I don't understand how people can enjoy cooking any more I do that they can enjoy picking weeds or raking leaves. It's a tedious, expensive process that trips you up from more important things like playing video games or sleeping. And it rules your life if you let it. Some spend all their free time either cooking, eating or cleaning up, and thus miss out on all of life's great pleasures, such as "American Gladiator" reruns. And I feel great sorrow for them.
People have tried to teach me to cook before, but it doesn't stick because I jhave no interest. It's too much work for too little reward. If someone makes me food, fine, otherwise I'll just defrost stuff. In the world of frozen meals, the man who cares not about cooking is king. As a result of my diet I may be 70 percent water and 40 percent preservatives, but that's OK. Maybe they'll preserve my youthful glow into middle age. Tombstone pizza and hot pockets are the stuff processed dreams are made of.
People like me place no value on the experience of eating and see it as an annoyance to deal with as quickly and cheaply as possible before moving on. We place no more value on the intake of food than its expulsion.
I've been asked why I don't cook at least rudimentary things just to help save money, such as the cliched Ramen noodles. The reason is Ramen takes too much effort, what with the stirring and the standing over the stove to ensure you're not over-or-undercooking the noodles. I once cooked Ramen regularly, when I was green in judgment and cold in blood, but have since moved on to 98 cent Michelena pizzas from Wal-Mart.
The grilled ham and cheese is another example of what I used to subsist on but discontinued due to the effort of having to butter the bread, open the individual cheese slices, get out the ham, start up the stove, measure out the grilling time so as not to burn one of the sides and ruin your meal. Way too tough.
You don't eat Hot Pockets (actually, Hot pockets are more classy and expensive than I usually like to go) or frozen chicken patties for the taste, that's for damn sure. You eat them to lift a middle finger at the tyranny of food.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Friday, June 06, 2008
My running mate predictions
I think Obama will pick Bill Richardson and McCain will go with Charlie Crist.
Reasoning: Obama needs the Hispanic vote and McCain needs the Christian vote.
Reasoning: Obama needs the Hispanic vote and McCain needs the Christian vote.
This decade has no name
There were the 70s. Then the 80s and 90s. But what is the decade we're currently sleepwalking through going to be called? The 00s doesn't sound right. I think people are going to skip over this one and the next because they're unnamable, so we won't be in a named decade again until 2020.
Thus, we're stuck in a 20-year-long nameless era with no tone or personality. The future will never look back on us fondly with That '00s show or its ill-conceived, short-lived follow-up, That '10s Show. No radio stations will have 00s lunch hour, and gaggles of college girls will never flock to nightclubs' 00s nights. We're deadspace, an asterisk glossed over to more numerically significant times.
Thus, we're stuck in a 20-year-long nameless era with no tone or personality. The future will never look back on us fondly with That '00s show or its ill-conceived, short-lived follow-up, That '10s Show. No radio stations will have 00s lunch hour, and gaggles of college girls will never flock to nightclubs' 00s nights. We're deadspace, an asterisk glossed over to more numerically significant times.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Hurricanes
Hurricanes are entertaining. They give me something to read about and watch on the news. I don’t see how you can be mad at them, since they’re simply forces of nature minding their own business, trying to put on a good show. I feel no more sympathy the trailer park residents who lose their homes in each of Florida’s several dozen hurricanes every year than I do for ants in my backyard. Just as the ants are fully aware that I’ll kick over each and every one of their hills at my earliest convenience, Florida trailerparkers should be aware that a ‘cane will do some double-wide dissection at least once every other year. The ants don’t complain or receive federal aid, and the Floridians should follow the example.
What’s that you say? It’s wrong to find hurricanes entertaining because they kill people sometimes? Well, I like dogs even though they’ll chew on people every now and again. And I like the movie XXX, even though stuntman Harry O’Connor III was killed in the making of it. At some point, you need to be able to separate the tragedy of death from the joy of entertainment. At their tender core, hurricanes are just delightful aquatic showmen.
What’s that you say? It’s wrong to find hurricanes entertaining because they kill people sometimes? Well, I like dogs even though they’ll chew on people every now and again. And I like the movie XXX, even though stuntman Harry O’Connor III was killed in the making of it. At some point, you need to be able to separate the tragedy of death from the joy of entertainment. At their tender core, hurricanes are just delightful aquatic showmen.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The book that changed my life
An editor asked me to write a couple paragraphs about "the book that changed my life" for an upcoming online compilation. Here's what I came up with:
Good-bye, Chunky Rice by Craig Thompson
It's a smallish, black-and-white graphic novel about the turtle Chunky Rice who leaves his girlfriend, a mouse named Dandle, to make it big in the wide, wondrous world. It sounds like the premise for a children's book, and maybe it is, but it transcends age and just speaks to the crossroads you encounter throughout life, as you make crucial decisions that will effect your destiny.
The emotion on the page is palpable, from the simplistic illustrations that resemble kids' doodles to the flowery, cursive-style lettering reminiscent of notes passed in junior high. The little book thumps with a pulsing heartbeat, and I connected to it so strongly that I shiver as I type this.
"You're like a little flower that's outgrown its pot and needs to be transplanted in order to keep growing," says Dandel, so understanding even as she's crushed. He asks her to run away with him, but Dandel refuses, insisting she knows this is where she belongs and she wants Chunky to find a place that feels the same way.
I read the book when I was in a situation much like Chunky's. I was graduating from college, was dating a girl who was a year behind me at school and had a post-grad internship at the San Francisco Chronicle beckoning. At the time I was half-convinced I had outgrown my Tucson flower pot and needed to see new horizons. The book seemed to be a sign from above that I should follow Chunky's example and go off. But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to leave my girlfriend, who became my wife. Nor could I abandon my hometown, even though I had no job prospects here at the time. Now that I look back I'm not so sure I went against the message of the "Good-bye Chunky Rice," which could just as easily be read as a lament against leaving for the sake of leaving by someone who made a choice that still hurt him as he bled his thoughts to pen and paper.
Good-bye, Chunky Rice by Craig Thompson
It's a smallish, black-and-white graphic novel about the turtle Chunky Rice who leaves his girlfriend, a mouse named Dandle, to make it big in the wide, wondrous world. It sounds like the premise for a children's book, and maybe it is, but it transcends age and just speaks to the crossroads you encounter throughout life, as you make crucial decisions that will effect your destiny.
The emotion on the page is palpable, from the simplistic illustrations that resemble kids' doodles to the flowery, cursive-style lettering reminiscent of notes passed in junior high. The little book thumps with a pulsing heartbeat, and I connected to it so strongly that I shiver as I type this.
"You're like a little flower that's outgrown its pot and needs to be transplanted in order to keep growing," says Dandel, so understanding even as she's crushed. He asks her to run away with him, but Dandel refuses, insisting she knows this is where she belongs and she wants Chunky to find a place that feels the same way.
I read the book when I was in a situation much like Chunky's. I was graduating from college, was dating a girl who was a year behind me at school and had a post-grad internship at the San Francisco Chronicle beckoning. At the time I was half-convinced I had outgrown my Tucson flower pot and needed to see new horizons. The book seemed to be a sign from above that I should follow Chunky's example and go off. But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to leave my girlfriend, who became my wife. Nor could I abandon my hometown, even though I had no job prospects here at the time. Now that I look back I'm not so sure I went against the message of the "Good-bye Chunky Rice," which could just as easily be read as a lament against leaving for the sake of leaving by someone who made a choice that still hurt him as he bled his thoughts to pen and paper.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Schadenfreude
Every time I hear the real estate industry is doing badly, it makes me feel good. Just like whenever I'm depressed about how the Cardinals are doing I take a look at the Lions, see how they're doing just as bad or worse, and I feel a little better.
Watching realtors (I refuse to capitalize the r out of spite) lose their jobs at a faster rate than print journalists is a the spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine down while I wait for newspapers to figure out how to make good money online or for people stop wanting their news immediately and revert to waiting for it the day after.
I'm enjoying this while I can, because in five years things will probably be different. I'll be jobless and foreclosed on and some realtor will be making a commission off of selling it for four times what it's worth now.
By the way, I'm amazing because I spelled schadenfreude right on the first try. 1990 De Grazia elementary spelling bee champ REPRESENT.
Watching realtors (I refuse to capitalize the r out of spite) lose their jobs at a faster rate than print journalists is a the spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine down while I wait for newspapers to figure out how to make good money online or for people stop wanting their news immediately and revert to waiting for it the day after.
I'm enjoying this while I can, because in five years things will probably be different. I'll be jobless and foreclosed on and some realtor will be making a commission off of selling it for four times what it's worth now.
By the way, I'm amazing because I spelled schadenfreude right on the first try. 1990 De Grazia elementary spelling bee champ REPRESENT.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Self-evident truths
Crunchy cheetos are superior to puffy cheetos.
Spider-Man only gets to live because Superman is too nice to kill him.
Of the three Chipettes, Brittany was by far the hottest.
Every time you get the instinct to go to Subway, an absolute dipshit who either can’t decide if he wants tomatoes or is ordering sandwiches for seven other people gets the same instinct at the exact same moment as you, only he’s 17 seconds closer to Subway than you and will get right in front of you in line.
Men who drive H2s have small penises.
John Mellencamp has completely lost it.
You don’t know as much as you think you do about what happened on 9/11.
Gasoline now costs more per gallon than blood.
People who like NASCAR were beaten as children. Furthermore, they fully deserved the beatings.
The bands Pearl Jam and U2 have yet to make one good song.
Refs gave the Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl XL.
Coke and vanilla ice cream are both tasteless and disgusting by themselves, but Vanilla Coke is freakin’ incredible.
The best time of the year is October, when McDonald’s Monopoly is going on.
I am better than everyone else at Tetris DS. Whenever I lose online it’s because of bad luck.
Spyware is made by spyware protection companies to boost sales.
Matt Leinart’s smile in his Arizona Cardinals jersey NFL draft photo was fake.
Scientology is the coolest name for a religion ever.
People who sell Amway share the same weird, glazed-over look in their eyes.
The human brain gets dumber and less creative each year after the age of 25.
Always bet on black.
Guns don’t kill people. Blood loss from bullet wounds kills people.
You can drink your own urine and not get sick. The same cannot be said of watching Pauly Shore movies.
Teens who promise they’ll remain virgins until marriage are either incapable of getting laid or are lying to their parents so they’ll continue to pay for their cell phone and car insurance.
All country/western love songs sung by men are actually written with cows, not women, in mind.
Cabbage Patch kids come to life at night and try to kill you while they sleep. They’re usually unsuccessful because your toaster is able to fend them off.
Every time you’ve eaten a Cadbury egg, you’ve feasted on the unborn corpse of a zygote that would have grown up to be a cute chocolate bunny.
Even after Sylvester Stallone finally dies, he’ll still figure out a way to make more Rocky movies.
Jay Leno, George Lopez, Rita Rudner and Sinbad have something in common: None has ever told a single funny joke in his or her entire life.
Nine-three percent of all men diagnoses with “tennis elbow” also subscribe to Playboy.
The only thing eviler than gas companies are insurance companies. And the only thing more evil than insurance companies is Ryan Seacrest.
The person who decided iTunes can only play on iPods and not other MP3 players is extremely lucky I’m not the one who decides who gets sent to hell.
On a women’s soccer team, the ugliest player is always the goalie.
You may think your boss is dumber than you, but what you don’t realize is he thinks you’re dumber than him. He’s more correct because he’s put himself in a position in which he can order you around, plus he makes way more money. But you still win because he hates his life more than you do yours.
The NFL has a bigger problem with steroids than Major League Baseball, made all the worse because of supposed testing policies that supposedly keep steroids out of the game.
Computers get slower and slower the longer you have them. They’re designed that way in order to frustrate you into buying a new one every three years.
If a movie cast includes Matthew Broderick, it has five times a greater chance of sucking.
If Madonna is in the film, it’s got 10 times a greater chance of sucking.
When you’re sitting in the holding cell at a doctor’s office (the room the nurse puts you in after you’ve rotted in the waiting room for an hour), the doctor won’t come to see you until you’ve gotten so bored that you’re digging through the cabinets.
The only time you’ll hit all green lights on the way home is when you’re hoping for a red light to give you time to shovel chili cheese fries down your throat.
For every story your friend has about winning money gambling, there are seven stories about him losing money that he isn’t telling.
Spider-Man only gets to live because Superman is too nice to kill him.
Of the three Chipettes, Brittany was by far the hottest.
Every time you get the instinct to go to Subway, an absolute dipshit who either can’t decide if he wants tomatoes or is ordering sandwiches for seven other people gets the same instinct at the exact same moment as you, only he’s 17 seconds closer to Subway than you and will get right in front of you in line.
Men who drive H2s have small penises.
John Mellencamp has completely lost it.
You don’t know as much as you think you do about what happened on 9/11.
Gasoline now costs more per gallon than blood.
People who like NASCAR were beaten as children. Furthermore, they fully deserved the beatings.
The bands Pearl Jam and U2 have yet to make one good song.
Refs gave the Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl XL.
Coke and vanilla ice cream are both tasteless and disgusting by themselves, but Vanilla Coke is freakin’ incredible.
The best time of the year is October, when McDonald’s Monopoly is going on.
I am better than everyone else at Tetris DS. Whenever I lose online it’s because of bad luck.
Spyware is made by spyware protection companies to boost sales.
Matt Leinart’s smile in his Arizona Cardinals jersey NFL draft photo was fake.
Scientology is the coolest name for a religion ever.
People who sell Amway share the same weird, glazed-over look in their eyes.
The human brain gets dumber and less creative each year after the age of 25.
Always bet on black.
Guns don’t kill people. Blood loss from bullet wounds kills people.
You can drink your own urine and not get sick. The same cannot be said of watching Pauly Shore movies.
Teens who promise they’ll remain virgins until marriage are either incapable of getting laid or are lying to their parents so they’ll continue to pay for their cell phone and car insurance.
All country/western love songs sung by men are actually written with cows, not women, in mind.
Cabbage Patch kids come to life at night and try to kill you while they sleep. They’re usually unsuccessful because your toaster is able to fend them off.
Every time you’ve eaten a Cadbury egg, you’ve feasted on the unborn corpse of a zygote that would have grown up to be a cute chocolate bunny.
Even after Sylvester Stallone finally dies, he’ll still figure out a way to make more Rocky movies.
Jay Leno, George Lopez, Rita Rudner and Sinbad have something in common: None has ever told a single funny joke in his or her entire life.
Nine-three percent of all men diagnoses with “tennis elbow” also subscribe to Playboy.
The only thing eviler than gas companies are insurance companies. And the only thing more evil than insurance companies is Ryan Seacrest.
The person who decided iTunes can only play on iPods and not other MP3 players is extremely lucky I’m not the one who decides who gets sent to hell.
On a women’s soccer team, the ugliest player is always the goalie.
You may think your boss is dumber than you, but what you don’t realize is he thinks you’re dumber than him. He’s more correct because he’s put himself in a position in which he can order you around, plus he makes way more money. But you still win because he hates his life more than you do yours.
The NFL has a bigger problem with steroids than Major League Baseball, made all the worse because of supposed testing policies that supposedly keep steroids out of the game.
Computers get slower and slower the longer you have them. They’re designed that way in order to frustrate you into buying a new one every three years.
If a movie cast includes Matthew Broderick, it has five times a greater chance of sucking.
If Madonna is in the film, it’s got 10 times a greater chance of sucking.
When you’re sitting in the holding cell at a doctor’s office (the room the nurse puts you in after you’ve rotted in the waiting room for an hour), the doctor won’t come to see you until you’ve gotten so bored that you’re digging through the cabinets.
The only time you’ll hit all green lights on the way home is when you’re hoping for a red light to give you time to shovel chili cheese fries down your throat.
For every story your friend has about winning money gambling, there are seven stories about him losing money that he isn’t telling.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Barack Obama rumors that I think are true
He once had dinner with a person who committed a crime.
His American flag lapel pin is made of nonbiodegradeable tin.
