Kazakhstan must hate this guy
I spent the last ten minutes busting a gut while reading The Wave’s Borat interview to my office manager. I know Sasha Baron Cohen is not universally loved; after all, when your shtick is to be as obnoxious as possible, you’re bound to step on a few toes. But, what’s not to like about this guy? (He has an uncanny resemblance to my brother, by the way — doesn’t he, Sis?)
The Wave: For those readers who don’t know you, tell us about yourself.
Borat: My name is Borat Sagdiyev. I a son of Asimbalat Sagdiyev and Boltolk the rapist. I am former husband of Osana Sagdiyev, who was daughter of Mary Anne Pulakby and Boltolk the rapist. My hobbies is disco dance, table tennis, and also taking photographs of ladies doing toilet without their knowledge. Why not? They do not know. I have previous work as icemaker and gypsy catcher. And I was also work in computer maintenanc e. I was the one who paints the outside and then remove the dead bird from its pipes. You like the birds? I move on. I have three children. Bilalk, Bilam, and Huey Lewis, who is 12 years old. He has a two children. Bilalk, who is 13, has American pen friend called Mr. Foley. He say meet in hotel room. Is nice. My sister make my family very proud by being No. 4 prostitute in all of Kazakhstan. She recently received award from Kazakh minister of industry for best sex in mouth. I also have a brother named Bilo. He is a retard with small head, but very strong arms. He has 204 teeth, 201 in mouth and three in nose. My first wife is dead. High five! She was shoot by a hunter who mistake her for a bear because she has much arm on her arms and back. No problem. I have a new wife. But, I like cheat. Yes, I looking at you.TW: What is your opinion of our president?
B: We in Kazakhstan very much admire your mighty warlord, George Walter Bush. He is a very wise man and also a strong man. But, perhaps not as strong as his father, Barbara. Next question.
But if you despise Borat, never fear: The Wave has an interview with Hugh Jackman, too.
So: has anyone seen Borat’s movie yet?
D.
Chimparilla, anyone?
By now, you’ve heard of catdog.
No, not that catdog. This one:
Owner Cassia Aparecida de Souza says her moggie Mimi got pregnant after mating with a neighbour’s dog.
Cassia, 18, says Mimi had a litter of six babies — three cat-like and the rest looking like dogs.
The cat creatures died after the birth in Passo Fundo, Brazil, but the doggies survived. Geneticists are testing blood samples. Unlikely hybrids have happened before but always between closely related species.
Yes, like horses (chromosome number 64) and donkeys (chromosome number 62), or lions (38) and tigers (38). Hybrids are possible between closely related species — here is a cool list of documented hybrids at Wikipedia. My favorite: the wolphin, a cross between a bottlenose dolphin and a false killer whale. Here’s a top ten hybrid list, with cool pictures.
My son and I are fans of Impossible Creatures, a computer game in which you create all manner of funky hybrids and put them into combat with other funky hybrids. The year is 1937 and you play Rex Chance, scientist/adventurer a la Indiana Jones. Rex, along with the beautiful Lucy, face off against eeevil entrepreneur Upton Julius on one island setting after another.
Yes, you can make catdogs in Impossible Creatures, provided your dog is a wolf, your cat, a tiger. Eh. Close enough.
But, back to real life hybrids. If hybrid success depends on a close genetic relationship and similar chromosome number, why not a chimparilla (chimps, N = 48, gorillas, N = 48), or, for that matter, hybrids with humans (N = 46)? Oliver aside, there have been no documented chumans. (Humpanzees?) Nor can I find any humarillas.
If you search the web for the answer to the ape/human breeding question, the most common comment is, “Could never happen, they have different chromosome numbers.” But the horse/donkey hybrid, AKA mule, gives the lie to that argument.
Back to catdog. Cats and dogs aren’t closely related; the lines diverged about 50 million years ago. And their chromosome numbers aren’t remotely similar (cats, N = 38; dogs, N = 78).
Sorry, catdog aficionados; this puppy ain’t gonna fly. Or meow.
D.
