Nic's Wild European Adventure: Bruges

If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me but I didn't, so it doesn't.

One of the best and most hilarious movies to come out last year was a little film called In Bruges. It got some minor notice and some rave reviews, but for the most part people haven't really heard too much about it. Which is a damn shame. I mean, just reading the quotes page is enough for hours of entertainment.

So where did my co-worker and I decide to spend the second weekend? In one place that was skewered for ninety-something minutes as one of the most boring places on the planet, which was my only previous reference point. Did the city live up to its reputation? Yeah, if I had to spend the rest of my life there, sure. But for a quick weekend trip, Bruges definitely lives up to Harry's memories as an idyllic town.


So what's in Bruges? A bunch of really old churches, including one with "Christ's blood". We visited that one, but there was a service going on at the time, so it would have been kind of awkward to walk up to the altar and give the blood an old looksy. And there's the giant Belfry which played a part in the movie. It is indeed as narrow and hazardous to the fatty as the movie suggested, so the American should have heeded Ray's advice. He would have had a terrible time negotiating the narrow stairway, and he wouldn't even have to pull his co-workers giant duffel of weekend luggage up the whole way.

Even though the Belfry was quite the sight, the one in Bruges didn't match the one that I had found in Delft. I'm only bringing this up because I have an incredibly stupid story to tell about that place. The belfry in Delft was narrower and taller, and featured several points where I hit my head on low-hanging bar. Its exterior also was eight-hundred and fifty-seven times more fright inducing, considering the low waist bar that was the only protection from certain death on the narrow walkway. But I only bring the whole experience up because I saw some fresh graffiti in the stairwell from some Americans--"Bill '09 and Melissa '09", all luvy-duvy. I was prepared to add my own contribution--"My Balls '09", since they hit the same spot as I negotiated the previously-stated low-hanging bar. Damn shame I didn't have a pen on me.

Trust me, that was all much funnier in my head.


Bruges has also apparently earned itself the reputation as being the place for bachelor parties in Northern Europe. We came across several parties, including one that featured a traveling cycling kegmachine, which we attempted to join (once we finished our forties in the town square--no joke). For a sleepy-ass medieval village, the place sure had a lot of nice clubs to help out said folk. It's also home to a few bars that served hundreds of different beers. It's interesting that Belgium is now seen as the new hot place for beer, considering that Belgian-style ales are pretty weaksauce. However, we were able to sample a few great-tasting beers, even if one of them was the more feminine pineapple-flavored beer. But as my co-authors could attest, I still found a way to pull that one off.

Beyond that, there's not too much to say about Bruges. I did get my Eurotrash on, but that only leads too tears. I've also previously commented on how Flemish is a terrible, terrible language, so we've covered that. There was some weird chocolate, but hell, everyone already knows the Belgians are known for their chocolate--they invented it so the molesters could get to the children. So I'm just going to end this with just a plain inexplicable photograph, and hope you understand what the Venice of the North is all about.

This Shit Cannot Stand

I was already for the downturn in our economy to be the new "El Nino"--the catch-all excuse for anything bad that was going wrong. In other words, I thought it was a lot of bullshit attempting to mask a serious problem--say, about a 90-10 split. But that was before I realized how serious the problem had gotten. How serious?

So serious that the Girl Scouts are cutting back costs by putting less cookies per box. It wasn't until I read this story that I felt the rapidly spiraling economy had really affected me, Nic Ouzo, connoisseur and consumer of fatty shit. I mean, foreclosure and unemployment are all fun and games, but less cookies? Now there are real victims to the crisis, namely me, the eater of Thin Mints.



Of course, I only mention Thin Mints because they're the only cookie worth a damn. But it also brings up a mildly interesting story that just proves how insanely delicious they are. There's a Dairy Queen over by Joe Reefer's house that we rarely visit, because they're run by Puritanical reverse-vampire assholes that close the place by 9. And since we believe in only doing things at night, it's never open when we need it. But this past summer, for one month they had Thin Mint as their special blizzard flavor. Joe and I kept attempting to remember to go out early enough to get such a dessert, but something would always come up, like the need to watch some Bond marathon. We finally remembered to hit the DQ, but one day after the promotion ended. However, they had enough left over that they let us purchase two small blizzards.

