I’d Rather Roll A Katamari Into The Sunset [Friday Thoughts With TeeCoZee]

Good After 2:45. It’s always good after 2:45. 2:44 is starting to feel like rock bottom. Or getting a Rock Bottom from Dwayne Johnson. Am I still talking? Shit. It’s Friday, May 29, Two Thousand and Fifteen. The weather in Brooklyn is 79˚ & sunny and somewhere, somebody is trying to decipher what to do with a pitchfork. It’s like a rake, but more useless. It’s like a stick, but more useful. Somewhere in the middle. If he holds it upright, he’d look like that one painting he saw parodied in a Burger King commercial or an art museum or something. But he’d have to chew some hay. That’s how it works, right? Or maybe it’s cud? Are cud and hay the same thing? Who cares? I have some things on my mind.

– Fun fact that I’m sure few people knew: Electric Six [Yeah, remember that band that had that really good album in like 2003?] has made 11 albums in the last 11 years. Not bad for a joke-rock band that seemingly lost all of their steam [and fanbase] after their sophomore effort. They must be very, very bored. And loaded. On money and drugs. Mostly money. And mostly drugs.

Other fun facts I learned about things that I thought were washed away and start with the letter S:

* Spinal Tap has made 3 studio albums
* Surge tastes a lot like Mountain Dew. It may be because I never drank it out of a can?
* Sarah Michelle Gellar is still alive and thinks people want to see her make out with other middle-aged women
* Stains on my shorts remain from last summer and I should probably buy new shorts

– One thing that hasn’t gotten old in the last 10 years is Katamari Damacy. Yes, the game is still good and yes, I am playing it on a nightly basis. For the 80% that don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s a game where you do nothing but roll a magnetic ball and pick up objects, until you basically wipe out the universe.

Yeah, okay, I’ve also been getting high most nights. But I’m finding it more therapeutic by the day. I always imagine what it would be like to do it in real life. Like if I needed to pick up a few things off the ground at work. But then I get carried away and pick up a shit-ton of apples. Then lettuce. Then onions. Steaks. Pasta. Whole rotisserie chickens. Gallons of milk. Cash registers. That one co-worker that pisses me off. Shelves. Cars. Apartment buildings. Small stores. Office buildings. The Statue of Liberty. It would take me that long to realize how fucked I am. I just performed grand larceny on a national landmark. Then I’d try to go home to hide it, taking up all of South Brooklyn on my way and then accidentally rolling up my apartment while trying to park it. Then I would be broke, jobless, homeless and on the run with a Weapon Of Mass Destruction™. At that point, I would have no choice but to say fuck it, roll off into the sunset and destroy the entire world. I’ll take the sunset too, while I’m at it. For some reason, the only thing that makes me feel better about the world at the end of the day is imagining it being destroyed. By me, to a J-Poppy soundtrack and pastels flying everywhere. It’s…uh…been a long month.

– This new Electric Six album sounds like it was made in 2003. Their sound never changed. I really wonder what else their fans listen to on a daily basis.

– Saying “Oh My God” may be totally PC, but it’s awfully selfish. It sounds like you own the God. Gods can’t be owned. Asshole. A better way of saying it would be “Oh, God that I worship but you probably don’t, judging from that shit on your head, which is totally fine because you can say the same thing in this scenario to me, which you probably should, because that car is about to hit us!” Other good, shorter suggestions would be “Oh God”, “Oh The God”, “Oh Ambiguous Powerhead” and “Watch out, Radioactive Man!”

– As much as I like rap music, there are way too many fellatio references. Like across the board, everyone is talking about blowjobs all the friggin time. Can’t they rap about something else a woman can do for them? Like clean, make sandwiches, run Fortune 500 companies, make us laugh, campaign for president or give handjobs? Of course not. Rappers hate handjobs.

– This weeks Letter From Coze went to snoozebutton44:

The thing that always confused me as a kid was that the title “The Adventures of Milo & Otis” signified that they had more than one adventure, which is not true. I also felt that in their universe, the other adventures existed, but Hollywood was holding out on releasing them because I was mean to my sister sometimes.

For some reason, she actually responded:

Yeah, what the heck, dude? If only you were a kinder brother, we could have seen all of the unreleased adventures. Honestly, I get what you mean, but they do find themselves on mini-adventures within the larger adventure home. Y’know?

For some reason, the conversation stopped there. I don’t remember why I didn’t respond to her. Maybe she talked too much about traveling or biking or being successful. I really need to stop having these hangups. Whatever. I should learn how to surf or something first.

– I thought I was getting closer to quitting smoking. In the last few weeks, I have felt really weird about smoking in the daytime. Like it’s 4:00 right now, and I still don’t want a cigarette. I think it’s a guilt thing, like I don’t want to be identified as a smoker anymore. But then once the sun goes down, I start chain smoking like Bruce Willis on payday. So I guess I’m not making any progress. You just can’t see me do it.

– There’s some spam mail on my table from Bloomberg Businessweek. The envelope specifically states “DO NOT BEND”. I spent a while considering the consequences of doing so. Perhaps [THE] Bloomberg will personally show up to my apartment and kick me in the nads. Or maybe the envelope will self-destruct. Maybe I’ll get arrested for tampering with government property. Maybe Peter Damato, somebody who definitely doesn’t live here, will come into my apartment, sit on the couch and suddenly I will become him. My room would be filled with Peter Damato’s stuff, I would have Peter Damato’s face and also be plagued by Peter Damato’s decision of whether or not to subscribe to Bloomberg Businessweek. Or maybe, just maybe, this amazing magazine offer would be void if folded. Let’s find out:
The result? Folded paper. What a gyp. I already have tons of folded paper. I didn’t need more. Meh.

Try this trick over the weekend: Tear the tag off your couch. Run away. Change your name. Buy a couch. Repeat.

Have a lammy weekend, everybody!