Postcards from the Pug Bus                

postcards from the pug bus

lifting a leg on popular culture since 2004
"In 2018, the latest year for which such data have been published, African-Americans made up 53% of known homicide offenders in the U.S. and commited about 60% of robberies, though they are 13% of the population." WSJ
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Whether you do it doggie style or scissors, sister, we've got suggestions for what to read when you're having a cigarette or a blunt afterward ...

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The Book of Daze℠
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Who gives a shit about National Bubble Bath Day? We don't. National Take Your Grand Kid Out to Lunch Day? Fuck that, and your grand kid, too. For the really fun days, the ones that nobody else has the imagination to celebrate, days like National Ain't Woke, Do Not Disturb Day℠, National Ignore the Ban on Plastic Straws Day℠, and others visit . . .  The Book of Daze℠.

Your Virtual GanjaScope
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A half-century's worth of smoking pot/hash/shatter/live resin carts has led us to conclude that horoscopes are more fun and more accurate when you're stoned...and they're even better when the person who wrote them was stoned, too. If you're looking to turn over a new leaf, visit GanjaScope.

The Grammar Prick
Meaner than a 250-pound lesbian Language Arts teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive, dangle a participle, or dare to misuse penultimate. Visit The Grammar Prick.

There's a Saint for That
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There's a saint in every pot, and a prayer card for every condition. Just tell us where it hurts you, and we'll tell you whom to call and where to send your donations. Let us pray.

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two lions having it off
The Who shortly after pissing on a tall wall
American Freedm Party
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man on his knees fucking a tail pipe
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Here's to a Brighter Day
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Brights neither seek nor accept any supernatural "explanations" for life. If that sounds like a bright idea to you, click here.

The Pug Bus Blogs On
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Our fearless editor in briefs holds forth on why he doesn't want to be called a white person; the festering evil that is Mick Jagger; the rise of the alt-middle; his hatred of soccer moms; and a whole lot more!"

Yesterdays' Papers
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Read any two of these classic articles from May 2005 and get the third one for free. Pay only for shipping and handling. Offer good while supplies last.

US Prepared for Flu Pandemic Says Bush
A case of deja vu in reverse or what?

Johnny Depp to Read at Hunter S. Thompson Memorial
Johnny wore a wife-beater then he became one.

Mena Suvari Seeks Separation from Mira Sorvino
So who'd you rather . . . or rather not.

Local News
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West Chester, PA, is home to a public-embarrassment Jackass has-been; a woke university; and the goddamn QVC shopping headquarters. That should be good for a mean-spirited, condescending local news story from time to time.

Pug Bus Quizzes 'n' Polls
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No rhetorical questions allowed. No penalties for guessing wrong. Find out just how much you do know about Schrödinger’s cat and other neat shit."

Postcards the Book
The book that inspired a website was written by someone who was actually raised by pugs. Postcards is a welcome addition to any nightstand.

Sample chapters . . . -1- -2-

You Can't Photoshop This

Some photos cannot be shopped. They are perfect just the way god made them. Such perfection does not happen by accident, and wise, indeed, is the man who says "you can't photoshop this."


The Pug Bus Interview
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Enjoy the interviews nobody else has the sack to do. We aren't afraid to stop totally at the surface, because no matter how beautiful a person might be on the inside, you've still got to look at him or her when you're speaking to 'em..Read on.


image of a gun Trigger warning! The content of this website may cause raging panic attacks in hypersensitive snowflakes who suffer from androphobia, galactophobia, emetophobia, corprophobia, claustrophobia, fear of taints, and other psycho-sexual maladies too numerous to mention.

  Chez Daniel, Fighting Obesity One Course at a Time
        Jun 3, 2006 - 12:42
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NEW YORK - Like truly patriotic New Yorkers, we celebrated Fleet Week by dropping anchor at Restaurant Daniel, 60 East 65th St., on New York's Upper East Side. Enticed by The New York Times's rave, "There is no better food in France than you'll find at Daniel," our party of five prepared for the ne plus ultra dining experience.

Our corner table was cozy enough for conversation and central enough to scope out the beautiful dining room of fabulous people. Wiry men in chunky black glasses—the architect's universal fashion statement of choice—wooed Japanese clients on the corporate card at one table, while it was trophy wives night out at another. Little red tags peeked out from gentlemen's shoes. The latest handbags from Chloe and Hermes got their own seats on overstuffed ottomans brought a table by the staff.

