against moustaches

This is going to be a fairly short post. Let me begin by saying that I may have been raised by a man who had a moustache, that I may have had a falling out with that man at some point in my life, that maybe I have some issues with men who wear moustaches, or maybe I was born in a time where moustaches were acceptable and have rejected most things that I once accepted as concrete facts of life. Nevertheless, moustaches need to get the fuck out. I can't give you any detailed analysis, and I have only one data set, but it's a data set consisting only of awesomeness. Here we go:





This is a picture of Joseph Stalin. If you think of Stalin at all (and if you haven't, maybe you should), this is how you think of him. Old dude, moustache. Okay; great. Here's one more pic for you, just in case you need a better frame of reference:

















Again: old guy, moustache. Yeah, I know. He's old and Russian, and according to the old Russian dude handbook, he has to have a moustache. Well, let's check out another pic, shall we?
















Now he's a young Russian dude! What's up now? Still not looking so great, but instead of hiding behind that "distinguished old Communist dictator" look, he's going for the "member of Pancho Villa's gang" look. Not very becoming.













But behold:





The hottest future dictator on earth, hands down. The smaller the stash gets, the hotter he gets.















Is this not enough for you? Let's examine exhibit B, shall we?






This is Nadezhda Sergeyevna Alliluyeva, Stalin's second wife. She looks like she's probably a nice lady. Probably a great companion, maybe invites the neighbor's kids over for pudding, or maybe some kisel. Or gagh (is that Russian or Klingon? I always get them confused).










This is Ekaterina Svanidze, Stalin's first wife. Go back and look at his second wife. Okay, now come back down. His first wife is very clearly way hotter than his second wife. Please keep in mind that I pass no judgment on either marriage, and I'm saying nothing about them as people. But, come on! Ekaterina looks like Hope Sandoval stopped shooting heroin long enough to achieve a healthy weight. This is the only photo I can find of her; they used a heavy duty, state-of-the-art camera that was resistant to high temperatures BECAUSE ALL OTHER ATTEMPTS TO PHOTOGRAPH HER RESULTED IN MELTED CAMERAS! Stalin's ability to get a crazy attractive wife diminished severely when he grew that damn moustache.

In summary: shave it off, jackass hipster!




p.s. - for a decidedly pro-moustache viewpoint (and more stalin pics) go here.

What if I accidentally shot you?

Now, I’m speaking from a theoretical standpoint here. I am by no means thinking about doing this. But I’ve been kind of thinking about what would happen if I shot you. Accidentally.

I feel it’s important for me to stress accidentally, because I’m not trying to freak you out. We’ve known each other a long time, and I feel our friendship is really important. I mean, I don’t want you to think I have one of those little chick handguns up my sleeve or anything. Hey, don’t look up there!

Like I said, we’ve known each other for a long time. How long has it been? Probably eight years or so. Gosh, how we’ve changed! It seems like we met just yesterday. I remember making out with you behind the dumpster at work just a couple of weeks after you started. We were both smoking cigarettes and then suddenly you were up on me. Good times. I was so taken with you that I broke up with my girlfriend of two years to be with you. But then I realized that our sexual appetites were too different, and that I couldn’t seem to maintain an erection with a knife to my throat. Go figure! And maybe I never said so, but for the record, I’m very sorry about breaking your arm; I just didn’t want your fist up there! Sorry!

After weeks and weeks of discussion with my ex, we finally reconciled. I was on the path to a healthy life once again. You and I had agreed to not hang out for a little while so I could get my life together. We spent a couple of weeks not talking, and when I saw you next, you were married! Holy shit! I remember you coming over to give me the news. I couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth! So then you told me with your vagina, citing the old Texan proverb, “A man hath not ears to hear what only a vagina can say.” When I protested, you cited an old gypsy proverb, “Doin’ it once with somebody you’re not married to is okay; just don’t get knocked up.” I’ve always had a deep respect for gypsy culture; their knowledge really cuts right to the heart of the human experience.

And so we resumed our friendship. Things were tense sometimes, mainly because my girlfriend was mistrustful of you for some weird reason, but I mostly recall those days in a positive light. You had reconnected with your childhood religion, joining the Church of the Most Unholy Mean and Conniving Lower Demon Who’s Hoping to be Promoted Soon, Even if it Means I Have to Transfer, Which I’d Like to Avoid if at All Possible, But What Can You Do? I was really happy for you. It’s always nice to see a friend find something meaningful to throw themselves into.