He is of mixed ancestry.
He has ran a red light.
While eating at McDonald's, he has taken more napkins and ketchup packets than the manager would have approved of had he been looking.
He can't sing very well.
He comes from Hawaii, which is so far from the mainland it can hardly be considered America.
He has walked right by homeless beggars without so much as saying "what up."
He is Muslim. But if he isn't and he's Christian like he says he is, then he's the bad kind of Christian.
He on multiple occasions has bought Michael Jackson albums.
He has had sex after marriage.
He leaves the toilet seat up, even after he's reminded several times to stop.
He's not Sean Hannity.
His American flag lapel pin is made of nonbiodegradeable tin.
He is of mixed ancestry.
He has ran a red light.
While eating at McDonald's, he has taken more napkins and ketchup packets than the manager would have approved of had he been looking.
He can't sing very well.
He comes from Hawaii, which is so far from the mainland it can hardly be considered America.
He has walked right by homeless beggars without so much as saying "what up."
He is Muslim. But if he isn't and he's Christian like he says he is, then he's the bad kind of Christian.
He on multiple occasions has bought Michael Jackson albums.
He has had sex after marriage.
He leaves the toilet seat up, even after he's reminded several times to stop.
He's not Sean Hannity.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Changes to the rules of baseball
Bats clearly need to be integrated into more facets of play. I don't understand in baseball why you're not allowed to take your bat along the basepaths after you get a hit. You'll more than likely need it for protection and after all, it's your freaking bat! It belongs to you! Would you leave your AK-47 behind if you're a soldier heading into a war zone?
Fielders also deserve bats, which they could use to hit the ball back into the infield or engage in bat fencing during close plays at the bases. These changes will suffice until the year 2400 when robots replace humans and the Nintendo game "Base Wars" comes into being in reality.
Fielders also deserve bats, which they could use to hit the ball back into the infield or engage in bat fencing during close plays at the bases. These changes will suffice until the year 2400 when robots replace humans and the Nintendo game "Base Wars" comes into being in reality.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Legos
"Lego Indiana Jones" is coming out, which got me thinking. They should build the new World Trade Center towers out of Legos so if they're bombed you just snap them back together again. IF they ever get around to rebuilding them, that is. It's been nearly seven years, people. Get it going.
Look at all the great examples of Lego architecture: There's Legoland, Legoland Germany, Legoland Denmark and Legoland England.
Look at all the great examples of Lego architecture: There's Legoland, Legoland Germany, Legoland Denmark and Legoland England.
Proof of how stupid I am
I was driven to near insanity by my frustration of failing to complete the final mission in "Grand Theft Auto IV." After skilfully guiding my Serbian serial killer through Liberty City's mean streets, I couldn't find a way inside an abandoned casino. I searched for hours, even climbing on top of the roof and peeking through little cracks in the ceiling, wondering if there was any way I could drop through. I searched everywhere, including adjacent buildings to see if there was some sort of basement entrance. The online walkthroughs didn't even address my problem. It just said "go into the casino." And then I looked again and saw there was this big-ass door in plain sight, right where it should have been. As you could imagine, I often have this problem in regular life.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Eating
High school was the best, when you got to eat with impunity. I used to have two bowls of cereal a day, ice cream sandwiches at school, come home and have two grilled cheese sandwiches and a coke for a snack before dinner. And eat Doritos constantly.
Now I'm 29 and Wii Fit says I need to drop 20 pounds to get to my ideal weight, which is 10 pounds more than I weighed at the end of high school. And I'm bypassing a box of free donuts.
It's hard out here for a pimp.
Now I'm 29 and Wii Fit says I need to drop 20 pounds to get to my ideal weight, which is 10 pounds more than I weighed at the end of high school. And I'm bypassing a box of free donuts.
It's hard out here for a pimp.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
This woman sure did. A monster like this is only on the hook for eight years in prison? Ridiculous. She should be locked in solitary confinement for the rest of her life while being forced to watch the "Super Mario Bros." movie on constant repeat.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Not that I would ever do this or anything...
But those who go to supermarket magazine sections and pick out the Sports Illustrated with Danica Patrick on the cover could conceivably flip through until they find the Burger King ad, with its free Indiana Jones gamepiece that lets you scratch off one of two spots with a 50 percent chance of winning something, most likely free food.
One might be able to page through the magazines and pocket, oh, I don't know, 23 of these in one outing, then head to a nearby bookstore and stash another 30, collecting enough free food coupons to subsist on a solely Burger King diet for a month.
But who would do such a thing?
One might be able to page through the magazines and pocket, oh, I don't know, 23 of these in one outing, then head to a nearby bookstore and stash another 30, collecting enough free food coupons to subsist on a solely Burger King diet for a month.
But who would do such a thing?
Monday, May 19, 2008
Moral quandaries in Grand Theft Auto IV
"Grand Theft Auto IV" is the one video game that's actually managed to make me feel like a bad person.
It all started with this mission where you need to set up a date with a gay guy on the Internet, then kill him once you meet up.
After I chased him down in the streets and shot him dead I felt horrible. There's just something screwed up about killing someone under the guise of romance. I have no problem with veering onto the sidewalk just to hit a pedestrian or blocking off the road so I can launch a rocket at a traffic jam. But that one got to me.
Later on there are a couple missions in where you get the choice of killing one guy or the other - both people you've had a lot of contact with. In one of them I knew who i wanted to kill but his death mission was too tough (he's a rich guy protected by a lot of thugs, and after you off them you need to chase him along the rooftops) so I gave up after a couple of tries and killed the other dude easily, rambling into his ghetto apartment, wiping out a crackhead, and then capping my former friend as he cowers.
This game hangs guilt trips over your head better than any game I've ever played. Had no problem killing the little girls in Bioshock, until I found out that doing so made you get a bad ending. But this game haunts me.
It all started with this mission where you need to set up a date with a gay guy on the Internet, then kill him once you meet up.
After I chased him down in the streets and shot him dead I felt horrible. There's just something screwed up about killing someone under the guise of romance. I have no problem with veering onto the sidewalk just to hit a pedestrian or blocking off the road so I can launch a rocket at a traffic jam. But that one got to me.
Later on there are a couple missions in where you get the choice of killing one guy or the other - both people you've had a lot of contact with. In one of them I knew who i wanted to kill but his death mission was too tough (he's a rich guy protected by a lot of thugs, and after you off them you need to chase him along the rooftops) so I gave up after a couple of tries and killed the other dude easily, rambling into his ghetto apartment, wiping out a crackhead, and then capping my former friend as he cowers.
This game hangs guilt trips over your head better than any game I've ever played. Had no problem killing the little girls in Bioshock, until I found out that doing so made you get a bad ending. But this game haunts me.
Friday, May 16, 2008
I'm glad the Tasmanian Devil is no longer popular
If you're a few years younger than me you may know him better as "Taz," as he was rebranded in the '90s to be more extreme. Your 15 minutes are up, sucka.
Why the ping pong ball game is no longer in "The Price is Right"
The ping pong balls are gone because Drew Carey ate them all up, mistaking them for cream puffs. Bob Barker had only kept them around because they reminded him of severed pet testicles.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Me and Bowser
I'm involved in a poisonous and unhealthy relationship.
The only "Mario Kart" racer I use is Bowser, even though his style isn't conducive to the frenetic item assaults of 12-player races. Every time the big guy takes a hit he stops cold and takes three hours to get back up to speed. And yet I stick with him because when the throttle is all the way down, fattie is faster than everyone else. It's this chase for elusive top speed that keeps me sticking with him, even though I would probably be better with other facers.
I stick with him out of loyalty. I've always been Bowser and always will be. Bowser, I wish I could quit you.
The only "Mario Kart" racer I use is Bowser, even though his style isn't conducive to the frenetic item assaults of 12-player races. Every time the big guy takes a hit he stops cold and takes three hours to get back up to speed. And yet I stick with him because when the throttle is all the way down, fattie is faster than everyone else. It's this chase for elusive top speed that keeps me sticking with him, even though I would probably be better with other facers.
I stick with him out of loyalty. I've always been Bowser and always will be. Bowser, I wish I could quit you.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Magazines
U.S. News and World Report is for people who actually want to know what's going on. Newsweek is for people who just want to pretend. Time is for idiots.
I subscribe to Newsweek.
I subscribe to Newsweek.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Free money
Thank you, government, for the free money you deposited in my checking account. I appreciate it and will vote for you always. Feel free to repeat what you did at any time. I'll always be there for you. And let me know at least nine months in advance next time you plan on doing that so I can have more kids. I'll totally hop my wife up on fertility drugs to go for sextuplets, as well as adopt several southeast Asian children if I know I'm banking $300 per. Now I see why Angelina Jolie does that all the time.
Monday, May 12, 2008
A conversation between the Diamondbacks and Cubs
D-backs: Hey does anyone want any of these?
Cubs: Dude, yes, we were missing those. You took them from me last year in the playoffs, 'member?
D-backs: Yeah, sorry about that. No hard feelings, right? Here you go. Take one!
Cubs: How about I take all three. And your lunch money. And your mothers' virginities.
D-backs: Sure, whatever makes you happy. Anything else we can do for you?
Cubs: No, get the hell out.
Cubs: Dude, yes, we were missing those. You took them from me last year in the playoffs, 'member?
D-backs: Yeah, sorry about that. No hard feelings, right? Here you go. Take one!
Cubs: How about I take all three. And your lunch money. And your mothers' virginities.
D-backs: Sure, whatever makes you happy. Anything else we can do for you?
Cubs: No, get the hell out.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Real life superheroes
Some people say there are no heroes. Other than Superman, who chooses to recline in the Fortress of Solitude playing video games and eating Funions and not come and help us out when our helicopters are crashing and supervilliains are leveling our football stadiums. Or Batman, who no longer fights crime and has resorted to a career in film.
I say there are heroes, and I'm not talking about firemen, police, paramedics, teachers or parents. (I am, though, as always, talking about your mom).
But the true heroes are UPS delivery dudes. Think about it. They wear spandex, can lift incredibly heavy objects and people are always happy to see them. They can zip from one corner of the earth to the other at incredibly fast speeds. Not only that, but they have supercomputers in their brains that can find out where any package is at any time.
I say there are heroes, and I'm not talking about firemen, police, paramedics, teachers or parents. (I am, though, as always, talking about your mom).
But the true heroes are UPS delivery dudes. Think about it. They wear spandex, can lift incredibly heavy objects and people are always happy to see them. They can zip from one corner of the earth to the other at incredibly fast speeds. Not only that, but they have supercomputers in their brains that can find out where any package is at any time.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Confederacy of dunces
Yesterday when I was driving home from work, the red flashing lights at the railroad stop started going off, signifying a train was on its way, hauling a mind-numbing, gas-wasting 10-minute wait along with the rest of its boxcars full of produce, building supplies and illegal immigrants.
Normally I stop when I see the lights, because I’ve got this irrational fear of oncoming trains. Call me a wuss. But not this time. A burst of rebelliousness pumped into my brain – the very same burst that made me try Sprite Remix one time instead of regular Sprite – and I slammed on the pedal on the right. Oh yeah, I was goin’. I sped over the train tracks as the trainstop arms dropped, speeding through as the suckers to my right and left shook their heads in jealousy. I felt like a Duke of Hazzard.
Feeling like a Duke was cool, at least at first. All liberating and invulnerable, like Mario when he gets a star. But then I started to question the sensation, and felt somewhat guilty and a little bit racist. For I was never a big fan of the Dukes of Hazzard, and the reason was they drove a car called the General Lee, emblazoned with a confederate flag on the hood. There’s something you should know about me, and it’s that confederate flags piss me off. They represent slavery and racism, so when I see one, my blood boils in the same way a neo-Con’s does when they see a Mexican flag. People who drive around with Mexican flags on their cars just make me laugh, because they’re so hypocritical. If people liked their country that much, they never would have left, so the flag stickers they slap on their rides are just bizarre overcompensations of guilt for having abandoned the motherland. The flag is not offensive to me because it represents nothing more than a horribly run country that denigrates its poor.
These guys with confederate stickers are something different entirely, though. They are calling attention to their belief that they would rather live in a world in which black people picked all their cotton for free. They’re also representing white supremacist groups, as well as a treasonous government that warred on the United States. The Dukes of Hazzard may as well have called their car the Fuhrer Hitler and painted a swastika on the hood.
I am for free speech above all else, so I don’t advocate a law against the confederate decals, clothes, beach towels and hats I see. In fact, I think there should be even more confederate flags around. For instance, on t-shirts. My friend had this idea that he’d make confederate flag t-shirts that say the phrase “The flag of a bitch” beneath the picture. Only bitches would be offended, and no one ever admits they’re a bitch. Other product ideas are confederate flag toilet paper and urinals. Maybe there’s even some money to be made off of this, but even if not, wearing a “flag of a bitch” shirt would be great opportunity to show up the ignorants who say “the South shall rise again.” I think the South still has some falling to do.
Normally I stop when I see the lights, because I’ve got this irrational fear of oncoming trains. Call me a wuss. But not this time. A burst of rebelliousness pumped into my brain – the very same burst that made me try Sprite Remix one time instead of regular Sprite – and I slammed on the pedal on the right. Oh yeah, I was goin’. I sped over the train tracks as the trainstop arms dropped, speeding through as the suckers to my right and left shook their heads in jealousy. I felt like a Duke of Hazzard.
Feeling like a Duke was cool, at least at first. All liberating and invulnerable, like Mario when he gets a star. But then I started to question the sensation, and felt somewhat guilty and a little bit racist. For I was never a big fan of the Dukes of Hazzard, and the reason was they drove a car called the General Lee, emblazoned with a confederate flag on the hood. There’s something you should know about me, and it’s that confederate flags piss me off. They represent slavery and racism, so when I see one, my blood boils in the same way a neo-Con’s does when they see a Mexican flag. People who drive around with Mexican flags on their cars just make me laugh, because they’re so hypocritical. If people liked their country that much, they never would have left, so the flag stickers they slap on their rides are just bizarre overcompensations of guilt for having abandoned the motherland. The flag is not offensive to me because it represents nothing more than a horribly run country that denigrates its poor.
These guys with confederate stickers are something different entirely, though. They are calling attention to their belief that they would rather live in a world in which black people picked all their cotton for free. They’re also representing white supremacist groups, as well as a treasonous government that warred on the United States. The Dukes of Hazzard may as well have called their car the Fuhrer Hitler and painted a swastika on the hood.
I am for free speech above all else, so I don’t advocate a law against the confederate decals, clothes, beach towels and hats I see. In fact, I think there should be even more confederate flags around. For instance, on t-shirts. My friend had this idea that he’d make confederate flag t-shirts that say the phrase “The flag of a bitch” beneath the picture. Only bitches would be offended, and no one ever admits they’re a bitch. Other product ideas are confederate flag toilet paper and urinals. Maybe there’s even some money to be made off of this, but even if not, wearing a “flag of a bitch” shirt would be great opportunity to show up the ignorants who say “the South shall rise again.” I think the South still has some falling to do.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Simon - the best toy ever?
What a wonderful piece of psychotic obsessive-compulsicana this thing was. A plate full of multicolored, increasingly rapid flashing lighted panels, complete with sing-song beeps, Simon captured many a 6-year-old afternoon of mine. Sure, I’d usually end a session of Simon playing by hurling the damn thing into a wall – it cheated, I swear – but like a good abused spouse, I’d always forgive it in the morning and come back for more the next day. Ah, Simon, you taught me how to both take and give abuse.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Big in Europe
People come up to me all the time and say "Dude, you're so amazing. Why is it that you're not famous?"
My stock answer is "I AM famous, you moron. Just not in America. I do really well in Europe, where the refined, sophisticated audiences better appreciate my talents unlike backwards, ignorant Americans."
I am exactly like local bands and David Hasselhoff. I've never been to Europe not because I'm poor but because if I did go I'd get mobbed and probably killed by paparazzi. I like to live in privacy, away from the gleaming spotlight and all the tabloids that would write false stuff about me in languages that are impossible to understand. Plus if I lived in Europe I'd probably develop a big ego.
