Welcome, federal agents!

Someone from the United States Department of Justice came by the ol' weblog today. I don't think I've done anything illegal (or at least not federal crimes), but I haven't had a chance to go through the whole PATRIOT act yet, so if I disappear again, it might be because I am lazy, like the last time...

Or...

I hear letters and care packages are much appreciated at Guantanamo.

I have a letter in the Pitt News today. Not only that, I am the hottest curmudgeon ever, according to the lovely Ms. Getz. Score!

This means, apart from the letter I sent to The Amazing Spider-man when I was 10, all of my letters to editors have been published. Among them are this one, and this one. A few others (mostly to the Pitt News) are not, as far as I can tell, available online.

Also, here are some other letters to the editor of the Post-Gazette, including one written by (I shit you not) Harry Choder.

For those of you who can't get enough Mac Booker, here is a website about a Mac Booker who isn't me.

The best Sally Kalson line in quite some time:

It has come to this, I thought: I actually miss Muzak. And so, another frontier of sensory overload is breached, not with a bang but with Wolf Blitzer. Not that I mind the guy per se, but if I wanted to ride the elevator with him repeatedly, I'd do it the old-fashioned way: I'd stalk him.

From the P-G.

This is a big story in the local section on how lots of Jews don't make it out to the Synagogue for the high holidays. It is only mentioned in passing, but apparently one of the reasons is that you have to buy tickets, and they are expensive and hard to get.

WHaty the hell is that? They better not try to pull this shit on the Catholics: that would be my cue to cut church attendance from 3 visits per year to zero. I don't care how guilty my grandmother makes me feel.

I know what you're saying: this weblog doesn't publish bad poetry! What's going on? Well, the answer is that I need this poem, and every other metod of printing it has failed. Thus, I'm putting it here so I can print it elsewhere.

And, yes, I did write the damned thing.

I lived on a couch

I had a bed that
Had wheels

And a floor that
Sloped to the middle of the room

And a stereo that
Caught fire

And a couch that
Was found on the street

But that wasn't the couch that
I lived on.

Say hello to my little friend

and

I dream on two bright eyes

The couch that
I lived on

Had cushions that
swallowed you

Had a loveseat that
Matched, light blue

And had that
Same smell

The smell that
I had too

The odor that
Tasted like weed and Yeungling.

Shomer fucking shabbas, dude

and

Jeremy's smoking crack today

Head in the stain that
I vomited

Hips in the stain that
I pissed

The pipe that
We named after the Johnny Cash song

I was in the Green Lantern down in Natchez one night

With the forty ounces that
Just said

Slow brewed for a minimum of smooth flavor

And the slogan that
We stole from the movies

Fuck it, dude.

Let's go bowling.