Questions For: Harry Bo, Gummi Bear
Earlier today, a brand manager complained about the portrayal of Gummi Bears in the media. He claimed that you were actually warm and comforting.
The fuck we are. What jackass said that?
John Leonardo of Trolli.
Trolli? Not for nothin’, I can’t be too shocked about that. Those Trolli bears, they’re a little soft in the center, if ya know what I mean.
I’m not sure that I do.
You know, they’re a bunch of Nancy bears. Swissy boys. Friends of Mary Jane?
You’re trying to imply that they’re-
Hey, look, to each his own. All I’m sayin’ is you’re not gonna find Harry Bo rubbin’ gellies with no “Care bear.” It ain’t natural.
So you dispute the characterization that you’re the type of confection that would give “a big old bear hug and whisper, ‘Everything is going to be alright.’”?
You kiddin’ me? The only time I’m putting my arm around some broad and talkin’ sweet to her you bet your ass I’m trying to get into her crevasse.
Crevasse?
Look close on the lady bears you’ll find a little space in the center. That, pally, is where Harry Bo does his thing.
Wow, you really are crass and rude.
Lemme tell you something, you Swedish-fish eating fuck: You come up in the neighborhood I came up in, you learn early on how to handle yourself. No one’s opening any bags for you. It’s push or be pushed. I ain’t braggin’ or nothin’, but I’ve done stuff would make a pussy like you shit lemon. Somebody fucks with me? I wrap a big Gummi worm around their neck and hold it tight till he’s puking pectin. Bitch gets outta line? Splash of citric acid right in that pretty face of hers shows her who’s boss. I am a fuckin’ Gummi Bear, you get me? I will get up in your teeth and stick there all day if I have to.
You sound pretty sour.
Sour? I ain’t Sour. Nobody likes a fuckin’ Sour Bear. Those guys are the bottom of the fuckin’ barrel. They’ll pimp their own sister for a small bag of starch. I’m ashamed to even be seen on the same aisle with those glucoseless fucks. Ya got any more questions, or are you just gonna sit there waiting for me to shove my Gummi Cock in your mouth, Mr. Big Time Reporter?
I think you’ve mostly cleared things up, thanks.
Lick me.
Oh, one last thing: Do Gummi Bears shit in the Gummi woods?
Fuck you think? Gummi Bears shit wherever the fuck they want. Well, except maybe Trolli Bears. I bet those candy-asses actually sit down to piss. Bunch of winegums. Now go fuck yourself with a marshmallow peep, I got things to do.
INTERVIEW HAS BEEN CONDENSED AND EDITED.
The Poetry Section: Richard Lawson, "Wiki"
by Mark Bibbins, Editor
Today in the poetry section, a new poem by Richard Lawson.
Wiki
Too late at night, when I should have been sleeping,
I stumbled upon the suicide woods of Mt. Fuji,
the dark and quiet Aokigahara,
a place they once thought goblins lived.
Where they find dozens of lonely bodies
every year,
crumpled under signs reading
“Please call the police before you decide to end your life!”
“Please reconsider.”
Please don’t do this, unknown people yell,
trying to fight the hush of the woods,
the watchful white cone of the mountain
pointing a cold path to the sky.
There are other places like this,
chalk cliffs in England,
a twined metal bridge hanging over the Bosphorus,
the Golden Gate and Niagara Falls.
But those are places where we can disappear
into gravity,
throw ourselves out without implement,
without pill or sharp edge or loud booming fire.
In those woods, though, you are rooted and heavy.
I could not find any mention of how they actually do it,
as if they all just stood motionless for a moment
and let the trees and brown forest mat
slowly empty them out.
Maybe the stillness eventually stops their hearts,
a rare wind steals their breath,
and they simply fade and collapse,
the black bead of their pain
dislodging, rolling free.
They do not wash away,
they do not sink into nothing.
They stay.
