To lament a recent misconceived crush, I present to you a very special Corey Spears moment.

Your eyes twinkle, twinkle
Like a little star
When you smile
Your hair is adorable
Disheveled
Golden brown
Not unlike a tater tot
Minus the grease and association with trailer trash
You make blonde highlights
Seem cool again

Everyone thinks you are the cutest
I want you to forget about them
Think of me
For I can appreciate the real you
Also
I am hotter

Realization:
You have a boyfriend
On the opposite coast
My heart sinks
Like a turd liberated after a night spent drowning in the devil's brew
How dare you not be single
You stupid stupid fuck

Le sigh.

Posted by Toby at 11:05 PM | Permalink

Boring, incomprehensive article on fag blogs here. I'm mentioned somewhere near the bottom. (How apropos!)

Toby seems to be at the hub of the blogosphere even though he spends half his time composing prose on eating disorders and Britney Spears while under the influence of boxed wine and cheap beer. So why do people keep coming back? Because he’s brilliant ... .

Oh, man. I can't wait until I start snorting cocaine. Then people will really have something to talk about!

Posted by Toby at 10:00 PM | Permalink

These items should be arriving in the mail within the next week. Damn you, eBay!

Posted by Toby at 09:51 PM | Permalink

Given the president’s remarks yesterday on gay marriage, I would be embarrassed and ashamed to walk around campus with ash smeared on my forehead. Thanks to our activist commander in chief, these chalky marks of Christianity represent to so many people not decency and good will, but hatred and intolerance.

On your knees, sinners! The party is over — and stop acting as if you didn’t see this coming a mile away.

Posted by Toby at 02:52 PM | Permalink

Wow, they hand out editor positions to anyone these days! This is very encouraging news to me, a 20-year-old college junior who'll need employment by next May. XY, here I cum!

Posted by Toby at 12:48 PM | Permalink

Hmm. How many beers did I have Saturday night?

Posted by Toby at 08:24 PM | Permalink

Though unlikely, Comedy Central’s “Straight Plan For The Gay Man” might have seemed like a good idea on paper. Its concept is an obvious and inevitable rip-off of Bravo’s “Queer Eye For The Straight Guy”: A fraternity of straight comedians — the so-called “Flab 4” — help a flaming fruitcake achieve his dream of becoming a pot-bellied, beer-guzzling titty worshiper. Curing homosexuality through reparative therapy has never seemed so fun!

But like most shows meant to portray unabashed white-bred masculinity — “The Man Show,” for instance — “Straight Plan” comes across as shameless, phony and rehearsed. In one scene, Curtis Gwinn (inexplicably billed as the “Environment Guy”) advises viewers to rummage through Dumpsters for hidden discarded treasures. And later in the show, Billy “Appearance Guy” Merritt exposes a scandalized upscale fashion salesman to the bounty of threadbare sweatpants and used underwear at a New York City thrift store. Evidently, the first step toward machismo is pretending to be homeless, at least according to the Flab 4.

Unless self-deprecating bachelors are up your alley, the real charmers of “Straight Plan” are the make-over victims, who put their best Prada loafer forward when saddling up to the Flab 4’s testosterone buffet. During a visit to a shooting range (Heterosexual Cliché No. 352), limp-wristed Jonathan mutters a vindictive Bette Davis quote before firing his semiautomatic. The Flab 4 glare at him blankly and dumbly. “You can’t get any tougher than Bette Davis,” Jonathan says, and given the sad sacks of ersatz masculinity that surround him, he’s absolutely right.

Dismayingly, the men of “Straight Plan” are so busy advocating plaid button-down shirts and bar soap that they overlook the funniest moment of all: After a shift in a meatpacking plant (Thinly Veiled Situational Pun No. 571), it’s Rob “Culture Guy” Riggle — not Jonathan — who is identified by plant workers as gay. With no sense of humor, irony or purpose, “Straight Plan” is just another uninspired contribution to the flash-in-the-pan genre of Battle of the Sexualities programming.

Comedy Central's "Straight Plan For The Gay Man" will air on Feb. 23 at 10 p.m.

» Back to the closet, boys [Advocate]

Posted by Toby at 02:27 PM | Permalink

SOrrry for forgetting to renew my my domain name,lol i'm retared

Posted by Toby at 01:15 AM | Permalink

From: jeffreyrawles@mac.com
Subject: are you retarded?

Why don't you do a little research before spouting off what an addict deserves you fucking alcaholic? Alcahol is a drug too you stupid petty bitch. You hopefully wil.l start to think before you say things that you don't know ANYTHING about.

why don't you check this site out

http://www.facetheissue.com

Hi, Jeffrey.

In an e-mail riddled with spelling errors, gramatical abortions and a general mien of incohesion, you draw a likeness between alcohol and methamphetamine. Interesting argument! When you are prepared to back such a bizarre comparison with facts, evidence and statistics, just let me know. I eagerly await your follow-up e-mail.

