Poor evening habits

Perhaps it's necessary to engage in lengthy baking activities late in the evening before work the next day. Maybe there are bake-off's or other holiday company festivities to attend. We understand. Happens all the time here. Back when our sub-minimum wage employees were still gainfully "employed" and palliated by our mounds and mounds of illicit healthcare, their incessant munchies led to frequent unofficial, muncie-initiated cake parties. As "boss", I've often made monkey cake. You might think that after that last time, I've learned my lesson. And I have! This time, it turned out a bit more like the photo on the bottom. Success!

This isn't about the usual unbridled success experienced every day, all the time by us here at superimportant though. This is another cautionary tale for you. Since we know you're now probably too smart to bake drunk, on the verge of passing out, this is more of a suggestion on a restful sleep.

Restful sleep is important to enjoy the next day's bake-off and be alert enough to bribe the judges to vote for your entry. One way to avoid restful sleep is to indulge in bits and pieces of your baking during the process. That leads to nightmares. Even if it doesn't, you'd be an idiot to watch a really brutal horror movie while your entry is in the oven. Let's say you've got three choices of ways to pass the time via Netflix A) Oscar Winning Sean Penn movie "Milk" B) Rob Zombie's remake of the classic John Carpenter film "Halloween" C) Something called "Dear Zachary.

I don't care what you do, don't choose B) "Halloween". No. Seriously. Don't do it. What the fuck. It's engineered to scare the fuck out of you and give you nightmares if you watch it IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. But that shit's going to embed itself into your brain if you watch it all sugared up at 1am. No, seriously. You will not sleep well. Trust me. You're going to have fucking nightmares and wake up in cold sweats. It's really going to be quite terrible. Don't fucking do it. Milk or Dear Zachary might make you freakin' cry like a baby, but at least they won't make you involuntarily pee your pants in the middle of the night.

So there you go. Merry Christmas again. Don't say we never get anything for you.

"A Morning Album": The Superimportant Christmas Shopping guide, item #1

The holidays are upon us, and if you're like me, you've been well aware of this since before Halloween, but haven't done anything about it other than use your knot of Christmas lights as a Halloween costume. Apparently Christmas is a mere ten days away and not only have you not gotten anything for your Dad, but you don't even know what you COULD get for the old man and haven't known for the better part of the aught's. As always, superimportant is here to help, with our innate & delicate sensibilities, and cunning knack for nailing JUST the right gifts for this giving season. So sit right here on Santa's lap and don't bother telling us what it is you want... WE ALREADY KNOW.

A Morning Playlist

The first wisps of brisk dawn air through the floor length curtains at the far end of your apartment make you wonder "why did I leave the windows open? It's fucking freezing out! I'm going back to bed." But once they waft the first impressions of a brand new day across your fitful slumber and peaceful dreams, I can imagine nothing more comforting than the accompaniment of a soothing soundtrack much like the one superimportant finds unavoidable each morning. Your ears will feel like they're waking up in bed with our arm awkwardly draped across your chest while you listen to the same things that start our days off so wonderfully.

Tracklist

1) Jackhammer
2) Downstairs Neighbor's music
3) Car alarm
4) Minimalist Gunshot Stacatto No 12
5) Octagenarian Landlord's Emphysema cough/yell/explosion
6) NPR's Jonathan Schwartz
7) Upstairs Neighbor's music
8) Dog

Delicately crafted to welcome you to every day with the authentic wonder of city living, this is one gift that's sure to please even the most stalwart of Scrooges.

All I wanted was a box of cheez-its, and I ended up with all this damn PRODUCE.

Which brings me to my next point. Amidst the leeks, peppers, mushrooms, potatoes, onions and spinach deliciously dropped into my basket under delusions of omelettes, fritattas or maybe chunky homemade spaghetti sauce, were a pair of apples and a bunch of bananas. The bananas were just about ripe enough - maybe ready even as early as tomorrow morning - to slice up on top of Honey Bunches of Oats, and the Gala apples were delicious. That's right, juicy and delicious. The last time I had a piece of fruit was ... like just now.

