Evil Discussor

Dear Evil Discussor... Is your blog really starting to suck balls?

2006-10-31T13:54:00.000-05:00

Yes. Though some might argue it has sucked balls for a very long time. Perhaps, even sucking balls since its inception. And the fact that I myself wrote this question makes it even somehow more ball-suckier, wouldn't you say? This blog sucks balls in the way a guy might desperately try to suck his own balls, but never actually achieve his ball-sucking goal, always just barely unable to reach his balls for to ball-suck. See what I mean? My point exactly. Ball-sucky. If you're even still reading this ball-sucking blog, then I feel somewhat sorry for you. Perhaps it means that you too are, in some way, trying to suck your own balls (or if you're a lady, your lady-balls), each day hoping that your neck might crane just that little bit further, your lips might get that little bit closer, your metaphorical ball-sucking dream might get that little bit realer. But with each and every new day, the disappointing reality that you will never realize that dream. That your balls will always be hanging just that little bit out of reach. That you are not as nimble as you hoped and thought you might be. Or perhaps it just means that you're bored at work. Me, I only wish that that analogy had made any sense, that I could've wrapped up that thought just a little better, and that maybe, that that last paragraph wasn't so long.

Truth is, babycakeses, the joy is gone. I don't feel much like blogfucking anymore. You might come knocking, but the answer will now be "No, Evil cannot come out and play." And no, this is no desperately sad cry for attention goodbye tomfakery like last time. This is the real deal, my blogface doucheheaded blogtard nation. See, I can't keep up this demanding blog schedule. Emotionally, it's too draining. Nor do I care for you so much anymore, my sweet sad beautiful wildebeests. It sounds harsh, but come on, I called you "sweet sad beautiful wildebeests," and that's pretty loving, yes? I've let you toy with my lovestick for a while, but now you must let go of it. You must let go of my lovestick. You must. I've loved you all, but now, must yank my love away. Like a newborn babe from its mother's tender and swollen teet. And though it might cause us both much grief and unimaginable pain, and though that 'swollen teet' bit was pretty unnecessary, such is such, and so it is, and also, be that as it may. Besides, I conquered this bitchface of a blogworld, and now must move on to other forms of conquerage and recreation. Mourn me. Miss me. Dis me. Kiss me. Love me. Love me. Say that you love me. Or just pretend that you love me. I don't care. The dream is over. The douche has landed. The fucknose rides again. Does anyone else want to write this? Does anyone else want to go through the pain and anguish, the mental slavery, the suffering involved in coming up with the funny, the hilarious hilarity, the evilocity, every day or four? Cause little old Evil sure don't. He believes it's time he puts an end to this blogfoolery.

Who was Evil? Who was the man you loved and adored and dreamed of fellating? Who you shared your each and every morning with during those wonderfully fleeting, sepia-toned, wistfully hazy days of Spring/Summer/Fall '06? Who was he? Where did he come from? And why the fuck why? How did his blogstar rise so immediately, yet, like a Nigerian airliner, crash and burn just as fast? What powers did he possess, besides the power of sucking bad? Why must he leave so soon? Will he be back? Will we ever meet again? Has he even really left? Was he even ever here? Where'd he go? And, who the fuck really cares?

No one will ever know the answers to these questions, mon freres. No one.

Well, actually, not true. I will. But still. That doesn't help you, really.

So, yeah. Anyways. OK. Bye.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Have you ever posted a question and not given an answer?

2006-10-27T08:58:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-25T14:43:00.000-04:00

Rachel McAdams or Ryan Gosling. Either one. Or both. Right there in the arrivals terminal. I'd hump them both in the face.

Dear Evil Discussor... Where are you? It's been almost a week with no new posts.

2006-10-25T10:21:00.000-04:00

Firstly, stop whining. Secondly, thanks for asking. And tershiarily, I'm too lazy and bored to respond, so instead, will respond by linking you to a response I responded with many, many responses ago, way before you even loved me, you sad, little, blog-reading, me-loving sad person.

Dear Evil Discussor... Were you away for a week?

I'm back!
E.D. rides again!
Dr. Fucknuts lives!
El Dickface returns!
Up yours!

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

2006-10-18T10:04:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's because you have breasts. Or maybe it's, well, just because you have breasts.

Anything with breasts, today you are my Hump Day Hussy.

previous Hump Day Hussaliciousness
Cute Little Squirrel
Verizon Customer Service Representative
Concha Libre, Blogger
N.Y.P.D. Commissioner Ray Kelly
Woman in the Next Cubicle
Entire 60 Minutes Gang of Correspondents
Lucy Van Pelt
Soledad O'Brien
Phoebe Cates

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this whole schizophrenic thing of you asking yourself questions and then answering them growing tired and meaningless?

2006-10-16T11:58:00.000-04:00

Well, I don't ask all of them. Some of them are actual questions that are asked of me by my loyal readership and other retards. But, I do ask some of them. Like, this one, for instance. So, yeah, Me. Maybe the answer to your question is yes. But mind your own fucking business, douchewad.

Dear Evil Discussor... What are some of the even weirder-ass web searches that have led to this site?

2006-10-13T17:29:00.000-04:00

Weird-Ass Web Search Update! Weird-Ass Web Search Update!

nipplage blog

This morning, someone in Gurgaon, India, in the beautiful state of Haryana, found this site by typing "nipplage blog" into Google. What? Ok. Yes. Fine. Now, I can't really comment on the flagrantly meaningless and pathetic endeavors people spend hours upon hours pursuing on the world wide web, seeing as I am right now writing this very weak and sad piece of drivel. But I can say this. The stereotypes are true. Those Indians are a smart bunch. Clearly well-read and well-spoken. Nipplage! How very proper of you, kind gent. And may your search for blogs about nipples be both pleasant and fortuitous, my very strange but well-spoken Indian nipple-fiend fetishy friend. If I was but a xenophobic racist assface douche, I might say, "Please, come again." But I'm not. So I won't.

Dear Evil Discussor... Was last week's Special Speed Round Question Day a total success or an utter failure?

2006-10-12T07:23:00.000-04:00

Well, first of all, thanks for asking. Remember Special Speed Round Question Day Round Question Thing Speed Day Thing? I do. I remember it quite fondly. Let's take a second now just to remember how awesome it was. Yes. That's right. If my memory serves me well, I remember it to be awesome. Also, I remember its awesomeness. And I do recall, as well, how truly awesomely awesome it was. Yeah, I'd say it was a success. No. It was more than that. The word success does it justice not. It was so fucking successful, I'd say it was a fuckcess. So fucking fuckcessful, that I'm writing another post about it right now. And the fucking thing was over a fucking week ago. That's how crazy awesomely fuckessful it really was. Took me a week to even comprehend its enormity and enormous fuckcessfulness. And no, I'm not just writing this because I have absolutely nothing at all else to write about today, and am totally brain-deaded and douchefaced and fuck-nutted, and so, have had to resort to a slow, sweet stroll down the Boulevard de Nostalgie. It's because I believe something as special and wonderly as Special Question Round Speed Day Ass Fuck is truly worth commemorating. And I'd personally like to thank everyone who participated. It wasn't just me. Alright, fine. It was just me. But it was also, in some very, very, tinily small and insignificant way, all of us. The team. We all made Special Question Round Speed Day Thing Fuck the fuckcess that it was. One hand washes the other, right? Without questions, there are no answers, I think. You asked. And I answered. Brilliantly. Yes, you and me. Together, there ain't nothing we can't never do.

So, thank you. Though, let's never ever ever ever fucking do that again. Because, in retrospect, with the constant back and forth, the day-long communication between us, all the contact between blogmaster and blogtards, this site was essentially one small step away from being some sort of horrible awful chat room. Alright, it was actually no steps away from being some sort of horrible awful chat room. It pretty much was a horrible awful chat room. Which actually makes me totally fucking queasy. To think that, for almost the whole day I was almost in an almost chat room with you. So please, yeah, let's never ever even think of doing that again. In fact, let's forget we even ever did it once. From now on, you live your life, I'll live mine.

But besides all that, and my obvious hate and disrespect for most, if not all of you, here's to future fuckcesses together!

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What are some of the weirder-ass web searches that have led to this site?

2006-10-10T06:35:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, when all my evil deeds are done for the day, when my work is put away and I find myself at rest, I take a gander at the site numbers. That's right. I sit here at Evil HQ, in my Evil Underground Lair, in front of my Evil Computer, in my Evil Underpants and an Evil Ergonomically-Sound Desk Chair, and I tabulate the hits. The page views and loads. See, I like to know things. Like, how many people are reading this shit? And, for god sakes, why the fuck why? I check the referrals. How did your sweet doucheyface get here? And what the shit is wrong with you? Clearly, some of you come for the unbridled hilarity. Some of you, for the wisdom, wit and insight. And some of you, well, you're just visiting because you happened to type "Hairy stinky fat fucky vagina evil cats + mom" into Google, and somehow wound up on this site.

Here are some of the strangest, and some of the most unfortunate searches that have led this way. Some frighten me. Others, frighten me. And all of them, bar none, make me very much regret the fact that I ever started this blog in the first place, and became a cog in the very sick, often dirty, sometimes sexy wheel that is Al Gore's Internet.

evil dear

you can remove gum from your sidewalk by

FUCKY MOM

picture of evil thing

I+Hate+NYU

gay bulge pics

under gum scraping

blerds

fucky

asperger evil

why does bum smell

girlish hands

Bad smell evil

π

FUCKY MOM

sucky sucky fucky fucky

freaky fucky funny bunny

photos of people with dentures

lyrics "what the fuck chuck"

wonderly hilarious children's jokes

when to hump

Roethlisberger bad stomach ache

look at evil people

why people chew gum

shon gables and the view

trader joes evil

what does evil smell like

evilest man ever

marriage love sex china

sucky fucky 5$

sara Nussbaum

why my sweat smell so bad ?

fart in front of girlfriend wife

And, of course:

fat womens fucky sexy womb photos

Notice the repetition of "FUCKY MOM." Clearly a popular search on the web these days. And who hasn't spent hours on the web trying to compile some children's jokes that are both "hilarious" and "wonderly." Or, better yet, trying to figure out once and for all, "why does bum smell?" I suppose I should feel lucky. And special. And honored. That the totally fucking crazed and sad and disturbed guy/psycho killer who actually typed "fat womens fucky sexy womb photos" into a search engine, obviously looking for sexy photos of fat women's fucky wombs, instead, found me. And then, went on with his merry womb search. How rewarding to be but a passing participant in that searcher's very special wonderful web journey.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Cats or Dogs?

2006-10-06T06:28:00.000-04:00

Dogs.

Do cats play poker?

No.

They hide under beds, and scurry away, and hack up hairballs, and claw at your door, and scratch your face off, and try to climb into your mouth and down your throat when you're sleeping.

look! more of these totally thoughtless useless not even interesting posts that i post when i have nothing at all interesting to say posts!
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Boxers or Briefs?
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Outdoors or Indoors?
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Apples or Bananas?
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Squares or Circles?

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

2006-10-04T09:37:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's because you can climb trees. Maybe it's because of your bushy tail. Maybe it's because you're so damn cute. Maybe it's because you're almost smiling in this picture as if to say "I may look all cute and innocent, but deep down I'm really one frisky mofo." Or maybe it's just because there's nothing in this world you would rather do, than spend all day and all night eating nuts.

Cute Little Squirrel, today you are my Hump Day Hussy.

past Hump Day Hussaliciousness
Hump Day Hussy #8, Verizon Customer Service Representative
Hump Day Hussy #7, Concha Libre, Blogger
Hump Day Hussy #6, N.Y.P.D. Commissioner Ray Kelly
Hump Day Hussy #5, Woman in the Next Cubicle
Hump Day Hussy #4, A 60 Minutes Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3, Lucy Van Pelt
Hump Day Hussy #2, Soledad O'Brien
Hump Day Hussy #1, Phoebe Cates

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this where I will find my Special Speed Round Question Day questions answered?

2006-10-03T09:49:00.000-04:00

Yes. It's Special Speed Round Question Day on Evil Discussor. I am answering your awful questions even as I type this. It's crazy! Trust me on that.

Dear Evil Discussor... Paper or plastic?
The Evil Discussor does not shop for groceries. The Evil Discussor hunts animals for his meat and farms the land for his vegetables. For microwave popcorn and hummos, however, the Evil Discussor uses Fresh Direct.

Dear Evil Discussor... Top or bottom?
Bottom. I'm a voracious reader. And that way I can read as well.

Dear Evil Discussor... Hanging left or hanging right?
Both. My biologically-astounding, genetically-miraculous, dopple-headed, lady-pleasing, pork-machine hangs both ways. Obviously.
On another note, your 'This or That?' style of questioning is beginning to bore my very easily bored evil mind.

Dear Evil Discussor... Do you not have a job?
Yes, amish, I do. But when your job title is Evil Mastermind, you make time for these sorts of things.

Alright fine, I'm only Senior Associate Evillator in charge of Evilocity, but I've heard talk of a promotion.

Dear Evil Discussor... Saline or silicon?
Spellcheck, young anonymous, can be the difference between the abundant brittle nonmetallic chemical element found naturally in sand, granite, clay and many minerals, or, the silicon-based synthetic substance in the form of a heat and water-resistant grease, oil, or plastic, that you use to make big boobies.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is Loyal Anon maybe the lamest and worst anonymous commenter in the history of anonymous commenters, failing so utterly in his attempts at both humor and insight, with comments that make very little grammatical sense, and are generally hard to make any sense of whatsoever, such as the question he just asked, "Is it completely necessary to wash-up after 'domless anal?'" and does he often make you sad, each comment of his leaving you more and more regretful of the fact that you ever started a blog in the first place?
Yes. Absolutely.

Dear Evil Discussor... Did someone actually ask that last question or was that you?
That was me.

Dear Evil Discussor... How about that last one?
Me again. But let's stop this, Brain, or we could go on like this forever, k?

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this what it's come to?
Indeed, Chris, this is what its come to. Or, is this what it always was? And also, were those italics used appropriately or not?

Maybe it's correct, what you infer. That your once great and greatly magnificent blogmaster has been reduced to a pathetic shell of his former self. A circus freak. A sideshow. That he is now the Bearded Lady of Blogging. The Dog-Faced Blogger Boy. That he has become both Ang, and Chang, Siamese Bloggers. Its true. I am the Tri-Titted Wonder. You want to look away, but you can't. You are enthralled, and disgusted, by my metaphorical triple-breasted action. Don't look away, Chris, don't. Not even for a second. Stare at all three of my breasts. Embrace me. Embrace them. They are milky and soft. Pillowy, some say. Like the softest soft clouds. Go ahead. Touch them. For free, this time. You know you want to.

But more importantly, let's get back to embracing me. As I am. As the pathetic, snivelling, attention starved blogster with, clearly, way too much time on his hands, that I have always been. Love that. Love me. Love love.

Dear Evil Discussor... What is the sound of one hand clapping?
I don't know, Copyrantyface. But I do know this. I am amazing at what I do. And this here rapid fire question ingestion session is an obvious testament to the powers of my undeniable blogging prowess. And you, you are not half bad either, CR. Each day, "doing your thing" for all of the world's enjoyment and entertainment. Enterjoyment, really. Or, likewise, Enjoytainment, if preferred. Scuse me if I get a little emotional here, but this whole Special Speed Round Question Special Day Thing has drained me a tad, leaving me a wee bit nostalgic, in a 'weeping on the floor naked in the prone position' kind of way. May I just say, on behalf of the whole blogging community: God bless you, Ranter. Bless your sweet little ranting heart. And bless every one of your posts. Even the really half-baked awful ones. Those dreadfully boring ones that you clearly just mail in to fill some sort of personal quota. God bless those ones too.

Dear Evil Discussor... Are you a "Freegan"?
and
Dear Evil Discussor... Again... Are you a "Freegan"?
In response to both of your questions, New Anonymous Retard, maybe I am, maybe I’m not. But one thing’s for sure. You are, most definitely, a new anonymous retard.

Also, in the future, try to make your questions slightly different. Makes it more interesting.

Dear Evil Discussor... So, has this been fun for you? (It was for me)
Amish, although it might have seemed like it, we did not just go out on a date. What's next? Are you going to try and kiss me on the porch?

Anyhow, good to know you've enjoyed this. This, my personal test of will and amazing feat of bloggy strength. It is also good to know that my blogging powers know no limits.

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you have online sex with Rep. Mark Foley?
If you want politics, go to The Drudge Report or Wonkette or Ebaum's World Of Extreme Backyard Bareknuckle Fighting and Awesome Motorcycle Wheelies and Also Probably Some Anal Fisting. But leave my current events-free ass alone.

Dear Evil Discussor... Do you and rantypants hang out? I have (sexual) fantasies about having the two of you at the same time.
First, if your fantasies are only brackets sexual, then, I'm afraid that's not quite sexual enough for me.
Second, the idea of my naked manstick anywhere near Copyranter makes me nauseous and disgusted and, fine, a little bit hard.
And third, how do I even know that you're a woman? There's so many freaky deaky dumbheaded fucknosed anonymous commenters around this stinkhole of a blog, that I'm sure would get off on playing the part of a damsel, and probably would love nothing more than to enjoy me and maybe the Copyranter sans-knickers. So you see, I'm a little bit cautious and a tad crazy paranoid about the whole tryst thing. Prove that you're a femfem.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is it Special Speed Round Question Day on Evil Discussor?

2006-10-03T08:20:00.000-04:00

Shit yeah it is!

You ask a question on the comments page. I answer it. Promptly. And in my own indelibly hilarfious fashion. Just like that. All within the hour! Maybe!

It's kind of like how this blog usually works. But faster!

It's crazy. And amazing. And so the fuck am I!

It's fucking freaky awesome! And so the fuck am I! Again!

Right now, as we speak, my fingers are perched ever so slightly above the keyboard, waiting for some crazy furious type-writing action.

