Showing posts with label contests. Show all posts
Showing posts with label contests. Show all posts

Thursday, October 04, 2007

I Love Batman (Mi Amor)

This is a fascinating piece of vehicular finger-dust-painting I came across in the parking lot of the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. I feel there's a story in there, just waiting to burst out in all its Spanish superhero glory.



I'd like to invite you, the readers, to flesh out the story behind this inscription in the comments (which I will then fashion into a movie treatment and sell for a cool million). But seriously, after the strength of your entries explaining the plot of Toto's "Africa," I have absolute confidence you can figure this one out.

In non-Spanish-Batman news, I've got some exciting stuff on the horizon, which I will tell you about in the weeks ahead. In the meantime, please enjoy these recent efforts of mine from around the web:

Monday, December 05, 2005

Holy Mary, Mother of Invention
I'm a big fan of these contests, largely because they allow you, the WULAD faithful, to get a piece of the creative action, and carry the tremendous weight of our obligation to entertain for a short period, while I lie on sunny sands being fanned by banana-leaf-wielding native girls in coconut bikinis.

But Holy Shiite Insurgent Factions, you suckers turned it on for this one. What is it about Our Lady of Ancient Goddess Cults Cloaked in Catholic Dogma that brings out such feats of Ofilian irreverence? There's a doctoral thesis in there somewhere.

Anyway, I offer each of you who participated a Host Wafer of Appreciation dipped in the Wine of Congratulation, which you are required to let dissolve gently on your palate, taking special caution to draw no sensual pleasure from the experience, which is a strictly sacred act between you and Dave Eggers.

That said, some of your entries were awesome, while others were merely not-sucky. On to the honor roll.

Honorable Mentions: The Sacred
For those fans of the book-learnin', Eponymagain throws down the gaunt(Ham)let with his signature aplomb: "What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune, that she sends you to 10371 Jackson Road in eastern Sacramento County?", while AmMast gets in touch with his inner dead gay Irish poet: "And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,/The hand that held the steel:/For only blood can wipe out blood,/And only tears can heal." Touching, in a sort of lecherous-Uncle kind of way.

I also liked Chris Con's contribution, at least the delightfully non-proofread part which read, "this is the price of being eternally pure...having to menstruate period thru my fucking EYE!" Everyone knows that having to menstruate period is bad enough thru the usual location.

T. S. Farmhand provides the first of two T-Shirt-ready slogans in the contest with "My son went to His Father's house and all I got was this lousy cult devoted to my weeping image." Bravo, T. S., and good luck getting your kids into Notre Dame.

Honorable Mentions: The Profane
Sac comes out of webtirement with this offering: "I swear, Joseph, I'm not lying. I'm a virgin, I don't know how I got knocked up. Please don't hit me again." The domestic violence angle is good--maybe that's why Jesus spent so much time at the temple, avoiding his miserable home life.

From Rob: "Ow! What the... ? Something just hit me in the fucking eye!"--and then he runs with this bit for a while, before ending with, "You mind driving me to the hospital? I'll suck your dick on the way back..." That last part really makes it. Because, you know, there's really no reason for Mary to be offering BJs for a ride to the hospital, unless she's just a ho. Did I mention that Rob is Jewish? See, Rob, when Christians make fun of the Virgin Mary it's because we love her. When you do it, it's because you killed Christ.

Honorable Mentions: The Increasingly Random
Jeff's "Soylent Green is PEOPLE!"; Beck'’s GOATSEism; Rev. Joseph and his 27 entries; and Spoonbender's "'Threshold' is cancelled." Now, I had to look up that last reference, but according to my sources, Threshold is a TV show concerning "a female government contingency analyst who leads a team of scientists and military personnel who get in contact with a mysterious alien lifeform." I thought they already cancelled that show, only I remember it being called Alf.

Now, the moment those of you who are still reading have been waiting for...

