As someone who did the whole college thing and internships—one of which involved watching a reality show be filmed about being an intern at said magazine that didn’t reveal how the real interns stayed in a windowless back room—I’m fairly offended by this.
It’s pretty fucking hypocritical to call your book Third World America and then your own company asks for all applicants, if given the position, to be an intern for a trial month. It’s fantastic that you’re paying them. It really is. But decrying government screwing over the middle class ideal and then asking for candidates to work for reduced rate as a trial to a job they might not even get? That’s fucked up.
I interned for four years while going to school. I’ve had six jobs since I graduated. I don’t need to be your fucking intern for one month to prove I can efficiently do your job better than the editor of Website X.
If that sounds pretentious, I’m sorry. But at a certain point, it’s pointless to work for free. And that point is when you’re in your mid-20s trying to find a full-time job after traveling back and forth across the country for work while hiring managers tell you that you’re too over-qualified to be an assistant editor or editor or senior editor or writer but maybe if you worked for free for the site a little bit…
Or maybe that’s just me. Who knows.
This is the fanciest episode of the podcast we’ve ever recorded. Mainly because it was recorded in the hotel bar of the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Washington, DC. Or maybe it’s because our friend Ali Arikan could join us. Or maybe it’s because we discuss television culture and criticism instead of jerking it to documentaries or Asian filmmakers.
Who knows. In any event click here to listen to it in the background of your browser or here to download it as mp3.
Wikileaks’ Julian Assange walks out on an interview after the reporter won’t get off the topic of his personal legal battles.
On one hand, kudos to the reporter for sticking to her questions. On the other, when your subject gives you five different warnings to switch the subject or he’ll walk, you may want to throw some other questions in before returning to the whole “rape" thing.
lol.
it’s 2d btw.
“The official plot synopsis for Michael Bay’s upcoming third Transformers film, Transformers: The Dark Of The Moon, has been leaked online via the Amazon product description of the official “Transformers 3 Push-Pops Board Book”. Hit the jump to read the plot synopsis now.”
The fact someone had to spend ten seconds writing that with a serious tone makes me confident that there is no need to ever treat anything seriously again.
Push-pops. Really.
You: About 7 feet tall, shiny aluminum with a waffle pattern. Being pulled around by some chump of a yellow van. I think it had a tattoo that said “District Taco”.
Me: About 13 foot 6 (32 feet tall when I mean business), chrome grille with flame paint job. Probably protecting that obnoxious kid from the fourth Indiana Jones movie and the rest of the free world. My given name is Optimus, but you can call me Prime, for short.
You smell sweet, like carnitas mixed with a little bit of pico de gallo and heaven. Thinking about you turns my Energon reactor into a two-stroke.
Come roll out with me - there’s more to me than meets the eye.
Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, and you shouldn’t have to deal with funny little men running around inside of you all day. If you want to meet me, I’m blending in with the Megabuses at 11th and H Street. Just remember, fate rarely calls upon us at a moment of our choosing.
Craigslist via DCist
"I’m gonna fuck you up ugly."
My thoughts on today’s hip hop band, the Imperial Stars, blocking traffic on the 101 to play a song. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, click here. They said they did it to raise awareness for the displaced children of America. I can see no better way of doing this than to block morning traffic. Yes, that definitely seems like the most productive thing to do.
I laughed for a very long time upon hearing about this and have decided if I ever move back to Los Angeles, I am hiring Imperial Stars for all my events.
Which will mainly involve me blocking traffic and forcing people to listen to shitty hip-hop while I take the fucking bus.
I woke up yesterday and couldn’t stand on both feet without falling over. The ball of my left foot felt like a piece of glass kept digging into it. This lead to me whining over twitter.
To overshare: in-between volunteering for an event firm around DC to help fill seats, check-in reporters (which has led to a rather fun bout of crushing self-doubt) and doing menial labor I’ve started the whole “going to a gym" thing. The local Y is near where I live and empty during the day. My work-out consists of “let’s see if you can move faster than a zombie for 30 minutes and then use a machine to pretend you can do a sit-up."
The 48 hours prior I was moving tables, chairs, signs and carrying cases of food everywhere; my initial fear was I sprained or bruised something. Then came the fear this was gout.