Please. Do not make my fingers wait. This will upset them. And trust me, you do not want to upset my fingers.

So, on the count of 3, ask away! Do your worst! Or your best! Whatever the fuck!

1, 2, 3, Go!

I said "Go!" you sweet fucker!

Dear Evil Discussor... What? What the fuck is that thing over there on the right called An Evil Primer?

2006-09-29T11:19:00.000-04:00

Oh, come on, you know what it is. It's a compilation of posts. From the past, present, and future. Some awesome. Some just crazy amazing. Why, even this post is included, and it's barely even passable. It was no easy task, picking posts for inclusion in this Pantheon of Postiliciousness. Especially when you take into consideration that everything I ever do or say or write is magical and inspired or, at the very least, wonderful. But it had to be done. I spent months and months, no, days upon days, fine, about half an hour, laboring over this, my Canon-ish Column of Cocksmanship, seeking and selecting only the finest 'babies,' as I like to call to them. And if you think some posts don't really belong here, please do tell. And then, go fucking critique your own blog, fucklegs. If you don't have a blog, start one, write a bunch of posts, wait a while, then make a greatest hits-like column, and then critique it, fucklegs.

And so, it is decreed, on this, the fifth Friday of September, in the year ought six, that "any and all evil newbie newcomers that doth visiteth this ere evilest site, shall, if turned off by the overwhelmingly lacklustereth and mediocrest nature of that day's most probably horrible awful post, learn, by reading An Evil Primer in its entirety, that once in a very, very, very rare while, something slightly entertaining, or maybe just kind of amusing, or even just halfways not retarded, emerges off the pages of this here virtual web log cyberspace site thing, and that, not only has Evil Discussor been linked by many other blogs that are actually decent, but also, that he is the Evilest Man in all of Evilstan, and sometimes wants to hump someone on Hump Day, and also, is a big fan of pants, and also, couldn't keep up that whole faux-olde english thing through the whole paragraph, but will now return to it. And so it is writ."

Newcomers, may you gently and tenderly be poked and prodded by my eviliciousness! May you spend an entire evening at least reading my carefully constructed passages, and hopefully, touching thyself! May you be de-frocked and de-hymenized by my barely entertaining insight and douchiness! May I never not write one sentence without some sort of sexy metaphor or sexual innuendo! May that double or triple negative fuck you right up as it did me! And may you eventually join the ranks of my astoundingly large, largely incompetent, and oft-times large-breasted, growing fan nation of blerds and other blogtards!

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... How come you don't write so much about pants anymore?

2006-09-28T09:51:00.000-04:00

It's true. I haven't written about pants in a while. And that's sad.

I remember when I used to write about pants. About how much I enjoyed pants. How I loved wearing them, and buying them, and wearing them. I was a lover of the pant, I was. Any sort of pant really. As long as it had two legs and a crotch, it was good by me. (Alright, fine, mainly jeans. And preferably the low-waisted kind of jeans, so as to have a tuft of my pubes hanging over the top- ED) Such sweet days they were, those pant-loving halcyon days. And don't worry, I don't really know what halcyon means either. All I know is, pants loved me, and I, in turn, loved pants.

They were wonderful days. Days of innocence. Of wonderment. Of pants. Way back before I bit from the proverbial apple of temptation and was cast out of the Garden of Pants. Out into the world of experience. Where confusion and doubt are the name of the game. Where self-awareness and sin rule. Where there's no real reason to write about pants anymore. Where there's "more important" things to write about. Like God and cheese fries. Gum and real estate brokers. And, also, sucky fucky.

But maybe it's time. Maybe it's time I turned back the clock. And took back what is rightfully mine. Maybe it's time I pull myself back up on to that pant pedestal and just fucking rock, you know? Maybe it's time I dream the impossible dream. Maybe it's time I reach back for the unreachable. Back to a pant-loving pant-post-writing time. A time long ago, when I wouldn't dream of wasting an entire post, and an entire 48 seconds of your time, on complete nonsense and hooey, just because I had nothing to say but still felt the urge to post for some awful reason, and so, might end up writing about something like, say, how I don't write about pants anymore. Back when I had something important to say, fuck. Something important to say that just had to be heard. Something important to say about pants, dammit.

Yes. I believe it's time. I believe it's time you read some of my old mediocre posts about pants.

some of my old mediocre posts about pants
Dear Evil Discussor... How do you feel about pants?
Dear Evil Discussor... What did you do over the long weekend?

Dear Evil Discussor... Will you have my cyber child?

2006-09-26T11:42:00.000-04:00

Yes. Of course I will. I would love to. I would love nothing more than to put my cyber spatula in your cyber saucepan and make some cyber lovesauce. But before I cybernate you with my cyber seed, you must promise me a few things:

1) That if we have a boy, he will be named Gregor. If its a girl, Lubmilla. Yes, we will have a little Russian cyber baby. Don't ask why. Just agree.

2) That we will dress our adorable little Russian cyber spawn in nothing but Gap Baby, and then, of course, Gap Kids. He or she will never want for adorable onesies nor unbelievably cute matching tops and bottoms and, on special occasions, will wear little argyle sweater vests, a mini leather jacket, and a little newsboy cap.

3) That we will sometimes put our sweet little cyber baby in a pair of sunglasses that are way too big for his/her head.

4) That, even if its a boy, our beautiful little Russian virtual wonder baby will have long wavy hair and, in the nighttime, will wear a night dress. Before beddy-by, he will come running to me and call out, "Papa! Papa!" in a French accent. We will find this bizarre because, as we both know, he is Russian.

5) That you have big boobies.

If all of these conditions can be agreed upon, then we can start with the cyber sucking/fucking/baby-making. And you can start interviewing the cyber Filipinos.

OK,
E.D.

some other times i have been loved for the evil ass that i am
Dear Evil Discussor... Is it blog-love at first sight?
Dear Evil Discussor... Why do mosquitoes love you so much?
Dear Evil Discussor... Are you available?

a post i once wrote about salad
Dear Evil Discussor... How's lunch?

Dear Evil Discussor... Does it bother you that Evil Discussor isn't even your real name?

2006-09-25T06:45:00.000-04:00

No, Anon. It doesn't.

But does it bother you that you're not even a real person? That's right. You don't even fucking exist. I just totally made you up just to pretend that someone actually asked this question. So there. And it's not even a good question. One of my worst in fact. Barely even was worth asking. So double whammo. You don't exist, and you ask horrible questions. Fucking sit on that, doucheypants.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Boxers or Briefs?

2006-09-21T15:01:00.000-04:00

Boxer briefs, dummy.

And yes, I am displaying two pictures of men in their underwear on my blog today. And I feel fine about it.

That's right. Today I am the internet host of two tight shots of the male crotch.

Two pics that could be easily construed as homoerotic.

But I'm cool with that.

Say what you will, but I'm secure in my sexuality.

Very secure.

And this only proves it.

I'm as far from gay as one can possibly be.

And having no problem with having these pictures up on my site is a testament to that fact.

Yep, I really, really like women, trust me.

I enjoy having sex with women, and that's the truth.

I like VGs. There's no doubt about that.

Loves me the vagina.

Can't get enough of it.

The VGer, the better.

ALRIGHT, FINE, FUCK, IT'S TRUE. I CAN'T FUCKING STOP STARING AT THOSE MAN CROTCHES, FUCK. I TRY TO LOOK AWAY BUT HAVE TO KEEP LOOKING BACK. AND THEY KEEP LOOKING BACK AT ME. LIKE ONE OF THOSE PAINTINGS THAT ALWAYS SEEMS TO BE LOOKING YOU IN THE EYE NO MATTER WHERE YOU'RE STANDING. THAT SEMI-FUCKING-PROFILE SHOT WITH THE BULGE IN IT? HOW COULD I NOT FIND THAT CRAZILY FUCKING AMAZING? AM I NOT HUMAN? DO I NOT BLEED? I KEEP RELOADING THE PAGE JUST TO SEE THOSE HAIRY FUCKING MAN LEGS APPEAR OUT OF NOWHERE AGAIN. I CAN'T STOP IMAGINING WHERE THAT OTHER GUY'S TREASURE TRAIL OF PUBIC MAN-LOVE LEADS. I'VE EVEN PUT THESE PICS IN MY IPHOTO AND CREATED A SLIDESHOW TO THE TUNE OF FLEETWOOD MAC'S "GO YOUR OWN WAY." I'M USING THE KEN BURNS EFFECT. I HAVE MAN CROTCHES FLOATING IN AND OUT OF MY FIELD OF VISION. I'M IN OVER MY HEAD AND I KIND OF LIKE IT. I'M WRITING THIS IN ALL CAPS TO GIVE YOU THE SENSE THAT I AM YELLING IN ORDER TO DEMONSTRATE HOW ENRAGED I AM WITH THE FACT THAT I FIND THESE PICTURES OF MAN CROTCHES WEIRDLY TITILLATING AND FUCKING AWESOME.

look! more of these totally useless dumbass posts
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Outdoors or Indoors?
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Apples or Bananas?
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Squares or Circles?

Dear Evil Discussor... How could a God forsake his believers? Worse yet, deceive them?

2006-09-20T00:18:00.000-04:00

At the risk of getting a smidgen too philosophically metaphysically theologically fuckedup-ical here, I will attempt to answer your very, very heavy question, Blah.

You are clearly confused, Blah. Questioning your faith. Your devotion to sweet little old Evil me is in doubt. You have worshipped, nay, blerdshipped, at my altar for so long now, and I understand. You hath been deceived. You need answers, Blah. How could I have betrayed you in such a way? How could I have taken that trust that I cultivated in you, and gone and smeared poo-poo on that trust? How can one of my very heavily moisturized hands caress your soft, silky cheek, stroking it lovingly and tenderly, flittering you away into a semi-sleeping wonderful waking wet dream, soothing you into a half-state of half-bliss, while my other hand jars you awake with a slap to the back of your head, jams a finger in both of your eyes like that Rutger Hauer android in Bladerunner, and then forces you to give me a throat job? These are questions we all must answer in this very difficult, trying time. All of us. Not just you, Blah. I have betrayed your confidences, but I assure you, I will win your trust back, and we will work through this hardship together.

How could a God, such as myself, deceive his followers, you ask? Well, sometimes deception is a wonderful device, Blah. A tool. A tool not unlike, say, I don't know, maybe, you. But besides, deceiving is kind of what Gods do, no? I mean, shit, I was just being Godly is all.

Did God himself not build the tower of Babel for to confuse his subjects with language and, in doing so, learn them a very important lesson?

Yes, I believe God did.

Did God not rain down hellish death water crazy flood fury for 40 days and 40 nights, and save only Noah and some animals, just to clean up the old world a teeny bit?

Again, God did.

Did God not ask Isaac or Jacob, or whoever that was, to slaughter his son, Joseph or Marvin or Pinchus, on the altar as a sacrifice, and then go "Just kidding!" just to test his devotion?

Fuck right, God did.

And did God not order a pizza and chinese delivery to the house across the street and watch from behind the curtains, giggling like a schoolgirl, as they both arrived at the same time?

Yes, I'm pretty sure God did.

After all, who hasn't? Which is kind of my point. Like the rest of us, God knows how to party. God knows how to turn a lame evening of TV watching into a ball of laughs, with just a couple of short phone calls to Domino's and Taste of Sichuan, his quick wit, and a hilarious fake voice.

And I think that's the point here, Blah. First, that obviously, God knows how to party. And second, that nobody but nobody, doesn't find ordering pizza and chinese to the neighbor's house funny. Except the neighbor maybe. He'd be pissed. And the neighbor's wife. And whoever else lives there. And the pizza guy and chinese deliveryman might be out some money too. But fuck it. We all can't win, can we? Which is exactly my point maybe. And besides, I think you can see that my point here is, I'd actually be happy if I happened to get a surprise delivery of chinese and pizza. Especially if I was hungry. Because both chinese food and pizza are delicious, right? And it would save me the hassle of ordering. You see what I'm saying?

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this the last Evil Discussor post ever?

2006-09-18T06:44:00.000-04:00

Yes, I do have some sad news. That very well might shake the blogging world to its very core. It has most certainly shaken me. And I am usually rather unshakable. This may come as a little of a surprise to most of you, but I'm afraid that the answer to today's question is "Yes." Today is my last post. The final post for the Evil Discussor. It's true. I will evilly discuss no more. It's been kind of inevitable. A lot of things have been happening recently in my life, and to be totally honest, my Evil heart has not been in its proper Evil place. Its become very clear to me that the time has come for change.

Before I close the book on this chapter of my Evil life, I just wanted to thank you. All of you. Everyone who's ever even read just a couple of words of mine. Who's ever commented, positively or negatively, for better or for worse. Who's ever had their day slightly lifted by a silly little something I might have said. For me, these past bunch of blogging months have quite possibly been the greatest months of my life. An experience that I will not soon forget. The moments I spend sitting at my keyboard, typing away, sending my little love posts out to you, are the most personally fulfilling and rewarding moments of my each and every day. And I thank you for that. For the time you've spent reading what I've had to say. For the connection that we've made and shared. I've never met most of you, but I have cherished every last minute we've spent together. I am certain that I am a better person for it. And hopefully, in some ways, you are too.

But all good things must come to an end. And though these past months have been like a rather wondrous dream, some things have come up in my life. Some issues that can no longer be avoided. That I can no longer hide from, and must deal with, and focus all of my energy on. Like, my chronic masturbation problem, for starters. I'm only trying to joke, to keep this light, but I think you can tell how difficult this really is for me. Saying goodbye isn't easy. But it must be done. From this day forth, I will be putting this whole blogging business behind me, once and for all.

So, to all other bloggers out there, to all commenters, to all readers, I say thanks once again. Keep on writing. Keep on reading. And, most importantly, keep on blogging. You are truly, truly amazing. Each and every one of you. The world needs you. And don't forget that.

Thanks again for everything - it was a great ride.

I know, I know. You're thinking, "Don't do this, Evil. My days won't be the same without you. I cannot live without your douchebaggery and humpaliciousness. Like a sweet song, your evilocity has gotten me through some tough times. A rough spell at work. A nasty divorce. A child molestation charge. I need you. I really do. And I love you. More than a friend. You make me laugh. Once in a very very rare while, true. But whatever. Still. Don't retire this blog. Please. Please. Don't go."

Well, its going to be hard but... Wait.

Really?

Wow. Fine. Okay. Fuckit. I'll stay. For you. Alright. Cool. Forget all that gay 'leaving' shit. I'm back.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Wait a sec. You were deathly ill, yet still somehow managed to post from a hospital bed. Does that make you pathetic? Or a God?

2006-09-14T14:19:00.000-04:00

I don't always know the answer to every question. But I'm pretty sure the answer to this is the God one.

Only a God would let nothing, no amount of pain, nor discomfort, nor lack of anything really interesting at all to say whatsoever, stand in his Godly way, in order to blog.

Only a God would think first of his minions of blogtards, who need their daily ration of blogtardation for sustenance. For without said blogstenance, they most surely would start to cough, and then choke, then shrivel up and die a sad death of boredom and horrible death awfulness.

Only a God would have such superhuman blogging powers so as to not be deterred from blogging by the presence of an IV in his arm, a bedpan by his side, and a probing finger up his ass about once a day. Which was already kind of encompassed in the first "Only a God," with the whole "pain and discomfort" part, but whatever, go with me here, I'm riffing. And also, I'm God, so shush, douchenose.

Only a God would use the word "douche" so very much.

Only a God would refer to himself as Bloggy Oggy Oggins, or Bilbo Bloggins, or even Dr. Fucknuts, every once in a while. Especially when alone, and standing in front of a mirror, trying on hats. What all this has to do with anything, I'm not sure. You tell me.

Only a God would, when bedridden in a hospital bed, I don't know, feel the need to get someone else, like maybe his ladyfriend even, maybe I don't know, type up and post his blogs for him maybe, cause said God maybe feared losing his blog fame, and blog fortune, and overwhelming blog adoration, and can't afford to lose a single one of his 10 to 14 daily hits, cause just maybe those hits just might be the only way that that God, kind of, gets any feeling of security, and sense of self-worth, and confidence, and sort of feels truly accepted really, and it's awful, and sad, and whatever, I guess, maybe, fuck off, I hate you, yet I need you so... I'm a fucking God, you fucker! A fucking God, I say!

So, yeah. The answer to this question is surely that I am a God. Come to think of it, possibly the God of Patheticness. But that's a God nonetheless. So, whatever. I'll take it.

Yours,
God

And if you don't fucking even fucking know what I'm talking about here, read this, you blerdnose doucheface, and get the fuck with it, douchey.

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

2006-09-13T08:34:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's because of your soft, silky voice. Or the fact that you might be in New Jersey, or you might be in India. Maybe it's because your roaming and local and monthly and allotted in-network and out-of-network call calculations are impossible to understand. And I like a complicated woman. Maybe it's because you are usually no help whatsoever. And because when you put me on hold, I sometimes wonder if you're ever going to come back at all. Maybe it's because you mispronounce my name in ways I could have never imagined. Or maybe it's even because, once in a while, you mistake me for a woman. And that's somehow weirdly titillating.

Verizon Customer Service Girl, today, you are my Hump Day Hussy.

previous Hump Day Hussaliciousness
Hump Day Hussy #7, Concha Libre
Hump Day Hussy #6, N.Y.P.D. Commissioner Ray Kelly
Hump Day Hussy #5, Woman in the Next Cubicle
Hump Day Hussy #4, A 60 Minutes Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3, Lucy Van Pelt
Hump Day Hussy #2, Soledad O'Brien
Hump Day Hussy #1, Phoebe Cates

Dear Evil Discussor... Why aren't you writing a post about the fact that you had an emergency appendectomy a couple of weeks ago?

