IMMORTALIZED STILLICIDE or the frozen spit whose shape induced an epiphany like Kekulé’s.

2005-12-31T13:59:00.000-08:00

Dear Faithful Readers,

Here's the latest update on the lawsuit. It really kills me to break character like this, but, anyway, I've been served papers by the Munz family's attorney. They're asking for a sizeable sum of money (more than my dad makes in a year--it's honestly ridiculous how screwed I am), claiming I "published false posts with malice, exposing D.M. to ridicule, and potentially harming his future political career." I'm so stressed. It's like this surreal nightmare. Anyway, I've been ordered to remove all of the Munz content, and I was advised by my lawyer to get rid of the Congdon and O.J. stuff too. I'll try to keep posting content, but if I don't, it's probably because of this legal shit. Also, if anyone still has any Munz comments on their blogs, PLEASE remove them immediately. Thanks for your support, and I hope to get back to writing soon.

Yours,

Immortalized

2005-12-29T22:33:00.000-08:00

OFFICIAL IMMORTALIZED RESPONSE TO NOTICE FROM MUNZ FAMILY LAWYER:

At sundown this evening, I was greeted at my front door by Tom Kehlman, a lawyer specializing in defamation of character lawsuits who happens to represent you, the family of Daniel Munz. Your claims are unwarranted, and I categorically deny the allegations that Mr. Munz a) does not reside and has never resided with me, and b) is not the author of material composed under his name within this very weblog.

Mr. Munz dropped out of Yale University last semester and moved to the Hollywood Hills. In exchange for his writing services rendered, I paid him a sum totaling, after taxes, 2.01 million U.S. dollars. He has and continues to post original material under his own name. Your attempt to clear his name by implicating me in such an outlandish charade is both unethical and unwise. I look forward to going to battle with you. And vanquishing you.

Yours,

Lester James
219 Beachwood Dr.
Los Angeles, CA 90068

2005-12-08T22:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Duane M. Kinbote,

I am writing this post on a Blackberry in the back of a van outside a casa della puta in Tijuana. I am with Esperanza. You've heard of her, right? In case you forgot, she's the whore who fucked you over for six million. The girl who just happened to come into your life right after I just happened to "get dumped" by Jenny.

I've engineered everything immemorial and forevermore. You have never been in control. In case you were wondering, I took 5.9 million and gave Esperanza the rest. She spent it on cocaine and is currently lying in the passanger seat and dead. Before she died, she gave me your user name and password. The blog is mine again. I'm back. Back to stare dead-on into the eyes of a world that has called me nothing and proclaim my arrival. Hello, world. It's me, Lester.

2005-12-02T23:34:00.000-08:00

I am not George W. Bush. I can admit mistakes. Like the time I misspelled a word in an interoffice memorandum. Or the time I decided to wed a 19 year old Latina cocaine addict who chain-smokes cock and gets pregnant to nullify pre-nups and takes half of a man's fortune. Funny, huh? Hee hee. Hee. SIlly stuff, huh? Right? SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! GODDAMNIT TO HELL you FUCKING SPICWHORE WASTE OF DNA SHITRAG. My life is awash in a sea of putrid small fat lazy brown beany cuntjuice.

Toodles,

Dr. K

P.S.

My tubes must have been untied during the "heart surgery" in New Haven. Lester must have been responsible.

Any and all New Haven citizens, tell me where Lester is, and I will reward you handsomely.

2005-11-28T10:58:00.004-08:00

I have some extraordinary news on this unseasonably warm near-December morn. I am to be married again! I don't think you readers can begin to understand how well, how uncannily well Esperanza is suited for me. Sure, she may not be high society, but she is in tune with my every whim. My favorite kind of food? Vietnamese. Hers? Vietnamese. She loves the New York Giants. I'm their number one fan. She is a skiing enthusiast. So am I. We share the same birthday! Her dad killed himself just like mine! She even said that having braces was one of the most important parts of her life! And all of this came pouring out of her before I could even tell her anything about myself. So it all has to be completely genuine. She is my soul mate. We will be wed in Las Vegas tonight! My lawyer has already drawn up the pre-nup. The only way Esperanza could possibly get my money is if we have a child, but my tubes have been tied for years!

In other news, my exploratory heart surgery at Yale/New Haven yesterday went extremely well. I thought I saw Lester near the E.R. But, alas, it must have been the morphine.

This website, I must say, has doubled in popularity since Lester's dismissal. It just goes to show the kind of material people really want. No one has time for the pseudo-literary pretentious ramblings of a house slave. They want sex. They want young. They want quick. They want cool. And they're getting it! And it ain't ever gonna stop! Have a great day, my friends! Work HARD! MAKE MONEY! LOVE LIFE!!!!

2005-11-26T09:47:00.000-08:00

u know, i wasjust thinking how i love the softness of a beautiful woman and the power and strength of a good man (the men have to be educated with a respectable career)!! PS I get especially HOTT for music industry guyz,professional athletes,models,etc.COME ON GUYZ YOU KNOW PEOPLE WHO ARE ABOUT SHIT,OR JUST LOOK LIKE THEY ARE ...LOL...SEXSTATIC27@AOL.COM tHE HOTTEST WOMEN... THE RICHEST MOST DELIcIOUS MEN ...MAINLY AND MOST IMPORTANT kEWL PEOPLE

2005-11-26T09:18:00.000-08:00

the new king kong movie preview is online now! go to apple. they're the one's who make ipods. It's on their website.

2005-11-25T16:26:00.000-08:00

Hola! OMG, I am so excited! So I'm Esperanza Vilchis. So I am from Rio. I'm like a model. I met Dr. Kinbote in this bathroom stall (it was snoing!) at CLub Element in Hollywood. Well, guess who lived in his guesthouse now! And he's leting me help him blog! I so won the contest. I'm like the new...what was that losers name...Lester! Yay! I'm suposed to add "humor." Okay, cool, every1 says I'm funny. Dr. K said you all really liked Lester, so I know I have to work extra extra hard! I'm gonna work it. Work it dirty. JK. So oh my god, did everyone eat thanksgivinfg dinner yesterday!? Okay, honestly, I ate so much I'm going to still be full by XMAS! LOL! K boys, time for me 2 go. Call me if u wanna talk. I'll come over 4 a little donation!

k bye.

