a sign the color red

the week ahead

2005-09-29T10:51:00.000-04:00

i'm lost in the suburbs. i am now a professional cat sitter/book boxer.
please pay me a visit: where's bubba?

hollatoesis

2005-09-02T19:27:00.000-04:00

if you're wondering why my breath has been a little funky of late...

scroll down to the bottom...

a thought

2005-08-29T14:03:00.000-04:00

so, i'm wondering... if iraq splits up into three (or more) separate states, does that mean that maybe the rest of the world will follow suit? i guess what i really mean is: will the US of A be able to split along political and cultural fault lines? can the east and west coasts rid themselves of the utter belligerent crap in between? (of course, minnesota and those other poor lost blue states can join ohhhhhh caaannaaaaddaaaa.) i think it's really worth thinking about.

love,
setlzer

some new developments and a few old ones

2005-08-10T11:09:00.000-04:00

living in my parents house should probably give me serious incentive to get a fucking job with a warlordian salary and a new hairdo. the ceiling is slowing falling down on strange objects from the past (a finer past, i might add) and none of our appliances were created post-y2k. the trouble is, finding a job is quite possibly the most disgusting process known to the bourgeoisie. actually... i don't really care.
what i do care about is lady jane's phenomenal blog. and what i also care about is what she wrote on that blog in regards to bringing back the world-renowned shuttlecock salesman to capult. i'm not, might i point out first and foremost, returning to stank-ass capult any time in the foreseeable future, e.g. before the third millennium, but i do propose that all move here, to the slightly odd imperial capital and start dance party revolutions on tuesday mornings. we need it, you need it, and i'm beginning to wonder. so lady jane, ahhh lady jane, wonderful, ginormous bottomed lady jane, is on point about my utter incapacity to maintain serious discussion about things of importance in ol' capult. the hopelessness was a bit too much for me. but now that i am back in the tawdry imperial capital everybody fucking asks me the most boring shit. nobody wants to know how fucking ridiculous the entire shebang was. and this is something that the half-court squire had better put some serious thought into. i think that part of the beast that is post-modern colonialism entails half-witted ex-pats sitting about and discussing with dead seriousness what is fucking best for a place that would be better off if they weren't there in the first place. and it's one thing to be a hypocrite, but it's another to deny it. daft.

oh wow

2005-08-03T18:46:00.000-04:00

So, I've now had two responses to my classified ad. Here they are:

1) this is from a woman of beauty in capult:

Dear Drake

I’ll buy ya.

Lady J

2) this is from a mysterious woman (i can only assume) named p:

hi drake

i'm looking for someone to do the following:

1) unfizz a carton of sparkling water.
2) read and review some short story submissions
3) come up with daily tall tales that are entertaining

let me know if you are interested. p

--

what a life!

of course i accepted both. i'm no fool

blimey

2005-08-03T12:25:00.000-04:00

i woke up to this email:

My dear Drake,

I miss you so much I think I might die.

Love,

Boxed Red Wine

I'm going to starbucks. to think

Zeltzering

2005-08-02T16:40:00.000-04:00

Dear loved ones,

I was told recently to write 500 words every day. here goes.
i think quite a few of my readers (ha!) are living in countries that are slightly second world- you know, like england and france and those sorts of places- and they should be forewarned about incoming technology. well, i've recently returned from the year 0 and noticed a few advances in this here land of golden opportunity. first and foremost are the new paper towel machines in johns. you no longer have to pull or pump or turn or crank. these days you just wave to the machine and you are reciprocated with a firm dry piece of paper. it's not too exciting, but worth knowing about. and in case you were wondering, there doesn't seem to be any mechanism to stop you from waving at them all day, so enjoy. they should hit western europe in 5 or 6 years. as soon as you all start to get over the ipod craze.
how many words is that? probably not 500.

i can't think of anything else. i tried to write a limerick. this is a far as i got:

There once was a girl with big lips
Like two large converging big ships

i think it is a good start. feel free to make any suggestions.

in case you were wondering, i haven't got any responses yet to my classified ad (link below). i should though. i have 23 mosquito bites.

take care,

drake zeeellltzer

so bored

2005-08-02T10:46:00.000-04:00

somebody had better hire me or i will start leaving messages like this on the internet...

please pay me like you want me

2005-07-27T10:47:00.000-04:00

i went to beantown yesterday. it started as a disaster and ended on a pier with an ice-cream cone in hand. the purpose of this visit was to interview with a man with a monotone voice to see if i was a most suitable candidate to manage his newspaper in cambodia. i was.
the day started in the imperial capital at an early hour in a beltless costume on the metro in foggy bottom (a stop at which both the illustrious orange and blues lines pay frequent visits). i had forgotten that different color 'tro lines had a habit of wandering off in diverging directions- and needless to say i entered a train on the wrong line. luckily i recognized the error of my ways at the penultimate stop on the blue line which advertises some destination known as franco-springphonia. i can't imagine what is out there. the suburbs have always filled me with a sense of horror. so i doubled back to rosslyn (similarly frightening) and waited for the orange line to whisk me off to West Falls Church. I left the comfort of the urban 'tro with sincere regret and great speed as to make a bus to the airport which was scheduled to leave at precisely one minute before i arrived. i didn't make it and i found myself in what can only be described as a developer's dream and a citizen's nightmare. a quick reminder that dc and its surroundings are revoltingly hot during the summer months. humidity causes sweat to pore from one's brow, back and shins (yeah, even shins) like a beading mint julep on an alabama porch. the developers of west falls church had clearly taken this into account and decided to plant a tree here and there, after having demolished the forests which had stood there since the mesozoic era. so there were three trees. and a hell of a lot of sun. unfortunately for me, none of the three trees was over four feet tall and my bus wasn't scheduled to arrive for another half hour. so i stood and i sweated.
the bus did come. but i was late and i missed my flight (security). i had to stand spread eagle and have some sort of sonar device caress my body for 10 minutes, while my plane was boarded, the doors were shut and the safety measures read aloud. i got on a flight 2 hours later and sat next to a lady with a penchant towards violently flipping pages of her in-flight magazine towards my face for the one hour and twelve minutes we were in-flight. i considered my patience (e.g. not grabbing the fucking thing and beating the hell out of her with it) a sign of maturity. we landed in beantown and i went to meet the man with the monotone voice to discuss our future together. he was a nice man. an interesting man. and i pretended to be so as well. we hit it off and began to discuss specifics. "i hate to ask such a question," i ventured in, "but , can you give me an idea as to how much i can expect to earn?" my face betrayed a look as if it wasn't something i was particularly concerned about, but felt i had to ask in case my girlfriend brought it up. "$1300." he said with a straight face. hmm. surely this would include transportation to and from, what my father recently referred to as the nebrahhska of asia... no. well, surely this would include room and board... no. surely i could make some money on the side doing freelance work... no. we would share it. he sensed my concern. "well," he knitted his brow, "as long as you don't waste it all away on beer, then you should be okay." FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!
damn right i will waste it all away on beer. and vodka. and grass. and ... well... you know. i'll need a girlfriend.
fuck.
so, if i end up in cambodia in a few months, please send beer, vodka, grass and girls. cuz i will be eating rice, drinking moonshine and once again considering girls with downy upper lips.

