Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Apples or Bananas?

And so it is, the second ever installment of your favorite horribly interesting and sometimes grammatically incorrect column entitled Which is better?

This one's easy. Granny Smith? Golden Delicious? McIntosh? Whatever. Any way you slice it (if you didn't catch that awesome punmanship it's because my use of language is so subtly perfect and effortless, it smoothly and seamlessly rolls right over you like hot shower water cascading over your slender shoulders, and down your taut, naked back) my answer is Apples.

Bananas are soft and pasty. And stringy. You don't even really chew them. You gum them.

Apples, on the other hand, are crunchy and crisp. Plus, they don't remind you of that one time you accidentally ate a penis.


previously
Which is better? Squares or Circles?

Dear Evil... dude, i linked you after copyranter pointed me here. i don't see no posts about us. what the hell man? where's the warm wet blog love?

This is more of a series of questions than a single question. And a hardly intelligible one at that. But I will still answer it. For I am Evil Discussor, discusser of all things. Things both large and small. And also things that are just the size of Montreal. Because it rhymes. But, man, your question is so long, I had to cut it down and edit it just to get it to fit. And you call yourself a writer, concha.


As I commented earlier, I do have a lot of warm, wet blog love to give. So much, it often overwhelms me. And indeed you linked me, and I thank you. And all others who have sent some linkage my way. But you did not love me in a full-on day's love posting a la TIWWDN. And there is quite a large difference between "linking" and "loving," yes?

Or, as they would say in the very earliest olden days of blogging:

"To link or be linked tis but an insignificant trifle (and I don'st mean the dessertest) whenst thouest comparest such a common act to thy loving act of being lovingly writ upon in an entire dayseth bloggeth entry, for then thou that is truly being loved, in the truest senseth of the wordeth loveth, and so be it such that it is, and so it is said, and henceforth let it be writ, for ere and a fortnight yonder, now, i musteth retreat to my quarters."

Anyways, here. Here's a post entirely for you. Here's some wetly warm, hearty and delicious, tastily magnificent, magically spectacular, tingle in the genitals blog love.


Bye,
E.D.


By the way, you might think I just posted this because I'm tired and lazy and it got me out of actually having to think or write or do anything today. But that's not true. Not at all. That's just plain crazy talk. It's because I have a tremendous amount of respect for you and everything you do. And you know that.

Please enjoy all four hits you very well might receive from this, and let me know how it goes.

previously
Dear Evil Discussor... Who's got the second bestest blog on the webby web web?

Dear Evil Discussor... Who would you like to hump this Hump Day?

Maybe it's because of your big brown eyes. Maybe it's because of your effortless charm. Maybe it's because you have the same last name as your co-host. Maybe it's because you're so crazily fucking chipper at 7 am. Maybe it's the way you fold your arms in this picture as if to say, "I may be cute, but I mean business, k?" Maybe it's because you anchored the live coverage of the burial of Yasser Arafat. Or maybe it's just because this morning, when I woke up, you were there. And one of us, and I'm not saying who, was in our undies.


That's right. Soledad O'Brien, today, you are my Hump Day Hussy.

previously
Who would I like to hump this Hump Day? Phoebe Cates.

Dear Evil Discussor... What do you dream of at night?

I dream of rocketships and spacemen.
I dream of tiny dancing gnomes.
I dream of flying over the city and squares like a big beautiful birdie.
I dream of soft billowy clouds made of air.
I dream of butterflies and bonsai trees and blowjobs.
I dream about writing blogs about dreams. And write about dreaming blogs about writing.
I dream of flight attendants. But not the man ones. The lady ones.
I dream of them reaching over my aisle seat to pass a drink to the guy by the window and smothering me with their immense lady-ness.
I dream of you and me, holding hands, running free through Blogtown, a magical land of blogs where instead of working, we blog. Instead of driving cars, we drive words. And instead of living in houses, we live in cabins.
I dream about finally consummating every single last relationship I ever had that I never had a chance to consummate. And by "consummate" I mean "fuck."
I dream about grilled cheese and bacon.
I dream about gravy.
I dream about grilled cheese and bacon dipped in gravy.
I dream about a potato chip flavor called "Grilled Cheese and Bacon Dipped in Gravy."
I dream about dipping that chip in gravy.
Then I dream about putting it in a grilled cheese and bacon.
Fuck, I'm hungry.


