Delay in Pretzel Rod Delivery

The superimportant endless stash of pretzel rods, which admittedly are stale from time to time, seems to have ceased. The staff here is unaware of the cause of the cessation of our pretzel rod deliveries, and our supplies have been bare for a week now. The immigrant child laborers are going hungry. The pretzel rods were all I fed them. Now they have to spend their nickel-an-hour salary at the greek cart across the street, where apparently, the cart guy takes pity on them and gives them a falafel for that nickel. Sucker. If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of our pretzel rod shipment, please call 311.

Kegel Excersizes for...

Kegel excersizes for car trips! Dad up in the front driving to Grandma's for Christmas, sis nodding off in the back...guess what I'm doing?

Kegel excersizes for meetings! "Ken, did you get the files from Jerry for next week's update? ...Ken?"
"Huh? What? Oh (release)...yeah, sure I did (squeeze)."

Kegel excersizes for the subway! Doors close, vacant stares set in, 15 reps, 5 seconds each. It's not often that superimportant is on the subway, so we don't know what to do to occupy our time.

Kegel excersizes in church on Christmas Eve! Because I've got to distract myself SOMEhow.

Kegel excersizes for the bike shop! Because I'm part of the team now, and we've got reputation to uphold for excellence in all things.

Kegel excersizes for meetings, again! There really isn't enough to do in meetings. Text messaging is too obvious. Sketching is old hat - and pretty obvious. Sleeping is just uncool and difficult to pull off, especially since the eyeballs I drew on my eyelids are not very convincing.

Kegel excersizes for blogging! That's right everybody. I'm doing them RIGHT NOW. Think about it.

I can't wait for these flowers to die

Jesus Christmas, I'm not allergic or anything, but these flowers are giving me a headache. I'm secretly convinced that the Jersey girl assistant to the mutant management behind all the glass doors perfumes the damn things every morning, because nothing NOTHING should smell so nice for so long, so strongly. Every time someone walks by, the gust of wind carries this pleasant odor right into my nose, where it goes straight to my head, and makes it hurt. I'm going to have to step up my rampant farting just to compensate. At least I enjoy that smell.

The dry air. It makes me pick my nose.

I can't get my fingers out of there these days. Is anybody seeing this? Are people watching me? Does anybody even read this crap anyway? If so, can you spread the gospel, my people?

The Zombies are Rising Up!

Our eagle-eyed west coast correspondent kept her ears to the ground this week, and spotted some superimportant news on the headline of the newspaper around the guy sleeping in front of her house this morning. From last week's St. Paul Pioneer Press: Zombies sue city, county for abuse.

Superimportant staffers have been working around the clock to get to the bottom of this today, because it's just a freakin' gold mine, considering our sizeable zombie fetish. Zombies? Arrested? Suing? Are we excited about this or are we terrified? While we like to see the zombies sticking up for their rights, we're reminded that they eat brains and shuffle their feet. For christ's sake, we hate people that shuffle their feet. We're also shocked that a bunch of *cops* took in a bunch of zombies. Couldn't the zombies just lurch around and take a chomp out of the officer's arm as they're slipping the handcuffs on? Honestly, cops are dumb, so this should totally work. For those of us who aren't undead, biting a cop might be a bad idea. They've got nightsticks. And mace and things. But ZOMBIES, come on! You coulda easily gotten out of this one.

What's truly upsetting about this is the potential use of zombies as actual weapons of mass destruction. Think about it. Strap a bomb to the leg of the zombie; zombie blows up; zombie loses some limbs; NO. BIG. DEAL. ZOMBIES ARE REUSEABLE!!!

We'd be very excited about this if we were terrorists, but we're not. We just employ immigrant child laborers. No zombies. They're bad for the overhead. Lots of cleanup to do when you're dealing with zombie laborers. Terrorists, however, dont' have to worry about cleanup. Zombie blows up, puts another bomb on, goes back out and blows up again. Unbelievable potential for collateral damage here. Given that, superimportant has to take the uncharacteristic step of siding with the cops on this matter. Mostly because it totally leaves everything open for a zombie prison-break scenario that we'd love to see.

DEATH STAR is the name of my new metal band

It's a metal band that needs to happen. Seriously. Think about it. DEATH STAR. D E A T H S T A R . How fucking hardcore is that? It's a damn STAR OF DEATH. GRADNNDNDNNDNDNAaaanlalalalalalnnannaANGNAN GARAGAGNNANNANANANANANALALALALALallalannndndndndndnd !!!!!!!!!! --. that was what metal looks like when it's typed out. And not only is a DEATH STAR just badass, it totally taps into a genre i'm not sure has ever been tapped into - nerd metal. DEATH STAR!!!! MAN, think about it!!!! The first album would be called "THIS DEATH STAR IS FULLY ARMED & OPERATIONAL". Then the second album would be called "YOUR FLEET IS NO MATCH TO THE POWER OF THIS DEATH STAR," or something like that. I think the emperor said that. Every time we come on stage, two minutes before we start, the lights will go off and the sound guy will play a recording that says "THE DEATH STAR WILL BE IN RANGE IN TWO MINUTES" and so on....damn, god it will be awesome.

San Francisco rules, New York makes me sick.

But only literally sick.
As soon as I stepped off the plane at JFK and felt the 20-degree cooler temperature and sucked in a few breathfuls of exhaust, my throat got scratchy and I had a headache. The headache could’ve been from a number of things, really – any time I get around using anything other than a bike, I get a headache. Cabs, Airplanes, subways – headache. Maybe it makes me think too much and get all political about transportation issues and public health issues and the overlap between them, and then I realize how little I really care to DO anything about that, and then the GUILT sets in, and I get a headache. Or, it could just be from the fumes. The toxic byproducts of our oil-dependent society of course. Agh! See, there you go, I’ve got a headache again! Of course, I’m on a bus right now too, so that could have something to do with it. On a bus home for Thanksgiving. Thanks for killing off the indigenous populations of the Americas, white man. Fucking oppressor. SHIT! I need a damn Tylenol!

Card swallowing ATMs

Why do they still exist? Everywhere, it's swipe and go, push in quickly and remove... Never ENTER CARD AND FORGET IN SAN FRANCISCO UNTIL YOU GET BACK TO NEW YORK AND TRY TO BUY A BOTTLE OF BOURBON!!! Thanks, San Francisco. Now, my Bank of America card is probably in the hands of the same meth-head who stole the rear wheel off of my Concorde while I was in a comedy show with the greatest hostess ever. Comedy shows are great, because you always come out thinking you, too, are funny. I even tried to make funny jokes about the missing wheels of me & my hostess. They fell flat. So we drink whiskey & sparks to ease our pain. But hey, my damn bank card is still in San Francisco. And instead of calling the bank to let them know that it's missing, I keep getting distracted (by work of all things) and only blog or email about it. Hopefully that meth-head doesn't guess my password: BONER.

If I ran a mental institution

You know how the crazies get "break time" and they get to lurch around the garden and stuff? Well, when I run my own mental institution, break time is going to be called "escape time", and all the inmates are going to think they're escaping the facilities. Of course, we (the staff) will be "chasing" them, and will always round them all up, but they'll always remember it as "that time that we almost escaped." It'll be the best time of their lives. For everyone involved - especially if we get to use tazers. Tazers fucking rule.

Minor Revolutions

Upon reflection into yesterday's 50th anniversary of the squelched Hungarian Uprising against the Soviet Regime, we here at superimportant were reminded of our own struggles against those forces that suppress our freedoms & mobility. To this day, the memories of these battles raise feelings of bitterness and anger in our spacious offices.

Back in University, we were the driving force behind the revolt against the iron fist of parking services. The student movement was boiling over at that point. There was even a riot, but official records draw no parallels between it and the events superimportant helped orchestrate. Further proof of these subtle, yet inarguable connections is beyond the scope of this article.

Events unfolded one freezing fucking cold spring morning in like May or something, when it shouldn't really be snowing, but in Syracuse, it was snowing, because that's just what it does. I was running a series of errands for a very busy week at the end of the semester. First off, I had to pay off the leeches at Parking Services so that I could register for classes. I really, really wanted to get into that watercolor class, because I heard it was an easy A. But these douches somehow have the ability to put a lein on your ability to register if you've got unpaid parking tickets. Of which I had accumulated several during my half-decade stint at institutions of higher learning.

So I dropped $100 cold hard cash or probably a check just so I could make sure I could get into Writing 102, which was another weird thing about syracuse. See, I transferred there from NYU, right? Apparently, only the first semester of freshman writing at NY-freakin-U counted towards Syracuse credit. The second semester was clearly sub-par by upstate, lake-effect, inbred, snowplow driving standards. Whatever. A hundred dollars towards unpaid parking tickets. I was less than cheerful about it.