guapos with gringos

2005-07-21T18:51:00.000-04:00

i ate lunch at guapos yesterday with a friend of my dad's. while i was waiting for him to arrive a young bucking journalist from the right-wing sponsored DC Hexaminer interviewed me about something I knew nothing about. while questioning me the guy sat down and before i knew it ended up eating lunch with us. it was surreal.

anyway, he quoted me, so i gots to give him a shout out. (scroll down to bottom of link, unless dc insurance policy interests you... then you can happily read the article in its entirety)

where's bebs?

2005-07-20T11:53:00.000-04:00

one of the absolutely necessarily bizarre aspects of life in ol' capult (does it still exist?) was the regular arrival of eccentrics from the beyond. one of my favorites was a frenchman from seatle going by the alias of bebs. he'd arrive at odd hours of the night and sometimes morning with this crazed raskolnikovesque look in his eyes. thin as a rake with his belt looped around his waist like tom sawyer, he'd fly in and out of the dining room between half-baked adventures around the corner and over the mountains and through the poppy fields.

he was a photographer.

his forte was... bricks. this man loved bricks. bricks in piles, bricks in ovens, bricks on walls, bricks on the ground, flying bricks, broken bricks, red bricks, brown bricks. bebs had photographed them all. and to be fair, capult offered some fine bricks.

anyway, i saw this photograph on my friend's website www.crisispictures.org and it reminded me of bebs:

dead as a doornail?

2005-07-19T11:25:00.000-04:00

does anybody know how machiavelli died? did he fake his own death?

did he reincarnate as karl rove?

does anybody know?

yaaawwwwwnnn, scratch, scratch

2005-07-16T16:17:00.000-04:00

well, well. the shuttlecocks are flying again. i've moved on to richer pastures and now spend my awfternooons gazing at the lovely gals in country life magazines. lovely well-skinned ladiez studying theology and art history all waiting for me to sweep them off their feet with stories of slicing backhands and grand slams and dames.
i'm back in the tawdry imperial capital like a squire on an ass. frothy frocked gals delight, yet an emptiness settles in like a big portion of mashed potatoes from a martini glass. should i stay or should i go... can i afford to stay or afford to go... is there a place to fondle ideas? or is it here? madame george says i'm a nitwit to keep running off (or away, rather), but seems to think that it might be the right thing to do. i think i will stay, but perhaps that is simply the weight of the humid diamond-shaped swamp that is below me. but then there is nevsky prospect... perhaps the humidity could hold me there too. but it seems broken hearts peer from every corner, and might they all be mine?
kabul does not call. it doens't pick up the phone. it's happier without my likes. but ohhhh i did like to get drunk there. early saturday afternoons with boxed-red wine hostessing jail breaks and hungover days, afternoons and nights with the one and only lady jane. lady jane. lady jane!!!! like a popsicle first thing in the morning. pop.
ha. assinine nostalgia. fuckereerereererssssss!!!!! ha. i'm out like trout. up stream like clotted cream. busting out at the seams.
it's hot and humid and swampy and sweaty and shiny and down right dirty in dc. so come visit me.
i have 24 more country lifes to go through before i can decide which one will be my future wife. so many lovely choices in life

faschismus in south-west london

2005-06-30T05:54:00.000-04:00

ahhh... yay dahling, i spent the day at wimbledon recently. a dream come true. it's like walking around the set of a gralph glauren catalogue shoot. luckily i had a spanking hangover so i hit up the pimms at 10:31 (gates open at 10:30, within those 60 seconds i leveled two large german women discussing mauresmo's triceps and a boy of twelve in purple and green shorts and shirt standing at attention next to court thirteen). fuck 'em, i got there first.
so, drunk by 10:37 (funny enough, the obstacles above weren't on their way to the drinks kiosk, so i was allowed to lean on the counter and suck down pimms until the gin (or whatever the fuck it is made of) began to seep into my bone marrow) i met my party and settled under the blazing northern sun to watch some russian supermodel kick the shit out a czech supermodel. women's tennis is really worth watching. i have to admit i spent the entire match staring at the two women's asses (four cheeks) in the guise of discovering how they generated such "torque" on their serves (something i overheard some commentators discuss the other day). it was marvelous. divine. unfortunately, the match ended and i was forced to sit through a series of uneventful match ups before another attractive russian hit court 3.
however, within that era of great patience i noticed something singularly disturbing. namely, that i was taking part in some sort of fascist spectacle only humanized by the players themselves. a frightening discovery on par with a recent realization that employment is haunting me once again.
the court itself was manned by six ball boys standing awkwardly upright with two tennis balls shoved up their asses. they occasionally scurried across the court to retrieve the numerous faults rebounding from the net and then turn 90 degrees and rolled the balls in some absurdly giraffic-fashion to the corner-boys and girls. an asinine display. but to make matters worse were the damn ushers next to the courts ushering ushees into seats and

unemployment again. ahhhhh

2005-06-16T10:44:00.000-04:00

when i'm not surfing for a bride, you can find me here

oh, the possibilities are endless

2005-06-16T09:37:00.000-04:00

this is my favourite website of all time:

mother russia

afromal apology to a certain nana

2005-06-12T12:13:00.000-04:00

here:

My dearest Nab., Madame Jorge, Mo' Petting, et al.,

I would like to formally apologize for any words on this here blizog which may have led to an uncomfortable lull in your life of porch swings, fried yolks, handle-bar terrorist attacks, closet explosions, pink denims, nifty dance parties, seam-tearing, lawrence of britainia reading and all sorts of other odd and unsavory habitual rites.

Please do accept this apology along with my sacrificial gesture of tossing all but one pair of khaki pants from a second story window of the men's room in the british museum.

XOXOXOXo

-Rake

turkey is for loners

2005-06-11T11:13:00.000-04:00

i've left hell and am suddenly in consumer heaven. ahhh. but, along the way i had a psychological customs check in constantifuckingnople. that's the spot. seriously. i have never been somewhere so conducive to being alone and utterly out of it. i spent three days culture shocking about long lanes of sycamore trees, spooky palaces, public baths and teahouses. i had neither a clue as to where i was, nor why i was there. i just wandered about staring gormlessly off into the distance.
it was a nice change from poppystan. although the women weren't particularly attractive - they were there. and mostly uncovered. although a good amount wore headscarves. ban them! viva la france!
the hagia sofia was as i expected: incredible. it's smoky, empty, stinky, dark, spooky and in a beautiful state of disrepair. one clangs about on floors of splintering marble, and discovers all sorts of errors in wall and ceiling patterns. exquisite.
the blue mosque, which for some reason is often recommended, is dead boring. utterly symmetrical in every sort of fashion and smells like a coffin of wet socks. although the courtyard was nice.

side note: i've recently started wearing british briefs... without any doubt an enormous fashion faux pas.

right, so in istanbul i had a job interview set-up with a certain monsieur nash from some pathetic company called oxford business groupies (no affiliation to the university or city). he was looking for an editor for their research magazine. he said to meet somewhere or rather at a certain time and to look out for a man in a green cotton jacket and jeans. right. so, i marched off to this location' which so happened to be at the highest point of istanbul- on the asian side (the side i swore not to set foot on when i arrived). the galata tower, it was called. well this tower was basically a vertical climb from the bosporus, but in an interesting part of town. it was nice to see that asia could actually look like europe if effort was involved (yikes, ignore that). i climbed the slope (with about seven teas along the way, as i had arrived early) and circled the tower at the peak before settling down to a bench and watching some sort of odd public performance involving a man with a large pointed red nose strapped to his face and a woman with a red mask walking around in circles. i couldn't make heads or tails of it, but was admittedly distracted by the dozens of people walking about in jeans and green jackets. shit. i waited for some time, occasionally making eye-contact with those in uniform, only to be greeted by suggestive stares or fuck-off glares. after about 45 minutes i began to make efforts to inquire as to which one of the bastards was actually mon. nash. luckily none spoke english, other than an exceedingly gay man in a violently striped jacket similar to the cover of an ikea catalogue. he failed to be mon. nash and my quest was seemingly over.
i began to descend the great galata peak and made my way down to the fishmongers next to the famous bridge connecting europe and the continent hosting hell. now, i cannot recommend a better place to eat on earth than a little spot at the end, run by a fourteen year-old boy of a most generous disposition and a large skillet. the boy fired me up some fine fillets and sat me at the corner of the pier where the commuter boats pulled in and out. a wonderful spot for people-watching. i watched half of istanbul disembark and board these horrendous vehicles while squeezing lemon on my fillet and downing a can of efes. heaven (in asia). i had a wonderful view of european istanbul: spires and domes and ugly apartment buildings. and was also nestled comfortably between two generators (powering the boy's business, amongst other things)- which combined with the exhaust of the boats felt lovingly like capult.
so i wondered back towards my hotel (this time stopping off for pints, as opposed to tea, every.. well.. thirty feet). at the hotel, i double-checked my email and realized (much to my dismay) that i was supposed to have met the certain mon. nash at the galata tower tunel station, as opposed to the tower itself. i apologized profusely and said that i could come meet him at a cafe the next morning. his reply the next morning:

Dear D,
I waited for approximately 40 minutes, and was a slightly bemused that you did not show up.

I do not have time to see you.
Yours,...

(please notice the above error in this editor's email)

and my reply:

Dear Mon. Nash,

I am pleased to know that my actions led towards your obtainment of an agreeable level of bemusement.

Listen, next time you are interested in interviewing somebody who has never been to Istanbul before, and has freshly arrived from a country like... say... Poppystan, keep in mind that he or she might be tired and a bit discombobulated. Perhaps it might be better to meet in a location nearby his or her hotel. Or, better yet, put them through to me first. Then I can warn them that if they take the position they will end up working with an asshole.

Take care,

Drake S.

and his reply:

With an attitude like that displayed below (currently above), I wish you the best of luck in finding any form of employment

---

fuck. poppystan has turned me into an asshole. but this guy is also an asshole, so fuck it. anyway, i've found a job. damn.

---

so since then i have been hiding out in wonderful pub-a-stan. a fucking wonderful place. beautiful plump gals everywhere. things to do. pubs full of booze. heaven.

madame george sends the best emails

2005-05-26T08:44:00.000-04:00

i wish i had written this:

"development is such a fucking joke. all these development folks who are in the "field" only serve to create this neo-colonialism in which they completely marginalize themselves from the people they are there to "develop" by implementing economic and social structures that the indigenous peoples can not even dream of accessing. it makes me sick when i think about it becasue it's all under the guise of helping people. ah
well"

nabbas you are wonderful.