You moved with more purpose, for sure. Wednesdays were animal sacrifice days; I remember stepping out onto my front porch in the morning with my coffee just to watch you spray chicken blood (or squirrel blood, if there were no available chickens) on my lawn, making whatever sacred symbol you had learned in church the day before. They all looked a lot like someone flipping the bird to me, but you always took the time to explain the intricacies of the symbols, how the “Is this loud enough? Let me turn it up!” symbol was very different from “Read between the lines” and “Jack-in-the-Box,” and how each one was used in a very specific way to wish me very specific harm. But it was your determination as you ripped the chicken’s (or squirrel’s) throat open with you teeth that got to me. Such purpose! I admit now that it made me a little jealous! As time went on, your enthusiasm for the rituals never waned; in fact, it seemed to grow. And when you started breaking my windows and spray painting “No dick!” on my house, I was truly amazed. Such tenacity, such devotion to your belief in chaos and harm! I hoped that I would find something I believed in so much.

And then we started our band.

I remember that we argued a lot about what the name of the band would be. After much bickering, we decided upon The We Don’t Want To Do Each Other At Alls. I remember thinking it would look really shitty on a t-shirt, and that if we released any CDs, we’d have a hard time getting anything besides the band’s name on it. But it was better than our other name finalists: The Desperately Not Committed To Our Significant Others, The Somewhat Tone-Deaf, and Batteries Not Included. I would still argue that if we had chosen Batteries Not Included, we could have made it like the title of that movie of the same name and spelled it all lower case with an asterisk in front of it, like so: *batteries not included. And then we could have made t-shirts with just an asterisk on them and it would have been, like, our logo. It would have been crazy post-modern. But I digress.

We almost had enough music for an album. My favorites were my songs “This Song Isn’t About You” and its follow-up, “Okay, But For Real, This Song Isn’t About You.” Your songs “Batshit Crazy” and “Holy Fuck Do I Hate Myself, And, By Inference, You” were pretty good, too. Practicing was always intense. I think your religion made you gravitate toward ritual in everyday life, as you liked to start each practice with ten minutes of glue-sniffing (”to hold the soul together,” you said), and then ten minutes of berating me at the top of your lungs. And despite that tension, I felt like we had a pretty good thing going. Our playing was pretty tight, and I felt like we had good stage presence. My favorite parts where when we would both get really into it and would rub my guitar against your bass like the gayest of gay frottage.

But we only performed once, and that was it. We had had so many conversations about what was appropriate for performance. I was all for having some crazy shit going on so as to enchance our stage presence. After all, live music is a visual experience in addition to an aural experience. But I had laid out a couple of very specific guidelines: no making out with me on stage, and NO HUMAN SACRIFICE! And you violated not just one, but both! I was so mad! You started shoving your tongue in my mouth during the first song, and wouldn’t stop. Every time I tried to sing, you were trying to clean my tonsils. And then when my girlfriend tried to intervene, you bashed her over the head with your bass! Not cool. And then you drank her blood. I was not happy about it at all, but the crowd seemed to eat it up, so I went along. But let me be honest with you here: I was pretty sad about you killing my girlfriend and drinking her blood. Wow, it feels good to say that.

But listen to me, rambling on about the past! I asked you a question. Let’s say I . . . oh, hey, what’s that over there? Look!

To Bell Biv DeVoe: I guess I was wondering which girl is poison.

Hey Bell Biv DeVoe. How's it going? Listen. I had the radio on the other day, and this song came on that I had totally forgotten about; it was this song you did called "Poison." Do you remember that song?

Anyway, I was kind of dancing along in the car. You know, nodding my head and what not. I wasn't paying much attention to the verses or whatever, but when it got the chorus, I realized what you were telling me. There's a girl that's poison! And you kept saying it over and over! I got freaked the fuck out. Which girl? Then you warned me that "She's dangerous!" I had to pull over; I was hyperventilating.

Listen, as a single guy, I have to be careful about the women I spend my time with. I don't make love to a woman unless I have some sort of documentation that she's free of STDs. For you to tell me that a woman is poison and not tell me who, or at least give me some substantial clue, is irresponsible at best, and deadly at worst.