Shortly thereafter, I drive to a campus building to pick up some slides that were being developed. While inside, I got a parking ticket because I wasn't supposed to be there. I threw that ticket in a puddle. Did I say it was snowing? Yeah, ok, maybe it was melting. I threw that ticket in a puddle and drove away to meet a set designer in the art building. I parked in the circular "fire lane" behind the building which all students park in while picking stuff up. The "fire lane" was seriously not big enough to fit a damn fire truck, I swear. While inside the art building waiting for...let's call him "Dylan", I had this sinking feeling, based on my luck, that I was being ticketed at that very moment. I walked outside to check on the Volvo I had been driving at the time - which I had nicknamed "Chewy" because it made this wookie-like groan whenever I'd turn the steering wheel - and sure enough, the parking services Hummer was driving away at that very moment, the driver snorting cocaine off of a hooker's tits in the front seat, burning half a gallon of gas per hundred yards, running over cyclists, sawing down natural growth forests, and killing endangered species for sport. Son of a bitch.

I shook my fist violently in the air, and tore the ticket from beneath Chewy's windshield wiper. Seventy Five dollars! Seventy five dollars for parking in an inadequate fire lane! I flew into a rage. I took my big, black, bold magic marker, and wrote on the front of the ticket "GO FUCK" and on the back of the ticket "YOURSELVES". Rather than mailing the ticket back sans-payment with a smirk of satisfaction as I let it settle to the bottom of the curbside mailbox, buried under whatever recent snowfall had hidden it from the postman who wasn't looking for curbside mailboxes anyway because we all had mailboxes outside our off-campus apartments, I decided that this, like those Hungarian students in 1956, was time to take action. I recruited "Dylan" to accompany me back to the offices of these savages as an official witness to the verbal excoriation I was about to unleash. He declined. To this day, I fucking hate that kid for that. He totally missed out. Chewy and I drove up alone and emboldened by our mutual rage. I stormed across the carpeted flooring and stood tapping my fingers on the edge of the desk as the receptionist completed her phone call.

"How can I help you," she sortof smiled.

I took the vandalized ticket, facing the "go fuck" side towards her, and with a grimace, showed her that side, then the "yourselves" side, before tearing it up in tiny little pieces while declaring with just how much passion I hated parking services. The rage built up, and my sense of purpose became clearer and clearer. Verbal thrashing! Verbal thrashing! At this point, I was committed to the tirade, and there was no going back.

The blood-red color of rage obscures my vision for the rest of this recollection... Also, the sky turned black and thunder clapped, and my voice sounded like, like a lion or a giraffe, or like, some really fucked up Grendel kind of beast.

I can't remember the specifics of the diatribe, but I know that the word "fuck" was implemented frequently, as was the string of words "vampiric, bloodthirsty vultures". This was no exaggeration, of course. They liked my blood, and circled above me, waiting for my moment of weakness. It was obvious. I completed my reaming by tossing the tiny pieces of stupid ticket across the desk and clomping back out of the carpeted office while the desk workers reassured me that my actions were not altogether mature. Right. Jerks. True revolutionary tactics are rarely understood, initially.

In a crippling turn of events for this revolution, the young superimportant was contacted the next day, a hero amongst his peers, only to be told that the ticket had been scotch-taped back together and judicial affairs was about to be contacted in regards to my conduct. A temporary concession was made in the form of a snarky letter of apology to conclude the matter, BUT THE RESISTANCE CONTINUES becuase still, my mom gets overdue notices from parking services and I'm like "jeez don't these people let up? Freakin' losers!"

Leviathan will destroy you

If it doesn't destroy my goddamn stereo first.

I don't know what it is you're playing upstairs, but it sounds strikingly familiar to the tune you seem to play every Sunday night on repeat from 10pm to 6am. Not that it matters though. Mastadon will surely drown it out. See, it's working right now - now that it's stopped shorting out my stereo when the volume was up to 29 -, and for some reason, I feel much more relaxed. Relaxed to Mastodon, that's what's up.

Speaking of things which are insane, there's apparently a superimportant stalker in Jamaica. Our regular readers will remember the love letter posted just a short scroll down....yeah....this girl's been calling me. From Jamaica. Stunned that I'm almost 30. And that's about all she has to say before I ask her how she got my number. Then I say I've got to go work...I've got very important pictures of pie and meatloaf to crop and very important wrinkles to photoshop out of Martha Stewart's face.

Oh my god you type like you have hammers for hands.

Slayer doesn't drown that out. Why do they put these people next to me?

Remember the times? Oh the good times...

Remember that time when I.T. changed my password but didn't tell me about it? Brings a smile to my face whenever I think about it. It was the same day that they deleted all of the music from my harddrive when they updated my operating system. Haha! Boy, was that a surprise! That was today as a matter of fact, if I remember correctly.

Oh yeah, and they also wiped out some applications, too. It was Flash, specifically, which they deleted. That's really OK though, because there are plenty of other Flash developers here. Oh nooo, nooo, that's right, there AREN'T any other flash developers here. I'm the only one. And they deleted my application. Gosh, that was a good time. And then when I realized that half of my fonts were missing? I was practically on the floor in hysterics! Hoo, boy!

Then later when we filled up the 400GB server with our 20,000 images and no one could do any work because the network was choked? What a day, what a day. It reminds me of the time they gave me a NEW flatscreen monitor with a lower resolution, giving me less actual screen space to work with. Those jokers!

How to write a love letter, if you're my superindendant's 16 year-old granddaughter

This love letter has been sitting on the superimportant desk (along with it's mutiple follow-up letters) for months. Now that the sender is back in Jamaica, I feel it's slightly less insensitive to show it to the world. This would've been a highly effective love letter if it weren't for the fact that the results of it's validation would've been not only illegal, but pretty sleazy. Superimportant is not sleazy.

Today's threats

According to a newly released and declassified National Intelligence Report, there's some kind of tourist threat that people are concerned about. And there's some kind of sovereign nation that our government took over and turned into a bong or something that apparently is only making this tourist threat greater, because we keep sparkin' & blazin' & listening to Kid Rock & watching football (american football) & eating potato chips instead of organizing some kind of effective government. Frankly, everyone is missing the greater picture. These are not the real threats facing America today.

Zombies. Zombies are the real threat. One of them, at least. No one seems to be taking zombies seriously, but if you take a moment to stop downloading porn at work and look around, you'll realize that zombies are everywhere. Like that guy over there behind the glass door with the grey face, drooling, shuffling papers around, lurching back and forth between "meetings" with other zombies, and having brains ordered by his assistant for lunch. Or that girl in the next cubicle, smashing her leprous head against the keyboard, occassionally sending you "copy" for the layout that she needs by the end of the day. These undead are a threat, and you aren't even aware of it.

Education is one step on the dangerous path of dealing with the zombie threat. Keeping informed and vigilant can save your life. Be sure to keep a wary eye on potential zombies, and always ALWAYS destroy the head without hesitation. Useful head-destroying tools are: shovels, baseball bats, large sticks, swords, shotguns, big rocks, cliffs, and falling objects. Shotguns are the preferred weapon to combat zombies, since they don't require you to actually get too close to the target, but you've got to have good aim. Falling objects are also cool, but you gotta plan that well - you have to have a pulley hanging out a window & hoist an anvil or piano up there, or you have to find that loose gargoyle and wait for the zombie to walk directly underneath it. It's a highly effective technique, but difficult to pull off.

It's important to know how to identify potential threats. Superimportant recommends staying away from children & their schools unless you're approaching with a highly armed & trained team of enthusiastic zombie killers. If you are approaching with a team, use shovels & bats, because man, that'd make great footage.

Also stay away from most livery cab drivers. It's clear that they are the undead. If you must confront the livery cab driver, superimportant recommends cliffs, again because that'd make some pretty cool footage.

Goddamn schoolkids fucking up my commute

Everything has changed. The sun's going down earlier, no one has summer friday's anymore, congress is back in session or something, and there are fucking children everywhere on my ride to work. Goddamn hooligans! Rugrats! I'm riding down Fulton this morning, and cars are careening off of eachother trying to avoid the little shits running after their kickballs from the playgrounds. What in God's name are the kids doing OUTSIDE of the schools anyway? Don't they teach them anything anymore? Important things, you know - like all the states' capitals and their major exports - like Flax. Flax is very, very important to North Dakota. North Dakota is the largest producer of flax with 865,000 acres planted in 2005, yielding 18.2 million bushels. You can make linseed oil from flax, which is important to superimportant because it's used in painting. Although superimportant primarily paints with acrylics, so that's kindof a moot point.

But honestly! Put the damn kids inside, and teach them something for Christ's sake! Don't let them wander around outside, walking across streets, harassing the local residents, smoking their marijuana cigarettes, lighting off fireworks, carjacking, and uploading photos to their myspace accounts from their cellphones while they dance to their disco music on the roofs of taxis. These children are a nuisance. They should be transported to school, and shuffled out of the back of the bus directly into their classrooms. The outside world doesn't need to be exposed to these ruffians and troublemakers.

