HBDC Summer Camp Survival Tips

It's summer camp time at HBDC--Humor Bloggers Dot Com. Since I've never been to camp before I've been hiding in a storage closet. I hear something scratching at the door. Just in case it's a raccoon, I'm staying in here. Raccoons will try to sucker you in with their cute little bandit masks and adorable little hands, but it's a trap. They will chew through your jugular in a heartbeat.

The one thing I heard as a teen from the kids who were lucky enough to go to camp was this: don't let someone put your hand in a bucket of warm water when you're asleep. They never told me what happens. I figured it had something to do with erections and/or peeing the bed, since that's what kids would consider hilarious. Okay, adults too.

I'm not really sure how to prevent this from happening, since you'd be asleep. Just in case it's about erections, try to have female genitalia. And to be on the safe side, don't drink anything for the whole week.

That's all I can tell you. You're probably better off reading Red Raider's survival tips. Then stop by ThinkinFyou for her tactics. Then bring me some Bactine, will you? I'm covered with skeeter bites in here. But I'm not thirsty. Don't give me any fluids no matter how much I beg.

Wednesday Weirdness

Magick Sandwich is your source for
strange encounters in and around the Big Apple.

It's time for me to take a phrase I coined in college out of mental mothballs: freak show magnet. For that, ladies and gentleman, is what I am. Here's a modest example.

I was on my way to the post office when I saw this truck.

The company's name was lame but its tag line endearingly silly. Its play on words was so far off from what I assume was its point of reference--nip it in the bud--that it brought two things to mind. It could reflect the strenuous effort to tart up something you're stuck with after all the good names have been taken. Or it could be a quaint malapropism born of speaking English as a second or third language.

So I decided to take a picture of it. A couple of women were walking by and I waited for them to pass to take the shot. As is usually the case, passersby will slow down and rubberneck, trying to figure out why one is taking a photo of something so seemingly mundane.

When I look up after taking the picture, one of the women has stopped, turned around and is staring at me. I smile politely, holding her gaze for longer than I imagine is comfortable for either of us. Finally, she says angrily, "Did you take my picture?"

She's a gray-haired Slavic woman in a dowdy floral skirt, just this side of elderly, with no obvious deformities. Standard sidewalk fare here in Queens. And she is pissed.

"No," I tell her. "I took a picture of the truck."

She squeezes her hands into fists: no signs of rheumatoid arthritis, no bulging funhouse-mirror knuckles. Good for her.

"I swear, only the truck."

Why is she so upset? Does she think I've stolen her soul? That I'm going to Photoshop her onto Princess Leia's gold bikini-clad body? Does she think I'm scouting subjects for Sacha Baron Cohen's next movie or that she's being Punk'd? Is she on the lam?

She's not budging, so I offer to show her the photo. She barges over and harrumphs at the image as if disappointed she has no excuse to knock my block off, then turns on her heel and storms off. I say, "See, no reason to get upset" to her receding back. No hunch, no limp. She clearly takes care of herself. I imagine her drinking raw eggs and doing chin ups on a bar installed in a door frame.

I'm still not sure why she was upset with me. I wouldn't have been surprised if she had asked why I was taking the picture. That's just natural curiosity. Her aggressiveness momentarily silenced my inner smart aleck. I didn't think of weaving a yarn about it being my truck or carrying on my great grandfather's bug stomping concern. It didn't even occur to me to go ahead and take her photo as she walked away. I wouldn't have wanted her to catch me at it, that's for sure.

That old lady would have kicked my ass.

More weirdness:
Good Samaritan Gone Bad

Wisdom of Crowds: WTF?

I'm always game to join a new social network in its infancy, or beta stage. Some deserve the crib death they get. One of these, in my opinion, was Wisia.us.

The tagline explained the goofy premise: The Wisdom of Crowds. Really? Crowds are wise? This puts me in mind of a mob, like YouMob, another beta group clinging to life. Crowds tend to do unwise things: lynchings, beatings, following Manson, listening to Limbaugh. Crowds are rioters, soccer hooligans, fans who made festival seating deadly at Altamont, losers who don sheets and burn crosses.