I'm not trying to be a jerk. Honest. It's just that I take care of myself. I work out, I eat healthily, buying organically grown food whenever possible, and I meditate twice daily. The idea that all of my work could go right out the window because a woman is poison makes me feel sick to my stomach.

After a minute the song was over, and while I was still pretty shaken, I managed to drive the rest of the way home. Once I got inside I immediately looked up the lyrics to the song, thinking I might be able to find some sort of clue as to who might be poison. I want to say up front that I was pretty glad I did so; I really thought the first line was "Spider-Man and freezin', full effect," which I had assumed was about some sort of battle between Spider-Man and Iceman (and "full effect" was referring to the fact that it was Cosmic Spider-Man as opposed to regular Spider-Man, so, you know, all bets were off). It turns out the line is "Spot a man of freedom for a fact". Okay, so that was cleared up.

But once I got beyond that line I couldn't believe me eyes; I got myself a glass of warm milk to help deal with the blind terror I experienced as a result:

I sense something strange in my mind
Yeah yo situation is serious
Let's cure it 'cause we're running out of time

Oh shit! So it's some kind of poison that makes you delirious, or melts your brain! That's the worst. I could maybe handle vomiting blood or shitting out my entrails, just so long as I could still think straight. I can't believe you weren't given some sort of award for writing about this harrowing experience! It's really brave of whichever of you went through this to be willing to relive it; I guess that's what art's all about.

But I can't understand why you didn't explain how you cured the poisoning. I could deal with the threat of being girl-poisoned if at least had an antidote I could carry on my person at all times. Is there an extended mix out there somewhere that explains to me how to cure the poison?

Miss her, kiss her, love her, wrong move you're dead

So then I started to think that it was one of those deals where she has some kind of scent gland that can be triggered, but instead of scent it's poison? Like, okay, I miss this girl a lot, I'm going to go see her, okay now I'm seeing her, I'm kissing her in a particular spot, I put my hand here and OH MY GOD THAT GIRL IS POISON!!!

In light of this information, my working hypothesis become this: there's a girl out there who secretes some kind of naturally-occurring neurotoxin if she's touched in a certain spot.

And then a couple of lines down I discovered a big clue as to who this girl might be:

Never trust a big butt and smile

Well, not that big of a clue, really. But I was glad I had found it; I have an affinity for both big butts and smiles. I could conceivably know this girl already!

I wanted more information. I searched around to find the video for the song, hoping that I'd get something more specific. This is what I found:



First off, let me say thank you for clearly showing who is who at the beginning of the video. It was a nice to have a moment of clarity I could cling to, because the rest of the video left me more confused than ever.

There's so many girls in that video! In the first two minutes alone there's like ten different girls! Are they all poison? Is this some kind of genetic mutation and you're trying to get the word out? Or are none of them poison and the actual poisonous girl was, for obvious reasons, not invited to the video shoot?

If, in fact, the poison girl is in the video, here's my top guesses as to who it is:

-The girl at the beginning of the video. No, not the one of the two girls who walk across the dangerous-looking side street in slinky dresses at night; I mean the one in the little interlude after the introduction. What we've been watching freezes, and she walks right out in front of all of it. That seems pretty important.

-The girl who's walking by as you're all rising up out of the sidewalk on some sort of platform that, I assume by the light emanating from beneath you, is some kind of energy restoration platform or save point. In any case, at 1:52, Bell clearly reaches out to touch the girl's butt, and Biv knocks his hand away and says, "I'd take precaution..." My guess is that the neurotoxin gland is located on her butt.

-Around 3:37, when Bell's singing in the studio with two girls grinding on him, there's a girl who's in the background who's NOT TOUCHING HIM! Seems mighty suspicious.

-When Biv says "Wrong move you're dead" around 3:57 while motioning to that girl's cleavage. Does the neurotoxin come out of her nipples?

These, of course, are just my best guesses, Bel Biv DeVoe. I'd really appreciate it if you'd take the time to write me back. I put a lot of work into trying to figure this out on my own. I even tried to look for hidden messages by rearranging the letters in the words that show up on the screen around 3:04, "OUR MUSIC IS MENTALLY HIP HOP SMOOTHED OUT ON THE R & B TIP WITH A POP APPEAL TO IT," but all I could get was, "IMPURELY LOUTISH CHAMPIONS BRUTE HOTPOT TO HEDONISM & A TOWPATH PAIL POTPIE." I spent a couple of hours trying to figure out what that could mean, but in the end I gave up.

