WET HOT AMERICAN SUMMER?

Copied from my notebook, originally written sometime in April:

I am currently enrolled in a class called Contemporary Italian Politics, which is taught completely in Italian. Every so often, Prof. Mattia Toaldo [a real mensch that one] will throw some basic Q&A at the class to keep us focused [or at least pretending to be]. The questions are often factual queries about the US of A that he uses to illustrate points about Italy through juxtaposition martinpradoxtaposition. If it's a particularly sleepy Lunedi or the class is simply very tuned out, Toaldo will ask the question in English, really praying for some sort of response.

This particular day, he was using the BMI (Big Mac Index) to explain differences in purchasing power between Italians and Americans. So he asked, "Who knows the price of a Big Mac in the USA?"

Silence befell classroom 3A and many heads were lowered in avoidance of professorial eye contact. Maybe they didn't know the answer and were afraid to guess, or perhaps they all knew but were embarrassed to admit it. We sat for about 20 minutes (adjusted for Awkward Standard Time) in silence while Toaldo looked on expectantly.

Finally a voice was raised, that, once it began, continued with unwavering confidence. This was the voice of a singular character, a near-Snooki clone, who had the look of an expert on the subject of the golden arches, and whose entire existence provided justification for mandatory sun-screening (**Tangent after story**). Her declaration left nothing to be questioned about her expertise: "The price of a Big Mac in the USA? Four thirty-seven...ish."



[**Hippopotami**]

Just watched this Nash G-graph spesh on Hippopotami. The long and short of it is hippos are the most dangerous animals in the world, but they excrete a super-sweat that is both a natural sunblock and frighteningly effective antibiotic cream, which our host, Brady Barr must remove from the back of a wild beast. His plan is to invade the Hippo colony in a 200 lb. teflon hippo disguise. Madness ensues. Find this shit and watch it.

***There's More! Dopalicious tidbit about Pablo Escobars pet Hippos



Guilelessly,

Alexander

Buckets (Stronzino)

There are many traditions upheld by citizens of every city, but these traditions become even more entrenched and gain a mysterious quality when a city has been around for hundreds or even thousands of years. The ghosts of a place never leave and their legacy serves as a placeholder for those who can't see them. The little rock piles that gather all over Istanbul at the hottest time of summer surely aren't the work of wraiths and dead emperors but the tradition of placing these stones is a relic of history. Same with the fish carcasses that are discarded on the outskirts of London when the first flowers of spring bloom, which always face southeast, defiant to the channel and Europe beyond.

Well I discovered perhaps the oddest practice of all. Where else should it be but the Immortal City? Devious popes and magnificent barbarians, shackled fathers of world domination and galloping defenders of home and beauty; they all lived here. And they all drank wine. Lots and lots and lots of wine. The barbarians would drink to a mad rage and battle their bonfires with unseen fury. The fathers cast spells of infatuation and vile cannibalism on their wine and let it course through their shaking bodies.

The alcohol would grip them and change them. And then it subsided. But it wasn't pretty. It made men into demons. It conquered giants. [It killed Alexander of Macedonia] And sometimes it found its escape, forcing the men of old to expel it with force. It happens today--it's called vomit. Usually this means one has drank too much, but in the days of old it was a sign, not of physiological reactions but of the juice's desire to leave the host, whether out of fear or disapproval. The occasion of the vomit was well-observed and marked with gravity.

The places of these occurrences became significant. So a list was made. And if a man was to conquer the demons of the spirits, he had to achieve the vomiting ritual at each of the places in question. The list encompasses dozens of locations around Rome, some that still remain as they were long ago, and some that have been built upon. But even the ones that have changed remain the (un)holy sites of evacuation that must be had as well. I gained access to the list and have embarked on the quest to elevate my soul and eradicate the source of the tragic flaw. Below are the places that I have checked off my list so far. Understand it is just a beginning of a lifelong journey, one that I undertake with every ounce of reverence.

>The Institute of International Affairs

>The United States Consulate

>The corner of Viale Trastevere, in clear view of G.G. Belli and the river

>34 Via dei Genovesi, just behind a 12-century synagogue

>In a basement, several hundred yards west of the Spanish Steps

I have achieved only about 5% of what I set out to do a few months ago. I will draw on the might of the pagan hero, Heracles, in the coming months and drink wine like only a god could.

Join me.

Updates to follow.