The Medal Round
Snagging the Bronze, along with the WULAD Home Game, it's the Incredible Edible C Monks:

Coming in with the Silver, along with a copy of Art Garfunkel's new CD Bridge Over Troubled HipHop, Y'All and the WULAD Home Game, it's the Intrepid Tepid Hank:

And--with the second T-shirt-ready slogan of the day--winning the coveted Gold Medal in the Our Lady of the Blessed Blasphemy Caption Contest, along with a pair of Paris Hilton's gym socks and the WULAD Home Game, is... the Indomitable Abdominal Gene:

Thanks for playing, and may Our Merciful Heavenly Eye-Bleeder watch over you as you go about your wicked ways. Until next time--

Friday, June 24, 2005

Wrapped Up Like an Anniversary Poetry Contest
Well, the results are in, and I have to say that each time I throw something out there that invites audience participation, I get a few more responses, which makes me feel like a little bit less of a loser. Little bit.

Anyway, the WULAD Poetry Police received a total of six entries, which, when padded out with commentary, is easily enough to fill an entire post. Hooray for me not having to come up with anything else today!

We’ll examine each of the poems and assign them ratings (on a scale of 0.0 to 10.0), end with the winner, and then life will go on as it always has, except that one fortunate soul will go to bed believing him- or herself to be just slightly more worthy of consuming the Earth’s precious air, water, food, and partially hydrogenated soybean oil than the rest of us. Also they’ll get a nifty award! Let’s begin.

We kick things off with three haiku, the first of which is from Gijyun:

not sure exactly
what it means to be wrapped up
like a douche, per se.
Hm. Doesn’t blow one away, does it? But I appreciate the simplicity, as well as ending a haiku with a little syllable-eating tag like "per se." We’ll give it a 6.5.

Next we have a contribution from Seamus:
Wrapped Up Like a Douche
Years since they traded Dykstra
But the Mets still blow
Mm-hm. I’m going to have to rake this one across the coals, if only because it seems designed to provoke that sort of a response anyway. So we’ll start with 5.0 points for spelling the name of the site right, plus 2.5 for dropping a Nails reference, then subtract 3.0 for leaving said site name sitting there at the top of the poem with its thumb up its proverbial butt, minus another 3.5 for trying to rub my nose in the result of last week’s A’s/Mets series, plus 1.5 for ballsiness in doing so. Total: 2.5.

Next up is Mr. C. Monks:
Happy Anniverse, flower
Your blog's name proves that
Manfred Mann sings Springsteen bad
Mr. Monks has crafted what appears to be an inverse haiku (7-5-7 rather than the usual 5-7-5 syllable arrangement), so kudos for mixing it up a little. Also, C. is no doubt still smarting from the thrashing he received in our recent Blog Battle, so I have to give him credit for showing up. And is "flower" a Ulysses reference ("Henry Flower" was L. Bloom’ s naughty-letter-writing alter ego), or just a random term of endearment, ironic or otherwise? All in all, a good effort, but I did say that the next person making reference to the song would get a visit from Mr. Icepick. Manfred who? Spring-who-steen? 5.5.

And now to the medal round. It was a very narrow margin between the top three, but coming in with the Bronze is the convalescent Gene, who crafted a sonnet entitled "Wrapped Up Like a Strong Smell":
WULAD smell over the sky, my lovers!
Like a big blue garbage truck with rockets
and wings, or a cat with horrid flatulence,
it spans a place where all time and smell meet.

The grenades of internet wisdom hurl
old spaghetti and mom's meatloaf dinner
all over the inside of my laptop
screen, like the internet just vomited,

or put a diaper in the microwave -
But I take that back, Ian's not that foul.
He's more like that promotional advert
for Axe Body Spray, with the women all

gaa-gaa bat-shit over awesome pit smell,
and me jumping atop, like a sexy bitch.
Hey now! Gene has really outdone himself this time. "Horrid flatulence... hurl... meatloaf... vomited... diaper... bat-shit... bitch..." I must say the imagery is quite vivid. Maybe it’s the painkillers. Speaking of awesome pit smell, yesterday, while practicing in the park during my lunch hour, I saw a pair of hippie lovers looking in need of a shower. The man was lifting his shirt while his dreadlocked girlfriend repeatedly stuck her nose into his armpit. It was among the nastiest things I’ve seen in a public place. In any case, excellent, Gene—9.0.