2006-09-12T09:15:00.000-04:00

Maybe because my readers want comedy gold. Not heart wrenching human drama. They want gags and laffs, not pains and aches. They want comedic diarrhea, not real diarrhea. They don't want to hear about my insanely painful belly pains, how I thought I was just having the world's worst stomach ache because of the night before's assorted ingestion of beer, wine, cheese, creamy pasta, turkey sausage, an ice cream cookie, vodka, a bunch of olives, and then some ice cream cake. Yes. You heard me right. Two ice cream desserts. I know how to party.

I could tell them about my little jaunt to the ER. The discovery of a perforated appendix. My subsequent immediate surgery. Followed by my four days of surreally surreal recovery, walking down the hospital hallways with an IV in my arm, and my asscrack hanging loose for alls to see. But they don't want to hear about that. Well, maybe they want to hear about my asscrack. And asscracks in general. But not the rest of it. They don't want to hear about that lame stuff. They want to hear about douchebags. And assholery. Cocks. And also penises. They want to hear about fucknoses and blerds. About cocks again. And maybe even some vaginas. They want hussies and hussaliciousness. They want me to be the Blogstar that I am. Not the whining appendix-less puppy that sometimes cries his poor, sad, broken, appendix-less puppy self to bed at night. They want evil. Evilness. Evilocity. Evilociousness. Evilaciouscrazyawesomeness. They want hilarity. Pseudo-hilarious hilarity. Horribly hilarious hilarfiousness. Yes, hilarfiousness.

Why? Because they're my readers. And I made them that way. That's right. I made them in my own, beautiful, hilarfious image.

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is it Cheese Fries Week on Evil Discussor blog?

2006-09-07T07:29:00.000-04:00

Yes! It is!

First three commenters win a free plate of cheese fries!

Plus two tickets to see Blue Man Group at the Mohegan Sun Arena, Wednesday, September 27.

Dear Evil Discussor... Yes, but what about cheese fries with GRAVY??

2006-09-06T07:29:00.000-04:00

You are right. So right. How foolish of me. Cheese fries are good. But cheese fries with gravy is so much more better good. For shame. To forget my greatest ally. My bestest friend. My secret confidante. Gravy. You know how much I love you, Gravy, don't you? No? Haven't I told you? How much I enjoy dipping things in you and then eating them? Yes, I believe I sort of have. But I should tell you so much more often.

I live for Gravy, see. I live and die by the sword of Gravy. Gravy is my everything. I even capitalize Gravy. I once made love to Gravy for two whole straight days without stopping. Fuck, I mean, my middle name is Gravy. Honestly. Evil Augustine Jeremiah Gravy Von Discussor The Third. Gravy with fries, even without any sort of cheese, is good by me. Nay, great by me. Greater than great even. Great is too small of a word for something so magically deliciously wonderfully wonderful. We must find new words for something as fucktastically diptastic as gravy. A whole new language and alphabet might be necessary. Maybe even Wingdings can finally come in handy. $%^^^^^&@@@@@@&&^^$!$##@%????Â©?Â´Â¨Â«?ÃŸÂ©ÃŸÃ¥ÂƒÂ©Â´???Â¨??Â©??Ã¥Â…?Ã¥Â˜?ÃŸ?Ã§Â¨Â®Ã§Â¨Ã§Â¥Â®Ã¥Â©Â®ÂƒÃ§Ã¥Â©??Â¨ÂˆÃ§Â¬Ã¥Ã¦Ã§ÂœÃ¥Ã¸Â®Â¨Ã§ÂœÃ¸??Â®Â¨Ã§Ã¦Âœ??Ã§??ÃŸÂ©Ã§?ÃŸÃ¥Â©?Ã§??Â©Ã¥ÃŸ???Ã§Â©ÃŸÃ¥???Ã§Â©Ã¥ÃŸ???Ã§????Â•?. That's how good gravy is. It can pretty much only be described using symbols. And other things. It can only really be spoken of using guttural sounds and clicks.

Gravy is the graviest. Gravy is the antidote to all of the world's worldy ills. All of them. Greenhouse gases? Famine? Pestilence? Locusts? Death? You are no match for Gravy. Gravy is the greatest invention ever invented. Greater than the wheel. Greater than electricity. Yes, greater even than light. Does light fill your belly with its chunkity liquidy tasty goodness? No. But does gravy brighten up your every day? Yes. Yes of course it does. And fuckit, the more gravy skin the better. The better to de-hymenize Gravy with the very first fry poke. Because Gravy is a goddess. And you, a peasant. You worship in her tangy brownness. Gravy is better than a rainbow on a cloudy day. Better than a cool waterfall in the middle of the hot jungle. Better even than sex with me. Gravy is the answer. But what is the question? No one knows, stupid. Except for me. And this is it: If you had to pick one album to take with you to a desert island, what would it be? That's right. It would be Gravy. Because Gravy is God's greatest gift to mankind. And I, God's greatest gravy messenger.

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... How much do you like cheese fries?

2006-09-05T07:09:00.000-04:00

Sing slowly. And not unlike Neil Diamond.

Cheese fries
You are so very dear to me
Cheese fries
I love you so tenderly
Cheese fries
You know just who I am
I'm the kind of guy
who loves cheese fries
so much that
he'd make a pictogram

About cheese fries
I love you so fucking much
Cheese fries
So fucking crazy much
Cheese fries
I love you almost as much
As I love to see
two girls kissing
cause that's really hot
yeah that's crazy fucking hot

Hot like cheese fries
Cheese fries,
Cheese fries,
Cheese (octave up now) friiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssssssssssss

Cheese fries,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Do you read minds?

2006-08-31T19:34:00.000-04:00

Yes, Amish. I do. I do read minds. And my mind is telling me to barely give this pretty half-assed question a second of my time. And also, to use the word douchebag, fast. My mind is also telling me to stop blogging and to start really living, because blogging is for blerds. Sometimes my mind tells me to take out my privates and place them on my ladyfriend's forehead as she sleeps. I try to tell my mind "No, mind, no, you freaky fucking bitch!" But my mind usually mentally wrestles me to the ground and mentally puts me in a mental figure-four leg lock until I mentally submit and finally do its weird sex bidding.

Right now, my mind is telling me that I am hungry and might enjoy a pulled pork sandwich with maybe some cheese fries. My mind knows me well. My mind knows how much I like cheese fries.

Yours,
E.D.

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

2006-08-30T01:06:00.000-04:00

Maybe its because you remind me its time for my Hump Day Hussy pretty much every single week. Maybe its because of your nasty trashy potty mouth and the way you get so angry at some things sometimes. Maybe its because your name sounds hispanic in some way, and so, you most likely are probably rather bootylicious. Maybe its because you like to flash little children even if their parents are around. Maybe its because your profile says you work in advertising, which means you "take it up the ass" from clients on a daily basis. And I like that.

Concha Libre, today you are my Hump Day Hussy.

previous Hump Day Hussaliciousness
Hump Day Hussy #6, N.Y.P.D. Commissioner Ray Kelly
Hump Day Hussy #5, Woman in the Next Cubicle
Hump Day Hussy #4, A 60 Minutes Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3, Lucy Van Pelt
Hump Day Hussy #2, Soledad O'Brien
Hump Day Hussy #1, Phoebe Cates

Dear Evil Discussor... Do you like sucky fucky?

2006-08-29T07:58:00.000-04:00

Yes, I do like sucky fucky. I like sucky fucky a lot, thanks. Almost too much. I like sucky. And I like fucky. Sometimes, I like sucky better than fucky. Other times, fucky trumps sucky. Often, sucky is good when followed by fucky. And likewise, fucky is generally better when preceded by sucky. Not to say that sucky doesn't stand up on its own. It does. Much like fucky works exclusively from sucky. And, interestingly, on only very, very rare occasions, does sucky ever come after fucky. But on those super rare times, I really do love sucky fucky. Or, I should say, fucky sucky.

There,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Does it bother you that "discussor" is not a real word? That's gotta hurt.

2006-08-25T07:29:00.000-04:00

That does hurt. Hurts a lot. But it's on my driver's license and so, I'm stuck with it. Sure, sometimes I get upset, wondering what could've been. How life dealt me the most unfairest of hands. For years I blamed my Evil mom. But is she not human? And do humans not make crazy-ass mistakes some/most/all of the time? Naming their kids things like Mobius, and Grapes, and 3000, and Milton? Next to those, Discussor ain't so bad, is it? Sure, she could've looked in a dictionary for the spelling. Or even asked someone. Or just have been halfways smart and not so crazy dumb. But she was too busy pushing me out of her womb to think about it. And yelling. And swearing too. And clutching the bedsheets. She was giving birth to amazing me, so, I can't blame her. I just have to deal.

And so do you. So, everytime you speak of me, which I know you do, all the effing time, to your friends and family and fuckbuddies, please be sure to pronounce my name appropriately. "Discussor," not "Discusser." Yes, "Discussor," with a hard "o." An "o" as hard as my very own evil hardness. "Discussor." A name that would befit some sort of tyrannical tyrant. Or an arch nemesis of sorts. Or maybe just a villanous transformer, a Decepticon, if you will, maybe one that has the super-robotic ability to transform itself into a barely mediocre blogger. And, yes, say it with gusto! And delight! Hiss when you say it. Sneer. And spit. Gnash your teeth like a coked up cokeface. And lick your lips too. Lick your lips as if to say, "Every time I say that name, it maketh me to lick my quivering lips with utmost delight, as if the Evil Discussor himself were gently seated upon my very top lip, perched, reclining, miniature, looking up my nose and smiling into my eyes, always with me, protecting me, evillating me with wit and wisdom, I lick my lips and I taste him, and he tastes salty, as if he hasn't washed for days, because he's been too busy blogging, and can't get up from the keyboard, and is covered in Evil man sweat, and is for some reason, on my lip, and its wierding me out actually, I do wish he'd get off." Which is all very true. Except the part about me being miniature and riding around on your upper lip. But, the part about me not washing for days, that's all truth. I should probably go shower.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What do you think is the most disgusting thing I've ever unkowingly eaten?

2006-08-23T08:49:00.000-04:00

Probably a finger.
Most likely some poo poo.

Maybe a rat's tiny little furry head.

And definitely an old shoe.

That would be my guess.

And that accidentally rhymed by the way.

That's how accidentally good I am.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Which is more accurate: Evil Discussor or The Magic 8 Ball?

2006-08-22T08:07:00.000-04:00

Yes, I did just reveal to you the very first revealing ever of the revealing of Evil Discussor hisself. You see, he is an evil man, with evil plastic facial features and evil plastic hair. Evil incarnate, I tell you. Nay, I yell at you! Fear him! Fear his evilociousness! It is so evil! His evil, that is! His evil is so terribly evil! Wicked evil! Yes! Cower in its presence! Just try to look away from his evil! Go ahead. Try! See! You can't! His evil burns you like the hot hot sun itself! Yet, still you cannot lower your eyes! You watch as he evillates you before your very frightened evillated eyes!

Anyways, what was the question? Oh yeah. Minijonb wanted to know. E.D. or M.8.B. Which is more accurate? Umm. Well. I guess. Umm. I guess Evil D is. Because Evil D is the most accurate accurator in the whole fucking... shitting... world fuck... uh... Oh fuckit. Come on. Let's call a spade a spade here. How the fuck should I know? I mean, whatthefuck. Shit. Fuck, am I getting tired of having to come up with ridiculous answers to your ridiculous fucking questions, shit. It's not fucking easy, you know. I mean, half the time I'm answering my own fucking questions, and even that's not easy. Shit. I hope you already knew that and I didn't just unwittingly reveal one of my trade secrets. And you're not right now experiencing a string of horribly raw traumatic emotions and mind-numbing revelations like that time you found out that Santa Claus was really your uncle in a fat suit, or that the Easter Bunny was really dead, or that your girlfriend was really a man. Either fucking way, whatever. I'm just not in the mood to come up with some silly answer to this silly business. But. I guess it is the pretext for this whole weblog website fuck thing here. And the only real reason for me to be writing. And you to be reading. So I should at least try. Or at least try to keep up the illusion that I'm trying. Or at least do something I guess. Something at least slightly funny. Or even halfways evil. Like call someone a douchebag or a fucknose or something. Hey, you, you're a fucknose! Was that good? Oh fuckit. I can't even bother. I'm tired. I'm just going to sign off here, if that's cool, douchebag.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is it blog-love at first sight?

2006-08-18T08:30:00.000-04:00

Alright, forget about that short post thing for a minute. The Evil D needs your help, and knows not where else to turn. I recently had some email correspondence with a lady who wants to marry me. Which is really nice of her and all. But I'm not sure. Should I?

The following is the email exchange between me and a Jessica so and so, under her subject heading "Forward and entirely inappropriate" :

Jessica:
Dear Evil Discussor,

I think I'm in love with you. Will you marry me?

Jess

P.S. Does it bother you that "discussor" is not a real word? That's gotta hurt.

Evil:
Jessica, I will answer your entirely inappropriate questions in a future post. But let me ask you this, are you above the legal marrying/consensual-sexing age? Because, I've been in trouble like this before, and honestly, I'm not going back to the fucking big house. Ever. The Evil has done his time and sworn off crime.

Jessica:
I am twenty-seven years of age. I don't know if that constitutes the consensual-sexing age (and I have not, in fact, consented to having sex with you) but it's definitely the legal marrying age. I have consented to marrying you, if you'll have me.

Evil:
Check the blog next week, sweet Jessica. And I will answer your query.
Please enjoy the weekend. And please be sure to think of me wherever you may go.

Jessica:
R-A-D. I'll be picking out china patterns and sending out invitations.

------

Just like that. Out of the blue. A marriage proposal. Followed by china patterns and invitations. Just like they said it would be. Who'd a thunk it would happen like this? Now? At the prime of my blogging career? You can tell in the email that, like usual, I was just trying to be funny, even resorting to rhyme at one point, when, in actuality, I was rather nervous. Wouldn't you be? I mean, she just popped the fucking question for fucksakes. This is some serious fucking business. One of the biggest decisions of my ever loving life probably. I'm understandably flustered. I am very much into effing, but when it comes to marriage, I get a little squirrelly. Squirrelly like a squirrel, munching on a faceful of nuts. That didn't come out right.

Am I ready for this? For this commitment? A lifetime union? A one way ticket to monogamy town? A weekly schedule on the fridge detailing on which days I will and will not receive blowjobs? Plus, she recoiled at even the mention of consensual sex at this point. What the fuck does that mean? That's crazy talk. Also, she ribbed me a bit on my "Discussor" name. (Which is something I'll have to deal with in an entirely other post altogether.) But tell me, was it the playfully flirtatious ribbing between two would-be lovers I sensed? Or the animosity of a cornered cat, of a woman scorned one too many times, of a no doubt about it soon-to-be axe murderer?

Though, there definitely are things I like about her. Like, mainly, the fact that she likes me. What's not to like about that? She's obviously got a good head on her shoulders. But speaking of "good head," there's so much about her I don't know. She's obviously smart and funny, bold and confident. Her spelling and grammar, perfect and effortless. Her tone, warm and charming. But is she into bringing her friends home for all night crystal meth threeway fuck sessiones? (Yes, with a Mexican emphasis.) And wait a minute. Hold the phones. Could it possibly be? No way. It couldn't. Or, could it? Is this Jessica, perhaps, Jessica Coen, Esq. of Gawkerhood fame? Might be. She's certainly got the wit and intelligence. Not to mention, the panache. I don't even know what "panache" is, but I do know it's French, and that she has it. In spades. So, could be. Who can say?

I really don't know what to do. But I do know, that when it comes to immense, life-altering, history-changing decisions, it's always good to leave it in the hands of anonymous blog commenters and other sadsacks, don't you think? So, should I say "yes"? "I'll think about it"? Or "no fucking way"? I know, the tables are turned. The high and mighty Evil has stepped off of his high and mighty pedestal for a moment and stooped down to your extremely lowly pleebish level. But he needs your advice now. Will you help him? Please cast your vote. My future, and the future of my fucking, depend on it.

Help,
E.D.

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

2006-08-17T07:51:00.000-04:00

Holy fuck a shit. And a tit. Yesterday, I had some high-ass fucking-ass comments page demand for Hump Day Hussaliciousness. Who the eff knew my effing Hump Day Hussy was so effing loved by so effing many? Alright, fine, it was just four people, but still. Unless its all the same hump day loving hussing husser masquerading as two anons, a tilly, and a concha. But, either way, I'm humbled. And, also, frightened.

And, clearly, lazy. So much so, that instead of coming up with a post today, I just took my own comments page comment from yesterday, cut it, pasted it, edited it, appended to it, tossed in a "tit," some "husses," a couple extra "effings," and an "alright," and threw it on here, complete with this: My gift to you. A token of my love. A sign of my appreciation. And yes, proof of my instantaneous real-time reaction to your very real real-time needs! A special Hump Day Hussy! A Day After Hump Day Hussy! If you will! A Hump Day Hussy that very well might get me put on some Most Wanted List, or at the very least, get my phone tapped! But I fear not. I hide my humping needs from no one.

He's tough. He's Irish. He's cute. He's cuddly.

Ray Kelly, N.Y.P.D. Commissioner. Yesterday, you were my Hump Day Hussy.

previously
Hump Day Hussy #5
Hump Day Hussy #4, A Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3
Hump Day Hussy #2
Hump Day Hussy #1

Dear Evil Discussor... What is Asperger's Syndrome, and do I have it?

2006-08-16T07:22:00.000-04:00

First off, a doppel question. But I will try to do justice to both parts. Medical questions are my forte, so I do appreciate the inquiry.

Asperger's Syndrome is a syndrome whereby you like to devour the ass as if it were a burger. You see no difference, no separation whatsoever, between an ass and a hamburger. To you, an ass is a burger, and likewise, a burger is an ass, and vice versa. They are both equally edible and, in your eyes, both equally delicious and delectable. Often, you like to eat the ass with ketchup, mustard, pickles, onions and lettuce. But, just the same, you might like it once in a while sans condiments, just to take in its full flavor. Friends and relatives of Aspergerians are recommended to stay seated whilst in the company of their aspergite relations, or, if standing is unavoidable, cautioned to always stand facing toward the inflicted. Unless, of course, said inflicted also suffers from Penisperger's, in which case, just get out of their fucking house pronto.

