I'm not saying Cloverfield, but I'm gonna have to say Cloverfield

Earlier today, I was tipped off about an incident that took place on Long Island this morning. Apparently, this thing washed up on a beach in Montauk:



Are you thinking "What the eff is that?" I am. And I've been staring at the photo for little over an hour. Oh, it's also 4:15 a.m. This is what I do when I can't sleep. I geek out about possible monster carcasses and blog.

So what do you think it is? Rumors are circulating that the creature is a dead dog. If this is the case, I don't ever want a dog. I would never be able to look at it the same way. And if the thing ever got pissed off at me, I would naturally assume it would take the form of whatever washed up on the beach at Montauk and eat my face off.

Others are saying that the monster is a turtle, minus the shell. If this is the case, I now understand why turtles have shells in the first place - they are uggo. Fuggo actually.

I'm going to go with the hypothesis that this is a retarded version of the monster from Cloverfield. Or maybe it's the baby of a bigger monster yet to come. All I know is this - monsters can read blogs so I'm obviously on the list of people to eat if this thing ever emerges from the ocean, I'm hightailing it overseas. They've dealt with Godzilla. They can certainly deal with this.

The Poppy Odyssey: My ongoing, non-vocal battle with my neighbor

I always knew Poppy was an asshole. You know those types: snotty for the sake of it, think they are better than everyone else, like to hear their voice over everyone else's. Of course I'm speaking of Poppy, my neighbor's dog. Once again, what an asshole.

I'm not sure what breed category (besides douche bag) Poppy falls into. He's a lap dog, that's for sure. He's white with long hair and if you can imagine a dog that every old lady in the entire world would like, well...that's Poppy. I've thought about asking my neighbor what type of dog he is, but I don't think I can start the conversation off with "What kind of dog is that little asshole?"

Poppy and I did not get started on the right foot. My first encounter with him was a day after I moved into my new house. Poppy was on the look out next door, and as I often do with animals*, I said "hello dog." Instead of providing a heartwarming confusd stare like Sir Scrapsalot, the neighborhood cat**, Poppy proceeded to bark and snarl. I wasn't scared - he was locked behind a screen door. It was more obnoxious than anything. Here I am trying my best to be nice and make friends and this asshole pulls attitude. For those of you that know me, you know that I've had about enough of that since moving. At his point, I didn't know Poppy's name. I simply called him "the asshole dog next door."

My feud with Poppy reached a whole new level when he began barking at everything I did. Now I don't know if he can see through walls, but that damn dog would bark if I turned a page in a magazine. Brushing my teeth? Hell yeah Poppy, bark! Plucking my eyebrows? Oh, Poppy knew. The clincher was every time I opened my window at night to let in a breeze, Poppy would bark. And bark. And bark.

A few weeks after the first window barking incident, my roommate asked "Don't you just hate that dog next door? He barks at the drop of a hat! His name is Poppy." My enemy now had a name.

The other night, our hatred reached a fever pitch. After opening my window, Poppy began his usual protest. I had reached my breaking point and could not control the emotions that boiled over.

"POPPY! WE GO THROUGH THE SAME DAMN THING EVERY NIGHT! I OPEN THE WINDOW! YOU BARK! I'M JUST OPENING A WINDOW! DEAL WITH IT YOU SONOFABITCH!" I screamed.

Shortly after, I heard Poppy's owner shuffling him into the house, whispering something softly, most likely "Watch your back Poppy. She might be into animal sacrifice."

I haven't heard Poppy in the past several nights. Ideally, he's been neutered and is suffering from the death of his testicles and has implemented a silent protest against the act of making dogs "non-breeders." In reality, he's most likely being kept inside due to the foul weather we've been experiencing in Sydney. All I know is this: I'm saving up my money to put a squirt nozzle and hose to attach to the bathroom sink. The second that dog pipes up, it's water fun time. If I don't blow a non-deadly adoption of acceptance regarding minimal noise making into that dog, I'm going to open up the lines for you reader: How should I silence Poppy (and don't say kill him - I might hate him, but I can't kill an animal (excluding rodents)).

* I only speak to animals when no one else is around, such as Sir Scrapsalot. I'm not talking full-blown conversations, but more along the lines of "Hi Sir Scrapsalot. Did you get any dinner tonight? No? That's a shame because I'm not going to feed you either. Better luck next time."

** Sir Scrapsalot follows me down the street now, due to our friendly relationship. I've explained to him that although I appreciate his company, I am allergic. He respects the boundaries and stays at least five feet away at all times.

