pic 'o' the minute

As further proof that my ridiculous level of school work has robbed me of all sense of humor, here's a photo I managed to take of some Orthodox gents getting their Shabbos on. Let's just say it's not exactly an L Word rant.

P.S. The guys were not amused by me.

poop goes the world

So overwrought was I by the throne-plosion, I neglected to mention another similarly-themed event that happened to me just a few short days before.

While plodding through my day as The Oldest Intern On the Planet, the most unbelievable stench started flowing through the halls and, as far as I could tell, set up residence exclusively in my cubicle. Seeing as how this is an organization for homeless folks, I wondered to myself if someone had tried to pull a Shawshank only to meet an untimely death in one of the vents. As I mused on this while trying not to gag, an announcement went out that the smell was "just" raw sewage that had somehow backed up into the ventilation system and would we all be so kind as to evacuate immediately. I was well on my way to making this decision for myself, when the brain trusts in charge (this is non-profit after all) decided to pour bleach directly into the vents thereby creating a gaseous soup of unparalleled toxicity and odor. Peace out to the few brain cells I had left.

And with that, I shall never mention poop again.

Throne-plosion

Today I learned the true meaning of fear. Hard at work trying to finish up a paper mere hours before it was due, I retired to the bathroom to, you know, use it. I closed the lid and stepped on the flusher which I like to do for a few seconds because - in the immortal words of John Cage - "I like a fresh bowl."

I must have blinked because the next thing I knew the toilet suddenly became the closest thing I'll ever get to a geyser, or maybe a landmine. I'm not kidding when I say the thing blew up cartoon-style. So there I am in my early morning study gear of too short/too tight sweatpants, crocs, and a t-shirt howling at the top of my lungs as ice cold toilet water turns my bathroom into a veritable swimming pool. Post-traumatic stress disorder allowed me to clean myself up and hose down the bathroom with bleach, plus drag our landlord with the anger management problem into the apartment to fix the toilet all without shedding a single tear. The landlord - a guy known for shouting obscenities at inanimate objects like the garbage cans in the courtyard - happened to be wearing his dress pants and a very fancy pair of shoes. While snaking the bowl he told me that just yesterday he got bleach on his "best jeans" which "really pissed me off." Yeah, I bet it did.

So everything's back together, though I'm terrified of using the thing now. I can't even say the word. The T-thing. Anyway, it's technically safe to use, but I think I'm going to have to go pee at the Key Food for the next few days.

100 posts of ennui

Big day this Monday is. Besides being the day of the 100th post of "Touch My Ennui," the following unparalleld events happened:

1) Charleton Heston - a guy who pretended to be Moses and loved guns almost as much as he hated homosexuals - died over the weekend. Rednecks throughout the country are rending their flannel shirts.

2) My mom - a woman with an uncanny skill for hyperbole and self-diagnosis - develops an actual staph infection in her foot but swears it's MRSA.

3) My terror of dwarves returns when I spot this video on YouTube of La Pequena - a Chilean transgendered dwarf with a penchant for wigs and Amy Winehouse. After so many months back on the wagon thanks to the happy little drunk Matt Roloff of "Big People / Little World," I'm officially off again.

P.S. A big shout out to our non-blood relative El G. for being a loyal reader even without the obligation of biology. You rock.

stuff white people without jobs don't like

#1: Reading About a White Guy Who Only Started Blogging 4 Months Ago and Already Has a Book Deal

Ok, so his "Stuff White People Like" blog is brilliant. Who cares? As all two of you who read "Touch My Ennui" know (hi mom and dad), we've been(that would be the royal we) updating our little nook of the blogosphere - albeit sporadically - for going on three years now and Random House hasn't once offered us a little something (wink wink) for our "efforts."

Sure there was that one moment when a friend clued me in to the fact that Touch My Ennui had been mentioned on an L Word stalker site because I happened to poke fun at Shane aka Kate Moennig's extraordinarily small feet which mesmerized me during her way off-Broadway turn as that dykey white trash soldier who put a guy on a leash only to get pregnant and court martialed. You totally know who I'm talking about, don't even pretend that you don't.

Needless to say, the passing mention did not get me millions of readers, pop culture fame, and - dare I say it again? - a book deal. I want a book deal!

All of this was made even worse because I read about Stuff White People Like's blowout success while sitting at my internship eating the free lunch I brought from home because, in case you missed it, I am the oldest living intern on the planet. There's nothing like eating out of a Ziploc bag in a nonprofit agency for homeless people where you work 3 days a week for free at an age roundly considered to be too old to not have a job that, you know, actually pays.

Not that I'm resentful. As I said, I enjoy Stuff White People Like just as much as the next white person and the people who like to laugh at white people. I just can't afford half of what he talks about. Of course, maybe that's the point.