Mascot Obituaries
- Pillsbury Doughboy – Impaled by finger.
- Kool Aid Man – “Oh Yeah’d” himself into a nuclear reactor.
- Frankenberry – Gay three-way suicide pact with Boo Berry and Count Chocula.
- Aflac Duck – Poisoned by eating Gieco Gecko.
- Verizon Guy – Locked himself in a public parking garage; no one could hear him screaming.
- Cap’n Crunch – Killed by angry father after he “made it happen” with an 11-year-old.
- Jolly Green Giant – Ripped apart at the hands of an angry mob led by Jimmy Dean.
- McGruff the Crime Dog – Toxic combination of extreme police corruption and licking his own balls.
- Gerber Baby – Whatever disease Gary Coleman had; that 45-year-old baby never ate solid food.
- “I’m a Mac” / “I’m a PC” Guys – Another gay three-way suicide pact…strangely, also with Boo Berry.
- Coppertone Girl – Rape. Just kidding, that would be so horrible, right? Seriously though, it was rape.
- Quaker Oats Man – Starved to death in a fully stocked, working kitchen, baffled by our modern technology.
- Mrs. Butterworth, Aunt Jemima, and the Chiquita Banana Girl – Fought to the death after realizing they were all married to Uncle Ben.
- Uncle Ben – Nothing, he’s fine. Now he’s bangin’ the Land O’ Lakes Girl.
- Joe Camel – Ridden to death.
- Malboro Man – bucked from dying camel.
- Ronald McDonald – Beaten to death by large, unstable purple friend. Latter cannibalized by Hamburgler. That bird girl just watched the whole thing.
- Jared from Subway – Accidentally strangled by excess fabric while showing off enormous pair of former pants.
- Six Flags Dancing Old Man – Extremely exciting diabetes
- Priceline Negotiator – Klingons
I just finished an internship running scripts for the local morning news. This means that on Mondays and Wednesdays I got up at 3AM to work on the hourly broadcasts from 4:30am to 10am. My job was to bring the scripts to the anchors just before they read them live. So essentially, when an anchor said "this just in," and grabbed a piece of paper from off camera, I was the one handing it to them. It was a great experience, especially in terms of celebrity sightings: I got to drool creepily in the general direction of Mary Louise Parker, share a bathroom with Mario Lopez, and gape in astonishment at the wildly successful train-wreck that is Antione Dotson. It was great to keep so informed, hearing the breaking news stories develop every hour throughout the morning. At the same time, some days you just don’t want to hear the words "suspected rapist" two dozen times before 9am.
ALL RIGHT! Time for some updates. It’s been an eventful couple of months. On August 1st, my girlfriend and I left NY for a month-long cross-country road trip. We moved to Los Angeles, leaving behind a lot of good friends and nine years of memories.
spite the fact that they apparently went out of business several years ago. I wept big, spicy tears when their 2nd avenue location closed its doors. The food was great, the sodas were bottomless, and the atmosphere was unintentionally kitschy, just like I like it. Above all, they had the BEST salsa, and they let you have as much as you wanted every time, for free! Come to think of it, maybe that’s why they went under…
e, but I keep coming back because I need the burger like a junkie needs his fix. I literally fiend for it. I sweat. It’s disgusting. They have a killer bloody mary too, with a pepper so hot that every time my girlfriend eats it she has to lie down in a dark room for two hours. And yet the very next week she’s munching on another one while I inject burger meat directly into my veins.
phere is undeniably pretentious (they don’t take reservations, so you routinely see patrons outside the restaurant acting like teenage girls around Robert Pattinson in hopes of getting a table) but the food is truly transcendent. It’s not cheap, so I’ve been tricking people into taking me here for special occasions for the last 5 years. Get the saltimbocca, and realize what it is to love.
atmosphere is everything Al Di La’s isn’t, which is ironic because it’s right across the street. Our custom is to pound cheap wine at Aunt Suzie’s during the six hour wait for our table at Al Di La. However, for those occasions when you don’t have a rich relative in town, the food at Aunt Suzie’s is really top notch, for about 1/100th the price of its high-class neighbor. What’s more, there’s a TON of it. One meal at the Suz and you’re eating leftover gnocchi for a week.