I taught him everything he knows...

2005-05-26T02:23:00.000-04:00

M E W Lambeau was recently chosen as an all-met rower by the warshington post.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/sports/hssports/longterm/allmets/spring05/rowing.htm

(scroll down to the honorable mentions.)

MEWL will be attending the university of vermont in the fall where he will learn about political dissent and rolling spliffs.

2005-05-23T09:10:00.000-04:00

capult seen through the lens of the dope italian girl

lovely kabul

2005-05-23T03:25:00.000-04:00

just to give everybody an idea of how shitty it is to be here and how fucking stupid the ex-pats are in lovely kabul...

this is an email i received today from the security agency here, ANSO. a bunch of crackas.

Importance: High

Dear All:

A warning of a possible suicide Body Borne Improvised Explosive Device (BBIED) attack within Kabul City has been alerted through reliable sources.

The time frame for such an attack is highest over the next 8 days effective 22-29 May 2005.

High risk area's within Kabul City will be the main roads, routes through the city, traffic choke points. All the major Traffic Squares such as the Mashoud, Abdul Haq square will be rated as a higher risk area. Please remain alert while traveling from your residence to work place.

Reports have indicated that the potential attackers (suicide bombers) may be wearing a heavy vest. Based on reports and investigations of previous incidents some characteristic features (non exhaustive list, and not all described features must be necessarily accomplished at the same time) of potential suicide attackers, which could be useful in order to recognize a potential threat.

* 95% of suicidal attackers, (BBIED, VBIED) there was a single attacker.
* Wearing bulky clothing
* Wearing sunglasses
* Sweating, agitated
* Elated, smiling, happy
* Mumbling, reciting the Koran passages
* Protecting genitals
* Freshly shaved, short hair
* Visibly altered appearance
* Marking on forearms
* Holding onto something, clenching fist
* Wire or toggle protruding from clothing/bag
* Cuts in clothing/bag

CR Security Office cautions all Agencies to exercise due diligence, and be on higher alert during the next week. Please do pay attention to the security advise that is given and widely disseminate amongst all your staff.

Regards,

Cracka
Area Field Security Coordination Officer
Department of Safety and Security
Kabul, Afghanistan

i'm going to get this guy. not to worry.

norwegian humor... who knew?

2005-05-22T06:20:00.000-04:00

i take it everybody has seen this by now. it's worth watching over and over again...

come down to kosovoooooo

smack

2005-05-18T01:40:00.000-04:00

ahhh... ali sahib... do you love me?

#%#@#$%

2005-05-16T04:20:00.000-04:00

dear mr. whitaker, mr. isikoff and the entire newsweek staff,

stick a shuttlecock up your ass.

d.s.

security advice

2005-05-12T05:23:00.000-04:00

drake studebake, shuttlecock salesman, editor, maestro and lover, is now a security officer. he speaks to colonialistas in poppystan about how to act in the current circumtances:

capult freakly advises all ex-pats to look as american as possible, as we all know everybody likes an american. hightop shoes and baseball caps are advised for men. women should wear crop-tops with a healthy belly pouring out of the bottom. think pie crusts. loud obnoxious voices should be used for all communication. use long vowels whenever possible and avoid pronouncing dentals. e.g. where in the world is Bri'an (Britain)? or, wow, I'ly is a really swell country, I hear (as in Italy). Fried potatoes are freedom fries. women can be referred to as "you guys". And the Dari and Pashto languages, or any non-English language spoken in this beautiful country, should simply be called Afghan (or the Muslim language). act strangely around the French (shouldn't be too difficult) and be suspicious of Germans. drink coke at restaurants and hold your knife perpendicular to the table. Both public burping and crepitation are tolerated. Make fun of Canadians whenever the opportunity arises (again, shouldn't be difficult).

basically, in order to act american, one must simply convince themselves that in the eyes of the lord (don't bother thinking about that, though) s/he is superior to all others. fundamentalism is the name of the game.

good luck.

drake

damn. can i come?

2005-05-12T01:07:00.000-04:00

the worst thing about anti-us demonstrations in poppystan?

i have to stay at home.

er... rather, the worst thing is that they all want to kill me.

fuck

fuckers

2005-05-12T00:44:00.000-04:00

dear asshole administration,

in case the world hasn't made it perfectly clear over the past few days - YOU ARE HATED! honestly, it has taken you far too long to realize this. you are hated everywhere (other than in small fundamentalist churches south and west of warshington). perhaps you should create a commission to look into this...

so, to mr. bizush and the tx reckas:

FUCK YOU from afghanistan, georgia, america, russia, italy, france, germany, britain, the balkans, the baltics, asia, south america, antartica, australia (actually fuck australia), new zealand... fuck you from peeps worldwide.

and a special MUTHAFUCK YOU from Eye-rak.

get at me dogg

2005-05-04T00:45:00.000-04:00

i once slept with a girl who left me for a dentist. despite my prejudices (mostly aimed at those in the tooth business) i wasn't as devastated as a real man might have been. but, this is a different story.

the capult freakly went out this morning. an illiterate nation now has fresh toilet paper, or as it is raining something to wrap around their turbans. i met my first reader last week. exciting. he had one eye. a badminton injury, perhaps...

i have been in poppystan for three long months now. i can now arrive at parties and talk down to young colonialistas (under the false impression that they are here to help) only in this lovely shithole since March. I can say things like, "well, since you only arrived in the spring, you haven't seen very much. just looking at capult somebody who has been here as long as i] will notice major changes. it's astonishing (at this point i will stare pensively off into the distance. the same look that has made boxed red wine fall in love with me over and over again). this place has really transformed." then the poor jackass with eyeballs bulging out will slowly nod his or her head and try to comprehend what this place would look like if it was any worse than it is now. what a shithole. a fucking shithole.