And to answer the second part of your question, yes.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why is my boss a douchebag?

2006-08-14T22:31:00.000-04:00

This question was asked of me by a curious questioneer named dingbat. Perhaps a questioneer curious in many ways. One never knows. One does know though that the answer here is simple. And that One is me. And that answer is coming right now.

Because, bosses are douchebags, dingbat. Likewise, bosses are dingbats, douchebag. That's why your boss is a douchebag, dingbat. Because, dingbat, bosses are douchebags. That's why we call them that, dingbat. Douchebags. Why would we call our bosseses douchebags, dingbat, if they weren't douchebags? Dingbat, that wouldn't make any sense. Only a douchebag, dingbat, would call a douchebag a douchebag, dingbat, if that douchebag, dingbat, were not a douchebag. We call bosses douchebags because that's exactly what they are, dingbat. They're douchebags, dingbat. If they weren't, dingbat, douchebags, we probably wouldn't call them that. Douchebags, that is, dingbat. Not dingbat, douchebags. We'd call them something else, dingbat, if they weren't douchebags. Maybe dingbats, douchebag. But we don't call them something other than douchebags, dingbat. Cause, dingbat, they're not something other than douchebags. They're not not douchebags, dingbat. They're not not, dingbat, douchebags. They're douchebags. Which is exactly why we call them that. Douchebags, dingbat. Douchebags. And a douchebag, dingbat, is a douchebag, dingbat, is a douchebag, dingbat, is a douchebag. Dingbat. A douchebag. Dingbat, douchebags.

Douchebags,
E.D.

P.S. 34 mentions of Douchebag in one post. Make that 35. My personal Douchebag record.

P.P.S. 36.

P.P.P.S. If you're going to comment, please continue the douchebaggery, and try to have your comment include the word douchebag. Otherwise, you will be looked upon unfavorably. Like a douchebag, Douchebag.

P.P.P.P.S. 40.

P.P.P.P.P.S. "Douchebaggery" counts, right?

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. 41.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Stop.

Dear Evil Discussor... OMG!! Yes! Can it be? Is it really!?! Dare I say? Is it? Is it really SHORT POST WEEK?

2006-08-14T09:04:00.000-04:00

Yes, it is, sweet fans of mine. You sweet, sweet, supple, short-attention spanned, slinkily sexy, sweetheart suckface suckers! This week is yours! It is SHORT POST WEEK, a week in which all posts will be as short as can be. Shorter than my Evil temper. Shorter than my Evil penis. Shorter even than the offspring of if, say, Mel Brooks and Stephen Dorff were to have a baby together, obviously through some sort of unimaginable, science-bending, history-altering, headline-stealing, experimental assplay gone wrong. That short. You are safe my sweet friends. You needn't no longer be overwhelmed nor intimidated by any of my overly-lengthy, mind-numbingly, paragraphically challenged passages. There will be none! Never! Or at least not this week! Even this one is getting too long and I must cut it off before

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just invent a word, cause you're so freaking awesome, you vainglorious bitchpants?

2006-08-11T07:11:00.000-04:00

Yes. While perusing a previous post, as I am often wont to do, reminiscing, laughing uproariously, guffawing at my hilarious use of hilarity and wit, mentally masturbating, as well as just plain masturbating, I was struck by a word that suddenly came to me. Popped into my mind like a vivid memory from a distant past. A past, that was clearly not mine, but that of someone much smarter. And, yes, sexier.

ENTERTAINT (En-ter-tay-nt)

Definition
(1) to entertain the taint
(2) to have one's taint entertained
(3) archaic def. to entertain the taint using another taint

Alternative spellings
Entertain't (Commonwealth)

Verb
to entertaint (third-person singular simple present entertaints, present participle entertainting, past participle entertainted)

Usage
Heather entertainted me while I ate cereal.

Or That was awesome. Thanks so much for entertainting me.

Or Fuck, will you fucking entertaint me again? That was wicked.

Or Did you watch Entertaintment Tonight last night? Who was the secret birthday person? I accidentally changed channels.

Other words submitted for possible inclusion in the Evil D. Dictionary:
Blerd
Fucknose

Dear Evil Discussor... How do I not get Gawker to gawk me?

2006-08-10T18:19:00.000-04:00

Um, well, you can write a post like I did earlier today. That might work.

Update... Hot Hot Newsflash!... Update... Hot Hot Newsflash!...
I have pleaded my way onto Gawker, and this post no longer applies. But who cares? And so what? Fuckit! My weekend plans are now set! I'm going to rub my privates all over this here keyboard from now until Monday morning! Bye!

Dear Evil Discussor... How do I get Gawker to gawk me?

2006-08-10T08:09:00.000-04:00

If you want Gawker to link you in their Blogorrhea NYC section, and invite you in to their hilariously sarcastic, totally sardonic, zeitgeist-capturing, uberly-hip, douchebag-loving, something else-something, crazy media blog sex fuck party club, there are a few things you're going to need to do.

1. Be Lianne Stokes, The Assimilated Negro, The Daily Dump, or any other blogger that gets gawked four times a day, and has been blogging since the Roosevelt Administration. Either Roosevelt Administration. Both work for this joke. Cause both took place before the internet was even an itch in Al Gore's large pants. Which is a very long time ago. And which are very large pants. And which is my point exactly. The point about it being a long time ago, that is. Not the point about the pants. Which isn't even true, that these bloggers have been around for that long or, for that matter, that Al Gore has such big pants, but come on, it's all for emphasis, and I didn't have much else to say about them, and, anyways, you know what I'm saying. Which is a perfect transition to my next point.

2. Be not funny. Try humor, but fail. The gawkers are human too. And, not only are they human, but they're also bloggers. And when you put those two things together, human and blogger, you get something very interesting. You get a "bluman." And also, a "hugger." With a hard "u" and, come to think of it, maybe just one "g." But, nevermind that, dumbface. What's more important here is that you get someone who is deeply insecure, overly protective and defensive, and who, most likely, used to sneak into their big sister's room when she went out, just to smell her bra. And who has now found quite a large amount of success in certain circles of New York bloggygentsia. And who I'm rather jealous of. I would gladly fornicate with my own forearm, and a bottle of YooHoo, at the same time, if it would only get them to like me. But that's inconsequential. And probably painful. And anyhow, the question is, if you had a big-ass, popular-ass, crazy-ass blog, would you want to link other funny-ass bloggers, and share the funny-ass stage with other funny-ass folks? No way-ass. You'd want to horde all the funny to your funny self. That's right. It's like, when you were a kid, and Yossi Rousch wanted to play with your Captain America doll. There was no fucking way, right? So, instead, you kneed him in the balls and ran away crying. Same situation. You're a funny-hording, Captain America-clutching, cry baby fuckwhore, and so are the gawkers. Keep this in mind.

3. Add 'hyphen ass' to words. It's an easy way to be mildly funny but not appear too try hard. It will also make your post seem more edgy. And you, cooler. You will be popular, and the ladies will dig your shit. This is the language that blogstars speak, especially Gawker, and you should speak it too if you want to roll with them, don't you think?

4. Call people douchebags, douchebag.

5. Write a long-winded, just barely amusing, personal anecdote about some ridiculously New Yorky experience of yours. Like, say, taking a girl home only to discover he's a homeless tranny. Or any hilariously awkward situation that takes place in your apartment elevator. Or that time you got the hivvies on the Uptown 6 train. Or something about real estate brokers. Or last night's Murray Hill sportsbar crawl.

6. If none of this works, write a post in which you flagrantly and shamelessly refer to Gawker over and over again in a ridiculously transparent, mostly non-sensical, completely desperate, utterly pathetic, and most probably failed attempt to get on Gawker itself. Try to have no one notice this embarassing transparency by half-heartedly framing the entire post as a Dear Abby-style reply, and also, by anonymously and cowardly disguising yourself under a half-baked pseudonym.

7. Also, be sure to mention earlier in the post at some point how its important to "not be funny." And try to make many references to being "ridiculously transparent," "completely desperate," "utterly pathetic," "cowardly," and to your "failed attempt." That way, when someone deems you not funny, ridiculously transparent, completely desperate, utterly pathetic, cowardly, and failed in your attempt, you're totally covered. And you can just say, "Exactly" or "Right" or even "See?"

Good luck,
E.D.

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

2006-08-09T08:11:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's because you hardly ever acknowledge me. Maybe it's because if I ever made an advance on you in real life, I'd be fired immediately, but on the web, it isn't real life, so I'm okay, right? Maybe it's because I can hear you on the phone right now, and trust me, "Your fiance" just doesn't understand you. Maybe it's because, at the last Holiday Party, I had a cigarette with you. Well, not with you, but you were outside too with a bunch of people. Remember? I made that joke where I put three cigarettes in my mouth? And drunkenly pretend to light them all? It was funny. Maybe it's because I once asked you how your weekend was, and you replied, "Too short." And I respect a woman with a sense of humor. Or maybe it's just because pant suits make me pant.

That's right. Woman in the next cubicle, today, you are my Hump Day Hussy.

previously
Hump Day Hussathon
Hump Day Hussy #3
Hump Day Hussy #2
Hump Day Hussy #1

Dear Evil Discussor... If you had but one wish that could be fulfilled, what would said wish be?

2006-08-08T08:56:00.000-04:00

There are very few things an Evil Discussor such as I need wish for. I have everything that my very Evil heart could possibly desire. I have Evil fame. I have Evil glory. I have Evil loads of money. I even have Evil Salad DressingTM (available at Whole Foods in Ranch and Balsamic Vinaigrette). And I have Evil you, don't I? What more can I ask for? The warm, comforting knowledge that I am wholeheartedly loved and adored by my ever-burgeoning fan base more and more each and every day. That's all I truly need. And you should know that I love and adore you right back in your fat faces. You do know that, right? Not that your faces are fat, but that I love you? Don't you? If I had but one wish, it would be to show this to you more. To make my all-consuming love for you known unequivocally. I really wish I could let it out from behind this monitor. Let it touch you. Sometimes I feel like the Phantom. The Phantom of the Blogera. Hidden behind this curtain-like computer, hiding, hideous. Half-man. Half-blogger. I swing from blog catwalk to blog catwalk, my bloggy cape blowing in the bloggy breeze. Using html as my mask, I, um, I... I can't keep up this analogy. It takes way too much effort.

Anyhow, I was talking about my love for you. The love hidden deep beneath my insanely svelte and taut exterior. This love that emits from my heart and mind, through my tappity tap typing fingertips, out through the very tippy tips, onto the teeny tiny keys, down some cables and wires, and maybe through some phone lines, up into a modem, out onto your desktop, and into your fuzzy heads. Or, better yet, off of the keys, around some cables, and in through your chest instead, heading right past your boobies, of course, sneaking a quick look, and landing straight in your hearts. I do like that love-route better.

It's one thing though to love you with my words. But words are cheap. Dirty. Useless. Meaningless. Throwaway. They mean nothing. Like, for example, the word moot. What the fuck does that mean? Or if I said, Fuck you, dicklies, I hate you and your doucheheaded ways, you fucking suck. See. I might have said it. But I didn't mean it. Or Get your stupid ugly fucking blog-filled heads out of your hairy asses and start doing something with your pathetic shit-stained lives. Again, I didn't totally mean exactly all of that. Just some letters strung together to form words strung together to form a sentence. And just barely. Nothing but words. And sometimes words just aren't enough. No, sometimes things need to be demonstrated with actions. With feelings. With touching. And gentle caresses. If I could but take my hands and shove them right into my computer screen, and reach through this very computer screen right now and have them come out of your computer screen, I would. And I would feel your face with my hands, a la Helen Keller. Imagine. Me caressing each of your supple cheeks, running my fingers over your ears and eyes, over your chins, gently circling your lips, maybe putting a knuckle up your nose, learning more and more about every inch of your very startled face.

Then I would use my hands to get some leverage, grab hold of the edge of your desk, and try to pluck the rest of my sweet self through, starting with my head and then continuing on with the rest of my beautiful body, eventually heaving my entire person out onto your desk and rolling effortlessly into a perfect sitting position in your lap, one arm draped over your shoulder, like a ventriloquist's dummy, somehow magically sporting a monocle and top hat. Then I'd exclaim, "Hiya, toots!" and out of the side of my mouth mumble, "Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, nyuk" kind of like I imagine Sammy Davis Jr would. You'd be sufficiently freaked out by all this, of course. Not only by the fact that a man just emerged from your digi screen, but by the fact that that man is clearly challenged in some way and most likely dangerous. But I would soothe you with my calming voice, and probably, if you like, a cup of green tea, if you have any, the tea and my sweet dulcet tones alleviating any worry you might have about this man who just came through your computer screen, and plopped into your lap, and now refuses to leave your apartment before being served a meal.

Let me just leave you with just one last thought, dear reader. If I can but teach, or touch, or entertain, or touch the taint of but one young fan of mine a day, if I can inspire but one sweet reader to aspire to greatness, to reach for the sky, to achieve the impossible, or at least to blow off work for another 4 minutes and maybe scan through this crap over lunch before going back to pokerroom.net, then I have done my duty here on Earth. I have done what I was supposed to do. And all is right with the world after all. Except for that whole global warming thing. And terrorism. And fine, some other stuff too. Like maybe children being sold as sex slaves, genocides, egg salad with too much mayo, etc, etc. But that's about it. And, come on. We can just shut that other shit out, can't we? Things are going pretty well, right? We've got eachother, don't we? And that's a lot. For love. We'll give it a shot.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why is it that the majority of the people on this planet are ignorant, stupid, lazy, incapable morons?

2006-08-07T09:40:00.000-04:00

Anon, this is a sweeping generalization, and I cannot concur.*

Always,
E.D.

*The Evil Discussor blog is a legitimate blogging organization. An organization that will not post before the proper documents of proof can be found to support each and every one of its utterances. Each opinion expressed on this website is backed up and substantiated by days upon days of extensive research. The Evil Discussor himself, refuses to go online with a story until the proper corroborating documentary evidence can be put forth. When he claims that he is "the most hilarious blogster to ever hilariously operate a hilarious blog," or that he is "the king of the whole goddamn, wickedly wonderful, wonderly wickedful, wild and fantastical, digital festival, punch em in the testicle, world wide webbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb!" or even that he has the "longest-ass super long shlong," and, also, that "you're a douchebag," it's because it's true. And he has the documentation to prove it. Otherwise, he wouldn't make such a claim. At Evil Discussor Inc., we have an entire department of interns scouring the web, on the phones, at the microfiche, searching, seeking, scrupulously scrutinizing the truth behind the truth. We even have a position on staff with the title: Officer of the Proofy Truth. We don't just go around this blogorama spreading falsities, making erroneous claims, slinging wild accusations and unsubstantiated rumor without proper back up. We use a little something called facts. Facts upon facts upon facts upon facts. Upon more facts. The Evil Discussor refuses to generalize. For example, he would never say, "All blogs are amazing" just because his is wickedly awesome. Nor would he say, "All anonymouses ask really stupid, obvious questions," just because one does.

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you know there are people out there whose job it is to scrape gum off of the sidewalk?

2006-08-03T11:59:00.000-04:00

It's true. Just recently, in the heart of horrible Midtown, at the corner of Lexington and 50th, there were these two guys in office building maintenance uniforms. You know, with that assortment of meaningless letters sewn above their breast pockets. ABM, or LCB, or BBDD or FUQ. They were standing outside of an office building, looking miserable and defeated, with these plastic sticks in their hands that looked like long ice scrapers. And they were hunched over, scraping away at old hard gum stuck on the sidewalk. And not having much luck with it either. It looked fucking backbreaking. Honestly. Can you imagine the persistence, the determination, the strength you'd have to summon, not to mention the self-repsect you'd have to to surrender, in order to firmly wedge some stupid plastic scraper under a year-old piece of hardened, stepped on, flatter than flat piece of gum, and really go at it?

Now, what kind of boss calls his two employees into his office, looks them squarely in the eyes, and says, "Now that you're done cleaning the boiler room, pulling clogged sanitary napkins out of the ladies toilets, and rinsing wet crap stains off of all the stall walls, I've got something else for you to do. You know when people chew gum? And they chew and they chew, and then when they're done chewing, when the flavor runs out, or they just get tired of chewing it, they spit it out? And you know when they spit that old piece of chewed gum right out onto the sidewalk? And how it sticks right onto the cement? And how, over time, the sun dries and bakes that piece of gum until it cakes onto the concrete, almost becoming a part of the sidewalk itself? Well, here. I want you to take these two plastic sticks and spend the next four hours or so righting that wrong." That's an evil kind of boss. Eviler than even I, Evil Discussor. No one should be made to scrape other people's chewed up, spit out, hardened gum. It's demeaning. And degrading. I mean, at that point, once you've ordered them to start scraping gum off of the sidewalk, you might as well add, "While you're at it, get me something to eat, you total fucking fuck. Then go pick up my dry cleaning. After that, wipe my ass with a moist towelette. Then, give me fifty dollars, just because. Next, put any two of your fingers in this blender. Once that's through, sharpen a razor with this leather strop, lather up my balls with a shaving brush, and shave then squeaky clean. Afterwards, bring me your wife and your first born daughter. And then the three of you can each blow me. Twice. From each day forward."