Gout scared me more than a muscle sprain. Not only because I’d join nearly three-quarters of the British Empire in a shared disease, but it sounds like something I shouldn’t get until I’m a tiny old man shaking his cane at the world. My diet for Saturday through Monday also consisted of beer, crabs, maker’s manhattans, beer, crabs, lobster tail and crab. (sidenote: harris teeter had an awesome seafood sale this weekend.)
Being unable to walk straight without shouting every time I lowered my foot a bit overshadowed my fear of diagnosis. So I kept my foot iced and raised and the pain mostly went away. A day later, there’s a dull pain but I can walk and lower my foot without much hassle.
That said I now continue to fear aging and how there exists a crippling arthetic disease dedicated to ending my enjoyment of liquor and cracking the exoskeleton of a boiled animal.
I mean, what the fuck biology?
4chan is 7-years old today. Happy Birthday, 4chan.
"I’m not twittering. I’m reporting!
-this guy.
No, really. I’m a bad-ass chef.
edit: in honor of Sharktopus premiering yesterday at Fantastic Fest and tonight on SyFy I felt compelled to make a fauxtastic fest fajita. In other news, I’m the fucking alliteration master.
you will need:
prep:
Take your steak. Proceed to beat the crap out of it with a meat mallet until it is as flat and thin as the plots of the Resident Evil franchise. Once accomplished, liberally salt and pepper and then add spoon full of mustard/radish to the meat. Rub it in. Go on. You jerk.
Take your pan. I used a grill pan, the best fucking invention since the motherfucking wok when it comes to combining meats, vegetables and oils to make something delicious. Proceed to add the healthy (i.e. “oh shit i spilled too much. fuck. fuck. shit. fuck.") dose of chili pepper oil with a bit of olive oil to the pan. The chili pepper oil should clearly look like it’s going to mess everything up, but it won’t.
Keep your stove top on a low or simmering. I know this sounds crazy for beef, but do it.
Now. Take your one slice of red onion. Mince.
You should be browning your beef so far and everything should have a red-green sauce in the making.
Now add your onions to the pan for delicious searing. Stir a bit. You should have enough room to avoid the beef.
Then add in your spinach. Cover the pan and stir occasionally.
Keep checking on your beef. It’s going to look lightish-green due to the mustard, so don’t freak out. Instead conquer that fear by adding a slice of brie.
Yes, I said add a slice of brie. You can’t see it in the photo, but it’s there.
Now recover to let the delicious cheese melt on top of your meal. When thoroughly melted, spinach and onions should be perfect. Begin collecting them with your trust spatula and pile that on the steak.
Your fauxijta is almost ready. Take that tortilla and throw it onto the pan. Let it cook for a minute in the chili oil. Take it out, put it on the plate and then plate.
You will likely devour the meal in under 75 seconds because it is that goddamn delicious. It will serve one. Your neighbors will beg for one, but you only made one and that was the one you ate.
And therefore, you are better than your neighbors. In fact, you’re a winner. And this is the meal for a winner. And now you can drink all of that liquor you were meaning to drink while watching Sharktopus.
The “real" title is Forgive Me, For I Have Sinned. The synopsis:
A cult leader called “The Confessor" hears confessions from rape victims, “cleanses" the female ones with sex and then arranges for all victims and sometimes himself to rape their own male or female rapists.
So far, so sploitative. So what about the director, Phil Prince?
Incarcerated in 1985 on charges of robbery and assault (he shot the manager of a New York ice-cream parlor during what appeared to be a hold-up), Prince was paroled in 1988. Claim that he was subsequently sentenced to a 25-to-life term in prison for murder is only an urban legend.
He also made The Stimulators.
Little known fact: clicking that reminder sends out a nationwide alert to every law enforcement official with the subject, “Holy fucking shit some fucking idiot clicked it. Holy shit. You owe me $400, Jerry."
(via craig phillips)
can’t…wait….
only six episodes.
fingers crossed they get to the most bad-ass torture scene of all time as the season finale.
We say goodbye to our friend Akiva by discussing how one sees repitorire cinema outside of New York (in Michigan,) why Beck’s Ramona is an amazing song and whether or not it’s ok to pirate film if you literally would never see it otherwise.
(i.e. there is currently no way to domestically watch Rainer Fassbinder’s Frauen in New York because it was a TV film in Germany; only on bootleg torrets, VHS rips and DVDs.)
We also talk about drug use and how that made Marmaduke a possibility thanks to a certain British comedian getting a certain American actor/writer hooked on smack during a certain Night at the Museum.