Okay,
E.D.

previous post about bacon
Dear Evil Discussor... Are you eating the world's largest salad right now?

previous post not about bacon
Dear Evil Discussor... Is the new Cuisinart Coffee-On-Demand Coffee Maker the greatest invention ever invented?

Dear Evil Discussor... Who's got the second bestest blog on the webby web web?

That's easy. ThisIsWhatWeDoNow.com. Not because it's hilarious and filled with hilarious hilarity each and every hilarious day. No. Because he linked to me yesterday. And that makes him awesome. Plain and simple. And now I'm his best friend. Later, we're going to see a movie. You see, it's easy. Love me, and I'll love you right back. That's how it works. He leads about 14,000 readers to me, and I will dutifully now lead both of my readers to him.

TIWWDN said some of the sweetest things anyone has ever said about little old Evil. Really... sweet... ass... things.

Excuse me. Have to regain my composure. And pull my shit together. Because I kid you not, this shout out has reduced me to tears. Big fat evil teardrops. Rolling down my cheeks as I write this and drippity dripping on the keys while I tap tap away, comforted in the warmth of my newfound fame and glory. The Evil Discussor doesn't like to cry. But sometimes he can't help it.

Honestly, it's nice to be noticed and appreciated by such a funny and smart and insanely good blog like TINWDT. But I don't want to get all soft here. I want to get hard. Which I do each time I read this post:
thisiswhatwedonow.com

Which is what you should do right now. And love it. And love me. And love WTIDND. And fuck, love each other, dammit. It's a mean scary world out there, but here in blogland, there's a lot of love. A lot of love to give. A lot of love to take. A lot of love to be had. A lot of wet, warm, delicious blog-love.

Yours,
E.D.

previously:
Dear Evil Discussor... Who's got the most bestest blog on the webby web web?

Dear Evil Discussor... Why do most real estate brokers look like they just had a crack sandwich for lunch?

I know that in order to attract potential buyers and sellers, it's important that real estate brokers make themselves look pleasant and approachable in their photos. But come on. Must they always look like someone's taped their eyelids back Clockwork Orange-style and just shoved an insanely happy crazy stick up their poopers?



I mean, first off, these people are clearly completely wacko. Certainly not fit to be entrusted with your future housing situation.





And secondly, nobody's ever been this happy in their lives. Ever. Not after sex. Not after the Red Sox won. Not after the birth of their children. Not after passing the world's largest kidney stone. Maybe once, when this guy I knew from high school came to visit and finally got the fuck out of my apartment after three weeks was I this happy. Maybe.



I don't know. What makes them so giddy? What could possibly explain this ever present shit-eating grin? Oh yeah. Money. I'd probably be this annoyingly happy too if I knew I was going to make a broker's fee equivalent to, like, 8 months rent off of every sucker that walked through the door. Not to mention a gazillion thousand million from every sale.



For me, and maybe you would agree, it would be fine if a broker just displayed a friendly smile in their photo, or some subtle expression conveying warmth and a certain amount of affability, instead of intensely staring deep into my dark soul and boring a hole out of my back with their crazily creeptastic eyes, like some character in a M. Night Shamalama movie. I don't really need that in a broker. In fact, I don't really need much. Just maybe someone whose got some listings I can look at pronto and maybe won't make me come to their office and fill out one of those annoyingly useless long-ass forms before they show me anything. That would be nice. But what I definitely don't need is to rest my housing future in the quivering hands of a teeth-baring, eyes-staring, crack-happy, cracked-up, crack-face broker. Like her. So clearly full of crack sammies, I had to show her again.




Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What's going on today?