so after a serious investigation i have decided that this country and perhaps islam as a whole is in need of one person. a figure of diplomatic tact beyond that of the shy charmer, john "the tractor-stache" bolton. an intellect of liberal values. a man who knows how to enjoy himself and is of such a generous disposition as to share his joy with all of humanity. a man with bitches in the living room. a man who drinks his gin and juice out of the holiest of grails. yes. poppystan is in need of he: s n double o p d o double gizee.
imagine what snoop could do for this godforsaken country. over night, women would go from wearing bad halloween costumes to high heels and thong-thong-thong-thong-thongs. men could stop holding hands and kissing in public and join their western brothers in openly gawking at women and slurring offensive words under their breath, whistling dixie and even... the height of western civilization: office-place sexual harassment!
gin would flow in the rivers. opium would need not leave the borders. peeps would flock to join the fun. girl's gone wild poppystan. holla at me snoop.

just a side note: i recently found out that my blog is not accessible in the people's republic of chin-chimery-china. suckas.

second side note: boxed red wine is too busy to read this far.

third side note: i recently resigned my position as commissar of capult freakly. i will stay until the 1st of june. if any of my hundreds of unemployed chums want to take over, well, you are most welcome. send a message. it's a clean celebrity role in a society where it is virtually impossible to become famous without murdering and pillaging at least one rival village.

drake

bella ragazza

2005-04-20T09:44:00.000-04:00

Dear Ilaria Blasi,

I am the editor in chief of Capult Freakly, the premier newspaper in Poppystan. This country is in dire need of female role-models. As you are a very successful and world-famous woman, Capult Freakly would like to invite you to come to Kabul in order to conduct an interview with our female journalists. We feel that Poppystan would greatly benefit from not only your presence, but your opinions and stances onissues regarding women in society.

The organization sponsoring Capult Freakly, A., also produces videos on women's issues in Poppystan (you are welcome to visit our website at http://afghanightmare.blogspot.com). If you are interested, we would be greatly honored if you would consider participating in such a project.

Please feel free to contact me via email at this address, or by telephone: +93 (0)70 555 085.

Yours sincerely,

Drake Studebake
Editor in chief, Capult Freakly,
Afghan Media and Culture Centre
Capult, Poppystan

capult freakly

2005-04-20T01:17:00.000-04:00

so they choose some christian for the papacy over this heathen... disappointed? of course, but i wont let disappointment drive down my deep faith in screen doors and porch swings. i will survive.
i haven't ka-blogged in a few weeks for the following reasons:

-i'm more depressed than a blue state.

-i've started another job (one that entails hard work for a few days a week), but for some reason i am still doing my old job as well...

-a fucking matto romano showed up here a couple of weeks ago and now i have to listen to his fucking matto accent all day long.

-my stomaco is in such bad shape that i have had to install a toilet in my office.

-the fucking walt disney of east germany recently showed up to run the show here at A...

-madame george finally told me that i am a complete prick and to fuck off. help

-i'm in poppystan. still.

so fuck all that nonsense. i'll tell badminton fans of the world about my new office:

Capult Freakly is Poppystan's "foremost" "independent" "newspaper". And drake studebake is the new editor/sole reader. (yes, yes, you are right to wonder what the fuck shuttlecocks and newspapers have in common, but in an attempt to actually sell this newspaper to people that won't a) wipe their ass with, or b) shit, i can't think of what else people might do with it... right, so in an attempt to improve sales, i have included origami instructions in the top right header on the front page. this allows our reader(s) to fold capult freakly into (you guessed it) large shuttlecocks, turbans, mini-burqas, Kalashnikovs, etc. or they can just continue to use it to roll massive j's.)

now for the above words in quotation marks:
foremost: yes, studebake's rag is the foremost paper on the market. however, there are a few problems with this: a) the ex-pat community can't figure out what they fuck is being published in the other papers because they are written in some archaic script (will smith, the half court squire, reads it, but his explanations take great difficulty to follow). oh, and we are in poppystan... market(!)? so, by default. it is the foremost.

independent: the paper is subsidized by an NGO run by the walt disney of east germany and edited by yours truly. i have been accused of promoting shuttlecock sales. justly. w.d. of e.g. has nothing to do with it, actually, but he is annoying.

newspaper: well... um... i'll leave that one.

i am ready to have children, or whatever it takes. please send women.

lack of something

2005-04-13T11:35:00.000-04:00

poppystan is missing this that this that this that and that this. but, one can get by without clean water, salad that wasn't fertilized with human shit, cafes, pubs, sidewalks, chairs with even numbers of legs, a morning newspaper (no disrespect to my capult freakly), burritos, armands, stimulation (either intellectual or untellectual), the OC, clean hands, clean clothes, book stores, cinemas, culture in general, fresh air, safety, this that and that this. but, this lack of women is simply appalling. no wonder the devil has got away with squatting here for over a quarter century. how blind can a society be? every office is full of farting, rude, dirty, rude, boring, slobby, uninspired, badly dressed men. fuck. every street is full of the same. every time one (as a man) walks into a courtyard men suddenly start shooing their women and girls indoors, behind curtains, walls, portculi, doors, piles of shit, etc. like fucking chickens. its miserable. the only women i see are wearing billowing blue burqas and begging for money.

i think too $hort would explode upon entry. no cocktails. fuck

recent job application

2005-04-01T11:20:00.000-05:00

April 1, 2005

Dear Cardinals,

I write to you in regards to the seemingly open position at the Vatican of Pope. I feel that I, Drake Studebake, shuttlecock salesman, am the right man for the job. I understand that you most likely will be receiving numerous applications for this position, but I believe that my qualifications and experience make me a very competitive applicant. I have outlined in bullet-points below what I feel to be my most admirable qualities in a long life of religious practice, which, in retrospect, I have no doubt will lead to my glorious future as Pope.

• I sat for five years in an episcopal elementary school where, I am told, we spent considerable time in the National Cathedral learning the way of our lord and saviour. Unfortunately, I only remember doing brass rubbings… But, I thought that was cool.