And if any of you doubt that I'm famous in Europe, and perhaps think I'm talking like this just to try to impress you with lies, try this on: There's even a city named after me in Spain, which has a pro club soccer team, also named after me. There's probably a statue of me as well, but I haven't checked.
My stock answer is "I AM famous, you moron. Just not in America. I do really well in Europe, where the refined, sophisticated audiences better appreciate my talents unlike backwards, ignorant Americans."
I am exactly like local bands and David Hasselhoff. I've never been to Europe not because I'm poor but because if I did go I'd get mobbed and probably killed by paparazzi. I like to live in privacy, away from the gleaming spotlight and all the tabloids that would write false stuff about me in languages that are impossible to understand. Plus if I lived in Europe I'd probably develop a big ego.
And if any of you doubt that I'm famous in Europe, and perhaps think I'm talking like this just to try to impress you with lies, try this on: There's even a city named after me in Spain, which has a pro club soccer team, also named after me. There's probably a statue of me as well, but I haven't checked.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
I am the best dad ever
Or "Grand Theft Auto IV" is the best dad ever, I should say.
I let my 1-year-old play "Grand Theft Auto IV," sorta. He vaguely understands that buttons he presses on the controller relate to the action onscreen, even though he'd rather put it on his head and say "hat" - one of the 17 words he knows - or throw it on the ground, or put it in his mouth, which is sort of gross because of all the germs and whatnot unless I think to Cloroxwipe it beforehand.
The reason I do this is to symbollically protest the idiocy of parents' groups who try to restrict freedom of expression in art and entertainment, and also because I'm the greatest dad in the world and I want to bestow the boy with the gift of being able to say he's been playing "Grand Theft Auto" since he was a baby. Plus the boy is handy with a pistol. And better with the virtual ladies. Michelle actually responds to his phonecalls. If he gets invited back to her apartment before I do I'm going to be a tiny bit jealous but mostly proud, just as I will when he's selected as the top pick in the 2027 NFL Draft.
But at least I'll get credit for the achievement because the boy doesn't have his own Live account.
I let my 1-year-old play "Grand Theft Auto IV," sorta. He vaguely understands that buttons he presses on the controller relate to the action onscreen, even though he'd rather put it on his head and say "hat" - one of the 17 words he knows - or throw it on the ground, or put it in his mouth, which is sort of gross because of all the germs and whatnot unless I think to Cloroxwipe it beforehand.
The reason I do this is to symbollically protest the idiocy of parents' groups who try to restrict freedom of expression in art and entertainment, and also because I'm the greatest dad in the world and I want to bestow the boy with the gift of being able to say he's been playing "Grand Theft Auto" since he was a baby. Plus the boy is handy with a pistol. And better with the virtual ladies. Michelle actually responds to his phonecalls. If he gets invited back to her apartment before I do I'm going to be a tiny bit jealous but mostly proud, just as I will when he's selected as the top pick in the 2027 NFL Draft.
But at least I'll get credit for the achievement because the boy doesn't have his own Live account.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
My evaluation of my writing ability
My writing is like sunshine and air, allowing other things to develop under its radiance and nourishment. Even I benefit from reading my own stuff.
It's a good thing "Stormin' Mormon" didn't exist in Shakespeare's day, because he would have been like, damn, no way I can compete with that, and just given up. and the world would be without so many good plays that are impossible to understand.
It's a good thing "Stormin' Mormon" didn't exist in Shakespeare's day, because he would have been like, damn, no way I can compete with that, and just given up. and the world would be without so many good plays that are impossible to understand.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Why it's fun to give unsolicited advice
Making crucial decisions in your own life can be tough and ulcer-inducing, but it’s pure, stressless fun to dispense random, off-the-top-of-your-head advice to someone else who's suffering a crisis. People who bring their difficulties to us usually just want some reassurance or someone to vent to, but sitting there and being reassuring doesn’t make for much entertainment value. I’ve found it’s much more exciting to not so much listen as the poor soul dumps his or her problems on you, but to spend that valuable time thinking about what you’re going to say in response. Once the advice-ee finally shuts the hell up, you tell them what they should do to erase that stupid, inconsequential adversity from their insignificant lives.
You'll probably be ignored, which is fine, but if they take the advice and it works, you can take credit for solving their problems, and smile in the knowledge that you're better at living their lives than they are. In the much more likely instance that the advice makes them end up homeless, dead or in jail, you can just put the whole thing behind you as a lesson learned at someone else's expense. In any case, you're feeling better than before you gave the advice. And remember, it’s all about you.
You'll probably be ignored, which is fine, but if they take the advice and it works, you can take credit for solving their problems, and smile in the knowledge that you're better at living their lives than they are. In the much more likely instance that the advice makes them end up homeless, dead or in jail, you can just put the whole thing behind you as a lesson learned at someone else's expense. In any case, you're feeling better than before you gave the advice. And remember, it’s all about you.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The pleasures of blowing a bug off a urinal wall
I did this for the first time last week. On a bathroom break at work, I was tending to my business when I noticed a gnat on the wall beside the urinal. It was perched parallel to my face, and I think the perverted insect had one of his eyes pointed down toward my machinery.
Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not into the whole exhibitionist thing. I decided to remove the gnat, albeit in a peaceful manner, for although I’m adamant about protecting my private parts from viewings by bugs, I’m always looking for ways out of problems that don’t involve adding more violence to this beleaguered world. Instead of swatting the gnat down, I blew a small puff of air to attempt to remove it. The gnat would not back down so easily, his sticky feet clinging to the porcelain tile, his eye probably still pointed you-know-where.
Then I readied my powerful lungs, which have been tainted only by secondhand smoke, and unleashed a powerful gust of windborne destruction, the likes of which the gnat had never felt. So powerful was the gale force of my blow that it dislodged the gnat’s sticky feet and the creature was sent hurling into oblivion. I felt like Superman when he uses his freeze breath to kill a robot.
Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not into the whole exhibitionist thing. I decided to remove the gnat, albeit in a peaceful manner, for although I’m adamant about protecting my private parts from viewings by bugs, I’m always looking for ways out of problems that don’t involve adding more violence to this beleaguered world. Instead of swatting the gnat down, I blew a small puff of air to attempt to remove it. The gnat would not back down so easily, his sticky feet clinging to the porcelain tile, his eye probably still pointed you-know-where.
Then I readied my powerful lungs, which have been tainted only by secondhand smoke, and unleashed a powerful gust of windborne destruction, the likes of which the gnat had never felt. So powerful was the gale force of my blow that it dislodged the gnat’s sticky feet and the creature was sent hurling into oblivion. I felt like Superman when he uses his freeze breath to kill a robot.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
The five bands that suck the hardest
As an art form on the whole, music is pretty overrated. When I turn on the radio, 97.3 percent of the time a song that I can’t stand is playing on each and every one of the seven stations I have programmed into my Toys-R-Us quality car stereo that doesn’t have a CD player, tape or even 8 track. That’s because my stereo was invented long before 8 tracks, and only one year after the first music – a caveman banging against a cave with a stick – came into being.
I have no reason to get a better car stereo because today’s music hasn’t much surpassed the whole caveman with a stick thing, and while man has been able to invent the nuclear bomb, the aeroplane, the Vanilla Coke and has even been able to trick one each other into thinking we actually landed on the Moon, our race has fallen woefully short in music making. In the entire 10,000 years of human existence, exactly 192 really awesome songs have been made, and I downloaded most of them from Napster when I was in college. All other songs that have been invented range from OK to mediocre to hellspawn three-day-old puke. And there are five bands that lots of people love and worship and spend money on and flash their boobs at that can’t even aspire to making music worthy of being labeled hellspawn three-day-old-puke. And they are…
5. BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
I do give him props for working his mojo on Courtney Cox in that one music video way back in the day when she wasn’t old and Alex P Keaton was always trying to slip her the Lil’ Overachiever on “Family Ties,” but other than that, Springsteen hasn’t served much of a purpose in life. He has a horrible voice, makes horrible music and will NEVER EVER RETIRE and end his pathetic career. Plus he’s always, always, ALWAYS bitching about something in each and every one of his songs; crying about how blue collar folks have got it rough and how sad life is. People call him the boss, and I think it’s a Freudian slip thing that “boss” spelled backward is “ssob,” the way illiterate Springsteen lovers would spell “sob” if they understood the alphabet.
4. P. DIDDY
Some complainers out there might argue that P. Diddy isn’t a band, and thus shouldn’t qualify for the list, but P. Diddy sucks so bad he simulates the cumulative suckiness of five other people, thereby forming an entire band of dumbass-osity.
This is the most unoriginal, uncreative hack to ever have sex with four chicks at the same time (I just KNOW he’s done it… Grrrrr…) All of his songs are nothing but samples of other dumb songs to have come before, mixed in with Diddy doling out his monotone recital of nonsensical lyrics like “Who hot, who not…” which is the most profound thing he’s ever said. He puts the “c” in front of “rap.”
The worst thing P. Diddy ever diddied came after his pimpmaster Notorious BIG died – by the way, the movie “Biggie and Tupac” sort of accuses Diddy of orchestrating the Tupac and BIG murders – and Diddy, then called Puff Daddy, made that song and music video with Mrs. Notorious, “I’ll Be Missing You,” in which you can tell that P. Diddy was definitely trying to get with that. This was purportedly meant to be a tribute to the fallen BIG, but why would the ghost of Biggie want to see his girl dancing around with a hornball dumbass?
If I’m dead, there are a few things I want to see: A.) A golden statue of me built in my honor; 2.) Into sorority showers (when you die you get x-ray vision) and III.) Free HBO. You’ll not that nowhere on that list is an item called “watch my woman dance around with a hornball dumbass.” And while I’m alive I want to see P. Diddy continue his new love of marathoning and run straight off into oblivion like Forrest Gump.
3. THE BEASTIE BOYS
I can’t even talk about these talentless closet cases without bursting into a rage. They finish each others’ sentences like an old married couple, scream instead of rap or sing, and were so evil as to have inspired Limp Bizkit. Beat your cat and you’ll get better sounds than anything the Beasties crap out. It’s time to get ill, alright, of chronic, irreversible laryngitis.
2. PEAL JAM
The worst offense of all from Pearl Jam was that obnoxious “Oh were or where can my baby be” song, which is a remake of a tune of some dude singing about his woman getting killed in a car crash or something. For starters, the song isn’t good, and secondly, it’s freaking morbid to sing a tribute song to a chick you never even had sex with. The rules go that if you had sex with some chick, then she dies, you’re allowed to make a song about it. If not, then no song. Pearl Jam was a bad copy of Nirvana and got completely surpassed by STP, Soundgarden and Alice in Chains. One time when I was nine I made up words to the Super Mario Bros. music that went “Su-PER Mar-i-o BRO-thers; we like to COL-lect coins and mush-ROOMS…” and that song, though bad, was infinity plus five times better than every song ever made by Pearl Jam put together times 17.
1. U2
As the only known person who hates U2, I take a lot of crap for my take on the Irish do-gooders who are always trying to get on TV showing that they give money to African babies and put on a concert for the drying refugees and whatnot. Good job on that, U2. But here’s an idea, how about instead of spending all your free time trying to book appearances on Oprah and Jay Leno, you sit down and try to make a good song for once. I used to only kind of hate U2, until 1997 or so, when that “Pop” album came out, and the very worst song I’ve ever suffered through, “Discotec,” was played every seven minutes by clueless, sheeplike DJs who were too afraid not to fall in line and play the humiliating garbage. Even people that love U2 hate that song, which is so sulphuric-acid-on-the-eyeballs painful that it undermines the entire reason for the existence of music. When my cousin was 4 years old, I told him that U2 was actually “U-Pooh,” and he called them that for the next two years until he learned how to read and found out it was actually U2. Hopefully someday he’ll realize how correct I really was.
I have no reason to get a better car stereo because today’s music hasn’t much surpassed the whole caveman with a stick thing, and while man has been able to invent the nuclear bomb, the aeroplane, the Vanilla Coke and has even been able to trick one each other into thinking we actually landed on the Moon, our race has fallen woefully short in music making. In the entire 10,000 years of human existence, exactly 192 really awesome songs have been made, and I downloaded most of them from Napster when I was in college. All other songs that have been invented range from OK to mediocre to hellspawn three-day-old puke. And there are five bands that lots of people love and worship and spend money on and flash their boobs at that can’t even aspire to making music worthy of being labeled hellspawn three-day-old-puke. And they are…
5. BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
I do give him props for working his mojo on Courtney Cox in that one music video way back in the day when she wasn’t old and Alex P Keaton was always trying to slip her the Lil’ Overachiever on “Family Ties,” but other than that, Springsteen hasn’t served much of a purpose in life. He has a horrible voice, makes horrible music and will NEVER EVER RETIRE and end his pathetic career. Plus he’s always, always, ALWAYS bitching about something in each and every one of his songs; crying about how blue collar folks have got it rough and how sad life is. People call him the boss, and I think it’s a Freudian slip thing that “boss” spelled backward is “ssob,” the way illiterate Springsteen lovers would spell “sob” if they understood the alphabet.
4. P. DIDDY
Some complainers out there might argue that P. Diddy isn’t a band, and thus shouldn’t qualify for the list, but P. Diddy sucks so bad he simulates the cumulative suckiness of five other people, thereby forming an entire band of dumbass-osity.
This is the most unoriginal, uncreative hack to ever have sex with four chicks at the same time (I just KNOW he’s done it… Grrrrr…) All of his songs are nothing but samples of other dumb songs to have come before, mixed in with Diddy doling out his monotone recital of nonsensical lyrics like “Who hot, who not…” which is the most profound thing he’s ever said. He puts the “c” in front of “rap.”
The worst thing P. Diddy ever diddied came after his pimpmaster Notorious BIG died – by the way, the movie “Biggie and Tupac” sort of accuses Diddy of orchestrating the Tupac and BIG murders – and Diddy, then called Puff Daddy, made that song and music video with Mrs. Notorious, “I’ll Be Missing You,” in which you can tell that P. Diddy was definitely trying to get with that. This was purportedly meant to be a tribute to the fallen BIG, but why would the ghost of Biggie want to see his girl dancing around with a hornball dumbass?
If I’m dead, there are a few things I want to see: A.) A golden statue of me built in my honor; 2.) Into sorority showers (when you die you get x-ray vision) and III.) Free HBO. You’ll not that nowhere on that list is an item called “watch my woman dance around with a hornball dumbass.” And while I’m alive I want to see P. Diddy continue his new love of marathoning and run straight off into oblivion like Forrest Gump.
3. THE BEASTIE BOYS
I can’t even talk about these talentless closet cases without bursting into a rage. They finish each others’ sentences like an old married couple, scream instead of rap or sing, and were so evil as to have inspired Limp Bizkit. Beat your cat and you’ll get better sounds than anything the Beasties crap out. It’s time to get ill, alright, of chronic, irreversible laryngitis.
2. PEAL JAM
The worst offense of all from Pearl Jam was that obnoxious “Oh were or where can my baby be” song, which is a remake of a tune of some dude singing about his woman getting killed in a car crash or something. For starters, the song isn’t good, and secondly, it’s freaking morbid to sing a tribute song to a chick you never even had sex with. The rules go that if you had sex with some chick, then she dies, you’re allowed to make a song about it. If not, then no song. Pearl Jam was a bad copy of Nirvana and got completely surpassed by STP, Soundgarden and Alice in Chains. One time when I was nine I made up words to the Super Mario Bros. music that went “Su-PER Mar-i-o BRO-thers; we like to COL-lect coins and mush-ROOMS…” and that song, though bad, was infinity plus five times better than every song ever made by Pearl Jam put together times 17.