XOXO

Esperanza

P.S. Tell me what you think of hair in the picture. I just died it black!!!!

2005-11-25T14:33:00.000-08:00

Game Over, folks. I kicked Lester out of the guesthouse today. When I told him it was all over, he bit his own tongue until he began bleeding profusely. He proceeded to write in blood and on my white walls: "The most devastating part of writing "Jason Congdon" with my own blood is that it's not like I'm actually obsessed with him. I'm really just obsessed with the idea that someone could actually be as fixated on him as I pretend to b." He ran out of blood for the final "e," and declared he was content with the typo lest he lose consciousness from more blood loss.

Well, I am sorry you had to endure this peculiar faggotry that was Lester's blogging. This website was supposed to be about orthodontia. And the life of an incredibly social, well-heeled orthodontist. I envisioned writing about new procedures I'd pioneered, and the cars and women such pioneering enabled me to afford. I have as many Corvettes as limbs, in case any of you wondered. I've sampled women throughout the world, and I can say with authority that Brazilian pussy is the finest. It has a buttery aftertaste with a fine hint of syrupy cucumber. My life, of course, is the story of personal success, and this blog was supposed to chronicle that. Let me adjust my hand, here. My Rolex was banging against the keyboard. I gotta write a note about something. I'm going to write on the back of my Vail 2006 Skiing Season Pass. Actually, maybe I'll use that envelope my Laker Season Tickets came in. Or I could just write on that $50 bill on the floor. Well, there is no note, but you get the point, right? I'm 6"2". There's something to be said for being sized like that. Really forces you to look at the world anthropologically and realize what an alpha male you are. Anyway, I know Lester somehow linked this blog up with some Yalies. Way to pick a school only based on name, people.! I went to the University of Illinois and make $897,000 a year. Education means nothing. The only thing that matters is how high you end up. From what I hear, Yale girls are ugly as shit. But I do like my women young (though legal), so if anyone here knows a girl who's really into sex and rich men, please direct them my way. Tell them I'm a very tall example of natural selection at work with a shitload of money. I'd take them out to eat, show them a good time. The number of my brand new Motorola Razor is 310-788-9098.

Lester was supposed to be updating the site with news on my latest headgear patent application. I got the patent, but of course you didn't hear that from Lester. What a snake. Funny thing how a man walks into your life an African American and leaves a nigger. Needless to say, there will be some huge changes here at immortalized stillicide, whose name, by the way, refers to the concave liquid nitrogen based saliva modeling machine I thought up while staring at a patient's crystallizing spit during a Doctors Without Borders mission to straighten Eskimo teeth. My first patent. I was 28.

So I want this site to be more mainstream. I want more video, more pictures, less weird humor, more genuine fun. Anyone got any ideas, let me know. As long as it involves orthodonture and me, anything goes. I will be looking for a new partner, so those interested should apply. Lester unfortunately knows my username and password, so we might just start a new blog altogether if he begins hijacking. Anyway, it's a proud day in the Kinbote household. Daughter's got a brand new life ahead of her. Lester's a distant memory hitchhiking his way to Vegas last I heard. I appreciated this introduction. It was a pleasure to meet you, readers. And at such a momentous time in my life. It's not everyday you get to jettison a treemonkey.

2005-11-24T22:17:00.000-08:00

Dear Duane Munson Kinbote,

As you know, your daughter left me last night. Do you realize just what kind of a snakecunt that privileged little princess-bitch is? She left me even though I'm at my lowest point in my entire life. I can't get a job no matter how many interviews you line up with your contacts. I spend literally 7 hours a day perusing shemale pornography. And I've become horribly depressed after that hack you recommended not only botched my gum surgery but insinuated that my "claim" of infection was "entirely fabricated." Yeah, world class periodontist my ass. And I feel distressed, because I've put on about 70 pounds since college. By the way, I think shemales are underrated and anyone who says you can't be heterosexual and attracted to them is spewing forth calumny. So here I am, failing so disastrously at life, and Jenny picks this moment, this hellish moment when I've never been more pathetic, to drop the "I don't want to spend the rest of my life with you" bomb? Wow. Classy dame you spawned, Kinbote.

Don't think this isn't hard. I know we've become great friends over the years. You converted a garage for me to live in and you generously paid for that retainer that I know cost more than retainers should cost. Incidentally, Jenny's claim that I spent your $900 all on coke is hogwash. That retainer was a veritable art-piece. A potential collector's item down the line, and you and I know it. We've always had a special bond, though. I remember how, the first time we met, before you had a good read on me, you showered me with the most charismatic, charming, engaging stories all about your life and life itself. After that night, I noticed how our entire communication consisted of maybe seventeen mostly monosyllabic sentences. And obviously that's what true friendship's really about. Not about fake gregarious posturing, but about that place where you get comfortable enough to be silent. We kind of had this cool unspoken connection, and I hope that can continue. Also, thanks for not inviting me to that Thanksgiving meal thing today. I heard about the guests. Mostly "friends" you've met in like the last year. It would have been awkward to have been lumped in with those pseudo-friends, so I appreciate that.

If there's any way you can make Jenny come back to me, please help. Her reasons for leaving make no sense. One big thing was my "obsession" with Jason Congdon and Daniel Munz. She claimed I "embarrassed her to death" at her CBS office party when I, a little tipsy, walked up to her boss and said, "I dream a world where girls memorize the provenance of every hair on Congdon's sack." It's called humor. Take a look at my blog. It's not an obsession but a comedic device. Jenny had the nerve to accuse me of doing Congdon impressions when we were picking out her cousin Ramona's casket, and that is absolutely false. Jenny's claim that I traced the letters M U N Z on her clitoris during cunilingus does possess veracity. Notwithstanding, I don't know how she could have possibly determined that, and even if she somehow knew at the time, it was just a nervous tick thing anyway.