• I know the refrain to “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” and the song about the three kings and the rubber cigar.

• Even though I often make fun of Mormoms, sometimes i feel a bit guilty about it.

• Although I have not read the Bible, I have intended on doing so for quite some time.

• I can drive stick-shift and have knowledge of microsoft excel.

• I wore a Yakima, like the thing the Pope wears, at my friend Jared’s bar mitzvah in 1991. I looked pretty good in it.

• People like calling me Papa (or sometimes even, Big Papa).

• I have no moral qualms with hypocrisy.

• If I can sell shuttlecocks, than I can surely sell god.

• I can drink buckets of the blood of christ in one night.

• I’m good at waving and giving high-fives.

• I haven’t got laid in a while.

As there is no job description posted online, I hope that the above information covers the necessary subjects in the application process. Please contact me if there is any further information you would like (I am happy to turn over my criminal record, etc.).

Peace out,

D.S.

mein gott

2005-03-24T00:04:00.000-05:00

yesterday was miserable.

my life began to unravel around 930 after breakfast.

i was standing with the dope italian girl underneath a huge cedar tree discussing the most esoteric of sciences when a fucking bird plopped its innards on my freaking forehead. the dope italian girl said it was a sign of a good day to come...

so, four hours later i go for a walk with the aforesaid dope one and old mother hubbard. hubbard was in search of the sweetshop so she could please the palette of many a nice young afghan male before she returned to the land of marmite and mushy peas. well, out on the streets of capult mother hubbard made the error of giving the first beggar we saw 10 afghani which meant that the rest of the trip was spent surrounded by poor miserable looking kids. which is, simply put, the pits. i soon became the object of one of these kids desire and despite my crowd-weaving skills and stealthy road-crossing i couldn't shake the little bugger. he followed us for blocks and when i finally thought we were safe the kid came out of nowhere and latched on to my right leg. he gripped on to it with his life and i couldn't pry him off. it was dreadful.

the dope one asked if it was my son and old mother hubbard gave me a lecture on poverty in developing nations as i was trying to free my damn leg from his kung-fu body grip.

finally ridding myself of the poor kid, we walked on in the crowded streets for a couple more blocks before admitting defeat and turning back. old mother hubbard leading the way, the dope one and i fell back a bit. we stopped to look at some megaphones and thought of building a mosque, when suddenly out of the crowd an afghan yelled to me in english, "hey, handsome!"

slightly unexpected.

homosexuality is rampant in poppystan, albeit with totally different social distinctions than i am used to in the lands of westbeefs. but, mein gott...

crikey

2005-03-19T04:57:00.000-05:00

just to give an idea of how fucking weird it is here:
i just walked into the toilets and there was a man in a stall drinking tea. he smiled and said he would be a minute.

wasting away

2005-03-19T04:11:00.000-05:00

recent events in the life of drake studebake, shuttlecock salesman, the color red, have included a snorkel into the world of employed humanity and a happy resurfacing onto the arid land of the unemployed. brethren, i have returned unscathed. i have witnessed the plight of man due to institutionalized industrial insanity. a sad state of affairs, i do declare. what is employment really? a survival tool? or simply a lack of ingenuity? i dare say, both. but to continue on such a subject would only dampen our outlook. better to dwell on the fulfillment of unemployed life.
to start chronologically and, as a man of pleasure and leisure, to start at the apex of lackadaisical freedom:
when employed, a man (or woman, although in my experience women do not tend to enjoy unemployment as much as men, the proof, of course, being in the pudding) has every right, not only to awake at any time, but, more importantly, to rise at any given time. this is the most fundamental freedom in the life of the unemployed. my recommendation, however, is to rise shortly before lunch, steam and shower, and then sit to your meal fresh. a thoroughly wonderful start to the day.
at this stage half the day is over and one need only waste several more hours before the employed race returns to entertain.

ah, it is terribly important as an unemployee to be witnessed reading a volume of immense intellectual sophistication. this allows the rest of the world to assume that you are a) spending your time wisely, and b) too intelligent to stoop down to discuss employed people's lives. for honestly, what is more dreadful to an unemployee than talk of the daily grind? do we give a toss about an insubordinate's inefficiency? or a boss's demands? please. and if your photocopier has broken, no need to share. i just don't care.
when it comes down to it, employment is simply the most uninteresting thing a human ever does. if only the russians had realized it and put their revolutionary zeal to a better cause. unemployed people of the world unite! now that would really bring a change.

god, i'm bored to tears here. i'm going to lie down.

recent e-vents and blond torment

2005-03-12T07:05:00.000-05:00

its saturday. i work on saturday.

thursday night i went to a dinner partay with boxed red wine, arguably the loveliest gal in capult.let it be known that i am he who argues- for her dinner manners are as bizarre as afghan traffic patterns. the party was hosted by a futuristic point-guard and the man in a ski-chalet sweater. amiable hosts, who provided a favorable ratio of young ladies, fantastic food, and flowing libation (which i greedily sapped in between conversation revolving around me, myself and shuttlecocks).
now, boxed red wine was initially as excited as a loon at the prospect of a full tum and pirate's rum, but she soon discovered, to her dismay that the party's members were heavily weighted to the land of the lawd. that sweet country with a monopoly on freedom and the most super beings that the remaining world emulates with unmeasured obsequiousness. the land of i. and the beloved letter w.
well, boxed red wine became nervous for she, dear reader, be from that land formerly known as great. she sensed a superiority in the air, and suddenly felt her shoes too big and clothes too chic. she gobbled her meal and slurped her wine. begged this salesman for support in an evening clearly beyond her intellectual and cultural capabilities. the conversation rose to heights unknown on the continent: the art of hip, the shuttlecock dip. the scent of virtue, the overspent gumshoe. she was helpless. like a box of wine drained of its final contents, left to sputter out final sediments and sentiments.
i attempted to make rise to the occasion, as a salesman of my stature is only expected to do, but in her anxious state she knew not how to act and unleashed words of unblogable combinations, denouncing structural society and immediately calling for an anarchic takeover in this land of poppies and blue duvet covers. she raved at the good god-fearing folks from within the purple mountain's majesty, calling for their immediate surrender to her countrymen's pre-postmodern colonial two-step. she bubbled and boiled, tossing shoe-horns and iron stokers towards the innocents. they fell in twos and threes. broadsided by the frustrations of an empire lost and another gone enron.
i fled, i'm afraid. the scene was too bloody for a mere salesman like me. i hopped in my bathroom-tile pale green 1945 volga and rocketed through capult at an ungodly 45 kph. i made it home, just, and having foregone my beloved toothbrushing ritual climbed deep under the covers and curled up tightly.

