Tiny Twin: Kinda Sounds Like a Dickens Character With a Speech Impediment

I was just looking at the "stats" section of this blog that tracks who reads this embarrassment of mine. Basically, it tells me your Social Security number and how much porn you watch daily (it hovers around maximum security prisoner levels), which is just barely more than me, but you probably cry during the act just slightly less than I do. (Thanks Southern religious upbringing!) While it doesn't actually tell me about how you are just like James Franco (he's everywhere), it does tell me what search terms in Google currently bring up my blog. "Pooping With The Door Open" was an obvious one, but my favorite was "Are Lionhead Rabbits Insane?". My boring blog is result number six in Google, which has me proudly telling girls about my "huge Web presence."

My newfound confidence is all thanks to my tiny twin, a dwarf lionhead rabbit named Martina Van Buren. She is insane, at least a little bit, but she also lets me degrade her in photographs and is pretty fun to have around. I haven't had a pet of my own since I was in high school, when I rocked a 20-gallon fish tank and was convinced I would become a marine biologist solely based upon the idea of living in a warm ocean environment, eating seafood, scuba diving, riding in boats, stumbling upon swimsuit photoshoots and not upon the reality of having to pass college-level science and math courses (which, like most things, I suck at). My family dog died about an hour before I landed in Atlanta this past Christmas, and I didn't get to see her because my flight was delayed two hours on the runway because they "had problems getting one of the engines to start." (also the tagline for my other website, MaleSexualDysfunction.com) Since the engine eventually did start and I didn't die that night, too, I'm currently drafting up a lawsuit about how Delta killed my dog. But until I'm a hundred-aire from the punitive damages, I have found companionship from this little monster:

what the hell?

she looks kind of like Nicholas Cage here

These two photos are the rabbit bad cop good cop routine: In the first, she stares you down with a steely gaze and malignant non-verbal threats; in the second, she's going to cuddle the confession out of you.

Martina is chill, she's litterbox trained (already) and she sat on my shoulder the other night while I was wrapped in my Snuggie drinking bourbon and watched back to back Jack Nicholson movies, "Easy Rider" and "The Last Detail", without bitching at me once, something no other girl has ever done.

P.S. If you want to play an '80s-style video game to learn proper condom use, go here. And by "proper condom use", I mean the goal is to catch three falling hearts and hit the space bar to shoot a condom bubble onto people at the club, which is a pretty accurate description of all my past condom use.

P.P.S. I was feeling totally uncreative today but when I decided to just sit down and write something a bunch of good ideas came to me (none of which are documented here). It proves that if you sit down and decide to just work no matter how you're feeling, you can get something done. Read "The War of Art" by Steven Pressfield. Everyone. NOW.

The Hits Just Keep On Coming: Casey Casem Quote About Whitney Houston? (And Gremlins T-Shirt Design)

My fourth grade girlfriend played "I Will Always Love You" to me over the phone. You think she meant that? We broke up like two weeks later.

No, I am not writing about domestic violence between '80s power couples/disasters. It's a terrible thing that crack made Bobby whack Whitney. (One of "the unseen dangers of crack cocaine") Bobby was never a great musician, and adding crackhead and wife-beater to his resume did not improve his status, but I felt that this Osama Bin Laden comparison from bestweekever.tv was a little over the top. And for the record, there are few things bleaker than searching "beat up celebrities" on Google Images. Look at this screenshot, for example:

How did Elmo escape this poll? (Miley is winning.)

And how did they know I wanted to get dinner at Chili's tonight? Anyway, here's my big (crackpipe) hit of the day:

About a week ago I promised Gremlins T-shirts, and now I sit here before you (sweatpants on, wrapped in a Snuggie, bunny hiding under bed, life in shambles, trail mix crumbs likely stuck in beard) with a completed design. Behold, the Gremlins Care Label T-shirt (great name, huh?)...

Would you wear this? In public? I would/will/am. I don't know how much I am going to sell them for because I haven't decided on a printer yet. This could be because there are probably 13,000 screenprinters within a mile of me in Brooklyn. Also, I am trying to figure out how many to get printed for a "first-run", so either comment on this post or tell me on facebook (where lately, by the way, I have been "losing" "friends", hopefully because people have been disgusted by this blog, which was created to alienate everyone I know and permanently ruin my chances of corporate employment) or email me at chris [dot] f [dot] barry [at] gmail.com.

