Sunday, June 29, 2008

Can't Stop Interstalking You

Are you being stalked? Yes, but only because there's nothing better on TV.

Listen, kids I'm wicked sorry, but as you've long suspected I'm stalking you. Woah, killer. Woah. Put down the shotgun and tell the hard working 911 folks that you play a lil' jokey. Shhh, easy, now. Easy. That's it, put it down. Let's hug this shit out.

I'm not stalking you in a direct, "go-to-your-apartment-and peer- into- your- windows- and- watch- you- change- while- smelling- a- tissue- you- threw- away- a- week- ago- when- your- allergies- were- acting- up - because -of -all -the -ragweed" kind of way. No, baby, that's not me. That requires to much work and furthermore requires that I leave the comfort of All Day Pass to see Enchanted On Demand and an endless supply of string cheese. You think too highly of yourself, megalomaniac.

No, I'm interstalking you. Which, unlike cyberstalking, involves innocuously Googling you immediately after meeting you (making sure to include the obligatory stop at Google Images to see if you have done anything of note, for I am a sycophant), and scanning through your public Facebook and MySpace pictures.

Am I mentally deranged? Socially retarded? A Sluggard? Yes.

I am also the World's Laziest Conversationalist. No really, I have a tiara and sash that I look really hot in. Social engagements are work. Whether you're seeking out a funny quip you can steal and pass off as your own, angling to land a free drink, or positioning yourself to cozy up next to that lady in the hotpants (meow), none of these things can be achieved without feigning interest in what another person has to say. yucky.

If you think you're going to see the person you just met again, DON'T LISTEN. Simply add them as a friend on one of the previously mentioned social networking sites immediately following your introduction and you'll be able to continue your burgeoning friendship have future conversation starters, without the chore of heeding the words of others. That's the power of interstalking! You're welcome.

Throughout the years I have learned that never settle for interstalking friends' friends. I'm simply too good for that. Why resign oneself to that when you are one double click away from inter-pursuing minor sports figures and reality TV stars? Yes, picture it, you D-list celeb stalker, cyberfriend! Huzzah, for sure!

Meet my MySpace friend, AVP hottie / volleyball pro, Danalee Bragado. What's that? You doubt we are friends? We totes are! Just look at what I cleverly posted on her page just today:

Hey Danalee,​ I have a good feeli​ng about​ this year.​ So good in fact that I think​ of you often​.​ Mostl​y when I'm in the midst​ of mans​capin​'​.​ Norma​lly,​ I use this time to shape​ Sesam​e Stree​t chara​cters​,​ but this time aroun​d,​ it's Bragado in Arial​ Narro​w font (cause there are lots of letters).​ Yes, a good year indee​d.​.​.​.​"

Danalee messaged me back, like, right away and told me she loves Sesame Street too! Who said the interstalk can't lead to true connections!?

As you might suspect, over time, even pursuing jetsetting non-lesbian volleyball players can grow tiresome. So I've set my sights even higher and taken to interstalking the world.

BEHOLD! What you're looking at right now is the creepy, unfettered power of Google Analytics!!! Mwaaaaahhh ahahahahaha! Yes, as you read this post covered in jam, singing the theme song to Mork & Mindy while teaching your dog to shit in the toilet, I see you. You appear to me in the form of a telling orange dot.

What does my worldstalk tell me? Aside from being a Force of Nature in Manhattan, as long suspected, I am huuuuuuuuuuuuuge in Croatia. I've got my eye on you, Croatia. Here's hoping you get into the European Union, friends! If I have anything to say about it (and I don't) you'll be there soon, just keep your collective chins up.

Phew, all this international interstalking has made me hungry. Wanna come over for some food? You do? Oh, that's just wonderful. What will we be having? You're favorite dish! Shhhh, don't tell me what it is, I already know.

EDITORIAL: Yup, I have even given myself the heebeejeebees, and for that I'm sorry-esque. Anyway, Happy
National Where's the Thong Week, y'all!

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Dirty Kid

I am disgusting.

Hey, do you remember the dirty kid from growing up? I sure do, his name was Joey Jaggers and he had very large ears with excessive ear wax that would drip out of his olfactory canal (pictured at left). It was repugnant, Joey Jaggers, repugnant! [Editorial: I am not worried about Joey Jaggers reading this and suing me for slander because Joey Jaggers can not read which obviously equals hilarity.]

Back then I used to come up with hilarious quips about that excessive ear wax and Joey Jagger's poor hygiene and verbal skills. "Ha, ha, ha, Joey Jaggers, it's like a Niagara Falls of gooey wax out of your earholes!!!!" I was clever even back then. Obviously, these jabs were hilarious despite never actually being uttered for fear of being called "faggot" and then getting the shit kicked out of me by Joey Jaggers white trash father-brothers.

