thank you so much for being my date at the xbi christmas party.

i had an incredible amount of fun with you!

thanks for having your roommate drive us to the thing, i felt like i was 15 and your mom was taking us to the high school dance.

thanks for daring me to drink one kamakazee after another.

thanks for starting it all off with champagne… and not the champagne of beers like we normally rock it.

thanks for rocking.

thanks for wearing that hot dress and dominatrix shoes which made people forget that even though it was a tie and coat affair that i was wearing sneakers and a sweater that i had just bought at the gap. cuz im a dork.

thanks for reminding me that im a dork.

thanks for eating wolfgang puck pasta and chicken and shrimp with me on the stage.

thanks for not laughing at my ancient dance moves on the disco floor.

thanks for not barfing on me when the bass from Brass Monkey drove us off the floor.

thanks for not laughing at the one dude who brought his transvestite boyfriend.

thanks for waiting out in the cold with me for 20 frigid minutes in line as they patted down everyone before they entered the xbi party.

thanks for dancing on the table with that one super hot chick.

thanks for giving her my number.

thanks for getting that limo to pull over and drive us first to your house and then to mine.

thanks for knowing that you were my fifth pick to accompany me last night and being probably the best date i could have had at that particular bash.

i love you.

youre the best!

signed,

drunky mcdrunken aka harry st. hangover

p.s. thanks for the cute lil kiss goodnight on my cheek. it made me tingle.

more pics from last night

thats on the web from the “war” in iraq.

now you know that here on the busblog we dont talk about the war because of several reasons, biggest being that it is a bush-backed sham created to distract the voters that our president failed miserably in finding osama.

and now hes failing miserably in finding sadaam, any weapons of mass destruction, or a reasonable solution to our economic woes… etc etc.

in the disturbing video there is a wounded iraqi soldier about 20 feet away from a troop of american soldiers.

the iraqi is on his side, faced away from the soldiers.

the marines begin shooting at him.

they miss twice – which is frightening and explains alot

then they shoot him and they all cheer as he dies.

it’s an ugly and unfair part of war that if i was a different blogger i would immediately link to on this post.

my question to you is, is this something that you think i should be linking on the busblog?

it is a part of the american story that we’re all telling in our little ways, but admittedly it could easilly be out of context.

not sure how, but it could be.

and trust me when i say that i admire anyone willing to put themselves in harms way to protect the interests of the united states of america, but i dont think that excludes me from asking why it takes three-four shots to kill a guy twenty feet in front of them who is laying still.

maybe the person knew he was doing the wrong thing.

feel free to discuss.

la encantada + gorilla mask + the ward

dear tony pierce.

from some web location i clicked a link that sounded like someone’s name i recognized from back when i was in high school and two of my teachers conspired to sneak me in fee-free to a poetry class at CCS.

this tony pierce dude wrote poetry like i’d never seen before in my sheltered high school kinda existence. (suburbs of santa barbara, farmer’s daughter, prep school: can’t get much more sheltered than that.)

so i found the busblog, and have lurked for a couple of weeks and marveled at how many girls probably do dance naked for you in front of their webcams.

but just lately i’ve been so happy to be reading more poetic words from you. the same tony pierce, i know cuz you posted a picture.

you always seemed very prolific, and i can’t say this about many people in that class i had with you, but i kept those xeroxed copies of your poems.

truly, i am not saying this because you’re a world-famous blogger with international groupies (because – don’t take this personally, but if you do, then take it as a compliment – i could give a shit) but because you are one of those poets who inspired me to say, hey, i can be one too.

you had such a distinct voice that made me fervently wish that i too would eventually grow into my own voice (at the time it was all quite self-consciously trying not to be hi-skool poetry and sadly failing). and i can actually conjure up lines from some of them, like: it’s falling i feel it the wheel started shaking and something something something the kids are out making and now it is raining your troubles on me (ok, close? but not quite.)… but i don’t go around memorizing poetry. it just sticks sometimes.

so i just wanted to say i’m glad i ran into you again even though i never actually knew you, and even tho i probably sound like a stalker (i’m not, don’t worry), and even tho you probably get thousands of emails from adoring girls who even send you naked pictures (good on ya, by the way).

but hi, from an admirer who digs on your brilliant, brilliant words.

signed,

jessica

chelle + stop breathing + gilliam

had fun this morning. probably wont have fun today. but i will have fun tonight.

anna kournikova called me last night. i was watching no doubt on the billboard awards at the time.

she wasnt happy with what i wrote about her the other day.

she wanted to let me know that our private conversations are not fodder for the blog, the internet, or anything.

i told her to complain to her husband.

she told me that he wasnt her husband any more and that maybe they never got married in the first place.