lesson learned: party + boxed red wine = big trouble in little china

the mini-burqa

2005-03-08T23:47:00.000-05:00

keep the boys at home. shade the eyes of the innocent. i'm back with a new product that will, simply put, revolutionize the world. robespierre, trotsky, khamenei your ideas to turn society on its head were mere playground talk compared to this plan. stand back, breath deeply, rub your eyes, dear reader, prepare yourself for this summer's craze: the mini-burqa.

the mini-burqa conforms to the offensively bullshit "islamic" law of completely covering a woman's head, shoulders, chest and torso. the small grate for the eyes to barely see through remains. the only difference, really, is that instead of flowing repressively past the victim's (excuse me, adorner's) ankles, the mini-burqa stops just above the upper thigh. a dangerously suggestive spot, rarely even seen on the catwalks of paris.

imagine the dusty streets of poppystan hosting thousands of long dark anonymous legs. roar, says the mullah. rrrr, says the ex-pat. ahhh, says rkelly.

mini-burqa production begins this afternoon. March 8th, 2005. My gift to the women of the world on their day.

(the only potential downside is the shape of afghan women's legs. i have never seen a pair before. perhaps i should have a crate of thighmasters imported...)

day two of misery

2005-03-08T06:47:00.000-05:00

i miss my shuttlecocks. i miss the smell of fresh dusty rubber. the feel of sharp white plastic poking my palms. the look of an old one-legged ex-talib smashing an overhand into a young northern alliance soldier's chest. the line and dive of a well played shot. but enough. i shant speak of them again.

i'm moving on.

although no advice regarding my future was volleyed my way (other than n-ko talking about frogs), i have decided to step up and spend the remainder of my life unemployed. i will wander about capult until allah directs me to the heavens or another superpower directs me to hell.

actually i might just go to some more ex-pat parties and make fun of all the boring people i meet. the half-court squire is visiting his other half and the most verbose Taj has been quietly reloading. half the other peeps i've met here in the past month have already rolled, i don't blame them. poppystan seems to have a higher turnover than a dan snyder operation. it's because it basically sucks shuttlecock here.

it's international women's day. i'm going to celebrate.

nabbas

2005-03-08T06:41:00.000-05:00

where's the madness?

help

2005-03-07T01:30:00.000-05:00

i'm shit out of luck. i've taken my case to the minister of the eradication of colonial sports and apparently badminton is indeed illegal in poppystan (unless played with the balls of a virgin morco polo ram). so, i've packed up my belongings: one monocle bling-string, seven pairs of afghan wedding shoes, two wives, a seven volume set of w. churchill's "confessions of a shuttlecock salesman", 450 cases of cheap gin, and the beginnings of my forthcoming manifesto: "bring it on: make your shuttlecock hit like a shuttlebus". i'm selling my warehouse to a poppypusher and moving across town.

a new line of work is to be found.

options include: the world's first rapping afghan, burqa exporter (for that significant other you just can't bear to look at any longer), a contributing member of society, the new stud on the oc, dental assistant, leach, creep, canadian, televangelist, republican columnist pushing the administration's latest error in judgement, believer, old or new, drinker, sitter, liar, alyssa milano, shuttlecock salesman, loser, fuck, help me.

shuttlecocked

2005-03-06T02:10:00.000-05:00

i'm in ruins.

reputation: gone

business: gone

prospects: gone

wives: down to two

sense of self: none

37 freaking talibs rolled up on my place of business this morning and robbed me of 43,000 prime quality shuttlecocks and my goddamn monocle. they claimed that the Qur'an forbids not only the play of badminton, but the movements of all types of cocks, even the shuttle. fundamentalist bastards. fascists. republicans.

then this upstart punk grabbed my monocle and batted it out the window with my 1983 Prince Woodie. its now sitting somewhere in a mined field on the way to Bamian. i had just bought a slammin' bling-string to attach it to my coat lapel.
where the hell does one buy a new monocle in poppystan?

alas...

i'm afraid the shuttlecock has finally been put to rest in central asia. roll up your nets, comrades. stack your racquets in the cupboard. the shuttlecock shall not fly again.

a dope italian girl just brought me a cup of coffee and saved my life.

2005-03-05T04:56:00.000-05:00

i just saw the most depressing thing i have ever seen in my life. i was walking past chicken street which is like the m street of kabul and amongst the hoards of children begging and playing and just being so devastatingly poor and futureless was a five year old boy standing completely still in a light blue shirt crying. sobbing aloud.

is it love that hurts?

2005-03-05T01:24:00.000-05:00

i spent 24 hours in bed this weekend recovering from a serious bout of food poisoning combined with a bucket of j & b. i was so dehydrated when i awoke that i had lost fifty percent of my lips, and my tongue was too big to ask why there were seven chinese prostitutes eating my breakfast on my bedroom floor.
i am still ill, but the worst result of hurling a full RACTED dinner (thanks for the invitations, but please leave me alone) is a pulled neck muscle. it is difficult to find exercise in poppystan, as the air is too foul to breath deeply into the lungs, and the land has been left demolished by the "cold" war's biggest blunders. therefore my RACT of tossing was the most exercise i've had since january.

so i'm left with a crooked neck.

damn, i'm sensitive to the ills of humanity.

for clarification...

