The seagulls would like to make an announcement. The would like to say "eeeeeyyaaayeiee" and have just done so. Please be advised that this should not have any impact on the rest of todays post.

(for those of you that do not know which seagulls those are, we here at swerdloff dot com suggest that you click here and find the mention of seagulls.)

There's something about loins that brings out the beast in people. It's probably that they're tender, succulent, and if you marinade them right and put them on a hard roll, they're the least fatty meat you can eat. You don't hear about pork hoof and mouth disease these days, either. That's because the hoof and mouth virus is Jewish, and keeping kosher. It's very sad. Not quite as sad as that time that Erin broke her wrist running into that gelato factory to save the burning kittens, but you know, sad in a "god damn it jews have a bad enough name already" sort of way.

Which is to say, bollocks.

In other news, Meghan and I went to the International Center for Photography, where Liz works, to see the Kiki Smith exhibit, since Meghan loves Kiki Smith's lillith piece, which hangs in the Met. The Smith exhibit was lovely, with phony apples on the floor, phony breasts on the audience, and photographs of an old woman lying on the ground in a forest as if she were grandma, on her way to heaven, having just eaten an apple and been killed by a wolf. Talk about mixed metaphors.

Downstairs was an exhibit utterly worth avoiding, of a German artist who did work with dolls, focusing on the erotic possiblities of the curves of the asses of dolls. They made a big point of the fact that the Nazi's never allowed this art to be shown in Germany, and Meghan summed it up best when she said "maybe that was because it's bad."

[Editors note: we'd still like to take a vacation, but the author refuses to let us out of his head. Please pass the haloperidol.]

In accordance with most major laws of physics and the rules of good taste, we left rapidly and went to my apartment to read the new hardcover edition of Planetary. For those of you that don't know what planetary is, well, for shame. Shame shame shame. Unless you don't regularly read comic books, in which case, for shame, pity and more shame. Shame again for good measure. Planetary is the single greatest thing to happen to comic books since skin tight suits. It's amazing what you can do with a large selection of misproportioned breasts, some spandex and superpowers. Just ask president Bush.

Sadly, the author finds himself slipping into the third person again, a thoroughly annoying thing to do when in conversation with ones friends over cocktails and cheese, but an excellent literary device when one wishes to dissociate oneself from ones actions. Or when the MPD starts taking over. Fortunately, we have no direction with this, and so nobody will be stopping us on the street anymore asking if we know how to get to Carnegie Hall, in a vain attempt to be as funny as some nontraditional comedians.

Not that we'd be jealous of people who make it into Carnegie Hall, or would talk when we were sitting on stage watching a performance, but it's slightly less common knowledge that the other way to get to Carnegie Hall is to take the 1,2,3 or 9 train to the stop right around the corner, and walk. Season tickets don't hurt, either, but really, how many times can you go to Carnegie Hall with season tickets to the knicks before they start to call the police?

As the Christ said in the aramaic, which was mistranslated about seventeen different times, "get the fuck out of here, Satan." (That bit is true, although we'd rather not have the wrath of the Catholic church rain upon us like so much debris from an exploding cow) The mistranslation was "Get thee behind me Satan." Pretty cool book, that bible. Wish I read more aramaic than just the swear words.

One of the aramaic words, "lahallalaalacha" which means reptile shit, does not appear in the bible, and in fact may not be aramaic at all, the author probably just made it up.

As Kip would say, if he weren't bound, gagged and imaginary, "Shut the fuck up, Swerdloff, go do something else, you're really starting to irritate people now." And with that, we leave you with a little known fact, a disclaimer and the question of the day.

Little known fact: One in every seventeen hummingbirds would rather sing.

Disclaimer: No sperm were used in the production of this issue. Please note as well that while this website continues to blatantly rip off Sanemagazine's nontraditional unstyle, it would be doubleplus ungood to stop now.

And, since sex sells, tell the world: Do you like to bite or be bitten