i told her i wasnt interested in her gemini behavior.

she said what gemini behavior.

i said all this dating this guy dating that guy marrying this russian hockey player- sorta, marrying that latin boybander – sorta.

she said, enrique was never in a boyband.

i was all, wasnt he in menudo.

she said, no!

i said, i coulda sworn he was.

she was all, quit mixing him up with ricky martin.

i was all, my tivo is waiting.

she was all, sometimes youre the biggest dick.

i was all, thats not necessarilly a bad thing.

she was like fuck you tony pierce

i was like again anna what you are saying sounds like an invitation. it sounds like youre begging for it, and not a put down.

then she yelled, maybe i am begging for it but youre being such an asshole.

then i said ok thats an irrefutable putdown, but i dont get it on with married chicks.

then she said some mean things in russian.

i said, do not put those old school iron curtain curses on me.

and then she started sobbing.

im such a sucker for crying girls. ashley used to get me all the time with that.

but she taught me that when girls start crying to just hang up.

which i did.

and it sounded like this.

click.

hi, craigslist chicago + hi vodkapundit + hi, baldilocks

but in los angeles county the health department does inspections of restaurants and bars and places that sell food, and assigns a grade based on the cleanliness, or lack thereof, of the establishment.

if they find vermin, unsatisfactory refrigeration devices, no hot water, or adulterated food, they will deduct points from the score and calculate a grade. any grade of an A to a C will allow you to stay in business. the grade gets put on your front window and you go on your little way.

if you get less than a C, they shut your ass down until you fix your shit and get it together.

the day before thanksgiving 1997, right around when this program was put into practice, one of the oldest and finest diners in los angeles, a downtown eatery called the pantry was found to be lacking and it was shut down from the first time since it opened in 1924. the pantry, you see, is a twenty-four hour a day diner whose motto ironically enough is “always open, never without a customer.”

also interesting is that the pantry is owned by former mayor dick riordan, who was the la mayor at the time his historic eatery was shut down.

some people wont go to a restaurant that has a C on the window. some people are even sketched out by Bs.

i couldnt care less either way. you can have a good day the day the health inspector shows up, that doesnt mean you deserve your grade.

i think this is why its a good idea to pray before each meal.

miss montreal is over here. we did my laundry. we tivoed ryan and tristas wedding. she watched it while i tried to stop myself from jumping out a window.

now we’re watching the billboard awards.

how can television get away with being so bad?

there needs to be a health inspector for tv shows.

ryan and tristas wedding should have shut down that entire network for being shallow and bogus and overdone and so cheesy that children shouldnt have been allowed to be corrupted by it.

now they have jessica simpson and nick hosting the billboard awards with ryan seacrest in the crowd.

both shows deserve fs

the president should be allowed to veto this shit.

my tivo should allow me to give thumbs up or thumbs down at the end of a show cuz neilsen ratings just showed you how many people watched it, they dont tell you if they liked it.

now the cast of the oc are presenting a billboard award.

now i am pouring myself a tall drink.

great photo by marc brown

last year me and ashley had a good thing going and she and i went together.

this year i havent really hung out with her much for a variety of reasons, one being that she has a boyfriend who shes into. but because we had so much fun last time, i figured i would extend an olive branch and take her.

she asked me if i would be able to keep my hands to myself. i asked her if she would be able to keep her hands to herself.

we both realized that we wouldnt be able to keep our hands to ourselves and since we hadnt been intimate in a year the volcano of lustful passion would probably errupt all over the dancefloor, into the mens room, on top of a table, across the spread that will be catered by mr wolfgang puck and probably into the alleyway behind the white lotus as the rain poured down and our animalistic sillouhettes merged beneath a spotlight.

so i asked miss montreal if she would go with me. she said she’d rather not. didnt explain why and i didnt ask. people shouldnt have to explain themselves.

i then im’ed my true love. she doesnt have a man any more. she said i should ask karisa. i said, why dont you want to be my date (my true love i can dig for reasons with, she never takes it the wrong way). i forget what she said, but she reminded me that i hadnt hung out with karisa in a while, so i asked karisa.

karisa asked me if i had asked anna kournikova. i think my exact words were fuck anna kournikova. then she asked me if i had asked paris hilton, i told her that paris was out of town.

so karisa said, hmmm.

i said, if you say no i will probably go with ashley and she and i will make passionate love in the club, on the club, in the street, in the subway and then ontop of her red miata.

karisa said, doesnt she have a boyfriend?

i said yeah.

so karisa said, ok, i will go with you. cheating is not cool.

and thats how i got my date for tomorrow nights xbi christmas party.