Wishing you a fabulously tweeked-out weekend and an eternally impenetrable nasal septum,

Toby.

Posted by Toby at 05:09 PM | Permalink

What’s tall, red and fag all over? A young buck — nay, doe — who sat disappointingly close to Agatha and me at the cafeteria this evening, sparking 30 minutes of hate-oriented conversation regarding the subject’s conspicuously burnt flesh. Me thinks the lady doth go to the tanning salon too much! I’d explain to him the vanity-damaging effects of UV rays, but wrinkle-free skin won’t save a beauty-free face, so who cares?

Anyway, I’ll be in New York Friday afternoon for an interview with MTV. Let me know if you wish to make plans that I’ll most likely break last-minute.

Posted by Toby at 11:08 PM | Permalink

For months, he has been in and out of my life and, evidently, rehab for crystal meth addiction. Upon hearing the news tonight, my face fell as my eyes welled with tears. How could someone with such potential and heart destroy his youth for a god damn fucking drug?

If you ab/use tina (there is no distinction between "use" and "abuse"), you deserve a life of addiction and paranoia and mood swings and male pattern baldness. What you don’t deserve is my friendship. Get though it on your own, stupid faggot. Good luck.

Posted by Toby at 12:45 AM | Permalink

You know you're already my obsession,
Stop using sex as a weapon!
Love is more than a one-way reflection,
Stop using sex as a weapon!

Posted by Toby at 04:19 PM | Permalink

Evidence that the sports editor at USA Today needs to be fired:

My roommate hung this on our door, for we are, indeed, lords of the rim.

Posted by Toby at 03:48 PM | Permalink

on this eve of valentine's day, i feel as if i am truly in love. this love is not yet realized. but soon it will be realized. perhaps tonight. perhaps tomorrow. perhaps in the next week. but it WILL be realized.

red bull rules and i just feel like raising my arms to the music and grooving and moving and swaying my hips to the music until i crash into my unmade bed with my prospective lover, arms around each others, hips pressed, holding tightly. And for once, I wake up and do not feel shame.

I just had my makeup done, so you can't make me cry.

Posted by Toby at 10:38 PM | Permalink

Being a server at a fancy restaurant RULES!!!

Posted by Toby at 03:19 PM | Permalink

Roses mysteriously become worth their weight in bling. The aisles of CVS are decked in so much red that you naively question a resurgence in 1950s pinko liberalism. And an inescapable sense of despondency — you know, the kind you always seem to feel around Christmas and when your mom forgets your birthday again — surrounds you. It’s Valentine’s Day, my friends. But this year, things are going to be different.

That’s because you’ll be giving your heart away to the right person. Surprisingly, the right person isn’t always your bitchy, domineering girlfriend or drippy, miserable boyfriend who should have been dumped two months ago. In fact, the person who deserves a rose could be right under your nose! Just choose from the list below, because, frankly, whom else did you really have in mind?

1. The person with a fake ID who buys you alcohol.

What greater candidate exists for the object of your affection than your connection to booze? Like the brave martyr for whom we celebrate Valentine’s Day, this saintly soul ventures bravely into hostile territory, performing good deeds at great consequence — namely, misdemeanor charges of fraudulent identification and underage drinking. It’s a tough job, but some unattractive loser has to do it if he seriously expects to make any friends on this campus.

2. The guys who grill chicken at the cafeteria.

The cafeteria cooks seem to seize every opportunity for a special holiday-inspired menu. So this Saturday, expect Mongolian Bovine Heart or some other equally abortive culinary disaster. Fortunately, the grill guys have got your back. Multiple times throughout the day, they grill fresh batches of easily identifiable thus appealing chicken to save the weak-stomached from Grade D beef or some derivative thereof. It’s a social service worthy of undying praise — or, at the very least, your heart.

3. The person you’re screwing on the side.

Sure, it’s not true love. In fact, it’s more like adulterous, clandestine, hastily delivered love. But after the obligatory dinner with your other, less desirable half ends and the requisite roses have been handed over, don’t forget to visit that dorm-wrecking floozy down the hall. After your real girlfriend finds out, she’ll be all you have! No roses for the lucky lady, but it might be a nice gesture to stick around at least until she puts her clothes back on before you awkwardly whip out some excuse about having to get back to your homework or something.

4. Janet Jackson’s right breast.

If you’re alone this Valentine’s Day, as many of us are, pay homage to a continuous replay of Janet’s mammary malfunction — any way you see fit. <3

Posted by Toby at 06:36 PM | Permalink

“All right, Alex, I’ll take ‘Obscure Leads from Today’s New York Times’ for $500!”

"Sex. Garlic. Magic. Feet."

“Um, what is ‘Ingredients in Martha Stewart’s Three Bean Juror-Beguiling Voodoo Potion’?”

“That is not correct. [ding ding!] Judy?”

