We have entered the Bizarro Universe.
Example One: It’s 80 fucking degrees in New York City on November 3rd. The worst thing about this is all these fucking assholes walking around everywhere wearing shorts and sunglasses and tossing frisbees and going, “Isn’t this great?” And yet, if the sky turned orange and rained iguanas and the blue sun rose at midnight and the dead walked the Earth, would shorts-wearing assholes proclaim it “great”? Because an 80-degree day at the end of fall is, like Meg Ryan being eaten out by a mustachioed Mark Ruffalo, a sign of the impending apocolypse.
Other signs of the impending apocolypse:
I’ve spent the last five weekends in a row watching NASCAR. (For work. Really).
And, finally, weirdest of all: Jeff Koyen is a very nice person, or, failing that, a very manipulative person good at making people feel bad about saying nasty things about him, even if those people are only me. I’d challenge him to a boxing match, but he’d win. And then give me chlamydia, not siphyllis, neither of which I can spell. Either way, the NY Press is not third-rate, but it is an alt-weekly, and it only has one whiner writing for it, and that writer is whatsisname who’s always yammering on about Dennis Kucinich in the nation.
Now that the universe has turned itself inside out, I expect to decide Kafka was an overrated, tubercular fuck and the only true voice of the 20th century is Ann Coulter.