Can you not see that this is all an absurd game? I don't demand that we never eat at non Fresh-Mex places because I'm insane. I do it because I'm funny. And artistic. I didn't sell our plasma and buy that 15 incher from Costco because I actually wanted it. I'm a technophile, mind you. And I'm black. What kind of nigris africanis willingly gives up something flashy for something that looks less expensive? An experimental artist one. It's all part of my thing. Just like when I got that Serbian drifter to come over and paid her money to say, for literally 9 hours straight that day Jenny's cousin Ramona died: "Hi, I'm Dan Berger. I'm a New York Jew-bastard." She said it like one of those dolls you pull the string on, and it was exquisite. Jenny's claim that said Serbian drifter stole her sapphire earrings that day is totally unjust, by the way, as there is no way of proving that beyond a reasonable doubt. No eye witnesses. No fingerprints. Nothing.

So here I am. Begging for your assistance. I've never dated a girl as attractive as Jenny. I've never dated another girl I've been intimate with. I only like white girls, but most white girls with predilections for black men make exceptions when it comes to me. I need to hold onto her. And how could she do better than someone as brilliant as me? You know how I've been occasionally guest posting on that blog you made? Well, some Yale undergraduates linked me to their blog group, and one of my posts was recently listed as one of the top 20 Yale blogosphere posts of all time. Top twenty. Indeed. Out of every post ever. I've read that post about me on Death/Media around 150 times. It's really well written and is itself deserving of the top 20 honor. I told all of this to Jenny. She replied that one Arlo Harshenstein deemed my work limply one-dimensional. I have reason to believe Jenny herself posted under that name.

Forgive me for my rambling. Forgive me for my thousand thoughts of melancholy too, for I am alone in the world now. Alone in your converted garage. A fake Congdon I.D. on the bare mattress. Copies of my Munz books planted in the old oak bookcase. On the floor, fake blonde pubic hairs I wove out of wool in underpants whose band I wrote "J.C." on. Immortalized Stillicide on my monitor always and forevermore. Just me here. Lester, here. Just staring out my window at the stars, thinking about the nature of reality and myself. Hmm, a quivering nebula over here. Oh, a darting comet over there. Ahh, a treacherous girl over yon. In my head. Once in my heart. I wonder, Kinbote, how a world as profound as ours has room for a creature as base as the homo sapien whore.

Yours,

Lester

P.S.

I received my credit card statement today, and I was wondering if you were going to continue to supplement its payment a little even if Jenny doesn't come back to me. If you do intend to help, let VISA know that I dispute the November 11th $50 charge from trannyheaven.com. Despite casual proof to the contrary within this very letter, I never made any such purchase.

2005-11-20T23:51:00.000-08:00

Them three kinds of tears in life. Them tears cunts cry. Tears a man sheds upon reck'non the one thing more assfucked than this terrestrial horrorshow's how brief she is. And them tears that pour out a man's bloodshot eye that's been gouged by the nail of a squealing whore during that holy moment of kniferaping when time itself seems to standstill and bivouac a bit.

This is as far as I can get. I have this vision of my own great Cormac McCarthyesque American novel about a kind of Patrick Bateman--circa 1870 minus all the metrosexual shit--character raping and killing women on the Texas/Mexico border. I don't know why I'm attracted to characters who rape and kill women. It's probably because I hate women. What eats me up inside is that I can only get this far. I can only begin to set the table in the dining room that is this fictional world before it's all infiltrated by the streaming consciousness of one...

Jason Edward Congdon?

No, my trigger-happy friends. It's infiltrated by Munz.

Thing is this. I've only written one published work in my life. It was the ghostwritten Munz biography. Second I get into that bookwriting zone, it's like I can't shake off my foundation, my birth. Sometimes it's subtle. I'll say a "bullet ball tunneled through the apache nigger queen's esophagus like a log of shit exitin' a corpulent politico's orifice."

Doesn't quite hit the mark, huh? I bet you're thinking the unnecessary "politico" part of the simile's liable to detract from the whole whore getting ripped a fucking part thing. But all in all, it isn't horrendous, right? Well as I try to keep writing, things get worse. A reference here. An anachronism there. Next thing I know, shit starts mushrooming. And it looks like this:

Electric daggers split the seams of the sky and the skull of a young white who laughed, right before his brain boiled, bout how he'd tricked himself into reckoning he was some thing distinct from the rocks, the dead locked in the dirt, the still flapping shitbirds swirling in the wind. The dead man too flapped around a little, all caught up in a tumbleweed more sentient than he. Only thing more bent on survival than life is death. The bottomless appetite of death. Starving. Like a belly that can't be filled. So hungry. Food. Cibus in Latin. So Munz took it. Latin. In high school. Fuck, Lester, get a grip on your shit. Which was a horrendous experience. High school, that is.

Masturbating every second you're not working your ass off to get into Yale. YALE. I know I'm not happy, I know my arteries are not in ship fucking shape, mom. I'm not gay! Girl's don't like me. Trust me, I fucking like them! Or at least the thought of my sperm fucking slaughtering them.

Wolf Blitzer is my friend. John King? White House correspondent? More like the talking head I most like to hear when I jizz all over my floor and pretend the floor's Miranda Jones' face. You cum sucking slut. I NEED to facialize you. You popular fucking semen swallower. I don't care if this is you at your peak and it's all downhill for you and I'm going to Yale and I'm going to be a lawyer and the only thing that'll ever change about you is your aging skin cells won't quite absorb jizz the way they once did. I still hate that I can't fucking infiltrate your clique. Your world. Or anything at all that doesn't involve a monitor and inputs and wires and pixels. FUCK, I HATE THAT GIRLS DON'T LIKE ME. At least Wolf Blitzer likes me. And John King would bone my ass if he were a bitch.