Speaking of corporate employment, this is a nice little motto:

Buy this here

I try not to burn bridges but I do believe this is a good perspective, in that there's something about it that shows forward movement and productivity. That being said, I once sent a long, convoluted e-mail to a boss that basically said, "Pay me more or I quit." At the time I had nothing to lose, because I was truly only interested in two scenarios: about 20-percent more money or 100-percent less work. Either way I was going to get what I wanted. My boss flew into town the next day to explain that although it was a well-written letter, the message it contained was one that a 22-year-old kid could not be allowed to give the chief operations officer of a large company. The next afternoon I was playing golf, jobless and happy. My friend from work kept the e-mail and I keep begging him to send it to me, but so far he hasn't. I want to read it so bad.

Anyway, back to my immature endeavors: Tell me if you would like to BUY MY SHIRT, BUY MY SHIRT, BUY MY SHIRT! (Any fans of The Critic out there/alive/not living in your parents' house at 32 years old?)

Corndogs: My Rock in Uncertain Times (Has Been Postponed By An Internet Bunny Fight)

Corndogs and me, holding hands on a beach, just tryin' to make it through these hard times: This was going to be the topic of my little writing exercise today. I was going to describe my view of life as cyclical, masterfully conjuring the corndog to illustrate my theory about how those who triumph at overcoming the bad and capitalizing on the good cycles in life likely hold the magical secret to success. I was going to talk about how I am currently in a corndog cycle — or more like back in my corndog cycle; how it hits me roughly once every few years. Approaching my ten-year high school reunion — which, unless I happen to find myself roofied up and 900 miles south of here, I won't be attending — I realized that right around now, ten years ago, I was deep in a corndog cycle that stemmed from driving two sisters to school. I planned on waxing poetic, reminiscing that everyday I'd go back to their house, watch about 30 minutes of Dumb and Dumber and have a corndog for an after-school snack. I could get introspective about how ten years have passed in a blur of processed and fried meats: How have I changed since then? What have I learned? Where will I go from here?

I was going to describe my youthful error of heating them in a toaster oven. It's too easy to burn them on the outside and leave them cold and raw inside. Gross. They must be fried. In college, I bought a deep fryer from Walmart and a family size bag of corndogs. I could have talked about how a SuperWalmart is a magical, fluorescent wonderland, a place I have visited many times with the sole purpose of wandering the aisles stacked high with stuff made in Chinese toy-bestos factories.

But do you really want to read an unhealthy person's opinions on corndogs? How insightful could it be? Can't I find a better metaphor? Is this a spec-piece I'm trying to shop to High Times? Who really wants to know anything more than they already do about corndogs? Most corndog knowledge is too much knowledge. They're kinda gross and so am I.

My point is, take unhealthy meat, add cornbread, deep fry and you're basically eating the equivalent of a bald eagle soaring over purple mountains majesty to take a big, star-spangled piss on Communist Russia. I had a corndog at the original Nathan's at Coney Island on the 3rd of July last year, one day before all those phony patriots wearing flag hats show up on the Fourth like heathens (me) flocking to church on Christmas. I also rode the Wonder Wheel. So I guess it's safe to say that I'm a real American who "supports our troops" (even though I'd move to Mexico if there was a draft) and always* votes. We Americans have to take our culture's good with the bad, but at least we know which side corndogs are on.

*never even bothered to register to vote because when I turned 18 I had missed the presidential election by one month so I figured I had plenty of time before the next election but then one thing led to another and I don't think I'm registered at all or at least not in New York... (this explanation is basically an Afro Man song, which I'm listening to now thinking of high school)

Anyway, go to Crif Dogs if you're around Driggs and N. 7th and get a corndog or any of the restaurant's other unhealthy delights (and don't forget to bus your own table or else a boyish art school undergrad will come out from behind the counter and politely shame you in the street).

Now for more important things: Insane Bunny Posse. There is an Internet debate currently raging as to who has the greatest dwarf lionhead rabbit in Greenpoint/Williamsburg/the entire Universe, and this requires all of my current attention.

Check out this poster I made to show how my new bunny, Martina Van Buren, looks just like an old-timey President.

Wait, no, that isn't it. That's a woman who looks just like her pet goat, right down to the beard and the toothless, trashy grin.

This is it. That's my baby-girl there on the right. She's a Patriot. She has a hotdog chew toy (no joke).

My opponent claims that her bun is still currently un-nameable, his essence not so easily captured as mine, even though several great options have been suggested. I thusly enter Martina Van Buren into the "Greatest/Weirdest Bunny in Northern Brooklyn" campaign, and the contest is just beginning. Vote or Die.

P.S. This is cool, and I love the Massimo Vignelli 1972 New York Subway Guide.