by the window, and their sound-proof glass enclosure on the second floor makes you feel like you have box seats for the nightly morality play that is second avenue. I recommend the duck, but then I always get the duck. My dream is to live in Duckburg (see left), where life is like a hurricane, and it’s apparently a “duck-blur.” But I digress…
. BACON. Sound gross? You are wrong. The taste of these dogs goes beyond the sum of their parts. It’s like there’s a party in you mouth and, while maybe not everyone is invited (for example, not kosher people) those who are invited keep handing you twenty dollars bills and then making out with you. And it’s not weird or invasive either. It feels natural, and bacony, and you’re completely into it.
n actual meals, but I stand by it. It’s definitely not the cheapest, but the delicious thin crust and inventive topping combos set it apart from the rest. They have several locations, but the best one is in the East Village, a restaurant that includes videos for rent and a small movie theatre in the back, incidentally the site of my one and only movie premier in New York, a charming slasher film called “Pink Eye.” I played a dude who got slashed. Anyway, best pizza ever.
r first tasting it on April 20th, 2001, a day like any other, except that for some reason my taste buds were feeling especially receptive. That day would forever change the way I felt about fried chickpeas. “But it tastes like meat!” I screamed at my friends. “How can there be no meat in this? How?” As they wisely ignored my cries, I realized that I had found my favorite vegetation food of all time. And Mamouns serves up vegetarian impostor-meat just like it should be: out of a tiny, filthy, wooden stand, wrapped in tin foil and shame.
forever. Since eating the Enchiladas Suizas at Fonda, all competitors have turned to ashes in my mouth. Thanks a lot, assholes (I love you).
Steven Seagal was sued by an ex-employee for sexual harassment today, joining Hilary Swank and Sandra Bullock in re-enforcing the theory that a celebrity’s personal life is doomed to fall apart just as they reach the crowning achievement of their career, tasing the poor in Louisiana.
Of course some children had other interests, such as playing with trucks, blocks, or going outside, but I was always an action figure man. My love affair began when, at four years old, I found a used Skeletor toy from the “Masters of the Universe” collection on the streets of San Francisco. I still remember my mother’s horror at her son’s affection for this macabre, ugly figurine. “What about He-Man?” she offered, “We could get you one of those.” But in my young mind, given the choice between a creatine-soaked ken doll and a dude without a face, it was a no-brainer who truly ruled the universe. I went on to collect many of Skeletor’s associates, including “Stinkor,” the unpopular skunk man, and “Modulock,” the build-it-yourself villain who’s secret power was fending off lawsuits from Mr. Potato Head.
Eventually I saw through He-Man’s charms, due in part to his insanely redundant name. Thankfully, some genius had just developed a line of figures in which the heroes were just as hideous as the villains they faced, often more so. I am, of course, referring to the mid-nineties phenomenon that was “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” Through a stroke of marketing brilliance, what started as a comic book spin-off quickly escalated into an unending series of plastic figures, where the formula “any animal” plus “any profession” equaled “I want it.” I’m talking about a Moose Mountie with a squirrel sidekick. I’m talkin’ about a Hipster Gecko on a skateboard. I’m talking about dozens of permutations of the main characters, so that no sooner had I bought “Baseball Playin’ Raphael” than I was whining for “Hard Rockin’ Raphael.” I’m talking about whatever that thing is in this picture. Seriously, what is that? Whatever it is, I wanted one so, so bad. “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” (I restrict the use of the acronym to this past decades atrocious redux) had to be the highest ratio of merchandising to actual content ever. A concept that started as a joke became deadly serious as the creators started building houses out of money.
The one major action figure line of the time that never graced my shelves was “G.I. Joe.” This is because my parents, possibly as part of an elaborate Vietnam War protest flashback, opposed action figures that endorsed violence. Correction, REALISTIC violence. In other words, a duck aviator who carried a sidearm was O.K.,
My qualifier for personal success has always been pretty simple: an action figure crafted in my likeness. Isn’t that truly every boy’s dream? Girls have dolls; they play house or dress-up, imagining what their adult lives will be like. Similarly, young boys imagine their faces on the body of a ninja, robot, alien, or robot-fighting alien ninja.