We were treated first to canapés. Tuna tartare in radish, oysters with creme fraiche and sea salt, an exquisite goat cheese, and lots more miniature delicacies—each a self-contained mouthful of pleasure—sculpted and arranged just so by little expert fingers working tirelessly behind the scenes. Then, a teeny cup of delicious English sweet pea soup with a sprinkling of crispy Niman Ranch bacon and porcini-quail brochette, a.k.a. croutons with attitude.

It was already looking like our number of courses would exceed five. The food just kept coming. With proper breaks in between, of course. The pacing was impeccable.

Next, the appetizer. Regular foie gras, rabbit foie gras, and jackalope foie gras wrapped in veal tongue. Flash-grilled sea scallops, so tender and melt-away. Wine. Water. Witty Parisian repartee by the men in white jackets. Mini-baguettes.

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The salad course arrived next. Peeky toe crab with jicama, mango coulis, and toasted peanuts. Yellowfin tuna with anchovy dressing, quail egg, haricots verts, and fried Pantelleria capers. A kiss of capers will always steal my hungry heart, but this was no regular caper. What sets Daniel above the rest and earns the restaurant its Michelin stars, is the special little qualifier that lets you know this is no ordinary caper. It's from the Outer Banks of Eastern Pantellaria, where devotion to capers is a religion.

For the fish course, my Dover sole came crowned with a halo of fair trade hazelnuts, baby leeks, baby albino asparagus, and baby albino aborted genetic fetus radishes. Plus, a very special guest: the morel. A bit of a dark horse, yes, but in the hands of the fey Frenchies, it emerges as the piggely-diggity star of the gastro-show.

What followed was a forward-marching army of various emulsions, roux, confits, terrines, paupiettes, bordelaises, fricassées, mille-feuilles, vacherins, pots au feu and jus, capped off by the piéce de resistance: the lamp chop with Meyer lemon crust, radishes from Satur Farm, which reminded me I owed Pa Satur a call, and avocado-mint chutney.

"We'd like to see the cheese trolley, s'il vous plait."

"But of course, a selection of your choosing, monsieur."

Our selection turned out to be seven different cheeses. A Roquefort, a triple-creme brie, a goat cheese, and the rest, some French, some Swiss, were like nothing I have ever tasted in my many-tasted life. But it was so much more than taste.

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At first, the aroma, the pungency, all but overcomes, and long after the morsel travels stomach-ward, the aura begins its transcendental journey into the sinuses to displace reality with a mind-altering haze of crypto-gastro-lysergic-opiate buzz. Of course, I kept eating. More and more teeny bitty morsels of these bizarre, surely illegal cheeses. Smuggled over the border, no doubt, to get you high.

What came next was like the invasion of Normandy. Fleet after fleet of dishes with gold filigree, carmelized diamonds, and droplets of syrupy baby extinct elephant nectar drizzled by the Jackson Pollock of the Upper East Side swooped down upon us. Ganache made with the rarest chocolate from a little-known African colony with bitter hazelnuts and Java coffee ice cream. Grapefruit tarte tatin with lemon-thyme anglaise and black sesame meringue. Ile flotante with rhubarb straws, almond crumble, and mascarpone sabayon. Chilled pomegranate and green tea soup. Single estate chocolate fondant nougatine.

Yes, single estate. The absence of the multiplicity of estates was as mouthwatering as the colonial occupation of India. Maybe even more so. Sao Tomé, yo, you make a mean chocolate, my native people friends. Thanks for keeping it a single estate and thanks for keeping it real all these years. Your mousse is the lightest, the fluffiest, the dreamiest, the cloudspuniest, the whiffle-fluffer-blissed-outiest. The extent to which Africa knows chocolate blows this reviewer's mind.

We gorged, we binged, we purged, we grabbed the little bastards when the origami-folded napkin was offered up to us, steam rising, with the words, "Fresh-baked madeleines?" Proust, mon amour.

Finally sated, we rested.

We watched a couple get engaged. We watched record company people chatter, architects dither, and social x-rays faux-ingest. When M. Boulud himself paid his visit, we could only babble. Bon appetit, indeed.

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