A brief history of how I came to where I am (earlier entitled "Anne Geddes can go fuck herself")

I think I can pin point the exact moment that put me on the path that has left me where I am today. It was September 2003, and I was a senior at the University of Kansas. Bud Hirsch (R.I.P.) was my advisor in the English department at KU. He had worked there for ages, and he was probably one of the most well-respected men at the University. How he became my advisor, I have no idea. On this day, I was sitting in Bud's office trying to figure out how to graduate on time without having to put in much effort.

Bud suggested that I apply for an internship, and as luck would have it, he knew of an opening and could call in a few favors and get me the job. It was unpaid, but I didn't really care. I really just needed the course credit I would be awarded for completion of the internship, and that was my only concern. Bud then proceeded to make a few phone calls, and BAM! I was the newest publicity intern at Andrew's McMeel Publishing. I remember not being excited. I had interest in neither publicity nor publishing. I figured that my love of literature and reading would be enough to make it doable.

Wellllllllllllllllllllllll..."literature" is a bit of a stretch. Andrews McMeel is known for their comics publishing, such as the Far Side and Dilbert. However, they also publish the type of books you see while waiting in the check-out line at Barnes & Noble. You know what I'm talking about - those books entitled "10 Life Lessons You'll Learn From Your Dog" and "How a Kitten can Put a Smile on Your Face." They also published the work of Anne Geddes, which might be the only person to successfully turn the idea of having a baby into something I would liken to the film Rosemary's Baby.

If you aren't familar with Anne Geddes' work, I think you might be the smartest person alive. Hell, you might be part of a human sub-species that has evovled faster than the rest of us due to your ability to block out the Anne Geddes onslaught you'll experience from walking into any Hallmark Cards store in the world. For the rest of us that haven't developed a tail or an extra set of fingers, Anne Geddes is the woman that puts babies in pea pods, flower pots, coconuts, gigantic flowers and various other usually normal objects. Some people might say that she is responsible for the creepiest cheap art work in the world. And when I write "some people," I mean me. I would also go one step further than describing her as "creepy" and say that the baby that we never actually get to see in the Roman Polanski classic "Rosmary's Baby" is less scary than a group of babies dressed up in a giant pea pod. And keep in mind that Rosemary's baby is a result of Satan raping Mia Farrow. I'll take the Satan baby any day versus a newborn dressed up like a sunflower.

Luckily, my interaction with the Geddes' material was kept to managing my dry heaves as I entered the stock room for other less notable books. And it was for these books that I was tasked with writing news releases for.

Let me set the scene: Me sitting at a Dell computer doing my best to dress "office casual." Now imagine someone telling me that I have to include words like "precious" and "snuggly" in my news release. Now imagine someone reciting the National Anthem to me in Spanish. Yeah, you're right - I would have the same blank stare on my face. Now imagine someone saying "You could really take this to the next level by adding paw print graphics along the top of this release." What was that reader? You don't believe anyone could say such a thing? What? You think paw print graphics are retarded? What was that? You want to blow your brains out just knowing that someone would suggest the addition of puppy footprints to a professional document? All I have to say is this: Welcome to my hell.

Reader, your next question may be, if you are still thinking logically after the Anne Geddes info, is this: So why did you pursue a career in public relations/publicity if learned how weird a profession it could be?

My answer? I don't have one. Maybe it was the constant lecture of an English major never being able to get a job, so I double majored and chose Strategic Communications as the "degree that make me some money. The practical degree!" Perhaps PR had a vendetta and wanted to take me down. But right now, I'm homeless in a foreign country and I can just hear that damn paw print graphic laughing at me. Not long ago, I saw the book "10 Life Lessons You'll Learn From Your Dog" in the bargain section at Barnes & Noble. I pointed it out to my friend that had joined me for the afternoon and made an off the cuff remark about how I did the publicity for that particular book i.e. the paw print press release. I believe my exact words were "I think this book has a seat right next to Satan in hell." And now I realize that an inanimate object does in fact have the ability to perform voo doo and completely fuck up your life.

Anus bleaching is the new Match.com: How to find love amongst the cyber savvy. (originally posted on March 26, 2007)

I was diagnosed today as having adult attention deficit disorder. Granted, I was the one who made the diagnosis, but I have factual evidence to back this up. Please see the following blog post:

Right before 2:00 p.m. today, I posted my very first personal advertisement online. I originally had this idea this past Friday, thinking that I had some time to kill, and filling it with a social experiment of sorts would be a good way to kill it. I haven't had much to write about lately, so why not create something to write about? Hence the ad.

Advertisement (including link):

Anal bleaching dog lovers - 29 (Downtown)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reply to: pers-300724484@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-03-26, 1:32PM EDT


I'm seeking someone interested in the areas of dogs and anal bleaching, but not anal bleachers who practice on their dogs.

Let me know if you'd like to meet up for a coffee!