So if you could back to me soon, I'd really appreciate it. I have a date next Friday. I actually asked her out because of her big butt and her smile, and she's already provided her cleanliness documentation and passed the credit check.

are you pregnant?!

is that a bump? do i see a bump? is it a tumor? what? it's a baby!? OH MY GOD! you had sexual intercourse and now a miracle is going to happen! at least something good came of that husband of yours HAHAHA! ZING! no, i know i don't know you, or your husband, but DOES IT MATTER?! THEY'RE ALL THE SAME, THOSE MEN!

can i . . . can i touch it? the baby. your stomach. i just want to put my hand on your stomach. wait. come here. i see that look in your eyes; don't try to leave. i want to feel this miracle. lift up your shirt... oh my god it looks like you're about ready to pop! i'll bet your breasts are really swollen and sore. listen, don't be embarassed! it's natural! i want to talk about it louder! just wait til you have the baby! your body will be so stretched the fuck out! and if you breastfeed, your breasts will never be the same again. shh . . . i think i feel the baby draining your life force.

that's . . . oh, i bet you're just ready for this thing to be over! ha ha! oh, i remember my first baby. while i keep my cold hands on your stomach, let me tell you about it:

the year was 1994. my husband was cheating on me a woman ten years older than me; in addition, he was cheating on that woman with another woman who was five years older than her. later he claimed that he was trying to get a feel for what my body would be like in the years to come so that he would always be able to please me, but when i asked my moon oracle, it said that was bullshit. listen to me, honey: never believe a man, even when he's telling you he's lying, because that's when he's telling the truth.

well, at any rate, i had just finished watching the x-files when my water broke.

"john!" i yelled at my husband whose name is john. "i gotta go. this baby's not gonna wait."

well, that dumbshit took his sweet-ass time. i was all business, and he was dicking around, couldn't find his keys, all that nonsense. then when we were in the car, ready to go, he says he's gotta go back in and get his camera.

"this baby will not wait!" i said. "nature doesn't wait! why are you so stupid? i mean, can't you see i'm having a baby? remember when the one single time we had sex in the past year? remember it?" at this point i grabbed him by the ear; maybe it seems harsh now, but when you're a pregnant woman, you can get away with stuff like that. "do you remember?!" he nodded yes. "this is the result of that. your demon seed is responsible for this mess; now get me to the hospital! NOW!"

and off we went!

on the way to hospital, i felt something strange going on inside me. i was having contractions, sure, but this was something else. i looked out the window, and there was a big, full harvest moon staring me down. i felt the most horribly potent seed of anxiety sprout in the center of my chest, nurtured by the waves of pain that racked my body. i tried to breathe, but all that came from me were soft, strained whimpers. i felt so broken.

oh, i just felt the baby kick! feels like you've got a future soccer player up in you there HAHAHA!!

anyway.

sixteen hours of labor later, i was almost ready for the baby to come out. the doctor was yelling at me to push and i pushed so hard. i farted. i farted so loud! normally that's the type of thing that would embarrass me, but listen, i was so doped up at that point that i didn't care.

and then i heard a scream.

"my baby?" i thought. but it wasn't my baby's scream. it was the doctor's.

my baby was a werewolf! he had shredded the doctor's throat. blood was everywhere! it took everyone in the room to subdue him. they wouldn't let me hold him! even in my drugged state, i was furious!

"my baby!" i yelled. "my baby my baby my baby my baby my baby my baby! baby! mine! mine! mine! MINE! MINE! MINE! GIVE! GIVE! GIVE IT! GIVE BABY! ME! BABY!" but they were too busy keeping my feral wolf child from killing more innocents. in my mind, i formulated the case for a lawsuit.

when she (i know! a girl!) eventually transformed back to full human, they finally let me hold her. she was beautiful; it was like winston churchill and a female lizard had merged into a single being and then been shrunk down to a miniature size and had her eyes kind of glued shut.

and i decided right there: her name was hope.

i cried so hard at the tiny miracle i had been given that had irreparably damaged my vagina with its claws.

oh, you look so pale! it must be that little miracle hard at work. here, sit on this bench. actually, take your pants off; i want to reach up in there and pet the baby.

a guide to parking in beautiful oak park, illinois

if you're reading this, it means you're interested in visiting the village of oak park. oak park welcomes you. situated just outside the chicago city limits, oak park is a great place to live, or just to visit!

