Welcome to the Madewell Museum of Human Curiosities. I am your tour guide, Jornts. If you are descendant from human, please step through this scanner to cleanse your sub-level hybrid body of its hazardous germs. If you are an alien, here is a complimentary Leopold Scone, made from the blood of a Leopold serpent and the essence of DW-40. Slurp it up with your fifty tongues. We won’t watch. READ MORE
WHITE CHOCOLATE MACADAMIA NUT
First name John, last name Gacy, middle name Wayne. READ MORE
GOINGS ON ABOUT TOWN
The inaugural brutefest stomps through Gotham. READ MORE
CURLING (Into A Ball)
Ten points if you do it for an hour.
A thousand points if you don't leave bed all weekend.
Gold medal for you if you quit your job, sell that gold medal, invest in the bond market, gain wealth, thereby proliferating more gold. This will translate to happiness. Mail your teenage nephew red Beats by Dre headphones for his "domepiece." This is a successful game of curling (into a ball).
A brash alarm begins its unforgiving beep. It's the morning; dawn peeks through your window.
"It's all downhill from here," you say.
Punch someone! Reflect on how weak you are! Try to break their teeth! Really try!
TIME OUT. PENALTY.
Slip on a patch of ice at the corner of your block while trying to reach the deli for more Nilla Wafers. The glint in the sidewalk is tinged like silver as you lie moaning, bruised, probably with a shattered ribcage. This is your award.
Dim the lights in your room. Scroll through pictures on Facebook of your ex-boyfriend snowboarding in Vermont or whatever with his blonde girlfriend, Erica or whatever. Have the unhinged gall to "like" each photo and comment "Powder looks fresh, guys! Keep shredding that gnar!!" For every comment you post, one silver medal. Make a batch of hot mulled wine in the tub, bump yourself up to gold.
Have sex with Bob, seems like a good idea.
No medals awarded, that shit got ugly.
GET REAL. YOU DON'T DANCE.
Photo via matins/flickr.
Buy a plane ticket to Los Angeles. Rent a car from the Enterprise booth at LAX. Make sure it's a truck of some sort—an SUV should be fine—and request air conditioning and a CD player. Demand that the woman at the booth read the first three pages of the introduction to the Penguin Classics edition of Saint Augustine's Confessions aloud to you, right now.
"Why?" she'll ask. "I should get security—"
"Forget it," you'll say. Get the keys and haul ass to Tijuana. You are not fucking going to Coachella.
Find a cool, carpeted spot at the Brooklyn Library on Grand Army Plaza, preferably near an exit, maybe underneath a table. Don't move from that spot, there could be a fire.
The phone number to Domino's is (718) 972-3733. Re-up your minutes on your phone: there's a T-Mobile store on Fifth Avenue, and you're probably going to need a lot. Buy as many minutes as they'll sell you. Like a fuckton of minutes. Use a stolen credit card, whatever it takes. Call Domino's.
"Forty pizzas, please."
"Prospect Park lawn."
"You got it."
Repeat this same phone call from early morning to late at night. Don't stop until every single person at Googamooga is fed because god knows that no one there is actually getting food any goddamn time soon. You are the Mother Teresa of pizza. Mother Terpizza.
This is in Delaware.
When you get a chance (take your time, no hurry), listen to every Phish b-side, live recording, and unreleased single that you can find. When you're done doing that, read every post in every Phish phan phorum on the internet, and respond to comments that you find particularly insightful or touching. When you're done with that, set up a parody Twitter account called Bill De Anastasio, and tweet between 100 and 200 mediocrely funny mashups of Trey Anastasio quotes with Bill de Blasio quotes. By the time you do all of this, enough years will have passed that you'll die quietly in your sleep of old age, and PhishandChips459 will post a sentimental memorial to you on the phorums. You were remembered fondly for being "super chill."
Rest in peace.
In the land of plenty: that is where The Dopeass Tea Wizard lives. Among bushels of green leaves, he homesteads in a hut that is best described as Burning Man chic. He loves his fucking kettle. It's electric—he does not fuck with the old-fashioned kind anymore, not since he installed electricity with the help of Lorna, the mythical forest sprite he visits with occasionally. Electric kettles with superior settings for varying hotness of water let the tea wizard make his magic. READ MORE
• Ketchup and mustard on a hot dog
• Your first name and your last name
• M.A.S.H. the game but you played it in a hot air balloon
• M.A.S.H. the show but you watched it while puking
• These art museum gift shop pencils
• The Vitruvian Man
• Mashed potatoes but you ate them on the second floor of IKEA
Previously: Drake's Recipe for Pound Cake