I know what you're thinking. Somebody's got to do it right? Someone's got to remove all that gum once in a while or else one day there will be no sidewalk. There'll be just a gumwalk. I agree. I just don't think that somebody should be a couple of maintenance guys who probably bust their asses all day already doing any number of ridiculously craptastic tasks, and don't need to be utterly shamed and humiliated by being forced to go peel gum by hand or stick off of the sidewalk, whilst the entire rush hour crowd is making its way home to the subway. Maybe at least have them do it midday, so I don't have to feel so damn guilty. Or better yet, why not hire these motherfuckers? GumBusters NY. They're called Gumbusters for fuck sakes. They do it for a motherfucking living. They bust gum. And look, they've got "NY" in their name. Which means they're fucking in New York fuck. It's perfect. They've got a special treatment. And a Power Washing Gum Cart that "devours gum." And uniforms and caps. Plus, they say things on their website like, "It seems like Magic, but it is research." Clearly, they know shit about shit about gum removal. I mean, they capped "Magic" after all. Bring in the professionals. And leave the maintenance guys with some dignity, dickhead boss. Or one of these days when you tell them to go scrape some gum, you might find yourself instead with a plastic-gum-scraping-ice-scraper-stick scraping the inside of your icy asshole, asshole.

I just got angry there. I'm sorry. It's because I am a champion of the downtrodden. The little people. The average, hard-working individual. Because before my meteoric ascent, my world-renowned popularity and acclaim, before all of this overwhelming fame and fortune, I was a little, average, hard-working person too, you know.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What is π?

2006-08-02T10:14:00.000-04:00

Sweet frere Copyranter. I have no idea how you were able to type the actual symbol for Pi, but I have spent the last two weeks now trying to figure out this well-kept secret, and failing to do so. Until I finally realized that I can just copy it from any other website, and paste it in like so π. Aha! I was like Archimedes in the bathtub! But instead of a bathtub, I had Pi! And pasting! Now all I want to do is copy it πππ π ππ π. I'm Pi copy and pasting crazy! π π ππ yeahhh fuckπππ! However, still, if you know how to make a π using the keyboard, maybe with an option key, and maybe perhaps even some Wingdings, and I'm betting you do, then clearly, you are far savvier, technologically advanced, and nerdier than I. Yet, it would seem, not nerdy enough to know what Pi is.

Everybody knows that Pi is the ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle; approximately equal to 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494
4592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647
0938446095505822317253594081284811174502841027019385211055596
4462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527
1201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724
5870066063155881748815209209628292540917153643678925903600113
3053054882046652138414695194151160943305727036575959195309218
6117381932611793105118548074462379962749567351885752724891227
9381830119491298336733624406566430860213949463952247371907021
7986094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940513200056812
7145263560827785771342757789609173637178721468440901224953430
14654958537105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815
98136297747713099605187072113499999983729780499510597317328160
96318595024459455346908302642522308253344685035261931188171010
00313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349042875546
87311595628638823537875937519577818577805321712268066130019278
766111959092164201989 and so on.

Everybody also knows that Pie is slang for the female genitalia, much like axe/hatchet wound, ass mate, bearded oyster, beaver, beef curtains, bikini bizkit, cock holster, cooter, cherry pop, cat flaps, cha-cha, chuff, furburger, grumble, hairy goblet (what a knight might drink from), honey pot, honeysuckle, hooch, hush puppy, lick-me-please-me, muff, mud flaps, panty hamster, passion fruit, poonany, quim, southern belle, taco (pink), tongue magnet, velcro triangle, vertical bacon sandwich, vertical smile, wunder down under, the grand canyon, the great divide, horse's collar, clown's pocket, cathedral (my organ's never played in one this large before), mouse's ear, eye of a needle, box of assorted creams, municipal cockwash, penis garage, fupa, the real thing, batcave, blackhole, hole in one, spermbank, the mansion, home, hot and wet, the gold medal, tree house, stick house, the nothigam forest, fuckingum palace, subway station, the matrix, blue beard, shipyard (for dicks), crib, acid fish, baby atm, baby ben, baby cave, baby chute, baby factory, baby maker, badge, bakke, bald taco, Badly packed kebab, baloney hole, bank, banny, baginer, bajingo, bat cave, bearded axe wound, bearded clam, the beast, beef doorway, beef mailbox, beef sleeve, beefaroni hole, beefs, beehive, beaver, biscuit, birth canal, bitch indicator, bitch wrinkle, Black Beard's delight, booger bear, bojango, box, bread-box, brown bear with a mouth full of meat, budissey, bunsen burner, burial mound, burnt taco, bush down under, bushy plate, camel toe, cakehole, cave, center of the universe, cha cha, chaunch, chewbacca, chilli peeler, ching ching, choach, choachee, choncha, choochi, clam, c jay c, cock dock, cock gobbler, cock holster, cock pocket, cock socket, cock wallet, cock warmer,cocking station, and that's only halfway through the Cs on Wikipedia, nowhere near all the way to ziggy (as in: up your ziggy with a wa-wa brush.)

Everybody does not know, however, that my favorite pie, is lemon meringue.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... You're a total fucking asshole, aren't you?

2006-07-31T01:09:00.000-04:00

First of all, that's a statement. Followed by a question. Which is against the rules. So, really, who's the asshole? But still, I'll answer it. Cause I'm a nice guy.

Which is my point here really. And if this simple action of answering your question, even though it wasn't just a question and did not follow to a tee the simple rules laid out on the top of this webpage, stoopid, doesn't single-handedly and, in a matter of but a few short words, refute your accusation of my assholishness, and prove you to be incorrect, and me to be a nice fellow, a man with no ill will, and no assholery to be speak of, then this surely will: No. I am not an asshole.

What? Still here? That's not enough? You want more proof? Fine. I've noticed that bloggers like to make "Here are a few things you should know about me" lists so I thought I would too. Here are a few things you should know about me:

1) I am the the kindest, gentlest of bears.

1b) Not in that I am big and hairy, but in that I am soft and cuddly, with big bear claws and horribly fearsome hibernation-like breath.

2) I care about things. Like, children. The environment. And bitches.

3) I'm a nice guy. The kind of guy who is always there for a friend. Who always has an ear, and yes, a shoulder, to lend. Who, when you're feeling down, comes over unannounced, rings your doorbell, and as soon as you open the door, gives you a very super tight, and super long hug, for a long long while, then just about when you think the hug will never ever end, squeezes your butt cheeks and leaves, all without ever speaking a word.

4) Not much of a list, I suppose, but that's all you should really know about me at this point. Sometimes, when I let people get too close, when I let them in too far, I get very, very hurt. Especially when I let them in through the bum.

5) Besides, this whole list gag is getting tired.

6) But that bum joke was pretty good, yes?

This picture of a butterfly has nothing to do with anything. I just thought it would nicely break up this awfully horrible expanse of mind-numbing words, and maybe give you a chance to get a drink of water.

Anyhow, I'm a wonderfully sweet person. I can't help it. That's just the kind of guy I am. And, now that I think about it, maybe the fact that I like pictures of butterflies proves that even more. (Then again, it also might just prove that I am maybe fond of the same sex, if my "bum sex" joke didn't already, plus, all this talk about "assholes", and the fact that I posted a picture of a penis last week, and then just now linked it again, but let's just leave that at that, and anyways, stop being such a fucking homophobe, you fucking homophobe.)

Listen. I'm a nice guy. I just play an asshole in my bloglife. It's fun. But more than that, it's important. It's a service I'm providing here. And you know that. What I'm actually doing here, see, is I am actually lampooning the rampant assholioism that runs wild and unfettered every hour of every day here in Blogland, USA. What I'm doing is satire, and you don't need to know the work of Johnathan Swift, or of Lenny Bruce, or of Howie Mandel to understand that. I'm a parody of your typical blogster. It's irony, lads. I am playing the role of the bloghole in order to shine a bright white hot light on the current state of blogholism today. And if you don't get that, it's probably cause, well, you, um, don't, get, uh... alright, it's probably because I'm no good at satire. And bad at parody. And barely even know what irony is. And also suck at being funny. So, yeah, that's a problem. And maybe something I should work on. But anyhow, in the end, it's art, folks. And, trust me, no asshole would ever claim that his blog was art.

So to answer your question, I'm not an asshole. And there is absolutely no reason to believe that my assholish ways is just me projecting, that it's all just a cover, a mask, a shield for my total all-encompassing, debilitating meekness, and that I just started up this blog so I could anonymously seek revenge for those 12 to 18 years of being the totally fucking invisible pencil-necked fucking nobody, the fucking zit-faced rag doll in the high school hallway, watching from a distance as all those horrible fucking fuckers got laid and had a great time and made plans and got high and did things and went on to be successes and barely fucking even batted an eye my way after 10th grade, not even to humiliate me, and now, thanks to the the internet, I can sit in my own room and say every last fucking thing I ever wanted to fucking say without anybody interfering, with nobody getting in my way telling me what to do or or how to be or when to speak.

I have no idea why you would say that or think that about me. That's ridiculous. I know, you never said it, but I'm sure you're thinking it. And it's not at all true, so stop thinking it. Cause its not true in the slightest. I don't know who might have told you that, but it's a total fucking lie. And it's not true. It's a lie. So, yeah, anyways, I'm not an asshole. And anyways, fuck that, and fuck you, douchenose.

No, I'm just kidding. You're not a douchenose.

See? Niceness. My point exactly.

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why do mosquitoes love you so much?

2006-07-28T21:20:00.000-04:00

I don't know. But do they fucking ever. Those skeeters turn my hot bod into one big piece of skeeter loving meat. They're drawn to little old Evil me like the love magnet that I am. They love me so much, it's like they want to have my little fucking skeeter babies. (I know. Same joke also used in previous post. But, would you get off my freaking back? This shit ain't easy, man.) (Fine. It is pretty easy. But you know what I mean.) If there is a mosquito anywhere in my general vicinity, it will buzz itself around, bypassing every other very biteable individual in the area, find its way my way, latch on to me, and suck me all night.

Which, by the way I just put it, doesn't sound so bad. Sounds pretty fucking titillating, actually, I've got to say.

But trust me, it's not. It's not a good sucking. It's sucking in a bad way. A big, bad blood-sucking. And worse, when those nasty fucking blood fucking sucker fuckers fucking bite me, the bites tend to itch like a crazy bitch and swell to mythic proportions. Once, when camping in the wilderness, I had the good fortune to be bit on my left eyelid, which then quickly and mercilessly swelled up to a ridiculous degree, so that I looked not unlike Eric Stoltz in Mask. Needless to say, I was a hit with the ladies.

Right now, I have two bites on my side that just won't quit. I must've been nailed by some flying fuckitoes sometime last night. But in Manhattan? Mosquitoes? Those have got to be the stankiest mosquitoes around. New York-style, homeless tranny, garbage picking, crystal meth addicted, hep-something mosquitoes. And they just threw a non-stop nasty little crystal meth sex party all over me.

But, I guess, when you think about it, the fact that mosquitoes enjoy my sumptuous flesh offerings is, like my Mom (pictured) says, just a testament to the fact that I'm so damn sweet, right?

Come on. Admit it. I'm sweet like a summery peach. I'm hot damn tastily evilicious, and you know it.

Alright,
E.D.

P.S. And, in case you're wondering, yes, that is my actual Evil mom. It's not like I just went on Google Images, typed in "mom" and went with the first picture I could find. What would be the point of that? That would just be plain stupid.

Dear Evil Discussor... Eisenberg's vs. Shake Shack. Whose side are you on?

2006-07-26T12:29:00.000-04:00

Seems that the kind, gentle, paper cap-wearing, line-cooking souls at Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop are pouring a hot bucketful of lard on the greasy grilltop that is the NYC Burger Wars. (Alright, fine, that analogy makes very little sense. Plus, I'm not even sure there are NYC burger wars really. I was just trying to make it sound all sensational. But anyways, just go with me here.) Just recently, out in front of the venerable, glorious, old-New York coffee shop, a handwritten sign was leaned up against the window, saying:

"Hey! Why not grab something to go so you can eat in the park and watch people stand on line for an hour waiting to get something to eat."

Funny? Okay. Grammatically correct? Kind of. Incendiary? Hell yes. It's a fucking proclamation of war. Food War. And you best take cover. Now, Eisenberg's is obviously, not so subtly, referring to the Shake Shack, Madison Square Park's outdoor burger and fries stand at which right now, as we speak, and at any time of day or night, teeming masses of people stand in line, waiting impatiently for a tantalizing mouthful of burg. And which most likely siphons some business off of Eisenberg's daily tally. Clearly, Eisenberg's is not so happy about such things. And are doing what any business in the free market would do. Proclaiming bloody fucking war. Word war, yes, but still, it's war I tell you. A war that just might go down as the nastiest war ever fought, using strictly handwritten signage as weapon, between two places that serve food, in and around the corner of 23rd and 5th, in the month of July. Or maybe not. Maybe it's just a single handwritten sign, a single lob of a grenade, that will flare out and smolder, barely doing any damage, forgotten forever, and that'll be that.

But still. Maybe its fucking war! That would be more fun, wouldn't it? Maybe it'll even be remembered in the distant future as "The 23rd Street-5th Avenue Flatiron-Area Madison-Square-Park-District Horrible Burger War Of '06!" Or better yet, even just "The Horrible War." And, trust me, this is not just a war about foodstuffs. No. This is much bigger than that. This is a war of Old-World vs. Newbie. Of Indoor Dining vs. Al Frescoliciousness. Of Cockroach vs. Rat. And, yes, of Melamine vs. Cardboard.

Eisenberg's, and their handwritten sign, or, as I've taken to calling it, their initial provocation of bloody burger war, is very clear in message. Their handy advice is that you should go to Eisenberg's, buy food, take it out, bring it to the Shake Shack, sit facing the people in line, and in front of all of the hungry sad foodless faces, fill your own face with food, while cackling maniacally like a crazy homeless person. And that's fine. Actually, its a pretty novel idea. And might be kind of a fun thing to do one afternoon. If anyone is up for it this Saturday, please do let me know. But where they lose me, is in their subtly sly read-between-the-lines suggestion that they are a better alternative to Shake Shack. This is a problem, see, when you take into account the fact that Eisenberg's is, in fact, not a better alternative to Shake Shack. And barely even an alternative at all. Yes, I suppose they do both serve food. But when one wants to go to the Shake Shack, it is generally because one wants to eat a hamburger, no?

Now, look at these two hamburgers. The first, from Shake Shack. The second, from Eisenberg's. Which burger do you prefer?

Now wait. Take your time. And really think this over. Look at these burgers closely. Examine them. Really take a good look. Notice, if you will, that there's something not quite right here. Something's amiss. Do you know what that is? That's right. You guessed it. One of these burgers is not a burger. It's a fucking tuna salad sandwich. What Eisenberg's is known for. Supposedly the best tuna in town. And granted, I'm sure it is a great tuna salad sandwich (I wouldn't know, because, obviously, tuna salad is for the ladies), but that doesn't change the fact that it is definitely not a burger. It is similar to a burger in that it's something you hold between two pieces of bread and bring up to your mouth, instead of leaving on your plate, and cutting with a knife and fork. But that is what is known as a sandwich. Not a burger. And I know what you're thinking. Yes, Eisenberg's now does serve a burger. It's advertised in its windows as The Eisen Burger. Admittedly, very clever. And probably very tasty too. But again, I wouldn't know. I haven't had it. Know why? Cause the Shake Shack is right up the street.

Which maybe might bring me to my point finally. It's not like the Shake Shack needs any more support. Certainly not my evil support. But sometimes hype is hyped for a hyping hyped reason. The Shake Shack has a most delicious burger. A meat cookie beyond compare. A burger that is so good, you might want to, for some reason, wear white gloves when eating it. (pictured) As if you were a white-glove doorman, opening the doorway to your belly, so that the precious burger may enter. It's that good. Twenty-million line-standing assholes cannot be wrong. Shake Shack, however, does not have a delicious fried egg sandwich in the morning. Or hot coffee. Or hot pastrami. Or open face tuna melt. Or chicken noodle soup. Or can of sardines. Or chopped chicken liver. Or salami and eggs. Or egg cream. Or all sorts of other delicious and halfways-archaic diner offerings. For those things, I would most certainly head to the king of the classic NY diners. And rest assured, sweet House of Eisenstein, if the Shake Shack started making tuna melts, I would pass them right by, and come see you, I swear it. If I liked tuna, that is. But, when I want a burger? I'm gonna shake my way all the way down to the Shack, hombre. And that is likely the gayest thing I've ever said. Especially, the "hombre" part.

Listen, even if I were to want a burger at Eisenberg's, the place closes at 5PM on weekdays and 4PM on weekends. Whatthefuck how'sthat? Not really prime burger-wolfing hours, no.

I do love love you though Eisenberg's. And you know it hurts me to say these cruel things. I love you with all of my luncheonette-loving heart. I want to have your little luncheonette babies. But when it comes to wanting a burger, please don't get between me and my meat. That sounded weird, but I think you catch my drift. I'm sorry, but history be damned. Venerable institutions be screwed. I'll take the deliciously juicey homemade-edy goodness of a Shake Shack burger, the magical allure of sucking it back out under a clear night's stars, in the very middle of Manahatta, staring into my lovely lover's eyes, wiping grease off of her chin with the hairy back of my hand, any day, over the possibility of maybe having a somewhat decent burger in the confines of your sweetly sweaty coffee shop, between the hours of 7 and 4 daily of course. I'm not afraid to say it. Call me a slave to the over-hyped, overly-written up, overly-lined up, overly-crowded, critic's darling, trend crazy, fad happy, horrible culinary ways of New York City, if that's what you must call me. But also, call me after you get in the Shake Shack line and you're close to the front, would you? That way I won't have to wait too long.

Oh yeah. And I wish you wouldn't use the term on line when what you really mean to be saying is in line, Eisenbergians. I've told you before how I feel about that.

Yours,
E.D.

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

2006-07-26T06:25:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's your hard-nosed journalistic styles. Maybe it's your impeccable credentials. Maybe it's your collective assortments of prizes and awards and honors. Maybe it's because you're like a gang, and gangs are tough and mean and sexy. Maybe it's the way the clock ticks, counting down the short time we have together. Oh yes. Today, I have a sweet Hump Day surprise. Today, I hump not one, not two, but many humpees. It's a special Hump Day Humpathon! Or Hussathon! I can't decide.

That's right. Entire 60 Minutes group of correspondents, today you are my Hump Day Hussies.