Accidentally pouring Orange Juice into Cereal

One of the superimportant staffers made a huge fuckup in preparing my dinner one day last week. It was a delicate cereal dinner that I had been thinking about all day long. I had even stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up whatever was on sale next to the pop-tarts. This was going to be superb. But the goddamn idiot grabbed the orange juice instead of the milk and just started POURING AWAY! Luckily I was there to catch (and promptly fire) him...or her...can't remember...before an entire bowl of cereal AND god knows how much orange juice was wasted. Things don't come cheap around the superimportant office, and we can't afford to waste anything. We're providing a public service to you, and we're doing it ad-free. There isn't any revenue coming in from bringing you everything you need to know, you know. Most of our limited funds are spent on whiskey, red meat, sparks, beer, cable internet, laundry, bribes, medical supplies, bike stuff, stock photo fees, NYPD payoffs, hookers, and film development for the darkroom. Not to mention the Panama Jack hat collection. Those things are rare. We can't afford to waste any of our orange juice OR cereal.

It was a tense few days at the office, but eventually my rage subsided, and I decided just to have that dinner, even though it was tainted by orange juice. I discovered....that it was pretty damn good, actually. It makes sense, really. Like adding orange zest to your cupcakes or other baking projects. A splash of OJ really added some great flavor to my dinner. So, next time you're half drunk or mostly asleep and groggily grab whatever's closest to you in your fridge without looking, because it's such a force of habit these days and you spend most of your waking life in a dazed state of semi-consciousness and barely know what you're really doing just as long as your doing *something*, don't worry if the OJ gets on your Honey Bunches of Oats. It'll be good. Or uh, you know, if your employee does that or something.

A Superimportant Hiatus

Many of my faithful readers have pointed out the lack of superimportance as of late. The only explanation is that it is a slow season for superimportance. Our staff has been bored out of their skulls playing online video games and scouring youtube for videos of car wrecks and gore. For all of you humanitarians out there, rest assured that they are still recieving their nickel-a-day salary, in spite of the fact that the lazy fucks haven't been able to dredge up even a paragraph of superimportance. We're not draconian savages here, even if all we eat is red meat and drink nothing but whiskey & sparks. Our employees deserve a decent wage. And we will continue to supply them with that wage, unless they decide that they want to go back to elementary school this fall instead of continuing to work for us.

For now, expect more superimportant things to be reported on. The summer is slowly coming to a close, and I'm feeling confident that maybe I'll get laid again soon, so I'll be in a better mood to make up this bullshit.

Red Meat & Whiskey diet

Having just thrown a barbecue with no provisions for the vegetable-only eaters, I found myself with a delightful surplus of food that at one point, lived. Oh, there's nothing better than eating things that used to eat things. The barbecue had a grand spread of giant freakin' handmade burgers seasoned with Basil, Rosemary, Garlic, Westchester Sauce, salt & pepper, and a little bit of lemon; chunks of a flank steak marinated overnight in a incredible spice mix I've been using all summer; Chicken Legs with fresh Dill, Rosemary, Thyme and Lemon; and other chunks of steak marinated with the same spice rub mentioned above (plus Anise. Yeah. Anise. Like black licorice. It's my secret ingredient. Ended up pretty good too. You should try it one day). The latter chunks of steak were set aside for shish-kabobs in combination with fucking vegetables, but other than that, it was all red meat. Exept for the chicken, of course, which only the girls ate.

I had a few leftovers from the carnage. Not much, but enough to keep me eating like a goddamn MAN for a day or two. I've had three burgers in the past two days, and maybe a pound or two of steak. I ate one whole steak for dinner myself tonight. And you know what? I didn't have anything else. Yeah. Just steak. Bloody steak. Juicy and red. And I had a glass of whiskey, too. That's all i've been drinking. Whiskey and animal blood. And then I called up all the girls I know who have really big tits, and we made love for hours. Loudly. For HOURS. The neighbors, they complained, but I pushed them down the stairs and made their children cry. Then I made love to their wives. They'll know better for next time.

I put some football games on, took my shirt off, and turned on my remote controlled air-conditioner. I belched so loud the walls shook. My meat & whiskey diet has got hair growing on my legs faster than I can shave it off. I shave it off with a rusty, broken razor. Occassionally I have some beer with my whiskey and red meat. I've got so much testosterone the next day, I ride 38mph up the Manhattan Bridge on the way to work. Then I punch out a cop, piss in his gas tank, and pants him. The NYPD knows that there isn't anything it can do about me.

Whiskey is great

If anyone in Chicago finds my underwear on the shore of lake Michigan, let me know. I lost them there. Your lake is great when you're naked, drunk, and have been wandering around in 98 degree heat all weekend, by the way.

MOVIE REVIEW aka 30 is the new 20!

Warning! Some spoilers are below! If the IM conversation review of Superman & Nacho Libre fucks up some huge surprises for you, that's not our fault. Well, it is, but we don't care.

Anybody have any nose-hair clippers?

Seriously. There are these few hairs just...sticking...way out there. It's like having a booger I just can't reach. I really need to clip these things. And I need to find a bathroom without anyone in it....because it's a bit awkward when someone comes out of the stall and you've got scissors sticking up your nose. As if that's perfectly normal. "Oh hey,.....what? Oh, uhhh.... nothing...nothing." Maybe the air in the new building we've moved to is just dryer. Maybe that makes my nose hairs longer. But I've been sticking my fingers up there all day, and let me tell you, you can't just yank those things out. It hurts. Real bad. Tear-inducing, actually. Damn it's cold in here. Please, turn down the AC, too.

Bachelor Fridge

There's a good reason my fridge looks the way it does:


I'm a single man, living alone. What do you expect from me, really? Awful things could happen if I had a well stocked fridge. Believe me. Back in the day, I used to have roommates. Three of 'em in fact. Even with four dudes sharing a well stocked fridge, food was left uneaten for unknown periods of time. Awful things happen to food when it isn't eaten. Terrible things. Food wants to be eaten. That's what it's there for. When it's not eaten, it feels neglected, and does things to make you regret your neglect. I just don't want to neglect food. I'm sensitive that way. I've seen what happens. Like this:


That's an onion. Pretty though, isn't it? Some of these things are actually pretty beautiful, if not stomach turning.



How about that? Rice & Beans. See what happens when you neglect food? It turns on you. I want to be kind to food.


Those are beets. Why the fuck were there beets in our fridge in the first place? Hey, I don't know. They were my roommate's. He was a weird fucking kid, I'm serious. Looked like a little hobbit. Hairy feet. Ate three breakfasts. Slept in a hammock. Bought toilet paper & locked it in his room so we couldn't use it. Sang a lot. I'm not joking. I eventually moved out mainly because this kid was so weird. He moved in with this dude "the fake Alex Alan" who lived on our couch for three weeks, never showered or cleaned his clothes, had a 12" beard, and came to New York with nothing but a backpack and a thumb piano. A thumb piano. We eventually kicked him out because he stank so much. He was "the fake" Alex Alan because because the *real* Alex Alan was ANOTHER roommate of ours. There were two kids named Alex Alan living at our place at the same time. The *real* one was so metrosexual it was painful. They couldn't be more different. It was really weird.



Swiss Cheese. I guess we thought we were going to make sandwiches. This was probably before I figured out I was lactose intolerant.



This used to be lettuce. Really. Lettuce bleeds when it's neglected. See, you vegetarians? Lettuce freakin' bleeds!!! I suppose we were going to use this with the Swiss to make sandwiches. Apparently, we never got around to it. But I had to make sure that nothing was thrown away upon discovery. It had to be documented. I never knew why. I do now.

City of Brotherly Love - San Francisco

Because Philly kids are a bunch of little bitches. Not ALL of them, mind you - there are certainly a few out there who aren't punk wiseass hatin' pussies - but the general ethos coming from Philadelphia is definitely not one of brotherly love. San Fran, from what I hear, has that shit wrapped up. People actually give a shit about eachother out there. Philly? Not so much.

Superimportant is hereby starting the drive to strip Philadelphia of its name and ban anyone from ever using it in relation to that city ever again. Because it just isn't true.It's unfortunate that, you know, "city of brotherly love" is kinda what "Philadelphia" *means* when translated from latin...or greek...or whatever bullshit they use to make this crap up, but maybe the entire city needs to be renamed anyway. Suggestions are welcomed.

tetris high score!

Man, I was ON last friday during my afternoon dump! Tetris on my cell phone, you'll recall, is my preferred way of spending my bathroom breaks. My bathroom breaks are important methods of purging everything from my head and my body. Tetris helps me turn any intelligent thought into waste matter.