before the parking regulations, we have a couple of big attractions here that you won't want to miss!

first up is the midwest south regional museum of native american rock shovels and native american devotee artwork. come see our selection of hand-painted native american rock shovels and buy artwork from local arists who are not native american, but whose works feature hand-painted native american rock shovels prominently!

next up is the ernest hemingway birthplace home. come see his birthplace home! come see the birthing room! give birth in the birthing room! ($100/baby)

we also have lots of restaurants!

oak park was fully developed as a community in the 1930s, before the widespread use of the automobile. as such, parking is a scarce commodity. certain streets are designated as permit only; residents can call 708.358.PARK to obtain permits for their areas. proof of residence is required; a driver's license is not sufficient, however in combination with 2 (two) utility bills it may be sufficient to appease the tribunal. if two (2) utility bills are not obtainable, an animal sacrifice may be deemed sufficient, depending on the size and age of the animal, as well the resident's emotional attachment to the animal. household pets are almost always acceptable, providing the animal is a mammal or reptile. insect sacrifices will not be accepted.

if you are a visitor to oak park, things can be a little more complicated.

parking is allowed on most streets during the day, except for where signs are posted stating otherwise. visitors are not allowed to park in permit-only zones (for example, half of the streets in oak park, as well as most garages). most streets in oak park do not allow parking between the hours of 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. to allow clear traffic flow during heavy traffic hours. overnight parking, from the hours of 2:30 a.m. to 6 a.m., is not allowed on most streets, though there are certain exceptions (call 708.358.PARK to find out which streets; the password is PORK CHOP). this overnight restriction dates back to the 1950s, when it became clear that the young women of the village were spending the night with young men outside of wedlock(!). to prevent a population boom, thus exacerbating the then emerging parking problem (sorry; belated spoiler alert: spending the night with someone out of wedlock creates babies), the overnight parking restriction was put into place. within a few years, all the young men went to vietnam, but still the restriction has stayed in place to remind us all of a simpler time. overnight passes are available from the parking office (123 madison st., the password to enter is MYCATS123). you will be required to roll YOUR OWN twenty (20) -sided die (we do not keep 20 (twenty)-sided dice on site!). the breakdown of results is as follows:

1-3: request denied
4-6: roll again
7: summons a familiar, alignment to be determined by a second roll (results breakdown divulged on-site; password is QUARANTINE)
8-15: INT -4 for three turns
16-19: request denied; punched in the mouth!
20: request granted

extended parking passes may be available for on-street parking in areas not designated as permit zones under certain circumstances, such as shut the fuck up.

snowy conditions complicate matters further.

if more than a century of record-keeping history is any indication, the chicago area typically has its first measurable snowfall by mid-november. and the threat often continues well into march. for the village of oak park, a measurable snowfall means the Emergency Snow Removal Parking Plan (ESRPP; it sounds like "usurp"!) goes into effect. after a two-inch snowfall, the following parking rules apply, seven days a week, including holidays:

- main streets designated as snow routes must be cleared of all parked cars (call 708.358.PARK for a quickly-spoken list of streets designated as snow routes; the password is MORPHEUS).

- non-snow routes allow parking between 8 a.m. and 10 p.m. on the EVEN address side of the street on EVEN numbered days and the ODD address side of the street on ODD numbered days. this rule is reversed on nights when the moon is full or new. on the off chance that your house is aligned with jupiter on the second moon (but ONLY if this coincides with the new or full moon), this rule does not apply to you, but only if you hang a native american dream catcher from your rear view mirror (a hand-painted native american stone shovel is also acceptable!). if you are female and the moon is full, that's a special time for you. just think about where you're parking; that's all i'm saying. in addition to this, the 1st and 3rd weeks of the month reverse this rule; parking is allowed on the EVEN numbered sides on ODD numbered days, and on ODD numbered sides on EVEN days. this circumstance also nullifies the astrologically-based exceptions noted above (except if you're a woman and the moon is full; you can't break that bond).

the Emergency Snow Removal Parking Plan does not override other parking regulations, however, such as time-limitations and prohibitions. if you are unsure of where to park, call 708.358.PARK for a ruling from the tribunal (the password is BANDANAMAN).

thanks again for your interest in oak park, Chicago's Bitchy Little Sister!™