Chances are I’ll be incapacitated and/or watching football all day Monday, so this counts as my HNY for 2007. See ya on the flip side, fuckers.

11:03:27 AM joelhoard: hey there
11:03:35 AM sgserilla: hello
11:04:03 AM sgserilla: http://www.edbegley.com/store/index.php?cat_id=1&catname=’Ed’s%20Autograph’
11:04:14 AM sgserilla: it’s not too late to get me a xmas gift
11:04:37 AM joelhoard: you want the index card or the headshot?
11:05:42 AM sgserilla: i want ed begley jr
11:05:48 AM joelhoard: ahh
11:06:01 AM joelhoard: dead or alive?
11:06:13 AM sgserilla: he’s no good to me dead!
11:06:19 AM sgserilla: just rough him up a bit
11:06:26 AM joelhoard: how bout i put him in a jar?
11:06:48 AM sgserilla: he’s not that cool
11:06:58 AM sgserilla: a sack will do
11:07:01 AM joelhoard: ok
11:07:04 AM joelhoard: burlap?
11:07:14 AM sgserilla: whatevs

Questions for Scott, who’s incredibly busy right now. I hope he’ll find time to answer them as an Xmas gift to me though.

Some have said this is the greatest blog ever. I’m inclined to agree. What makes us so great?
A general indifference to the laws of thermodynamics.

If you could realize your lifelong dream of becoming a professional baseball player, but you had to play right field for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, would you still do it?
I wanted to work for the CIA so I’ll pretend you asked if I would still be a spy for the tiny nation of Luxemburg — Yes, yes I would.

Same question, but replace “professional baseball player” with “rock-n-roll superstar” and “right field for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays” with “bass for the eighth incarnation of Journey.”
Sure and I hate Journey. Livin’ the dream at a lower level doesn’t have to be bad as long as you don’t lie to yourself and think it’s the top. Why should I stop believing just cause I have to play “Don’t Stop Believing” every night.

BTW, according to Wikipedia, the current bass player Journey is the original bass player. DO YOUR HOMEWORK NEXT TIME SMART ASS!

I think every Christmas song save for “O Holy Night,” which is fucking beautiful, should be banned. Are there any you would save?
I love lots of Xmas music; the aforementioned “Fairy Tale of New York,” everything on the James Brown Xmas cassette my dad played all through my childhood. I say crank the Bing Crosby and don’t worry so much.

We haven’t had a blog feud in quite some time. Any targets you have in mind?
Fuck those losers at AskJeeves.

Come up with a question for this answer: Ya know Scott, just when I thought you couldn’t sink any lower, you went and asked me about that night. I thought what happens in Omaha stays in Omaha. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
Hey Joel could you answer this question with mock indignation and throw in a reference to the insurance capital of the Midwest?

I just got back from LA. It was fucking cold there. Warmer in The D than in LA. How fucked up is that shit?
Totally it was like when “MASK” became all about car racing in the third or fourth season and I was all like, “why must everything I love gradually turn into shit.” Disappointing no matter what climate you live in.

If Jesus’s birthday is called Christmas, why can’t my birthday be called J-Homas?
It would be too easily confused with J-Holmas, which is of course the longest day of the year. OOOOOO! THAT TOOK ME A WEEK TO COME UP WITH!

As a pair of University of Michigan grads, we’re obligated to mention that this guy died. I have a particular duty, being a Grand Rapids native and all. He may have been a Republican, but I guess he was pretty cool. See ya, Gerry.

Dear J-Ho,

Cable Junkie, MO

Dear Junkie,

I suggest cigarettes. Television addiction is no laughing matter, but nicotine addiction sure is. Ugly, overweight people who devour pounds of Mallomars daily are addicted to TV. Think the mother in “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.” Cool, hip people smoke cigarettes. Think James Dean and Steve McQueen. Next time you get the urge to pick up that remote and turn on “What Not To Wear,” instead reach for a pack of Natural American Spirits, the world’s finest cigarettes.*

Love,

J-Ho

Dear Joely,

Scared Shitless in Saginaw

Dear Triple-S,

I see only one viable solution. Travel to rural Japan for ninja training and silently murder your boss before he gets you. Training may take several years, but it will all pay off in the end when you see your boss’s eyes roll back into his severed head as it spins on his desk. Be forewarned, however. Failure to flawlessly execute this plan will leave you with one out: seppuku.