And I don't fucking care if I'm self-aware enough to realize that Wolf is not really my friend, and that John would probably ignore me if I went up to him and said, politely, as I always do, politely and kindly and warmly and bubbly even though I FUCKING HATE THE WORLD...if I said to him, in my fucked-in-the-head impression of how "professional, normal" people talk: "Hi John. I'm Daniel Munz. Politics is my passion. It's an honor to meet you." Having a girl scream in joy at the sight of my cock is my passion. Making so much money and getting so much power that all you faggots who think I'm anything but a dominant force of fucking ironball charisma--making you bitches kneel before me, your GOD....that is my passion. FOOOOOOOOOOOD is my passion. Imagine eating a scrumptious tamale and telling a girl who's licking your sack that she's a real doll at the same time. A real doll. A real fucking card this one is. But then like that...like that I turn it all off, all the passion just slips away like a lover in the night, and on comes the sugary mask...

I think Bush is a liar. L I A R. He reminds me of a dim John Adams bent upon an unimaginable executive buildup. China's a really important region politically and economically. I think politics and economics are inevitably intertwined. Like Republicans and corruption! I support Kerry then and now. Mom, did the cable guy turn C-SPAN back on? Dukakis had a golden retriever when he was in college. Named Lucky! I should get one! I wonder if the roomates would mind?! What's for dinner, mom? Chili Dogs!!!! And the inebriate swallowed the plasma of his own homo sapien blood, gutting beneath him a heathen whore whose entrails the inhospitable starheat soldered to the crust of this Northern Hemisphere. And the man reckoned there'n four things in thiseer life liable to rend a man's heart asunder. Woman, Rage, Rotgut, and Time.

2005-10-26T22:27:00.000-07:00

I wish I were crazy. I am not. I am perfectly sane. Troubled, certainly. Off, maybe. But I'm cogent enough to realize I live in Valencia, 3000 miles away from my muse, and that the soothing hum of Magic Mountain, weed, HBO On Demand, the Sports Section, and pornography is really all I have in my life. It's not a girl I desire. I've got Jenny. As some of you may know, a vicious bacterial infection inundated my gums after my last periodontal procedure, and I think seeing me so unjustly ravaged inspired Jenny to return to me. So yes, it's not a girl I need. Nor a job. I'm completely content with only Jenny working. I guess I'm just disappointed with reality.

As most of you know, I'm the leading Jason Congdon scholar in the world. Not trying to brag or be funny here. Seriously, let's step back here. Very literally, I've dedicated far more of my life to Congdon Studies than any other person who has ever lived. I remember Harold Bloom once said that the most devastating thing about understanding Shakespeare so well is realizing how much can never be known. My old neighbor's friend's boss once attended a benefit where Stephen Hawking spoke. Hawking said, in a vein not unlike Bloom's, that with his theoretical knowledge came a great burden. Yes, he could understand the intricacies of a black hole in his head, but here on Earth, where we are all jailed, as it were, until we die, he was destined to never see, to never truly comprehend that entity to which he'd dedicated his life.

Sure, Dan Berger thinks about Congdon more than most people. And I'm sure Jason is often on the minds of some of his immediate family members. But I wake up at night impaled by the fact that I don't know which tooth in Congdon's mouth, which fucking tooth, gets brushed the most. I spend all afternoon daydreaming about starting an experimental high school with a rigorous academic curriculum whose chief thread is a dedication to a further understanding of Jason Congdon. My History class would focus less on the macro issues of politics and society and more on J.C's personal evolution. Tell me his development doesn't mirror Man's. To study Jason is to meet your inward self. English would be a little more wishy-washy as it always is. But tell me that the great works of our glorious tongue in no way pertain to the dedication, dysfunction, and self-obsession that Congdon exhibits. Tell me this and you admit at once your unseemly naiveté.

Fuck school. I dream a new world. A world where we only eat burritos, where shorts are always worn a little too late into fall, where shirts must be tucked in, businesses are only small, where Vegas only sets odds on events pertaining to the ammount of current being fed into the old ill wired, muted on Headline News, 15 inch TV from Costco, where young girls across the world memorize the provenance of every single hair on Congdon's sack, where the O.J. Simpson killings were notorious because of a former football Congdon killing a blonde Congdon and a Jewish Congdon with a kni-congdon in Brentwood, Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon guac.

I have to stop writing about him. I know. I know. I'm becoming Eric. Congdon is my chess. I must stop. It's eating me alive, every second of my day dedicated to him. To Bulldog Burrito. To a life I'm not a part of. To a world I don't inhabit. But I can't stop, and my writing, my life, my life is suffering because of it. No one understands me anymore. This, this might be my last post. It needs to end here. It must. It's over. God, this meant a lot to me. But Goodbye.

I say this, and I mean it, and then...

And then I picture him...fuck you, fuck you for monopolizing my life, but I do, I picture him, I picture you, Jason...I picture you taking a break, walking out from the exposed postmodern kitchen and into the storage room, where there are tortillas and Mexicans with thin mustaches and...Virtual Boy--your favorite diversion since those days after junior college when you didn't know what the fuck you were going to do with your life. People said Virtual Boy sucked, that it was targeted toward really young kids, that it made people go blind. But for you, Virtual Boy has always been your one true love. The thing you've gone to every time you've felt miserable and alone. The thing you'll still have that gray day you decide you're done with fresh mex. Yes, I know all about it. I and your mother. I know she bought it for you. I found the receipt that time I paid that Serbian guy to break into her minivan. And I know how you feel, how alive you feel when you put your eyes into that machine and escape. Yes, I've read your journals. Yes, I can almost read your thoughts. To envision that 32-bit world of red enveloping you, your paws gripped to the guac covered controller--to see you at one with yourself is to know that in a life at once ceaseless and inadequate, I have refuge. I have you.

2005-10-24T13:40:00.000-07:00

I just returned from a brief bivouac in Ojai, CA. I was there for my sister's wedding. Overall, the wedding went as smoothly as the voluble speech of a dashing suitor. But there were hitches. For instance, I got assigned to a table with Ben Greenberg, this smug "Two and a Half Men" sitcom writer fuck who thinks he's the shit just because he's 22 and making 98 grand a year doing what he "fucking loves." Oh,Benny boy, I have a question? Growing up, did you always know that aiding half-baked vehicles for Charlie Sheen to get more coke money was what you "fucking loved?"