We immediately regretted this decision. Because that shit was fucking delicious. Even though I was trying to watch my figure, I should have ordered a Super Gigantofuck helping of that ice cream. Joe had never really had the same love of the Thinned Mint, but this blizzard made him a goddamn convert to the Church of the Everlasting Thin Mint.

So I'm here to offer my threat to the economy to shape up or ship out:

You don't touch my fucking Thin Mints. Consider yourself warned.

WDR May Cause Obesity, but We Didn't Cause Thanksgiving

You can blame the Indians for that.


It's that time of the year again, folks. Halloween's over, and sloooooow down there Wal-Mart, it's not Christmas yet. No, seriously. Knock it the fuck off. If Santa isn't squeezing his fat ass down my chimney for over a month then you need to get that shit out of the stores. Look at me when I'm talking to you. MY FACE IS UP HERE, WAL-MART. UP HERE.

Well, now that we have that unpleasantness out of the way, on to the festivities! I'm sure you all noticed that today was Thanksgiving. If you didn't, well then you're either a god damned communist and you need to get the hell out of my country, or you're a Native American and again, I am so.. so sorry. But regardless of any of these scenarios, chances are that you got to stuff your face today. Hell, I'm over 7 hours from even friends, and roughly twice that from family, and I still managed to force twice my daily intake down my throat (and digest most of it).

This year, I did something a little different with my Thanksgiving fare though. Usually I'm a traditionalist here: Turkey, gravy, cranberries, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. Delicious. There's nothing more American than that combination of food, even though Americans eat it at most twice a year. There was just something different about this year. I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's not having anyone I associate with close enough for actual human interaction, maybe it's my roommate having left without driving me to the grocery store, maybe it's that my apartment building vaguely reminds me of a mental hospital, or maybe it's just that I'm one lazy son of a bitch. The point here is... wait, what was I talking about? Oh right, Thanksgiving feasts.

My fine feast this year was a bit unorthodox, but I recommend it to anyone who's just not feeling up to holiday pressure... or has decided to commit suicide the hard way. The meal came in four courses:

1. Macaroni Salad

I don't really know how I ended up with this stuff. Some combination of only being able to buy what I could carry and my hatred of shopping alone led to me walking out of the store with this classic. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Macaroni Salad is twice as delicious as the putrid vomit it looks like.



2. Canned Soup

My roommate's strange obsession with buying canned soup (and I say "buying" because he picks up at least three cans every time we shop, but I have never seen him eat a single one). Either way, it was lying around so I tossed one in the microwave and gave it a shot.

My opinions on the mediocrity of soup remain unchanged. I'm sorry, I'll accept Tea for the flavored water is it, but at least it doesn't try to claim that it is a food.

3. Hot Pockets

There isn't really anything I have to add to this. Hot Pockets should be included in any Thanksgiving festastrophe.









4. Klondike Bars

Much like that damn owl from those old Tootsie Pop commercials who makes a mockery of the age-old "how many licks does it take question", I simply walked two blocks to buy a box of Klondike Bars, but suffice it to say I would have performed rituals far more cruel and unusual for this delicious High Fructose sweet.




If I were a reasonable man, this would be the end of this post. All that Thanksgiving really was for me this year was eating this disturbing concoction of shit and watching the Hitchcock marathon on AMC. However, in the interest of nostalgia for "years gone by" I will entertain you with a story of a far better Thanksgiving. A Thanksgiving Of Legend, by which all other Thanksgivings shall be compared, and none shall live up to.

The year was 2003, and the place was Worcester, MA, a town truly as beautiful as its name--a factory town left behind by time, only there were never really any glory days for this hellhole. The occasion? ... Thanksgiving. I thought we already covered this. You should pay more attention.

The esteemed Mr. Ouzo had descended from his Ivy-ry tower and had decided to spend the holiday with me in what can only be described as "the filthiest room in the history of mankind." I had to scoop trash out of the way for him to have a place to sleep the first night before my roommate left. No joke. (Nic Ouzo: To tell you the truth, I didn't mind. But I can only imagine the carnage that was there before I arrived. This was a room that included an overturned bookshelf that was used as a convenient computer desk.)

The next few days were a blur, possibly due to the entertaining times, and possibly due to our diet consisting primarily of chips and soda procured from the local Price Choppa'. Also, if anyone is wondering, Goya brand Tamarind soda tastes like Nothing. Not water, but Nothing. Liquid Nothing. If you wanted to taste something that distilled the essence of pure neutrality, saddle up with a Tamarind-flavored Goya soda.

