Some fan has gone ahead and uploaded the official trailer for the movie Snakes On a Plane. Some of you may be familiar with the movie Snakes On a Plane. For those who are not, the title should pretty much explain it. Oh, and Samuel L. Jackson is in it. And, yes, he’s yelling, but this time, it’s at snakes!
Watch the trailer here. Thanks to Elephant Larry for pointing this out to me.
I occasionally get emails from people who stumble upon my site while looking for something else. Normally, it’s people telling me that they like or dislike something I’ve written. On occasion, though, I get an email like this:
From: [Redacted]
To: jack@kukoda.com
Subject: Ahoy, Matie!
Hey there, Jack! Great website. I like what you are doing. I think you will like what we are doing! We run a sexxxy charter cruise company called “Where the Boys Are.” Check out our pic!
Our names are Johnny Mainsail and Timothy Saucepot (those aren’t our real names, just sexxxy aliases.) Anyway, we’d love to book you as the entertainment for one of our upcoming cruises. They’re fun. Just guys meeting guys. You, know, fun!!! Hit us back with an email and let us know if you’re interested.
Uh, I guess I should be flattered by this, but, frankly, I’m just confused. I don’t think I’ve posted much gay-themed material on this site, nor am I gay, so I have no idea why they want to book me for their cruise. Whatever, stage time is stage time, so I’ll probably take it. I’m going to have to write some new material, though. By the looks of these two, I’m guessing they’ll want me to get pretty campy.
Here’s the Onion article I realized I was sub-consciously ripping off halfway through writing this. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Johnny and Timothy!
Oh man, I’m so excited for the start of the NCAA Tournament today that I can barely contain myself. One good thing about not having a full-time day job is that I won’t have to pretend I’m doing work today while I feverishly check updates on the games. I guess there are some bad things about not having a full-time job. Lack of health insurance comes to mind. Also, sometimes I have to borrow money to pay for my Axe Body Spray habit. Does anyone know how long one can of Axe is supposed to last? Because I go through about two a day. But who’s complaining? Not the sexy women who literally tackle me when I try to walk down the street because they can’t resist my musk. And not me, for that matter. I love being tackled by sexy women.
Christ, I’m literally shaking with anticipation for these games. I’m in about ten different pools for this thing. You should see my desk. I’ve got all my brackets printed up and spread out like an old lady playing bingo. I also have a bingo marker, but that’s just for huffing. A lot of people like to eat chicken wings or nachos when they’re watching sports. Not me, I’m a huffer. Just give me some spray paint, a paper bag, and get out of my way. Really, get out of my way, because when I get to huffing, I’m not responsible for my actions. During the Super Bowl, I killed a transient with a brick after huffing some glue. They kicked me out of ESPN Zone for that one. But I didn’t care because I just went around the corner to TGI Fridays, and got in a fight with the manager. Then I bought a round of Tequila shooters for the whole bar. Shooters! I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like sports.
I’m doing a show tonight at the Slipper Room. I hope I’ll be able to calm down by then.
What I tell people the first CD I ever bought was: Pearl Jam’s “Ten”
What the first CD I actually bought was: 3rd Bass’s “Derelicts of Dialect”
Why would I share this with you? To illustrate that my taste in music is sometimes questionable. Also, that I’m a poseur. Anyway, as someone who knows a thing or two about shitty music, I’d like to bring this guy to your attention. Some of you may have heard of Cowboy Troy, but he’s new to me. And he’s horrible. Really, really horrible. Listen to his song “My Last Yee Haw” if you dare.
I used to think nothing could be worse than the rap/rock hybrid of Limp Bizkit and Kid Rock. I was wrong. It’s called “Hick Hop” and it’s a combination of horrible rap and horrible country. I have nothing further to say on this subject.
That’s right, I’m auctioning myself off for charity! All you have to do is send a postcard with your name on it to the post office, explaining why I should date you. Be specific! And, since it’s for charity, you’ll be paying! Here’s how our date will transpire, told through the magic of an iPhoto slide show.
I will pick you up on my scooter.
We will have dinner.