But Wisia was new and nice and since the crowds were in fact people sitting alone at their computers, I felt relatively safe. So I entered my question, to be answered by other members. "I'm feeling low. What can I do to feel better?"

I waited excitedly for answers. See, Wisia was already working. I was feeling anxious now, not low. Answers started to trickle in: listen to music. Sound advice. Drink some wine. Alcohol in the morning? Hmmm. Read a book. What if I only have depressing books? Call a friend. Ditto. Pray. I'm an atheist. Next.

Then I realized that a question has to get eight answers before it can go to Phase 2 and be seen by everyone on the front page. I noticed that other members were answering their own questions in order to complete Phase 1. This seemed like cheating but hey, if everybody else was doing it, why not? I was really getting into the swing of this mob mentality thing.

I threw in a couple innocuous suggestions. I don't remember what they were: buy some flowers, call your shrink, whatever. Then I threw in "kill a hobo." This could brighten one's day, couldn't it? In fact, I thought it was such a great idea that I started answering other people's questions with it. "What should I do tonight?" "Kill a hobo." "How can I make the world a better place?" "Kill a hobo." And so on. Sometimes I would add "you know you want to" in the comments.

I checked in later, eager to see if anyone got a chuckle out of my suggestion. After all, who would take that seriously? It was a quaint idea and an obvious joke. Would I really advocate murder? Who even says "hobo" anymore? As it turned out, the puppet masters of Wisia had excised every mention of member-on-hobo violence. They'd picked me out of the crowd. I felt chastened, then angry.

I contacted the site runners and asked why this would be removed, since it was meant to incite a chuckle, not violence. While filling out the contact form, I saw a question on the help page from another member, one who'd been booted entirely from the site for suggesting "strap a bomb to myself" somewhere.

The first answer to my fellow smart aleck was something to the effect that they'd found a lot of inappropriate entries they hadn't expected and were having to be very Draconian about them. The message thread continued with the excommunicated member desperately asking to be reinstated. He gave an example of someone else who'd suggested "suicide" to someone and was not punished. He was rebuffed.

I never received an answer as to why my hobo remark had been deleted. I guess I should have just been happy not to have been expelled from the crowd entirely. I lost interest and stopped visiting. Recently, I ran across the site's name in my old bookmarks and clicked to see how it was doing. Wisia is no more. I'm not sure why it shut down, but I could hazard a guess. The earnest folks were unhappy with the wisenheimers, who in turn found the earnest ones boring.

It was flawed from the start: the idea that crowds are wise and give good advice is ridiculous. Go to Yahoo Answers and ask about how to treat autism, lupus or the common cold and you'll see what I mean. Prayer and drinking will be in the answers somewhere, along with mustard poultices and remote healing.

The expectation that people would ask interesting questions and others would give interesting answers while offending no one was the developer's original conceit. But some of the members, the ones who don't have "mean people suck" as their retarded mantra, saw it differently. Wisia couldn't choose what kind of crowd it got and sank under the weight of its own pretense.

Sometimes you have to go into battle with the crowd you have, not the crowd you want. Wisia's mistake was not recognizing the worth of its wise asses. The wisdom's right there in the name.

Laws of Selection?

You'll often find at least two women surveying this aisle, unable to find their preferred kind. It's like a menstrual IQ test. Some use game theory, teaming up to locate each other's style, be it thick, thin, long, winged, scented or singly wrapped.

A product this personal inspires brand loyalty, but are all these permutations necessary? Can individual requirements be that different? I hope it goes without saying that you should not send your man on this errand. That constitutes cruel and unusual punishment, without a doubt.

Even More Quotes of the Day

Today at Magick Sandwich, we have a mixed bag of quotes for your reading pleasure. If you've spent any time on Twitter, you're probably sick to death of jokers tweeting quote after quote as if by virtual osmosis they are infused with the wisdom of the dead guy who actually spoke the words. Don't even get me started on the Bible-thumping Jesus tweets. Speaking of God:

I don't go to church. Kneeling bags my nylons.
Lorraine, Ace in the Hole

When I saw this on TV--I wasn't alive when it was made in 1951--that line's flippant irreverence spoke directly to me. It told me there were other subversive people out there, that I wasn't the only one who suspected religion was just bunk. It made me think there must be a place somewhere for a smart ass like me.