This bodes ill for the future of www.lasttimeihadapieceoffruit.com, but the entire point of the brilliant blog idea was for one of YOU guys to pick it up & run with it, and since that clearly hasn't happened, I suppose it's necessary to take the ball back into my own court. This won't stop my dogged enterprise of idea propogation though. I promise you, my faithful readers, that superimportant will henceforth return to the fount of inspiration, motivation and elucidation it was always intended to be.



For those of you dismayed over the clear failure of lasttimeIhadapieceofFruit.com, I just want to let you know that all I had for dinner was that apple and half a box of cheez-its. That should be a comforting thought for just about anything.

A New Blog Idea DOT COM

By my math, it's been something like 18 months since superimportant was last updated. We can blame it all on the economy. The Executive staff had been anxiously waiting for a healthcare bill to pass, and in this naieve expectation, we blew a LOT of our budget on what now appears to be a wholly inadequate alternative for our employees. Essentially, all the funds we extracted from the writing staff's paychecks subsidized a very large group of metalhead drug dealers in Williamsburg who regularly dropped off a dizzying array of analgesics at our offices. Medically, this was probably not quite appropriate, but it kept the writers placated. Very, very placated. And then shit all went downhill. Let's just say "complications" arose with the delivery of the health care. Our providers were put out of business, and almost our entire writing staff got wrapped up in it too. Surprisingly, the executive staff escaped completely unscathed. Many of our former staffers have been able to keep in touch, and their letters are startlingly antagonistic, laced with grandly insulting invective implying their lives in prison are actually *better* than writing for superimportant. Balderdash, we say.

So naturally, superimportant had to take a break to reorganize the office, settle into the witness protection program, convince ourselves of our new identities, and shred all of the documents we saved on our undocumented workers. These things take time. And in that time, ideas have been brewing. Sooooo many ideas. This is where you faithful readers can come in to steal them! See, we're coming up with stuff for you all to run with. There's some legal copy buried in code, written backwards, somewhere on this website that obligates you to a (rather hefty) royalty fork-over to us when your blog gets published into a book, and if you can find it & decipher it, you'll find that it's air-fucking tight. Let this not dissuade you from sharing your creative impulses at our behest! Superimportant hardly has the staff to expand all of it's endeavors, but since it's Christmas, this is our gift to you: our ideas!

Let's start!
First idea: lasttimeihadapieceoffruit.com

Because honestly, I can't remember the last time I had a piece of fruit. There are dried up peaches in my Honey Bunches of Oats (with peaches!) but those, and the raisins I put on top in the morning, don't count. We're talking like, A WHOLE BANANA here. Or an APPLE. I eat fruit about as often as I go to the dentist, and I refuse to believe there's any sort of connection to those two facts and my several cavities. So this blog's going to be all about the other crappy shit I eat INSTEAD of stuff that's good for me. Let's take last night for example. "Oh, I was feeling like indulging my massive sweet tooth on this dismal Sunday evening of watching all three of my Netflix rentals twice, so I ventured outside my apartment for the first time of the day at 5:00pm to buy a sleeve of Oreos from the bodega across the street. That not being substantial enough for a proper meal, I supplemented the delightful treat with a dollop of (all-natural) peanut butter for each cookie while complimenting it with a robust IPA from Troeg's brewery." Something like that. Run with it! Many, many more brilliant ideas are coming in the months ahead. Our cadre of painkillers was surprisingly never confiscated, and was also hidden in the same subcellar/escape tunnel as our "new ideas" binders. We've got a stash! Superimportant rises again!

These are the best pens in the world

In Superimportant's tireless quest to take the pain & frustration out of your life, we present to you the conclusive conclusion on what we know for you has been a painful, tiring quest. We can say with authority that Uni-ball Vision pens are the best. That's it. The best. The best what? Pen. The best pen. Nothing more needs to be said.

