Does A.C. Slater Sit Backwards On The Toilet?

spare a square, Mr. B?

Test results are inconclusive. But Mario Lopez has aerobics instructor levels of spandex photos floating around on the internets, just waitin' to be downloaded by some retro, '80s-loving pervert/blogger with perpetual boredom/no social skills/insomnia/indigestion. I hate myself.

just another reason for self-loathing

The McDonald's in my neighborhood is open 24 hours on Friday and Saturday nights, which means two things: One, I have an even unhealthier option for late-night drunk snacks than going to the bodega for a bag of kettle chips, a beef patty (pictured above, except sliced open and stuffed with pepperjack cheese before being microwaved) and a large VitaCoco; and two, they must have some sort of policy in that vagrants are allowed to loiter overnight. Both of these scenarios — eating late-night QPCs and photographing hobos — are near and dear to my heart, but one is going to cause my heart to explode from joy, the other explode from cholesterol...

Behold number three, "Dream Team", in my ongoing series of Homeless People Trading Cards (and another), in which I capture the unsheltered citizens in my neighborhood in their natural environment, like a National Geographic special created by a mental patient with photoshop.

this was the happiest meal i've had in weeks...

For some reason, looking at this photo has me thinking about that song "Holidae Inn" by Chingy. (whatever happened to him? Is he working the front desk night shift at a Cleveland area Radisson?) I got to wondering just what his street cred was really like. What if Chingy was homeless when he wrote that song and it was sad and depressing, talking about trying to bathe at the McDonald's or like a (hot) Carl's Jr. or something on Friday and Saturday nights and dreaming of a hotel room, but then Snoop and Bishop Don "Magic" Juan wandered in for a McFlurry and Chingy recognized Snoop and spit a few rhymes for him, Bishop Don trying to preach to him about turning his life around but Snoop — ever the savvy businessman — knew that even though the current version was depressing and totally unmarketable, especially since homeless Chingy was using a window washer's squirt bottle as a "mic", he saw some real talent in that kid, thinking almost out loud "If this shizzle wasn't about some homeless nizzle, it'd be off the hizzle" (or something like that, I think his mouth was full of Butterfinger McFlurry at the time). I scoured the internet and found the "Lost Lyrics" to the original song, when his name was Squeegie, due to his famously streak-free skills washing car windows on Sunset.

But out of those humble beginnings, this star was born, so we must appreciate his unfortunate roots and poor penmanship/grammar/spelling and love Chingy for the man who produced this:

I need to go to bed, but before I do, single solitary reader-prisoner, I will announce that I am going straight up Nick Denton and expanding my publishing empire to two horrible blogs, the second of which I am hoping to launch maybe tomorrow but realistically more like later this week. It is called "Tuesdays With Maury", and the idea is to take the choicest screenshots from the two daily episodes of the Maury Povich Show and post them on a tumblr blog, and maybe even try to teach a life lesson or two in the process like Mitch Albom does in that book, allegedly. I have not, nor do I ever envision myself reading it. Here's another little teaser, a PR shot from the play that was made from the made-for-TV movie that was made from the book. Enjoy, or whathaveyooz.

there's so much maury can teach me if i just plug my nose and keep an open mind about the elderly

Job Hunting: Just As Depressing As Regular Hunting

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Google Image Search: Maybe The Ultimate Entertainment (For Bedwetters and Invalids Like Me)?

This is my second winter in New York and there are times that I just refuse to leave the house because it can just be so depressingly, bitterly cold and treacherous for walking. I need to take walks often to clear my mind and reset my thoughts. But when it's gross outside, I convince myself to stay in and "work", which means "work as hard as possible for as long as possible right now, because inevitably you will soon become distracted and waste the next 2 hours chasing some tangent around the Internet." At night this can be a good thing, because even if I'm wasting time at home, at least I'm not out wasting money, eating tater tots, drinking whiskey and talking trash to strangers. #theinternetsavesmefrommyselfbutputsmeonanalternatedownwardspiral

In a recent development, I have become totally engrossed with Google's image search function. Although it isn't as outright hilarious as Yahoo Answers and its never-ending supply of sad Q&As (this gem for instance), or Craigslist's Missed Connections disasters (example of greatness, here), I can't even believe how much I have been laughing lately at the random photos that are floating around in this bizarre sea of accessible images. You can type in the most innocuous search terms and come up with all sorts of mildly offensive or weird photographs. Actually, I started a tumblr page to keep track of all my nuggets of gold. I feel there might be sociological value in discovering the link between why the Dali Lama and a hello kitty tattoo show up when I search for a photo of Hannibal Lechter. But whatever. In no particular order, here are a few recent treasures:

From Cats the Musical. Ahem, "The heat had gone out in the building that cold December night, and the young cat went to a shady block downtown and paid $20 to hire a professional to find his Magical Mr. Mistoffelles." – T.S. Eliot

Jesus Christ, Frasier, get it together. It's my personal dream to be famous for literally 15 minutes, make a few million dollars and disappear from the face of the earth to read and write and swim and screw on some Caribbean beach. Why the hell can't anyone else figure out how great that would be?

Its body is warm, but its cold, dark eyes say, "Fuck you."

Wow. WHAT IS THIS??? It fascinates me.

This is so creepy and disturbing. It's from a coloring book. In my Rorschach test, I see a pitiful old man who has just finished digging his own grave under his favorite tree. Now this greedy miser wants to be buried with his bullion like Scrooge McDuck from Duck Tails (wooo OOO ooo). But someone was watching all along, and once again the young man will screw the old out of his money.

I don't know, man. I think this guy used to sell "ice cold beeaaaahh" at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium. "Rowland Office" sounds fake and his signature looks like two different people wrote it.