On Friday, I beat my high score at the timed version of the game - where you have 120 seconds to get as many lines as you can. Mannnnn, I didn't make ONE mistake. No empty holes covered up by awkward pieces, no one line here, one line there - every one of my scores was a perfect tetris, yo. 4 lines at a time! 4 lines at a time! BAM BAM BAM!!!! I was on FIRE, I tell you. My ass? Not so much on fire! That was another bonus. Had I engorged on buffalo wings or anything dairy the day before, the story would've been much different, and I would've had several more opportunities to top my high score. But as it was, I only took my typical afternoon poop/tetris break, and blasted my high score of 5310 out of the water with a 6180!!! FUCK YEAH!

I think I might start recording my scores on the bathroom wall, along with the consistency of my stool. (June, 23 - 6180 - loose), etc.

A superimportant affiliate

Occassionally, but EXTREMELY rarely, superimportant things are posted on other sites. The staff of superimportant keeps an eye on the internet 24 hours a day to detect these rare postings. They don't sleep. And we farm the labor out to china, so it's really really cheap. Pretty thankless, dirty work, trying to find superimportant things elsewhere, BUT just the other day, one of our employees found something posted on messnyc.net (you can follow that link directly to the article). That employee received an extra nickel for the week.

three words every man wants to hear

"So, you wanna get into bed, drink beer, eat cookies, and watch Fantastic Four? Just let me finish washing the dishes."

Just sayin....

To be fair

I realize that the earlier superimportant news about killing zombies may unfairly single out certain elements of our society, and superimportant wants to emphasize that we're not pricks, just assholes. Also, feedback from R&D has recommended we explain what the hell we're talking about when we talk about the zombie killing farm. "Not everyone has been reading superimportant from it's inception," our researchers say. After we stopped crying and our rage subsided, we realized that they were right. It takes time for superimportant news to spread, and some people may be resistant to accept the fact that pretty much everything other than superimportant is irrelevant.

For the reader's reference, here is earlier reading material on the zombie farm. It is a superimportant ongoing endeavor. Our R&D department is working behind the scenes, tirelessly, to bring this project to fruition.

The original concept is explained here.

It is mysteriously expounded upon by some dude called Haiku Harry in this blog post from February

Then in March another reference was made in relation to the justification of the dissolution of the state of Rhode Island.

Now that the reader is up to date, let's continue.

To be fair to the zombies, superimportant wishes to extend the list of people who deserve to be herded together, then dragged out & gunned down as a leisure activity.

1) People in elevators who say "thank you" when the door opens. I don't know what was up with that crazy lady, but the world is full of 'em.
2) Your mom's pimp. I think he cheated me out of $4.
3) People who name the layers in their photoshop documents descriptive things like "layer 106", "layer 106 copy 1", "layer 106 copy 2", and so on and so forth.
4) People who speak in authoritative tones but don't know what they're talking about. (this would actually include me, if it weren't for the fact that I try to end every statement by saying "but actually, I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about so don't listen to a word I say". It absolves me from pretty much any kind of responsibility whatsoever)
5) Anyone who sucks on their fingers all day long and makes smacking sounds with their lips as they do it. Seriously, what the fuck? Do you dip your hands in honey every morning or something? I don't get it.
6) The one security dude in my building that doesn't recognize me as "the guy who looks like a messenger, but actually works here." Come on man! Your job ain't that hard! Everyone else remembers me. Dick.
7) Landlords who tell me that mice get in through the window.
8) Landlords who tell me that I'm not allowed to have visitors, ever.
9) Landlords who pound on my door before 6 in the morning when the apartment isn't burning down. What other reason could there be? Maybe he just needed to give me the receipt for June's rent. But he already DID give me a receipt. Turns out it was for 4F. I live in 3R. He wanted to make sure I got the right receipt, and that I put 4F's in their mailbox on my way out. Sure, fine, but why the fuck are you doing this at 6 in the fucking morning? Oh, well, I know that you go to work later. Yeah, I go to work later. At fucking 9! Furthermore, there are only 8 apartments in this building. Separated by floor, then Front and Rear. Who the fuck confuses 3R with 4F? My landlord is bat-shit insane. Honestly.

That's it. It might turn out that this list is only 4 people. But I'd like to see them all running in panic among the zombies & bullets. Especially the crazy elevator lady and my landlord. Crazy elevator lady would be all "oh my. oh my. I have tickets for the Pajama Game. Where's Broadway?" And my landlord would be yelling at the zombies, trying to scare them with a stick or something. It'd be hilarious.

Jesus Christ, it really is the day of the Devil!!!

In the shower this morning, as I'm sure you all noticed, one of my pubes was stuck to the tiles. Not uncommon. There are pubes stuck to the walls all over my apartment. But this one WAS IN THE SHAPE OF A SIX!!! SIX!!!! SIX!!!!! Only one six, of course, but I did a triple-take!!! I glanced at it three times!!! Then the water turned to blood and the ground turned to brimstone, so I got out of the shower with my hair still soapy and rinsed it out in the sink. Whew! Talk about a close call! Be careful out there today everybody.

Zombies are NOT PEOPLE, TOO!!!

Films like zombie-american are an OUTRAGE! Zombies are a threat, and need to be killed! Again! Like, for real this time!

Ideally, they need to be herded into forests and periodically baited in the direction of designated zombie killing farms, where tourists will pay top dollar to fire machine guns at the advancing zombie mass. It'll be like that video game, Total Carnage, except not a game show, and with zombies. But FILMS LIKE THIS need to be stopped! No one should be under the impression that zombies are "just like us". I, for one, don't eat fucking brains!!! Zombies? Zombies do. Superimportant calls for a boycott of Zombie-American starring Ed Helms from the Daily Show. It's a threat to our country's moral fiber.

Leg Stubble

Shaved legs on women are something we sometimes take for granted. They're sexy. Silky smooth and touchable. Mmmm....shaved legs are hot!

Shaved legs on men....are just as sexy! Unbelievably so, but true! How do I know? Well, I just shaved my legs yesterday, and ooh, they're hottt! I just want to rub my hands all over them all day long. And boy, do I feel aerodynamic now. I jumped on my bike and was like "whooahhh!!! I can't stop! I'm flying here! Holy crap!" Then when they get all sweaty in the middle of a workout, they glisten and shimmer, and you can see the veins popping out & stuff. I finally feel like I fit in. With...uh...my crowd of leg-shaving men, of course

I'm pretty well aware that most of the readers of this blog are probably cyclists anyway, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume that there may possibly be some non-cyclists out there. I forgive you, but get on that fucking bike NOW .I don't know how many times I have to reiterate that there won't be any oil after the apocalypse, so if you want to survive, you best get on two wheels, damnit.

Anyway, my legs are dead sexy right now. And ladies, jesus christ, shaving your legs is a pain in the ass. It took me for freakin' ever to do this. Maybe it was because each and every hair was half an inch long or something - they kept on clogging up my razor, and it wasn't shaving anything. Maybe it's easier the next time, when I'm just shaving whatever grows in. Although by that point, my legs might be pretty disgusting. As it is, I missed spots all over the place. Like on the knees and stuff. Are there any tips you can share from the secret brotherhood of women? Or..uh...I guess that would be a sisterhood then. Seriously. The payoff (super-sexy aerodynamism) is worth it, but it certainly was a pain in the ass to get there.

Some more white people just moved in across the street.

As I rode back to my Crown Heights apartment today, I saw a dude and his chick bringing their stuff into the building across the street. This is a great threat to my "only white kid on the block" status. It is a status I prize highly. Used to be that you could go out on the street, yell "HEY CRACKA", and moments later I'd open the window and say "what?". Now? Ozzie & Harriet over here might pop out the window, and Ward & June over there might come out to the stoop..... Things have changed. This neighborhood is not going to be the same.

If only Miles Davis were more hardcore

If only he & Gil Evans got together and threw some double bass drum and thundering guitar riffs, Sketches of Spain would be the perfect way to drown out all of this crap around me that I wish I could pretend wasn't here. As it is, Sketches of Spain brings me to this relaxing, bucolic space...but there's too much *silence* in it. Miles and his damn *silence*!!! Dude needs to learn how to rip it up!!! I can still hear the footsteps of people walking by! I can still hear the creak and spin of my supervisor's swivel chair! I can still hear his goddamn cellphone ring tone, although I'll give him credit for turning it down ever since that day I hung up on whoever it was that was calling when he was out of the room. I can still hear the guys working on the front door of our office down the hall. Now, while I'm glad they're finally working on the front door, the fact is that we didn't have a front door - at all - for a week or two, is aggravating. We were *this* close to having a pretty glass door (which wasn't quite the iris-style "hatch" I was hoping for, but I can't have everything, usually). They installed the pretty new glass door. Then at the end of the day, they sealed it with drywall. Because no one checked to see if everything else was up to spec. It wasn't. Apparently, you need a sprinkler system in front of doors like that. There wasn't one. But the guys who built the door weren't told this until they''d completely finished the door. So at the end of the day, when they're done, they had to cover all their work up with drywall and come back two weeks later to do more work. It's the knowledge that someone somewhere doesn't have enough oxygen in their brains to plan ahead that I'm trying to drown out with Sketches of Spain. And while it makes me feel all nice inside, it's not like Slayer. Slayer destroys all.

