Song Of The Day: Insane In The Brain / Cypress Hill
Word Of The Day: Cophosis / Deafness.
OK, I concede. Food preparation IS an art. Now, would the chefs of the World please stop killing themselves?
Today, I'm going to elect my United Nations of Interpersonal Relations. My friends from around the World. This is the official Who's Who to Stu on Earth (and beyond?). There's no limit to the number of people I can appoint from each nation, but for today I'm going to start with just one from each sovereign state. These are not necessarily people I've met, or even had sex with, but nonetheless, they are "Friends" in my book, for reasons enumerated below. Drum roll, bitches.
From the great nation of Ukraine, meet Filatova Elena Vladinmirovna. Think you're cool? Think you're hot? Think again. This woman's hobby is driving through CHERNOBYL and its surrounding (depopulated) radioactive regions. Her site, her life, her philosophical take on the nuclear accident is fascinating and compelling. One of the best sites I've come across in a long time, I spent hours pouring over her photos, engrossed in her work. Check her out. She's my #1 Friend from Ukraine. Filatova, please take your honored place as the first inductee into the assembly of souls in our great structure-less building, our formless Hall of Humanity.
Next, I'm fucking happy to announce the annunciation of my favorite Brit, Rupert Hine. PIck your 100 favorite pop songs of all time. Chances are Rupert produced many of them. He's the shit. He makes England look awesome. I always find myself longing for London after a scoop of Rup. Shoop, shoop.
My favorite Roop quote is "Steady. Steady." (with a wicked English accent). Also, I love it when he says things like "Right, then." He also taught me to say kisses (Bee-zooz) in French. And we have indeed kissed, but you know, like Europeans. Like mafia. Like school girls. Like horses, monkeys. When you're sexually integrated within yourself, it really opens up your masculine relationships.
More! More! They clammered. And they were sated, with
My Canadian exempler: Rollie. You gurhlz I wish I could give you a photo on this one, but he's too hot. If I show you the visage of Rollie, you will think of nothing but sex. I want you to move into a deeper dimension with Canada. Rollie is the guy who kept me from declaring war on Canada when they kicked me out for a year (true). I looked into his azure French Canadian eyes, and all was forgiven, then forgotten. I can't stay mad at you, Canada! C'm here! Rollie, our envoy from the arctic tundra (more or less) is a contemplative christian cat in the great tradition of Father Thomas Keating -who's not a Canadian.--- you guys, check out how fucking LONG this next parenthetical thought is, I want to submit it to Guiness Book of Records, here goes: ---(Father Thomas Keating is not a Canadian according to the occult method of nationality-divination I INVENTED which I named Flinch-omancy. It's simple, it's infallible. I determine your country of origin by scaring the shit out you and "reading" your reactioon. TRY THIS AT HOME. I employ a variety of rigorously tested, empirically proven Flinch-omancy triggers. I might start you on fire, I might wire an air horn to the lever on your toilet so stentorian that when you flush after crapping you'll crap after flushing, i might slip some acid in your altoids and show you the ending of Eraserhead WHATEVER the means, I will divine your nation of origin with the stunning 43% accuracy rate that has brought me noteriety in cross-cultural circles. Take my friend Rollie. Rollie was no exception. I clamped a car battery to a screw driver, touched it to his testicles, and as the ensuing confusion of brutal fear seized his face, I leaned in close, gazing into his frantic, desperate eyes and in that instant I KNEW he was from France. No?... wait, wait, don't tell me. Spain? No?...Sweden! You liar. You're as Swedish as Abba. OK... Icelandic? Ajerbijani? Fuck! What are you Martian? Moroccan? What? I can't understand you, you drooling paroxsym of gesticulation. You're mouthing... "Ca" "Ca" three syllables, first syllable, sounds like "man"... Man-a- .... Man-a.... "duh" you're hitting your head like...you're telling me "duh". Man-a Quebec! You're Quebecai. A Quebie. Quebecanite. Yah!! Put one more check in the "evidence for psi phenomenon" column. Take that, skeptics.)--- WEEE!! that was one MOTHER FUxxING parenthesis. Speaking of cross-cultural pollination, why aren't parenthesis in the Olympics? I'd sweep. Yes, I'm still talking about Canada, and Rollie. If you thought Montreal was the beginning and end of Canada, you're WRONG. There's Vancouver. Beyond that, it would all be wolves and moose if it weren't for my Canadian friend Rollie. How Canadian cool is he? We stole him and put hid him in America. America, we wanted Canada inside us. Deep, within. I like it when Canada pushes so far, oh, a little too far. I'm tender there. Canada, that's my cervix. Don't stop, just slow down.
And so is called to order the first assembly of Stuart Davis' United Nations of Interpersonal Relations. Canada, meet Ukraine. Ukraine, meet England. England, you know Canada of course. Canada, England. No need to genuflect, those days are over.