Regards,

Starlin Kubarius Castro

"The stars shine without the sun because the night calls to them."

Rome snitches

Lungotevere is the road that runs along the Tiber River in Rome. If you know Italian, everything following the predicate in that first sentence is superfluous. It is a very busy road. There are certain places where I cross it in dire peril. I feel that living here in Italy with all its sensory pleasures has made me appreciate life more, but then again, it might just be the knowledge that I am constantly escaping death-by-smartcar that has given my life that extra golden dusting.

Lungotevere is a busy fucking road. Did I mention that? It is hectic and loud. It is chaos. This is Italy (Africa, Sparta, etc.). Mopeds weave rapidly through red light traffic in order to get up to the light in expectancy of the starter’s gun of red-becoming-green. Traffic laws are suggestions at best. Six, eight, ten cars gun it through yellow and then red lights, ending up stuck in the intersection, sticking their tiny car asses out and blocking the perpendicular flow of traffic.

And then come the horns. The beeps and boops and comically un-intimidating (when compared with their American counterparts) Carabinieri sirens. The deep honk of buses provides a bass line for this symphony of impatience and discord.

And the Italians honk like they damn well mean it. I mean they really let you hear it. The equation for honking is as follows.

(Seconds you made them wait)(minutes since their last cigarette smoked x 2)=HT

where HT=honk time.

That’s about the extent of my math.

(A short tangent before this story climaxes all over your face and runs down your sweaty chest/breast: As previously alluded to, crossing streets in Rome is dangerous. A tried and true method is a little skill I like to call “Drafting behind middle-aged women.” Not to get into this too much, but the trick is to cross the street while an at least somewhat-attractive middle-aged Italian woman is also crossing. As it turns out, the horribly obnoxious flirty tendencies of Italian men mean that if a woman actually survives to middle age, it is understood that she has endured so many catcalls and so many demeaning advances that at this point in her life she deserves utmost respect. Thus, when these women cross the street, the cars pause without honking at all, in a show of respect to her, aka putting the Figa on a Pedestal. So I run behind these women to preserve my life and not get honked at. It is a failsafe method that I would recommend to anyone.)

ALLORA

So now that you know that extent of Italian honking, you might be like, “ew that shit’s gross and loud and I’m not tryna hear it.” I feel ya girl. But honestly, you get used to it, just like Jews in the ghetto of Rome got used to wearing yellow hats whenever they were allowed out into the real world. It becomes part of the day-to-day. ALLORA, anyone who has lived in Rome for more than a month is used to this incessant honking and it becomes white noise, the Immortal City’s take on chirping birds or crickets. (Quick sidenote: Living in Rome you see many nuns/priests/professional undercover child molestors/popes dressed in their religious garb walking around. And I feel it’s not a stretch to assume these people aren’t just tourists; they’re probably here for a while).

ALLORA

While walking to school the other day, I encountered quite an amusing scene. I was walking along Lungotevere (remember it?) and saw ahead of me 2 things: 1. A traffic scene similar to what had been described above, with cars that had run the red light but had nowhere to go encroaching on the ability of the other cars to move, and thusly honkyville (not to be confused with Crossroads, Georgia (sorry Mr. Gill)) and 2. A very young northern-European looking priest all priested up. He seemed to be perturbed at the lack of lion/lamb reclining indicated by the honking and yelling (MA DAI!) and was condemning these poor souls with the best of his ability.

As I removed my earbuds and paused No Ceilings for just a few fleeting seconds I heard a line of much hilarity. Now it will be difficult to illustrate for you just how hilarious this was, as you must imagine the voice with which it was intoned. This young (I suspect) German priest had the EXACT voice of none other than our beloved Bruno. I don’t know how to do umlauts on the computer but I wish I did. Like very very very Bruno and very very very fabulous. What he said next will remain with me until the day I forget it.

“Dat is soooooo helpful you guys. Vhen you beep everyone goes fahstar. Totally.”

That’s the punchline. Enjoy.

And now the first in a new series on the academic interpretation of rap songs and validation of their lyrics.

1. SKY PAGER -- A Tribe Called Quest

[real lyrics]
[listen to song]

Q-Tip & Phife Dawg illuminate the importance of sky pagers.

Prompt: Do you know the importance of a sky pager?