But we'll say more. For years, we have used these pens for our stunning & groundbreaking artwork. Let us remind you that we buy these pens in bulk at Staples. Not some fancy art store where they try to convince you that moleskine is worth it, but Staples, where no one gives a crap about anything you do. The smooth, unbroken line is not as variable in weight as you can get with a traditional fountain pen, but with a light touch and some persistence, one can achieve a variety of density with this low cost pen.

The color is solid and deeply black. At times, the wet ink may smudge, but that's only because we have this way of writing where it looks like we're a lefty, but we use our right hand. People have been pointing and laughing at us because of this for years. It's a source of great humiliation, so we'd appreciate it if you didn't really bring it up.

Furthermore, and this is important, we now now that when you inevitably leave your pen in the pocket of your shorts when doing your laundry, it will not burst, completely ruining all of your clothes. Which brings me to a point about cargo shorts and why maybe we'll just give up on them and wear plaid golf shorts from now on. Who really needs all those pockets anyway? And how are we supposed to remember what's in all of them? How many washed $20 bills is it going to take? How many packs of Now & Laters stuck to my ass is it going to take? How many cellphones have to be lost to the unforgiving maelstrom of the 24 hour laundromat? Enough with the pockets! As if it wasn't hard enough figuring out what that mystery inner pocket inside the right front pocket is all about. It hurts my fingers to try & get errant change out of that inexplicable thing.

In conclusion, just go with the uni-balls. But don't shop at Staples during the week before college starts. It's a goddamn madhouse in there.

I seriously can't get enough of Entenmann's Raspberry Danish Twist

Oh man, I feel like I'm 12 again. Or 14. Or 8. Maybe even 20. Who knows when I first had Entenmann's Raspberry Danish Twist for the first time? But it was definitely in an even year of my life. Definitely. But oooh, that sticks with you. What DO they put in this junk food that makes it so addictive? Sugar? Is that it? Sugar? Genius, really. So simple. They should put sugars in everything. Simple, complex? Gimme a goddamn break, it's delicious.

Is this good for me? Clearly not. Do I care? I certainly should. If you follow twitter, you'll know that A) I'm concerned with my health. Hence the frequent "I'm watching something like Ghostbusters on Hulu while riding my rollers in my apartment and sweating my balls off" posts. The rollers. They're good things. It's like having a gym in your apartment. Like Nordicflex or the Crazy Fit Vibration Plate Fitness Machine. Holy. Crap. I think I'm gonna get myself one of those things. I thought they were outlawed in the 50's because they didn't do a goddamn thing. Like the way Halcion was outlawed in the 90's, except that Halcion certainly did stuff, and my Dad apparently has been hanging on to a couple pills somehow. (Abrupt discontinuation of Halcion can cause convulsions, cramps, tremor, vomiting, sweating, feeling ill, perceptual problems, and insomnia. "Disturbing thoughts" and something called "Traveler's Amnesia" are also warned about).

So yeah, pretty much not like Halcion at all. But I can see the Crazy Fit Full Body Vibrator sitting in a corner collecting dust and working as a thrilling sex toy, at least. Oh man...there are all sorts of worthless, yet accidental-sex-toy-gems on that overstock link!

Take the Giddyup Core Excersizer here. No explanation necessary.

Or this ball-chair thing. OK, I can't think of anything salubrious about it really, but it looks hilarious. Let's order 'em for the kids here at the superimportant offices so I can run around knocking them off their chairs so much easier! Wait, $110 a pop? F that. The kids are staying on the floor.