Fact checking
I’m finally getting around to checking on Kate’s contention that Rachael Ray’s husband likes to be spat upon. A Google search of “Rachael Ray spit fetish” led me to Tabloid Whore, who writes*,
Oh dear. Rachael Ray is splashed all over the cover of this week’s issue of The National Enquirer, accompanied by a headline blasting, “Rachael Ray’s secret pain–HUSBAND CAUGHT CHEATING.” The Enquirer has an exclusive interview with a woman named Jeaninne Walz who claims Ray’s husband John Cusimano has a stinky sexual fetish involving spitting and feet. You heard me. Walz told The Enquirer she has been involved with Cusimano since meeting him in front of a lesbian bar in 2000 and continued to see him after his marriage to Ray in 2005. She said Cusimano has paid her $20 – $500 to “spit on him and commit other degrading acts on him.” To my shock and surprise, The Enquirer said that these “other degrading acts” are too graphic for them to describe. Okay, when the ballsiest tabloid on the market wont print something, you know it has to be bad.
So, there you have it. If it’s in The Enquirer, you know it’s Word.
You’ll hear more from me later, I hope. In the office today, I had the usual pre-holiday nightmare crunch, and tomorrow looks just as bad. Now, all I want to do is go to the gym and beat the crap out of myself. Because, you know? I deserve it.
D.
*Shaina, don’t have a cow, but the Tabloid Whore spells it fettish.
NaDruBloDa!
You’ve suffered through NaNoWriMo. You’ve dodged PETA’s hurled bricks on the way to CERN. You’ve written encouraging letters to NASA while worrying about the global implications of a weakened NATO.
Ack. I’ve had too much gin and can’t think of enough fun acronyms. Which brings me to the subject of today’s post:
NaDruBloDa!
It’s a contest. To play, you have to blog drunk on December 29, 2006. Any drunken rant will do, but I’m going to chuck all pretense of objectivity and hand the prize to the entry which makes me laugh or cry the most. That’s right, folks, you can go either way on this one, depending upon whether you’re a maudlin or happy drunk.
Prizes. So far, only one, but I may add others.
I’ll post reminders as December 29 approaches.
That’s it. That’s all I have, folks. Drunken blogging. But in the spirit of same, I’ll offer you a few drunken stories:
The first time I got shitfaced drunk, I was with a bunch of other drunk teenagers, and undoubtedly I was driven home by a drunk teenager. I had forgotten my house key, and when I knocked on the door (at about 2 AM), I said to my dad, “Fuller brush!” Amazingly, he didn’t punish me.
The second time I got shitfaced drunk, I was in the dorms drinking shots of Riesling and College Ave. brand vodka. Not a good combo. I became so weepy everyone left the room, leaving me to myself. I think my Floppy nickname entered into the dorm vernacular soon afterwards. My hangover was of epic proportions, such that I cannot, to this day, stomach even the smell of Riesling.
The last time I got shitfaced drunk was in med school, when I had the epiphanal thought, Why am I doing this? I had no answer. Hence my two-drink limit to this day.
D.
Foot and fist
Today, Jake had his first Taekwondo tournament. (Per Wikipedia, Tae Kwon Do and Taekwondo are both correct.) He turned 11 last month, which placed him in the 11-13 age group. Yippee. So he was the shortest and lightest kid in his group; but did that faze him? Naw.
I’d say That’s my boy right about now, except I was a craven coward at his age. Um, at any age. In 7th grade, when I mouthed off about a girl I didn’t even know and it transpired she was standing RIGHT BEHIND ME, I lived in terror for weeks that she would hunt me down and slaughter me. I checked out some martial arts books from the library, took one look, and cringed. Me? Do that?
But this isn’t about me. Here’s Jake working through his form:
Important addendum to Fact or Fiction?
My romance’s Altoids/blow job scene is a bust. I’ll have to rewrite it. My bad for not personally testing out the facts.
So . . . are there any other ways to screw up a blow job? Cuz that scene can’t end well. It just can’t. (I thought about giving Brad a peanut allergy, but that’s no laughing matter.)
D.
Fact or fiction?
I give full credit to Darla for inspiring tonight’s blog. Her Thursday Thirteen reminded me of Snopes.Com, a website dedicated to the task of separating urban legends from true-life events. But Darla has this odd fascination with cars and poinsettias, while my interests run more towards the carnal.
Here’s the game. Five of the stories below are fact, five are fiction. Pick out the five fictional stories, then check the comments to see how you did. I’ll post links to the original Snopes articles, too, but don’t click ’em until later. Unless you want to think of yourself as a filthy cheater.