*****

Placidyl: you could watch your father getting gang raped in the middle of the day and still appreciate the weather.

Jeremy describing the drug he's on in What Just Happened

What can I say? This line just tickled me, albeit in the dark recesses of my brain. It's also just about the only good line from the movie, so now you don't have to see it.

*****

It is easier to stay out than get out.
Mark Twain

Samuel Clemens will never know that this quote saved me from returning to a job I had just quit. It had been unmitigated hell but, for the sake of my finances, I thought I should go back and try to deal with it a little longer. I taped this quote to my computer desk at home and its wisdom kept me from going back. Then I got an interview with the nicest guy on earth. He said that anyone who couldn't work for Dr. X had to be a good person and hired me on the spot.

*****

If everyone else in the world were to mysteriously disappear, I would feel irritated about it only because there would be no one to make me doughnuts.
Dexter, Dearly Devoted Dexter

I can't claim any great epiphany from this. But I was inspired to copy it word-for-word from the book. So here it is.

*****

These last two quotes are from New Yorkers, some of my favorite people in the world.

Because I don't assume that I'm going to get hurt.
Matthew Modine to New York magazine, on why he doesn't wear a bike helmet

In the mid-1980s, I spent my college breaks in New York City. One day, I was shuffling down Fulton to my summer job at the South Street Seaport, looking at my feet and not making eye contact as usual. I happened to look up and there was Matthew Modine. He smiled at me as he walked past. From this talented actor who had just made Birdy I got a smile: open, warm and sincere, not leering or self-conscious. "Matthew Modine smiled at me." It's a simple story but it still makes me happy. So Mr. Modine can rationalize all he wants. He gave me one of my favorite New York moments.

*****

They say about New York, if you see something strange, you should report it. Well, my feeling is, if you see something normal, you should report it.
Barbara Walsh to New York magazine

Amen, sister.


Other quotes:
Quotes of the Day
More Quotes of the Day
Still More Quotes of the Day

Conflict of Interest

A death row inmate in Texas wants to donate his body to an artist, who will turn it into fish food. Then people will be able to feed him to goldfish in an aquarium set up in an art gallery.

Gene Hathorn killed his own family. Marco Evaristti, the artist, once hosted a dinner party and served meatballs made from his own liposuctioned fat.

Is it wrong that I think these guys sound pretty interesting?

Magick Mental Health Day

Even at Magick Sandwich, we sometimes need a long weekend.

Since I don't want to be a total slacker, I'd like to share this fun way to start your week.

If you use Twitter to tweet your tweeps, you may want to check out this site. It's called How Hetero? and it determines the testosterone level of your Twitter feed.

Why, you may ask? Let's see what the site's organizer, Stockholm Pride 2009, has to say:

The theme for Stockholm Pride 2009 is [Hetero] were we focus on how heteronormativity effects the everyday life of homosexual, bisexual and transgender persons, the consequences it brings and how it effects the society as a whole. Part of the heteronormative environment is defined by how we connect specific words to norms en perceptions of how a "real" man och woman should be och behave. With this test we set out in a direct and funny way to show how these norms effects us by how others sees us. We have deliberately chosen to press every participant to choose their gender to show how tightly our language is connected to perceptions of both gender and sexuality. How does heteronormativity affect you? That is our topic av this years edition of Stockholm Pride. You can find more information och our website, www.stockholmpride.org/en. Welcome!

Okay, I can dig it. My Twitter feed is 63% hetero, based on the words new york, amazon, debate, gay and available being found in my tweets. I feel judged. What should I tweet to be more heterosexual? Testicles, tampons, Carrie Prejean? They could all swing both ways.