I will get drunk on pina coladas.
In my drunken state, I will become convinced that playing with gas pumps is both hilarious and a good idea.
You will scold me for playing with gas pumps and I will become enraged. Look at me rage!
After I calm down, I will take you Celebrity bowling.
Where I will get drunk on champagne.
You will scold me again, and I will hide my face in shame.
To make it up to you, I will rent us a stretch Hummer limo.
And drive to the Pantheon.
Where, unfortunately, I will get drunk on egg nog and fall asleep in a ditch.
Think you can handle all that romance?! Then enter today!
My sophomore year of college, we used to call one of our roommates “Sneak Attack.” His real name was Ben Barnett, but we called him “Sneak Attack.” I don’t remember why we starting calling Ben that, but if anyone asked, we would say it was because he would try to rape us in the middle of the night. It was completely untrue. He never tried to rape us at night, or during the day, for that matter. The point is, Ben was very good-natured about the fact that his so-called friends were spreading rumors that he was a serial roommate raper.
The reason I’m telling you this is to better illustrate what a nice fellow Ben was compared to the rest of his roommates, who were, myself included, total assholes. Ben was the only one in our room who didn’t smoke. When the common room got too smoky for him, he would retreat to his bedroom for relief. But when he did that, the rest of us would follow him into his tiny bedroom and smoke cigarettes while crowded around his little desk. Then we would ask Ben questions like, “Don’t you love the delicious smell of tobacco smoke?”
Not an actual rapist.
But I think the worst thing Ben had to put up with was when I covered his entire bed in coins. On that night, I was about to go to the deli to buy some cigarettes, but didn’t have any money. “Wait a minute,” I thought to myself. “My roommate and supposed friend, Ben, has a giant cup of change in his bedroom. I’ll just borrow a few dollars from him.”
I went into Ben’s room and dug through his change cup. I couldn’t find any quarters at first, so I poured some of the change out onto Ben’s bed, thinking that the quarters were hidden beneath all the nickels and pennies. I was wrong. Still no quarters. I poured some more change out, this time spreading it around so I could better identify any potential quarters. Nothing. I poured out some more change, then more, then more, until I had emptied the entire cup onto Ben’s bed. I found maybe two quarters in that giant novelty cup full of coins. I’m pretty sure that this pissed me off and that was my motivation for what I did next, but I can’t be certain because it happened about 6 years ago. What I am certain of, is that instead of putting the coins back into the cup and replacing it on Ben’s nightstand, I thought it would be funny to spread the coins across his entire bed, which is what I did.
Ben came home later that night at around 2am. He had been at a party and was looking forward to passing out in his own bed. I can’t imagine the confustion he must have felt when he climbed into his bed to discover that the softness of his sheets had been replaced by the cold, hard jingling of change. Not to mention that smell that coins have. Ben told me later that he tried to pick up every coin one by one, then got too tired and just swept it all onto the floor and went to sleep. I have no idea why he didn’t beat the hell out of me the next day. He was certainly capable of it, and I definitely could have used a good ass-kicking.
Anyway, I remembered that story recently, so, there you go. And I wanted everyone to know what a good guy Ben is. Even though he does eat his own pubes.
Captain Beefheart Lyrics that, if Said by an Actual Ship’s Captain, Would Almost Certainly Get Him Fired.
1. “I’m gonna grow fins ‘N go back in the water again.” (From “Grow Fins”)
2. “If ya don’t leave me alone I’m gonna take up with ah mermaid.” (Also “Grow Fins”)
3. “Poop hatch open.” (From “81 Poop Hatch”)
He could probably get away with the first two, but opening the poop hatch? Come on. That’s just asking to be fired.
I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I just bought another pit bull, bringing my pit bull total up to 17. Sometimes I think that I was fine with 16 pit bulls, and there was no reason to get another. But other times, I think that 17 pit bulls are nowhere near enough. I’m just confused. This isn’t the sort of thing that you learn in school. Unless, of course, you went to Jack’s Pit Bull Academy, which doesn’t exist, but, God willing, someday will.