Anyway, I'm delighted and slightly mystified that my Google Image search for Entenmann's came up with this, eventually:
I definitely, definitely feel like I'm 12 again. Or at least 22.

listening to songs alphabetically is far superior

There are something like 5000 songs on my iPod. Maybe 5000 hours. I can't remember. Whichever is more. It's a lot of music. And it's all good. Probably better than yours. Anyway, the point is, I have a far more superior way of listening to my music than you do. Alphabetical order by song. That's right. It's clear you've never thought of this yourself. It's not entirely worth me explaining why it's totally so much better than your "shuffle" or "playlist", because by now you should know to trust superimportant news. Honestly...how would shuffle ever put "America" from West Side Story right before "America" by Weezer & Soul Coughing. Why do I have West Side Story on my iPod? That's seriously none of your business. Before "America" was "Ambush" by Sepultura. Come on! My music listening is far more rewarding than yours.

Starve a fever, feed a whole box of girl scout cookies to a cold

That's the way the old saying goes, right? If so, why do I still feel so goddamn shitty? I'm just trying to adhere to the only wisdom i know. It's a collective history that teaches us how to take care of ourselves, and I'm honoring that history by eating that entire box of Samoas. Why is my nose still running? I'm even more than half way through the box of Lemonades. Why are my sinuses freaking killing me? What does our American mythology have to say for itself when it's folklore - clearly more accurate than its science - still cannot help me cure my common cold. I am furious.

I love the consistency of my snot rockets

On days like today, when a light breeze can bring tears to your eyes, the chill climbs up your nose and does some kind of scientific stuff to make you create more boogers. Probably something to do with the body's self-defense system. Inexorably, this accumulation of boogers must be evacuated. Preferably not when I'm riding behind you. That's happened, and let me tell you, I didn't appreciate the consistency of that guy's snot rocket. Loose and unpredictable, like buckshot or a pack of Rutgers sorority girls. Today, however, at least in my case, the rockets were well formed and condensed. A precisely aimed nose bullet to the maw of the Williamsburg bridge. Satisfying.

Here's some crutches, feel better

Science & medicine have not progressed quite as far and quite as dramatically as I might have hoped. I was under the impression that X-rays didn't just show you spooky looking pictures of your bones, but went all *CLUNK* *CLUNK* *CLUNK* and microwaved your ankle sprain back to normal. Apparently, that's not the case. Apparently, the emergency room can't even really give me some high powered pain killers for that time yesterday that Ch0mb0, my teammate, tried to disable me. I can only hope that I took out a few spokes when I threw my mallet at his wheel.

But man, seriously. Where's that box that you stick your arm, or leg, or back into, and it fixes you? You know what? I'll even push back the plans for the slingshot so that Science can make this box. I mean, you've got microwaves that you can push "potato" or "pasta" on, and poof! you've got a plate of pasta. Where's the microwave that says "Irritable Bowel Syndrome" or "Hives"? The future is dissapointing. My cellphone didn't even work in the ER. I had all sorts of hilarious text messages to send out. Like "Thanks for the mallet, Jarrett. It's a good crutch". HAHAHAah HAh. Hah. h. ...

If the fixitall box really existed, I would've been able to avoid the inconvenience of fumbling through the Rite Aid for a box of Advil. Not surprisingly, walking in on crutches doesn't make anyone else in the store less retarded. I'm pretty sure "Excuse me" is well understood by just about anyone, even if English is not your first language. Not in Drug Stores.

I would've missed out on the next hilarious interchange at the coffee shop down the street though. The young barista couldn't help but ask me what happened, as he sees me hobble in with a weird looking mallet sticking out of my bag. "I was playing bike polo, and I had a little spill."

"What? Bike Polo?"

"Oh. Yeah, it's like polo on bikes. Can someone bring me this coffee?"

"Yeah, of course"

A few minutes later, I hear murmurs from the end of the bar.... "Bike Polo? Yeah, Bike Polo. I've never heard of that. Sounds dangerous. Murmur murmur murmur. Well there you go..."