I would have let this slide if Ben hadn't completely cock-blocked me. All night, he impressed girls by talking about his new office and his new Jag and his new opportunities. It's hard being a blogger. Especially one like me. I didn't start on top of the world like Dan fucking Berger. I started as a commenter. Sure, my comments might be funny, but you think that impresses Nicole Green, the mesmerizingly hot 14 year old Jappy slut who was sitting at the table with Ben and me? I look at this girl and I imagine what it's like to prop a 14 year old ass against the trunk of an automobile in the parking lot of Magic Mountain and then just go at it headlong insatiable, looking out at the Western Sun, listening to the hum of the rollercoasters as you pull that hair, stare at that skin, and realize that if your eyes
could look closer, they would see an elastic integrity to those young cells before them too tragically pure for words.

You know the Jap actually flashed me a smile. Had me thinking I could score. She was impressed both Ben and I were writers. But then she asked where she could see our work. Ben said "Monday night on CBS!" I, being a lowly commenter, was forced to reply, " I know a guy in New York named Dan who's got a twin brother. Dan has a blog and sometimes he lets one of his friends, Eric, guest post. Eric only writes about chess. Once, four months ago, I commented on one of Eric's posts on Dan's blog. But my comment was like a post itself. So that's kind of how I'm unique. My comments are like entire posts. So yeah, delinodeshields.com, August 2005, post 11, comment 8, that's me."

She laughed at me and walked away. Fucking bitch. I could kill you.

2005-10-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was reading "Rich Berger's" new post where I saw that some commenter had the audacity to suggest I'm not really black. This infuriated me. I won't even dispute the allegation as it's entirely beneath me. But what I will do is present one of the biggest blogging exposés ever. Dan is not really Dan. He's a character created by someone else.

Dan is actually: Miranda Divac, a 47 year old Serbian woman who, in her heyday 30 years ago, was an infamous upper east side slut with a caustic sense of humor. But after having a horrible gangbang and cocaine-induced nervous breakdown in 1974, Miranda became homeless and stayed holed up in the basement of a Frito Lay factory for 3 decades. Between 1975 and 2004, she made 1 new friend, a mouse who lived in the floorboards.
But with the advent of the internet, Miranda often snuck into the overseer's office and met black men online whom she arranged to service whenever the factory workers left the basement. Living on literally nothing but Cheetos, water, and semen, Miranda would have died an anonymous death were it not for the overseer's son's penchant for Legos. One night, she snuck into the overseer's office, hoping that he had become a heroin addict who left heroin in his desk at work. He had not. But what had been left in the drawer was a defective Lego Man. The way this Lego man looked, with its smashed head and fucked up holes on the bottom of its feet, represented the horror of the human condition to Miranda. So she contacted Lego, and they eventually traced the piece back to a certain Jason Congdon. She asked to speak with him, but she was informed that he no longer worked at Lego but at a Mexican joint near Yale. Inspired, she left the building for the first time in 30 years and traveled all the way to New Haven, to Bulldog Burrito itself . Staring into the sea blue pools that are Jason Congdon's eyes, she realized she had found some truly great comic material. What should she do? Write a pilot? Too draining? Do standup? Too revealing. A blog? Yes. But knowing that no one takes a bitch seriously, she created the whole Dan persona. She even got the overseer's son, Rich Mehlman, all grown-up and now an alcoholic ex-con, to pretend to be Rich, Dan's fictional brother. So the next time you read one of Dan's posts, enjoy its humor, savor its wit, and remember that, at its very core, it is part of a treacherous lie.

2005-10-19T21:02:00.000-07:00

Jesus, this is fucking surreal. Rich Berger was just on "Maury." Here's how it went:

Jenevieve: He said he was gonna be a big shot at Sports Illustrated. That he'd take care of everything.

Crowd: BOOOOOOO!

Maury: Well, let's bring him out!

Crowd: BOOOOOOO!

Rich: This is astonishing that I'm actually on this show. Amazing! Maury, it's incredible that your conception of entertainment has devolved into this.

Maury: Act black.

Rich: Oh right. I think Martin Lawrence is a legitamately soild comedian. Additionally, a dispropotionate amount of people I've met in my life procure items using food stamps.

Maury: Blacker.

Rich: Let's see. I play squash. I'm thinking about trying polo.

Maury: Oh, Connie and I love polo. Just got a new gold-plated mallet.

Crowd: WHAAAAAA?

Maury: I mean, "Did yo ass just say polo? No you di-int! Mah sistas, is this a primadonna mofo on our hands or what?!!!!"

(whispering to Rich) But seriously...love the sport, can't get enough of it. I think it has crossover potential. Pretty soon, the kids of all these single darky cunts in the audience will be playing polo instead of hoops.

Rich: Yeah. That makes sense, because there's a great tradition of the impoverished being enticed by stable fees.

Maury: Okay, And the results---Rich, You are NOT the father!

Crowd: boo. boo. women. minorities! Overweight! Discount clothing stores! TV! Lack of education! Bitterness! Inarticulate anger! AHHHHH!!!!

2005-10-19T20:57:00.000-07:00

My restaurant guide was just published in the New Haven Advocate! Here it is:

thai taste: gross, all other thai places: gross. Zaroka: Good Indian, not such a good vibe. Miso: Decent Japanese, but oddly pretentious. Samurai: mediocre Japanese. Pacifico: Started great, but going downhill fast. Central: Good steak. Bentara: Good, but I'm over it. Famous pizza places: good though overrated. Louis Lunch: good though overrated. Ivy Noodle: kind of okay and kind of disgusting. All the places like Basta that front like they're good: not good. Bulldog Burrito: Housed in a divinely intimate neo-industrial space at the beautiful Park/Elm corridor is this hidden gem which many in-the-know aficionados consider the finest Mexican restaurant in the country. Owner/Chef/culinary magician Jason Congdon performs miracles every day in his exposed postmodern kitchen, infusing rare meats like chicken and beef with offbeat sides like cheese and tortillas to create concoctions that simply stir the soul. A little advice to those lucky enough to snag a table at the Bulldog: Try the Pepsi. And ask for it from the fountain. Jason first made a name for himself in the culinary world at the Lego Inc. cafeteria by insisting that the catering company always be on top of refilling carbon dioxide cartridges. To say that there is the perfect amount of bubbles in Jason's Pepsi would be the understatement of the season. Oh, and if you're in a rush: Jason says he's pioneered a revolutionary cooking technique that employs electromagnetic waves in the micro range of the spectrum. He says this new method cooks food almost three times as fast. Bulldog Burrito, 320 Elm Street, 495-8600. 4/4 stars.