Which begs the question, does a dirty kid joke that is never actually spoken really count? The whole, "if a tree falls in a forest, and pigs are flying while having a bird in hand despite there being two in the bush; does it make a sound?" I am here to tell you that indeed it does, and payback is a bitch.

Over the course of the past few weeks, I have become the dirty kid.

The worst part about being the dirty kid is that you don't even realize it is happening. Becoming the dirty kid happens in a slow, seemingly imperceivable way. And it began it true white trash fashion-with bugs.

Bed bugs to be precise. Yes, just like FOX NEWS, I, Patrick Garrigan had/have bed bugs. How did I get bed bugs? I got them from you, that's how. That time we were hooking up and I was all, "you don't have bed bugs, do you?" and you were like, "No baby, I got tested. It's cool, I don't have bed bugs." But you DID have bed bugs and now I HAD/HAVE bed bugs! Oh, you hateful so and so....

At first I was embarrassed about having these blood-thirty parasites feasting on my O-Positive while I slept. But after a while, I was really flattered that they would choose to nest in my bed and drink my blood. So I invested in a dinner bell like you see in Westerns, which I ring between the hours of 11pm - 2am to welcome my guests (which I had/have individually named) to what I like to call "the dinner table."

Next stop in our dirty kid tour de force is, you guessed it, disease! Hooray! Not just any disease though friends -not me, I'm exceptional. I get that highly preventable, highly contagious classic, pink eye! Yesssss! My deficiency in hand washing abilities landed me in solitary confinement, unable to interact with humans.

You learn a lot about yourself when you're alone with your thoughts and a puss-gushing eyeball. Things like, Bob Ross' paintings really were total shite and boxer briefs make me feel sexy the way they gently hug my buttocks. You know, thoughtful, life-changing realizations like that.

The final straw however to bring me from dirty kid novice to trashy, cross-the-street-when-you-see-me greatness happened just last night when I cracked my face on a beer bottle to provide that piece de resistance, the snaggle tooth.

Eat your heart out Perez Hilton, you graphics wizard, you. This final component makes my metamorphosis complete. Now I have a bug problem, conjunctivitis and finally razor-tipped snaggle tooth -which since occurring (24) hours ago, I have used to open the following canned items:
  • Creamed corn
  • Wild Cherry Kool Aid (generic brand)
  • (137) Cans of Vienna Sausages
  • Crude oil
As I contently sit on my sofa covered in bugs (which I am trying to train to perform cirque-style acrobatic feats) and "body soil," I start to come to the conclusion that maybe Dirty 'Ol Joey Jaggers was on to something. While judgey, showering types may say that I'm, "in need of an intervention" or "fucking nasty," there is a certain freedom in getting to the point where you are so positively dirty and disgusting that you just give up.

Today, I am the dirty kid and I shall stay the dirty kid ...that is until I can get to the Flatiron Origins Store and purchase more exfoliating Skin Diver Active Charcoal Body Wash.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Reflections on the Tonys

"There's a little bit of Broadway in everyone." Some people simply need to be shown where it is.

This Tony weekend, I find myself relaxing at the Garrigan Compound with the entire family for Father's Day. After treating Dad to a round of put-put golf in one of New England's most exquisite courses, we returned home to relax and enjoy some burgers.

While this was a great way to relax, I am a-twitter. The Tony's are only hours away, and I'm punch-a-hooker-in-the-face pumped. Unfortunately, my family does not share this same sense of anticipation.

As a result, I sit in one of the rooms of the colonial compound, watching Sarah Brightman on PBS (who I'm strangely aroused by), while the pronunciation, "watching Sarah Brightman is reason 782 why you are gay," is proudly declared by my sister, Lise. You see, evidently the Boston Celtics are also up for some award tonight that is equally important or something. Don't they realize, tonight is Tony night? I believe they do, but it seems... they just don't care.

My love of the Tony Awards is longstanding. Growing up in the cultural wasteland that is Ohio, the Tony Awards were the one time of year where social retards like myself could gather around the television set and marvel at sequined costumes, polished dance routines and poorly executed award show banter. Ah yes, how my posse (pictured) and I relished these times. The posse just loved dressing up in period costuming and acting out scenes from Oklahoma, La Cage Aux Folles, and Oh! Calcutta. Yes, those were good times, and Cliff (pictured far right) may not look it but oh, his high notes are just majesty.

This year, after ruining every other awards show, Whoopi Goldberg makes the natural progression to cover the Tony's. Why is she hosting the Tony's? I do not know.

