Monthly Archives: August 2012

A Bomb in the Tuna

-I’m sorry, but the Moof cannot come to work today. There is a bomb in the tuna.
-…who is this?! Who’s calling??

Back when I was a bitch for hire, I sometimes didn’t want to go to work. Okay, every day I didn’t want to go to work, but often, this urge to not go was so especially strong. I wondered, what would I do in exchange to not have to go? Would I put on a cow costume and suck on a cow’s teat? Would I eat a caterpillar? In my desperation, I fantasized about some kind of office you could call that would exchange unpleasant actions for missing shifts.

“You say you want to miss this dinner shift on Tuesday? Let me just enter that for you… All right. That will cost you the consumption of two deci liters of urine.”

The horror of working in a restaurant is that you have to drag your ass to work TWICE a day. Once in the morning for the lunch shift (still feasible with the lure of coffee) but once more in the afternoon for the dinner shift. Oh how low my spirits would sink.

Because he is such a good mate, sometimes J, seeing my hangdog expression would offer to call my sushi restaurant anonymously and report a bomb in the tuna.

Fast forward several years later, when we were supposed to meet at 7:45 for dinner yesterday. J arrived fashionably late, a little bit sweaty and disoriented. “Don’t get mad,” he said right away. “I tried to come on time, but I couldn’t. There was a bomb in the tuna so they closed down some of the subway lines.”

Me: … … … wut?

Yep, it seems that a leftover WWII bomb was discovered at a construction site just off the middle of town yesterday–how insane is that?! The place where it was discovered is a mere three kilometers or so from my house. Apparently, after trying to defuse it, they decided that the safest way to get rid of the bomb was to detonate it in a controlled blast. There was an evacuation of residents, shattered windows, a raging tumescent fireball and everything… Now if only this bomb had been discovered in the basement of my sushi restaurant four years ago on a day when I realllllly did not want to go to work!

More images and the article from Spiegel here.

It Is Easier for a Camel to Pass Through the Eye of a Needle…

…than it is for a woman who draws a sphincter on Jesus’s face to enter the Kingdom of God.

Mark said that, right?


A citizen’s (a)restoration. [I've now looked at this picture at least ten times, and it still makes me laugh out loud. Each. And every. Time.]

Okay, so I don’t want to make fun of this lady too much because it’s in bad taste and I’ll probably do something 40 times as stupid when I’m old, but seriously. Just when you think you have seen every screwed up thing under the sun, God’s like, nope. N00b. Cast your eyes on this, my son.

Ever look at an age-old fresco at your local religious watering hole and think, what a pity that the higher ups do not take better care of their treasures and maybe I should just save them some time and money and repaint that bad-boy myself?

Nope. Me neither.

But apparently an elderly lady in Borja, Spain had exactly that idea when she decided to ‘restore’ a fresco in her town’s church. I guess after a while she stepped back and had the ‘holy shit, something has gone horribly horribly wrong with this drawing’ moment. (Happens to everyone, god knows I have those anti-ephiphanies all the time.) Having evaluated that Jesus now had Pikachu eyes and a butthole for a mouth, she promptly turned herself in to local authorities.

Hey, at least she had a sense of artistic responsibility about the issue…

There Is a Teeny Tiny Gustav Klimt….

…living inside all of us. Me, you. Yep, even that guy. He’s got a little Klimt screaming inside and today, I let mine out.

This is officially the worst photograph of all time.

I wish I could show you guys the real picture. The guy’s hair is gold (!) plated. Okay, okay, it’s ‘brass’ (hah, every time I say ‘gold’, W says ‘brass’)… but anyway, I was at W’s finishing this pic and he had a pot of brass paint and I thought why the hell not? The picture needed something. I’m starting to get better at figuring out when a pic is done or not so I made the guy’s hair gold and voila dangereux fromage, it was so pretty, I could’ve wept like a little infant.

I think this is honestly one of the first times when I thought… I made something. Not just f’art… but something that maybe… could be… the embryonic, diaphanous breath… of an art-ish like thing! Maybe.

In other news, many peoples around me having a tough time. :< For them, what can I do but send a big, brass plated hug and wish that their luck turns to hell yeah very soon. And we, we are plugging along, J, Nazghul, Doktor Fail and a very tiny Gustav Klimt, running around the apartment, yelling yippeee! I’ll try not to step on him on the way to bed, zzzzz.

Real vs. Not

I’m supposed to be working. When I hit a rough patch, that’s generally the cue to open another browser and look through tumblr. This is a bad idea, no productivity has ever come from browsing tumblr, but it’s irresistible when you’re supposed to be making progress. What’s there not to like, an endless stream of pretty boys, porn, pretty girls, more porn, art, puppies, kittens, unicorns and for whatever reason, the following image. It has come up several times the last few days, and the fourth or so time it came up, I thought. Okay. This is god telling you something moof. Don’t fight the inner dolphin. Let him swim free.

According to Dove’s mid 2000′s campaign, this is what real women look like.

This rant will take a while to unfold, but just roll with me–I am hoping that like Brie cheese, if I let this fester at room temperature for a bit, it will get creamy soon.

Please complete the following sentence.

Every woman has a _____.

I don’t know about you dear reader, but I cannot complete that sentence. There is no word I can find that goes in there that is true for all women, all the time. (Not even every woman has two x chromosomes, because there are chromosomal abnormalities and the such… I know not every woman has a vagina either… ) That is to say, I cannot think of one physical characteristic that everyone who calls herself a woman shares.

Now, I understand that the fashion industry’s current standard of beauty, insofar as an average woman is concerned, is fucked up.  Still, stuff like the Dove campaign above annoys me so much, I could puke. Excuse me, Dove, but can you please stop pooping all over my intelligence?! Yes, those women are all real.

In fact, EVERY woman is real. A 500 pound woman is real. A woman with a beard is real. A woman without breasts because she had them removed is real. A woman who has given birth to 20 kids is real. A woman who has had her tubes tied and never intends to give birth is also real. No matter how unusual or how commonplace, they occupy a place in space–they have a mass and girth.

A stripper with triple G breasts is not a fake woman. She is a real woman who has fake breasts.

A Victoria Secret supermodel is not a fake woman. She is a real woman who is most likely  underweight and has to exercise/starve like hell to look like that. Whatever. Dancers are also underweight. Gymansts are also underweight. Other women are possibly extremely overweight.

And they are all real.

Yes, on one level, I am sick of all these pale, wraith-thin, doll-faced, doll haired chicks being the only marketable form of beauty right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m part of the wicked and I believe they are beautiful. But I also find many other types beautiful  and if a  fashion label/beauty product wants to try to turn the tides by featuring women who deviate from that standard, wonderful. I will applaud them for their courage and support their product.

But please don’t act like the words ‘real’ and ‘ordinary’ mean the same thing. They don’t.

If Victoria’s Secret launched a similar ad, with a gaggle of supermodels and called it a campaign for ‘real women’, they would be lynched. People would scream ‘You can pray on our fantasies and our insecurities, but you DO NOT get to appropriate what constitutes a real woman!’ But because Dove uses ordinary women who can be found in your office or your class room, they can?

News flash: Every person who says I am a woman, I feel like a woman, I identify as a woman, whether or not she dyes her hair, is severely overweight, shaves her armpits, has fake breasts, has a dick, or still has her uterus in her body is a woman and she is fucking real.

‘k Dove? ^^ Ok, rant over. Whoo, I feel better…