It may be politically incorrect to say something negative here, but I think the Stockholm Pride people might need a native English speaker to edit their copy. Their spelling is atrocious.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Sandwich Fixins #7

Refrigeration broke down on the Magick Sandwich delivery truck and all the yummiest stuff got spoiled. So it's back to salt and ketchup packets today, as we give you another handful of fixins:

How much waste is created in the making of those high-minded recyclable shopping bags? They're everywhere. Do you think Rite Aid cares if they're made in China through child labor? Does Whole Foods ensure the resulting toxic run-off doesn't end up in our water supply? The regular plastic ones are still made, too, and thanks to their high percentage of recycled material, they have to be doubled to keep from breaking two steps out of the store. Yeah, this is working.

At what point will we admit that these pathetic efforts are like putting a band-aid on an avulsive wound? It might make us feel better but the patient is still bleeding out. Of course, the earth will rebound once it has shaken us off like fleas from a dog's back.

*****

On a related subject, I'm getting sick of environmental groups saying that Americans use too much toilet paper. Here I draw the line. Isn't it enough that we use recycled paper that gives us a spa worthy exfoliation of our collective ass cracks? I don't need Sheryl Crow or Laurie David or Joe Treehugger inviting themselves into my bathroom.

I also don't want to stand downwind of them. When they sit down, do they crunch? I wonder how much waste water is generated from the extra detergent it takes to remove all those skid marks. From where I sit, the amount of toilet paper I use is just enough.

*****

Note to autoerotic asphyxiators: don't forget the lime! You bite down on the lime at the moment of climax to wake yourself up before you die. I saw it on an old episode of CSI. You can get a lot of useful information from that show.

The world might still have David Carradine and Michael Hutchence if only they'd had a small wedge of tangy citrus. Or a spotter.

*****

I am viscerally creeped out by John Travolta's hairline. It gives me goosebumps. Does he use a stencil and spray-on hair in the front? Or is he the first human Chia pet? It could be a Scientology thing: maybe that's how they all look on Planet Xenu.

*****

Overheard in the post office:

"They call it settling like with cereal so they don't have to give you a full box. Or like you have a bottle of Snapple that isn't completely filled. They say it needed air. But they're just ripping you off."

That guy should be in a think tank somewhere. Then "they" should fill the tank with water and leave him for dead.

*****

I'd like to end the week with a pet peeve. Please feel free to add your own.

Why do fancy restaurants grind pepper and dust my pasta with Parmesan? Are they adding value to my dining experience? Do they think I've never done this myself or won't do it properly and thereby ruin the chef's work of art? Are they trying to dictate how their dishes are garnished? Or maybe it's a cost-saving measure, a la McDonald's Ray Kroc: don't give them condiments unless they ask for them.

I happen to be a person who likes a lot of pepper and grated cheese, so I'll have that poor waiter grind away over my plate until he has carpal tunnel syndrome and other patrons are staring at me, judging me crass, low class, piggish, as if I'd ordered a steak at Peter Luger and asked for A-1 sauce. Or had a cheese souffle at the Plaza and covered it with ketchup.

My feeling is this: once I've ordered, this is my food and I can do whatever the hell I want with it. If that happens to mean I use a lobster as a dancing puppet at Oyster Bar--true story--then so be it. Leave the fixins on the table and step back. The fun's about to begin.

More fixins:
Sandwich Fixins #6
Sandwich Fixins -- May 2009

Good Samaritan Gone Bad

I'm on my way to the subway after a doctor's appointment, trying to type on my new Blackberry like a dexterous person might, when I am accosted by a large black woman in a bright orange shirt standing next to a Lexus. She sees my retardo-texting and says she'll wait until I'm done.

I'm expecting her to ask me for money. I've been stopped on the Upper East Side many times with tales of woe. My policy is to offer to accompany the person to a nearby deli and buy him or her some food. That really gets beggars angry, I've found. I don't do it to be mean: it's a sincere offer. Since I don't drink or partake of illegal substances, I understandably do not want to subsidize others in their quest.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand: the lady and the Lexus. She politely waits for me to stop poking at my Blackberry keyboard with fingers graceless as gnarled chicken knuckles. Then she says, "My boss is over at the dentist and he told me to sit in his car and put the the AC on, but I don't know how. I don't drive."

