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October 2, 2008 |

By Brian Prisco | Eloquent Eloquence | October 2, 2008 |

The clouds wept this weekend, because they too were not in Philly to experience the greatness when two Pajiban overlords descend upon a bar. Well, mostly Stacey. Homegirl shows up to the bar with a portable corkscrew in her purse. While it was merely four of us (since SOME OF YOU couldn’t be bothered to drag your asses out), awesomeness abounded. Estelle is a motherfucking punk rock all star, leaping up on stage and molesting the lead singer of some violently clad japanese band, and Julie, well, Julie. Take everything you ever imagined about her in your dirtiest fantasy, and pour bourbon and chocolate syrup on that. She rules. The more I spend time with Pajibans, the more I realize this Pajibacon business needs to happen. Because I’m not saying that by the end of the evening we crossed state lines or sacrificed animals in the name of deliciousness. All I’m saying is Stacey didn’t leave for home until well into the next morning.

Much thanks to the muppet for keeping my throne warm. Even if he did douse that motherfucker in verbal diarrhea. What’s the html text for cutting off a drunken Oscar speech? Is it a bullet through a beret? I will be attending yet another wedding in early November, so there will probably be the potential for another takeover in the near future. Methinks this next contest ought to involve webcams.

My girlfriend was unjustly terminated yesterday, so I would ask Pajibans to do me the favor of boycotting her former employer’s goods and services. It will deliver the message that tyranny will not prevail. The company was the Director’s Guild of America. From what I’ve seen we won’t be missing much.

We lost Paul Newman this week, which is a shame. Up until film school, I had only ever seen the man in one film, my favorite Coen Brothers movie: The Hudsucker Proxy. I never bothered to watch any of his other stuff until my friend, aghast, demanded I sit down and watch at least five. I said, Sure, sure. Cool Hand Luke, The Hustler, The Color of Money, The Sting and Nobody’s Fool. It was time well spent.

The Cannonball Read has been a tremendous success. My hearty combatant received some rather underwhelming news, but do you honestly think a little rain’s gonna stop Alabamapink? Bitches, please. The contest is tighter than Tucker Carlson’s sphincter, with me edging the slight lead at Book 12, while Miss Pink is somewhere around 9 or 10. However, I would like to draw attention to the fact that we have got two other contenders in the arena! Marra and Robert have both thrown their hats into the ring. At least, they both linked to my blog, and have decided to join in. I don’t know if they’ve actually started reading, cause neither of them have updated, but I wholeheartedly support them. Particularly, since it’ll give me more asses to kick. If anyone else has been thinking about jumping into the Cannonball Read, now’s the perfect time to start! All you have to do is start up a blog and post your reads. Not everyone in a marathon starts at the front of the line. You can get moving now, into October, and chances are you may have surpassed us by February or March or whenever else we get bored with this experiment and completely crap out.

And now let’s deck it out in the decalogue:

10. Incredible. Only Kirk Cameron can ruin every single firefighter fantasy I’ve ever had. Jerkface. Thanks a bunch Jeebus, you’ve killed my libido. — Jeremy

(You think that’s awful? His character in Left Behind is named Buck Cameron, because he “bucks” authority. It made me give up reading newspapers for the rest of my life. I’m just going to start writing about Jesus. But I’m going to make it that instead of dying on the cross, he wakes up drifting on a beach, and he has to use his unknown spy powers to murder all the contestants on a reality television show. It’s called Survivor: A Savior’s Survival. Wait, Jesus, wouldn’t actually kill them. He turns their wine into blood. He turns their other cheek, as he breaks their FUCKING NECKS. Summer 2010.)

9. Curse this horrific town that I’m forced by gas prices to live in, just because it happens to house the University I drag myself through everyday. It sounds like I would at least be INTERESTED in something like ‘The Lucky Ones.’ In fact I pride myself on seeing every worthwhile film that I can, ESPECIALLY the smaller ones that my bumfuck classmates and frat brothers shun. But until reading this box office write up, I hadn’t ever HEARD of the god damned thing. So I don’t know which 400 screens it was released on, but there sure as shit weren’t any in Oklahoma.

PS, I’m certain that Blonde Ambition made 90% of it’s gross within 20 miles of my apartment. For the first time, I’m looking forward to my day in Oklahoma— only because it’s so easy to buy a gun here. — College Boy

8. Mila Kunis rocks out in Nylon magazine.

Ugh. I haaaaaaaaaate photoshoots like that. Why does she have to look like she’s having an incredibly miserable time? If an actress is going to do a half-naked shoot (which I support wholeheartedly) I want them to look like they are having fun being dead-sexy. Otherwise it’s just gross. Seduce the camera, Mila! I don’t want to feel like I’m exploiting you. I want to feel like I am appreciating you with your permission. — elyssadc

7. My penis is named is Thor. You might be thinking, “Sabrina? That doesn’t sound like a man’s name.” I am not a pre-op transsexual. I whittled my penis out of the finest mahogany wood four years ago. His main power is being detachable and incredibly large, but funnily enough, he also is able to run around and scare little kids and sheepish dogs with really loud noises. He fists inside my magical Mary Poopins-like carpet bag.

