I bumped into our favorite asshole, Steve Jobs, on the streets of Manhattan the other day, and to be honest with you, loyal readers, I kept my head down. No, I’m not one hundred percent proud of my cowardice, but I’m also known around the Retardo offices for not being anyone’s fool. I know Jobs, and I know he’ll go to any length necessary to protect the precious image of himself as “the guru to the creative promise in us all” that he has so carefully manufactured over the years—or so I assumed…

I thought I had slunk well past the Mussolini of Mac, and had raised my head to proceed quickly to my destination (never mind where, ever-meddlesome reader), when I felt a hand, icy cold, land suddenly upon my shoulder. Startled, I spun to face my assailant—all the while distinctly aware of the air growing close and still around me, of sound suddenly muffled from my ears, of the light in the sky abruptly becoming too bright, as if overexposed, washing out the city landscape—it was Steve. Jobs. He had spotted my face in the crowd despite my spineless attempt to dodge him, and now he was going to kill me in front of the whole world…and there was nothing I could do. And he would probably get away with it, too! The goddamned world had always let this fucking shit head get away with anything he ever wanted, and now he was going to tear my head from my shoulders and suck the…

But surprisingly, no.

I won’t lie to you, friends. We argued. So much that we decided to take it off the streets and back to my artfully decorated cubical at Jose Headquarters, so as to not draw any more attention to his neatly trimmed beard (it looks just as nice in person!). Turns out that his people keep close tabs on this site, and bring to him the truth we’ve told, and he is pretty fucking pissed about it.

We talked all through the long night, and though we agreed on nothing, we did reach an easy rapport with each other, as generals often do while their respective soldiers’ slug it out in the bloody valleys below. We drank wine, we listened to Manford Mann, and soon I had him relaxed enough—and myself confident enough—to ask the question I pose to every visitor of my office.

He beamed, and immediately said yes, then disrobed so I could draw his portrait. The results are above and to the left, people. Click on it to view the full version. I found him to be a surprisingly soft and vulnerable subject. Tell me what you think. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?

People are going to think I’m crazy, and that’s fine—I’ve come to terms with the reality that one defining characteristic of a test of faith is that you are the only person aware of the test. To be sure, greater people than humble me have lived with this affliction. Joan of Arc dealt with criticism, as did Abraham, Noah, and Ollie North.

There is little doubt that this chalice of abuse will now be passed to me. I will drink from it greedily, for underneath it all it means that the green tinges of envy have risen from below the collars of the naysayers and has clouded their vision—they wish that divinity had chosen them to bestow the gifts of the Lord upon.

Behold my pretzel. I’ve been holding onto it for a couple of years now, ever since I rescued it from a dear friend who had, in a rare moment of weakness, separated it out from her bag of Pennysticks and was nearly about to dispose of it (by eating it). I have no anger towards her, however. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and giving her the gift of careless hunger was His way of getting this precious snack into my hands. Now, after having kept it safe past the point of it being appetizing, I think I am going to sell it on eBay. Seeing, though, how I care for my readers above almost all else (besides the good Lord, bearer of the gift of divine salted bread sticks through which all high-quality things flow), I’ve decided to give you all first dibs at bidding. I’ve set the minimum for $650 big ones. Best of luck to you all. Bid through the comments, please, or feel free to send a private bid through the contact page.

PS—This prick thinks he’s got something over me. Do God’s work and please destroy his rating.

Over the weekend, the intrepid New York City photographer Katie Dooley inexplicably found herself on the Brooklyn side of the East River. Armed with her Canon EOS Digital Rebel Xti with the Canon - 70-300mm f/4-5.6 IS USM Telephoto Zoom Lens, she was able to capture these amazing images of a sea gull enjoying a moment of repose in a hectic environment.

Says Katie about this photo:

I’ve been pooped on by a sea gull at least twice. The funny thing about these dirty birds is that the same gull that trashes a beautiful beach can snazz up any old city dump with the sounds and sights of vacation.

Well said, Dooley. And by all means, keep the beautiful photos coming.

I was walking through the endlessly intriguing streets of NYC the other evening (my destination shall remain my own business, thank you very much my dear but sometimes far too inquisitive readers), when I ran across a hole-in-the-wall psychic shop somewhere in the west 20’s. Well, what the fuck, you know, it’s a psychic shop and so the very sight of it makes me grin in a detached sort of way, but what actually compelled me stop and take a picture of the dumpy little den of wishes is the ATM machine that has been installed right outside the door. Click on the image to the left to see a larger version.

In my view, this effectively transforms psychic readings into an impulse buy—and what an impulse buy it is. Some of your more upscale readings can apparently cost $400 or more. Not only this, but apparently, the uglier the psychic administering the read, the more expensive it becomes. If you couple this information with the knowledge that over 60% of Americans under the age of 65 are predisposed to believing in psychic phenomenon (ESP, telepathy, etc), you end up with a fairly nutty industry. Fueling this lucrative psychosis is this odd dichotomy: the more highly educated the person, the more likely he/she will believe in all things kinda spooky. It isn’t difficult to see where this is heading. College educated people have, on average, more cash to blow than those that are not. Psychics know their audience. And any showman worth his salt knows to milk his audience for everything they’re worth.

I am a college graduate, however, it is my firm belief that if I am to ever reach a more enlightened state than the one that I am currently at (which would be damn hard; I am one sharp cookie, bitch), it is simply not going to happen via the telephone or the internet. No, I think I prefer to get my enlightenment the old fashioned way: Peyote. I’ll be in the desert if you need me.