However, the real magic of the vacation came on Thanksgiving Day (not that aimlessly wandering around a campus tossing bottles for no memorable reason doesn't qualify as "real magic" but... well... it just doesn't). On Thanksgiving, the demand to have a meal that didn't consist primarily of ground corn took over, and Nic Ouzo and I embarked on an epic quest. Where did we go on this fine Thanksgiving in Worcester? Well, we tried many an establishment, but the only place that was open was a Denny's.

Now, the map we had in hand when we embarked on this journey is a bit misleading, because what I have neglected to mention thus far is that neither Ouzo nor I had a car (the van without a floor in the back that had been used to bring Nic to campus had gone on vacation). This lead to some difficulties with the - not one, but TWO - times in which these directions required us to cross the freeway. Let me tell you, there is nothing more fun than running across a freeway in the dark, on your way to a Denny's. Also, the map fails to properly represent just how damn hilly that whole area is, as more than half the journey was very steeply uphill. By the time we had made it to the Denny's - and it should be noted that we saw it just as we were giving up, the sign loomed over a hillside like a beacon to the promised land... or maybe just a moon over my hammy. We were just starving enough for that meal to be everything we had hoped it would be: Better than stale chips.

The strange thing was we didn't appreciate the absurdity of our journey until after we finished our halfway-delicious meal. The waitress came by with our check and asked us if this was a post-dinner meal of some sort, and only when we responded with a "well, this really was our Thanksgiving meal" did the nature of our situation dawn upon us. We slowly realized that yes indeed we did just spend the previous three days living on a diet that consisted solely of Dorito's and Dr. Pepper, in which time had no meaning since there was no light in the room and we slept at random hours. And that this had been our first human contact since Monday night.

So many kudos to you, Denny's. You will always be our go-to eating establishment when nothing better is open... and there aren't any Shari's nearby. ... so basically you're one step ahead of Arby's.


Happy Thanksgiving everyone, and I would like you to all remember what brought us where we are: Yams and Smallpox.

My Fat Ass Is Apparently Marked Al-Qaeda

Overlooked in all the talk about writers' strikes and college football madness, some news gets overlooked. No, we're not talking about Musharraf's declaration of martial law or Chavez's strong-arming his parliament into approving insane changes to Venezuela's constitution. Surprisingly, these stories have gotten some attention for once. No, I'm talking about our continued fight in The War On Terror®. Absent from all the joy of blasting away dirty foreigners, is a look into the terror that hides within our Great American Nation. And it's not even dirty foreigners hiding within our nation (Lou "Life With Louie" Dobbs certainly has that covered). No, I am talking about a far more insidious threat to our collective national security.

Your fat ass (and mine too).



We've known for years that there is apparently an obesity epidemic on hand, as our nation has caught FAT disease from handling too many dirty needles in the mid-80's (where were you, Clean Needle Programs, when we needed you most?!) We've even learned recently that obesity is contagious, liable to spread like wildfire (or at least a fire that tastes sticky and sweet, as if it were made of freshly made Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Commence drooling upon picturing said doughnuts in your mind...now). Hell, we even warned you about thinking of associating with this blog, yet you continue to defy logic and common sense and read. But that's only the tip of the iceberg.


That's because our collective fat asses constitutes a national security risk. That's according to former Surgeon General, Dr. Richard Carmona, who notes that it has become an impediment to armed services recruitment. We've become too fat to serve our country, apparently. And that's the only reason why the Army can't reach its recruitment goals, because who doesn't want to fight crazy wars? I mean, that's why I always bought G.I. Joe action figures. All this fatness then trickles down into diminishing our power in protecting our homeland, which essentially makes John Goodman Missouri's own Osama bin Laden.