Taking the silver medal is Dale, who contributed this piece of free-verse:
WULAD was born three long years ago.
It soars with the mighty eagles on winds blown from god.
In these times of doubt, like a beacon it shines into this dark chasm of pain and loneliness which I euphemistically refer to as a life.
Holy fuck, I hate my parents.
Sweeeet. Dale really channeled his inner premenstrual fifteen-year old for this fine poem. I believe that to over-analyze it would be to destroy it. 9.5.

Which brings us to the Palm D’Or of this word rally. The judges went back and forth between the three medalists, but in the end the appeal to our literary snobbery won out. This time. From Eponymagain:
The internet's a fearful Circe that
Always leads wayward travellers to dine
Upon the meat and upon the fat
Of wayward sailors turned to swine.

Then there is the sailor tied up fast
Who hasn't yet thrown in the towel
Wrapped Up tightly to the mast
And finally untied by dear Gerty McDowell.
Wow. For those non-Homer fans (who probably have already clicked over to Fark anyway), Circe was a sorceress who turned her guests into pigs; Odysseus had his men tie him to the mast of his ship to resist the songs of the sirens (who you may remember as those hot country-singin’ ladies from that one movie), and Gerty McDowell (a.k.a. Nausicaa) is the pretty young (but gimpy) thang who, in Joyce’s version, inspires Mr. Bloom to play a little "pocket pinball" at the beach. The heroic imagery is pretty damned stirring. It almost makes me wish I still gave a shit about this website. 10.0.

Well, we come to the end of this tournament of poetic prowess, and I must say I consider it a rousing success. The WULAD Prize Patrol will be sending along the awards to the medal winners, and would like to encourage the other contributors to keep at it, and avoid insulting the judges’ favorite team next time. Excelsior!

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Note to skimmers: contest below!

Gloom and Bloom
Man, am I out of it. Sitting through two atrocious Mets losses amongst ravenous Oaklandites and Mets fans who remind me why I don't like Mets fans has left me in such a stupor that I forgot this is Bloomsday.

As you may know, Bloomsday (previous annual ruminations here and here) is traditionally a day which celebrates the drunken elitism of throngs of what can only be described as "smartypants" people who've read the first two to four chapters of a book called Ulysses, which was written by perhaps the biggest smartypants of the twentieth century, one James A. Joyce of Ireland.

(You remember, the one that goes, "Stately, plump... yes I will Yes.")

Another common Bloomsday tradition is the air of snooty dismissiveness from the more cynical smartypants-types who realize that perhaps one to one-and-one-fifth percent of these drunken Hiberniphilic revelers have actually finished said book or have any idea what it's "about," if it can even be said to be about anything.

However, you'll get neither from me. I read the book a bunch of times, I read books about the book, and articles about books about the book, and even websites about the articles about the books about the book; I saw the movie and complained all the way through; I listened to the record; If there was a breakfast cereal I would've eaten that, too. And I'm under no illusions about it making me any more of a worthwhile human being than the next shlub on the 27 bus.

BUT—it's a damn good book and worth reading. Probably especially so for youngish creative types who've lost a parent, but also for midlife-crisis-stricken cuckolds, cheating wives who aren't getting any younger, dashing ladies' men, drunks, whores, men of the cloth, police officers, racists, recipients of racism, mythologists, mysogynists, women's libbers, musicians, philologists, philatelists, blind piano tuners, compulsive gamblers, poets, nationalists, bums, newspaper writers, and Art Garfunkel. But you're free to disagree with me on that.

On a side note, June 16th also marks the third birthday of your very own Wrapped Up Like a Douche. So light a candle, do a shot of Tuaca and enter...

The WULAD Anniversary Poetry Contest
1. Submit a poem (either in the comments or by email) commemorating the third anniversary of WULAD's entrance on the global stage.