I don't drive, either, but a car's AC system is easy to figure out. What's her angle? She hasn't asked me for money for the meter. It's hot out here. Why doesn't she ask me for money so she can go get a cool drink at Starbucks and sit in there?

She produces the keys and her story gets a little more plausible. We click the power buttons and hear beeping but the passenger door won't open. (My sage advice? "Don't hit the panic button." I don't know what it will do but it can't be good.) After I try the door handle several times, we move to the driver's side. After more clicking and beeping, I pull the door open.

I point to the AC control on the console. She says she doesn't want to get in on this side because she doesn't drive. I tell her she has to get in and turn the car on so she can get the AC running. She tries but can't fit behind the steering wheel because she's amply proportioned and the seat must be adjusted for the owner's smaller frame. She asks me to get in. As I take the keys I say, "You aren't stealing this car, are you?" and then instantly fear she will think it's a racist comment. But she laughs. This is how I find myself sitting in a stranger's Lexus ES350 on a Monday afternoon in Manhattan.

What will I say if the police show up right now? Am I on Candid Camera? Am I being punk'd? What if the owner shows up? I turn the car on and crank up the AC after moving a sunglass case and some paper out of the way. I get out and give the lady a quick rundown on how to work the AC buttons. She asks if she can take the key out so she can get in the other side. Not wanting to go through the whole thing again, I get back in the car, lean across, flip the lock button and push open the passenger door.

Finally, I am fully extricated from the Lexus. The woman introduces herself as Marjorie and I tell her my name as we shake hands. We laugh and she tells me I can write a book about this as I walk away and she gets into the cooling car. I'm a block away when I realize I should have told her not to tell her boss the story: I don't think he'll enjoy it.

When I tell my husband my only-in-New-York tale that evening, he says, "You could've stolen that car and gone for a joyride." When I tell my friend today, she agrees and adds that the woman is really lucky I didn't take off with her in the passenger seat and dump her upstate somewhere. I have to admit, I hadn't thought of it from Marjorie's point of view.

Then she says, "What if that was a drug dealer's car or there were people smuggling kids or something? What if the police had that car under surveillance and there you are, white girl sitting in it?" Now I'm thinking, what if that car gets used in a crime? What if her name isn't really Marjorie? Why did I give her my real first name?

What if the whole thing was a set up? My prints are all over that car. Hair, epithelials. I watch CSI. I'm screwed. I just wanted to help a lady cool off in somebody else's Lexus and now I'm going to prison. Please send cookies.

Magick Monday Morning Cartoon

I've got nothing to say, but it's okay.
Good morning, good morning, good morning!

It's one of those days here at Magick Sandwich.
Short on inspiration, I'm posting a favorite cartoon
from The New Yorker.

I hope I don't run into that guy today.

More cartoons:
Just Another Magick Monday
My Favorite New Yorker Cartoon

Magick Mini Movie Reviews #2

At Magick Sandwich, we watch crap so you won't have to!

Welcome to Edition #2 of Magick Sandwich Mini Movie Reviews. And I do mean #2 in the most scatological sense possible.

First up:

Bride Wars

This movie is aggressively unfunny. I expect nothing from Kate Hudson and she delivers. I was once trapped on a plane with her and Matthew McConaughey grinning through How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, wishing I had a sneaker bomb to end the misery of everyone on board.

Horsey faced Anne Hathaway is another story. She was fun in The Devil Wears Prada and no one could fault her for her early Princess oeuvre. But with this flick, she has used up the goodwill she generated for her excellent performance in Rachel Getting Married. That's a movie worth seeing, unlike this lace-covered pile of merde.