1. U2
As the only known person who hates U2, I take a lot of crap for my take on the Irish do-gooders who are always trying to get on TV showing that they give money to African babies and put on a concert for the drying refugees and whatnot. Good job on that, U2. But here’s an idea, how about instead of spending all your free time trying to book appearances on Oprah and Jay Leno, you sit down and try to make a good song for once. I used to only kind of hate U2, until 1997 or so, when that “Pop” album came out, and the very worst song I’ve ever suffered through, “Discotec,” was played every seven minutes by clueless, sheeplike DJs who were too afraid not to fall in line and play the humiliating garbage. Even people that love U2 hate that song, which is so sulphuric-acid-on-the-eyeballs painful that it undermines the entire reason for the existence of music. When my cousin was 4 years old, I told him that U2 was actually “U-Pooh,” and he called them that for the next two years until he learned how to read and found out it was actually U2. Hopefully someday he’ll realize how correct I really was.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
GTA or Kart?
I'm having a nervous breakdown about both "Mario Kart Wii" and "Grand Theft Auto IV" coming out at the same time. It's the ultimate concurrence of both awesomeness and suckery. These two games are more important than many aspects of life, especially sleep.
I've already told myself i will do nothing but play video games for a month straight and stay up until at least 3 a.m. every other night. but now I'm coming to the realization that it won't be enough. There is just not enough time for that much video game brilliance. It's the same dilemma Archie faced with Betty and Veronica. Whenever he was making sweet love to one of them, he was always dreaming of the other.
I've already told myself i will do nothing but play video games for a month straight and stay up until at least 3 a.m. every other night. but now I'm coming to the realization that it won't be enough. There is just not enough time for that much video game brilliance. It's the same dilemma Archie faced with Betty and Veronica. Whenever he was making sweet love to one of them, he was always dreaming of the other.
"Stormin' Mormon" price slashed in half for one week
As pissed as I am at Publish America for not kowtowing to Amazon's demands in order to give my book a better chance to sell, I'm pleased that the website is doing the sensible thing and cutting their too-high prices in half for one week. You can buy the book for $10 here (you'll have to type Stormin' Mormon into the search box - don't forget the apostrophe.
If you want to the book on the cheap, now would be a good time to get it.
If you want to the book on the cheap, now would be a good time to get it.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Futurrific
It doesn’t surprise me that we don’t have flying cars yet. I predict we still won’t have them in 2015, as “Back to the Future Part II” claims, or ever for that matter. Not because the technology won’t be there, but because of common sense. Drivers are too stupid to avoid crashing into one another on the ground, let alone if they were airborne. And cars themselves are way too unreliable. Could you imagine how dangerous flying cars would be? The flying Chevy Cavaliers would always stall at inopportune times, but instead of calling a tow truck, you’ll need to call the people who scoop up your remains and turn you into Soylent Green, because you’ll be dead.
My vision of the future is free of flying cars, and unless maybe this ethanol thing takes off, regular cars as well. Traveling itself will be obsolete, because everyone will sit at home all day pretending like they’re working while playing on the Internet. All vacationing will be done by microchips you download into your brain. The downside of this is that you won’t get to actually experience Hawaiian sea breezes or the firsthand sight of the Eiffel Tower. The upside is that you’ll get to vacation with Luigi or Pac-Man if you so desire.
Another change you’ll notice is that every business with more than two words in the title will go by an acronym. This I’m sure of not only because of “KFC” and “DQ,” but “BR,” which Baskin Robbins is trying to call itself now. This is gonna get out of control, I tells ya. ESPN will be known as EN.
I know what you’re wondering now. Will we ever go to Mars? Well, yes and no. The government will convince everyone we did, but the mission will really be faked and fool the populace as it’s broadcast over hover TV. The video game Grand Theft Auto 75 will lampoon this. Meanwhile the real Martians, who hide from our telescopes by living underneath the surface, will invade and conquer us, only to later be overthrown by the very robotic army humanity has constructed in order to fend them off. The Matrix had it wrong. Humans won’t end up as batteries – Martians will. We’ll just all be dead, save for the few of us who managed to burrow into volcanoes and evolve into volcano beasts that venture out at night and kidnap robotic children.
Next question – will there ever be nuclear war? Again, a good news, bad news situation. The good news is that there will be no nuclear war, and the bad news is the reason for this has nothing to do with mankind’s evolution toward a peaceful state. There will be a World War III alright, and countries will try to nuke each other, but it just won’t happen. It will just turn out that all the long range missiles worldwide are just as ghetto as North Korea’s, and all will plop harmlessly into the Sea of Japan.
My final prediction: Biff really will get his hands on a sports almanac, then travel back in time and give it to his younger self, who will become the richest man alive, then marry Lorraine and make her get a boob job. Hey, the movies can’t be wrong about everything.
My vision of the future is free of flying cars, and unless maybe this ethanol thing takes off, regular cars as well. Traveling itself will be obsolete, because everyone will sit at home all day pretending like they’re working while playing on the Internet. All vacationing will be done by microchips you download into your brain. The downside of this is that you won’t get to actually experience Hawaiian sea breezes or the firsthand sight of the Eiffel Tower. The upside is that you’ll get to vacation with Luigi or Pac-Man if you so desire.
Another change you’ll notice is that every business with more than two words in the title will go by an acronym. This I’m sure of not only because of “KFC” and “DQ,” but “BR,” which Baskin Robbins is trying to call itself now. This is gonna get out of control, I tells ya. ESPN will be known as EN.
I know what you’re wondering now. Will we ever go to Mars? Well, yes and no. The government will convince everyone we did, but the mission will really be faked and fool the populace as it’s broadcast over hover TV. The video game Grand Theft Auto 75 will lampoon this. Meanwhile the real Martians, who hide from our telescopes by living underneath the surface, will invade and conquer us, only to later be overthrown by the very robotic army humanity has constructed in order to fend them off. The Matrix had it wrong. Humans won’t end up as batteries – Martians will. We’ll just all be dead, save for the few of us who managed to burrow into volcanoes and evolve into volcano beasts that venture out at night and kidnap robotic children.
Next question – will there ever be nuclear war? Again, a good news, bad news situation. The good news is that there will be no nuclear war, and the bad news is the reason for this has nothing to do with mankind’s evolution toward a peaceful state. There will be a World War III alright, and countries will try to nuke each other, but it just won’t happen. It will just turn out that all the long range missiles worldwide are just as ghetto as North Korea’s, and all will plop harmlessly into the Sea of Japan.
My final prediction: Biff really will get his hands on a sports almanac, then travel back in time and give it to his younger self, who will become the richest man alive, then marry Lorraine and make her get a boob job. Hey, the movies can’t be wrong about everything.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
On drugs
One of the reasons I’m not a junkie is because the narcotics that exist don’t do it for me. According to the movies I’ve seen, drugs like crack and heroine get you high for a while but then leave you only craving more, willing to just about anything – and I mean anything – to get some more. Hence the occupations of “crack whore,” “heroine slut,” “smack prostitute,” “ecstacy trick” and “opium polesmoker.”
I’ve never tried any drugs, mostly because I’m afraid of the police – they’ve got pepper spray, and pepper spray kills. I’ve never even smoked a cigarette, because I hear that Surgeon General guy can be a real bastard. My fears aside, it’s too hard to get drugs anyway. That’s why no movie drug exchange has ever been successfully completed. Producers and directors, after all, don’t make these things up. Except for “Pirates of the Caribbean,” which is totally full of lies, filmmakers pull their stories from real life. It’s called “cinema verite.”
And one thing these filmmakers know is that these drug deals, they never work out. First you’ve gotta bring the briefcase full of cash to the abandoned warehouse, which is a hassle in and of itself - because Wells Fargo tellers aren’t cool about filling briefcases and abandoned warehouses don’t come up on Mapquest - and then you have to deal with all the potential pitfalls of the exchange. Someone’s probably been flipped by the Feds and wearing a wire, waiting to rat you out, and if that’s not the case the drug lord you’re doing business with will probably just shoot you, take your cash-filled briefcase and keep the money. Because, let’s face it, the only reason the druglord wouldn’t cap you is if he’s got a strong moral compass, because it would be so very easy, let alone profitable, to just shoot you and take your money instead of go through with the deal as promised. You’re probably out of luck, because I saw this thing on the Discovery Channel that says those with strong moral compasses make up only 13 percent of the North American druglord population.
But for the sake of conversation, let’s just say you do pull off the one successful drug deal ever. Okay, then you’ve got your blow, you shape it into lines on a small mirror (and this also assumes you can find one of those small mirrors, because they don’t sell them at the Targets I frequent), then you sniff it up and get high. While you’re laying back in your dazed stupor, you’ve gotta start questioning whether it was really worth all the work for a few moments of bliss. I mean, do you really feel any better high than when you’re playing “Super Mario Bros.” and you’re at the end of a level at the giant block staircase and you time your jump just right so the last digit on the countdown timer stops on a six just as you hit the flagpole, sliding down to enjoy a dazzling display of six – count ‘em – six, life-affirming fireworks? I really freaking doubt it.
Sorry, illegal drug industry. You’re gonna have to do better than a simple high to get my cash-filled briefcases. I’m disappointed in my limited options, and I’m holding out until there‘s a drug that offers something that would make me a bit more like Superman, like heat-vision or freeze breath. If those can’t be done than I’d settle for a drug that gives me temporary x-ray vision, but I’d only pay half a briefcase full of cash for that.
I’ve never tried any drugs, mostly because I’m afraid of the police – they’ve got pepper spray, and pepper spray kills. I’ve never even smoked a cigarette, because I hear that Surgeon General guy can be a real bastard. My fears aside, it’s too hard to get drugs anyway. That’s why no movie drug exchange has ever been successfully completed. Producers and directors, after all, don’t make these things up. Except for “Pirates of the Caribbean,” which is totally full of lies, filmmakers pull their stories from real life. It’s called “cinema verite.”
And one thing these filmmakers know is that these drug deals, they never work out. First you’ve gotta bring the briefcase full of cash to the abandoned warehouse, which is a hassle in and of itself - because Wells Fargo tellers aren’t cool about filling briefcases and abandoned warehouses don’t come up on Mapquest - and then you have to deal with all the potential pitfalls of the exchange. Someone’s probably been flipped by the Feds and wearing a wire, waiting to rat you out, and if that’s not the case the drug lord you’re doing business with will probably just shoot you, take your cash-filled briefcase and keep the money. Because, let’s face it, the only reason the druglord wouldn’t cap you is if he’s got a strong moral compass, because it would be so very easy, let alone profitable, to just shoot you and take your money instead of go through with the deal as promised. You’re probably out of luck, because I saw this thing on the Discovery Channel that says those with strong moral compasses make up only 13 percent of the North American druglord population.
But for the sake of conversation, let’s just say you do pull off the one successful drug deal ever. Okay, then you’ve got your blow, you shape it into lines on a small mirror (and this also assumes you can find one of those small mirrors, because they don’t sell them at the Targets I frequent), then you sniff it up and get high. While you’re laying back in your dazed stupor, you’ve gotta start questioning whether it was really worth all the work for a few moments of bliss. I mean, do you really feel any better high than when you’re playing “Super Mario Bros.” and you’re at the end of a level at the giant block staircase and you time your jump just right so the last digit on the countdown timer stops on a six just as you hit the flagpole, sliding down to enjoy a dazzling display of six – count ‘em – six, life-affirming fireworks? I really freaking doubt it.
Sorry, illegal drug industry. You’re gonna have to do better than a simple high to get my cash-filled briefcases. I’m disappointed in my limited options, and I’m holding out until there‘s a drug that offers something that would make me a bit more like Superman, like heat-vision or freeze breath. If those can’t be done than I’d settle for a drug that gives me temporary x-ray vision, but I’d only pay half a briefcase full of cash for that.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Everything I know I learned from playing Super Mario Bros.
Back when I was seven, there were news stories that ranted that “Super Mario Bros.” would rot kids’ brains. Years later, it’s obvious that quite the opposite is true. In fact, I’d venture to say that of all my knowledge sources: elementary school, high school, college, Sesame Street, my parents, all of them combined don’t equal the education I received from playing the greatest Nintendo game ever made.
ALWAYS LOOK FOR THE WARP ZONE
While the suckers will plug through each and every measly level to get through life, the smart ones are always searching for the shortcuts. Jump over the brick wall at the end of world 1-3, and sure enough, there is your warp to worlds 2-1, 3-1 or 4-1. No one has ever warped to 2-1 or 3-1. In fact, I’m not even sure those warp tubes work. They’re just there as decorations, and to make you feel like you’re getting an even better deal. Warping also teaches you that it’s smarter to warp than to go straight through, because only if you warp will there be a invisible one-up mushroom block waiting for you. As it says on the “Alexander” movie poster, fortune favors the bold.
MUSHROOMS MAKE YOU BIGGER
The more food you eat, the bigger you’ll get. While in real life mushrooms don’t quite have the power to immediately triple your size, eat enough mushrooms and you will one day grow to be a bigger person. Once you stop growing up, you can still grow by getting fatter.
TURTLES MUST BE STOMPED ON
Turtles may look all dumb or innocent, but they’re all secret minions of King Koopa. They’re evil and they’ll go on to kill unless you crack their shells. Give ‘em a quick stomp on the back to put them out of commission, and don’t let anyone from PETA see
you.
FIREBALLS DON’T WORK ON BUZZY BEETLES
While the fireball is an amazing and formidable weapon, it doesn’t pack enough juice to destroy or even slightly injure a black-shelled Buzzy Beetle. It’s this type of forethought that gave the founding fathers the idea for the second amendment. We as a society need the right to bear arms because sometimes a “fireball” i.e., rational discussion, is not enough to defeat an enemy. Sometimes you need an AK.
THERE’S NO GETTING OUT OF THE MINUS WORLD
Certain things in life exist only to trap you. Swim around all you like, and there’s no escape at all. You’re just stuck until time runs out and you die of asphyxiation. The programmers put world -1 in there to remind us not to do drugs, because drugs are just a one way ticket into the minus world. Except for mushrooms. Those will make you feel real good.
YOU’VE GOT TO LAND ON THE FLAGPOLE AT THE RIGHT TIME TO GET SIX FIREWORKS
In life, timing is everything. Lean in for a kiss at the wrong time, and you’ll get slapped in the face. Ask the boss for a raise at the wrong time, and you’ll get fired. Run a red light when there’s another car coming, and you’re dead. Only make your move when the last number on the clock is a six, and you’re golden.
MY PRINCESS IS IN ANOTHER CASTLE
You have to go through lots of castles, spend a lot of golden coins and get with lots of girls who only turn out to be dudes dressed in mushroom suits in disguise before you find your one true love. And even she won’t give you sex.
ALWAYS LOOK FOR THE WARP ZONE
While the suckers will plug through each and every measly level to get through life, the smart ones are always searching for the shortcuts. Jump over the brick wall at the end of world 1-3, and sure enough, there is your warp to worlds 2-1, 3-1 or 4-1. No one has ever warped to 2-1 or 3-1. In fact, I’m not even sure those warp tubes work. They’re just there as decorations, and to make you feel like you’re getting an even better deal. Warping also teaches you that it’s smarter to warp than to go straight through, because only if you warp will there be a invisible one-up mushroom block waiting for you. As it says on the “Alexander” movie poster, fortune favors the bold.
MUSHROOMS MAKE YOU BIGGER
The more food you eat, the bigger you’ll get. While in real life mushrooms don’t quite have the power to immediately triple your size, eat enough mushrooms and you will one day grow to be a bigger person. Once you stop growing up, you can still grow by getting fatter.
TURTLES MUST BE STOMPED ON
Turtles may look all dumb or innocent, but they’re all secret minions of King Koopa. They’re evil and they’ll go on to kill unless you crack their shells. Give ‘em a quick stomp on the back to put them out of commission, and don’t let anyone from PETA see
you.
FIREBALLS DON’T WORK ON BUZZY BEETLES
While the fireball is an amazing and formidable weapon, it doesn’t pack enough juice to destroy or even slightly injure a black-shelled Buzzy Beetle. It’s this type of forethought that gave the founding fathers the idea for the second amendment. We as a society need the right to bear arms because sometimes a “fireball” i.e., rational discussion, is not enough to defeat an enemy. Sometimes you need an AK.