2. Acceptable forms: haiku, limerick, sonnet, quatrain, Coltrane, free verse, rap, acrostic, dorsimbra, ode, pantoum, triolet, villanelle, sestina (but don't waste it on me if you can get it in McSweeney's), tercet, or some shit you just made up.

3. Prizes: The winner or winners will recieve a kickass custom photoillustration from yours truly, suitable for framing or birdcage-papering.

Poem up, WULAD Wreaders, you fearful Jesuits!

Monday, February 28, 2005

The Storm Before the Quiet
Man, you folks really rolled out the cleverness guns for the caption contest--it saddens and dismays me that we’ve been so slammed here at WULAD CentCom that I haven’t been able to give your submissions the attention they so middle-income-ly deserve.

The short list of award winners:

Best in Show: ((Y))
Most Improved: NBG
Lifetime Achievement: Norbizness (especially since I stole the idea from him)
Cy Young (A.L.): Gene
Black Market Emmy labeled "S.L.": Drew
Cy Young (N.L.): Uncle Roger
Best Editing: Shakti Reloaded
New Star: Molly
Bubbé Prize: A. Cooper
Palm D’Or: Analogcabin

You'll all get your damn prizes, probably when I get back from vacation. When will that be? Three weeks or so. I may occasionally stumble into an internet café and scribble some drunken garbled warblings, but otherwise you're on your own, which is fine because you were making your sweet way toward Gomorrah before WULAD came along anyway.

I leave you with the following scene from my father’s youth which somehow expresses my thoughts on our imminent separation:

The year was 1967. My father, 25, had recently enlisted in the Naval Reserve to avoid being drafted into the Army. After a brief period of waiting, he received his orders to report to Treasure Island (where I would later live for three months, boringly enough), to enjoy Basic Training before being shipped off to Pearl Harbor and Points Southeast Asian.

As my dad was packing, his father (a Naval vet himself, having served in the South Pacific) asked him to come into the living room and have a seat. Nervous, my dad sat down to listen to what his father had to say.

"My son," he said gravely, "You're about to head off to war, but I want to give you some advice to take with you—advice that helped me, and could help you, too."

"What is it, Dad?" my father asked, wondering what paternal guidance could live up to this weighty occasion.

"Son, there's something I want you to remember," my grandfather uttered, staring steely-eyed across the living room. "No matter what you do in the Navy..."

"Yes?" my dad asked as he leaned in closely.

"Don't bend over in the shower."

... See you next month, kids.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

New Year's Resolutions 2005
(Interspersed with outstanding contributions of Contest Entrants)

  • Keep a chartreuse flag hanging out my backside, but only on the left side, yeah that's the Douche side

  • Keep C-Baby far away from the American left’s new Most Eligible Bachelor (Her preliminary take on the divorce: “At least he’s working for San Francisco... she’s just a whore.”)

  • Move to Vegas and become C-Baby’s houseboy if necessary to achieve above

  • Find a cure for cancer, preferably involving something simple like eating more marshmallows or saying the alphabet backwards

  • Not arrive at anyone's house drunk after 2am and New Year's Day before 6am does not count.

  • Be the first person to enter the … Contest, even though I probably won't win because everyone knows that the judges can't give the big scores to the first competitors, since they need to save room for better performances later in the evening—which is why I've gotten my diplomatic corps to broker a deal with the French judge, exchanging a high score for me for a high score for Surya Bonaly

  • Fire my diplomatic corps and start a new life in deep cover, hiding from henchmen of Surya Bonaly and Nicole Bobek ("Bobek!") and Michelle Kwan's stereotypical overbearing Asian dad

  • Grant NBG’s wish that at least one person look at her ass and say, "nice ass" by encouraging readers to flood the comments below with praise for said ass. I know you can’t see it, but you’ll just have to make a leap of faith for once in your lives, people.