Whoever read this book before me probably didn't do well on their paper

I'm reading Camus right now, because I'm smarter than you. The Plague, specifically. Now, I'm no genius (I mean come on...GIRLS can beat me at Connect-Four for god's sake. Yes, that's a lower case "g" there. That was intentional. Actually, it wasn't intentional. Either way, I don't know if it would've made sense in the context of Existentialism & Absurdism anyway.) So, I'm no genius, but one thing I DO often do is buy the used books from Amazon.com. Apparently, so does my sister. It was one of her Christmas gifts to me. I asked for a bunch of books last year. Why? Because I'm smarter than you, moron. I can READ. That, and I knew I was going to get everyone else shitty presents, so I didn't ask for the flatscreen 72" plasma TV that I *really* wanted. Thanks for getting it for me anyway, you bastards. (That's sarcasm. I don't have a TV. I sit at home watching a fucking record player. And reading. Fucking READING.)

Anyway, I'm reading the Plague right now. Not particularly uplifting. Or is it? (If I were writing a paper on it, that'd be my thesis statement. And there'd be a dramatic sound cue and zoom in to my inquisitive glare. BLACKOUT. Commercial Break)
But I'm not writing a paper. The guy who read this book before me, on the other hand, probably was. Things are underlined, notes are in the margins, uh...that's about it. Oh! Highlights! Things were highlighted, too. The funny part is that it sometimes seems like things are only underlined or highlighted in every other chapter. And there's much more underlining in the first half of the book. It kinda trails off after that. Someone got lazy, it looks. Also, someone's kinda dumb to be in college. I'm assuming this was a college read. Do kids read this in high school? Anyway, here's my judgemental evidence: (It's all about WHAT's underlined. Very telling. Very telling. I'll probably find out this was MY book in college, and I was stoned. Which would explain why I don't even remember reading it). Being stoned might also explain why he (let's call him Brian)...why Brian had to underline things like "laxity" and jot down "relaxed, slack, careless" in the margin, or underline "innoculations" and write "injection". It gets better.
"conscription": "draft";
"apathy": "lack of feeling, emotion";
"makeshift": "N. Something adopted as a temp. contrivance in an emergency; adj. having character of".
There's more, but I don't feel like finding it.

Dude, just look it up once and remember it. Are you retarded? Yes. You are. Am I judgemental? Yes. But when one defines "prophylactic" in the margins as "preventative", I would hope one wouldn't have to do it AGAIN twenty pages later! I can understand looking things up if you're not smart. That's OK. I sometimes have to look things up myself. Like your Mom's pager number. She keeps on changing it because she's trying to dodge the cops to beat that prostitution rap that she's so obviously guilty of. Am I judgemental? Yes, which is ironic, considering this not-underlined quote:

" ..... "

...........uh. shit. I can't find it. But it was something like "Poor [county magistrate] M. Othon! But can you really feel bad for a judge?" (His son had just died from the Plague, and they're all like "noooo, nooo, he didn't suffer at all, it was real quick. real quick" when in actuality, the passage of him dying is one of the most harrowing, drawn out, and torturous memories of the book) It's all about who gets to decide who lives and who dies. Or something. The quote was pretty good. But I didn't underline it.

Poop Break

It's important to multitask your work distractions. For example, I just took an afternoon dump, but instead of just dumping, I played Tetris on my cell phone for 6 or 7 minutes. Am I the only one who does this? As a matter of fact, I barely had to take a crap at all. Just a few little droplets. Still, I sat there until I had enough of those long pieces - tetris pieces - to get me out of the jam I was in back when I misplaced that "T" shaped piece. I'm pretty glad I spent the $7 for that cellphone game last time I was in the waiting room at my doctor's office. It was purchased for the express reason of killing time while waiting for the doctor, but I've found it's also very helpful when straining to pinch a loaf. This is my advice to you.

My change purse can kick your pocket's ass

Just think about that next time you tell me you haven't seen one of those since you were at the beach in 1983 and your mom was wearing this wretched floral print one-piece and your Dad had a moustache. You ARE your mom and dad at this point, suckas! Get a change purse! It's hip. Proof? No one else has one.

Cupcakes

My cupcakes rule. Orange flavored cake mix + Dark Chocolate icing. Beat that, assholes. I bet you wish you had some right now. Well too bad. They went to my sister and a certain special lady friend. Who ARE two separate people, by the way.

Girls Cheat

This can be the only explanation for my 0-for-3 Connect Four losing streak. Girls fucking cheat. I am a Connect Four master, and challenge any of you to a tournament. Extra caution will be taken if you're a girl, because I know you're all wily and cunning. I'm not sure how it was pulled off. Maybe the girl took advantage of my slight inebriation to swap the red checkers for the black checkers. Maybe she batted her eyes a few too many times and I went all stupid-like and totally didn't see that diagonal there. All I know is it was not a fair, honest win. Girls Cheat.

Or...or maybe I was right....maybe girls strike me dumb. Maybe their charm and beauty renders me too mentally incapacitated to succeed at children's games. Usually I can win Connect Four with an image-blurring inebriation. But not with girls. They're all like faeries. Evil Faeries. Or Sirens, you know? With their distracting siren song. Fuckers.

It seems like every time I play a girl, they win. Except that time with your Mom. I totally kicked her ass. But she was high anyway, so maybe that doesn't count. Then again, I was high off the crack that she sold me, too. Come to think of it, who even knows if your Mom is a girl anyway? She's got a pretty hairy back.

Bored out of my fucking skull

zzzzzzzzzzzzzz



snnxxxxxxxxzzzzzzzzzzzghhmmffhhh.....hefff....
snxxxzzzzzzzzzzzzz...............
gaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwhhhhhggnnnn....ffff.




Christ, work is bullshit.

It's so boring, I've been drawing in my sketchbook. And taking hour and a half lunches at least 4 times a week. If only I could justify another hour and a half break an hour later. That would really split up the day. As it is, my guilt complex always leads me back to the petri dish to stare at my monitor for the next few hours, opening & closing my iTunes window to make it look like I'm doing something.
The 9 to 5 office job is inhumane, if you ask me. It's not natural for people to be cooped up inside like this all the time, especially with no fucking windows, like me.
Anyone have any good time wasters? I might read a book. Seriously. I kinda like the idea of sitting in my desk chair, my screensaver flashing neon goobers in front of me, legs propped up on the desk, reading. That'd be awesome. I'd rather not be staring at a monitor to kill the 8 hours of my day called "work", but if there's something time consuming and awesome/hilarious out there, I'd love to know what it is.

Alright, I'm going back to sleep. Fuck this.

Two New Superimportant links

The links themselves aren't superimportant. Only superimportant is superimportant, obviously. However, the world is a boring fucking place, and superimportant things can't possibly happen all the time. In fact, they only happen once or twice a week, if you think about it. While you're waiting for superimportance, the superimportant staff suggests the quality links to your right. The newest additions are New In My Apartment, and To Be Blunt. Both are review sites for things new to this dude's apartment. The only apparent difference is that To Be Blunt reviews things in one sentence or less. The Superimportant staff would like to remind you that anything on any page you may link to from this site is NOT superimportant news, so do not take it as such. The only place to find out anything important about anything is from superimportant.

Something I ate gave me really bad gas

It's a damn good thing I live alone, huh? It's a pretty bad thing I work in a small, semi-enclosed, poorly ventilated, germ infested space though. (We call it the petri dish. At least, that's what I call it. I don't know if anyone else really finds it funny. But that's never really my concern). If any of my coworkers are reading this, yeah, that was me. Sorry about that.

So let's see. What could it be? Let's start at say...the beginning of yesterday. Tuesday.

I left late for work and didn't have breakfast at home, so I got a Carrot Muffin with some coffee at the Unitarian coffee shop next to work. They seemed disappointed that I hadn't been coming in there recently. Maybe because I was on to their creep-ass Unitarian brainwashing plans. Fucking psychos.

Carrot Muffin

Oh. Then, someone brought in a bunch of Krispy Kreme donuts. Jesus Christ, I love Krispy Kremes.

2 glazed, 1 jelly filled

For lunch, I reheated the Chicken cooked in garlic, lemon juice, leeks, and cilantro that I made the night before.

