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.