  • Never vote again—it only leads to disappointment and jury duty

  • Produce and direct a big overblown homoerotic epic and then blame its failure on fundamentalist Christians, rather than the fact that it is a useless blivit of a film and the ad features a puffy-lipped starlet with what sounds like a fake Transylvanian accent delivering a line like, “there will never be a Genghis like you… Genghis the Khan!”

  • Spend every waking hour reading blogs and providing definitions from the Oxford English Dictionary to those in need. I shall begin now: bliv·it [blívvət] (plural bliv·its) n. 1. a collapsible rubberized bladder used to transport and store fuel and water in forward areas of a battlefield; 2. something useless, pointless, or annoying (slang)

  • Ix-nay on the usamis-tsay
Who won the contest, you’re wondering? Every one of the contributors, just for heeding my desperate cry for attention once again. Your amazing custom prizes are on the way. If I don’t have your email, send it to me or miss out.

Monday, January 03, 2005

Return of the 2,005-Year-Old Man
Howdy pardners, and a Happy Felizzity Anyo New-Wave-O to all. I shudder to think of how difficult it must have been to make it through these past ten days without the wisdom of WULAD to guide you through the treacherous straits of your daily lives. But the restorative powers of this hiatus will no doubt guarantee bigger and better content for months to come, all at little or no cost to you, the readers, depending on your the level of your membership.

Speaking of New Years'—Hey, remember the millennium? Remember how excited everybody was, and how you and me and Bono and that adorable PeoplePC kid were heading into a new era of peace and progress with our dot-com nest eggs? Well, the future is now, folks, and it ain't all that, I have to say. Also I was a little bothered by the footage of all the celebrating temporary New Yorkers beneath the news ticker signs reading "150,000 DEAD IN TSUNAMI DISASTER..."

About that bigger and better content: maybe I spoke too soon.

However, before I leave you to dwell morbidly on these things, may I direct your attention to one of our "sister sites"—and the self-described top of the fair-to-middling blog heap—Utter Wonder, where the infamous C. Monks asked several of his more stalker-like readers to write introductions to his year's-best revue. Click here to read the contribution of your own WULAD Phoning-It-In Phorce.

Oh, and
Uh, how 'bout a contest? Best New Years' Resolution wins a custom congratulatory image, suitable for printing and framing over your bed or on the hood of your car. Bring 'em on, as our soon-to-be two-term Prez might say.

Monday, August 09, 2004

Contest of the Century
So this Toto thing has really gotten my mental gears whizzing, but rather than spend hours devising my own answers, I’ve decided to open the floor to suggestions from the world’s greatest peanut gallery: You.

Here’s the deal: Tell me what the Toto song “Africa” means. Is it a paean to lost pre-colonial ideals? A Joseph-Campbell-esque commentary on the shallowness of our mythologically-bereft society? An overproduced pop song about a guy who gets laid in Africa? Or some combination of all of these? And what exactly, Boy, is waiting there for you?

Best answer wins a fabulous signed photo of something or someone. In case your collective memories need refreshing, here are the complete lyrics to this great American anthem:

I hear the drums echoing tonight
But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation
She’s coming in twelve-thirty flight
Her moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation
I stopped an old man along the way
Hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies
He turned to me as if to say: “Hurry boy, it’s waiting there for you”

It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I bless the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had

The wild dogs cry out in the night
As they grow restless longing for some solitary company
I know that I must do what's right
Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti
I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become


[Repeat chorus]

[Instrumental break]

Hurry boy, she's waiting there for you

[Repeat chorus]

Friday, July 09, 2004

Wrapped Up Like a Contest, Take 2
OK, I realize the problem with my little challenge of yesterday—I came up with too many of them already, so there were hardly any prominent political figures’ names left to bastardize. So with a nod to sole competitor ARON (who had to resort to Barak Obama, for chrissakes), I am rewriting the rules. We will expand the pool of bullyable names to include any public figure. Here’s just a few possibilities to get you started:

  • Jesus Christ
  • Charlize Theron
  • Benito Mussolini
  • Rupert Murdoch
  • Rupert Gee
  • Sally Struthers
  • Osama Bin Laden
  • Kazuo Matsui
  • Pieter Brueghel the Elder
And so on. Bonus points for a) variations on a theme, and b) including the word “cooze.”