Then I rode my bike a bunch after work and watched my friend get a ticket for touching an undercover cop car. Mind you, this undercover cop car was in the park after it had been closed to cars, and was slowly driving into our lane as we were riding in it. So my buddy touches the hood at the front of the car to be like, "dude, uh, don't run me over? I'm riding a bike here?" Seconds later, "whooop!" flashing lights, "you got ID?" He ended up getting a summons for "hitting the car and not riding in the bike lane". Cops are fucking douchefags. I'm totally going to court for this guy.

OK, so after that, I made an omelette with Avocados & Bacon. Damn, that was good. And I had a whiskey & coke & passed out.

This morning, I had sliced bananas on toast with peanut butter, as usual.

For lunch, I had a 6" cold cut combo from Subway with spinach, onions, tomatoes, uhhhhhhhhh, black olives, green peppers, mayonaisse, & spicy mustard.

Then I had a cookie.

Then I cooked my sister the same chicken dinner I made monday night & reheated for Tuesday's lunch. I cook dinner for her sometimes on Wednesday nights and we watch L O S T. It's like our family bonding time.

And now it's now. So what's giving me this gas?

Carrot Muffin + coffee?
Chicken w/ garlic, cilantro, lemon juice, & leeks?
Three Krispy Kreme Donuts?
Avocado & Bacon Omelette?
Peanut Butter, Banana, & wheat toast?
Subway Cold Cut Combo with Spinach, Tomato, Onion, Green Pepper, Black Olives, Mayo & Mustard?
Cookie?
Same Chicken thing?

VOTE NOW! NO SPAM, PLEASE!

thewse new glovces are awesomes

some people might be maklinmgf fdun of me fore buyng my weintedrt gfloves from QVC, but you giuys have no ideaw./ tyhy're completelyu waztrerproof!!@!@ i gusrsanteer it! AAND, they're rtelqwtively easy to tyupe with! Don't hgouy think sdop?

But really, trust m e on this oine. Comfortrmp gloves from QWVC are wasterPROOF. Hold 'em nder a faucet if hyou dont bel;ieve me. You could ride asround all; day liong in the pourin g rain, thn e hacve a snowball, foght, and your hjasnds will NEV ER get wewt1! And they're warm. great fgor wim ter ridimgf. The worst days in winter are when it's asbovce freerzinmg, but sdnowng anywasy. Snow just meltsx on you thjen. it;s miserble. Therse glovcces makle it m,uich morte tyolereabler.

And whyu amn] I shopping at QVC\, ylj ask? Howe didd i know where to find thesde gloves? Well, myu Mom bought them, foer m origimally. Thanksd, Mo-m! Great loves! BVuty I lost one at a Times-Up party a ,month or so ago. I weas pissdedf! These gloves ruled! Watrerpreoofd! SXo ,my buddy Austi n looked 'em up. Firsrt, he called m,y bluffd on the Waterproof cl;aim by running a faucet over them, provcinmg to him too, that COMFORTEMP glovces ARE indeed water-fuckinmfgf-proof! So Austin looked it up, and he wass likwe "QVC, dude". "Well, that makes sene=se," I said. Myu Mom's got his tyhi g for QWVC. She buys stuff threre. whatever though, yuo! Stop hation! COMFOERTEMP RULES! I had top buy anothjer ;pair.

It's opening day!

Baseball season has begun again! I think. Right? I heard something about it on NPR this morning. NPR reporters interviewing people about sports kinda sound like me talking to my Dad about money. I have no idea what's going on, and I can't wait until the conversation changes topic. What the hell is a mortgage anyway?

So it's baseball season again. That means time's freakin' flying. And that's it, as far as I'm concerned. Just keep checking badjocks.com. It's all about sports stars who fuck up. The elevator taught me that. I get most of my news from the elevator in my building. And the most superimportant of it often filters to this blog. You're welcome.

Ugh, my taint is killing me!

Bike racing is turning me into an incredible loser. I've got to leave every party I'm at by midnight so I can wake up in time to race at 6 fucking thirty the next morning. Either it's turning me into a loser, or it's merely harboring the inner loser I always was by giving me valid excuses to leave parties early - before I get wasted, say stupid things with excruciatingly slurred speech, make horrendous attempts at picking up women, and ultimately fall over a couple times, pretending that that's just perfectly ok even though I stopped the rapidly approaching floor with my face.

One thing is for certain. My taint hurts. My gooch. My perineum, technically. It's a common problem among cyclists, you know? Seeing as you're sitting there, bouncing up & down on a leather saddle smashing up into your crotch for a few hours. That's why they have those saddles with the slits in the middle. It's to help prevent saddlesore. I think. Or allow you to have babies, which no biker can do, apparently.

OK, OK, I'm gonna take a wild tangent here and point out that while trying to find good medical dictionary links for "perineum", the Google links on medical-dictionary.com were hilarious. Check it out:
1) "EBay.com - Save Money and Buy Perineum On Ebay"
2) "Perineum: 100% Free Adult Dating Site"
and
3) "Find the Best Sites For Perineum With Joltsearch"

I'm not making this up.

Wow. 100% Free Adult Dating? That's definitely what I'm thinking about when my gooch is burning. And Ebay's got them for sale? Holy crap! I think I might've solved all my problems right there. I'm gonna tell the team! If they're cheap enough, maybe we can just buy a ton of spares and swap 'em out after races! This is groundbreaking, really. It's gonna make saddlesore a thing of the past. Yay!

why is Rhode a state, but not Long?

I don't know, but I'm obligated to explain it. It was a text message that I didn't answer sufficiently because the grocery store was about to close and I had to buy mayonaisse for my tuna sandwich that I was gonna make for dinner. When I got home, I had all sorts of plans to find some dope recipe on epicurious and cook something special for myself. Something like Olive Stuffed Chicken, which is great for carnivores. All you vegetarians out there are suckers. Olive Stuffed Chicken with Almonds is fantastic. I highly recommend it. Does this make me a traitor to my company for recommending a recipe from a competitor? Uh, I don't particularly care. I'd rather be a bike messenger than work at martha stewart.Everyone knows that. But if this does make me a traitor, then let me recommend another recipe: Paella for 45 Go for it.

So, Why is Rhode Island a state, but not Long Island? I've never wondered this. But someone has. And they texted it to me. And it got me thinking. Actually, it didn't really get me thinking. But I make these idle promises in jest, then actually follow through on them. Like "yeah, by tomorrow, I'll have a full explanation of why Rhode but not Long is a state."

My first assumption is that it has something to do with the fact that the 5 boroughs, back in the day when Martin Scorcese was recruiting Jack from the Titanic to be some kind of douche in some kind of overlong, overproduced movie about lame period gangs.....the five boroughs were 5 different cities. That's why I don't put New York New York on my return addresses anymore. I put BROOKLYN MOTHERFUCKER, New York on my return addresses. (I'm serious about that, actually. Well, no, I'm not serious about that, but i generally do capitalize BROOKLYN. And just for the fuck of it, I might start adding MOTHERFUCKER to it. Especially on things like resumes. That'll make 'em think, "shit, we should hire this guy or else he'll probably have us killed. ". And I could by the way). Anyway, this is all true. Wikipedia's Brooklyn entry says something about it. This clearly proves that Long Island was, uh.........uh... uh, shit. My theory didn't go much further than the whole 5 borough thing.OK, I'll start over.

According to my quick and extremely unscientific google searching, Long Island has a population of about 1.5 million people, and Rhode Island has a population of about 1.1million people. Maybe even less. Long Island - 1; Rhode Island - 0.

Rhode Island is 1545 Square Miles. Long Island is 1377 Square Miles, but the first google link compares it to the size of an iceberg, so it gets a point for that. Long Island - 2; Rhode Island 1.

In researching the zombie population of both islands...Hey wait the fuck up....Rhode Island isn't even a fucking island! What. The. Fuck. Have I been wasting my time here? This isn't funny. I'm serious. Rhode Island, you fucking lose. That's why you get statehood. Only losers become states. Long Island has more zombies anyway. Have you ever been to the fucking Hamptons? Just look at those people! They're all zombie Lizzie Grubmans, driving their SUV's backwards over other zombies lurching out of the clubs, drinking brains & champaigne.

So there you go. Rhode Island gets to be a state because it's retarted to name yourself "Island" when you're not an island at all. And there aren't enough zombies there. In related news, zombies are the new black. I can't believe the New York Times didnt' quote this blog.

My time machine

There are two things I expect for the future: Matter Transporters, so Haiku Harry can toss houseflies into everything he sends, and a time machine. Oh, and zombie killing farms.