The only reason to watch is to marvel at the doughy puffiness of Candice Bergen's face. It could be natural but seems suspiciously like what plastic surgeons call "pillow face." Whether due to injectible fillers or not, the swelling continues its progression apace since the last couple seasons of Boston Legal. If it remains on its current trajectory, Ms. Bergen's next role may well be as a Murphy Brown balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

Next up:

Confessions of a Shopaholic

The first few scenes of this movie are filled with promise. Isla Fisher nails the pleasure-pain cycle of addiction. The naked need, the thrill of acquisition and its guilty aftermath, and the shock when opening the credit card bill are played to perfection. I found myself laughing ruefully at my own past retail therapy while resolving not to repeat the folly. Then, the love story arrives, like a dead limb surgically attached to the plot.

The story also unwinds in the anachronistically powerful world of magazines, a place where periodicals do not fold, pardon the pun, daily. I can understand the compulsive shopping theme even in today's economy: fiscal reality has nothing to do with this addiction except when the bills come due. But magazine publishers astride today's world like a Colossus? Not so much.


When will filmmakers finally realize that Patricia Field should not be a costumer, ever? Her bizarre idea of what constitutes chic seems to have caused a mass hallucination that has endured since her days at Sex and the City. The outfits she puts together would, in reality, not touch the back of any self-respecting New Yorker save a homeless one layering castoffs for warmth. Even she would be embarrassed by it.

Add the impossibly wimpy, whiny love interest and at about half an hour in, you'll want to douse yourself with kerosene and light a match.

But wait! There's more!

He's Just Not That Into You

This one will make you want to hang yourself from the rafters. There are a couple chuckles to be had but in general, it's so depressing that I had to look on the Netflix sleeve to confirm that it is indeed billed as a romantic comedy.


One unhappy couple with Scarlett Johannson as its orbiting tartlet should be excised from the movie like a metastatic tumor. By the way, is anyone else wishing that the dubiously talented bee-stung Scarlett would just be, say, stung to death by bees? Even her cries of owww-ah would sound tinny and flat, marked with the hollow lassitude that Woody Allen, among others, has mistaken for intellectual ennui in a gorgeous creamy shell.

But I digress. DON'T SEE IT. There, I'm done.


P.S. Just one more thing:

Marley & Me

After you stop wondering why Jennifer Aniston hasn't slipped penis-nosed Owen Wilson her rhinoplasty surgeon's business card, you'll start wondering why there is zero chemistry between the humans and precious little screen time for the dog.


It also bothers me that there isn't even one scene of them cleaning up and having new furniture delivered after Marley's canine destruction. And no talk of euthanasia? Unrealistic.

Like Christopher Walken having a fever for more cowbell, my prescription for this movie is more dog. Even though this particular dog is annoying as hell, he is more interesting by half than anything else in this insipid flick. Its saccharine message that life doesn't turn out the way you planned but it's better this way might not pluck at your heart strings but (spoiler alert!) the doggy funeral will.

You know it's coming from the first scene but it still hits you in the gut when it happens. You will cry. It won't be a nice cathartic experience, a reaffirmation of love in the face of mortality. It'll feel like an emotional rape, like you've been mentally cornholed by Hollywood, without lube.

Consider yourself warned.

More reviews:
Magick Mini Movie Reviews

The Man in the Mirror

Isn't it odd that the only thing Michael Jackson did for race relations was to try to change himself from one to the other?


Related posts:
Where Were You?
Elton John, Funeral Whore, To Sing at Michael Jackson's Service

Where Were You?

Hello, world!

So everyone will know where I am during Michael Jackson's memorial service, which I'm sure is very important to you all, I am blogging to you from my Blackberry while taking a dump...at Michael Jackson's memorial service. Well, outside it. They've got golden Port-O-Sans out here. It's pretty plush.

There is so much sadness here. I see it on the faces of parents who must now go back to playing the lottery. Some lobbed their young boys at the passing funeral cortege in a last desperate attempt at pimpdom. I see it also on the faces of the children, who will never know the joy of shaking hands with MJ's mottled Mr. Happy.

Such a sad day.

Magick's Morning After

Here at Magick Sandwich, we planned to have the Best Fourth of July Weekend Ever! Here's how our dream inevitably turned into disappointment and self-recrimination.