Thirteen Things I’d Like to Do in the Kitchen with Rachael Ray
Even now, she shines on me from the back of my box of Original Family Size! Wheat Thins, beckoning me with her girl-next-door smile — tomato-red lips, perfect, white teeth — daring me to join her in some Spinach, Garlic, and Vegetable Dip. Dunk your cracker, Walnut. I’ll lick it clean, and then we’ll nibble it together, just like those two mutts in 101 Dalmatians.
Oh, Rachael, how can I resist?
Games to Play
1. Let’s begin with an old favorite — hide the salami — which has certain flavor advantages over Conceal the Carrot or Carry the Cucumber. Rachael, in case you are fastidious about such things, let me reassure you: mine’s kosher.
2. Stuff the Manicotti. I prefer a creamy mixture of ricotta, parmesan, and assorted spices (salt, pepper, and nutmeg at the very least). I hope Rachael won’t mind bringing along an egg or two.
3. Knead the baguette. With proper technique, it can rise to four or five times its initial volume!
Hold that thought.
Cleanup Projects
4. Scrub out the oven. I prefer to do this work by hand; there’s no substitute for elbow grease. And you know, a properly cleaned oven? You should be able to eat off of it.
5. Revamp the freezer. Wonder what we can do with all those old ice cubes?
6. Varnish the back door. Other chefs would ignore your back door, Rachael, but not me. I’ll lavish so much attention on it, you’ll be able to see your face in it afterwards.
Main Courses
7. Snapper. Some guys might like those Cajun “blackened” recipes, but I prefer my fish raw.
8. Taco salad. I prefer the meat warm and tender, the lettuce finely shaved. Drizzle it with a bit of oil and vinegar and you’re ready to go.
9. Rachael needs beef. But what kind of beef? We’ve already hidden the salami; bologna is too darned similar, and besides, it’s a rather flaccid lunchmeat, don’t you think? Hmm. Tube steak? Too crude. Sausage? NO. We’re not making breakfast. Hot dogs? Maybe. But not just any hot dogs. Rachael deserves the best.
Rachel deserves Top Dog.
Palate cleanser
10. Ginger. After stuffing yourself silly (with food, you filthy swine), how do you wake up the palate? How do you make your mouth crackle with excitement and beg for more? Here’s what you do:
Peel a finger of ginger, as long and fat a finger as you can find. That stuff you read about soaking it in cold water? As O’Brien would say, eff that. Cold water is for wussies. Now insert that bad boy into the jaded, much abused orifice, and let it set there a spell, working its magic. About half an hour should suffice. Now let your partner run his tongue inside to get a good belt of spice.
Ginger is so refreshing.
Desserts
11. Whipped cream makes everything taste better. Everything.
12. Banana splits. But I’m out of bananas! What to do, what to do . . .
13. Creme brulee. Sorry, no double entendres; I just love creme brulee. Especially when consumed by the tablespoonful, as body shots off key anatomic areas. Got the picture?
Shaina (o blogless one!) probably regrets knowing me
SxKitten gives us 13 reasons to have sex. Like I needed more than one?
Pat’s 13 Basslines are still up for all to see
Suisan wants someone to hit her over the head. Really!
In a fit of pique (are there any other kinds of piques?) Kate saws off her wedding ring
D.
Morning pimpage
Last night, I read Dean Cochrane’s The Weaveling, which he wrote for PBW’s eBook challenge. The story begins in the familiar territory of rural horror but soon breaks fresh ground. The ending is far from predictable.
While I’m on the subject of eBooks, I keep meaning to read Tamara Siler Jones’s Fire, a Lars Hargrove mystery. But I haven’t read it yet. (Bad fanboy. Bad, bad fanboy.)
You can find the full list of PBW’s eBook challenge entries here. There’s enough free online fiction there to keep you busy for a long, long time.
What about my Thursday Thirteen? I had thought to write one entitled Thirteen Sex Tapes I REALLY Don’t Want to See, but after Britney Spears + Kevin Federline, where else do I go? Paris Hilton, I suppose, but I’ve already beaten that particular dog.
I have the most recent issue of Cosmo, but that would have been a rush job.
So . . . if I do a Thirteen, it will be a good deal later in the day, and will probably be something uninspired, like Thirteen Things I Would Like To Do With Rachael Ray In The Kitchen.
Wait. That has potential.
Stay tuned.
D.
Woot!
My friend came in at Stage I.
Considering that a month ago, the early indications suggested Stage III breast cancer, and even a week ago everyone was thinking Stage II, this is awesome news.
Think I’ll call her tomorrow. Based on her email, I don’t think she realizes how great this is.
D.