“[T]he man walked into Eskimix and ordered a blueberry, raspberry and banana smoothie. ‘I kept thinking about how he looked like the author William S. Burroughs,’ the employee, Andrew Smith, 22, said.

Then the customer pulled out a handgun, pointed it at Mr. Smith and calmly told him to empty the cash register….

The most recent robbery occurred Friday night, when the same man ducked inside Rainbows and Triangles, a gift store on Eighth Avenue that caters to gay men. He pulled out his gun and demanded money. The clerk said there was none in the register, and the man left.”
-It’s a quiet time in the West Village, finds A.G. Sulzberger, as the William Burroughs look-a-like robber is passively floating from store to store, never becoming irate when local businesses have no money at all, ordering yogurt drinks (just like he did in Morocco!), then just drifting off….

More considered reaction to the Republican Senate victory in Massachusetts, reflecting something some Democratic operative said yesterday: Better Scott Brown for two years than Martha Coakley for a lifetime.

Initial Reaction To Scott Brown’s Senate Victory In Massachusetts: An Imagined Monologue By The Republican Party

Hey you, come here. I need you to do me a favor. Hold on to this bag for a little bit, okay?

Well, yeah, it is on fire. Funny story about that, I’ll tell it to you some time.

In it? Well — and get ready to laugh, this is pretty great — I filled it full of shit. Yep, shit. This, my friend, is a flaming bag of shit, and you’re holding it.

Why? You’re holding a flaming bag of shit and you’re asking me why I filled it full of shit and set it on fire? I was you I’d be figuring out a way to extinguish it rather than doing some kind of, what do you call it, searching moral inventory on how the bag came to be full of shit and set ablaze. Lemme tell you something, kid, I’ve been around a while: People don’t care why the bag is full of shit and on fire. They just want you to put it out. All these questions: Why did you fill the bag full of shit? Why on earth would you set it on fire? Why am I not helping you put it out? Nobody gives a fuck. You’re holding the bag. You took it from me. You put it out.

Look, you seem like a decent sort. I mean, sure, I’ll tell people that there’s something wrong with you, that I’m not impressed by your shit-bag-handling approach, that it’s too methodical and logical. Also, I’m gonna pretend I don’t know where you were born. But that’s just the way we play the game. Anyway, I’m gonna level with you, ’cause I like you. Here’s why I filled the bag full of shit: People like to see a full bag. They can’t get enough of it. And the fuller the bag, the happier they are. Do they know it’s full of shit? Probably. Deep down, they can’t help but know it’s full of shit. Still, and this is what I love about people, so long as they see that the bag is full, they’re gonna tell themselves it’s not shit in there, it’s pearls. Or diamonds. Or the finest silks from the Orient. Whatever, I don’t know what people like. Except seeing a full bag. Of shit.

Wow, that thing is really going. I was holding the bag, tell you what I’d do: I’d just let that fucker burn. Gotta go out sometime, right? Yeah, sure, the flames may leap to something else and cause a much larger fire, but that’s a small price to pay, am I right? I mean, all the theories on shit-filled bags that I have followed in the first place, these philosophies and dicta that I used as organizing principles while I was busy shoveling the shit into the bag, they tell me that when a bag is full of shit and on fire you just let it go. Teaches the other bags a lesson or something. But you look like a responsible kid, I’m sure you’re not going to fall for that. No, I’m not going to help you put it out, but I will sit here on the sidelines and tell you you’re doing it the wrong way.

See, here’s the thing: Eventually I’m gonna want that bag back. No, not right now. You make me laugh, kid. Keep that sense of humor, it’ll serve you well. Anyway, back to the bag: This is gonna sound a little funny — really, even I have a hard time believing it — but this ain’t the first time I’ve filled a bag full of shit and set it on fire. But here’s what I’ve learned: Someone always comes around and puts it out for me. Couple of years go by, no one remembers — not even me — that I’m the one set the damn thing in flames in the first place. They just remember the guy who was holding it while it was going up. And then they look at me, sitting over in the corner, and for some reason they think, “Now there’s a man knows how to handle a bag. Let’s give it to him for a while.”

And they do! I know, I can’t believe it either.

So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna put out that bag. It’s gonna be messy, and you’re probably gonna get a bunch of shit on you. While all that’s happening, I’ll be around to let you know how deeply I disagree with the way you’re handling it. Soon enough the bag will be out — although I have to be frank; I have never filled a bag with so much shit before. I mean, woo boy, that is one full bag — and you’ll be standing there, exhausted and confused and covered in shit. And that’s when I’ll take the bag back. It’s just the way things go. Glad we got that straightened out.