Earring? Are you kidding me? That kind of shit turns my crank!

I'll give you something to complain about, Andy!
Or, should I say... Randy?

Stone Something or other? Brock Whatevershisface?
I don't even know who this guy is! And I'll still hump him!

The more Morley, the better. You know what I'm talking about.

Have I got a sweet little retirement package of my own for you, Mike Wallace!
No, honestly. I'm not kidding. It's a basket. With some chocolate and some fruit. What? Did you think that was some sort of innuendo? Get your mind out of the gutter.

Between you and me, I'd like to hump you the most, Leslie Stahl. Cause you're a girl. But don't tell the others! It's our little secret! (Not that you're a girl. I think they know that, don't you? That I'd like to hump you the most. That's our secret, for goodness sakes.)

Steve Croft! So young! So virile! So Stevelicious!

All except for this guy. Who the fuck is he and when did he show up? He weirds me out. Oh wait. Yeah. I'm pretty sure he used to play Sulu on Star Trek.

previously
Hump Day Hussy -- I've got something for journalists. What can I say?
Hump Day Hussy -- And comic strip characters.
Hump Day Hussy -- And Phoebe Cates also.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this your 100th post?

2006-07-25T06:22:00.000-04:00

Um, no. Not really. Well, wait. I guess it kind of is. If you include a whole bunch of shitty drafts that never quite made the grade. If you can believe that's there's actually a "grade" to "make." Which there is. It's a C minus, if you're wondering. So shit dick fuck prick yeah! It's my 100th, SweetKnocks! Partay! Everyone over to my blog.

And now, Evil Discussor Enterprises proudly presents... The very first ever... Montage/ Collage/ Photo-Journal/ Art Piece/ Installation/ Photo-Album/ Exhibit/ Extravaganza/ Pictogram/ Photo-tastic Whateverthefuck... Entitled, "How Evil D Will Be Spending This Very, Very, Very Special Day."

Dear Evil Discussor... How many readers do you think you have?

2006-07-24T07:57:00.000-04:00

You might call them readers, anon. But I call them friends. Lovers. Fellow dreamers. And also, Douchefaces. Sometimes, I like to call them Superstars. My little superstars. I also fancy calling them Sailors sometimes if you must know. And I, Captain Blogheart, most swash-bucklingest seafarer on all of the seas. So dapper in my captain's hat and navy blue blazer and handlebar moustache. And I pretend we're all on a ship together heading straight t'wards a terrifying summer's squall that's sure to wrench this little wooden blogging boat apart and throw us all overboard into a roiling churning freezing sea of sharks and waves and certain death and doom! And we hold eachother. Close. Really, really close. So close that I can feel your ribs. And you, my, um, rib, as well. Yes. That's my rib. My extra rib. My very lower rib. Yes, I know ribs aren't supposed to be there. But it was a birth defect. And so, I have an additional rib that grows sometimes just beneath my pantwaist. And, its been a struggle, it hasn't been easy, and its taken a lot of getting used to, and please, you're starting to make me uncomfortable with all of these questions, just trust me, its a rib.

Anyways, enough about that. It's just something I like to do sometimes. But, yeah, I don't know. 5 readers? 15? 50? 505? Its hard to say. You know what? It's even quite possible that its a number that doesn't involve a five. Like, say 17. Or 48. But who can really tell? Alls I know is I love each and every one of them from the very deepest darkest bottomest of my Evil heart. And I only hope I can touch them in the profound way that they have touched me. And also maybe in a different way. Say, between the knees. In the case of the ladies, that is. But that's a different story for a different time, for a different post. Perhaps on an entirely different blog. Perhaps maybe even not written by me. Possibly a blog entitled Between the Knees. Possibly not. One never knows. I don't know everything after all, dammit. Only most things.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Was your last post the longest post ever written in the history of the world, and will you please sing us a song about it?

2006-07-21T07:43:00.000-04:00

(sung with flair and vivacity, great joy and effervescence, over a bouncy staccato beat)
(oh, yeah. and with a look on your face like this guy)

Yes it was long
Long as my dong
Long as my longest-ass super long shlong!

It was long as my leg
My middle third leg
The leg in between my other two legs!

Oh it was long as my rake
My pant pocket snake
That makes you quake when I put it in your cake!

I don't know what that means
Or maybe I do
It was long as the longest ever piece of poo!

And that's how long my love
(pause and take a breath)
grows
(pause and take another breath)
for yoooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!
(hold the note)
(hold it)
(a bit more)
(and here we go)

Yes, you! That's who! And I mean you!

Ha cha cha!

E.D.

more songs in which i reference either testicles or a penis that may or may not be mine
Dear Evil Discussor... Are you the evilest man in all of Evilstan?
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... Are you becoming less funny?

2006-07-20T07:01:00.000-04:00

I've truly feared for this day. But, I knew it would come. Anon, you have outed me, and it's time I make amends. Make peace with my past. I have something to tell all of you. Something that will, most likely, shake up the blogworld at its very foundations. Something that's been eating me up inside and I just can't go on without revealing. There's just no way to hide it anymore. Its obvious what's going on here, and it's time I admit it.

I'm not funny. Honestly. I know it's hard to believe, but I mean it. I'll say it again. I'm not funny. Never have been. Never ever. It's not that I've become less funny. It's that I was never funny in the first place. I've just pretended to be funny. My most Evilest trick to date.

See? That wasn't funny. At all. Not even a bit. Not even the bolding of the words "I'm not funny" was funny. Nor the italicising. Nor the combination of both. Quite the opposite actually. And there was ample room there for some sort of joke no doubt. But, the truth is, I'm not who you think I am. The closest I've ever come to being funny was this one time, in high school, when I got up to make a presentation and nothing would come out of my mouth. I was nervous and couldn't do it. I had to sit back down. And some people laughed. They thought it was funny. And maybe it was. I wouldn't know. Cause I'm not funny. Sometimes I tell jokes, and when they're over, sometimes people laugh, and sometimes they just cough. But I'm never even sure whether the people who are laughing are laughing because the joke was funny, or because they don't want to make me feel bad. I just can't tell.

There are some things though that I'm pretty sure are funny. Everybody Loves Raymond. Pies in faces. I know its mean, but when someone steps in dog poop, that's pretty funny. Jay Leno. And the two black guys on Saturday Night Live. So, obviously I can recognize good humor sometimes. I just can't make it.

Well, then, you ask, how has this site been so effortlessly and astoundingly hilarious for so long? How have you mangaed to captivate us with your high-minded hilarity all these months? I'll tell you. I'm not proud to admit it. But its because of this guy.

You may not recognize him. But you've certainly read his words, I can assure you of that. His name is Ronnie Podowski. And he's funny. Really, really funny. He might look pretty serious in this picture, but trust me, he's funny. Or so people said. I actually never really totally "got" his brand of comedy. But that didn't matter. Anyways, just at the point when my blog was stalling, failing to gain any traction, his gig as a writer on Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn went belly up. And, you guessed it, I hired him to ghost-write for me. To be Evil Discussor. To give it a try. Just to see how it would go. And boy, did it work. All of a sudden, it was like magic. He was hilarious. The blog was hilarious. And my calibre of blogsmanship went through the roof. His first post for me was Dear Evil Discussor... When you're around little kids, do you sometimes worry you'll get punched in the balls? Read it for yourself. It's absolute utter hilarity. Pure Ronnie. The change was instantaneous and enormous. I can't come up with any funny way to describe it, but he probably would have written something like, "It was like someone took a kitchen knife, dipped it in a tub of funny, and smeared it all over my blog." Something like that. But it would have been funnier than that. Much funnier. Cause that's just the way he was. Funny. Unlike me. His posts were always so off-the-wall and outrageous. His jokes, so perfectly worded. His sense of humor so "inside" and "hip." His commentary and analysis always side-splittingly spot-on and uproarious. His comedic-style so "layered." For every comment made, he would immediately have the most hysterically snarky sarcastic retort to shoot back. Always timed impeccably. Always unbelievably wacky.

It was working out so well. Things couldn't have been better. The Curbed and Gawker links. The praise-filled post on ThisIsWhatWeDoNow.com. Plus, the crazy amount of hardcore sexing I was receiving. Sometimes with 3 to 6 ladies at once. It was a wonderful time. A whirlwind of success, fame, and hilarity. Everywhere I went, people applauded. It was the perfect arrangement. He made me seem funny, and I, in return, paid him just enough to keep his crystal meth habit alive. And not a penny more. I know, that was wrong of me, and I deserve what I get, but I was desperate, and cheap, and it was a way of ensuring he would work his hardest, and do his damnedest to be funny. Which he did. Up until last week, when after months of unparalleled success, he just upped and quit, upset about the company's poor benefit plan.

Alright, fine. In the interest of total disclosure, I should be completely honest. It will be cathartic for me, actually. And make me feel much better about all this. He ODed. I mean, come on. I'm plying him with crystal meth just to keep the comedy pumping, what did you think was going to happen? Of course his overwhelming and crippling addiction soon got the better of him as it so often does. It started eating him up slowly. At first, he started showing up to work late. He was still funny, but late. Which was annoying. Then, all hell broke loose. The demons of drug addiction took a hold of his funny bone and, I don't know, ate it like a delicious chicken drumstick? (Is that funny? Probably not. My point exactly.) With each crystal meth tablet he ingested, another gag would crumble and fail, falling into the deep, dark, dank canyon of comedic mediocrity. I noticed it at first on Dear Evil Discussor... Who let the dogs out? And by Dear Evil Discussor... What the fuck, Chuck? I could tell he was getting lazy. Tired. His ideas growing more and more stale. One quick read of Dear Evil Discussor... Why did you tuck in your shirt today? and it was abundantly clear his comedic prowess was fading. His jokes went from hysterical to really funny. Then, to just being funny. Then, mildly funny. Sometimes even kind of funny. Then, eventually, hardly funny. And finally, to not so funny. He began relying more and more on scatological humor. Anything about shitting, or fucking. Always with the dicks, and the cocks, and the VGs. The humping. Dirty stuff. Desperate to get a laugh, or just be offensive. If he couldn't be deemed funny, maybe he could at least be deemed inappropriate. He had an entire post written and ready to go, titled Dear Evil Discussor... What's the craziest thing you've put in your bum? and I had to pull it. It was heartbreaking. But it was too much. It wasn't working.

Eventually it got to the point where I would have to write most of the post for him and, in between binges, he would just add on the last sentence of each paragraph, maybe sprinkle in some tepid hilarity, some one-liners that were half-heartedly amusing at best, that maybe you'd laugh at if you were in a laughing mood, but certainly not if you were in a non-laughing mood. His humor was waning. It was failing him. The jokes were more forced. More contrived. He was losing his funny. And it was showing. By the time he wrote Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just spend the entire long weekend writing knock knock jokes about Trader Joe's?, it was clear that he had hit absolute rock bottom. It was over.

Then, one night I found him curled up under his desk, nearly lifeless, clutching one of those little piggy keychains where you squeeze it and it looks like poo is coming out. Its a pretty funny keychain, but still. He looked past me, muttered the word "blerd", and his eyes rolled back in his unfunny head. I panicked, unsure of what to do, not wanting anyone to know my dirty secret, scared of what lay ahead. After a couple of hours and some chinese delivery, I threw him in the backseat, dropped him off at the St. Vincent's emergency ward, and tore off. Needless to say, he didn't make it.

Was that funny? No. It was sad. See. I told you.

Anyways, now I'm left all alone here at Evil Discussor Inc. Just me, my fledgling site, and my horrible unfunniness. So please excuse the non-funny nature of my posts as I figure out what to do next. Maybe I should just change this to a blog about gossip. Or politics. Or unfunniness. I don't know. I suppose I'll begin by sifting through some resumes and figuring out if there's anyone available for hire. Maybe find a replacement and give this funny thing one more go around. If by chance you're funny, please send your funniest bit to me and maybe we can work something out. Or if you know someone who might be funny, or is even funny just once in a while, here and there, please let them know too. Maybe I can hire their funny-ass. Hey. That "ass" part was actually kind of funny, wasn't it? Adding "hyphen ass" after a word. I'll have to remember that.

Anyways, I apologize for this ridiculously long and ridiculously not funny post. And also, for lying to you, and carrying on as if I were funny. I'd love to make a joke here to finish off, but, obviously, I wouldn't even begin to know how.

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is there really ever any reason to ever go to St. Louis ever?

2006-07-19T12:13:00.000-04:00

No.

Much like many/most/almost all/all American cities that aren't New York, there's really very little reason for St. Louis to even exist. And I know, because, I spent last night there. Which now makes me the resident expert on St. Louis, yes?

I have seen Missouri. And its inhabitants. And its finest city. And I am proof positive (does that make sense? maybe? hey, back the fuck off. what are you, my fucking editor?) that it's a horrible place that no one should ever bother visiting. Unless of course you're writing a book called Horrible Places. In that case, it makes complete sense that you would visit there. Go ahead. See if I care. Actually don't. Don't bother. I'll give you the lowdown right now. And save you the hassle. You can just pretend you went. No one'll ever know. Cause no one ever goes there. Not even people who live in St. Louis go to St. Louis. That's how bad St. Louis is.

It's kind of like Phoenix. But with a river. And an arch. And, oh yeah, also, a sports bar. And that's it, as far as I can tell. I can say pretty conclusively -- I did spend three hours there, after all -- that there is nothing whatsoever to do, see, visit, eat, drink, fuck, shit, piss or sleep there. Its no place for an Evil Discussor to be. No. Such an awesome, popular, prolific, and powerful blogger such as I needs a city like St. Louis not.

Here's a poem/spoken word thing I wrote, entitled
"Fuck St. Louis (Fuck It Hard)":

Fuck St. Louis!
Fuck it hard!
We don't need it!
Let's burn down St. Louis!
Let's burn down its houses and steal all its gold bouillon!
Is there bouillon there?
I'm not sure.
If so, great. We'll take it!
If not, well, fuck you!
And we'll take that Arch too.
We'll bring it back to New York and put it in a park somewhere.
As a symbol of our conquest of your civic-ass, St. Louis!
We'll put it in Washington Square Park!
Yes!
How brilliant!
Am I!
Right across from the other arch!
We can have an arch off!
And, at the same time, score some weed!
Or oregano!
Who cares?
We'll have a good time.
We'll watch some acrobatic youngsters do their thing!
Or an effeminate guy will strum us a horrible John Mayer tune on his acoustic guitar!
Either way, it'll be great!
Unlike St. Louis!
Fuck that city!
Hard!
Fuck!

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why does it always smell so bad outside Chipotle?

2006-07-17T07:17:00.000-04:00

Why does it? At first I thought it was simply because the Chipotle Regional Planning Director for New York had obviously enforced a radical policy whereby all Chipotle restaurants must be located only on sites where a dead person had just recently been buried underneath the sidewalk directly adjacent to the front door. Or maybe it was just a total coincidence. And I clearly just happened to be always passing a Chipotle while at the same time always walking right behind a crazily pant-crapping madman, who had just eaten an entire goat, or drank a bucket of goatsmilk, or had had some sort of meal involving alot of something goat-related the night before, and is now crapping his pants like crazy.

Then I realized, they're shipping this stink our way on purpose, you dumbass dumbface. In a Subway-stlyle guerrilla attack on our senses. They think its going to whet our little appetites. And tantalize our tiny tiny taste buds til we can't control ourselves any longer. And go shrieking in like an insane group of burrito-craving cravers. How ingenious and dastardly and diabolical. But, I mean, I understand pumping a sweetly delicious aroma through the ducts, out onto the sidewalk, so as to entice passerbys to come inside, but why that scent? Why defile the city with that smell of hot death? Out of all the smells in the world, why make it a scent that is not unlike a fart that, as soon as it left your bum, you somehow trapped under a glass, miraculously not allowing even a tiny ounce of it to seep out to safety and freedom, then carefully transferred to a tightly sealed cannister, without losing any of its delicate aroma, and left to sit and brew and ferment and multiply and grow larger and larger, bolder and bolder, without ever offering it a moment's taste of fresh air, for fourteen long festering years, until, at the very peak of its gestation, you mixed it in a cocktail shaker with a few grilled onions and the faint wispy essence of corn salsa, and then, of course, heated to 250 degrees fahrenheit and pumped through a duct directly into our faces?

If you're going to pump a stench my way, make it smell like sweet ripe tomatoes, dammit. Or tangy guacamole even. Or cheese. Or cherries. Or beans, or old ladies, or sweaty ball sweat, or anything for godsakes. Anything at all really. Just not that rank odor that currently pours out of the piping, down onto our poor, innocent, unassuming heads, and straight into our recoiling shnozzolas. It has the exact opposite intended effect on me. It doesn't make me want to eat a burrito. It makes me want to throw one up.

But I guess I'd have to go in and eat one in order to throw one up so... it's a bit of a complex conundrum. Or wait. Maybe that's their plan. Pump a sick smell into the air, causing nausea in me, making me want to barf burrito, which would logically necessitate that I first eat a burrito, which causes me great confusion and ethical dilemma, cause I don't want to eat a burrito, especially cause I'd have to brave my way through the hot stench once more, but inevitably I'm forced to go into Chipotle, if only to drown my confused and cluttered and divided and aching head in a pile of shredded meat salad. Which isn't so bad after all, I guess.

Touche, Chipotle, touche. You've won this time.

Or have you?

What?

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Outoors or Indoors?

2006-07-14T10:43:00.000-04:00

The sun is nice.

And so are trees.

But I guess no one's ever really died from being indoors too long, right?

So, indoors.

look! previous related posts
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Apples or Bananas?
Dear Evil Discussor... Which is better? Squares or Circles?

Dear Evil Discussor... Why do people in New York often say on line when everyone knows you're in line not on line, stupid?

2006-07-13T11:47:00.000-04:00

Interesting question. And in fact, there's a very obvious reason for this. They're dumb. It's as simple as that. Totally and completely dumb. And ignorant. But mainly, just really mind-numbingly dumb in the head stupid dumb.