That there is a forest like this,
a suicide woods,
is that strange kind of sadness
that tires your insides,
puts you to bed glad that
despite the rigor and boredom,
confusion and ache,
there are still faraway places
to which you would never travel.
Because they are cursed,
because they have been given too much
already.
They say that under the dirt
there are deposits of iron
that make compasses twirl.
They think that some people who die there
simply get lost.
They intended to walk back out,
to get in their cars,
to feel once again the tin hum in their bones
of Tokyo breathing.
But the woods held them back,
sent them in circles.
As I went to sleep, I imagined a few rueful ghosts
watching these turned-around people,
trying to guide them out with feathery hands.
Please, reconsider. Don’t go that way.
That is where they found me months later,
curled up and silent,
buried in snow.
Richard Lawson is a staff writer for Gawker.com and has had work appear in Out magazine and on The Awl. His poetry has previously been published in various Boston-based student literary magazines of record.
You may contact the editor of the section at poems@theawl.com.
Garry Shider, Funk Pioneer, 1953-2010
Sad day in funk yesterday: Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame guitarist Garry Shider, a longtime lieutenant in George Clinton’s Parliament/Funkadelic empire, died of cancer at the age of 56. Born and raised in Plainfield, New Jersey, Shider joined Clinton’s outfit for 1972’s Maggot Brain album, and went on to co-write and perform on classic material like “Can You Get to That?,” “One Nation Under a Groove” and “Atomic Dog”-during the recording of which, he held a particularly intoxicated Clinton up in front of the microphone while he sang. Shider was famous for wearing nothing but a diaper on stage. Doesn’t get much funkier than that.
See, Those Vuvuzelas Do Sound Just Like The Intro To "Welcome to the Jungle"
Yes! The other day, the whole time I was watching the England-U.S.A. match, hearing the drone of the famous vuvuzelas, I couldn’t think of anything except the intro to “Welcome to the Jungle.” (Admittedly, it’s kind of rare that I’m ever thinking of anything except the intro to “Welcome to the Jungle.” But still.)
I mentioned it again and again to the friends I was with and none of them knew at all what I was talking about. (Everyone just kept saying it sounded like bees.) I even commented about it here earlier this week. (Also, ahem, to zero agreement.) Well, thankfully, soccer nut Bruce Sholl, who knows more about musical notes than I do, and who is covering the World Cup for a website called One Great Season, hears the truth and assures me I’m not crazy.
“The vuvuzela produces a sustained b-flat note, which in my mind correlates to the intro note of the Guns N’ Roses timeless classic ‘Welcome To The Jungle.’ I imagine Slash, or 50,000 Slashes, producing this note throughout a game without ever moving on to his terrifically descending guitar riff that kicks off the song before Axl Rose rejoins with his unmistakable banshee cry.”
Phew.
World Cup Update: Don't Touch That Dial!
I don’t know what kind of religious programming they air in South Africa, but it is apparently rather compelling: “A South African man who wanted to watch a World Cup football match instead of a religious programme was beaten to death by his family, police said today.”
Sexiest Gallery Babes Fotogallery World Cup Fans Las Chicas del Mundial Hotties Contest [SLIDESHOW...
Sexiest Gallery Babes Fotogallery World Cup Fans Las Chicas del Mundial Hotties Contest [SLIDESHOW of other SLIDESHOWS]
by Abe Sauer
The World Cup is a economic boon for many interests. During the 2006 Cup, Adidas saw its sales increase a whopping 30%. Twitter is also reaping the World Cup whirlwind. And for online publications big and small, the World Cup means posting sexy WAG hottie fan babes GALLERY SLIDESHOWS.
Please note: it should be a working assumption that all links below may be, for some workplaces, NSFW.
From some dude’s crummy little blog to Life Magazine (Yes! LIFE: Sexy World Cup Fans!), a gallery of buxom hotties decked out in the minimum amount of clothing that allows them to still be identified by national partisanship is a pageview no-brainer. (Even the Village Voice , while hewing closer to their mission, understands this!)