2005-03-01T23:38:00.001-05:00

in response to a number of queries (1) as to my professional activities and whereabouts, i am currently residing in a land of shattered dreams and europe's primary source of opiates (hmm... sums up the world rather nicely).

i am selling shuttlecocks, otherwise known as birdies, flying nipples, testicular missiles, and a series of unpublishable names. badminton is played ferociously in poppystan. under the cia, er, i mean taliban, losers were often "birdied" to death after a match. currently, in our more moderately fundamental times, losers are forced to swallow the final shuttlecock played. this practice is not necessarily condoned by my company, however we do firmly prefer it to previous tactics.

with respects to popi pete

the birth of a salesman

2005-03-01T01:06:00.000-05:00

i have taken to wearing a monocle. my esteemed predecessor, willy, was right about one thing and wrong about another. a measure of success might indeed be in the eye of the beholder, however, it is my disposition that this measure is simply measured by producing an appearance of the upmost respectability and sophistication. (personality is in fact of only minor importance in the grand life of a salesman.) the wonderful result of wearing a monocle (in the left eye, as it is) is a vision of the world always at odds with half of one's brain. poppystan is a place where a full vision might be rather devastating to one's constitution.
ah, but the most satisfying effect of the monocle is the red ring that remains around one's eye after it's removal (the monocle, that is) at the end of a long day in the local opium dens. i find this, along with my flattened lashes and reddish eyes to be a great draw amongst the fairer sex. and what is sales, i ask, if not the art of seduction?

and the winner is...

2005-02-28T23:26:00.001-05:00

wilfred w. shizkoph, ceo of the color red, and his personal secretary, the lovely ludmilla the 5 card thrilla, would like to announce the winner of our february sweepstakes.

in a surprise draw, the original winner was a Mr. Barazan Ibrahim Hassan. Mr Hassan, known by the "inner circle" as the arab charlie murphy, was offered a full package holiday to the historic city of da Hague, where amongst other points of interests, the world's largest potato chip will be on display until april 2005. Mr. Hassan was initially overjoyed with this invitation, especially as he is a great enthusiast of all things sliced and fried. however, unfortunate events have arisen, and for inexplicable reasons, Mr. Hassan has decided to remain in his home country, Pie-rak. Therefore, the color red held a second drawing in which a militaryman's name was pulled. The color red would like to congratulate general delic of gdetito?slavia on his acceptance to visit da Hague, and wish him a lovely vacation. Please send our greetings to Mr. Pillosovic, a previous winner.

Please check again at the end of March for the next winner of the illustrious color red sweepstakes.

of cesspools: an ode to willy loman

2005-02-28T00:17:00.000-05:00

an intriguing part of life in Capult is the urban walk. the sidewalks, where existent, are covered in trash, mud or dust (depending on the weather), shit, generators (the electricity crimister, Ishmael Khan,a former warlord/governor reeled in from Herat, hasn't quite figured out what price Capult must pay into his coffers. thus the city is run on lawnmower engines), exhaust, kebab-stands, tea-stands, dvd kiosks, beggars,kalashnikov-bearing policemen, phone card-peddling boys, blue-burqa-ed hamburgerlers, brown snow, did i mention shit?, everything but westbeefs (who are nervously peering out of their environmentally friendly suvz stuck in traffic). needless to say, one is constantly weaving through crowds and hopping over deep abyssmal holes. the streets themsleves are lined like bowling alleys with two-foot wide moats, filled with all of the above plus the most mythical creatures. it is my greatest fear that i will descend into one of these cesspools and risk the devastating embarassment of having to remove infected pieces of my body on the spot, before commando crawling on my remaining stumps back to my house. thus far, i remain intact.

willy loman will have to wait. i have to make myself scarce

a premature thought and a canadian voodoo-bot

2005-02-27T00:04:00.000-05:00

now that i am gainfully employed, finally, i no longer feel the excess dangers of laziness, leisure and general lethargy creeping into the marrow of my fickle bones. a shame really, for if there is anything at which i truly excel, it is the above three lovely 'l' words. however, my laziness shall now be put to use and transformed into the fantastic science of procrastination. an act of utterly different design when one is receiving the binding thank-you-note of the rat race, e.g. a wage.
thus, a blog.

i'll jump into it. last night was my first foray into the seemingly colorless world of ex-pat shindigs. a world of overt pretensions and an utter lack of nuance. the ratrace chatter is unavoidable, but amusing to the newcomer. one is asked basic questions ranging from, what are you doing here? to, why are you here? and if one happens to come across a more skilled conversationalist, how long have you been here? one is tempted to create stories, however they seem to be greeted with even less interest than the original. despite the intrepid nature one assumes prevalent in those westbeefs willing to camp out in gamestan,imagination seems to have been lost with the removal of shoes at high-security airports.

it's most enjoyable to meet people who work for acronyms. i haven't a clue what one stands for, but find myself nodding knowingly and even gravely at times, when approached by a honking acronymchik. perhaps i will move for my organization to be shorten to A at a future meeting.

fortunately the most verbose Taj arrived with his entourage of goons, including the half-court squire. The most verbose Taj moves about gamestan with a tommygun protruding from his hip at all times. somewhat comforting for an infidel from the land of capone. he politely unloads the drum for parties, but one can still see him dancing amongst crowds of flushed english gals in floral dresses at various events about Capult. the half-court squire is a figure of remarkable conversational ability. i rather rudely landed him on a profileless norte americano, who's own conversational ability was so poor as to make one contemplate the most verbose Taj's decision to unload his weapon. however, the half-court squire managed to extract a conversation revolving around voodoo practices in the upper regions of the hindu kushion from the profileless one. despite lacking a third dimension (or was it a second?), the profileless one passed on a spell of her own, which fortunately involved her disappearance.

now, for one final note, i must point out that the half-court squire arrived in full regalia, including a three piece suit and tennis shoes. a look last seen perfected by the one and only Will Smith of the mid-1990s. a most impressive statement. respect due.