THERE’S NO GETTING OUT OF THE MINUS WORLD
Certain things in life exist only to trap you. Swim around all you like, and there’s no escape at all. You’re just stuck until time runs out and you die of asphyxiation. The programmers put world -1 in there to remind us not to do drugs, because drugs are just a one way ticket into the minus world. Except for mushrooms. Those will make you feel real good.
YOU’VE GOT TO LAND ON THE FLAGPOLE AT THE RIGHT TIME TO GET SIX FIREWORKS
In life, timing is everything. Lean in for a kiss at the wrong time, and you’ll get slapped in the face. Ask the boss for a raise at the wrong time, and you’ll get fired. Run a red light when there’s another car coming, and you’re dead. Only make your move when the last number on the clock is a six, and you’re golden.
MY PRINCESS IS IN ANOTHER CASTLE
You have to go through lots of castles, spend a lot of golden coins and get with lots of girls who only turn out to be dudes dressed in mushroom suits in disguise before you find your one true love. And even she won’t give you sex.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
In observance of the funniest moment in the history of movies
Wait until the scene that comes at the 2 minute mark. No funnier moment has ever been recorded in the history of film.
The best place to find comedy
Is often your neighborhood church. This church my wife drags me to is asking its followers to donate 90 percent of the tax rebate checks they get to them. The pitch went "How lucky are you that the Lord lets you keep 90 percent of your income and all he asks for is 10 percent. How about just this once you tithe to yourself and give the rest to God?"
My immediate response, other than stifled laughter, was "Go tithe yourself."
My immediate response, other than stifled laughter, was "Go tithe yourself."
Monday, April 14, 2008
Text messaging must die
It’s not that I don’t understand HOW text messaging works – obviously it has to do with the biorobonuclaic principals of cell phones, with the chrononucleaical transferation module that transports quadricameral nomenclature differentials from cell phone to cell phone – but rather WHY people would actually use text messaging to communicate in a timely manner.
Whenever I ask any texting addict why it is they spend hours using their cell phones to send IMs for the wonderful privilege of being charged by a shiny electronic nickel for each usage, or an unnecessary flat fee of $5 a month, they almost always respond with a dumb grin and a chuckle. They say, “I dunno! I just like it.” Hmm.
I’m no cell phone expert, but my research has shown phones are equipped with speakers which can be used for talking and hearing others talk. These speakers negate the need to use number pads to complicatedly type out messages. Text messaging on a cell phone is like walking on your hands. Sure, it’s possible; maybe even a little fun. But why would you do it constantly when it’s so much easier to walk on your feet?
Others try to rationalize, but can’t explain it any better than the dumb grin and chuckle. Some say they text because they don’t want to seem rude when they’re with other people. My reply to them is that staring at your obnoxious phone for the 10 minutes it takes to text “C U l8r at the bk str” is ruder than a 0.7 second phone conversation.
Whenever I ask any texting addict why it is they spend hours using their cell phones to send IMs for the wonderful privilege of being charged by a shiny electronic nickel for each usage, or an unnecessary flat fee of $5 a month, they almost always respond with a dumb grin and a chuckle. They say, “I dunno! I just like it.” Hmm.
I’m no cell phone expert, but my research has shown phones are equipped with speakers which can be used for talking and hearing others talk. These speakers negate the need to use number pads to complicatedly type out messages. Text messaging on a cell phone is like walking on your hands. Sure, it’s possible; maybe even a little fun. But why would you do it constantly when it’s so much easier to walk on your feet?
Others try to rationalize, but can’t explain it any better than the dumb grin and chuckle. Some say they text because they don’t want to seem rude when they’re with other people. My reply to them is that staring at your obnoxious phone for the 10 minutes it takes to text “C U l8r at the bk str” is ruder than a 0.7 second phone conversation.
Friday, April 11, 2008
An alphabet of overrated things
A is for avocados. They look like grenades and, when guacamole’d, make me eat too many tortilla chips.
B is for Brady, as in Tom. Sports Illustrated sportsman of the year, my anus. He throws like Cindy Brady.
C is for cannons. What dumb weapons. All they did was shoot big, heavy balls at ships dumb enough to float in their way. This excludes laser cannons.
D is for defense. Don’t listen to what they say, it’s offense that really wins championships.
E is for Everybody Loves Raymond. I secretly called it Not Everybody Loves Raymond. Burn!
F is for food. It costs too much, doesn’t taste all that good, and if I stop shoving it in my face constantly, I die. Not that it has its own channel, with its fanbase of morons who talk about it constantly, food really thinks it’s hot shit. I say we rebel and go to Matrix cocoons for sustenance.
G is for Gus, the field goal kicking mule. Mr. Ed could take you down any day of the week, jackass.
H is for Hannukah. I have eight presents for you, annoying, overlong holiday that falls on different dates every year. Here’s a hint, they’re all punches to the throat.
I is for irritating column devices, such as writers using the alphabet when they can’t think of anything else to write.
J is for joints. Crack is where it’s at, baby.
K is for karate, which is no match for a gun.
L is for length. It’s all about girth, according to women as well as Jake Gyllenhaal’s character in Brokeback Mountain.
M is for Mike Tyson. First he loses to Little Mac, then he gets jailed for rape and when he gets out he bites peoples’ ears and moves to Phoenix. You are stupid. (Please don’t read this, drive down here and attack me).
N is for New York Yankees. You are losers, especially you, Alex Rodriguez.
O is for other websites. If they didn’t exist, Becauseitoldyouso.com would get more traffic.
P is for Pussycat Dolls. Doncha wish you’d shut the hell up and go back to your careers as strippers?
Q is for Q-Bert. Just kidding. Q-Bert was the mothableepin’ bomb, yo.
R is Rainbow Brite, no match at all for the underrated Strawberry Shortcake.
S is for Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliette? More like Romeo and Poo-liet.
T is for tarantulas. Brown recluses and black widows are more venomous, you big, hairy oafs.
U is for the University of Dumbass, which is my nickname for Arizona State.
V is for Villarroel. Some people have that as there last name – I saw it in the phone book. What happened to your “A,” you illiterate jagoffs?
W is for the song “Who Let the Dogs Out,” which should be renamed, “Who Let the Suck Out”
X is for X-Men. Superman could beat up all 1,000 of you. Even the effeminate-looking
Superman from the latest movie.
Y is for yo-yos. They always get tangled up and broken.
Z is for zebras. Like horses, only slower and with stripes. What are you, the referees of horses? I call a 15-yard penalty on you for stupidness.
B is for Brady, as in Tom. Sports Illustrated sportsman of the year, my anus. He throws like Cindy Brady.
C is for cannons. What dumb weapons. All they did was shoot big, heavy balls at ships dumb enough to float in their way. This excludes laser cannons.
D is for defense. Don’t listen to what they say, it’s offense that really wins championships.
E is for Everybody Loves Raymond. I secretly called it Not Everybody Loves Raymond. Burn!
F is for food. It costs too much, doesn’t taste all that good, and if I stop shoving it in my face constantly, I die. Not that it has its own channel, with its fanbase of morons who talk about it constantly, food really thinks it’s hot shit. I say we rebel and go to Matrix cocoons for sustenance.
G is for Gus, the field goal kicking mule. Mr. Ed could take you down any day of the week, jackass.
H is for Hannukah. I have eight presents for you, annoying, overlong holiday that falls on different dates every year. Here’s a hint, they’re all punches to the throat.
I is for irritating column devices, such as writers using the alphabet when they can’t think of anything else to write.
J is for joints. Crack is where it’s at, baby.
K is for karate, which is no match for a gun.
L is for length. It’s all about girth, according to women as well as Jake Gyllenhaal’s character in Brokeback Mountain.
M is for Mike Tyson. First he loses to Little Mac, then he gets jailed for rape and when he gets out he bites peoples’ ears and moves to Phoenix. You are stupid. (Please don’t read this, drive down here and attack me).
N is for New York Yankees. You are losers, especially you, Alex Rodriguez.
O is for other websites. If they didn’t exist, Becauseitoldyouso.com would get more traffic.
P is for Pussycat Dolls. Doncha wish you’d shut the hell up and go back to your careers as strippers?
Q is for Q-Bert. Just kidding. Q-Bert was the mothableepin’ bomb, yo.
R is Rainbow Brite, no match at all for the underrated Strawberry Shortcake.
S is for Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliette? More like Romeo and Poo-liet.
T is for tarantulas. Brown recluses and black widows are more venomous, you big, hairy oafs.
U is for the University of Dumbass, which is my nickname for Arizona State.
V is for Villarroel. Some people have that as there last name – I saw it in the phone book. What happened to your “A,” you illiterate jagoffs?
W is for the song “Who Let the Dogs Out,” which should be renamed, “Who Let the Suck Out”
X is for X-Men. Superman could beat up all 1,000 of you. Even the effeminate-looking
Superman from the latest movie.
Y is for yo-yos. They always get tangled up and broken.
Z is for zebras. Like horses, only slower and with stripes. What are you, the referees of horses? I call a 15-yard penalty on you for stupidness.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Filet-o-Fish
Never buy a Filet-o-Fish. You can’t trust them. For not once in the history of McDonald’s has anyone ever ordered a Filet-o-Fish intentionally. Sure, people have gotten them by mistake sometimes. On occasion some generous cubicle drone makes a McDonald’s office run and buys everything on the menu to distribute to coworkers, and at the bottom of the bag will be the pathetic green wrapper containing the bun-and-tartar-sauce draped mystery of the oceansea.
And a mystery it should remain, because who really wants to know what deranged process it takes to turn one of Nemo’s associates into a flat, square shaped patty? It’s a true distortion of nature’s plan to create such a monstrosity, and while comparably disturbing ventures are taken to create such substances as McNugget and hamburger, those don’t seem as revolting because they are accepted blocks of the food pyramid. The Filet-o-Fish, though, is an anomaly, a crime against our underwater brothers akin to making Shamu bounce a ball on his nose.
I of course am not alone in this opinion, and that’s why the sandwich is never ordered. That’s why McDonald’s used to slap it with the stigma of the No. 9 combo, relegated to the end of the line, relegated to the outer reaches of the customer’s peripheral vision. Only later did they move it around, to Nos. 4 or 6, hoping to increase volume by tricking people into ordering the restaurant’s shame instead of their usual double quarter pounder. And while all this chicanery occurred, the poor tastilicious McRib had to sit on the sidelines, only able to pop out for a gleeful romp once every other year or so, soaking in its delectable sauces, waiting to pounce for brief glory, only to fade back into oblivion, while its incompetent rival, the Filet-o-Fish, was allowed to stay.
At this point I must admit that I’ve never tried one. The Filet-o-Fish, that is – not the McRib. The McRibs I’ve not only tried but inhaled, three to an order during those glorious jubilee periods in which they’re made available. And during off seasons, I sate my McRib fix by buying them on the black market. I’m reduced to shady back alley deals and occasional sexual debasement for the salve to my addiction. But that’s off the subject. I’m not able to comment on the taste of the Filet-o-Fish because of my inexperience in munching them, which I think is a testament to my wisdom and worldliness. Only a fool, after all, would order something no one else ever does. While trying anything else on the menu offers reasonable odds of getting a piece of reasonably freshly made cholesterol-dripping, preservative-wafting fulfillment, you just know the Filet-o-Fishes on the burger ready-rack have been there since the joint opened that day at 5:30 a.m., if not the day before, if not the week before. Never having been ordered, never to be ordered. The bastard sandwich is kept alive only by the moaning drone of the heat rack, as if it were some sort of edible version of Terry Schiavo, alive but somehow dead; staleness warmed into floppy submission.
If only it were possible to catch Filet-o-Fishes and release them back into the waters from whence they came, allowing them one last swim, as a watershed homage to the environment we debased in mankind’s blind urge to make gross burger alternatives. They could peacefully drift to the bottom of the ocean and stay there. During the long float to the bottom, they would drift undisturbed. Other, living creatures, some destined themselves to become a Filet-o-Fish, will swim by and look at the sandwich with their big round eyes, then lose interest and jet off to some other place to blow bubbles, hassle the plankton and try to look up jellyfishes skirts. They won’t even take a nibble, because even fish have standards when it comes to getting their grub on.
And a mystery it should remain, because who really wants to know what deranged process it takes to turn one of Nemo’s associates into a flat, square shaped patty? It’s a true distortion of nature’s plan to create such a monstrosity, and while comparably disturbing ventures are taken to create such substances as McNugget and hamburger, those don’t seem as revolting because they are accepted blocks of the food pyramid. The Filet-o-Fish, though, is an anomaly, a crime against our underwater brothers akin to making Shamu bounce a ball on his nose.
I of course am not alone in this opinion, and that’s why the sandwich is never ordered. That’s why McDonald’s used to slap it with the stigma of the No. 9 combo, relegated to the end of the line, relegated to the outer reaches of the customer’s peripheral vision. Only later did they move it around, to Nos. 4 or 6, hoping to increase volume by tricking people into ordering the restaurant’s shame instead of their usual double quarter pounder. And while all this chicanery occurred, the poor tastilicious McRib had to sit on the sidelines, only able to pop out for a gleeful romp once every other year or so, soaking in its delectable sauces, waiting to pounce for brief glory, only to fade back into oblivion, while its incompetent rival, the Filet-o-Fish, was allowed to stay.
At this point I must admit that I’ve never tried one. The Filet-o-Fish, that is – not the McRib. The McRibs I’ve not only tried but inhaled, three to an order during those glorious jubilee periods in which they’re made available. And during off seasons, I sate my McRib fix by buying them on the black market. I’m reduced to shady back alley deals and occasional sexual debasement for the salve to my addiction. But that’s off the subject. I’m not able to comment on the taste of the Filet-o-Fish because of my inexperience in munching them, which I think is a testament to my wisdom and worldliness. Only a fool, after all, would order something no one else ever does. While trying anything else on the menu offers reasonable odds of getting a piece of reasonably freshly made cholesterol-dripping, preservative-wafting fulfillment, you just know the Filet-o-Fishes on the burger ready-rack have been there since the joint opened that day at 5:30 a.m., if not the day before, if not the week before. Never having been ordered, never to be ordered. The bastard sandwich is kept alive only by the moaning drone of the heat rack, as if it were some sort of edible version of Terry Schiavo, alive but somehow dead; staleness warmed into floppy submission.
If only it were possible to catch Filet-o-Fishes and release them back into the waters from whence they came, allowing them one last swim, as a watershed homage to the environment we debased in mankind’s blind urge to make gross burger alternatives. They could peacefully drift to the bottom of the ocean and stay there. During the long float to the bottom, they would drift undisturbed. Other, living creatures, some destined themselves to become a Filet-o-Fish, will swim by and look at the sandwich with their big round eyes, then lose interest and jet off to some other place to blow bubbles, hassle the plankton and try to look up jellyfishes skirts. They won’t even take a nibble, because even fish have standards when it comes to getting their grub on.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Coffee conundrum
I don't see how people become addicted to coffee, given how awful it tastes, which is at least better than its aftertaste - similar to that which you get when you lick asphalt.
It's like I know why people like coffee, cigarettes and hard liquor, because it's a chemical thing that associates the high of the product with the awful taste, twisting your senses into registering the nastiness as a positive. But what I don't get is how people swill enough coffee to fall under the influence to begin with. Making it is so labor intensive and buying it is so expensive. Getting addicted to coffee seems as appealing as slamming an aluminum bat against your nose.
Some people tell me they like coffee because they're into bitterness. For those people I have a recommendation: try some ape piss. It's even more bitter than your drink of choice.
By the way, it's true what they say about there being no accounting for taste. I loved enchiladas as a kid. Hate them now. Always hated olives until two years ago, but now I really like them - but only the high-class non-vinegarred olives you'll find at Sweet Tomato troughs or at the bottom of Olive Garden salad bowls. Regular canned olives are still revolting. Also, I hated grapefuit juice when i was 5, called it swamp juice. Now I love swamp juice so much I buy it flowers and pretend to laugh at its unfunny jokes.