I suppose the best thing to do in this situation is to keep on buying more pit bulls. It’s like my Dad used to say: “Jack, whenever you’re in doubt, just look into your heart. Also, buy lots and lots of pit bulls.” My Dad was full of good advice like that. He was also full of rabies. Which he got from one of the many pit bulls he owned.
Life is funny like that.
So you know how you guys are always saying to me, “Hey, Jack, when are you going to be a guest “celebrity” judge at a writing competition alongside an editor for the New Yorker and Moby?” I’d say I get asked that question at least five times a day. Well, the answer to that question is TONIGHT. That’s right, this evening I’ll be one of three judges at Opium Magazine’s Sweet Fancy Moses Literary Death-Match.
What qualifies me to be a guest judge at this thing? Absolutely nothing. What will my judging criteria be? I have no idea, but I do know that it will be quite arbitrary. Isn’t Moby an actual celebrity whereas I could only be called a “celebrity” ironically, complete with quotation marks around the word? You’re goddamn right, Chester.
Whatever. This event should be pretty fun. There will be four very talented writers, booze will be served, and it will probably be one of the strangest things to happen to me in recent memory. Plus, as most of my friends know, since I was a child, it’s been my dream to someday judge a reading series, American Idol-style, alongside a whimsical, vegan musician. What more could I ask for?
My sister Clare has a phobia of dairy products. If any milk or cheese is left out of the fridge for more than a few minutes, she freaks out. If dairy products accidentally touch her, she goes crazy. I had the following IM conversation with her after someone at her work spilled cottage cheese on Clare’s pants.
I hope this will prove wrong all the people who have said that I don’t write enough about my family and/or corduroy pants. Oh, and I’ll have some interesting news on a show I’ll be involved in later tonight. It will be bizarre to say the least. I promise.
Not about corduroy pants or dairy, but shocking nonetheless.
Whoo! What a week! Not really, but some interesting stuff did happen this week. On to the roundup!
First off, big thanks to Deadspin for linking to the post about the Cardinals fan. People seem to enjoy it. And it also seems to be sparking some debate about abortion on sports message boards, which is exactly where complex political and moral issues should be discussed.
I checked out the lovely and talented Livia Scott’s new show “Champagne” at Plan B on Tuesday. It was very fun and I’m looking forward to doing the show in a couple of weeks. Livia also has a sweet new website. Check it out.
And last night I worked coat check at an awards show for hedge funds! If you thought the Oscars were boring, then you should have been there last night when they handed out the award for Best Global Equity Hedge Fund. I shit you not.
Now….On to the Goats!!!! (For those of you oblivious to why I’ve had so many goats on my site lately, I suggest you check out this post for all the pertinent information.) For those who know the score, rest assured, GoatLady came through again this week, sending me another sweet-ass goat that will melt your cold and shrivelled hearts. Once again, I can’t do the email justice, so I’ll paste it in verbatim:
“Well now- we can’t have you feeling goatless! Since no one else has sent you a goat this week- here ya go!
This is Zenbar, Born March 1 2006 -here as a 3 day old pygora goat kid- Styling IN his coat- thank you very much!
BabyGirl sends her best!
goatlady”
What?! Look at how this goat is POSING! He’s got one foot up and he’s wearing a tie-dye coat!
Good Lord, I nearly went crazy with joy when I received this at 2 in the morning the other night. It’s freaking unbelievable how cute this goat is. I’m sending him to Cute Overload. If that goat doesn’t make your week, then you might as well kill yourself because you’re already dead inside. That will do it for the roundup. Have a good weekend, jokers.
Go ahead, guess. Nope. Higher. No. Even higher. You know what, just stop guessing because you’ll never get it. I can bench press 50 air conditioners. You heard me right. Fifty air conditioners. You know how much 50 air conditioners weighs? About 8 bathtubs. 8 of them, man. What’s that you say? You have no idea how much one bathtub weighs, let alone eight, and therefore, you’re unable to fully comprehend how much I’m capable of benching? Okay, I’ll break it down a little more for you so you can get a grip on my power.