One of the nice things about our apartment in Astoria, Queens is that it has a great view of the Grucci fireworks display every year on the East River. Saturday saw the largest fireworks display ever in the history of New York City. I say Saturday saw it because we didn't. It was done on the Hudson River this year. So I'm sure Mayor Bloomberg's friends on the West Side got a nice show. Good for them.

So instead of getting a break from watching hubby's movie pick to go ooh and aah over the fireworks, I got treated to a nonstop showing of the filmic abortion that is Underworld: Rise of the Lycans. Somehow, I think that Michael Sheen, who has played David Frost and Tony Blair, might prefer to forget his star turn as Lucian, the werewolf/human hybrid. I know I would.

Pursuant to my holiday food intake, my digestive tract is now filled stem to stern with hamburgers and hot dogs. I pray for a bowel movement before winter.

Just to drive home the fact that Monday had arrived, I had to go to the post office this morning. To avoid the line for the zombiefied postal workers, I waited for the automated postal machine behind a twenty something who complained to her friend that the machine "takes all the personality out of sending packages." I was too mentally hungover to slap her.

Yes, the weekend's definitely over.

7 More Good Band Names

In case you're thinking about dragging out your dusty guitar and playing at your neighbor's barbecue this Independence Day, Magick Sandwich has the ready-made band name for you.

Culled from a very scientific investigation involving those Captcha words that one is forced to spell out in order to comment on a site or get tickets to a concert, these names are sure to be a hit, or at least hip in the sense that no one will understand what they mean:

mangy somalis

Smedley that

Lite guffaw

Mr. quasi

dating Mary

litical trashcan

and my favorite:

promotable ruminant

Got any good Captcha band names or poetry? Please share it here and have a safe and happy Fourth of July. Don't play with fireworks; having less than the full complement of fingers is never a good look.

Band names galore:
7 Good Band Names

Separate but Equal

I just want my opposable thumbs to get along.

Summer of Sandwich: the Magick Lives On

Today I declare my independence...from having to think of something new. A year ago, in desperate need of readers, I printed a copy of the following post and took it with me to a doctor's appointment.

Great Gifts for Depressed Friends!

Hey, everybody! Have you been struggling with what to get for those desperately unhappy people in your life? Why wait for an official holiday? (After all, they could be dead by then.) Sad, lonely people are grateful for the smallest gesture and may even feel a flicker of hope before their inexorable fall back into the bottomless pit of despair. Kudos to you, gift-giver!

The "I Wish I Were Dead" mug from theonion.com makes a lovely gift for a disillusioned coworker. And it's grammatically correct, so it's also a great gift for your insufferable ex-English major friends who'll probably live to a ripe old age because they can't finish editing their suicide notes.

What about a gift for that friend who is teetering on the edge, who hasn't fully submitted to dejection? The folks over at despair.com can help. They have a whole range of products that drive home the laughable futility of hope.

Finally, here's an honest fashion statement from our good friend Archie McPhee. Every time your loved one looks at his pristine wrist, he will be reminded of your generosity and his true outlook on life. Hopefully, it will at least get that yellow One Balled Bicyclist band off him for good! Just make sure it's taken off before cremation-- burning rubber is bad for the environment! Have a great day!

*****

My doctor loved this so much, he used it at in a speech to third year residents at a medical conference. In case you haven't guessed by now, that doctor was my shrink. I had surmised that if anyone could appreciate gallows humor, it would be a mental health professional.

It's a valuable thing to know one's audience, even the cheap, thieving variety. I'm not loony enough to want personal credit, but would a discounted visit kill the guy? (Then again, I could have a substantial fan base of giddily sleep-deprived doctors by now. Damn.)

I still print out my posts for him to read--on my dime, so who's the bozo?--and he recently said I should do stand-up. If I were ballsy enough to get up in front of a live audience and perform, what would I need him for? And if laughter is the best medicine, why do I need him at all?

***Update: Archie McPhee has discontinued its Bleak Wristband series. Might I suggest the Bad Attitude or Seven Deadly Sins bands instead?***

More sound advice:
How to Piss Off a Vegan
9 Ways to Prevent Your Own Valentine's Day Massacre