2005-10-19T20:51:00.000-07:00

That really gross Ivy Noodle waiter with not enough testosterone cornered me and delivered the following soliloquy yesterday:

"Jee soo mo bai! Jee Soo! You sih at counta! No taba! Oh, well excuse me and greetings. It's me, the tiny petulant Ivy noddle waiter with disgusting scraggly whiskers hanging from my chin. I ran into our dear Jason this morning when I was unloading tapioca pearls off a dilapidated truck. You should have seen him. He jumps off the CT Limo van. He's coming straight from the airport mind you. And then he just explodes into his store, kissing the tables, throwing the chip baskets into the air like caps at a commencement, rough-housing the 15 inch non-flat screen, ill-wired, poorly placed TV. It was like all of Bulldog Burrito became an actual live bulldog, a pet Jason had missed so despondently during his travels in the motherland. Sorry if I seem standoffish in person, by the way, but I just find my command of this delightful language to be much more voluble in prose."

2005-10-19T20:47:00.000-07:00

CSI: CORNER OF PARK AND ELM

The other night, a sexy blonde girl was brutally murdered in a porta-potty at Comic-con.

I may not be David Caruso, but I'm also no slouch when it comes to analyzing evidence and being obsessed with myself. With that in mind, I think this picture of O.J. is more suggestive than some might think.

When I first looked at the picture, I noticed a small stain of a greenish hue toward the bottom of O.J.'s polo. Using Photoshop, I zoomed in so closely that I could see the green substance penetrating individual cotton fibers.

I then took my computer to Albertus Magnus' biology lab and connected it to a state of the art electron-beam microscope. I saw that there was a family of unicellular organisms of the macroanociphalae variety living in the greenish substance. Dr. Wong, a venerable Albertus Magnus biologist, explained that macroanociphalae can only live in environments containing exactly 39.6 % water and trace amounts of lycopene.

I racked my brain for some connection between it all. I drank and drank and treated every woman I met like the fucking shit that they are and then...just as the muses of epiphany visited Kekule's mind that dreamy evening, so revelation enraptured me. What, other than paint, is green? Snot? Maybe, but everyone knows O.J. was not phlegmatic at Comic-Con. Paint? No lycopene. Guacamole?

Wait a minute. I remembered that last night, while dining at the Bulldog, Jason Congdon told me that the key to his beef is that he cuts it with the tiniest fragments of catsup packets to make the meat seem more substantive than it actually is. The meat could easily contaminate the guacamole. This would explain the lycopene.

I went to Bulldog with Dr. Wong the second I woke up this morning and surreptitiously ordered a side of guac. Guac, Dr. Wong explained, is like the fingerprint of a Mexican restaurant. No two guacamoles in the world have the exact same water content. Even a Taco Bell in West Hollywood is going to have a slightly different water/avocado ratio than a Taco Bell in Santa Monica.

Dr. Wong proceeded to measure the water in the guac sample using a tin-plated graduated aqua-scope. The reading? 39.6% !

I'll never forget the look on Congdon's face when I asked him if he could help us with our case. He smiled, and then stared at me like a fucking werewolf before running out of the place. What he probably hoped is that I didn't see the black shoe-polish like substance on the back of his arm.

Dr. Wong and I entered the kitchen. We found a can of Black Face and six small hairs that could only have fallen from the head of a black person. Dr. Wong also noticed that the hair's DNA was very heterosexual. This is when it all clicked. Have you ever seen a black kid in Bulldog? No. Better yet, have you ever seen a black kid eating anywhere that isn't a dining hall? No, and if you do, it's usually a gay black kid who doesn't act all blacky and poor, right? Hence, the hair had to have been from Simpson. Simpson must have eaten at Bulldog, met Congdon, and agreed to swap identities. Congdon put on the blackface, went to Comic-Con, signed some autographs, and savagely murdered that young blonde girl. O.J., seeking the solace of anonymity, has been living as Congdon for days.

Wait a minute. Phone's ringing. It's the chief. He says the blonde's last words, as recorded on an iPod accidentally left in the bathroom, were "Oh, my assumption that you were the proprietor of a fresh mex establishment was wrongheaded, as the size of your penis clearly indicates that you are O.J. Simpson."

It was then we knew it. We knew it all too well. There is no Jason Congdon. Never has been. The man working at Bulldog all this time? O.J. The contents of the Black Face can? White Face. The charade that has been fooling us all? Barbarous. There has only been O.J. always and O.J. forevermore. Lego is a codeword for Hertz. Congdon is a codeword for free at last.

"Dr Wong, Dr Wong. I think we should run after him. The black stuff on his arm, the black stuff was his actual skin. It was the white stuff that was fake. He's killed again! He'll kill again!"

So we're running and we're running, Dr Wong and I, and the day turns to night and the night to midnight, and we are blanketed by a universe of blackness.

2005-10-02T16:19:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary,

I got to pitch some ideas at CBS today thanks to
Roger Lodge, who is, by the way, a punk ass motherfucker. As some of you know, my pregnant wife, Jenny, got a new vocation a few weeks ago as Roger Lodge's personal assistant. Roger's the guy who hosts Blind Date. Obviously it's great that we're going to maybe be able to move out from Jenny's parents' place now, but I think her whole "jobs are these essential things you must have in your late 30s" attitude is part of a larger pattern of superficiality that has overcome her.