It's like I know why people like coffee, cigarettes and hard liquor, because it's a chemical thing that associates the high of the product with the awful taste, twisting your senses into registering the nastiness as a positive. But what I don't get is how people swill enough coffee to fall under the influence to begin with. Making it is so labor intensive and buying it is so expensive. Getting addicted to coffee seems as appealing as slamming an aluminum bat against your nose.
Some people tell me they like coffee because they're into bitterness. For those people I have a recommendation: try some ape piss. It's even more bitter than your drink of choice.
By the way, it's true what they say about there being no accounting for taste. I loved enchiladas as a kid. Hate them now. Always hated olives until two years ago, but now I really like them - but only the high-class non-vinegarred olives you'll find at Sweet Tomato troughs or at the bottom of Olive Garden salad bowls. Regular canned olives are still revolting. Also, I hated grapefuit juice when i was 5, called it swamp juice. Now I love swamp juice so much I buy it flowers and pretend to laugh at its unfunny jokes.
A brief glossary of evil twins
CHARLES-CHAZ
In “Charles in Charge” sometimes Charles would get knocked on the head and turn into Chaz, an evil alter ego who would cause all sorts of mischievous high jinx. Chaz would slick his hair back, talk smack to everybody, hit on the girls he babysat, try to have sex with old girlfriends and skip class. Chaz, come to think of it, was a lot cooler than Charles. The way to change him back was to either hit him on the head (once – not twice, because that would turn him back into Chaz) or hope he gets into a motorcycle crash.
MARIO-WARIO
Mario was the savior of the Mushroom Kingdom who saved Princess Toadstool four times (“Super Mario Bros.,” “Super Mario Bros. 3,” “Super Mario World,” “Super Mario Land”) Then he found out that a bastard named Wario took over his castle, sealed the door with a magic lock that could only be opened if six golden coins were placed along the frame, then scattered the coins throughout the world and released loads of monsters to guard them in “Super Mario Land 2: Six Golden Coins.” Stupidly, Wario did not think to take the six golden coins inside the castle with him. Wario’s origin was unknown, but he kind of resembled Mario, only fatter and with an upside-down M on his hat to cleverly appear as a W. Anyway, Mario did the sensible thing and killed Wario’s ass, then he came back to life and now plays tennis, golf, baseball and go-kart racing with Mario.
PUNKY BREWSTER-MEAN PUNKY BREWSTER
Punky had an evil twin, too, although I think this only happened in one episode, and not in the real show but the trippy little cartoon spinoff. That nutty little flying Munchkin from beyond the rainbow, Glomer, took her picture when she was frowning. The picture turned out to be magic, and Mean Punky Brewster leaped out of the frame and started throwing rocks and insulting everyone she saw, including Cherie, who was probably still recovering emotionally after having been locked in the refrigerator. They killed Mean Punky by making her go back into the picture then tearing it up.
CASSIUS CLAY-MUHAMMAD ALI
Cassius Clay was a nice boxer who did what he was told and lived by society’s rules. Then he changed his name to Muhammad Ali, who was evil for three reasons: A.) Because he stopped believing in Jesus, B.) He had the gall to say black people weren’t treated well in the 1960s, a time of perfect racial equality and idyllic harmony, and C.) He refused to defend our freedom by going to Vietnam and joining coalition forces in dying in a very, very important war that really, really needed to be fought. Luckily our government recognized his evil and threw him in jail.
STEVE URKEL-STEPHAN UR-KEL
Urkel was a nerd who invented a machine that made him cool, and he walked into it every sweeps period to become Stephan Ur-kel (accent on the “kel”), which turned him into a smooth pimperator who no longer spoke in a nasally voice, did not annoy Carl and macked hardcore on Laura and her hot friend Maxine. What made Stephan even cooler was the fact that he – get ready for this – DID NOT WEAR GLASSES. Stephan wasn’t completely evil, but he had a way of acting like a pompous ass so that others would eventually conspire to trick him from walking back into the machine and get him changed back to Steve.
In “Charles in Charge” sometimes Charles would get knocked on the head and turn into Chaz, an evil alter ego who would cause all sorts of mischievous high jinx. Chaz would slick his hair back, talk smack to everybody, hit on the girls he babysat, try to have sex with old girlfriends and skip class. Chaz, come to think of it, was a lot cooler than Charles. The way to change him back was to either hit him on the head (once – not twice, because that would turn him back into Chaz) or hope he gets into a motorcycle crash.
MARIO-WARIO
Mario was the savior of the Mushroom Kingdom who saved Princess Toadstool four times (“Super Mario Bros.,” “Super Mario Bros. 3,” “Super Mario World,” “Super Mario Land”) Then he found out that a bastard named Wario took over his castle, sealed the door with a magic lock that could only be opened if six golden coins were placed along the frame, then scattered the coins throughout the world and released loads of monsters to guard them in “Super Mario Land 2: Six Golden Coins.” Stupidly, Wario did not think to take the six golden coins inside the castle with him. Wario’s origin was unknown, but he kind of resembled Mario, only fatter and with an upside-down M on his hat to cleverly appear as a W. Anyway, Mario did the sensible thing and killed Wario’s ass, then he came back to life and now plays tennis, golf, baseball and go-kart racing with Mario.
PUNKY BREWSTER-MEAN PUNKY BREWSTER
Punky had an evil twin, too, although I think this only happened in one episode, and not in the real show but the trippy little cartoon spinoff. That nutty little flying Munchkin from beyond the rainbow, Glomer, took her picture when she was frowning. The picture turned out to be magic, and Mean Punky Brewster leaped out of the frame and started throwing rocks and insulting everyone she saw, including Cherie, who was probably still recovering emotionally after having been locked in the refrigerator. They killed Mean Punky by making her go back into the picture then tearing it up.
CASSIUS CLAY-MUHAMMAD ALI
Cassius Clay was a nice boxer who did what he was told and lived by society’s rules. Then he changed his name to Muhammad Ali, who was evil for three reasons: A.) Because he stopped believing in Jesus, B.) He had the gall to say black people weren’t treated well in the 1960s, a time of perfect racial equality and idyllic harmony, and C.) He refused to defend our freedom by going to Vietnam and joining coalition forces in dying in a very, very important war that really, really needed to be fought. Luckily our government recognized his evil and threw him in jail.
STEVE URKEL-STEPHAN UR-KEL
Urkel was a nerd who invented a machine that made him cool, and he walked into it every sweeps period to become Stephan Ur-kel (accent on the “kel”), which turned him into a smooth pimperator who no longer spoke in a nasally voice, did not annoy Carl and macked hardcore on Laura and her hot friend Maxine. What made Stephan even cooler was the fact that he – get ready for this – DID NOT WEAR GLASSES. Stephan wasn’t completely evil, but he had a way of acting like a pompous ass so that others would eventually conspire to trick him from walking back into the machine and get him changed back to Steve.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Hell yes, Bases Loaded is on the Wii's Virtual Console now
"Bases Loaded" shaped the way I view baseball.... and in turn, life itself.
Today is like the end of "Con Air." I feel like the stuffed toy rabbit, and Nicolas Cage (Nintendo) is giving me back to his little daughter (Wii) after too many years apart, and the song "Hoooow Do Iiii Liiiiiiive Without You" is playing in the background.
I love "Bases Loaded." Doesn't everybody? Oko on Philly is the best natural athlete I've ever seen in my life, and Paste on Jersey is no slouch either. Paste-Oko, and not Obama-Clinton, would truly be the dream ticket.
There's also a player in the game named Saint, forget which team he plays for. One of my friends I used to play it with couldn't read for shit and pronounced Saint as "Satan."
I once played this game on "Bases Loaded" that was such a dramatic and inspiring comeback I made my own sports section about it. I wrote a headline, drew a picture, wrote up the box score in and had a game story with quotes from the players who participated in the historic event.
Friday, April 04, 2008
You Cain't Choke This
I’ve got a pretty good plan for if someone ever tries to choke me to death. I’ll struggle for a few seconds, then fall limp and pretend I’m dead. The choker will then ease his grip, giving me a chance to kick him square in the nuts and run off to safety. Why don’t characters in movies and TV shows try this more often? They’re the ones that need the technique the most, since people get strangled for our entertainment a whole lot more often then they do in regular ‘ol boring life.
Maybe I should start a training academy to help people get out of tough spots they don’t know how to deal with. The above technique would rescue you not only from a choking, but from a Wild West hanging. Whenever a desperado is hanged for his crimes in the town square, they cut the guy loose as soon as he goes limp. Well, my advice to an unlucky bandit would be to play dead, get cut free, then use your noose to lasso in the nearest six-shooter and blast your way out to glory, shouting, “Whoomp, they it is!!!” as you ride off into the sunset with the sheriff’s daughter.
Getting choked and hanged are two things that tend to freak people out, and my class would help ease their fears and allow them to live more normal lives. Another problem a lot of folks have is trepidation about getting into a fight with someone who’s really good at karate. You know, the kind of people who can break cement blocks with their heads and whatnot. To those who cower in fear against such opponents, I say this: Get out a gun. No matter how good they are at karate, they’ll be no match for a bullet through the kneecap.
Student: Um, Teacher, teacher!
Me: Yes, what is it, student?
Student: Did you say “kneecap?”
Me: That’s right, son. Kneecap.
Student: But why not shoot him in the face?
Me: Because the people who are REALLY good at karate will try to dodge your gunshots like Neo, bending backwards and waving at the bullets aimed at their face whiz by. If you shoot them in the kneecaps, that defense technique won’t work.
Student: If only the agents from “The Matrix” had known this, we wouldn’t have had to deal with the crappy sequels.
Me: Shut your mouth. While “The Matrix Revolutions” was subpar, “The Matrix Reloaded” was misunderstood and underrated. Go sit in the corner!
As you can see from that example, I’d make an awesome teacher. The only reason I don’t sign up is because they don’t pay teachers enough to put up with all the crap they’ve got to deal with. I think it’s a cultural thing. I’ll bet that at Ninja schools, teachers get treated right.
I wonder what Ninja Kindergarten is like? Instead of naptime, they probably have throwing star target practice. And none of this half-day nonsense. Five-year-old ninjas have got to go to school all day, because you don’t learn how to shoot poison darts and nunchuku skills in only four hours – not if you want to learn them right, anyway. And storytime is replaced by deathmatch tournaments. That’s what I’d make them do if I were a ninja teacher, anyway. I’d also teach them to do the Matrix bullet-bend trick, too, only I’d make sure they wore bulletproof kneepads.
Maybe I should start a training academy to help people get out of tough spots they don’t know how to deal with. The above technique would rescue you not only from a choking, but from a Wild West hanging. Whenever a desperado is hanged for his crimes in the town square, they cut the guy loose as soon as he goes limp. Well, my advice to an unlucky bandit would be to play dead, get cut free, then use your noose to lasso in the nearest six-shooter and blast your way out to glory, shouting, “Whoomp, they it is!!!” as you ride off into the sunset with the sheriff’s daughter.
Getting choked and hanged are two things that tend to freak people out, and my class would help ease their fears and allow them to live more normal lives. Another problem a lot of folks have is trepidation about getting into a fight with someone who’s really good at karate. You know, the kind of people who can break cement blocks with their heads and whatnot. To those who cower in fear against such opponents, I say this: Get out a gun. No matter how good they are at karate, they’ll be no match for a bullet through the kneecap.
Student: Um, Teacher, teacher!
Me: Yes, what is it, student?
Student: Did you say “kneecap?”
Me: That’s right, son. Kneecap.
Student: But why not shoot him in the face?
Me: Because the people who are REALLY good at karate will try to dodge your gunshots like Neo, bending backwards and waving at the bullets aimed at their face whiz by. If you shoot them in the kneecaps, that defense technique won’t work.
Student: If only the agents from “The Matrix” had known this, we wouldn’t have had to deal with the crappy sequels.
Me: Shut your mouth. While “The Matrix Revolutions” was subpar, “The Matrix Reloaded” was misunderstood and underrated. Go sit in the corner!
As you can see from that example, I’d make an awesome teacher. The only reason I don’t sign up is because they don’t pay teachers enough to put up with all the crap they’ve got to deal with. I think it’s a cultural thing. I’ll bet that at Ninja schools, teachers get treated right.
I wonder what Ninja Kindergarten is like? Instead of naptime, they probably have throwing star target practice. And none of this half-day nonsense. Five-year-old ninjas have got to go to school all day, because you don’t learn how to shoot poison darts and nunchuku skills in only four hours – not if you want to learn them right, anyway. And storytime is replaced by deathmatch tournaments. That’s what I’d make them do if I were a ninja teacher, anyway. I’d also teach them to do the Matrix bullet-bend trick, too, only I’d make sure they wore bulletproof kneepads.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Things I Like: The Mode
This specifically has to do with "Tecmo Super Bowl” for Nintendo or Super Nintendo. Anyone who has ever played those games has fallen into instant, hopeless love with them, to the point where they almost want to give the games back rubs, buy them expensive jewelry and go to boring parties with the game's annoying friends, just to show how much they care.
Every Tecmo Bowl player probably has generated their own nickname for what I refer to as “The Mode.”
The Mode occurs about three or four times during a year of constant Tecmo Bowl playing, or, about one time per every 275 games. After one player gets an interception or recovers a fumble, he’ll suddenly kick into the Mode, which means he’s spontaneously imbued with eight times the speed of any other player on the field, is made completely invulnerable and possesses massive hitting power. (Players such as Bo Jackson, Barry Sanders and Christian Okoye, as depicted in the above video, were born into the Mode, bursted out of their mothers' wombs and knocked the delivery nurses on their asses).
One could theorize that, if Natalie Portman were ever to have sex with a Tecmo Bowl character, she would hold out for one that was in the Mode, because he'd be able to give her nonstop multiple orgasms.
Let me tell ya, they almost do the same fore me.
Sigh...
Oh, the things an In-the-Mode character can do. A ballcarrier in the Mode can freely ram all defenders off the screen over and over for infinity, but usual sportsmanlike protocol calls for only using the Mode for the remaining time in the quarter before finally lending your opponent some mercy and scoring the inevitable touchdown. Doing so is completely at your discretion, though, since no tackler, not even if he's using the vaunted Tecmo Five-Yard Superhuman Dive Tackle, can bring a Moded player down. Only two things can stop a ballcarrier in the Mode: A.) Stepping out of bounds inadvertently, or B.) The fiery sword of God. Anything else won't cut it, including nature. One time I was playing a game and I got the Mode, and there was a power outage. The Moded player actually stepped out of the TV, repaired the downed power line outside the house, then jumped back into the game to resume mowing down defenders. I think, while he was out, he also rescued a cat from a tree and knocked up my next-door neighbor's daughter.
When you’re on the mode, life is at its very finest, and you can truly taste the splendor of humanity at its greatest perfection, with limitless optimism and unending joy. And don’t just take my word for it - ask Natalie Portman.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
In Praise of Duct Tape
Once, when I was a stupid kid, I had no respect for duct tape. I was hardly introduced to its prowess before my freshman year of college and even then, I made fun of my roommate, Cracker, for using it to construct a crude cabinet system out of cardboard and abandoned pieces of particle board.
But soon, I came to see duct tape's value. That cabinet system held up, and although it was ugly, it got the job done.
I’ve retained exactly two things I learned in college; one, A-1 and tuna make for a good low-budget sandwich and two, duct tape is the bond that holds our fragile society together.
Soon, I found myself using the tape to better objects in everyday life.
I've always carried around a folder in which I keep all the tools that help me as a journalist - phone numbers, notes, pencil and such - but whenever the folder started to deteriorate because of the rugged use, I always had to buy another.
But not so with the folder I received as a birthday present in 1997. Three months after I started using the folder, a rip opened up the middle of it. I sealed it with a smooth piece of the sturdy, metallic adhesive.
Other rips and tears sprouted up in the folder and I covered each one in turn. The folder was ugly, but the duct tape got the job done.