Love,

J-Ho

Hoard,

Broken in Brooklyn

Dear BiB,

Are you suggesting that blogging is somehow separate from real life? I consider that an affront. As they say in your part of the world, go fuck yaself, ya shit-eating bitch. Leave the blogging to the warriors.

Love,

J-Ho

Dear Joel,

M, Boston

Dear M,

Just this one.

Love,

J-Ho

Dear Joel,

Lusty Groupie, CA

Dear Groupie,

Unfortunately, Scott is already married to a very lovely young lass, so you’ll have to bottle up your emotions. I can tell by the abundance of question marks in your letter that your feelings run deep. I suggest finding all the pictures of Scott that you can and plastering them all over your bedroom. Then lie in bed and stare at them night and day while repeating the mantra “He loves me! He loves me!” ad infinitum. This won’t help you get any closer to him, but it will keep you occupied and will allow Scott to lead a normal, stalker-free life.

Love,

J-Ho

* This response sponsored by Santa Fe Natural Tobacco Company, makers of fine Natural American Spirit products.

What a dicktard.

If you could travel through time or fax yourself from the future, what would you say?

“Take care of your mutherfucking teeth.” Best advice you’ll get all year. Till then at least take care of each other.

You scumbag, you maggot,
You cheap lousy faggot.
Happy Christmas you arse
I pray God it’s our last.

Random questions for Mr. Hoard:

What was the last thing you ate?

I had some Spartan brand macaroni & cheese for breakfast this morning. It tasted like $0.33. It was one step above ramen and one step below Campbell’s tomato soup. While we’re on the subject, I think we should discuss how more foods should be dehydrated then rehydrated right before we eat them. See, water has a huge chip on its shoulder. It’s all “I’m the most important thing on the planet! You can’t live without me!” It would put water in its place to only call on it when we need it. Water would be like “Let me be in your dinner!” and we’d be like “Naw, man. We got this shit covered for now. We’ll give you a call when it’s time to eat.”

What can fans expect from your next album?

Lots and lots of drama surrounding its release. I’m planning on signing to Def Jam, getting kicked off for giving Russell Simmons’s daughters weed, signing to Interscope, getting kicked off for stealing Jimmy Iovine’s car and driving it to Puerto Rico (trust me - it can be done) and finally signing to Def Jux, before getting kicked off for calling El-P an Uncle Tom. As for the sound, I would describe it as the Velvet Underground on even more heroin, mixed in a blender with a cougar, flying in a World War I biplane, with a dash of Robert Johnson-influenced jug band on top. It’ll be the loudest, most pretentious record ever made. I’d give it 2-1/2 stars.

If you could banish one phrase from the parlance of our times what would it be?

This is an easy one. No phrase infuriates me more than “I like to have a good time.” Is there some wacky underground network of people bent on having a bad time? You might be tempted to argue that sadists, masochists, and sadomasochists like to have a bad time, but it’s all relative. What’s weird and painful for us is a good time for them. If you ever hear someone say “I like to have a good time,” you can correctly assume that 1) the person is boring and 2) all the person really likes to do is drink and go to shitty nightclubs.

OPTIONAL FOLLOW-UP: Instead you may choose to strike one color or odor from the universe, but you have to decide what to replace it with.

There really aren’t any smells that bother me too much, so I’m going with pants. I would replace pants with flowing, gender-neutral skirts.

What’s your favorite movie cliché?

The Big Game. It’s a metaphor for how we spend all our days preparing for one big event, usually somewhere between two weeks and three months away. Despite all the adversity along the way, we end up winning. No one ever loses. Ever. It’s how life works.

A co-worker of mine just said, “mm this is a really good Foreigner song” when “Cold as Ice” came on the radio — do you believe: a). That’s oxymoronic. b). On the contrary, that song rocks unironically and Lou Gramm is a god. c). On the grand scale of things the inevitable civil war caused by the troop withdrawals the Democrats are currently advocating couldn’t possibly destabilize the region any more worse than our presence has in the first place.

This *might* be a trick question, but I have to go with my gut and pick (b). If you can’t appreciate the rawk, you just ain’t got a soul.

One of your many glamorous Hollywood liaisons approaches you after a recent tryst and announces she is with child. Knowing that the little bastard will be in the public eye and that your next weekend opening numbers depend on this kid being a sensation, what do you choose to name the kid?