And who cares if the photos posted in your “2010 World Cup Sexiest Fans” SLIDESHOW! are actually from 1998? Nobody cares, because everyone’s gallery is just stolen from others websites’ galleries.
Well, as I’ve been told that The Awl is, in fact, a commercial enterprise, it certainly should not be left out of the sweet, sweet pageview orgy.
So, what follows is a nearly comprehensive collection of hot sexy sex World Cup babe PHOTOS hottie fans contest SLIDESHOW links from the U.S., Germany, England, Italy, Mexico and around the world!
Oh, you get the idea. Here are the 51 other best hot girl soccer World Cup sexy babe slideshows on the Internet!
2010 World Cup Soccer South Africa
Finally, don’t be fooled by the title of the Daily Beast’s “Sizzling World Cup Women” gallery. It is basically just a bunch of soccer players eating supper with their wives. Fully clothed. Lame.
Abe Sauer is proud of your brand.
Today Is the Day I Finally Trashed All Those Drake MP3s
December 27, 2009: The day I imported Drake’s “So Far Gone” into my iTunes.
June 17, 2010: The day I finally deleted it, because it’s really not good! And it’s annoying! And I don’t like it at all! And every time it comes on my iTunes on shuffle, I fast-forward! What is the deal with Drake and his popularity? It’s kind of garbage!
Hugely Successful Pandora Sooooo Close To Making Money
I really enjoyed Sasha Frere-Jones’ piece on streaming music and Pandora. Pandora has fifty million listeners, which is enormous. This may be why they have eighty sales people and a staff of 180 people (!!), and also six offices, which, uh, let me be the first to offer them a real estate consultation to minimize their overhead costs, I guess? And of course they are being financially hosed for playing by the rules of “radio”-that eats 60% of their total (not net!) revenue. So these projections for 2010 have them so close to breaking even: only losing a couple of million dollars. But isn’t that disheartening, that something pretty awesome, and so successful, can still be short by a few million a year? How are we supposed to become the future and all?
Dale Peterson Stands Up For Non-Dummy In Ag Commish Race
Dale Peterson, “the world’s most famous candidate for Alabama Ag Commissioner,” has made an endorsement in the race in which he ran third. Now, I love me some Dale Peterson, so it pains me to admit that it seems like he’s, I dunno, going through the motions here? I mean, shooting the actual gun is a nice touch, but this spot just seems like it lacks the vigor and righteous anger of the Dale Peterson we met way back in May. Maybe losing a race does that to you. [Via]
In Defense of Monster Abs
In what seems like an unexceptional moment in the history of blogging, this gay Irish youngster wrote on his blog about his enormous abs and how much he likes them! But actually, it’s fascinating? We mock people who work out, and think they’re stupid, even while we demand that our famous people have absurd bodies. (Even their non-famous younger brothers have to work out.) There’s a funky stew of jealousy, desire, hatred-and, naturally, animal compulsion to look. So his explanation of what it’s like for him when taking off his shirt and having people sort of explode is really interesting.
You may be interesting, smart, sweet, nice, great. But I attract looks. When I take my shirt off, the guys look. Straight guys envy me, their own lack of discipline reflected in my abs. They’re turned on not by me, but by the life I represent, something out of the soft-porn story section in their blokey magazines. Gay guys want me, desire to touch me, their eyes like fingers unbuttoning my shirt, slowly, gently sliding the tips of their fingers along the topography of the gutters between each muscle. This gives me confidence I didn’t always have.
I used to by a quiet kid, my secrets making me shy away from people, from connections. I remember the moment it changed, when I first took off my shirt at a pool party. Everyone gasped. Mates, their girlfriends, everyone just looked. I remember that feeling. That was me, being marveled for my will, for my accomplishment.
I work hard on my abs and they remind me of who I am now. A strong young man among men who look up to my resolve, my will. Because of my stomach, I know who I am.
So if you think that’s shallow, look in the mirror. Are you happy? Do you see yourself as you think you should be? Okay. If not, do something.