kruftbox + ten gallon hat + hosemonster

let me say a few things about how i feel about kwanza, since its approaching and all.

fuck fucking kwanza.

motherfuckers.

kwanza.

our fucking dude was born and youre going to even for a second whip out some fucking bullshit kwanza nonsense.

motherfucking santa claus wasnt enough?

my bro ian drove me home today from work. we were going to the mountainside hollywood hills secret lair so usually we just go straight up wilton.

wilton north of beverly has some kickass homes. two million dollar ones. million dollar ones. big ones. bigger ones.

huge ones.

on some of the huge ones i saw some equally huge christmas decorations. i saw a blowup snowman that was at least a story tall and twenty feet wide.

i saw christmas lights the size of footballs.

and yes, i saw some gigantic images of santa claus.

of all the people in the world who should be saying, man im glad you were born, my lord, it would be them.

but instead they celebrate the birth of their messiah with huge images of winnie the pooh wearing a fake white beard

like fools.

and then theres kwanza.

one thing black people can do well is praise jesus. we do it better than anyone in the world. the music we make when we do it might be the most magical of all music, the preachers we have might be the best there ever were, and the clothes we wear to church are the sharpest.

then on the flip side we have our brothers and sisters who are muslim, and watch them pray. they win at praying. they win at pilgrimiging. they win at letting their spirituality become a solid and regular part of their lives.

with those two options, theres no need for any damn kwanza. some watered down bullshit made up strip mall phony holiday so you can wear a koofi? fuck that shit. we need to focus up on the biggest birthday of the year. we dont need no stinkin kwanza getting in the way.

black folk, the racists want us to have kwanza. it makes us look ridiculous and lost. kwanza represents something missing from being Christian. racists dont want black folk being Christian. they dont want to be equals to us. they dont want to share beliefs, they dont want to have anything to do with us, cuz they know that familiarity destroys ignorance, and only the ignorant can remain hateful.

worst thing you could do to a racist is go to his church, stand next to his daughter, sing the songs better, know the word better, and exclusively talk about america as if its your home and has been for hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years longer than him.

watch him smile when you talk about africa, cuz thats where he wants you.

keep your koofi.

pass the turkey.

read the bible.

f old santa

and the kwanza

and the reign deer

and the pooh bear.

and the sleigh bells

and the dead trees.

get on your knees

thank the savior

wrap your presents

say your dumb prayers.

jack bog + negrophile + uppity negro

is theyre always pissed off at something. we were watching Average Joe last night and for most of the two hour finale they were going on and on about how all the guys shoulda been black or all of them shoulda had like ten inch schweens or lisps.

if you hadnt watched the show, basically it was about a hot model who thinks that she was going to be courted by 14-15 hot single men who she would vote off one by one until she found her true love. it turned out that the men were single, but they were less-than-average in the looks dept. half way through the show, however, the producers introduced three model-looking guys who competed for her attention versus the remaining men.

last night two men remained: the final average joe, and the last handsome dude.

the monkeys complained that it was obvious that the former cheerleader was going to pick the average joe, especially once it became known to her that he was a self made millionaire and was loved by all his friends and family and coworkers.

they screeched that like duh she was gonna pick the funny, sincere, normal one instead of the prettyboy who lived at home who became her bitch immediately while they ate their jerk chicken next to the sea.

they were so bored with what they thought was a sure thing that for the better half of the show they played cards, groomed each other, worked on their needlepoint, or secretly masturbated.

then when we least expected it she picked the pretty boy and youve never seen such pissed off primates.

one of them just stared at the box and said

what the fuck

over and over and over

like hed lost a bet or something.

like it was he who she passed over.

the television was quickly covered by angry banana and marlboro smelling monkey dung, then one of em threw a rocking chair at it, then it exploded and caught fire. the monkeys jumped up and down and started swinging from the chandeliers and showing their teeth but soon the smoke filled the small break room and those that didnt run out either became nauseous and pukey or simply passed out like a bum.

this morning they were still doing nothing but bitching about the show.

what were we to learn from that shit? one of them asked.

(typically one would remember the names of those who worked for one but not me, i call all the monkeys monkey and they all call me asswipe.)

are we to believe, he continued, that not money or personality or good jokes or normalcy or profesional success can trump a sissyboy from the oc?

he inhaled from his cigar stump, held it, and exhaled.

fuck them if thats what theyre trying to say to us and fuck the new average joe, the monkey spat as he watched previews of the next season of the show.

i could see his eyes close and his teeth clench and i was all dont you dare shit in your hand and throw it at that tv, thats my tv, if youre going to throw your shit at anything throw it at your tv which is now smoldering in your break room.

and he did.

tiffany + coyote at the great wall + sahalie