Q-Tip:
To the uninformed public (esp. other rappers): You are already below my level because you fail to appreciate how helpful a sky pager can be. I keep mine on all the time; it gets great reception at concert venues. And now, a completely unrelated anecdote to finish out my first point.

If you happen to be enjoying a nice dinner of cacciatore con límon with wine and you only have 30 minutes to meet up with your bitch, you should smoke a joint of marijuana at your house (homies optional).

Occasionally my pager acts up when I am pursuing women, which is irritating. I am a sex fiend so I have no qualms about caressing my erect penis in public (through the pants). It's often awkward when I'm doing this, and my business manager pages me. I actually sent 2000 pages this month so they are cutting the service off this thing. Oh well, I'm a rich rapper!


Phife:
I would agree with my esteemed colleague, but add that I, too, will be smoking marijuana with you. (Non sequitur, Skypager is an acronym, and the S stands for Sex). After smoking, I'll probably receive several sextual advances on my pager from the rotation of bitches I keep available. Sometimes withdrawal from use of my sky pager gives me acute depression, as diagnosed by my psychiatrist, Dr. Ayre Rubenstein. Maybe that's the reason pagers seem so complex to me, when really, it's just a small device that receives numbers.

As a valuer of the importance of a sky pager, I only use the best Duracell batteries, which usually last me up to three weeks, even though I keep the pager on every second of every day. Further, my coverage covers all of North America and even the Caribbean. If you are within 500 miles of me and text the number 69, I will come have sex with you.

Women

Anne Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn about that tomato soup OR incest.

Taken out of context, these could seem offensive to fetching, Daniel Boone-era partridge flurry-probers:

1. (Ice cream=cool?)

Albatrosstracize: were they male or female?

Brevi(wet)tyshirtcontest: one of each. not sure who gave me the 10 though. probly the ho

A: probably the guy - wanted some of that backdoor action

B: yeah you're right he did write his number and an lolSmileyFace on an unused doily that he slipped into my breast pocket when i wasnt looking

A: the weirdest part about that scenario is only that he would write it on a doily instead of an unused ballot or something

B: i thought so too, until i was sipping tea off of Shmordan's naked, childlike body later and realized i needed a doily more than i needed a blowjay. so i called him and told him how thoughtful he was. he called me a dirty jew and hung up. what did you do for halloween beeteedubbs?

A: dressed up as queen frostine from candyland, went downtown with my friends princess lolly and lord licorice to a loft party on the west side. had a silly time. what about you?

B: you do truly embody silliness. i dressed up as Slutty Mrs. Doubtfire with my friend Braille and then went to Fell's not once, but twice. i have zero recollection of the first time and i have no idea why i went back. but i probably had fun

A: i'm not sure if i even want to know how one dresses up as slutty mrs. doubtfire

B: that's like my friend Ronald saying "no, don't" when i offered to pick up his $560 tab at the strip club last week. of course you want to know.

A: not like that, no. cuz in Ronald's example, he ultimately gains from you picking up the tab and he's just trying a thinly masked attempt at sincerity. whereas i don't really gain from having images of sexy mrs doubtfire float around in my head. sort of like images of jordan's naked childlike body. but thanks for these stunning visuals

B: firstly, he ultimately loses because he doesnt gain the valuable lesson of taking responsibility for his actions. but im glad you're enjoying the image flotation. also, i just hope you wouldnt try to stymie the freedom of expression of mid-60s women with hairy legs and, as it turns out, junk down below.

A: psh i am not a stymier. to each his own

2. (Amid Afghanis and overwhelmingly saturating smells. hint: it's under the way)

Lieberschnitzel: well if we all technically have relationships with everybody, then you have a relationship with Sheeny, no?

Ms. Idle-vice: no. of course we have a relationship, but we're not in a relationship like you and Cindy. I keep Sheeny at arm's length. But that bitch is obsessed with you. she's gonna fucking kill you some day.

L: What are you talking about? i gots that ho on a strang. child please, you sluttish Von Trapp wannabe.

M: Oh really? you think you got her under control til she flips out one day and goes all Elin Nordegren on your ass. she's gonna kill you and then rape you.

L: Girls can't even rape dead bodies! you ignorant chuckleface. one more advantage of having that Y chromosome. you're really just grasping at camels' backs at this point, you gook-loving bucket of spinal fluid!