Now the folder is actually more duct tape than paper. Scientists estimate that my folder will be entirely composed of duct tape by the year 2012.
But recently, I realized that I've been using duct tape blindly all these years. I had absolutely no knowledge of who invented the stuff so I decided to find that answer myself with field research. I wasn't going to use fancy tools like "the Internet" or "encyclopedia books."
This is what I discovered: duct tape was invented by the great Dutch explorer Alexander VanDucTappen, who collected the ingredients from each of the Seven Seas in 1585, on the very same voyage in which he became famous for discovering Portugal and for taming the women of the Amazon.
The legend says that one stormy August night, the oceanic phenomenon which would later become known as "El Ni¤o," severely ravaged VanDucTappen's boat, causing a gaping hole in the side.
Amazingly, the ship didn't sink. But, VanDucTappen's crew who considered their captain an incompetent drunk, turned to mutiny because there was no way to fix the ship. But just as VanDucTappen was about to walk the plank, he pulled out a roll of his then-experimental roll of "DucTapp."
He could have easily used the tape to fix the boat and win back his crew's confidence, but VanDucTappen was a vengeful and foolish man who instead tried to use the tape roll as a bludgeon to beat up 30 angry sailors. Needless to say, VanDucTappen died that day. But before he went down, he made sure that his aggressors were sticky.
About VanDucTappen, well, I'm not even sure that he existed. It's just a story that I heard. Well, actually made up. But it really doesn't matter if the story is true or not. What matters is that we appreciate the magical adhesive concoction.
But soon, I came to see duct tape's value. That cabinet system held up, and although it was ugly, it got the job done.
I’ve retained exactly two things I learned in college; one, A-1 and tuna make for a good low-budget sandwich and two, duct tape is the bond that holds our fragile society together.
Soon, I found myself using the tape to better objects in everyday life.
I've always carried around a folder in which I keep all the tools that help me as a journalist - phone numbers, notes, pencil and such - but whenever the folder started to deteriorate because of the rugged use, I always had to buy another.
But not so with the folder I received as a birthday present in 1997. Three months after I started using the folder, a rip opened up the middle of it. I sealed it with a smooth piece of the sturdy, metallic adhesive.
Other rips and tears sprouted up in the folder and I covered each one in turn. The folder was ugly, but the duct tape got the job done.
Now the folder is actually more duct tape than paper. Scientists estimate that my folder will be entirely composed of duct tape by the year 2012.
But recently, I realized that I've been using duct tape blindly all these years. I had absolutely no knowledge of who invented the stuff so I decided to find that answer myself with field research. I wasn't going to use fancy tools like "the Internet" or "encyclopedia books."
This is what I discovered: duct tape was invented by the great Dutch explorer Alexander VanDucTappen, who collected the ingredients from each of the Seven Seas in 1585, on the very same voyage in which he became famous for discovering Portugal and for taming the women of the Amazon.
The legend says that one stormy August night, the oceanic phenomenon which would later become known as "El Ni¤o," severely ravaged VanDucTappen's boat, causing a gaping hole in the side.
Amazingly, the ship didn't sink. But, VanDucTappen's crew who considered their captain an incompetent drunk, turned to mutiny because there was no way to fix the ship. But just as VanDucTappen was about to walk the plank, he pulled out a roll of his then-experimental roll of "DucTapp."
He could have easily used the tape to fix the boat and win back his crew's confidence, but VanDucTappen was a vengeful and foolish man who instead tried to use the tape roll as a bludgeon to beat up 30 angry sailors. Needless to say, VanDucTappen died that day. But before he went down, he made sure that his aggressors were sticky.
About VanDucTappen, well, I'm not even sure that he existed. It's just a story that I heard. Well, actually made up. But it really doesn't matter if the story is true or not. What matters is that we appreciate the magical adhesive concoction.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Screw you, Amazon and Publish America
Don't bother trying to buy my book on Amazon.com anymore. The bungholes no longer sell it or anything else from Publish America, a pseudo self-publisher that prints authors' books on demand for free and gives them a tiny cut of the proceeds. In theory Publish America was a nice option for people like me, who couldn't break down the doors of the publishing mafia but still wanted to make a go of their project without having to plop down thousands of dollars with a true self-publisher.
This really sucks for me, because the opportunity to sell the book on Amazon was the main reason I stopped trying to shop it around and went with Publish America. I think this development violates the spirit, if not the letter (although it hopefully does violate the letter - I need to check) of the agreement. Publish America, which makes most of its money by having writers buy their own stuff in hopes of reselling it, makes you sign on for a seven-year contract.
Both greed-mongering parties are definitely at fault in this mix-up, but I place more of the blame on Publish America. Amazon is the big dog in the yard and can dictate its own terms.
At least "Stormin' Mormon" is still for sale at Barnes & Noble.
This really sucks for me, because the opportunity to sell the book on Amazon was the main reason I stopped trying to shop it around and went with Publish America. I think this development violates the spirit, if not the letter (although it hopefully does violate the letter - I need to check) of the agreement. Publish America, which makes most of its money by having writers buy their own stuff in hopes of reselling it, makes you sign on for a seven-year contract.
Both greed-mongering parties are definitely at fault in this mix-up, but I place more of the blame on Publish America. Amazon is the big dog in the yard and can dictate its own terms.
At least "Stormin' Mormon" is still for sale at Barnes & Noble.
Monday, March 31, 2008
CSI Caramba
Andy Warhol said a long time ago that in the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes. He was almost right, but I’d like to amend the prediction to something more likely: Within the next 15 years, every place, thing and person in existence will have their own TV show. And that TV show will be a spinoff of either “CSI” or “Law and Order.”
That’s because “CSI” and “Law and Order” are locked in an ever-escalating arms race to develop more, more, more, more and even more spinoffs. The battle between the franchises could prove deadlier than the last arms race, the Cold War, because there is more money behind it and the effects could be deadlier. I have another prediction, in fact: In the future, “Red Dawn” will be remade as a flick about network executives, not commies, conquering a small lakeside town while a ragtag band led by Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen will fight them off. Bad TV is much scarier than Soviets with machine guns. “Amish in the City” proved that much.
Do you think I’m kidding about this? Take a look at your TV guide and you’ll notice that there are approximately 75 “CSIs” this year on the CBS schedule. “CSI: New York,” starring Lieutenant Dan, is getting all the press, but there are now “CSIs” of every state capital and for half of the second biggest cities in each state. Tucson got passed over, because everyone in Hollywood hates Tucson, but look for “CSI: Casa Grande” in the midnight-1 a.m. Wednesday slot. That one will be about Casa Grande’s one cop, a Central Arizona Community College dropout who hides in the bushes in the Interstate 10 median and pulls over people driving 7 miles over the speed limit.
Not to be outdone, “Law and Order” retaliated by making 72 new spinoffs, jacking its total number of shows to 76. One of the most interesting looks to be “Law and Order: America’s Funniest Home Videos,” featuring Bob Sagat hosting an hourlong series of comedic shorts in which various people get hit in the nuts… Illegally! I’m not quite as excited for “Law and Order: Mayberry,” which takes the lazy route and inserts the likeness of Screech into old episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show.” I hear they’re making poor Opie into Screech’s assistant. Ron Howard never saw it coming.
The “CSI” pimpmasters have got it easier, because all they have to do is take a new city, slap it with a group of lackey detectives and haul in another fading actor from the unemployment line. Zap2it.com reports that the guy who played Alan on “Punky Brewster” is starring in “CSI: Minneapolis/St. Paul.” He was going for “CSI: Salt Lake City,” but got beaten out in the audition by Fred Savage.
“Law and Order,” meanwhile, tries to think of entirely new concepts for each new show. “Law and Order: Criminal Intent” looks at things from the criminal’s perspective, and “Law and Order: Special Victim’s Unit” looks at things from the perspective of special victims and the units that help them, but I just don’t get “Law and Order: Eye of the Fly,” which shows crimes unfolding through the eyes of a housefly. I tried to watch a few episodes, but the camera moved around too much and the buzzing sound was distracting. Plus, I think it’s a little illogical that a fly would be interested in a house robbery. Bread crumbs and dog poop hold more appeal.
The “Law and Orders” are getting so out of hand, that they even offered me a show based on my life, “Law and Order: Sitting on Your Ass and Watching Football,” which has me thinking they’re running low on ideas, since sitting on your ass and watching football has little to nothing to do with crime. I was flattered but had to decline the offer anyway because “CSI: Santa Fe” offered me the part after Gary Coleman turned them down.
That’s because “CSI” and “Law and Order” are locked in an ever-escalating arms race to develop more, more, more, more and even more spinoffs. The battle between the franchises could prove deadlier than the last arms race, the Cold War, because there is more money behind it and the effects could be deadlier. I have another prediction, in fact: In the future, “Red Dawn” will be remade as a flick about network executives, not commies, conquering a small lakeside town while a ragtag band led by Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen will fight them off. Bad TV is much scarier than Soviets with machine guns. “Amish in the City” proved that much.
Do you think I’m kidding about this? Take a look at your TV guide and you’ll notice that there are approximately 75 “CSIs” this year on the CBS schedule. “CSI: New York,” starring Lieutenant Dan, is getting all the press, but there are now “CSIs” of every state capital and for half of the second biggest cities in each state. Tucson got passed over, because everyone in Hollywood hates Tucson, but look for “CSI: Casa Grande” in the midnight-1 a.m. Wednesday slot. That one will be about Casa Grande’s one cop, a Central Arizona Community College dropout who hides in the bushes in the Interstate 10 median and pulls over people driving 7 miles over the speed limit.
Not to be outdone, “Law and Order” retaliated by making 72 new spinoffs, jacking its total number of shows to 76. One of the most interesting looks to be “Law and Order: America’s Funniest Home Videos,” featuring Bob Sagat hosting an hourlong series of comedic shorts in which various people get hit in the nuts… Illegally! I’m not quite as excited for “Law and Order: Mayberry,” which takes the lazy route and inserts the likeness of Screech into old episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show.” I hear they’re making poor Opie into Screech’s assistant. Ron Howard never saw it coming.
The “CSI” pimpmasters have got it easier, because all they have to do is take a new city, slap it with a group of lackey detectives and haul in another fading actor from the unemployment line. Zap2it.com reports that the guy who played Alan on “Punky Brewster” is starring in “CSI: Minneapolis/St. Paul.” He was going for “CSI: Salt Lake City,” but got beaten out in the audition by Fred Savage.
“Law and Order,” meanwhile, tries to think of entirely new concepts for each new show. “Law and Order: Criminal Intent” looks at things from the criminal’s perspective, and “Law and Order: Special Victim’s Unit” looks at things from the perspective of special victims and the units that help them, but I just don’t get “Law and Order: Eye of the Fly,” which shows crimes unfolding through the eyes of a housefly. I tried to watch a few episodes, but the camera moved around too much and the buzzing sound was distracting. Plus, I think it’s a little illogical that a fly would be interested in a house robbery. Bread crumbs and dog poop hold more appeal.
The “Law and Orders” are getting so out of hand, that they even offered me a show based on my life, “Law and Order: Sitting on Your Ass and Watching Football,” which has me thinking they’re running low on ideas, since sitting on your ass and watching football has little to nothing to do with crime. I was flattered but had to decline the offer anyway because “CSI: Santa Fe” offered me the part after Gary Coleman turned them down.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Video game characters - hot or not?
These video game sex objects dominate my dreams. Go ahead and Google ‘em if you don’t know who I’m talking about. There should be pix of all of them online except for Janet. To see Janet, you’ll have to play Tecmo Bowl. Anyway, let’s begin:
LARA CROFT (6.5/10)
Breast size is overrated, and Lara proves that in spades. Her shirt is way too tight. She’s lucky she doesn’t cut off her circulation. Lara propogates the stereotype that women should have 58-21-36 figures and be only interested in activities such as stealing and shooting. I find this deplorable. Also, she’s such a poser on the swimming levels when the camera zooms in on her ass. Lara, you try too hard. I respect women too much to indulge in this walking stereotype. I’d still bang her, though.
SAMUS ARAN (7/10)
Well, she masquerades a dude in the Metroid, which normally would be a strike against her, but she makes up for it at the end of the game by stripping off her armor into sluttier and stluttier outfits, depending on how quick you beat the game. I still hold on to the big rumor of Mrs. Hernandez’s third-grade class, circa 1986, that it’s possible to get her naked if you really, really kick the game’s ass.
PRINCESS TOADSTOOL (8/10)
I don’t get why she changed her name to “Peach” for Mario Golf and Mario Tennis. Maybe it was to get away from that stalker, Luigi. Funny, though, Bowser always seems to know where she lives so he can go in and “kidnap” her. Yeah, kidnap is in quotes because I don’t buy it. I think it’s all some sort of kinky three-way role playing thing that Bowser, Toadstool and Mario are all into. That kind of thing is too wild for me.
ZELDA (9/10)
Speaking of three-way role playing kidnap complexes, Zelda is an even more textbook example. I think she may be into chicks, too, because Link is such an effeminate, gown-wearing, non-sexual hero that you wonder if his “Magic Sword” actually works. Ganon has no such problem, obviously, which is why Zelda lets herself be captured and turned to stone by him every single game. This girl will do ANYTHING for Ganon’s dong. Remember back in Zelda II, when Zelda was asleep the whole time while Link went around and did all the bitchwork in that impossible-to-pass game? The instruction booklet said she was asleep because of a “magic spell,” which is a nice way of telling 10 year olds that she took such a thorough dicking from Ganon that she couldn’t even wake up for hours.
JANET (8.5/10)
Janet is the name I came up with for the cheerleader from the slide show for the original Tecmo Bowl. Janet leaps high in the air – so high, her skirt flips up. She’s on the screen for no more than two seconds, and then the slide show flips to the marching band and whatnot. Janet’s sense of mystery intrigues me. I think she’s a junior college student working her way for school with a part-time job cheering for fictional pro football teams. She has a lot to cheer for, too. Walter Payton is hella fast in that game.
MS. PAC-MAN (10/10)
Smooth yellow skin, a hot bow in the hair and an oral affixiation. What more could you possibly ask from a video game character girlfriend? Plus, she’s got that sense of mystery going with the “Ms.” thing. Is she married? Single? Who knows? You get the feeling that she’s a freak underneath the sheets, though. She definitely likes to get tag-teamed by ghosts in the maze.
LARA CROFT (6.5/10)
Breast size is overrated, and Lara proves that in spades. Her shirt is way too tight. She’s lucky she doesn’t cut off her circulation. Lara propogates the stereotype that women should have 58-21-36 figures and be only interested in activities such as stealing and shooting. I find this deplorable. Also, she’s such a poser on the swimming levels when the camera zooms in on her ass. Lara, you try too hard. I respect women too much to indulge in this walking stereotype. I’d still bang her, though.
SAMUS ARAN (7/10)
Well, she masquerades a dude in the Metroid, which normally would be a strike against her, but she makes up for it at the end of the game by stripping off her armor into sluttier and stluttier outfits, depending on how quick you beat the game. I still hold on to the big rumor of Mrs. Hernandez’s third-grade class, circa 1986, that it’s possible to get her naked if you really, really kick the game’s ass.
PRINCESS TOADSTOOL (8/10)
I don’t get why she changed her name to “Peach” for Mario Golf and Mario Tennis. Maybe it was to get away from that stalker, Luigi. Funny, though, Bowser always seems to know where she lives so he can go in and “kidnap” her. Yeah, kidnap is in quotes because I don’t buy it. I think it’s all some sort of kinky three-way role playing thing that Bowser, Toadstool and Mario are all into. That kind of thing is too wild for me.
ZELDA (9/10)
Speaking of three-way role playing kidnap complexes, Zelda is an even more textbook example. I think she may be into chicks, too, because Link is such an effeminate, gown-wearing, non-sexual hero that you wonder if his “Magic Sword” actually works. Ganon has no such problem, obviously, which is why Zelda lets herself be captured and turned to stone by him every single game. This girl will do ANYTHING for Ganon’s dong. Remember back in Zelda II, when Zelda was asleep the whole time while Link went around and did all the bitchwork in that impossible-to-pass game? The instruction booklet said she was asleep because of a “magic spell,” which is a nice way of telling 10 year olds that she took such a thorough dicking from Ganon that she couldn’t even wake up for hours.
