brando even paid for one of their murder trials. And not one of those cheapie redneck murder trials, we're talking a big Hollywood type murder trial. Those don't come cheap. Now if the police ever get enough evidence to indict my serial killer ass, I don't expect my father to help at all. I'll be fine with a public defender (especially after I tell him that he will have to deal with Broncatello if I lose). But was the public defender good enough for Brando's ingrate kid? No. Did you see OJ's dad ponying up the dollars for his son's legal "Dream Team"? I don't know. Maybe he did. It's not like I put a lot of research into these rants.
Anyhow, to all the legitimate Brando kids, I think you should share the $21 million with all the bastard children as well. Hell, throw some bucks to Al Pacino, James Caan, Christopher Reeve and the rest of the "on-screen offspring" while you're at it.
So what if your Pop obviously liked to sleep around and use the old "it doesn't feel the same with a rubber" line? You were lucky enough to be born to one of the greatest actors of the 20th century and somehow he managed to die without spending all his loot. If you were my kids, I would have proudly died penniless. Shit, I'm spending my kids' inheritance right now and they're not even born yet.
wojr.com - Looking Out for the Bastard Youth of America
wojr
*Actually, I can lie to you. With the utmost of ease, no less.
Watch: My name is not Wojr. I'm actually a well-endowed African-American porn star name Lexington Steele.
See? Blatant lie. So keep on your toes - my shit is mad radical, yo.
wojr
I can't lie to you*, I have enjoyed reading all about the affairs of Marlon Brando's estate. It is just interesting reading, especially given the scope of Brando's progeny. Really with all those kids he made, I wonder how the man got so fat. All that boot knocking should have shed some pounds off of that frame.
Now, if I was one of twelve kids, I would not have cared who my dad was or how big my inheritance was. The sheer fact that all those kids were being sheltered, clothed and fed would have been enough for me. Forget about college tuitions or annual trips to DisneyWorld. With twelve kids, it becomes cheaper to buy a Playstation than take them all to the movies on Saturday afternoon.
Hell, Brando even paid for one of their murder trials. And not one of those cheapie redneck murder trials, we're talking a big Hollywood type murder trial. Those don't come cheap. Now if the police ever get enough evidence to indict my serial killer ass, I don't expect my father to help at all. I'll be fine with a public defender (especially after I tell him that he will have to deal with Broncatello if I lose). But was the public defender good enough for Brando's ingrate kid? No. Did you see OJ's dad ponying up the dollars for his son's legal "Dream Team"? I don't know. Maybe he did. It's not like I put a lot of research into these rants.
Anyhow, to all the legitimate Brando kids, I think you should share the $21 million with all the bastard children as well. Hell, throw some bucks to Al Pacino, James Caan, Christopher Reeve and the rest of the "on-screen offspring" while you're at it.
So what if your Pop obviously liked to sleep around and use the old "it doesn't feel the same with a rubber" line? You were lucky enough to be born to one of the greatest actors of the 20th century and somehow he managed to die without spending all his loot. If you were my kids, I would have proudly died penniless. Shit, I'm spending my kids' inheritance right now and they're not even born yet.
wojr.com - Looking Out for the Bastard Youth of America
wojr
*Actually, I can lie to you. With the utmost of ease, no less.
Watch: My name is not Wojr. I'm actually a well-endowed African-American porn star name Lexington Steele.
See? Blatant lie. So keep on your toes - my shit is mad radical, yo.
wojr
Monday, July 12, 2004
Backstory Fun: Episode One - Airport Security
How do you make the most excruciating experiences not only bearable, but also enjoyable? Do what I do – give everyone a backstory.
Imagine this scenario.
Darcy has had it pretty easy in life. Daddy's connections and bank accounts have opened most of the doors in her life. For example, after graduating from her father's alma mater, Darcy thought a job for a magazine would be fun. As luck would have it, Dad played golf with the publisher of the New Yorker. Whatever doors Daddy couldn’t open, Darcy's silky complexion and pearly whites handled; getting her into NYC's most hip nightspots, the trousers of the wealthy and handsome suitors she deemed acceptable and even the panties of that one lesbian experience in college. Darcy has gotten everything she has ever wanted and expended little effort in achieving it.
Sharonda, however, has always felt short-changed by life. It always deprived her of what she really wanted, yet constantly buried her in crap she did not want or need. For example, she did not want or need the extra thirty pounds hanging on her ass; instead she wished she still had her mother who died when she was three. If her mother had lived, maybe there would have been some money for her to go to college. Maybe she wouldn't have ended up working at the airport like the rest of her high school. Maybe then she could have met a decent guy that didn't run off with some scrawny white girl that wanted to live out a Mandingo sex fantasy.
When Darcy sees one of her clubbing girlfriends waiting in line for the airport security check, she sees it as an opportunity to bypass the huge line of weary travelers. She calls to her friend who waves her up to the front of the line, a line of people that suddenly hate Darcy for making their wait faintly longer and not even apologizing for it. I'm part of that line and I vehemently hate Darcy, especially since I know her backstory.
Thankfully, the powers that be in the Aviation Industry have granted Sharonda more authority than other GED recipients her age, authority that my Nubian queen seems perfectly fine in abusing. When her eyes narrow as she realizes Darcy looks exactly like the white bitch that stole her man, I know that waiting in line at Airport Security is about get a lot more fun and interesting, and you don't neet to know the backstory to enjoy it.
wojr
How do you make the most excruciating experiences not only bearable, but also enjoyable? Do what I do – give everyone a backstory.
Imagine this scenario.
Darcy has had it pretty easy in life. Daddy's connections and bank accounts have opened most of the doors in her life. For example, after graduating from her father's alma mater, Darcy thought a job for a magazine would be fun. As luck would have it, Dad played golf with the publisher of the New Yorker. Whatever doors Daddy couldn’t open, Darcy's silky complexion and pearly whites handled; getting her into NYC's most hip nightspots, the trousers of the wealthy and handsome suitors she deemed acceptable and even the panties of that one lesbian experience in college. Darcy has gotten everything she has ever wanted and expended little effort in achieving it.
Sharonda, however, has always felt short-changed by life. It always deprived her of what she really wanted, yet constantly buried her in crap she did not want or need. For example, she did not want or need the extra thirty pounds hanging on her ass; instead she wished she still had her mother who died when she was three. If her mother had lived, maybe there would have been some money for her to go to college. Maybe she wouldn't have ended up working at the airport like the rest of her high school. Maybe then she could have met a decent guy that didn't run off with some scrawny white girl that wanted to live out a Mandingo sex fantasy.
When Darcy sees one of her clubbing girlfriends waiting in line for the airport security check, she sees it as an opportunity to bypass the huge line of weary travelers. She calls to her friend who waves her up to the front of the line, a line of people that suddenly hate Darcy for making their wait faintly longer and not even apologizing for it. I'm part of that line and I vehemently hate Darcy, especially since I know her backstory.
Thankfully, the powers that be in the Aviation Industry have granted Sharonda more authority than other GED recipients her age, authority that my Nubian queen seems perfectly fine in abusing. When her eyes narrow as she realizes Darcy looks exactly like the white bitch that stole her man, I know that waiting in line at Airport Security is about get a lot more fun and interesting, and you don't neet to know the backstory to enjoy it.
wojr