If only I had a giant slingshot

Fuck matter transporters, fuck moving sidewalks and the monorail, fuck short range jets landing in central park. Matter transporters only turn you into flies, and the monorail has all these dudes dressed up in Mouse suits on it, posing for pictures with you & your kids. A few years ago, that line would've read "pictures with you and your mom" but superimportant is getting old, and has to face reality. And the reality is that short range jets won't work either. What we need is a giant slingshot, so we can just launch ourselves to Greenpoint after we're done having dinner in Hell's Kitchen.

This slingshot would either come with complimentary parachutes or complimentary fat suits to pad the landing. To be honest, we haven't really thought out the landing part yet. But how magical would it be to be suddenly flying through the air with your date, watching the sparkling city pass below you. These are precision slingshots, of course. There won't be collisions. It'd use Google maps. Those dudes can pretty much do everything. I mean for god's sake, look: It's the polo court Unbelievable, right? I'm sure google could figure out how to sling you anywhere from anywhere. It's simple math anyway. We figured this out in 11th grade calculus. Totally.

Holy Crap

Jesus, everything Superimportant has published since AUGUST has been lost! Deleted! Trashed! Hopefully recycled, if you like the metaphor of a green-friendly file removal method. How could something like this happen? No, seriously. That's the memo that was sent out to the employees this morning. How could something like this happen? Do you know what kind of hard-hitting, award-winning superimportant reporting we've been working on over here? Lots of it, that's what kind. Lots. And someone - One of these little refugees we've got working over here - is seriously going to pay. No nickel today for that boy. In fact, no nickel for anyone until we figure out how nothing in the past five months made it to our subscribers' screens.

Ugh. We apologize, readers. Seriously. You missed out on some awesome shit. If we weren't so drunk most of the time, we'd recall all of it right now. But there was definitely something about zombies. And there was something about how goddamn freaky it is when you wake up and your entire right arm is numb. Yeah. You wake up, and go to roll over, but there's this fleshy, bony lump under you, and you think it's a dead animal for some reason - like a rat, maybe - because you just woke up, you know, and you're definitely irrational at that point, and it's dark, so you see this dark appendage that doesn't move when you shriek like a little girl and try to push yourself away, BUT YOU CAN'T PUSH YOURSELF AWAY because your arm is completely COMPLETELY numb, so you sorta just fall back over. Then you try to lift yourself back up again, and it's like "wtf my arm is dead. That's weird". It's totally weird. Trust me.

You missed the indepth report on illegal backyard latent homo wrestling with strange cowboys with branding irons. Fortunately, some of the photos survived the fire or flood or whatever the fuck it was that happened here at the superimportant headquarters:




One of the saddest losses of the past near-half-year is undoubtedly the postmortem tribute to "Pff", the superhero who's only power was the ability to see people's farts. After years of inadequacy, nobody, least of all this news outlet, had the foresight to see that not only was the invisible man such a bad guy, but that he was lactose intolerant as well. We owe our lives to the heroic bravery of "Pff". May he rest in peace.

This is how my pedal exploded

I will attempt to explain the sheer terror of declining a steep, long hill on a bike with no brakes that you can't stop pedaling, but unless you know what it feels like to ride a track bike, it's hard to convey exactly how it feels.

Just imagine going this fast....

...from the top of this hill....

...and there's almost nothing you can do to stop going that fast. In fact, there's not much you can do to stop at all. You can try to be as non-aerodynamic as possible, sitting upright in your saddle, hoping & praying for wind resistance, but there isn't much you can do to counteract gravity.

more of Johnny Midwest's Photos
more of my photos

Leftover painkillers

Tell you what, people, if you can get 'em, get 'em, but if you don't need 'em when you can get 'em, save 'em, cuz when you'll need 'em — and if you're like me, and you just do stupid shit all the time, like falling when you're not drunk...or when you are drunk...because you're riding your bike, which is just retarded and you know it, — you'll need 'em and you'll be glad you have 'em. Because Chiropractors are great and all - what with their crunching and popping and jesus what the fuck did you just do to me that fucking hurt but it kinda feels better, and kneeling on you and making things pop & crunch - that's all great, but drugs are better. There's a reason god created things that make us feel less pain, like cocaine, for instance. It's because he knew we were traumatically flawed, and we were going to fall off of our out of things, or just generally hurt ourselves all the time, and he only wanted us to suffer emotionally, not physically. And even then, he let us figure out antidepressants, too! So man, when you get the painkillers, save the rest of them if you're feeling better. They'll come in handy. And not just recreationally. Trust me, you'll hurt yourself. Especially if you hang around me. Punk.

