New names for my balls

Inspired by that Love track, I want to name my balls after streets. I am gonna name them Spring and Gustine. Then I can make all kinds of jokes about living between Spring and Gustine. Get it?

Please update your iphones and your circular mailing lists.

Where'd the muse go / askphilhartmansballs.com

I usually write about funny things I cooked, but I am on a boring-ass streak of just cooking good food that is not that unusual.

I usually draw a shitty comic strip during the class I TA, but classes have ended for the season.

I usually write about new names I've come up with for my balls, but lately they haven't changed in character enough to warrant it.

I guess instead I will tell you about the idea for a website I got way back around 1996 or so, in the precipitous uprise of the world wide web. It was a time when people still used Gopher to get on those weird not-quite-internet internets, and when I would type my emails through Telnet on a completely text-based system called Pine. It was a time when if you wanted to download a porn video, it would take about a half hour and be like ten seconds long. It was a time when people used a lot of flashing text, when horrible fanfic sex stories (smurfs, brady bunch, etc.) were forwarded in wide circles, it was before much advertising, before Flash, before firefox, it was the era of Netscape Navigator and every other person having an aol account. It was in this environment that I conceived of askphilhartmansballs.com. The idea was simple: a blank page with a crudely drawn picture of Phil Hartman's balls, which you would click as you thought of a question. Then the balls would reply in the style of a magic eight-ball, probably using the exact same set of responses: Yes, No, Outlook foggy, Ask again later, etc. That's it. No other features, no explanation.

Twelve or so years later, I think I have the skills to make that site. But now I don't want to. Isn't it a conundrum about wanting and time? About wanting what you get and getting what you want? About wanting what you want, even?

Signs point to yes.

Time to update that address book again...

...because I'm changing the names of my balls for the fall. Now they shall be known, from left to right, as Lonely and Friendless. I will let you know, to the extent decorum allows, if anything should change with my balls. If you would like to subscribe to an RSS feed that will keep you up to date with the status of my balls, click here.

a new sandwich and a new name for my balls (unrelated)

• Get a couple little French bread loaves like they make bánh mì with
  
• Get some of those frozen potstickers and fry up exactly nine of them more or less according to the instructions on the package
  
• In the meantime get a little bowl or cup out to make this sauce in:
  
  • some garlic chili paste (like in the little bowls with the little spoons in Vietnamese restaurants)
    
  • some soy sauce
    
  • some rice vinegar
    
  • some barbecue sauce
    
  • some brown sugar
• Wash off four big leaves of romaine lettuce
  
• Cut open the bread and stick two lettuce leaves in each baguette, the opposite way from each other for optimal crunch distribution.
  
• Plop four and a half potstickers in between the lettuces and pour some sauce in there. Think meatball sub.

The lettuce will act as kind of a waterproof layer to keep the sauce from dribbling all over, as long as you keep your angles in mind as you eat. The crispy crust of the bread gives way to its soft innards, slowly soaking in lettuce juice and delicious sweet and spicy sauce which has escaped its romaine dungeon, giving way as you bite through the crunchy lettuce layer, followed finally by the soft and comforting surrender of the potstickers inside. This is not just a sandwich, it is an experience.

---

My balls will now be known as "the boys of summer." Please update your blackberries and cellular phones. And, in case you were wondering, the answer is yes, my love for you will still be strong after they are gone.

God damnit, why can't I remember to eat my bananas before they turn all gross and mushy?

Does anyone know anyone who likes to make banana bread? I will give them like four bananas a week, because I will fucking forget to eat my bananas before they turn disgusting and mushy, and then I will give them my bananas so they can make banana bread. Then they can give me some banana bread, but I will fucking forget to eat it before it turns disgusting and moldy. Then maybe I will think, it's not too moldy, and I will eat it, and it will have ergot in there, and then people will think I am a witch. Or I guess a Warlock, as they call witches who have balls.

Figure 12: Bitchez been eatin' too much tainted rye

If I become a Warlock, I will name my balls Gandalf and Dumbledore. However, this is unlikely.

Hot Damn is sore

I think I've been riding my bike too much, because Hot Damn is feeling really tender today. Hallelujah is fine, though. Maybe if I ride tonight I will just kind of lean over to the right the whole time.

Hot Damn & Hallelujah

Those are the new nicknames for my balls. Please update your address books.

simon and garfunkel are their names.

My balls, that is.

a wager

Say it ain't so, George. Cody McKay? Larry Bigbie?? Fernando Vina?!?



Ah, but at least there's a corn in the turd-- now I can say with a fair degree of confidence that I have bigger balls than Roger Clemens and Miguel Tejada. Wanna bet? I could probably fit seven of Barry Bonds' balls into just one of my balls-- even if I first put one of Jose Canseco's balls inside one of Roger Clemens' balls, then put Roger Clemens' ball-stuffed ball into one of Barry Bonds' balls.* But I'm not here to point fingers, and I'm not here to stuff hypothetical shrunken balls into other hypothetical shrunken balls. No, what I'm here for is to compare ball size, and the smart money's on mine. So go ahead, lay down your bets. Yes, put down some smart money. On my balls. Put money on my balls.


* Much like the Turducken.