I wore shorts today to work for the first time. It's something I never thought I'd ever do. But, you know, I guess, like Al Gore says, sometimes you just have to roll with global warming. And I feel like I've crossed a threshold. From someplace to someplace else. Like most threshold crossings go, I suppose. And I'm scared. Scared of the future. Scared of what's to come. Everything's so different now. So unknown. So pantless.

And so pale. My little leggies haven't seen the sun in a long long time. I wonder what's next? Will there come a day soon when I will wear a spaghetti strap tank top to work? Or worse, no shirt at all?

Probably.

And that, my sweet dear friends, will be a very, very, very, very sexy day.

Very.


Always,
E.D.

previously, and somewhat loosely relatedly:

On disliking shorts
On buying new pants
On tucking in my shirt

Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Squares or Circles?

And thus begins yet another new, ridiculously slapdash column in this here somewhat amazing, often-entertaining, often-not, off and on, hit or miss blog, entitled Which is better? wherein I lay upon your weary, soft-like heads, the one, true, absolute, unequivocally irreversible, irreversibly unequivocal, inarguably irrefutable, irrefutably farfafiddlediddle, and so on and so forth, simple answer to a hotly-debated topic, a hot-button issue that is of great interest to the scientific community writ large (I have no idea what that means or if I'm using it correctly. I can only hope for the best) and the world in general and its many varied peoples at this very moment in time, generally using no more than two or three words at most. Sometimes even one.

Squares.

Please feel free to agree or disagree with today's answer. But remember. Your opinion is just an opinion. But my opinion is just right.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why is this Wednesday different from all other Wednesdays?

Because, on this Wednesday, I cordially invite you to the unveiling of my newest weekly column, in which I answer the oh so pressing question, Who Would You Like To Hump This Hump Day?

Introducing a weekly Wednesday hump day foray into the hottie, the honey, the heartbreaking horndog Hump Day Hussy I'd like to hump each hump day! Starting with this here very hump day!

It's exciting! Can you feel the excitement? It's fucking all around you! Feel that? No? Wait. Yes! That was it! The excitement!


And now. For the inaugural kick-off. I festively present to you. My initial. Somewhat obvious. Entry! The very first HUMP DAY HUSSY!



And so it is written. On this, the first ever Hump Day, I'd like to hump Fast Times-era Phoebe Cates.

Dear Evil Discussor... What's with all the cats?

Don't know if you've noticed, but the storefront on the southeast corner of 49th and Madison, where an old, stuffy, smelly, over-priced pharmacy used to be, is now a home to like 14 or so cats. It's part of some Meow Mix over-the-top, stunt-like advertising expenditure involving a reality show for cats where the cats live together for a week in this lovely little house-like environment, calmly strolling around, stretching out on quilts or rugs or bunk beds, as happy, little troll-like handlers feed them treats and water and stuff their little cat faces with all the Meow Mix they want. And then we vote for our favorite cat or something. Who will win? Who will form an alliance? Who the fuck cares?


There's just something weird about seeing a cat in a store window relaxing on a couch in a custom-built house. It's jarring. And discombobulating. As we all know, animals in New York City store windows should be in cages, preferably crawling through piles of shredded newspaper, all matted, sweaty and disgusting, hopelessly forced to roll in their own filth and feces, clawing each other's eyes out and clambering all over each other's backs, while we stand outside, incessantly tapping on the window and pointing and taking pics with our camera phones. Then, at the stroke of five, they should be taken out of the window, locked into rustier cages, and left to roll in more of their own turds for the rest of the night. That's the way it works, right? Anything else is just effed up. Night tables and lamps? Come on. This whole luxuriating in the cool, air conditioned comfort of a faux home is just plain wrong.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why did you tuck in your shirt today?

I don't know. I guess I kind of just felt like it. I never really ever do but something in me was different this morning. Something moved me. Something, most likely God, said to me, "Wake up, sleepyhead! Tis morn. Get your sweet beautiful self out of bed and greet this fucking sweet-ass day! This day is yours, sweetcakes. And yours only. It's going to be a fantastic day, and you know why? Cause you're fantastic, Evil. Crazily fantastic. Crazy crazy fantastic. Fantastic-astic. You're so fucking fantastic it hurts. Some might disagree about how fantastic you are, but, come on, I'm God. And who are they? Nobodies, that's who. Nobodies who evidently like to argue with God. And because of this, I will smite them with my mighty smoting fists of death. But that's later. For now.. what was I saying... yes... you are fantastic. But you know what would make you even more fantastic? If you would tuck your shirt in your pants today."