What's up with all these men grappling me?

Pablo, Brad, what the fuck? What makes these guys toss me to the ground and lock their bodies around mine until I'm immobilized? Did I come back from Europe with makeup on or something? I don't get it. Furthermore, I think I have soft ribs or something. At some point in these two short battles in which I was clearly bested, it appears that I have fractured another rib. This time in my back, near the shoulder blade? How do I know this? Because it hurts like fuck and I can barely move. I've got to stop doing these things - they're not the most hetero moments of my life, either.

They Make Kids Fight in the ThunderDome in Edinburgh

I thought that was a little fucked up, but it's true. There's photographic evidence to prove it.


For a city that hosts the worlds largest festival of theater, comedy, film, books, uh...dance, ale, uh...oh, art....anyway, they do a hell of a lot during the festival in Edinburgh. It's like a college town: there's probably NOTHING to do for the rest of the year. Anyway, for a city so culturally elevated, I thought that this kiddie thunderdome was a bit depraved. But it looked fucking awesome. I didn't stick around to see which of the two kids who entered was lucky enough to leave. I had to catch Pappy's Fun Club.

Ooh, maybe I'll write them a review. Maybe they'll link to superimportant. And then superimportant Word can spread further and grander.

Pappy's Fun Club. They made me feel like I was stoned, in a living room, with four hilarious idiots with bad jokes. This is totally a good thing. It sure doesn't sound good though. Hm. Well, Take my word for it. These 4 guys are like your buddies. Those dudes who just screwed around all the time, and put you in stitches, peeing your pants because their jokes were so dumb they were funny. They've got that knack. The knack to tell a terrible, hackneyed joke, acknowledge it, and make the acknowledgement funnier than the joke. They're infectious like that. Yeah, maybe they were in a tent in Edinburgh, so what? You still had to pay to see them. 6 pounds. Hey, does anyone know how to make the British Pound symbol on an american keyboard? Or the Euro? Let me know. It might come in handy.

So yeah. The Thunderdome. Two Kids Enter. One Kid Leaves. If you got bored from watching decent theater like Pappy's Fun Club, you could stroll down to the massive touristy area by the National Gallery, and watch the kids go at it. Absolutely brilliant. I commend the Edinburgh touristy bureau on that one. It was almost more entertaining than the military bagpipe band. In fact, now that I remember, one of their final tunes was "Everything I do, I do it for you" - that regrettable Bryan Adams chart-topper from Robin Hood. "16 weeks at the top of the charts" the announcer said. 16 of the worst weeks of my life, they were. And they played it for tourists in a castle in the capital of Scotland. Fuck that. The thunderdome was much much better.

I haven't scored in three weeks

I knew I was going to leave something behind when I packed for my trip. But I didn't think I'd be so careless as to forget to pack my mojo. Holy crap. Of all things to bring on vacation, mojo should've been the first thing in my bag. I still haven't necessarily found it. I honestly can't remember where the hell I put it, and I'd really like to find it. It's pretty useful, you know? It's gotta be around here somewhere.

The superimportant offices, in their research, find that there is a strong correlation between this and the following post.