Of course, we can turn this negative into a positive. We just have to be able to use our fat asses to our advantage. I was recently discussing this possibility with one of the friends-of-the-blog:

Von Bookman: and if we just start using fat people as weapons, this problem is solved
Nic Ouzo: fatbombs!
Nic Ouzo: I'm envisioning...
Nic Ouzo: catapults
Nic Ouzo: or, because we're all into neologisms
Nic Ouzo: fatapults
Von Bookman: excellent

Now, you may have to pardon me for taking this news with only a grain of salt. Let's consider the source for a second--Dr. Carmona is only known for being in essence a spineless political pawn for the Bush Administration, since his testimony to that effect was the only thing we ever heard from the guy. Let's face it, he's no C. Everett Koop (Dartmouth, Class of '37). Who is to say that he isn't continuing in this capacity? What, with youth participation in sports always at record highs, I simply think that this is just a ploy to breed a generation of super-soldiers by constantly worrying them about their physical appearance--well-balanced breakfast programs have given them super strength, while midnight basketball has taught them to function without sleep. And with this psychological trauma of reminding the kids of how fat they are, we can then meld them to kill on-command. It's brilliant.



Believe in your obesity conspiracy, folks. I'm just going to grab another piece of pie.

Attention Alternative Rock Stations!

The possible societal benefits of the Pixies


I hope all of you had a great No Pants Day (known in some circles as "labor" day). Now that the celebration is over, we must move on to issues of much importance.

It has long been noticed by the WDR crew that alternative radio (at least in the places we have lived) can sometimes go into strange and horrible musical places (see our Vendettas section). Mr. Ouzo and I decided that there is one easy remedy that alternative radio should look into: The Pixies.


No, not those pixies...


Yes, those Pixies...

Now, everyone knows that the Pixies are awesome, and if you (the reader) don't, I don't know why you're here (Aside from you fuckers searching for Harry Potter and Tentacle Rape Porn. Sick.). So I don't think that I need to explain that any further. But during this conversation I realized that not only having the Pixies on more would be awesome, but it might even be life saving.

We would be living in a much better world. Can you imagine how much road rage would be subdued if we had "Debaser" playing during the drive-time commute instead of Nickelback's "Rockstar"? Think about it: The Pixies could fill spots where shit like Linkin Park and Nickelback get played. That Plain White Ts song would be limited to the CD player headphones of emo high school kids (you know how they can relate to it).

And people are always saying that "the children" are our future. What kind of future has kids raised on Avril Lavigne (she didn't even know who David Bowie is. DAVID BOWIE!)? I'll tell you, it's a sad one. Just think Planet of the Apes, except instead of Apes, it will be emo kids with wrist bands and "x"s on their hands. I'm not sure which vision is more frightening...

Also, imagine how much more energetic kids will be listening to something fun and fast. We blame the obesity epidemic on fast food and improper portion sizes, but what about depressing alt-rock? It has to have some effect. At least with "Tame" going every once in a while, the kids have to at least jump around a bit.

The Pixies were even responsible for saving our own Nic Ouzo. Nic could have broken his ankle, but because "Digging for Fire" was playing, he was able to escape injury and, possibly, death. Thank you, Pixies!

I'm just saying - something should be done. I want to hear some "Digging for Fire." I think you can at least give us that, alternative radio.

Enough With This Fucking Incense!

Just Spare Me The Suspense

So it's official this week: I am a bum. I really should have stopped in Crackton.


What the hell am I talking about? Well, I had this pipe dream of going to law school. I know, it's crazy...but we'll leave the reasons for it for another time where I tell how I totally got screwed over by the USNews Rankings. The point is that it's official, I've been formally rejected from the school with the initials U-C-L-A. It only took them until the absolute last minute for them to relay this information to me, even after I politely asked for a couple of updates. Speaking of which, I finally got that personal touch--a form letter 5 days late that I should keep them in mind if I think of transferring next year (well, small problem with that...).

So now I'm stuck on a coast that's away from all my friends from college, and in a town that's away from all my high school friends because they're still in school. It's going to be a glorious few months as I seek employment, I'll tell you that much.



Well, moving on...what are we going to do here at WDR while I sob quietly in the corner? We decided that next week will unofficially be dubbed "Perv Week". This is mainly because we've had a lot of posts in our backlog that pretty much run along this theme, so we might as well go out. You'll be hearing about Joe Reefer's turn-ons and the sexual misadventures of Mr. Zhuang from me; Mr. Zhuang will provide something that our homosexual readership will enjoy (just look at the hits we've gotten about Ronnie Coleman!); and Joe Reefer will probably come up with something amazingly hilariously awful, as only the man responsible for the "Involving the Female Vagina" tag can. Plus, we'll cap it off with a sure-to-be controversial (and pretty damn offensive) post on Friday which should provoke engaging intellectual discussion worldwide.

Be prepared for "Perv Week"--at least until we come up with a better name.