Past Za blogging endeavors
Pete Rubin had a hilarious blog up for a year or two. Sadly, Diaryland isn't in the business of archiving comedic greatness. Thankfully, Google is in the business of archiving everything.
Peter says he will descend upon the blog on Friday. In the mean time, I offer you Peter's birthday ode to Steve (in the comments section -- because it is long and will make the page look unpretty).
Peter says he will descend upon the blog on Friday. In the mean time, I offer you Peter's birthday ode to Steve (in the comments section -- because it is long and will make the page look unpretty).
posted by (d)avid at 11/17/2004 01:47:00 PM
1 Comments:
june 1 2000
this is a birthday ode to steve
(previously titled "ode to joy," but due a cease-and-desist letter it's been revised)
all hail steve! it's his birthday today, which means that twenty-five years ago, his mother, who coincidentally went to high school with my mother, squeezed out a mewling boychik who would turn out to be a barrel-chested pathologically articulate lothario.
steve and i were just chatting about our friendship over a brunch of omelets and supermodels, and he confided in me that although i intimidated him greatly with my vacuum-packed blend of mad clientele and savoir-faire, he was pleased that our predatory sexual practices remained non-competitive. "proven," he said as he started work on his third dirty martini, "i value our belt-notching enterprises. they help to remind me that under all the bravado, we're just two insecure overeducated city folk who use humor and self-aggrandizing fictional promiscuity to disguise the fact that we're riddled with neuroses." "i'll drink to that," i said as i lifted my decontaminant visor and drank to that. then we went and snorted lines off of carmen electra's conveniently nearby stomach.
oh, that steve. we go back for years, it seems, even though i met him just three months ago. i remember it like it was yesterday; i was giving hand jobs for crank in the penn station men's room, and in walked steve wearing some sort of home-made superhero costume. he looked a little like aquaman mixed with an effete cabaret singer, and he placed one foot on a urinal lip and announced, "i am torchsong man, and i am here to save you from yourself!" "sounds good to me," i said, and took his wallet. suffice it to say that we've been thick as thieves ever since. well, not really like thieves, but like those shifty-eyed kids who you keep your eye on when they walk into your store and skulk around the aisles because you're pretty damn sure they're about to make a break for it with some roll-on deodorant or something. we play catch in central park, we stroll down the promenade like newlyweds , and i regularly beat his ass at boggle. okay, only one of these is true; i have no arms, and i've never played boggle.
here's a limerick about steve!
limerick about steve
there once was a jew from new york
who never partook of the pork
bespectacled pork
or testicled pork
or any other type of fucking pork
okay. enough about steve. here's a limerick about me.
limerick about me
a self-referential endeavor
is never exactly as clever
as you might have once thought
and now you've been caught
and you can't even rhyme to begin with.
in an interesting new development, i have recently been dubbed Foxy Straight Boy, which is something i've long suspected but only recently had validated. though i might have preferred Foxy Straight Man, i understand that queer semantics can be an elastic thing and i take such a dimnuitive with a grain of anal sex. i mean, salt. with a grain of salt. (ed. note: the preceding joke was pre-approved by sparky and made possible by a grant from the chubb foundation.)
to recap: mad clientele. bespectacled pork. thank you.
p.
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