I haven't been drunk in three weeks

I haven't been pissed, trolleyed, hammered, or what have you for nearly a month, except for last night on the Lower East Side & Brooklyn, where a married girl gave my mojo back to me. (It's unfortunately not as shocking as it sounds. It's kind of a long story. OK, so basically, when I get drunk, I get louder, and when we rolled up to the bar in Clinton Hill, I was relaying my "I totally forgot to pack my mojo" story for the dozenth time, because self deprecation is like, my thing. Then this girl in front of the bar was like "oh hey, it's right here", and digs into her pocket. I take it back. I'm all "Hey, thank you so much, where did you find this" and being all charming and stuff. She's laughing. I'm reeling. I think it's going great. In a swerving, transparent maneuver, I hesitate to follow my friends in, seeing as I'm trying to pick up a girl. She says "go ahead, go ahead in", and I'm all "duuurrrrrrr...", and she says "no, really...go ahead", and very deliberately shows me her left hand, all but pointing out the ring around her finger. Drat)

The exhange rate these days is terrible. It costs me twice as much dollars as it does pounds - for Scotland & England - and something like 1.43 dollars to each Euro. In London, this wasn't as much of a problem, because adequately priced cheap swill was reasonably available. 2-pound beers? A-OK. I drink Sportsmans at the Levee. My standards are LOW.

Dublin, on the other hand was anachronistically overpriced. Anachronistically is probably the wrong word. But "ironically" is terribly overused. And "anachronistically" is close. What I'm trying to say is that a city in a country that is often visited with the intent purpose OF GETTING DRUNK should not cost me the equivalent of $7 per beer. MY STANDARDS ARE LOW. I'm wearing cutoff shorts. They're the same shorts I wore yesterday. All I need is cheap beer, and I'll recommend your country to friends. But no. My fellow travelers and I were led only to crappy non-high class, overcharging bars, and I never got my drunk on, for the entire three weeks of my vacation. I felt the toxins abandoning my body. It was sad. Those toxins love me, and I love those toxins. And I was starving them. It became hard to live with myself. I have to give acknowledgement to the Hospitality of the Irish though - in the airport, where I arrived 3 hours early for a flight that was delayed another 4 hours, a group of Irish bought me two rounds of beer! That was especially cool, because by the time I got home, I had a negative-two dollar balance in my bank account. Oops! These Irish people were on their way to a wedding in Milan, and I was sitting alone at a table. At first, it was just three of them. Then the other dozen came by. I felt mildly awkward. But that was mostly because that married girl had found my mojo somewhere on the streets of Brooklyn, where I must have dropped it on my way to the airport. In return for their attempts at crowding me out, the wedding-goers roped me into their rounds. Sadly, all the alcohol wore off by the time the flight finally left, and AerLingus CHARGES you for booze on the flight. Screw you, AerLingus. Air India kicked ass. Free booze AND a bollywood flick. Quality.

Somebody's trying to sell me something

But whatever. Spiffy videos featuring bikes always catch my attention. I might even be able to scrape this "DJ saves my life" video off the bottom of the proverbial barrel for September's Bike Shorts, which needs A) submissions and B) a venue, so send me both. If you're lucky, your video will win $100 and possibly end up in the Bicycle Film Festival, garnering you international fame and grandeur. All because of superimportant. Please now buy me a beer next time you see me. It's the least you can do. Seriously. I mean come on, that video features a bike, a breakdancer, and an old lady in a wheelchair getting hit by a car, which is always hilarious! You see what I do for you?

In no particular order

This is the fashion in which the next several posts will be made. Superimportant is devestated that our readers wallowed in a barren sea of meaninglessness for so long while this site was not updated. The entire staff was in The United Kingdom of Britain featuring London, Dublin, and Edinburgh, researching the problematic underage binge drinking debacle for the past three weeks. Rumors that UK hooch is too strong & too cheap went unsubstantiated, especially with the shitty exchange rate the superimportant dollar has today. Wherever these extra-cheap happy hour bars were, we certainly weren't led there on our investigative journey.

For the next few days, Superimportant will report a series of findings from this junket in arbitrary order. These articles may be finished already, or may be finished later. It all depends on how late the staff decides to work for their nickel-an-hour.