“What is ‘A Romantic Valentine’s Evening Spent with Jessica Simpson’?”

“I’m sorry, the correct answer is ‘Truffles.’ Rare, expensive and slightly weird truffles.”

» Just Purse Your Lips and Whisper 'Truffle' [NYT]

Posted by Toby at 12:58 PM | Permalink

When someone tells you he is from L.A., ask, “Which part?”

When someone tells you he is a sophomore at your university, ask, “What are you studying?”

When someone tells you he lives in a 2-bedroom apartment on U Street, ask, “Which building?”

When someone comes into your room with a laptop and says he is writing a paper, ask, “What’s the paper on?”

When someone says his grandmother died, ask, “I’m sorry to hear that — how old was she?”

And when someone says he models in New York, ask, “For what agency?”

Ask every question, and question every answer. Failing to do so may result in unintended relations with a 17-year-old runaway from West Virginia who preys upon the weak of mind and soft of heart.

Agatha and I were suspect of this kid from the start. Unfortunately, others succumbed to his charm — albeit a charm tainted by foul breath, an ugly face, and an even uglier personality. And even after the truth had been revealed, certain homos still associate themselves with him! This is beyond both my comprehension and my concern of all things fag.

Augh. He had been in my room. He had been on my bed. Disgusting. I’m lucky this rapscallion didn’t steal anything of value — though we all know what he had been really after: my heart.

LOL!

Addendum: The 17-year-old runaway IMed me this evening, seeking to defend his name. Enjoy:

XXXXX: Um for one thing yes i lied but im not homeless u bastard u dont know me.. i lied yes bbut i did it because ididnt think anyone would like me i just moved here ill be 18 in march 5 th so u know what either u take that off there or im after u....... trust me.. U dont know and im not discusting thanks
XXXXX: my age i asked people and they said they wouldnt of givin me a chance
XXXXX: so FUck u and ur writing
XXXXX: cause u dont know
XXXXX: me
XXXXX: i have money thanks

Posted by Toby at 02:55 AM | Permalink

If anyone dies due to alcohol poisoning this semester, it will be at the 5-foot-long hands of The Legend.

Posted by Toby at 11:29 PM | Permalink

Holy shit. These are the things my nightmares are made of.

Posted by Toby at 05:54 PM | Permalink

At last, an update! The creative juices are flowing — and God damn it, they’re getting all over my pants.

So, my cold has dissipated — I no longer feel as if I advance closer toward death with every hacking cough. Still, the demonic black pugs of shame and self-hatred continue to nip at my heels, and I keep them at bay only through the constant yet pointlessly overindulgent application of bottom shelf vodka and ineffective (thus inefficient) malt beverages. But I’m not losing any sleep over it, mostly because I involuntarily pass out on most nights. Disgrace.

Anyway, I have a lot to say, so I am going to compose this entry as recklessly and incoherently as possible!

» Despite reluctantly embarking on a half-hearted job “search” a few weeks ago that, in retrospect, could more accurately be described as a job “rummage,” I managed to land a waitering gig at some downtown restaurant. Would I like fries with that? Fuck you, bitch! This is a classy joint. I’ll be serving cabernet sauvignon and endive salads to wealthy old people, so clearly the possibilities for hilarious “blog” entries are endless.

» Some advice for all prospective beaus: To tell me you “model on the weekends in New York” is obnoxious but socially acceptable nonetheless. But to tell me you are featured in February’s issue of A&F Quarterly is just plain sad; the magazine shut down in December, dumb ass.

» An ethnocentric complaint apropos of nothing: The phrase “United States of America” is cursed with an inaugural letter of “U” — the unwanted freak-baby of the English alphabet, given its C-list placement of 21 (of 26 spots, natch). Consequently, the good ol’ U.S.A. falls toward the bottom of most form menus, necessitating a laborious scroll through such irrelevant nations as the Comoro Islands, Micronesia and Spain. (I mean, do people in these countries even have computers? Witness an example of this abomination here.) Steps must be taken to remedy this tragic crumbling of democracy, with liberty and justice for all!

Addendum: Will you marry me? Four simple words, and thanks to a Massachusetts court decision, with an entirely new meaning. <3

Posted by Toby at 04:27 PM | Permalink

I just ordered two "Girls Gone Wild" DVDs, and I don't necessarily see anything wrong with that.

Posted by Toby at 01:59 AM | Permalink

Some kid celebrated his 24th birthday at JR.’s last night. I happened to be standing nearby, cigarette and vodka tonic in hand, during the awe-inspiring unveiling of his cookie cake, of which I received a piece after hesitantly agreeing to a birthday kiss (on the cheek, natch). The kid was cute. Send him my way, baby.

Posted by Toby at 12:29 PM | Permalink

And here I thought I was getting a solicitation from Vanity Fair ...

Posted by Toby at 09:50 AM | Permalink