But it's not entirely their fault that they're so very, very blindingly thick in the brain. After doing some research on the world wide web, I discovered that, often, if you examine their histories closely, many people who say "on line" when they're actually "in line" as in, "I've been standing on line for these Jersey Boys tickets for like 4 hours," were actually subjected to shock therapy at a young age, by their parents who, thinking that their children were either gay, or crazy, or crazy gay, decided that shock therapy would be the proper solution to the problem. Which it totally was. Unfortunately, after having the gayness and crazy craziness shocked out of their system, these people were left with the mildly annoying habit of being really, really, really, amazingly stupid, often thinking they're "on a line" when, in fact, they're actually "in a line."

So next time you hear someone say "on line" instead of "in line" and you want to pick up a sharp stick and either crack them a bunch of times on or near the temples, or poke them about the face with it, stop and think about it. Just think about it for a second. Then choose the poking option. It's much more effective.

Hope that answers your question and shines some light on this particular issue. For further info, please do read John G. Krackerfucker's "On Line": That's "In-Line" To Anyone With Any Sort Of Education or A Dumbass's Guide to Dumbass New York by Craig Fingermybum.

Yours,
E.D.

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

2006-07-12T08:29:00.000-04:00

This Hump Day, I have a special hump in mind. This Hump Day, I hump not out of love and tenderness, but out of lustful contempt. Which sometimes are the best humps, no? The angry humps. The "I hump you because I hate you" humps. The "I'm sort of symbolically slaughtering you with my sword-like willis" humps. Today is one of those humps. Today, I would hump so hard, with such great passion and zest and zeal, and of course, like always, with unparalleled skill and stamina, that I would hump the meanness, the cruelty and callousness, right out of today's chosen Hump Day Hussy.

Because, I may sometimes be a big old meanie, but I am never, never ever, ever ever, ever ever ever, ever ever ever ever, mean to children that are bald. That's where I draw the line. Especially a child who's gone bald before the tender age of what? Seven?
He's clearly got it rough enough.

Lucy Van Pelt, today you are my Hump Day Hussy.

And whatthefuck, I'll hump you too Sally, if you're around.

OK. Go ahead. Go ahead and hurl the underage child-loving perv accusation at me. But listen. They're fucking animated, k? Your foolish "real life" laws do not apply here. Not here. Not in this imaginary land. Where dogs think they're World War 1 Fighter Pilots and little birds can type. Oh no. You have no authority here.

previously
Remember when I wanted to hump Soledad O'Brien? Wasn't that so totally hilarious and just so wackily obscure of me?

And how about that time I wanted to hump Phoebe Cates? That was great too.

Dear Evil Discussor... If I can't stand the heat, should I get out of the kitchen?

2006-07-11T09:39:00.000-04:00

Yes. Definitely. Go to the living room. Pronto. Although the living room's pretty hot too. Cause the AC's in the bedroom and its not really strong enough to blow all the way into the living room. There's a ceiling fan, but still. I'd tell you to go into my bedroom, but, it's my bedroom, you know? So, on second thought, you should probably just stay in the kitchen. There's water there.

Yours,
E.D.

entirely unrelated post that will make you a far better person after reading:
Dear Evil Discussor... Should I tell my friends about your amazing blog and how amazing you are in general?

Dear Evil Discussor... I was just told the original Roll n Roaster is closing. Can you confirm this?

2006-07-10T11:36:00.000-04:00

Quiet you. You sacrilegious slanderous snake-like sinmeister. I can confirm it. Confirm it to be false, that is! With a simple phone call to the land of 718. I sleuthed it out like a modern day Magnum P.I. and uncovered the beautiful truth that there is no R n R closing in sight. Unless they're lying to me over there, but I doubt it. So put your rumor-starting, fear-mongering, hate-spreading, heresy-spouting lies to bed, you silly sleepy douchehead, and let's go fill our beautiful faces with cheez, and roast beef, and turkey, and more cheez! In Sheepshead Bay, no less! The land of fishermen! And drunken sailors! And roast beef apparently! Today is the start of a brand new day! A day without fear! Without worry or concern! A day with fries that are round! And rippled! The Roll N' Roaster lives! Albeit a healthy 45 minute subway ride from the city! But so what? Would you not travel further for such tasty delights and delicious delicacies? Trust me, it's worth it. Not that I've actually ever gone out there since the East Village location shut its blinds one last time, closed its never used take-out window for good, and turned off its Cheez machine forevermore. But maybe tonight's the night! Probably not! But maybe! Meet me there, all of you R n R loving blerds! Let's celebrate! I'm buying the first round! Of gravy!

E.D.

previously, and wow did I go over the top on this shit or what?
Dear Evil Discussor... Is it true that the Roll n Roaster is closing?

Dear Evil Discussor... Have you ever been mentioned on curbed.com?

Dear Evil Discussor... Is anyone who dislikes Roll n Roaster a total and complete jackass?

Dear Evil Discussor... Why were you getting all Lenny Bruce-like about that Roll n Roaster thing?

Dear Evil Discussor... Have you copyrighted the word 'blerd' meaning 'blog nerd'?

2006-07-07T12:08:00.000-04:00

Yes. Of course I have. So don't even think of ripping me off, fucknose. The word's been copyrighted, trademarked, patented and registered. I own the sweet-ass hot-damn word. I even wrote the word down, put it in an enevelope (Postmarked yesterday of course. What do you think I am? Stupid? (Don't answer that. Unless your answer is no.)), and sent it to myself, never ever ever to be touched or opened or licked again by human hands. Or mouth, I guess. Hands don't lick, dummy. I even own the freaking domain name, ok? Be it .com, .org, .net, .uk, or .whateverthefuckelse. I've written the book and optioned the film rights. I've fucking already got Colin Farrell and Eliza Dushku (she's from Buffy and some other shit) to play the fucking leads, so back the fuck off. You're out of luck. The word's all mine. Find a fucking nother.

That's right, I'm feeling cuss-worthy and totally fuck-tastic. I have no idea why, but this post is more offensively profanity-laced than if you were to combine the motherfucking first two seasons of Deadwood, 48 Hours, and Another 48 Hours, all into one, extremely long, ridiculous show/ABC Special Presentation. So what the fuck what? Fuck?

'Blerd' is going to make me famous. Nay, it's not just going to make me famous, it's going to make me ridiculously rich. Like, really really really rich. Like shitting gold bricks rich. Like shitting pure gold. Like diarrheaing gold even. Diarrheaing gold all day and all night. Every night, an endless stream of diarrhea. It doesn't sound pretty, but believe me it is. Cause when your diarrhea comes out gold, it's pretty. It's not so bad or gross or painful or uncomfortable to diarrhea like it usually is to diarrhea. It's good to diarrhea. Really good to diarrhea. When your diarrhea's gold.

Alright, it's probably still pretty uncomfortable. But trust me, it's worth it. So, anyways, yeah. Hands off, bitches. Or should I say, blerds. (copyright) (TM) (R) (FUQ) (2006 Evil Discussor Ltd. Inc. Co.)

Anyhow,
E.D.

Here's the link to the post where I invented that sweet word. Or, if you weren't the huge lazy blerd you are, you could just scroll down one post. It was just this morning, needlenuts:
Dear Evil Discussor... What is your day job?

Dear Evil Discussor... What is your day job?

2006-07-07T09:41:00.000-04:00

This question was submitted to me recently by an anonymous questioneer. In response:

Maybe it's advertising. Maybe it's law enforcement. Maybe it's chiropractry. That doesn't sound right. Chiropracty? No. Chiropractic? Anyways, yeah, maybe one of those. I'd like to tell you more, but due to contractual obligations, confidentiality agreements, and just a whole mess of debilitating paranoia, that's really all I can say.

Well, I guess that's not all I can say. I can say other things, I suppose. I can say "Mind your own business, you sickly sweet curiously crazy bitchpants." Or "Eff you, blogtard." Or even "Why should I tell you my job, when you won't even tell me your name, douchetop?" But I won't. That would be cruel of me and wrong. And it would probably be a big mistake to alienate my core audience of blog nerds. Or, as I have taken to calling them, blerds. Instead, I'll just refer all you blerds and blogtards to a previous post in which I answer a similar question, and use this time to flagrantly get you to read some of my horribly awfully awesome archives. Anyhow, isn't it about time you wasted a whole lot of time taking the time to take the time to get to know me, little ones?

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this your only job?

Yours,
E.D.

relatedly:
Dear Evil Discussor... Why does work suck?

totally unrelatedly, but kinda is, and either way it's still relevant + crazy wicked awesome:
Dear Evil Discussor... Is writing a blog a lot like masturbating?

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just spend the entire long weekend writing knock knock jokes about Trader Joe's?

2006-07-06T07:27:00.000-04:00

Yes.

I did.

And here they are.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Cashew.
Cashew who?
I'll cashew later, I'm heading to Trader Joe's.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Lettuce.
Lettuce who?
Lettuce go to Trader Joe's. I'm out of Chicken Chili Verde Enchiladas.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Nuts.
Nuts who?
Oh nuts! This line is way too long.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Chicken.
Chicken who?
Chicken in is no problem, now that there's no line outside. But checking out still takes quite a while.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Beef.
Beef who?
Beefore you get in the check-out line, grab a tub of those Cat Cookies. They're super tasty.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
You.
You who?
No, they don't sell it there. They only sell stuff from their own private label. There might be a Trader Joe's chocolate beverage equivalent though.

And there you have it. That's all I've got. I know, it was an entire long weekend, but whatever. That's like almost two knock knock jokes a day, right? Or a joke and a half or something. Either way, that's pretty effing good. And yeah, that Chicken one barely makes sense, but come on. Stop judging. Anyways, I'll keep going on these. At least until I have enough to publish a beautifully photographed Taschen-style oversized arthouse coffee table book, or just a pocketbook bathroom reader (haven't decided yet) entitled 101 Knock Knock Jokes About Trader Joe's (That Are Sure To Have Them Rolling In The Frozen Mexican Snack Food Aisle). If you've got any, let me know. Because maybe we can go in on this together, you know. Split the crazy-ass profits, quit work and just blog to our little heart's content. You and me, blogging together like little blogging blog lovers.

Actually, you know what, you can blog all you want. Go right fucking ahead, Bilbo Bloggins. I'll be spending my newfound time and wealth doing other, more pleasurable things. Like, say, getting foot massages. And back massages. And, come to think of it, front massages too. A lot a lot of front ones.

Yours,
E.D.

previously
Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just spend another morning feverishly rewriting the lyrics to Mambo #5?

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

2006-06-30T09:16:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-29T08:37:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-28T08:08:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-27T09:30:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-23T01:27:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-21T00:37:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-20T10:09:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-16T10:14:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-14T08:41:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-14T01:44:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-13T09:02:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-08T00:18:00.000-04:00

(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?

2006-06-06T10:58:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-01T16:03:00.000-04:00

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.

Dear Evil Discussor... How's lunch?

2006-05-31T13:21:00.000-04:00

Horrible, thanks. Just got back from picking up a chopped salad. Which is enough of a strain on the emotions and psyche as it is. The lineup is always tremendous, and not only that, but there's the fact that I'm lining up for a chopped salad. Which, even at my age, is something I haven't completely come to grips with. Call it an identity issue or a case of mild to awful insecurity, but when I hear myself ordering a chopped salad, I even want to make fun of myself. It's just something I haven't gotten over. Salad is something you DON'T want to eat. Not something you, in any way, desire to eat of. Because it's something that generally TASTES HORRIBLE. And besides, it's FOR THE LADIES. Any dude would rather be sinking his teeth into a greasy bacon cheeseburg without a fucking doubt, and really, when ordering a salad, is just succumbing to societal pressures to turn himself into a lady boy of some kind. But anyways, once in a while, I succumb. Mostly for the sake of anyone who ever has to have any encounter with my belly, be it topless or shirted, whether on the beach, on the street, in the office, on my desk, wherever, anywhere, everywhere. It's a little baby belly, but a belly no less. So anyways, when I do succumb, when I decide to go for it, to take that high diving leap into a crispity bed of half romaine half iceberg, I need said salad to be tasty. No, delicious. No, perfect and perfectly deliciously delectably delightful! It has to taste at least a quarter as good as a greezy slice of meatball pizza might, albeit a greezy slice of meatball pizza that instead of meatballs and pizza, is made up of some sort of earthy-tasting leaf and the most flavorless and innocuous as possible vegetables, such as cucumbers, green peppers, and more cucumbers. If it doesn't taste at least an eighth as good as something good tasting tastes, I might freak out. I might impale myself on my fork and throw my salad at you and get the fuck out of saladtown forever.

Upsettingly, there was a new salad lady behind the salad counter today. And I could see it in her eyes she was in way over her head. She was frightened. And so was I. And the whole time in line I was thinking "pleeeeaase don't stick me with her, please deliver me to one of the old pros who knows just the right amount of dressing and how to chop it just right." She was only one of the eight salady salad makers, so my chances were good, right? Wrong, bitchpants. Of course, it's only right that I should end up in the newbie's clumsy salad hands. And thus, with a totally underchopped and overdressed chunk of salad. A soggy piece of poo for the low price of eighteen dollars or however much.

I should've said something you say. Stopped her and her feeble salad making ways dead in its tracks? Jumped the counter and pulled the overflowing bottle of dressing out of her dangerous clutches? Grabbed the chopping knife out of her horrible novice palms and showed her how to chop like she meant it? Yelled at her and belittled her til she cried or beckoned the manager or until other kindler gentler customers tackled me to the ground and forcibly restrained me until the proper authorities could arrive?

But I couldn't. I couldn't really tell her how to make my salad right without sounding like a huge asshole. Firstly, I already look like a huge asshole for ordering a salad in the first place, right, cause only assholes order salads, especially of the chopped variety. And secondly, I mostly reserve being a huge asshole for this here blog, where no one knows me or sees me and I can hide and conspire in the safety blanket of anonymity. (In my other, "realer" life, I'm actually a tad more meek and a lot less wanker-like, but keep it to yourself, Doucheface.)

So now what? Now I'm left with a wet-ass big-bite salad. And it's just taking my afternoon in the wrong direction. And all was going so well. I'm gonna have to salvage this day somehow.

Any ideas?

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What did you do over the long weekend?

2006-05-30T08:28:00.000-04:00

Not much. Bought a pair of pants. A nice pair of pants. A really nice pair of pants actually. Slacks, really. Took me a long time to find them. Almost too long. A couple of days, here and there, over time, going after work, looking for just the right pair. Something formal yet casual yet summery yet spring-like. Then I found them.

Isn't it funny how much time one spends looking for just the right pair of pants, or searching for that specific ingredient, or trying to find the perfect hairdresser, or seeking out that forgotten song, or writing that line just right, or whatever it is you might spend time doing, when in the end we all just die?

I suppose the time could be better spent.

But then again, how well would it be spent without the right pair of pants?

Probably not too well at all.

So, yeah. I bought pants. What did you do?

Yours,
E.D.

Related post: Dear Evil Discussor... How do you feel about pants?

Dear Evil Discussor... Do you know who's wearing these grey New Balance? They were crapping in the stall next to me.

2006-05-24T09:03:00.000-04:00

Good question. But, honestly, no, I don't know.

But here's what I do know. There are three stalls in the bathroom by me. Now, obviously, I, as any insanely intelligent person like myself would, go for one of the end stalls. You needn't even be as smart as me to realize that. It's just plain common sense. Only sharing a wall with one stall makes more sense than having neighbors on both side, right? Of course. But sometimes, every once in a while, people take the middle stall. See, they think they're being all smart and all. Using the old reverse psychology, that because the middle stall is less popular, it is less used and therefore cleaner. It's the "when eating at a restaurant, hold the coffee mug with your left hand so as to drink from the less used side of the cup" mentality. They're real smart, right? No. Fuck no. They're not smart. They're dumb. Dumb dumbasses. Dumb dumb dumby dum dums. And totally effing crazy! You're totally over-thinking it, middle stall beeotchskies! Cause what ends up happening is, you sacrifice some private crapping space for an insignificantly cleaner stall! But good for you. Stay out of my end stalls, buddy buddies. All the better for me.

But yeah, that doesn't really help you with your question, does it? But so what? I can't speak my mind here? It's my blog, bitchpants. Anyways, what do you think I am? Some sort of soothsayer? Some sort of Criss Angel, Mindfreak? Yes, I am a crazy brained madman, a smart-ass smartypants with powers of sight and smell and sense far greater than those of an average human being. But still, I don't know who's shoes those are. I don't even know where you work. Look, all I can say is, I'll keep on the look out. And good luck with your search.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Is this live re-enactment of the 1st level of Super Mario Bros the greatest accomplishment ever accomplished by man?

2006-05-22T11:36:00.000-04:00

By far and away, yes. Man's greatest feat, albeit, with some audio difficulties.

The hours of painstaking practice and rehearsal!
The unbridled ambition!
The pure audacity and bold-headedness!
The unstoppability of man's desire!
See, I told you! When you put your mind to it, you can do anything, pal!
This, my friends, is Man in his finest hour.
Man with a capital M, not a little baby lower case one.
This is Man living the dream.
Living life to its fullest.
Living as if he were Mario, the Italian plumber.

E.D.

WATCH SUPER MARIO LIVE

Dear Evil Discussor... Why do you love it so much when people just miss the subway?

2006-05-18T07:06:00.000-04:00

Because. I love it. I love it I love it I love it I love it. I love when you see them racing down the stairs, huffing and puffing, hope-filled and wide-eyed, such promise, such longing, such potential for an ideally timed and perfectly planned subway trip, and just as they get there, those doors bing and close, right before their outstretched arms. And they stand there, in disbelief, sighing, and panting, and fuming, and praying that the Conductor will have but an ounce of humanity hidden somewhere behind his burly exterior, and offer them one last tiny speck of hope, one fragment of a glimmer of a glimpse of an opportunity, one teensy weensy chance to salvage this rapidly deteriorating day, and open those doors just a sliver of an inch, so they can ram their arm in and pry their way into the sweet safe innards of the subway car, knowing that all is right and fair and just in the universe, and that they've been saved from hopelessly waiting in disgust and shame and bitter bitterness and embarassment for the next train to arrive.