Thursday, February 26, 2004

Wrapped Up Like a Challenge
Well, pretty much everybody stepped up to the plate on this one, and the sheer quality of the entries made it nearly impossible for the WULAD Award Assembly to pick one winner. So instead we’ve compiled an Honor Roll of top submissions:

  • Glenn Frey v. Rachael Leigh Cook
  • Harvey Firestein v. Sam Waterston
  • Jerry Hall v. Joyce Carol Oates (Both of these girls’ kisses are on my list. This batch of gems is from Señor Wences.)

  • The Rock v. Little Jackie Paper v. Edward Scissorhands (This may be the out-and-out Most Clever one, from hot toddy.)

  • Ed "Too Tall" Jones v. Too $hort (and I could probably add "v. John Holmes." From Flub.)

  • Adam Carolla v. Toyota Corolla
  • Dan Marino v. a Nissan Murano (Kudos to NotTheRock for bringing cars into this. Coincidentally, those are two people I actually would like to see fight cars.)

  • J Kwon v. Raekwan v. MyGreatOne (This is an inside joke from C-Baby. You’ll have to take my word that it’s funny.)

  • Howard Dean v. Yoko Ono (This one from OATO made no sense at first, but I realized that they both have a penchant for screaming incoherently.)
And in a special "Obscure but Outstanding" category, Richard had some good jazz ones which might need some explanation for the general public...
  • Wayne Shorter v. Michel Petrucciani (Petrucciani is about 3 feet tall.)
  • Wingy Manone v. Horace Parlan (v. Dave Liebman, I guess) (I don’t get this one, but it must have some meaning since his other ones are so inspired.)
  • Red Norvo v. Grant Green v. Blue Mitchell (v. Gray Davis, maybe? Can he play an instrument?)
  • Gary Peacock v. Donald Byrd (v. Cat Anderson) (Cat would win. Also, this is one trio gig I wouldn't want to miss.)
Since everyone’s contributions were so meritorious, WULAD has created a special downloadable award for all of you, which can be viewed here. This is only to be viewed by people who submitted entries—any others who look upon it shall bring a curse upon themselves and all the fruit of their accursed loins. Thanks for participating!

P.S. James Cagney v. Lacey Peterson, Cokie Roberts v. Pol Pot, Wesley Clark v. Jeff Kent, Buddy Holly v. Natalie Wood, Zazu Pitts v. Alban Berg...

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Black vs. White in Black and White
OK, let me clarify something. I've been told that I'm not making my challenges to the readers clear enough. Regarding yesterday's post about celebrity match-ups featuring humorous name juxtapositions, I want you to come up with more and post them in the comments. Do it! Post them! Amaze me and your fellow readers!

And the author of the best submission will get some prize or something!

Monday, February 23, 2004

Two Men (or Two Women or One Man and One Woman) Enter, One Man (or Woman or Two Women or One Man and One Woman if it’s a Tie) Leave
Mimi Smartypants thinks that Jack Black and Jack White should duke it out on Pay-per-View. While I support this (as it would result in one or the other of these overhyped people getting beat up on television), I also see it as an opportunity to promote some other big-ticket bouts:

  • Shelly Long v. Martin Short
  • Gary Oldman v. Henny Youngman
  • Al Goldstein v. Shel Silverstein
  • Aaron Sorkin v. Andrea Dworkin
  • Cynthia Nixon v. Trot Nixon
  • James Joyce v. Joyce Brothers
  • Betty Ford v. Abraham Lincoln v. Freddy Mercury
  • George W. Bush v. Joe Q. Twat
I now throw down this gauntlet (or gantlet if you’re a know-it-all) at the feet of our noble readers. Don’t disappoint me now...