Detroit Michigan Hydroponic Stanley Relatively Obsequious Mongoose Hoard XXXIV.

In retrospect what’s your biggest regret? Answers must be limited to scientific discoveries.

So many to choose from… I’m gonna go with that black hole I discovered that’s about 3.01e128 light years away, but only because the contest to name said black hole was open only to children between the ages of five and nine. Personally, I would have called it something like Hawkingpalooza, but Mr. Poopie Pants won.

Why don’t we post more?

Quality over quantity. This blog is more Big Star than Guided by Voices.

Ya know Scott, how crazy is it that we have, like, twelve people who read this blog every day?
I am vaguely aware of what kind of numbers you can get if you post each and everyday so I guess I always think we would have more readers if we tried harder, but then that means a lot more work out of the two of us and I have kids to feed!

I assume this answer drove away at least three readers. Well, who the hell needs you, Mom.

Ya know Scott, remember that time you beat that one kid with a Wiffle bat? How awesome was that?
For the record, he had a couch cushion to protect himself. I would never wail on an unarmed man like that. Oh yeah, it ruled though.

Ya know Scott, what exactly is the theme of this blog?
For a while it was about the ennui of post-grad life. Then we went through our VH1 phase and it was about weird stuff in the news and celebrities. Then it was about the folly of ugly people on the internet trying to make friends. Now I think it’s an ongoing dialogue about Russian literature and more specifically how neither of us have ever read any of it, nor intend to.

Ya know Scott, huh?
Indeed I do not, but I would dearly like to — oh ever so much. I would exchanging knowing nods with black youths on the street corner and between us would pass a moment of meaningful knowingness. I would mentor them in an after-school blogging workshop and they would open up to me right before the national high school blogging championships about the hardships of ghetto life and I could hold them tight as they sob and say, “I know, Jamal, I know.”

Ya know Scott, my cat likes to sleep in the bathroom sink. Is that weird?
I think it’s kinda sweet. Very zen, very Frank Llyod Wright.

Ya know Scott, this joke needs a punchline: Two brothers are having dinner after their mother’s funeral. One of them says to the other, “Ya know what I miss most about Mom? Every Sunday night we’d always have pot roast, and it was always fucking delicious. So then the other brother says, ” (insert punchline) “
Whoa, whoa — let’s go back and fix the setup first — A. I don’t believe a word of it so far. People want their comedy to about everyday stuff like African baby adoption and sexually promiscuous starlets. This doom and gloom stuff has to go: Now the joke is about Scarlet Johansson and a under-fed Nigerian in a limo on their way to the Oscars. B. People need a catch phrase to pull them in; something they can say during sales meetings and everybody will know they also watch TV and they deserve to be respected goddamn it. C. Nobody is still reading this question. Anyways the brother says, “Didn’t you suck her dick enough during the eulogy?! YOU”RE LIVING LA VIDA LOCO!”

Ya know Scott, isn’t it ironic that you’re such a great writer, but your spelling/typing skills are lacking? Is that ironic? (Aubs?)
The best part is though is when my dyslexic is acting up, I know a storm front is rolling in.

It’s not ironic to me, Joel. Thinking writing is about the letters in the words is like thinking music is about the notes. Most people are bad writers cause they get hung up on the technicals and lose the special sauce. While I respect their talents to a point, most grammarians are elitist honkies trying to keep poor people down or head-in-the-sand dicktards (by the way I recommend stealing you special sauce from the Onion).

I absolutely have a problem, but how can I stop when my sloppiness is so gosh damn endearing! There is a theory that my undiagnosed learning disability is really the source of my mighty powers. I had to rewrite my brain to survive and the occasional sparks that fly can be beautiful. Would you ask Ray Charles or Daredevil if he would prefer to see if it meant give up their respective gifts? Ben Franklin, F. Scot and Shaw all couldn’t spell. The English language doesn’t deserve respect, bend it and twist it as you will. Spelling is for robots.

Ya know Scott, I really miss Mitch. Don’t you?
I miss him, too. Someone that unrelentingly weird and sure of themselves is amazing. The theme of this blog should be to keep kids of the horse.

Ya know Scott, if you get to Heaven and you’re allowed to ask God one question, but it had to be about badminton, what would it be?
I would try to use an analogy for a birdy that hits the net and still goes over as a metaphor for the existence of man. God would call me pretensious and then run off to make more toys for all the good boys and girls in his workshop.