I want a time machine. Not anything that can send me decades into the future or way back into the past so I can give myself little tips & advice as a teenager, like "Kiss Karen Taverna on the Ski Lift. You won't regret it". I always regretted not kissing Karen Taverna on the ski lift. I'd dress up in lots of layers & scarves & ski goggles of course, so teenage Ken doesn't recognize adult Ken and the space-time continuum shatters and I suddenly disappear. Anyway, I don't even want a time machine like that. I just want a short term time machine. A few minutes here, a few minutes there. And I want it to be triggered by my downstairs neighbors alarm clock. And every morning, when my downstairs neighbors alarm clock goes off, I want it to zap me 5 minutes into the future. That's all. Nothing fantastic. Just five minutes.

My downstairs' neighbors alarm plays a CD or something. The same song every day. It goes something like "dmmmm, da dmmm ddmmm dmmm dmmm DMMMmmmmmmm......DMMMMMMM, da-dm dm dm dm DMMMMMM", where "DMMMM, etc" = heavy , repetitive bass line. Every fucking morning. Same song. Just one song though, I've learned. I've learned that it's going to stop after 5 minutes and that I don't necessarily need to wake up every time. Just suffer through it and wait for my own alarm clock to go off 15 minutes later. Fuckers. All I want my time machine to do is reclaim those 5 minutes of morning for myself. It should be easy, I think. Scientists don't have to figure out much....just 5 minutes. Someone get on that, please.

girl scout cookies

Delicious, but deadly.

For serious. Within arms reach are one box each of Thin Mints, Peanut Butter Patties, Lemon Pastry Cremes, and Caramel deLites. It's hard to decide which is more delicous, though I'm partial to the Caramel deLites. Whichever way you look at it though, their temptation is deadly. Damn girlscouts probably put cocaine in their cookies to keep us coming back for more. Either that, or lots of sugar. Sugar might do it too. I've heard sugar's a big ingredient in cookies. And seeing as I've had a pretty vicious sweet tooth all my life, it might be an indication that the overabundance of sugar in these cute little cookies is what keeps me reaching to that shelf to my right where I've lined up my four boxes of cookies. Damn girl scouts. What did girl scouts ever teach any girl anyway? Valuable hunting skills for the apocalypse? I doubt it. Frankly, I don't know. I didn't even pay attention in Cub Scouts, so how am I supposed to know what the girl scouts learned? The Cub Scout motto was something about pledging your best to help the girl scouts get undressed. How old were we then? Like 8? Already the pressure to take advantage of girls was mounting. And unfortunately for me & those around my age, we went to school when grunge was the big thing, so all the chicks were wearing flannel & baggy pants. ....I still feel ripped off. Now, kids are giving blowjobs in study hall, constantly. Back in my day, I had to sneak into the rafters of the auditorium to beat off during study hall. Not like I did it regularly, but I just did it once or twice because, you know, I could. I know I'm not alone here, right?

Anyway, these girl scout cookies apparently make me think of masturbation. Then again, it's like 6 degrees of masturbation. Give me any topic, and within 6 leaps of logic, I can tie it into spanking the monkey.

More books in the kitchen

More interesting titles have been popping up in the pantry, resting on top of the microwave for nosy, speculative assholes like me to jump to conclusions about. Today's emotionally addled selections:

"I Do, But I Don't: how to walk down the aisle without losing your mind"

"Separated By Duty, United By Love: Married to the military (or something like that). "


I giggle cruelly to think of the train wreck of a woman who owns these books, and telepathically try to send messages to her future husband to keep his soldier ass in Iraq. The minefields & roadside bombs are less dangerous over there.

what I think is really in the girls' bathroom

I remain convinced that the girls' bathroom is nothing like the boys' bathroom. This is a long-held belief that is only fed by the several other mysteries of girls.

The girls bathroom has a garden in it. It's all pink and there are fluffy things. It smells like flowers because there are flowers growing in the garden, right next to the stream. There are rocks you can sit on and bathe your feet in the sparkling water. It's fresh water, straight from the mountains. It's really quite amazing that even though architecturally, you'd think the girls room is exactly the same size as the boys room, it has space for a lot more nice stuff. It's always sunny inside, and the grass is always green. The girls wear dresses and take naps on the hills. There aren't any stalls, because girls don't poop. Everyone knows that. The girls room is more for meditation than for going number one or number two.

Everyone knows that the boys room is covered with grafitti, and at least one of the urinals is always running. Plus, there's a bully inside who will steal your lunch money and go back under the bridge for the next billygoat to come along. There's running water in the girls room too, but it's from God. Ours comes from plumbing. If there's an area where grass isn't growing in the girls room, it's covered with flower petals.

The girls room is kept clean and well stocked by faeries who sing, give massages, and apply lotion to your skin.

That's what's in the girls room

There's a tank in my overalls!

How did these guys ever let these guys exist? If I were from OKT, I totally woulda gone down to OKBG and been all "we're going to demolish your namby pamby romper room warehouses with our freakin' tanks. You're totally ruining our brand value." For serious. I, for one, will always associate Osh Kosh with B'Gosh and cute overalls. An entire generation or so agrees. And those poor people who make arguably the baddest ass vehicles in the damn world probably get emails from mom's asking how to buy replacement buttons for pants. HAHAHAH. losers.

Training kids not to bite their fingernails

Instructional manuals like these might come in handly later in life, actually. To my coworker, for instance. Smack, smack smack, suck suck suck...that's the sound of him biting his fucking fingernails all day long. Biting the nails, eating off the skin. Or something. Who really knows what nailbiters do? Or why the hell they do it? But for crying out loud, it's almost as bad as having to stand next to a couple smooching on the subway for your entire ride. Smack smack smack, suck suck suck. Get a fucking room. To you, my coworker, I'm going to figure out a way to dip your fingernails in formaldehyde so next time you freakin CHEW on them , it makes you throw up. Violently. maybe I'll have the people at the sandwich shop coat their bread with poison, just for you. Until I figure out a way to do that, just freakin' stop! It's driving me crazy. And it's disgusting. You're not a baby. And I went to one of those baby sites - it said to give you something else to occupy your hands - like a little plush doll or something. Well, I'm not going to give you a plush doll . I think it's a little inappropriate at this time in our lives. Plus, I don't think you'd get the hint. What the hell is wrong with you anyway?

Someone told me the olympics were on

which reminds me:


and,
Does anyone even watch anymore?

It's actually pretty hard to fly in your dreams

If you've ever tried, it's not like you might hope flying would be. Usually, I want to be zipping around buildings & stuff, maybe floating by people's offices, spooking them. But floating is about all you can do when you're trying to fly in your dreams. It might be because your body is generally prone & supine - your mind might not be able to trick itself into thinking your body can make quick movements. Even though that's all I'd really like to do when I realize I'm dreaming. I realize I'm dreaming, and my first reaction is always "cool, I'm gonna go fly somewhere". But then I try to leap off the ground up into the sky, and it's all oomph....float away & try to nudge myself in a certain direction. If you haven't tried it yet, you should. But I'm just warning you that it might not live up to your expectations. Sorry.

If we only had brains...brains...

Zombie farm is going to happen. The time is right, people are hungry for cathartic violence and desensitized enough to stomach blowing fist sized shotgun holes through rotting chest cavities. People are angry, and they're growing aggressive. They can sense the tides shifting. Class issues will be complete redefined by this new predator to prey dynamic. Cheney made the first blow--on his "hunting trip" over the weekend. Look at Cheney's furrowed grimace. That's not bowel obstruction, that's the hunger for brains; sweet, delicious brains. I can see him out there in the bush, licking his lips. Suddenly, a snack attack! Attorney's taste like Hamburger Helper! The secret service pulled him off only seconds from having the candy in his mouth.

That's only good press for us. It's clueing people in, getting them ready for our Zombie Farm. Vice Presidential attacks are the first tentative steps. Sending people into catatonic states to trick them into fighting fake zombies is step 2.

You're telling me that no one froze Marshall McLuhan's body?

Who the fuck was in charge back then? Why didn't anyone freeze Marshall McLuhan's body? Jesus Fucking Christ, what were you people thinking? What've we got...Walt Disney? Lou Gherig? Hitler's brain? WHAT THE FUCK? What the hell are we going to do with that - form an animated baseball team of nazis? Is it going to be some kind of terrible annimated version of Maus mixed with A League of Their Own? GOD!!!! Next time, freeze someone useful, for Christ's sake! I need to figure out if my instant messenger is a Hot or Cold media. Is my blog a hot or cold media? I never understood this crap in the first place, and now it's controlling my GOD DAMN LIFE AND NO ONE FROZE MARSHALL MCLUHANS BODY SO HE COULD COME BACK AND EXPLAIN IT TO ME!!!! COME ON!!!

Can I ride my mountain bike in the snow?

Yes.