I have a few hypothesis: 1.) She is angling to be the next Elle in Legally Blonde. 2.) Laying the ground work for Theodore Rex: Das Musicale 3.) The only entertainment people who will have her are the star-fuckers over there at the American Theatre Wing. Regardless of the reason, she's who we got. So instead I will repeat everything she says with an Australian accent and pretend it is Hugh Jackman. For this is how I will cope.

Much like any actor, I will also use this time to reflect on how I would accept the esteemed honor when I win for Leading Left-Handed, Irish Egotist Actor in a Musical About the Life of Hillel the Elder, Inventor of the Sandwich (category yet to be created). Yes, this will be a watershed moment for the theatre community and I will accept thusly:

"Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbyes to theatre as we once knew it. When I read the script for this play, I knew the life of Hillel the Elder was one that needed to be told. Using myself as a vessel, I got to the heart of what sandwiches mean to us -not just as Americans- but as humans, and the universality of this tale makes me hungry for a BLT. In closing, let me say think what your life would be like without a pastrami on rye or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Yes, you could go on, but why bother? I RULE!"

Well friends, the red carpet coverage is about to begin, so I need to remove my feet from the epsom soak, put on my velvet robe and cuddle up with a nice glass of Chianti to enjoy the magic.

Did your Friday feel like it was missing some Greatness? Chances are it was because of the passing of Tim Russert. Meet the Press has long been my favorite show, because of this dynamic fella. The loss of him makes the world a little dumber. Now I have no reason to get out of bed on Sundays....

Sunday, June 08, 2008



I think I may have sharted. Sorry, I get really nervous around all that pyro.

On this day 29 years ago, Daddy emerged from the birth canal, all covered in placenta and such, still connected to my mother via the umbilical cord which served to feed me the tuna tar tar, mutton chops, and frappichinos essential to my development.

In honor of being one year closer to dead, I have decided to take to the internets, scour the YouTubes, and enter funny birthday related tags to provide you with a treasure trove of magical videos to help chronicle this completely unremarkable anniversary of life! Hooray!

The final frame was actually from my birthday brunch today with my new girlfriend, Corrinna-Jane. Yeah, I know what you're thinking and yes you're right. You have seen her picture in the Frederick's of Hollywood catalog which has long been a mainstay on your toilet and spank bank.

Another year has gone by and despite the multitude of things that I have learned, one of the greatest lessons came from my honeysuckle rose, Corrinna-Jane. She taught me the value of the mathematical equation, Pleasure Per Pound. If A= pounds of lady flesh, and B=pleasure, then A times B = Baby Makin' Magic. Meow! You're welcome.

CONFIDENCE BUILDERS FROM GWGG: Just remember, if you ever have a birthday you feel is lackluster, it could always be worse.

Yes, my bespectacled friend, "Tatiana" didn't come because she was on her "period." It had nothing to do with crackdowns in human trafficking, nothing at all. Do go play with your Wii (wee). Play with it. Gross.

Finally, people often ask me, "what do you want for your birthday?" What do you give to the person who has everything? It is a difficult question. My answer: I want this quartet to perform at my party. No, I am not joking.

God bless you Bollywood, see you at the party.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

I Wrote A Book

Street meat lover, snarkiness connoisseur, stalker of your dog. Yes, kids I wear many hats. As of yesterday, I adorned yet another, author.

Since February of this year, you may have opened your e-mail, clicked on my spam e-mail alert and pressed through to GWGG seeking a little magic for your Monday; only to read the blog and have that scrumptious, "omigod that was a complete fucking waste of my time" feeling. You know, like this time or this time or this time. Well, I'd like to apologize, as those were the nights that I was busy WRITING A BOOK!

Earlier this year, I was given the opportunity to work with my boss to create a book for a very popular humorous reference series. Since that time we've worked together to compile 384 pages of literary Greatness over the course of these reclusive (4) months. Now, I can't really go into the title of the book or the release date just yet, but I just had to announce the achievement, for I am a braggart.

I think you are funny (and I don't want to write anymore this week), so I wanted to use this opportunity to introduce you to the comments section of the blog because I'm currently drunk and lazy. So you betta bring in the funny. I encourage you to click on the 'Comment' hyperlink at the bottom of this post and answer the question:

What is the title of Patrick's book?

The most hystericalest submission will receive this thrilling prize package:

  • $10 Gift Card to Chipotle
  • (1) Clown nose
  • Some old porn I need to get rid of
So let the commenting begin (or not), and you could win this luxurious prize package! If no one does it I'll put on a clown nose, eat a carnitas burrito, and enjoy some delicious vintage smut. It's a win/win.


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