Robnett Gazette Launches!

I know I've been so sucky at posting here, but check out The Robnett Gazette. It's me and my fianceé's new blog. I'm aiming to make it a family newsletter meets The Onion. Hope you like it, and trust me, I'll still be rocking it as Cosby Sweater from time to time.

Thanks for all the love and support.

God bless Philadelphia and Latin America.

I need to document something before I forget it forever.

Alright, a few months ago I was standing in Union Square waiting for a buddy who was visiting from out of town to show up, and one of the most awesomest things that has ever happened to me happened to me.

I noticed a beautiful girl, who also seemed to be waiting on the corner for someone. She was a tiny Latina girl (they’re my favorite!). She had golden brown eyes, to match her golden brown skin and was wearing a white ribbed tank top and jeans. If Selma Hayek has a 10-year-younger identical twin, this was her.


At the same time her twin sister
was surrounded by paparazzi.
Coincidence? Read the book.

Anyway, I’m waiting for—we’ll call him “Ben”—when all of the sudden this hot little mami approaches me.

I was caught off guard by this. I quickly tried to gather myself and predict what she might ask me: what the time is, where a certain street might be, if I might want to leave this world and go with her to the moon, where we would populate the moon with little Hispanic-ish children that we would call “lunarbabies.”


Lunarbabies are a lot like Solarbabies,
but of my seed, and not on rollerskates.

The suspense, if just for that split second, was killing me.

And then she totally blew my socks off. I could have never predicted the sequence of words that would come out of her mouth. As I write this I am still as flabbergasted as I was at the moment she uttered them to me there on 14th street, right outside the Virgin Megastore.

She approached, and then gently, cutely asked me, “do I have any pink cream cheese on me?”

Wow.

What? Where are the cameras? Am I being Punk’d?


“Dude! Made you look Cosby! I’m so awesome!”

Nope.

That’s exactly what she said. Not only did she ask me this creamy question, SHE LIFTED HER ARMS UP AND DID A 360-DEGREE TWIRL FOR ME, just for ME, so I could get a good look and make sure that there was not a spot of pink cream cheese anywhere on her sexy little self.

I tell you if I would’ve had a ring I would’ve proposed right then and there.

But out of shock, out of delight, out of sheer horror, all I could do was say, “nope.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Nope? Nope? All I said was “nope?”

Deep inside, I wanted to tell her so many things. I wanted to tell her, no, thank you. I wanted to tell her she had just single-handedly created a moment that makes life worth living. I wanted to tell her to hang on, that I would go get some pink cream cheese and that we could go back to my place and make everything all better. And then we could go to the moon, you know, to start creating that perfect lunarbaby civilization she so badly wanted.

But all I said was, “waiting for somebody too, huh?”

Good one.

Just then, “Ben” showed up. We were headed to meet some of my friends for drinks. So as we walked off I just told the dream girl, “bye, stay clean.”

And then, as I thought about it, I wondered, what the hell was I thinking not asking her to join us? Why didn’t I give her my number so I could buy her a drink later, or maybe a strawberry-cream-cheese bagel the next day?


The breakfast of champion hot chicks.

And you know what really sucks? That night was a blast. She would’ve had a great time. We ended up at an Asian party at an all bed club. I’m willing to wager a large sum that Latin girls love Asian parties at bed bars. And the ironic thing is, is that I never end up at clubs, let alone clubs with beds. It would have been perfect.

But alas, this is why I’m still single. I just don’t know what I’m doing around women.

Subway Tales, Vol. 2

The New York Subway is a dangerous place.

If no one’s stabbing you with a knife or an HIV infected syringe, pushing you onto the high voltage tracks or lighting you on fire, chances are they’re planting a bomb in your anus. A terrorist bomb with little HIV infected syringes in it.

But even greater than the really, really good chance of dying a painful death on the subway is the chance of smelling something awful on the subway.

I don’t mean spoiled-milk awful. I mean festering-bum-scrotum-sprayed-by-a-skunk-with-a-stomach-virus-that-died-in-a-urinal-in-the-men’s-room-at-a-gas-station-outside-Topeka awful. The chances of smelling this smell are better than good. In fact it’s downright bound to happen.

And to me, smelling something even close to that is worse than dying by butt bomb.


The Subway Danger Canal.

If you doubt how bad the subway can smell, let me suggest you visit Union Square station. At the far east corner of the stop, right outside the entrance between the attendant booth and the escalator, is the worst bum-ass stench you will ever smell. And it’s there year round. It gets even more pungent during the humid, moist summer months. Go there, take a whiff, and if you still don’t think it’s that bad, then please, tell science how you are a miracle and live without a nasal cavity.


Steve Gutenberg says, "You're right Cosby! Before I smelled
Union Square I had a promising film career. Now look at me!"

So because of the inevitability of coming across such horrid stench, I am shocked by some people’s audaciousness to ignore the danger of stink on the subway.

What I mean is that I am so afraid that I might smell something awful, I take every precaution to not escalate the experience. I rarely open my mouth on the subway, much less breathe. And I would never, ever eat or drink on the subway.

Let’s say I’m feeling risky so I take a latte onto the subway and am about to take a sip when, at that moment, I get a whiff of a urine-soaked homeless man. There would be projectile vomiting. Weeping. Gnashing of teeth. Apocalypse. And that was just a latte. Think what would happen if I were about to bite into an egg salad sandwich. Yeah, not pretty.