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/w4m/300724484.html

---------------------------------------------------------------

For those of you that know me, you know this ad makes no sense on some levels, some sense on others. For one, I love dogs and have wanted to purchase a puppy for sometime. Also, I am currently single, so it would make sense to be seeking a mate. However, until about two minutes ago, I wasn't even sure what anal bleaching* was (except for what I've learned from the web comic www.nataliedee.com), and I have strong opinions about dating people that you meet via the Internet. I've done it twice, and I'll never do it again. Also, and most importantly, I'm not 29 years old. I chose the age as it would hopefully entice both the 20 and 30 something year old dudes.

In line with the adult ADD, about fifteen minutes after I posted the advertisement, I forgot about it. Really, who can keep up with fake e-mail addresses, Craig's List, as well as the job they are technically getting paid for? After woofing down a cookie and some frozen yogurt, I was back on track for triple tasking (i.e. instant messaging with friends, reading the gossip blogs, and tracking down my new web-based pet project). I checked my temporary e-mail account, and to my suprise, there were already ten responses. This is a good turn out in my opinion considering that the ad had only been online for about an hour and a half.

The respones ran the gamut. The groups can be broken down as such:

1. The dude that got the joke and simply wanted to commend me on my comic genius.

2. The dude that got the joke, but wanted to take the opportunity to ask me out. Obviously one can gauge compatibility by the topics of anal bleaching and the love of dogs.

3. The broken english dude. I can not figure out which nationality category these dudes will fall into, but I'd like to stereotype them as the sweaty Indian dudes I used to see out on the weekends when I was living in Dundee, Scotland. Picture strategically placed gold chains, as to not matt down the chest hair artistically crafted to poke out of the top of the opening of a buttoned down shirt. Now everyone knows I have a big crush on Kumar from Harold nad Kumar Go to White Castle, so don't call me a racist. I just know what I'm talking about when it comes to greasy ethnic dudes.

4. The dudes that tried to be funny, but instead completely creeped me out. There was one response in particular that involved me having sex with this man's dog. I got the impression that he was trying to be outwit me, but I'm sorry my friend, you are just a pervert.

5. The guy that was so lazy he simply wrote "sure, lets meet."

6. The guy that was too lazy to look up anal bleaching, but lame enough to actually use the abbreviation "lol". Buddy, I can tell you right now we wouldn't work...

Here are some of the full responses:

"Hi - I am 36 years old. My traditions and family are still important to me. There
are still many twist you will find out about me. Physically, I am 6' 2" , Brown hair ,hazel eyes and in very good shape. Live/ work in Wall Street area
Women are pleased with my company because I am true gentleman. I am
established in life but there are many goals that I am after. Last minute travel is
one of my loves. Having someone special to travel with would be a great
experience. The water and water sports are part of my life. Yes, do you love to
laugh because humor is important to me. Maybe we laugh together. Are you as
adventurous as I hope to find, Lets chat. And see where this can go. Take Care"

"You're too funny! As I browsing through, I came across your ad and I just had to take a chance. I'm cute, respectful, and a gentleman believe it or not. I'm 26 with brown hair and stellar hazel eyes. I work in midtown live on the ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Upper East Side. I'm funny, playful, and have more personality than the other 150 guys that responded to you so give me a shot and drop me a line. So please get back to me if you wish and let's just see what this crazy website might bring us"

"sure lets meet"

"I'd meet only if you were attractive and agreed to allow me to give you a bleach enema. In the end, the strongest arm manages to bend the bow."

"What the hell is anal bleaching?!. Lol..."

"hi sweety email me"


In the end, I feel like my opinions of online dating have remained the same (i.e. Not for me). I've also learned another important lesson. Under the hidden darkness of the Internet, men are fucking scary as hell. "Bleach enema"? That's not even funny. And for some reason, I read all these e-mails in an extremely effiminate voice, which in my brain means all dudes in New York are closeted gays. God I'm good at analyzing.

Keep checking back for further e-mail postage. And the extra creepy ones will include the e-mail addresses of the weirdos so you can look them up on MySpace! I've already done some investigating, and I can't say I would even eat a cheeseburger with the likes of these suitors. And in the end, I feel as if I have the ultimate laugh, as I now have a personal record of guys I know read personal ads in my area. I can only hope that I will one day interview these men for jobs, etc, and will recall the e-mail address posted on their resume. Picture the scene:

"So, you have excellent credentials, but I've got one last question. Have you anal bleached recently?"

* Wikipedia has shared the following definition of anal bleaching:

Anal bleaching is the practice of bleaching the darker pigmentation of the skin around the anus. It is used for cosmetic purposes. A cream is used containing around 2% hydroquinone (a suspected carcinogen banned by several countries including France and the UK)as an active ingredient.