Thursday, December 04, 2003

This Entry Practically Writes Itself
Amid all the exciting developments in current events (such as mad scientists trying to scare the good industrialists with talk of killer greenhouses, monkeys taking up arms and joining the cola wars, and colleges ruling that students may not film figure skaters having sex in the classroom) the WULAD news team, with the participation of C-baby, has been following the German “Gentleman Cannibal” story with particular interest. (I especially like the close-up photos of his teeth, and look forward to seeing him host his own late-night variety show in Berlin.) While contemplating the incontemplatability of it all I’m reminded, however, of that wise Cassandra of nerd literature, Douglas Adams, who saw it all coming:

'I just don't want to eat an animal that's standing there inviting me to,' said Arthur, 'It's heartless.'

'Better than eating an animal that doesn't want to be eaten,' said Zaphod.
On that note, I’d like to commence the official Wrapped Up Like A German Cannibal Joke Contest. Readers shall submit to the comments link below one or more jokes, puns, limericks, haiku and yada yada concerning, but not limited to, the topic of the German gentleman cannibal. The joke(s) may be any length but must make witty use of the possible multiple meanings of the word “kraut.” At least one winner will be selected by the WULAD Word Wranglers’ adjudication committee, and that winner will receive a stunning prize of some sort, which is guaranteed to be at least as cool as the prize I got from C Monks’ novel-titling contest. Participation in this contest is mandatory.

The San Francisco Treat
In keeping with this week’s theme of showcasing the best and brightest of San Francisco’s intrepid street personnel, I wanted to give well-deserved props to the man who was alternately frightening and entertaining the crowd waiting for the bus this morning; he was standing on the corner of 4th and Market Streets, with a long scarf and those giant sunglasses which seem to be favored by a certain breed of eccentrics, holding his suitcase tight to his body and shouting, at the top of his lungs, “I am New York! I... love... human... beings!”

“Shadd-ap!” yelled the construction workers.

New York!” shouted the suitcase-hugger as he crossed the street, possibly in search of more human beings to love.

Speaking of which, why not show your love for those who have recently had the crap bombed out of them (I mean literally, not figuratively) by our fearless—and soon to be pensionless, if the Action Figure in Chief gets his way—military by pledging to the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation? There are only six days left to convert that plethora of Parisian porn-hunting into real dollars for the Afghanistan Relief Organization. Otherwise all those fruitless Crotch Shot searches will truly have been for naught.

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for…

Contest Results
The first semiannual W.U.L.A.D. contest is officially over, and what a dazzling array of creativity! I want to emphasize what a difficult decision the judges faced, and that, due to the overwhelming quality of responses, you should all consider yourselves winners. That said, here are the Official Results:

Receiving the prestigious Second Prize, we present the following staggering entry from… Mandrew!

If I were a frog and all and the frogs took over then I would be king. (Not to mention I get to carry around a bunch of males on my back with those enlarged throat sacks. They would all want my extra reproductive organs that resulted from exposure to the common pesticide, atrazine, banned by most European countries, and yet for some reason, not by the US ... hmmm. And since the American Dream pretty much states that bigger is better, and more is better, then with two or, better yet, three sets of reproductive organs I would be better. Hence, what I was saying—I would be king.)
Way to get political on our asses! For your efforts, you'll receive the Second Prize, which is… nothing! Better luck next time, Mandrew.

And now, earning the even more prestigious First Prize, we present the following entry, coming all the way from… Chocobaby!
If I were a frog and all and the frogs took over, I would make sure that Ian Morgan Carey never missed the bus, which is coming in ten minutes, and if he misses it he'll be LATE!, but I wouldn't let him miss the bus, if I were a frog and the frogs took over.
Way to work in a personal reference! It's just this kind of variety and ingenuity that made this contest so special. C-Baby will receive a signed photo of G-Monsta in a compromising position. I'd give her the thong, but she'd never wear it.

Which brings us to the most prestigious prize of all, the Grand Prize, which goes to… Nobody! Because I only got two freakin' entries! I want all of you "loyal" readers who couldn't take time away from your "precious" jobs as emergency physicians, etc. to go sit in the corner, and think about what you did. I shall say no more on this subject.