But he doesn't. No. Because, like me, he loves it too. He loves their misery. And we laugh together. The Conductor and me. We laugh heartily. Not out loud. That would be weird. No, we hide our laughter. And then we go and blog about it. Well, I do. He probably doesn't. He has to conduct the train.

Always,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... When you're rinsing off shampoo, do you go in head-first or back-first?

2006-05-16T10:59:00.000-04:00

I go head-first. Of course I go head-first. Cause that's the manly man way. Backing in is for pansies and daints. And taking the shower head off the wall like this guy? That's just ludicrous and actually, plain offensive. You've gotta throw yourself in headlong with abandon. Without a thought or care given to caution. Do I worry that searing hot water might scald my face? No. Or worse, that the shampoo might run in my eyes and cause slight irritation? Fuck no. I give myself over to the powers of the shower. It's not a bath! It's a fiery baptism! Alright, well, I guess it is kind of a bath I suppose. Anyways, I let the water run down my chiseldly ripply hot hot man bod, and soak myself all sexy and masculine-like just like the guy from the Irish Spring commercials. Without the barrel and the outdoors and the giggling girls part, that is. Well, sometimes there are giggling girls. Only they're not girls. They're me. Giggling cause the shower feels so damn good. And that makes me giggly.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What the fuck, Chuck?

2006-05-15T22:27:00.000-04:00

Yeah, Chuck. What the fuck?

Always,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Does it bother you that your initials are the same as erectile dysfunction?

2006-05-12T12:18:00.000-04:00

Now that you brought it up, Copyranter, yes. Yes it does.

So much so, in fact, that I am right now considering changing my name entirely.

There. I considered it. And decided against it. Because, you know what? My initials might be the same as that horrible bad peeny problem, but they're also the same as Electric Dancer. Elegant Diner. Epicurious Designer. Episcopal Druid. Epitome of Dastardliness. Even-handed Dope-fiend. Everlastingly Dashing. Eclectic Doll collector. Energetic Doomsdayer. Everlastingly Dashing again. Extra Deadly. And, fuck, those are all the ones I can think of. You'd think I'd be able to come up with more. After all, I am brilliant. But I can't. Cause my head is soft right now. So soft. Need rest.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... What's up?

2006-05-10T11:57:00.000-04:00

Just hangin'. Doing my thing. Rocking out. Hanging loose. Doing it doggie-style and everything. Chilling. Relaxing. Chillaxing. Banging on the beatbox. Keeping faith alive. Dreaming big dreams. Dancing with the stars. Skating with the stars. Skating with some dancers. Loving life. Taking er easy. Giving her onions. Fizzling and beshizzling. Easing up. Ramping up. Touching base.
Hangin' with Mr. Cooper.

WUT UP WIT U?

E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Who let the dogs out?

2006-05-08T08:03:00.000-04:00

Who?

Who? Who?

I let the dogs out.

What do you want? They were barking.

I'll give you a moment to stop laughing and get back up on your chair. Take your time.

Yes, it's true. That was most likely the funniest little joke, or humor piece, if you prefer, ever read or written on a blog. And it's no coincidence. Seeing as I am the most hilarious blogster to ever hilariously operate a hilarious blog, pulling my bloggy strings from behind your monitor, using only the keyboard, its keys, and my cunning.

It's no wonder people often refer to me as The Wizard of Blogz. Or, of course, Dr. Blogenstein. And even, sometimes, for whatever reason, Bilbo Bloggins.

Bye for now,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... How do you feel about underscores (_) ?

2006-05-05T06:25:00.000-04:00

Funny you should ask. Cause I have some pretty strong feelings about underscores. Underscores are tremendously sucky. If anyone's got an email with an underscore in it, I'm sorry, but you lose biggy big time.

Wouldn't you hate having to always say to people "My email is doofus underscore johnson at shithole dot com" or something to that effect?

I would. I would hate that. I would hate that so much that I would stop giving people my email. Or maybe I'd just make up an email address and tell people to email me there. Either way, I wouldn't be receiving any emails. And that would be sad. Cause I like emails. I just don't like underscores.

Yours always and forever,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you just spend another morning feverishly rewriting the lyrics to Mambo #5?

2006-05-03T22:20:00.000-04:00

Yes, but like always, only the choruses. I'm too good for the verses. Besides, who needs them?

I like to let Sir Lou Bega lead with the first chorus. Then I take it from there.

A little bit of Monica in my life
A little bit of Erica by my side
A little bit of Rita is all I need
A little bit of Tina is what I see
A little bit of Sandra in the sun
A little bit of Mary all night long
A little bit of Jessica here I am
A little bit of you makes me your man

(speeding up now)

A little bit of Monica blah blah blah
A little bit of Erica doobie doo
A little bit of Rita up my bum
A little bit of Tina buckle my shoe
A little bit of Sandra touch my nuts
A little bit of Mary tickle my nards
A little bit of Jessica what the fuck
A little bit of you fuck fuck fuck fuck

(faster! faster!)

A little bit of Rita you're a douche
A little bit of Wendy douchey douche
A little bit of David fucky malucky
A little bit of Bernie on my knee
Bernie, Bernie, get off of my knee
Please get off you're hurting me
What the fuck, Bernie, get off, man
A little bit of this and that's the end!

If you have a Mambo #5 line you've been working on yourself, please, do share.

That's all,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why do I love Sarah Nussbaum?

2006-05-01T10:30:00.000-04:00

Here's a question posted by an obviously smitten anonymous poster. And here's my answer.

Because.
Because she turns your crank, boy-o.
Because she makes you feel all gushy inside.
Because she's hotter than hot.
Because her sister's hot too.
Because she prefers to eat at Taco Bell over anyplace else.
Because she can drink you under the table if she wanted to.
Because when she passes, you get a tingle tween the knees.
Because sometimes, at the right angle, you can see through her shirt.
Because she never wears clamdiggers, capris, culottes, or any sort of non-full length pant.
Because she's read more books than you.
Because she doesn't have a Blackberry or Palm Pilot.
Because she's got a nice chunk of cash in a Preferred Money Market Savings account.
Because sometimes her hair is straight and sometimes its all curly.
Because her cell phone ring is the first few bars of Kashmir.
Because she's never worn a pant suit.
Because in junior high she had boobs before any other girl.
Because you see those boobs every night in your dreams.
Because she makes a killer lasagna.
Because she converts that dull aching pain in your belly into butterflies.
Because she's Mindy to your Mork. Spock to your Kirk. Sundance Kid to your Butch Cassidy.
Because she doesn't mind getting dutch ovened. In fact, she kind of likes it.
Because she refuses to eat mayonnaise.
Because her favorite train is the F train.
Because she smells like rainbows and rosebuds. The chocolate kind.
Because she doesn't say "like" a lot.
Because, when she was a kid, she used to cut out Absolut Vodka ads and hang them on her wall.
Because she doesn't put sour cream in her seven layer dip.
Because sometimes she walks around her apartment bottomless like Juliane Moore in Shortcuts.
Because no matter where you look you think of something that makes you think of her.
Because she's got the tiniest little toes in all of toetown.
Because she wouldn't even care if you wrote a stupid-ass blog.
Because she doesn't even exist.
Because you're so dumb and she's so smart.
Because you've seen her belly button and that's enough.
Because everyone's in love with Sarah Nussbaum.
Because she's fucking Sarah Nussbaum, that's why.

Yours,
E.D.

And now, a question for all of my dear readers. Why do you love Sarah Nussbaum?

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

2006-04-28T12:52:00.000-04:00

Yes I am actually. I mean, it's probably not Guinness Book material, but it's huge. Really fucking huge. I haven't had a salad in a while so figured I'd splurge and get the larger one. But this one might actually be too big.

And dammit, I should've gone with my gut and added the crispy bacon. Always go for the crispy bacon. Especially when its descibed on the menu as crispy bacon.

Sincerely,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Where do you get your e?

2006-04-28T10:17:00.000-04:00

This query was posed to me by an obviously inquisitive ad dude copywriter blogger guy named Copyranter. Some of you might know him. His blog is quite popular and funny at the same time. He's a nice guy, it seems.

Or... is he? (Sometimes italics can be used to denote that you're saying something... in a sneaky sly way. I just learned how to use... them. Just now. Now I'm an HTML wizard. I am the king of motherfucking HTML. Anyhow. Sorry. Back to the question at hand.) Clearly we can ad 'druggie', 'menace 2 society' and 'negative role model for your children' to Copyranter's long list of credentials. Because by this tiny, harmless, cutesy, little lower case 'e', I assume you mean 'ecstasy', Ranter. That dirty little party pill known to make people want to dance all night to dance music. Yes, it's true, I am very much into dancing. And I do like to dance all freaking night long. Perhaps you've even seen me on the dance floor at our monthly Dancing With Bloggers party, shimmering and shaking like a glossy smooth piece of velvet under the staccato blue strobe light. Intensely making eyes with the ladies before I come up from behind them and hypnotically press my pelvis against their collective bums. And, yes, it goes without saying that, of course, ecstasy would help this little trance dance of mine along. Shit yeah it would.

But wait. Why must you know where I receive my e, Ranter? Is it because you're out of e and totally jonesing? (Cause, if so, call me, man. I'll hook you up.) Or is it something more sinister? Is it because the 'e' you refer to stands for ENTRAPMENT!?! Come on. Admit it. You're baiting me to reveal my e dealer to you so you can bust my ass and break up this ole blog party of mine! Isn't that right? Well, the gig is up. I knew it all along. You weren't just put on this earth to blog it up. No. You're not even actually an ad dude blogger guy copywriter. You're really an undercover narc cop masquerading as an ad dude copywriter guy posing as a blogger dude! Here to infiltrate a nefarious and deadly ring of mediocre, hardly popular, self-masturbatory bloggers like myself, and bring us down from the inside, 21 Jump Street-style! You even referred to 21 Jump Street in a previous post of yours. Coincidence? Pshaw! I think not!

And this isn't just my druggie paranoia kicking in, I don't think. No. No way. It couldn't be. I mean look at you. So mysterious. Never fully revealing your true identity except for the fact that you might be named Mark. And that you have a back. I mean, come now. This photo of you even. In full fake perp pose ala Serpico. (By the way, I can't tell if those are just super hairy forearms or prison tattoos. Hmm. The mystery deepens.)

Well, Ranter, here's the truth. The truth is I don't do e. Tell your goddamn superiors. And let it be known to the world. I'm clean, motherfuckers. Clean as a whistle. Sure I party. Oh fuck, I party like the best of em. I party hard, man. Really fucking hard. I'm like the craziest partier ever. Ever ever. You've never seen someone party like I party, I swear. You haven't even partied til you've partied like I've partied. It's crazy. But anyways. What was I saying? Oh yeah. I party, right? But I party clean-like. No drugs. Nothing like that. I'm all natural. High on life is all. Don't need no drug to keep this ass shaking.

Now excuse me while I get back to feverishly rubbing my crotch against the edge of my desk and keyboarddddddkjl;jhlkdhjasio'ur0 93q4 wepjferlckjnlknrkwanilqfjp'o'wj4q4lierfhvnsadjbnvja sdbnvk.ajsrjkvbjkrrrrrrrrakjjkkjjjjjjjkjjjdhcb,

E.D....rsgeaigohi;irabnsvrdrj;

By the way, if by "where do you get your e" you just meant "electricity", well, that's just a god-given gift really.

Dear Evil Discussor... Where've you been, you horrible motherfucker? I missed you.

2006-04-27T10:02:00.000-04:00

Whoa. Easy, buddy. I mean, I missed you too, but come on. Don't confuse hate for love or love for hate or vice versa or whatever.

I've been busy. Crazy busy, k? Plotting my world domination. Planning revenge against all those who might've wronged me be it purposely or accidentally. Conducting crazy elaborate deadly science experiments in my basement.

Alright, fine. I haven't been doing any of that. I don't even have a basement, sucker. I've just been on the phone alot really. And maybe, as a previous post mentioned, spending much of my time looking into unloading ludicrous amounts of hard-earned cashola on the tiniest apartment ever built by man.

What else is a man to do? It's our innate nature to want to own land. And also, of course, to want to receive bi-weekly fellating. The former need might soon be taken care of.
The latter, I'm still working on.

Yours,
E.D.

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

2006-04-24T13:21:00.000-04:00

(sing at first in a hushed whisper, then build dramatically into an explosive crescendo of lights, dance, spectacle, sequined outfits and fireworks display)

I do I do Yes I do
I do I do How about you?
I'm the most amazing blogging man
From here all the way to Turkmenistan!

It's so hard not to love me so
Cause everything I do is hilarious, no?
Up your ass and out your nose
I'm more popular than Lindsay Lo!

I discuss things like pants and tits
Why just yesterday I got four hits!
Douchebag! Douchebag! Shut your trap!
Sometimes there's pictures... like this map.

Everybody sing with me
Evil Discussor is the place to be!
Come on and sing, everybody
Evil Discussor is like a god to me!

Yes I've got the greatest bloggy ogg
Cows and horses, cats and dogs
June, July, March and Feb
I am the king of the whole
goddamn
wickedly
wonderful
wonderly
wickedful
wild and fantastical
digital festival
punch em in the testicle
world

wide

webbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb!

Best wishes,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Why, at the birth of TomKitten, was someone holding a sign saying "Yahtzee!"?

2006-04-20T14:33:00.000-04:00

NY POST 4th Paragraph

Whatthefuck?

I don't know. You've got me. Even the Evil Discussor is stumped on this one.

Oh wait a minute. Of course. Got it. When you think about it, under the circumstances, it makes total sense.
In that it makes no sense whatsoever.

Yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Did you know that "us viscid loser" is an anagram of Evil Discussor?

2006-04-20T12:33:00.000-04:00

This question was submitted recently by a fellow named anon. Although I neither speak Latin nor anagram, I will try to answer it for him. No. I did not know that. I am so happy that I know that now. Thank you for taking the time out of your hectic schedule to work out an anagram of your favorite blogmaster's wickedly wild given name. You're so much fun.

Here's one for you. Did you know that "Lay smile leo uk bee new rig" is an anagram for "You smell like a big weener"? (Not to mention, also a common Ojibwe phrase meaning "Pass the dried beef legs, for I am hungry, and it is getting late." But that's besides the point.)

But I want to get to something just a wee bit more meaningful here. Anon, although your question seems harmless and playful on the surface, I believe it's actually masking something. Something darker and deeper. It's a cry for help. Come on. We can all see it. I'm just the only one with the balls to say it. And I'm not like the others, anon, leaving you to squirm and self-destruct in your own filthy pit of self-hate. I will help you. I will pluck you out of harm's way like the small boat in a summer's squall that you are. Like the human trainwreck you seem to be. Right now. That's right. It's like that A&E show Intervention, except it's happening right here on a blog and instead of holding an emotionally charged family meeting where a crack-head-crack-whore-glue-sniffing-pre-teen is finally persuaded to save what's left of his/her life and give up his/her crackheadwhoring ways, I'm just going to write some stuff about something or something. But it's just as riveting.

I am not surprised that your question would involve the word 'loser,' anon. I have a sneaking suspicion that that word's been hanging around you for quite a long while now, following you wherever you may go. Ever since you first heard it uttered, that time on the playground when Ronnie Harliss pulled down your pants in front of the girls, and left you standing there in your pale yellow undies for all the world to see.

Well, maybe it's time to escape the persecution of that horrible word! To pull off the shackles and tear down the wall! Maybe it's time to take a small step back towards dignity! To walk with pride all the way back to pride-land! Maybe it's time to say to the Ronnie Harlisses of the world, under your breath, "Hey, Ronnie Harlisses, eff you, man" and then, of course, turn and run really really fast. Maybe it's time to make some little, small, tiny, somewhat insignificant move forward or something! And maybe, just maybe, the first step to doing so would be to stop spending time posting stupid questions on stupid blogs like mine all day.

Thanks for writing,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Are you too busy to blog today cause you're doing things like talking to mortgage brokers about lending you money for a house?

2006-04-19T09:39:00.000-04:00

I am never too busy for you, dear readers.

Never.

Never ever.

Never ever ever.

Except for maybe today, that is.

Lovingly yours,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Are nipple slips the new plumber's butt?

2006-04-18T10:32:00.000-04:00

Absotively. Yes. There does seem to be a certain increase in the sightings of nipplage slipplage. I believe you've got something here. Keep at it.

Nipple slips are the greatest gifts one could ever receive, aren't they? I pray that next X-Mas, my stocking will be filled to the brim with them!

Yes indeed, nipply slipplies just might be God's greatest creation. And big side booby slips aren't half bad either.

Many thanks,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Should I tell my friends about your amazing blog and how amazing you are in general?

2006-04-13T08:52:00.000-04:00

Fuck yes, you crazy you!
Tell your friends!
Tell your enemies!
Tell your co-workers!
Tell your pen pal!
That's so cute that you have a pen pal!
Tell the pizza guy in lieu of a tip!
Tell your sister!
After you're done rifling through her drawers just to get a whiff of her bra!
Tell her hot friends too!
Tell your crazy landlady!
Also tell her to shave her legs!
Tell your spiritual advisor!
And then hit him about the knees with a stick!
Tell the person who drew this picture!
That maybe they should keep their day job!
Unless its drawing!
Then they should go back to college!
Tell that guy on the corner with the moustache and the lisp!
Tell him to leave you alone and stop leering at your ladyfriend!

I don't care who you tell, just tell!

As always,
E.D.

Dear Evil Discussor... Can you write a short post today? I need to catch up on your incredibly amazing previous posts.

2006-04-12T09:39:00.000-04:00

Yes. Yes I can.

Yours,
E.D.