That’s why I have to hand it to the guy who I saw on the subway recently. I got on the subway and sat down, just as this guy was opening a liter container of beef stew. Yes. This guy didn’t think twice about digging into beef stew on the subway.


Campbell's Chunky Soup. Now BUM JUICIER!

I mean the balls on this guy. The sheer, molten steel BALLS of this guy thinking he could keep down a liter of boiled potatoes and beef shank if he were to smell a drunk hooker’s puke all of a sudden.

So here’s to you, Beef Stew Gambler. You not only play Russian roulette with your stomach, you feel free to make the entire subway car smell like your disgusting dinner. Which ups the ante, because I nearly puked because of the smell of your stew, which may have set off a chain reaction with you, unless of course your constitution really is as leaded as you would like us to believe.


Translation: Real American Happy Subway vs Beef Stew Action Time!

My iPod, the genius

So I always listen to my iPod with the songs on shuffle, and every once in a while my iPod shows flashes of DJ brilliance. Somehow it will play two songs back to back that I would have never thought sounded awesome together, but they do. Take for instance tonight. Try this one on for size:

The Next Episode by Dr. Dre into No One Else by Weezer.

Hey! You got your Weezer in my Dre!


“And it tastes delicious!”

Help my fantasy become reality.

I am trying to set up a Fantasy Football league and I need 5 more people to join. It's $40 and should be a hella good time. The draft is Sept. 5th. If you want to join or have a friend who wants to join, click the "contact the sweater" link on the bottom right of this page.

I love you all.

Coz

I get around.

I thought you might enjoy seeing me sharing a few moments with some of my closest friends. They’re my close friends because of my awesomeness (aka: one of my co-worker’s awesome photoshop skillz).

Don’t let these photos make you jealous or think that the Lou Diamond Phillips photo is not real. It is. Really.


“Listen Jen, it’s not you, it’s just that Angelina is so much hotter than you.”


“No George, not hot enough. You gotta add the pointing finger.”


“Shhh. Shhh, Cristy. Victoria’s secret is safe with me.”


“Sorry Catherine, not until Michael is dead, or at least a vegetable.”


“So you’re saying you’ve never been Molly McButter?”


“Wait a second, I thought I brought home Molly McButter. Who are you and what have you done with Molly McButter!”


“What’s that you’re smoking Cary? ’Baby seal eyes,’ you say? Well, whatever it is, it smells like ass.”

Distractions, distractions

Hey gang.

For those of you loyal enough to keep coming back even though there hasn’t been anything new on here for a while, I owe you all a back rub. An oily, candlelit backrub.

Until that luscious time, I’ll attempt to make some excuses.

Excuse #1: The part of the brain it takes to write a post is the same part of the brain I use for my job. So I’ve been working a lot lately, and when I get home or get a break the last thing I want to do is try to come up with something half-witty or creative or entertaining.

It’s like if you were a hot-dog-eating-contest-person and after your big contest I had you over for a BBQ. That’s probably the last thing you’d want.

Actually, probably the last thing you’d want is to see Gary Busey smiling at you.


Regurgitated hot dog in 3...2...

Excuse #2: When I do have a break or go home, I have so many things to distract me. Here are just some of the things that have been distractions for me in the past couple of days: DVR, fantasy football, real football, Puerto Rican parades, Kraft Singles, Dr. Mario, shin splints, mangos, Brillo pads, In Search Of…, myspace, podcasts, my guitar, dead birds, email, applesauce, Wilford Brimley, my calves, Hurricane Katrina, dolphins, elephants, doliphants, Alan Alda, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Celebrity Fit Club, NASCAR, flossing, shoelaces, my pulse, dead people, deli meat, dust, Unreal Tournament, Kids In the Hall, Battle of the Ad Bands, stationary bikes, girls on stairclimbers, girls on the subway, girls in orange dresses with cute toes on the subway, food in a cup, yawning, street lights, how fast the moon moves, D.B. Cooper, travel toothbrushes, soft serve, sniper rifles, Ziploc bags, how close I can throw a ball to the ceiling without hitting it, tongue flexibility, robots, cement, dog parks, dirt trails, night lights, and graphs.


So uh, yeah, sorry. I’ve got a lot more work to do this week, then I’m on vacation, so don’t hold your breath. But know this: I’m always thinking about you and that heaven-sent backrub you promised me.

A Few More Thoughts On Recent Advertising

Favorite slogan in a really long time:

Best Watch Your MTV’s.


Most unfortunate poster placement:

“The 40 Year-Old Virgin” next to “The Clairvoyant Child” of USA’s the 4400.


Don’t think she saw that one coming.


Worst celebrity endorsement:

Terry bald-as-a-doorknob Bradshaw as spokesperson for Supercuts.

Wha? Have you guys seen these commercials? Where Bradshaw talks about how his hair color is a “spring?” No Terry, it’s the dead of winter, and you’re a maple tree. That’s your hair color.

In fact, Supercuts loves Terry and his non-existent flowing locks so much, they made little computer games and cartoons that feature him on their website, like this one:


Between life and cream rinse, Terry chooses cream rinse.

Here you maneuver Terry around on a surfboard and pick up floating hair product while trying not to get eaten by the school of sharks in the water. Maybe that Blow Out guy Jonathan Antin should do a site like Supercuts to get more people into his salons. Nothing says “class,” or “haircuts” for that matter, like a flash animation game of, say, Wilford Brimley in a hang glider catching falling curling irons while avoiding vultures.

That one’s free, Jonathan. The rest will cost you. Dearly.


It’s the right thing to do, Jonathan.