M: You can't deter me with your slightly-less-than-far fetched insults! Just because I have a bucket of baby spinal fluid in my garage doesnt mean that I am one! Of course she could find a way to rape you. She'll do it. You fucking watch out. she's gonna inject you with some mixture of Fiji Water and other things that will render you rapeable. Get out while you can, shartsnuffer!

L: Hold on, she's calling me.... Hey babe....yeah, where?

3. (And finally, a gangster rap battle on the streets of Newport News, VA)

Young Siggy Freud: Crackin' yolks like I'm crackin these jokes, when I'm servin you an omelet, funny-side up.

The Chinese Fireball: I take yuh yolk and make flied lice, serve it up real nice, while ya bitch Sheondra imbibes the fruit of my loins thrice

Y: I got no qualms to embalm you after I stomp you, show you how it feels to get-eh-eh-to get beat for real

T: Negative B, plus or minus the square root of B-squared minus 4AC, ALL over 2A, nucca!

Y: I'm keen for this sticky green, a bean ain't the magical fruit no more, I'm sticky-icky-icky to the core

T: Cannabis is a genus of flowering plants that includes three putative species, Cannabis sativa, Cannabis indica and Cannabis ruderalis Janisch. These three taxa are indigenous to Central and South Asia.

Y: Puffin on the magical dragon, aka reefer, aka weed, your words i don't heed, my high is all i need

T: THAT'S WHY I FUCKED YOUR BITCH YOU FAT MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!

Y: aight man, you got it. chill.

"It had impaired my ability to have a sculpture garden"

Homegirls and boys, welcome to the Mansfield Wrotto Memorial Winter Wonderland Sexxxtravaganza:

I kissed Pat Burrell and I liked it

The taste of his hairy plas-dick

I kissed Pat Burrell just to try it

Now I call him Mr. Fantastic

It felt so fab

So he said, "Thanks!"

Burrell looks exactly like Tom Hanks

I kissed Pat Burrell and I liked it

I liked it

Watch all the funny shit I posted over there above Joe Mauer. Those guys are all close buds so any support means a lot.

The best album I've ever heard (right now) is something I spent $4 on and is called "Rare Hendrix." His guitar sodomizes my soul with its beauty every single track [Good Feeling, Voice In The Wind, Go Go Shoes Part 1, Go Go Shoes Part 2, Good Times, Bring My Baby Back, Suspicious last but best Hot Trigger]. Just believe me.

ATTN****beep-boop. Do you read me? Messrs. Nutt and Street, we have a problem.****ATTN:

Random sampling of the top 100 comments from the peanut gallery in my head:

3. Why am I wearing pants?

28. Why hasn't she gotten me food yet?

79. Why are you talking to me right now?

44. Fuck that shit.

41. Hey, you, get offa my cloud!

15. THAT'S what's really hood bitch!

69. There's no way I actually have to get out of bed for at least an hour.

Thanks to the sexiest former-rasta/quaker in Waterville for this!:

i just need a woman who's intelligent and passionate

and cook when i dont ask

you know i don't hassle halibut

-->Do work Wale

One and one and one is three.

Something I was thinking of over the summer:

"i have a lot of time to think at my job. here's what i came up with. top 5 non-sexual fantasy:

Michael Westen narrating key moments of my life with his deadpan delivery and overused metaphors.
Samuel L. repeating "fuck" or "motherfucker" every time I say them (i would obviously say them more)
Stu Scott saying, "he put that SAUCE on him" every time i do something awesome
Sir Charles saying, "Bwah Asa bwah,"(bwah=boy) every time i do something questionable or unknightly.

i think i need one more voice to complete the pentfecta. i guess the only thing preventing this from actually happening is that Westen isnt a real person. fuck."

-A younger me

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL: Nationalism

And finally, some wisdom from our dear friend, Gucci Mane:

Da way my wrist gliss I make a hood bitch say damn

My necklace, rubbers and da fact I go ham

It's lonely up here man I need to come down

So many O's I made da bank teller pass out

My traphouse floor lookin like a magic city monday

but ain't no singles its just big head hunnits (hundreds)

My car is gettin washed by this ugly ass junkie

I keep laughin like a woman but ain't shit funny

[above are actual song lyrics]

With Love,

-Starlin Kubarius Castro

2300 Wilson Circle, Nepal.

The Fifteenth Day of December, 2009

P.S. Iodine poisoning ain't a joke. Ask this guy or these guys.

PEACE bitches