More superimportantly, how do I get the tires inflated? I realized earlier today while trying to stave off the boredom of sitting around at home listening to jazz, drinking brandy and eating a microwave pizza with chopped up pieces of canned artichoke hearts on top, that not only was my pump broken, but it never had a working Schraeder end in the first place. For those of you out there who aren't enlightened enough to know that you should ride a bike everywhere you go because there isn't going to be any oil after the apocalypse, there are two different valves on a bicycle: Presta and Shraeder. Presta are skinny. Shraeder are like the typical valves that you'll find on a car. This is important to know. Superimportant, as a matter of fact.

What's also superimportant to know is that riding a brakeless, skinny-tired bike home in a blizzard with an inch of snow on the ground after having been drinking for 6 hours is totally awesome. It's also important that my grandmother NEVER READS THIS. She doesn't like the whole "bike around the city all the time" thing anyway, and if she knew I was riding drunk in blizzards with no brakes, she'd shit her pants, which at her age, is actually much more uncommon for her than any of you really need to know.

Getting back to relevant things, I think I need to elaborate on the zombie killing farm that is part of what's going to make the future so awesome. If you've seen the movie 28 days later, there's this part where they're in the castle, and all the zombies come lurching towards them, and they have to keep them back with machine guns. Frankly, I'd pay good money to be able to be one of the guys who gets to shoot machine guns at zombies who are lurching across a feild at me. I'd be like paintball, except you get to actually kill people. There are more details about the zombie farm in the predecessor of the superimportant: mything.
This is how I will begin planning for the zombie farm: zombie roaches. Genetic engineers will kindly contact me with resumes and references.

You know what I can't wait for? The future!

The future's going to be really rad. We're talking flying cars, little robot slaves, microwaves that materialize pizzas at the push of a button, and zombie killing farms. Mostly, I'm looking forward to the obsolescence of all these gadgets we've got. We're going to have tiny microchips implated in our ears that store terabytes of music instead of iPods. We wont' need computer screens, because we'll have tiny microchips in our eyeballs that project whatever we need onto our eyeballs. or...something like that. Like, we'll access our "screen" and the tiny microchip in the back of our eye will make the front of our eye...or, it will SEEM like the front of our eye, but our brain is actually reading it...the front of our eye will see all this data. Then we can turn it off. Or just learn to ignore it. Or maybe we'll have these gloves that we can wear that will be like the powerglove for the Nintendo, except not a piece of shit that you couldn't really play any games with. And it won't really be a glove, of course. We'll have tiny microchips implanted in our arms. And buttons too. Like Boba Fett. Boba Fett was clearly the shit.

Yeah, the future is going to be awesome. We won't have phones. We'll just think "call mom" and she'll be all like "hey, son, how are you sweetheart?" And you can talk as quietly as you want because your voice is going straight to their ear, through tiny microchips in your throat.

And there will be matter transportation devices, which will probably make bike messengers obsolete completely, but maybe some places won't be able to afford them, so it won't be that bad. But Matter Transporters will be used in other ways than you might expect. No more "crossing the street". All you have to do is step into the matter transporter, and you're instantly ACROSS THE STREET! Or, you step into the matter transporter at the mall, and you can go to the GAP. LIKE THAT! Dude, the future is totally going to be sweet.

chocolate cake

There's this photo of chocolate cake that I run across whenever I'm doing an image search. Here it is:




Working at a place that deals with dinners & desserts all the time makes me hungry. It also makes me feel somewhat emasculated, but that's because the other part of the job is working on weddings, homemaking, and flowers, but I'm not going to get into that here. It's just that damn chocolate cake. Jeebus, it looks delicious. Like, i want a piece right now. Or maybe a whole row of Reese's peanut butter cups. Reese's peanut butter cups always kinda felt like a ripoff, because you were only getting two in a package. And while they were probably the most delicious things like, ever, it was too easy to finish them off too quickly. But I really want one right now. Or a cadbury egg. Those things were the shit. Oh my god. But look at that chocolate cake!!! I can't stop thinking about it, and neither should you. OH, hey, you know what? I just realized that I used that chocolate cake in a layout one time, and taped it up right next to my computer. So that's why I can't get it out of my head. It's been 18 inches away from me every day for a month & a half. Ha!

Who works here

The superimportant pantry is filled with 7 things. Six of them are listed under "these pretzel rods seem stale" below. The other things are magazines & books casually left there by people going in for stale pretzel rods. They're delightful reading, but I can't seem to figure out who left them there. The most recent additions are a mysterious catalogue called "Big Girl Knits"and a copy of "Undoing Perpetual Stress".

One wonders if they belong to the same person.

a reminder to spit on Hummers

All the loyal readers of the predecessor of superimportant (a blog hosted on some kid named ken's myspace page)will know that there's a superimportant policy you all must adhere to of spitting on Hummers. All of them. When you see them, spit on them. They deserve it. It's the least you can do. Let's see an example of why: Here's the Hummer ad that ran during the super bowl. Now, I was taking a nap during the Super Bowl this year, but fortunately all the ads were on google video the next day. And seeing as I didn't have shit to do that day, I went and watched all the ads. I really liked the Stunt City spot. It was the coolest of the hypermasculinity ads, which every freakin new energy drink seemed to embrace. None so much as ad for whatever Full Throttle is. It was so laden with male stereotypes, it was almost offensive, which is fucking fantastic, considering how many godaddy ads there were.

Anyway, this freakin Hummer ad. Good. Lord. I'm almost baffled as to how anyone that WORKS for Hummer can make that ad ad make it an ad FOR Hummer. It's almost like some college kids made an ANTI-Hummer ad that was exactly that, and Hummer didn't get it, or knew their mongoloid demographic so well that they knew that breaking stuff would appeal to them. I...I....I don't really have words for it. It makes me sad. I don't feel like I need to explain why it makes me sad.

So remember kids, spit on your Hummers. Even the H3's. They're for the people who want to feel like they have huge cocks...but not *that* huge. Still, they deserve it. Just make sure the owners don't get out & get in front of you while you're riding your bike and they punch you and you bounce off the parked cars to your left and after you turn back to laugh at the douche, you fall and land on your Krome bag and fracture a rib. Don't let that happen. Just spit on the Hummer and go away.

Cellphones go in pockets

Unless you work with me, in which case, they remain in bags, or on desktops (the physical, material kind), with the ringer on. You then must make frequent trips away from your desk. It also turns out that your friends happen to call while you're away from your desk. If you don't make frequent trips away from your desk, you must remember to leave your ringer on and never EVER use the vibrate function. Also, your cellphone does NOT belong in your pocket if it is not on vibrate and you are still at your desk. You also must deliberate about whether to pick up the phone while it rings. Ideally of course, you will be away from your desk while your phone rings. Remember, it is important never to leave your phone on vibrate.

Balance and Orientation

When shooting pool with your eyes closed, it is important not to look in the other direction. One might assume that since one's eyes are closed, what freakin' difference does it make? You're already not even looking at the stupid balls. Well, if you can get your mind off of looking at balls for just one second, you might realize that it has something to do with the inner ear. Something about balance and orientation. When you're looking off to the left, your drunk dumb ass might fall over or completely miss the ball. However, if you're looking straight ahead, even with your eyes closed, you can like, remember what the table looks like and maybe still hit the ball. Of course, I'm better than you, so I can look wherever I want with my eyes closed and still sink the ball. Just remember when you're practicing, to keep looking straight ahead. And don't hurt yourself.

You're welcome.

Things that are the jam

cool is the jam
rad is the jam
neat is the jam
thesauruses are the jam
awesome is the jam
like is the jam
I am the jam
Shants is the Jam
Uniball pens are the jam
superimportant is the jam
bikes are the jam, obviously

Please post your suggestions to the superimportant jam survey

Do I have anal leakage or just a sweaty ass?

You decide.

These pretzel rods seem stale

The superimportant offices are stacked with a seemingly neverending supply of 6 things:

1) Pretzel Rods
2) Coca Cola
3) Diet Coke
4) Oatmeal (assorted flavors)
5) V8
6) Seltzer Water

The pretzel rods, these days, seem to be going stale. Several of the past few supplies of pretzelrods in the superimportant pantry have had that slightly tough/pseudo soggy sensation when you bite into them. In the past, the superimportant pretzel rods have been crisp and flaky. It is uncertain what the cause of the newfound staleness is. Perhaps the superimportant corporate offices have not been sending the freshest pretzel rods down to the blog department.

The creation of superimportant

The creation of superimportant renders all other blog sites irrelevant. Soon they will fade into obscurity while the blogosphere's thirst for whatever the fuck it is they thirst for is quashed by superimportant. Only superimportant things find their way to superimportant. The superimportance of them eclipses anything else any other blog site might find important. Some blog sites even post unimportant things. Superimportant won't even post *important* things. Only SUPERimportant things. It's very simple. Superimportant = superimportant. The sooner you know this, the sooner you stop visiting anything besides superimportant.