For these reasons, and these reasons alone, I shall be dragging my freshman year roommate to see this movie, where we will laugh and giggle whenever anybody says the name Thor. Teehee, penis! — Sabrina

(and then five seconds later…)

I guess I’m still drunk from this weekend, but I do like the accidental imagery of my penis fisting people inside of Mary Poopin’s bag. — Sabrina

(Agent Bedhead wrote to me and said, “Read the Nights in Rodanthe comments!” Which I wasn’t going to do, because Nights in Rodanthe looked like a pharmaceutical commercial simultaneously pimping Cialis and Ambien. She convinced me to read the thread, and my god, it was like listening to what Loveline could be if all these people weren’t calling in about latent homosexuality and herpes outbreaks. But I had to go with the man who started all the hearts a-breakin’:)

6. “Movie Love”, because it works out that way. And It’s never the situation where you’re roped into dating someone because she’s friends with the girl your roommate is shtupping. And then you really don’t want to be a dick and lead her on or anything until you hook up with her when you’re drunk. Then she’s texting you at all hours and using superfluous emoticons. So you’re caught in this quandry where you can’t cock-block your roommate by trying to end it with this girl and you don’t even know if there is an “it” or if she’s as casual as you are about this but you’re more or less certain that she’s falling for you hard and you play along all the while gagging on how “cute” you really are as a couple. You then resign yourself to living the rest of your life with her just because as much as you feel wrong about it you can’t imagine anyone would actually love you. The battle between fear of commitment and lack of self-esteem rages on.
You use Pajiba to vent.
Where’s the movie about this? — Optimus Rhyme

(And while that started the whole ball of whacks a-rollin’, lest we forget what made Nights in Rodanthe so terrible? Even though the comment is about a mile and a half long, I can forgive it, for it bearmauls the very bane of all once and future booksellers, Nicholas Sparks:)

5. ANY film based on anything Nicolas Fucking Goddamned Sparks has ever shat onto an unfortunate and unsuspecting piece of paper is bound to be an unmittigated pile of excrement, I — I picked up The Notebook in my aunt’s house the other day. Started reading. I made it through the Prologue. You know in a car wreck, where you can’t look away, because it’s someone you really hate in the car wreck, but then it turns out they weren’t really that badly injured, but they somehow managed to sue for emotional trauma, and now they’re rich AND healthy because they were too stupid to move out of the lane fast enough, and meanwhile you aren’t published at all, and surely, SURELY if he can do it, you can?

My dog’s anus could write a better novel than this without AID of BRAIN. I have more tear-jerking stories written in my third grade diary. I am personally offended on the behalf of the trees who gave plant-birth to the seeds which were given to the farmers who planted those seeds which grew into the trees whose bark was made into the paper that was wasted on this bull shit.
And it isn’t even written in a normal, decent sized font. No! It’s in Baby-Sitter’s Club, this book’s really only about 50 pages but it needs to be 100 because that way no one will know, font size 20 triple spaced, why not put double spaces between EACH LETTER, well as long as we’re doing that there’ll have to be three spaces at the end of every sentence type!

May I quote?

“The romantics would call this a love story, the cynics would call it a tragedy.” And those with a milligram of intelligence would call it a shit sandwich.

or how about:

“I understand, for she doesn’t know who I am. I’m a stranger to her.” As opposed to the kind of stranger one does know, quite well in fact. One may have had lunch with said stranger just the other day.

or there’s:

“And that leaves me with the belief that miracles, no matter how inexplicable or unbelievable, are real and can occur without regard to the natural order of things.”

…*un-grits teeth* As opposed to those bogus everyday miracles to which I am sure you must be referring.

and one last one before I keel over and DIE (this is the last sentence I read before I gave up):

“He liked to sit here in the evenings, especially after working hard all day, and let his thoughts wander without conscious direction.”


This man is an “ACCLAIMED” author and a BEST SELLER. There was actual praise written on the back of the book 0_o

I think I just shorted out my sarcast-o-meter.

God, the experience of reading that pile of dung was so traumatizing I may have to erase it from memory. This is not what English was made for. This is so far out of my league of comprehension that I actually have to stop here. I can’t do it anymore. —dsbs

4. Meh… Me? I thought I had it bad when people started making cookie jars out of my likeness. I’m just glad I haven’t got crazy-ass Cameron on my side. What a weirdo! — Buddha

3. These hands….have never known war. They have never known the texture of warm blood as it tricked between their fingers. They have never felt the life leave a man as he was being throttled, the air slowly crawling out of his larynx. They have never felt the hard crunch of bone shattering against bone as they pummeled another human to death. These hands have never known violence. But they shall. Oh, but they shall…. — Vermillion

2. My only wish is for Nicole Kidmans face to move again. — Virenda

(And our winner for this week, who probably should have one once before, for this nugget:)

1. You laugh, but I would see far more romance films if they all held the promise of cows blowing up. — Genny (also Rusty)

The Top 10 Comments of the Week / Brian Prisco

Eloquent Eloquence | October 2, 2008 |

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