800 back issues of Time Magazine. That’s how much 8 bathtubs weigh, homes. 800 issues! That’s 16 years of Time. I’m talking Jimmy Carter’s inauguration all the way up to the first Gulf War. You want to read about “Baby Jessica?” How about the Iran-Contra affair? Maybe a puff piece on the making of E.T. is more to your liking? Well, shit, come on down to my weight room and flip through one of the issues that’s currently being pushed away from my torso. ‘Cause I’m not reading ‘em, dude. I’m pressing ‘em.
I’m talking the clawfoot kind! Times 8!
Tell you what, don’t come down to my weight room. You standing around down there would just fuck up my rhythm. I’ll just give you this handy conversion chart, and then you can spend the rest of your weekend marvelling at the objects I’m able to bench.
50 Air Conditioners
or
8 Bathtubs
or
800 Issues of Time
or
300 Microwaves
or
50,000 Goose Down Pillows
or
9 Clones of Myself(I’m guessing)
or
75 Heavy Duty Filing Cabinets
or
10,000 Copies of Pearl Jam’s Ten
Taste it!
There will be a new goat up later today. It will change your life.
Last night, I tried to catch the mouse that’s been scurrying around my apartment for the last couple weeks. I dug out my trusty mouse traps, baited one with peanut butter, and waited. Then, at around 4am, I heard what sounded like some rustling in the kitchen. “Yes!” I said to myself. “That mouse is going after the peanut butter, and will be smashed by my trap. Victory!” Then I fell asleep.
This morning, I found all of the peanut butter had been eaten and the trap had been pushed to the other side of the room. It was as if the mouse ate the peanut butter, got angry there was none left, and hurled the trap against the wall out of frustration. Does anyone know if peanut butter gives mice super strength? Or if it’s like crack to them, and when they can’t get anymore, they fly into addictive rages? The thought of a muscle-bound, strung-out mouse begging me for more peanut butter in the middle of the night will probably keep me from sleeping for the rest of the week. And if any of my stereo equipment goes missing, I’ll know who to blame.
Either this guy seriously overestimated the versatility of Cardinals apparel, or he’s so excited for baseball season that he’ll cheer for anything:
“Whooo! Let’s go Cardinals. This is our year! Pujols for MVP! Also, let’s stop abortion!! Now! C’mon everybody! Let them hear you! Here we go Cardinals, here we go! Here we go, Cardinals-IT’S A CHILD, NOT A CHOICE! Yeaaarrgh! St. Louis rules! What do you mean, my attire is completely inappropriate for this hot button political issue protest? Darrell Porter signed this jacket, I’ll have you know! Screw you, baby killer! No, you shut up! No, you! Ah, I wish Kurt Warner still played here. He would get me.”
To be fair to this guy, I have to admit I marched in a lot of anti-war protests back in 2003 wearing my Bills Zubaz.
Here’s the news story, and here’s zubazpants.com. It’s a sports site written by a bunch of people in Buffalo who are obsessed with zubaz. We will soon be friends.
How do I know? Because he’s been leaving coded messages for his spy friends in our sink. Here’s how.
Whenever my roommate cooks something, he’ll wash about half of the dishes that he uses. The rest sit in the sink for a few days. But he never washes the same combination of dishes. Sometimes he’ll clean a pan and spatula. Other times he’ll clean the plate and utensils. I’ve been studying these messages for weeks now and I think I’ve cracked the code:
Unwashed Spoon and Pot = Meet me at the rendezvous point at 800 hours.
Unwashed Spatula and Plate = Get to the safe house!
Unwashed Pasta Fork, Cheese Grater, and Plate = The Iranians have the bomb.
I suppose it’s possible that my roommate is not a secret agent and he’s just trying to fool me into thinking that he’s doing the dishes by washing a small percentage of them, but I doubt it. I honestly believe he’s helping to hunt down terrorists. As for my messages to him, I like to leave them in the most passive-agressive way possible: by posting them on my website. Don’t worry, though, we’ll work out a compromise.
Astute readers of this site will probably point out that this post bears a striking resemblance to this one. It’s called self-plagiarizing. Taste it!
