Yesterday

I went foodshopping at Trader Joe's in Union Square for the second time, and for the second time I waited on a line that wrapped all the way around the store. Bearing this in mind, I have decided to come up with some supermarket humor to entertain my fellow checkout mates.

How about this line, huh? Last time I saw a line this long it was for the gas chambers at Auschwitz. Just kiddin'! Any Jews here?

Organic baby food?! What's next? Organic babies? Come on!

This line is longer than Winston Churchill's turds after a three day macaroni binge!

Anyone from Jersey in town?*

Check out this line! It's almost as long as the assembly lines that most Third World children make our sneakers on!

This line is longer than the cock of a Lebanese tiger. A Lebanese tiger with an unusually long cock, that is!

And what about Brangelina? Am I right?

If a Lebanese tiger cock and one of Winston Churchill's macaroni turds had a baby, it would definitely be this line!











*If someone says "yes," I'll say "Uh oh!"

Some of you have been asking

about the preparation process I go through before writing each hilarious blog entry. Well, a master chef doesn’t like to give away his secret recipe but, well, ALL RIGHT.

Wake up at 7 a.m.
Soak head in fresh drawn butter.
Run 5 miles.
Sleep for another 3-4 hours.
Exfoliate skin, trying to eliminate acne caused by fresh drawn butter.
Put on pot of coffee.
Remember I hate the taste of coffee.
Think about writing blog.
Finish coffee.
Think more.
Strip down to underwear.
Punch mirror.
Stare at cuts and bruises on knuckles, hoping they form inspirational word or picture.
Fail, put on second coffee pot, writhe in blood.
Stretch!
Ingest poisonous capsule.
Get rushed to emergency room.
Get stomach pumped.
Chat with Gladys, friendly black nurse.
Argue with Gladys about existence of God.*
Make Gladys cry, she storms out.
Flustered, take out laptop and write blog.

That’s all, folks!

*this is only on days when I don’t believe in God.

My last post translated into jive!

http://sites.gizoogle.com/index2.php?url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.mattkoff.com

Apparently the jive translation of "labia" is still "labia."

I really should have thought of a blog idea before I started typing.

But I didn't. Here I am. And the worst part is, I'm pretty sure more people will read this thing than I care to realize. O dear navigators of content-thin website, how you deserve more!

I am drinking my second cup of coffee, the very cup that blasted away my inhibitions about writing a blog while uninspired. I am drinking this coffee out of a red metal travel mug with the handle missing. On the side of the mug, there is white print, surrounded on either side by little white maple leaves: "Banff - Jasper - Lake Louise, Canadian Rockies." Above this, there is the head of an antelope that appears to be screaming. It looks like either the antelope is calling after its young, or perhaps being shot by a hunter, or both. I've never been to the Canadian Rockies, and I can't remember who got this for me. Whoever it is is a sick twisted fuck.

As I sit at my desk, waiting for my next proofreading assignment, I wonder about a lot of things. Right now, I'm wondering about the opening montage of Roseanne. The theme song. To me , it's always sounded like the kind of music you'd hear in an old-timey strip club or maybe a lascivious candy bar commercial. I wonder how many people see what I see when I hear that lead tenor sax start playing: A heavy mascaraed, extra slutty early 90's Roseanne standing on a smokey stage, clad in a burlesque outfit, gargantuan hips swaying to the beat, wearing dirty fishnets stretched so far that they just barely conceal her swollen overhanging labia. Tonight, instead of dancing, "Miss Roseanne", provoked by something in the music, has decided to take a five gallon bucket of butterscotch fudge and pour it all over her mammoth, stretchmark-laiden, torpedo-shaped breasts. The beat plods along, her huge hips continue to sway, the gooey fudge makes its way down, infiltrating every fold and crease of Roseanne's bloated body.

I can't be the only one who's pictured this.

On my website's recent change of appearance,

my colleague Rob Bates commented, "Great. Now your blog looks like everyone else's blog.

Oh really, Rob Bates? So I suppose everyone else's blog has a giant picture of LIONEL RITCHIE on it?!!



What now? Yeah, I thought so.

P.S. Don't be surprised if my website starts becoming really popular in Iraq.

STOP CHEATING DEATH, JOHN POPPER

You heard me!

You had your day in the sun and you should have died already by either a) drowning in a mix of your own piss and vomit following a month-long cocaine-and-Barcardi-Limon binge brought on by realization that you will never again write another “Hook” b) a triple bypass, or c) choking on your harmonica in the middle of the night after mistaking it for the last 2 pieces of a Kit-kat bar.

I know what you’re thinking, John Popper. You’re thinkin’ “Hey dude! The Traveler is still around and rockin’! That in itself is a form of success, isn't it?” No, it isn’t. You need to kill yourself now.

You may also be thinking "But what about my 8 fans!" Don't worry. They'll be okay. Also, they're not technically "fans" if they're related to you.

Look, you bought some extra time with the stomach surgery and what did it do? Nothing. Now you're just that guy with the harmonica who had stomach surgery who's still kinda fat anyway.

So kill yourself, John Popper! It's not too late! Sure, you'll never be Kurt Cobain, or even Michael Hutchins, but if you act now you may still have a shot at being the poor man’s Mama Cass.