And I guess that's why I did. And I feel good. Really good. I'm more upright. More handsome than usual. More svelte. Or svelter. Or more svelter. Whatever. All you need to know is that I'm so damn svelte you might as well call me Svelty, King of the Svelts from now on. Go ahead. I'll answer to it. There's a certain strut to my step. A bounce in my walk. A jiggle in my drawers. An overwhelming air of unfettered confidence. The kind of confidence that comes in knowing that everyone who passes me or has the good fortune to walk behind me, now has a clear, unobstructed view of my rear. My sweetcheeks. My breakfast buns. My hot-cross butt. My evilest ass. And I like that. People should be allowed to see my blueberries more often.

Wouldn't you want to?

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Are you the evilest man in all of Evilstan?

(Pick a good key. Find a hot hot rhythm. Imagine these guys are accompanying your sweet ass. And just belt this one out, motherfuckers!)


Yes, I am the evilest, yes it's true
I am the evilest, how about you?
Are you good are you bad? Are you smart are you dumb?
Do you care not a tad? Do you put things in your bum?

Pencils, erasers, paper and poo
Yes, I am the evilest, how's about you?
Are you happy are you sad? Are you old are you young?
Do you think things are rad? Are you kind of well hung?

Jump down turn around buckle my shoe
Yes, I am the evilest, how about you?
Are you a Morley Safer or a Dan Rather fan?
Are you the evilest man in all of Evilstan?

No.

Cause I am.

So there.

Break it down.

From cock to balls and balls to ass
Fix my roof and cut my grass
Clean my bathroom and scrub my floors
While I spend the weekend with a dozen dirty whores

I'm smarter than smart I'm meaner than mean
I'm better than best and I'm awesome too
That didn't rhyme don't you think I know?
I think I'm smart you think I'm slow

So touch my nipples and my hairy chest
Tetons! Ta-tas! Ten ton breasts!
This is getting dirty blah blah blah
Blah blah blah I'’m tired of this song


Always,
E.D.


Some more songs that are pretty much the same:
Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just spend another morning feverishly rewriting the lyrics to Mambo #5?

Dear Evil Discussor... Who's got the most bestest blog on the webby web web?

Dear Evil Discussor... Why does work suck?

Work sucks because it sucks. Because it was meant to suck. Because, if it didn't suck, they wouldn't call it work. They'd call it non-sucking weekday and sometimes also weekend activity wherein you get paid to do something that doesn't at least half-suck. And that would be ridiculous if they called it that.

Who are "they" anyways? And why are "they" always saying things? "They" should mind their own business once in a while.

But, yeah, work does suck. So much so that sometimes I think it's making me mental. Driving me insane. Making me batty. Screwing me sideways. Driving miss daisy.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Are you okay?

Yes.

Fine, no.

I admit it. My last two posts were a little bit emotional. A little softie soft-like. One, about chopped salad. And the other, about pants and awful inescapable death. I guess I haven't been myself lately. Maybe something changed in me. Maybe its the change of seasons and onset of summer that inevitably make me just a tad bit more introspective. And a whole helluva lot gayer. Or maybe I'm just depressed and don't even know it. One never knows. I do cry during Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. And Dog, The Bounty Hunter. And also throughout Hogan Knows Best. But whatthefuck? Maybe it's just a reality show thing. Anyways, it was just a phase, I swear it. I haven't been completely and totally faggyized. Trust me, I'm still the same old super macho masculine man's man t & a loving Evil Discussor. Oh fuck yeah I am. It's just, well, I mean, I don't know, I guess, it's just that, Evil Discussors have feelings too.

I love you.

















There. I said it. And then I said it again in pictoral form. And I meant it. Both times.

Hold me,
E.D.