But why did I set it on fire? Great question. I don’t know either! It’s just my thing. I fill the bag full of shit, and then, maybe for kicks, I guess, I torch that fucker. You got a bag full of shit, eventually you’re gonna get creative with the accelerants, am I right? You know how it goes.

Oooh, it’s really smoking now. I was you, I’d be working even harder on putting it out. I mean, I’m not, so I won’t, but you probably want to. That’s why I gave you the bag in the first place, right?

Great. I’ll be over there. See you in a couple years!

Thank the heavens. They have done it again.

OK, so admittedly this is totally yesterday but the rumor that January Jones might be tangling junk with Jeremy Piven is SO FUNNY. Because anyone who’s disappointed and didn’t already think she was exactly this flavor of asshole needs to raise their hands so I can tag them for being losers. In fact, don’t raise your hand, I BET I CAN TELL WHO YOU ARE.

It’s not even the whole, oh, she threw Ashton under the bus for destinytampering and telling her when they were dating that she couldn’t act, blahblahblah. because whatever, it’s all very douche calling the douche douche-but Piven!

I mean, who is this insecure? You’d think she could snake some higher grade fuckery. A Bradley Cooper. Or a Gerard Butler. At least those dudes are freakshow warlocks when it comes to collecting all of the pussy EVER. so you know there’s some sort of venereal voodoo afoot.

I mean, really, did Piven even have to say anything beyond, “Say babe, you ever think maybe your nose was too small?” and then she wigs out because he’s looking all up into her secret self, way past how goddamn smokin’ she is and “sees her” on some Na’vi shit and it’s game over.

I’m not saying she’s not attractive, and I’m not saying she doesn’t give good sternumboob on GQ covers. All I’m saying is that I’ve spent a lot of time with the ladies. Certainly enough to make sweeping generalizations about ones that I’ve never ever met and there’s just something about JJ that reeks of the type of hot chick who makes a really big show of being extra nice to the retard kid until he accidentally gets spit on her and then the meanface comes out for a second until she realizes we’re all watching and then sweetface comes out. AND that January Jones totally pinched the retard kid just then and I SAW IT ALL.

New Clipse video today. For “Freedom,” which opens their new album, Til the Casket Drops. Like the much of the Virginian duo’s music, the song is great. You imagine them-brothers, Gene “Malice” and Terrence “Pusha T” Thornton-rhyming over their parents’ Hendrix records when they were kids. (The original sample is actually from David Potter’s 1971 “Open Letter,” but producers Sean C and LV put some extra-sizzly guitar over top.) But I’ll never understand wearing sunglasses inside.

“The perfect parallel that I see is between the statement that’s on the back of our dollar bills, which is ‘In God We Trust,’ and we haven’t moved away from that.”
-Maj. John Redfield, spokesman for United States Central Command, wonders what the big deal is about the revelation that “thousands of gun sights used by the U.S. military in Iraq and Afghanistan are inscribed with secret Bible references.” The so-called “Jesus guns” are more troubling to others; a Marine spokesman notes that the Corps is “concerned with how this may be perceived.”

Science knows you can tell party affiliation just by looking at someone’s face: “In Study 1, perceivers were able to accurately distinguish whether U.S. Senate candidates were either Democrats or Republicans based on photos of their faces. Study 2 showed that these effects extended to Democrat and Republican college students, based on their senior yearbook photos. Study 3 then showed that these judgments were related to differences in perceived traits among the Democrat and Republican faces. Republicans were perceived as more powerful than Democrats. Moreover, as individual targets were perceived to be more powerful, they were more likely to be perceived as Republicans by others. Similarly, as individual targets were perceived to be warmer, they were more likely to be perceived as Democrats.” [Via]

Wonkette turned us on to the fantastic Boston Globe “poll-watcher” “user-generated content” shindig going on today. Some recent faves: “Scott Brown will give my boss a tax cut who will then give me the raise he’s been promising for the last 5 years! GO BROWN!” And: “I am voting for Scott Brown who will hopefully cut funding to those pesky cops who spend all day in chat rooms pretending to be teenage girls.” The Internet is rad, dude.

Sometimes, mostly when things are English, one cannot tell if they are straightforward or sarcastic or totally invented. This first-person essay? No idea. “True, I never liked football or fighting and I do make a beautifully light Victoria sponge when the need arises. But I shamble like a bloke, I burp and fart without shame and I’ve never really got Barbra Streisand. There was a little voice, lost long ago in the drowning din of my homosexuality, that still called quietly; the smothered, smaller voice of a boy who liked girls. And then, two summers ago, I met Olga. She was a knockout-looking Ukrainian, washed ashore as a waitress in a breakfast bar in Ocean City, Maryland.” (via)