It's all her high school friend Marisa's fault. Marisa is this JAP who had the gall to insinuate that my recent post periodontal surgery depression was a ploy to guilt trip Jenny into staying with me a little longer. She's been telling Jenny all this shit about living up the one life she has, and she's been dragging her to these pretentious Hollywood parties. That's where Jenny met Lodge. Long story short, I was supposed to pick Jenny up from Lodge's home in Malibu last week, but I arrived thirty minutes early. I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. So I walked inside. I heard some moaning coming from the basement. I go down, and who do I find but Roger and his best friend David Burke (the host of "Shout About the Movies") intermittently inserting a champagne bottle into Jenny's anus while force feeding her pregnant mouth cigarettes. Lodge said, and I quote, "Suck down the smoke with the same affinity you displayed toward our penises, you pregnant slut." As I walked into the room, I realized this was technically a foursome. Looming over Jenny's reddening ass was a cardboard cutout of Ray Combs, the former host of Family Feud, former mentor of both Lodge and Burke, and former guy who had never hanged himself. Some excess semen, perhaps Lodge or Burke's, dripped from Combs' cardboard crotch, cascading and pooling into Jenny's left nostril.

After removing the bottle, I told those two diminutive assholes that if they didn't get me a job in the industry and quick, I'd kill them. Literally the next day, I got a call from Dave Schwartz, a VP of Development at CBS.
Next thing I know, I'm at my first job interview since I got a job at Lego at the end of the decade before last. I realized halfway through the pitch meeting that my sense of humor is somewhat confined. Specifically, I'm only attracted to ideas pertaining to Jason Congdon's stewardship of Bulldog Burrito and Daniel Munz' penchant for both politics and food. The execs said they found my sensibility completely antithetical to their own. At one point in the interview, I came up with an amazing new drama about the Dept. of Homeland Security. The execs said it was genius and "CSI meets Law and Order", but when I added the corollary that the show be framed by Congdon day-dreaming the whole thing while bemoaning the fact that his decision to add alcoholic beverages to his menu hasn't been nearly as lucrative as he'd hoped, they asked me to leave at once. I should have known that my wife getting facialized by a man who killed himself several years ago lest he see his third-tier celebrity diminish would never lead to anything good.

2005-07-23T13:14:00.000-07:00

UNAUTHORIZED DANIEL MUNZ BIOGRAPHY: PART III (MAKE SURE TO READ PARTS I AND II FIRST)

And now, I present to my readers the first excerpt from "The Awkward Years"!!!!!!!

OFFICIAL EXCERPT:

James Ozerlin, a Munz historian, cites one triggering event as the key to understanding Munz's life: "[much like a man who does drugs might say that his] shrooms are good[, so will I, a Munz historian, tell you about the following story which I think is good. When Daniel was 5, he once felt bile ascending his throat. His Bubby Laura commented that he probably felt sick because ‘you just ate that entire plate of latkes, Danny. That was for the whole family. Come here, baby. Come here. Oh God, Emily, there's shit all over the couch. You say you can manage the single motherhood. Smell your living room. This is the good job you do, huh? Your baby boy has defecated all the latkes onto this couch.’ Coincidentally, Daniel was watching the Bush-Dukakis debates while sitting in this pile of feces. While Emily cleaned up both the couch and Daniel, Bubby Laura pointed to Bush and said, ‘Evil. Evil. Evil.’ Daniel then rolled off the couch and ran to the kitchen where he procured half a dozen cherry flavored ring pops. Coming back into the T.V. room, Daniel caught a glimpse of a close-up of Dukakis, and cooed, "Daddy." Sure, Daniel's cerebral cortex has developed since then. He was able to put his nose to the grindstone enough during his somewhat horrendously painful high school years to get into Yale. He's also taller. He even got an unlubed handjob two years ago from an unstable Serbian woman whose community college essays he frequently slaved over. But, in a sense, utterly nothing has changed since that night. Both his enjoyment of things that can be put into his stomach to make it feel fuller and his approach to politics remain quite unaltered.]"

2005-07-23T13:09:00.000-07:00

UNAUTHORIZED DANIEL MUNZ BIOGRAPHY: PART II

Ghostwriting was hard, because Daniel wouldn't agree to an interview. Actually, we never asked him. We did, however, frequently interview James Ozerlin, a fount of information and my weed dealer from Valencia. James first began to study Munz's life when his M.S.-inflicted little sister, Elizabeth, once randomly looked up danielmunz.com after I pulled her out of her wheelchair, placed her limp hand against my scrotum (this detail isn't particularly relevant, but it brings my story somewhat more to life) and plopped her down in front of a computer, telling her, "Randomly look up danielmunz.com."

Based on Elizabeth's research, James Ozerlin, in the following interview, concluded (in my opinion) that a certain formative event may have occurred in the mid 1980s that might explain how Munz became the man he is today:

INTERVIEW

James: These shrooms are good.

Lester. Yeah.

James: I'm starved.

Lester: So, to the best of your knowledge, is there a formative event, apocryphal or not, that perfectly explains how Munz became the man he is today?

James: I don't know, man. I'm meeting Molly at Magic Mountain. She's got more shrooms. You wanna come?

Lester: I can't, dude.

2005-07-23T10:59:00.000-07:00

UNAUTHORIZED DANIEL MUNZ BIOGRAPHY: PART I

I apologize for the absence. I was selected as the ghostwriter for Daniel Munz's unauthorized biography a fortnight ago, and lately I've been delving rather insatiably into the history of Daniel's life. I'm a straight shooter, so I'll come out and say it. I'm a little worried. I feel like Munz's life has been both not very long and, in a sense, the polar opposite of extremely interesting.

But the head writer, an East Coast-based restaurant-industry entrepreneur, says this thing will sell like crazy, so I'm not about to be the black dude who avoids a business opportunity just because he doesn't quite get the quirky intricacies of white folks' taste in non-fiction.

The structure is beginning to materialize. The head writer's decided to employ only one 39-page chapter entitled "The Awkward Years." The chapter will be divided into two wide-ranging sub-chapters, the first of which covers situations in which Daniel ate too much and felt like shit because he had an intense stomach ache, but also felt elated because, God, he fucking loves the sensation of food being in his body, just feeling beyond content and having his taste buds just constantly stimulated forever without end. The second sub-chapter's on politics.

