Friday, August 20, 2004

Today, WULAD would like to inaugurate a new form of space-filling known as Plagiar-rama!®, where a unique prose piece is created by selecting the most outstanding sentence from the most recent post of every website in the "Hostin' & Postin'" area to the right of your screen. We think you'll agree the results are Copyright-Infringe-a-riffic! Let's begin...

There is some passing resemblance to versimilitude here—if I were taking the sun on a porch in Jersey, and some asshole suddenly started raving about Mary Jo Kopechne, I might leave, too, just as I might leave a subway car occupied by a bum who smelled strongly of human excrement. It just seems like the scale is all jabberwocky.

If you're wondering what the deal is with the unique-looking animated elements, they're the work of none other than Henry Selick, the brilliant stop-motion animator behind The Nightmare Before Christmas and James and The Giant Peach. Comedy genius Peter Cook managed to do it on a 1979 episode of the show. The only thing rural South Americans like to do more than drink is to get the Gringo drunk.

Oh, well, brother, commander, Arabic, Kurdish, what difference does it make? But I've also read it, and if you've ever suspected that the history and present intricacies of the White House are deeply interwoven with the back-room wheelings and dealings of certain Presidential pets, well, this is your book.

And so he occasionally found himself at home with a barista, stroking blue-tipped pigtails as they slept, whistling through their noses. Short of them falling off the equipment, they all look pretty remarkable to me. However, her teeth are the color of a schoolbus and there's an issue with the freckles.

Now the most patriotic and American thing I could do would be to drive to an Indian Reservation and just start kicking people in the balls, but I wasn't in the mood for driving three hours to the Navajo reservation. It will be a sea of sweaty, grunting flesh, a pulsating mass of arms, legs, and fluids, shifting shapes continuously as Satan sits in the balcony strumming his ukelele of spiritual destruction.

I don't think it counts as a "review" when I already know it's going to ROCK.

Well, at least mom is making some good food, her potato salad is divine. My father was in the Taiwanese navy, where he used to boast that he was a big whiskey drinker.

Is this a writing workshop or is it the marijuana-soaked noodlings of some jam band? New Economist poll (8/16-8/18, 1799 sample size) has Kerry up 49-41 among registered voters, 51-42 among definite voters, and a 61 percent on dissatisfied. I love this shit!

I woke up with the distinct sensation that I had cried in my sleep. But I thought I'd alert the few ragged survivors of a once-great race to my recent ventures.

I know you're thirsty for good news, just like a cross-country rollerblading athlete is thirsty for new Triple X-treme Boysenberry-Vodka-Creme-Soda flavored lo-carb Powerade, now with 13% more electrolytes and 21% more amphetamines 'pep molecules', so here you go. Salman Rushdie argues for porn.

Karl Rove must be havin' a seance to get advice from the dessicated corpse of Lee Atwater on a break from its regular pitchfork sodomizings and shit-eating in hell. The first time I logged onto AOL, it was astonishing.

What does that say about how far we've come as a people? Even if they're dead. They'll then push, drag, or peddle these compu-scoots o'er hill and dale to remote villages throughout their clay-ovened nation in an effort to teach sub-educated sub-continentals about the glories Microsoft Word, Minesweeper, and

I wonder what it's like to be a useless fucktool in the employ of fake viagra rip-off artists? Especially if you're only half a Jew.

I didn't ask for a wooden turtle. What an asshat.

You remember the horse—that tan thing that 14 year old freaks of nature vault off of, and the thing that your Nazi gym teacher made you basically dry hump in order to pass 2nd Grade phys ed. While I like robots, I don't think that will make the audience love me and ask me to sign their breasts.

Yeah you, the one driving the raggedy ass 1970 Plymouth Challenger with rust spots the size of Kirstie Alley's ass. Grow up and stay grown up, you poopy celebrities.