2005-07-08T17:33:00.002-07:00

You all might not know that before I moved to Southern CA and dedicated my life to purple plant and white pussy, I worked as a marketing manager at Lego Educational Division in Enfield, CT. I'll never forget my most "special" employee, a junior marketer fresh out of college with a unique vision about where Lego Inc. should go. I did have to fire him, notwithstanding. I just happened to find his final performance evaluation. Here it is:

Division: Lego Educational Marketing
Name: Jason Edward Congdon
Position: Junior Marketer
Date: May 1, 1988

Work Ethic: Far exceeds expectations.

Jason was always the first to arrive and last to leave work. However, sometimes his efforts were grossly misplaced. During the legendary Christmas rush of 87, when corporate was on our ass about marketing the new North Pole juniors set, Jason dedicated the bulk of his energy toward bribing the cafeteria's food distributor to serve only very mediocre fresh-mex at lunch. Sick of the usual turkey sandwiches and pasta primavera, everyone loved this at first. But then Jason deemed that the food was in fact well above average, so he ceased marketing altogether, spending all his time sneaking around in the cafeteria kitchen where he added traces of gristle and bone fragment to the meat.

Marketing Creativity: Does not meet expectations.

Last year, corporate gave us a lot of leeway in our designs. After we marketed the required updates of the fireman, doctor, basketball, and dinosaur lego sets, we were free to come up with new themes. "Soccer" and "race car" were early favorites. Jason, however, designed plans for, in his words, a "mediocre fresh-mex fast food restaurant with an unsustainable business model and companion chink noodle house" set. When we explained that his idea was too eccentric for our consumer, he became inflamed. In fact, Jason responded by sabotaging our venerable "presidents" line. Sneakily breaking into the factory one weekend, he defaced thousands of small Abe Lincoln LegoMan figures, reconfiguring them to look like mousy middle aged women. Crossing out "Abe Lincoln, The Great Emancipator" on all the packaging materials, he rewrote "Marge Herman, The Acne-Scarred Dumpy Cunt At Fleet Bank Who Doesn't Give People Loans Even If They Show Her Amazing Plans For A Brilliant Mexican Food Franchise."

Overall: Does not meet expectations

Despite Mr. Congdon's plucky drive, I believe he is not suited to work at a family-centered toy company. I hereby recommend his current work on project x912876 aka "miniature futuristic (circa 2005) Ill-wired TV From Costco That's Always Left Mute On CNN Headline News" cease at once.

2005-07-01T18:55:00.000-07:00

Dr. Kinbote is busy at an orthodontist's convention, so the ball is in my court. I am currently writing from a desktop in Dr. Kinbote's guestroom. I'm living here until my wife--his eldest daughter--can get a more lucrative job. I am, as you may already know, a proud black male, but also a very complicated, multi-faceted, raceless-in-my-worldview human being. My first post concerns basketball, notwithstanding.

Red Auerbach gave an interview a few weeks ago in which he implied ABC's flashy presentaion of the NBA FINALS was an affront to the purity of the game. I usually dismiss Red's words as the calumny of a decaying Phil-Jackson bashing cocksucker. But this time, I saw the wisdom to Red's words. Sports converage, like most media, is a meta-industry dedicated to propogating its own form and, in the process, trivializing its orginal function. A show like SportsCenter is as much a vehicle for its anchors to engage in a certian ceremonialized smug lexicon as it is a window into the day's athletic events.

Confession: This idea wasn't wholly my own. It's closely paraphrased from a rant delivered by Abe Goldman, a former middle school buddy of mine who's starting to freak me out with his tacitly homosexual propensities. Abe is, might I add, a corpulent, lazy, acne-scarred, self-conscious, bitter man.
At any rate, Abe and I were blazing at a lookout point on Mulholland last weekend when he told me about one of his (non-sexual) fantasies. He envisioned a world in which being a fucking incompetent loser became a major sport. He then wrote onto a beige envelope potruding from his pocket the following skit: (Note that the Abe in his skit is markedly heterosexual)

CLOSEUP OF A VIVID PLASMA DISPLAY. A SPORTSCENTER-LIKE SHOW. LINDA COHN, IN STUDIO, SPEAKS WITH STEPHEN A. SMITH IN L.A.

LINDA:

While team personnel officially say Goldman is out at least
four games with this rare virus, some sources within the
league have indicated it could be longer.
We go to our Stephen A. Smith in Los Angeles for a further
breakdown of Abe’s season.

---Stephen A. Smith speaks as the following edited video appears on screen----

(A raucous crowd cheers as a near-tears Abe Goldman eats Taco Bell, smokes weed out of an apple, and looks at pictures from his old high school yearbook. A statistical overlay reads “Abe Goldman, 5’7”. 190. Tacos: 6/8. .750. Bowls Packed: 5. Hot Sauce: Mild." Abe watches porn on his laptop and opens a bottle of lotion while an announcer shouts “Oh my, an incredible shot!” A huge banner of Abe procuring his prescription acne medication drapes the side of Staples Center.)

STEPHEN A:

Abe’s a gamer and I think he’ll be okay for the next series.
What’s impressing me about his overall game this year is the
versatility. I mean, he’s lonely, smoking weed out of fruit,
overeating, and perusing his old yearbooks almost every
night now; he’s developed a great eye for creative cumshots,
and he’s a straight up recorder playing, girl-avoiding,
cookie-baking introvert. Sure, some guys can ball in one
of these categories, but Abe is a smooth operator in em all.
Don’t believe me? Believe his coach.

---One Coach Hendricks appears on screen in a locker room interview---

HENDRICKS:

Yeah, he’s a pleasure to coach. What’s been big for
us this year is how long he’s been alone. A lot of
guys just seem to fall into that trap of relating with
women in sort of a dynamic, satisfying way. Not Abe.
I’d say he’s becoming one of the more awkward guys I know.
I think if he can alienate himself a little more come playoffs,
and really cultivate his alcoholism, the sky’s the limit.

I hear my wife Jenny returning home from work in her pearl white Mercedes. I must go.

Yours,

Lester