JANET (8.5/10)
Janet is the name I came up with for the cheerleader from the slide show for the original Tecmo Bowl. Janet leaps high in the air – so high, her skirt flips up. She’s on the screen for no more than two seconds, and then the slide show flips to the marching band and whatnot. Janet’s sense of mystery intrigues me. I think she’s a junior college student working her way for school with a part-time job cheering for fictional pro football teams. She has a lot to cheer for, too. Walter Payton is hella fast in that game.
MS. PAC-MAN (10/10)
Smooth yellow skin, a hot bow in the hair and an oral affixiation. What more could you possibly ask from a video game character girlfriend? Plus, she’s got that sense of mystery going with the “Ms.” thing. Is she married? Single? Who knows? You get the feeling that she’s a freak underneath the sheets, though. She definitely likes to get tag-teamed by ghosts in the maze.
Monday, March 24, 2008
When in Vegas...
Resist the urge to hydrate yourself by avoiding the $6 bottled water and continuously drinking and refilling a Dixie Cup with water from the bathroom sink. It's a good way to catch a cold. It never occured to me that peoples' hands touch the tops of faucets. Not until I got home and realized my bathroom sink water tasted like toothpaste. I'm lucky I was only stuck with a cold, and not gonorrhea.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Everything is a pagan symbol
Fie upon you, pagan! Don’t look to your left or right – you’re the only one looking at the screen right now, and it’s you I’m accusing of being a wretched pagan. You read right. Although you may have always thought of yourself as a Protestant, Jew or Catholic, you’ve always really, if unknowingly, been a pagan. If all the illuminated research and factoids in “The Da Vinci Code” didn’t convince you of that much, I’m here to drive the point through even further.
Dan Brown’s novel and the movie that followed taught us that Easter, thought to be the holiday in which Christians celebrate the risen Messiah, is nothing more than a mutated pagan fertility festival, named after the goddess Ishtar. The date of the holiday was set by Constantine back during… hold on a second.
Divine feminine, divine feminine, divine feminine, divine feminine.
Sorry. That last sentence may not have made much sense, but I was required to write it do to the requirement of pagan symbology research code writings that says you must use the phrase “divine feminine” at least five times per page. I’m still missing one, but I thought five in a row would have been a little much, so bear with me and I’ll try to get one more in before we’re done here.
Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Not only is Easter a pagan holiday because of the Ishtar connection, but because of the influence of Celtic Slime God Cadburikkan, who each year would call for a great sacrifice of oblong, chocolate flavored treats with a gooey center. You’ve heard of Cadbury Eggs, right? To eat one is to intake a dark pagan sacrament into your twisted soul. The candilicious marshmallow treat known as “Peeps” carries a similarly checkered past. You see, after Cadburikkan would eat his Cadbury Eggs, he’d defile 72 virgins. And after the virgins he’d lay down some tracks – Cadburikkan was a hella mixmaster back in the day - and give shout outs, grabbing the mic to say, “Yo, what up to my peeps!” In other words, eat a peep and you’re breaking a commandment by taking a shoutout from a false idol.
Jewish people are pagans too, a fact well documented in the Da Vinci Code. See, the Star of David is actually made up of two interlocking chalice symbols, indicating not one, but TWO divine feminines (Yes! There’s No. 5!!) in one DOUBLY pagan symbol. But what Dan Brown left out was that Mosaic law is based entirely on pagan principals. See, Moses screwed up by breaking that tablet on which the 10 commandments were chiseled. Had he simply turned it over and red the back, he would have noticed a message that read “Psyche!” followed by a symbol of Loki the mischief maker, whom watchers of the old cartoon show, “She-Ra The Princess of Power” will be familiar with. Hey, shut up. I had two little sisters and they made me watch it. Plus He-Man showed up in the episodes, and… ah, forget it. I admit it, I liked “She-Ra.”
And just in case you’re one of those smug atheists who think religion doesn’t apply to you, I’ve got some bad news for ya. Yep, you’re pagan too. See, the word “Athe” is derived from Atheogonon, Roman god of the biannual brown rice crop. The ancient myth held that Atheogonon once was so bold as to question both the divinity and sexual prowess of Thor. (This was odd, since Roman gods rarely communicated with Norse figures, but this myth happened in what was called a “crossover” and would later be co-opted by Marvel Comics). Anyway, Thor borrowed Neptune’s pitchfork and, using strictly mental telepathy, jammed it forcefully up Atheogonon’s anus for all eternity, thereby proving his divinity and sexual prowess to Atheogonon on a perpetual basis. (This action was commemorated by a constellation known as “the big dipper.”) So guess what, every time you say “I’m an atheist,” you’re really saying you’re worshipping a petulant grain god who’s STILL getting pitchforked in the ass, even as we speak. And I don’t wanna hear any sass from you, either agnostics. Sad to break it to you, but “agnostic” is just an abbreviation of “Atheogonon’s anus.”
Dan Brown’s novel and the movie that followed taught us that Easter, thought to be the holiday in which Christians celebrate the risen Messiah, is nothing more than a mutated pagan fertility festival, named after the goddess Ishtar. The date of the holiday was set by Constantine back during… hold on a second.
Divine feminine, divine feminine, divine feminine, divine feminine.
Sorry. That last sentence may not have made much sense, but I was required to write it do to the requirement of pagan symbology research code writings that says you must use the phrase “divine feminine” at least five times per page. I’m still missing one, but I thought five in a row would have been a little much, so bear with me and I’ll try to get one more in before we’re done here.
Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Not only is Easter a pagan holiday because of the Ishtar connection, but because of the influence of Celtic Slime God Cadburikkan, who each year would call for a great sacrifice of oblong, chocolate flavored treats with a gooey center. You’ve heard of Cadbury Eggs, right? To eat one is to intake a dark pagan sacrament into your twisted soul. The candilicious marshmallow treat known as “Peeps” carries a similarly checkered past. You see, after Cadburikkan would eat his Cadbury Eggs, he’d defile 72 virgins. And after the virgins he’d lay down some tracks – Cadburikkan was a hella mixmaster back in the day - and give shout outs, grabbing the mic to say, “Yo, what up to my peeps!” In other words, eat a peep and you’re breaking a commandment by taking a shoutout from a false idol.
Jewish people are pagans too, a fact well documented in the Da Vinci Code. See, the Star of David is actually made up of two interlocking chalice symbols, indicating not one, but TWO divine feminines (Yes! There’s No. 5!!) in one DOUBLY pagan symbol. But what Dan Brown left out was that Mosaic law is based entirely on pagan principals. See, Moses screwed up by breaking that tablet on which the 10 commandments were chiseled. Had he simply turned it over and red the back, he would have noticed a message that read “Psyche!” followed by a symbol of Loki the mischief maker, whom watchers of the old cartoon show, “She-Ra The Princess of Power” will be familiar with. Hey, shut up. I had two little sisters and they made me watch it. Plus He-Man showed up in the episodes, and… ah, forget it. I admit it, I liked “She-Ra.”
And just in case you’re one of those smug atheists who think religion doesn’t apply to you, I’ve got some bad news for ya. Yep, you’re pagan too. See, the word “Athe” is derived from Atheogonon, Roman god of the biannual brown rice crop. The ancient myth held that Atheogonon once was so bold as to question both the divinity and sexual prowess of Thor. (This was odd, since Roman gods rarely communicated with Norse figures, but this myth happened in what was called a “crossover” and would later be co-opted by Marvel Comics). Anyway, Thor borrowed Neptune’s pitchfork and, using strictly mental telepathy, jammed it forcefully up Atheogonon’s anus for all eternity, thereby proving his divinity and sexual prowess to Atheogonon on a perpetual basis. (This action was commemorated by a constellation known as “the big dipper.”) So guess what, every time you say “I’m an atheist,” you’re really saying you’re worshipping a petulant grain god who’s STILL getting pitchforked in the ass, even as we speak. And I don’t wanna hear any sass from you, either agnostics. Sad to break it to you, but “agnostic” is just an abbreviation of “Atheogonon’s anus.”
Monday, March 17, 2008
My Money's on the Monkey
Sometimes I wonder who would win a fight between a giraffe and a monkey. You may scoff at such a suggestion, noting that a giraffe would surely emerge victorious because of its long neck, which puts its face far out of reach of the little monkey fists, rendering it tough to knock the giraffe unconscious with blows to the head. Plus, a giraffe could easily stomp on the monkey’s tail with one of its four legs, pinning the primate in place while kicking it in the face with one of its free legs.
All points are well taken. But you can’t discount the monkey’s intelligence and fierce resolve. They’re resilient little buggers, and I once saw a movie where a monkey kicked field goals for a football team. It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to substitute giraffe testicles in place of the flying footballs. If an overconfident giraffe ever let its guard down and left the monkey unattended after giving it a solid beating, I’d give 2-to-1 that the underestimated monkey would scamper up the leg of its opponent and deliver a swift kick to the boys. And with fights, momentum is everything, so the monkey would probably follow the kick with a few bites, fist-pounds and banana throws, and before you know it, there’s the upset of the century – Monkey standing “EEEK-EEK-EEEK! OOK-OOK-OOK!” - victorious over the dazed, droopy-necked giraffe, its tongue hanging out of the mouth in a defeated stupor.
As we all learned from “Rocky III,” though, there’s always a younger and hungrier fighter waiting in the wings. So even as the monkey would be relishing its championship, rolling in endorsement offers, doing Letterman and Leno and whatnot, you can bet that there would be a fierce contender scouting out the monkey’s title defenses against the garter snake and the platypus – both pushover opponents handpicked by an overprotective manager – and that prospective rival would be a kangaroo. And not that wimpy, crybaby kangaroo from that ignorant costumed Winnie the Pooh show the Disney Channel used to have on in the 80s. No, one of those kangaroos with boxing gloves you see in those 1930s film clips. They got skills. I think one of them beat Joe Louis one time. Not that Joe Louis was the greatest fighter ever. I mean, he was good, I’m sure, but he always gets so much credit by beating that one Nazi that time back in the day. Indiana Jones, on the other hand, gets nowhere near the amount of props, and he not only beats up but kills about 700 Nazis per movie.
But back to the subject at hand – monkey vs. kangaroo, cage match, no holds barred. Who wins? Well, call me biased, but I think I’d have to take the monkey again. Sure, the kangaroo would get a few shots in, maybe even break the monkey’s nose and open up a cut or two. But I’m seeing the monkey getting knocked down over and over again, but always getting up and ready for some more beatings. The tired kangaroo would look on in growing fear, possibly commenting that its opponent “is not a monkey, but a piece of iron.” See, what the kangaroo lacks is a little something called heart. Elbow grease. Gumption.
Endurance. While the kangaroo was hopping around in the field, confident in its punching abilities, the monkey was running on the beach with Apollo Creed, doing one armed-push-ups and plowing snow while being stalked by the KGB in Siberia. The monkey did this knowing full well that even though the kangaroo is a better fighter than he is, he’ll eventually tire out. And sure enough, in their battle, the monkey would come out in the 15th round and lay out the wobbly-legged bounder, proudly screaming, “EEEK-AAAK-OOK-UUUUK!” which roughly translates to “Yo, Adrienne, I banana poop throw!”
Come on, I never said the little dynamo was articulate.
Of course, all this is heresay and conjecture. The sad truth is that I’ll never see a monkey fight anything other than its urge to masturbate in its zoo cage. Monkeys will never take on giraffes, let alone kangaroos. I lack the fight promoter capabilities to set up such a matchup, so I’m simply left, like the rest of us, to imagine such a battle royale spectacular.
All points are well taken. But you can’t discount the monkey’s intelligence and fierce resolve. They’re resilient little buggers, and I once saw a movie where a monkey kicked field goals for a football team. It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to substitute giraffe testicles in place of the flying footballs. If an overconfident giraffe ever let its guard down and left the monkey unattended after giving it a solid beating, I’d give 2-to-1 that the underestimated monkey would scamper up the leg of its opponent and deliver a swift kick to the boys. And with fights, momentum is everything, so the monkey would probably follow the kick with a few bites, fist-pounds and banana throws, and before you know it, there’s the upset of the century – Monkey standing “EEEK-EEK-EEEK! OOK-OOK-OOK!” - victorious over the dazed, droopy-necked giraffe, its tongue hanging out of the mouth in a defeated stupor.
As we all learned from “Rocky III,” though, there’s always a younger and hungrier fighter waiting in the wings. So even as the monkey would be relishing its championship, rolling in endorsement offers, doing Letterman and Leno and whatnot, you can bet that there would be a fierce contender scouting out the monkey’s title defenses against the garter snake and the platypus – both pushover opponents handpicked by an overprotective manager – and that prospective rival would be a kangaroo. And not that wimpy, crybaby kangaroo from that ignorant costumed Winnie the Pooh show the Disney Channel used to have on in the 80s. No, one of those kangaroos with boxing gloves you see in those 1930s film clips. They got skills. I think one of them beat Joe Louis one time. Not that Joe Louis was the greatest fighter ever. I mean, he was good, I’m sure, but he always gets so much credit by beating that one Nazi that time back in the day. Indiana Jones, on the other hand, gets nowhere near the amount of props, and he not only beats up but kills about 700 Nazis per movie.
But back to the subject at hand – monkey vs. kangaroo, cage match, no holds barred. Who wins? Well, call me biased, but I think I’d have to take the monkey again. Sure, the kangaroo would get a few shots in, maybe even break the monkey’s nose and open up a cut or two. But I’m seeing the monkey getting knocked down over and over again, but always getting up and ready for some more beatings. The tired kangaroo would look on in growing fear, possibly commenting that its opponent “is not a monkey, but a piece of iron.” See, what the kangaroo lacks is a little something called heart. Elbow grease. Gumption.
Endurance. While the kangaroo was hopping around in the field, confident in its punching abilities, the monkey was running on the beach with Apollo Creed, doing one armed-push-ups and plowing snow while being stalked by the KGB in Siberia. The monkey did this knowing full well that even though the kangaroo is a better fighter than he is, he’ll eventually tire out. And sure enough, in their battle, the monkey would come out in the 15th round and lay out the wobbly-legged bounder, proudly screaming, “EEEK-AAAK-OOK-UUUUK!” which roughly translates to “Yo, Adrienne, I banana poop throw!”
Come on, I never said the little dynamo was articulate.
Of course, all this is heresay and conjecture. The sad truth is that I’ll never see a monkey fight anything other than its urge to masturbate in its zoo cage. Monkeys will never take on giraffes, let alone kangaroos. I lack the fight promoter capabilities to set up such a matchup, so I’m simply left, like the rest of us, to imagine such a battle royale spectacular.
Friday, March 14, 2008
The Oddpodz interview
I took part in a quickie e-mail interview with Oddpodz this week:
Phil Villarreal is a writer.
Oddpodz: You write the blog Because I Told You So. You subtitled it “Free Porn” despite it having no porn. Besides disappointing me, what a genius SEO decision that is; can I steal it?
Phil: I was hoping to pull in some random hits from Google searches of “free porn,” so the acronym “Pretty Orignal Rants ‘Nstuff came naturally. Rather than stealing it I suggest you think of an acronym for “PARIS HILTON NAKED.”
Oddpodz: Is your novel Stormin’ Mormon about Mitt Romney?
Phil: No, it’s not. But I’m hoping McCain picks Romney as his VP running mate so as to reignite interest in Mormon culture, creating some spillover interest in my novel, which is a comedy about would-be lovers who pretend to be Mormon in order to get their significant others to break up with them. I’m also hoping Romney someday responds to my Myspace friend request.
Oddpodz: Your bio says you’re a movie and video games critic at the Arizona Daily Star in Tucson. No, really, what do you do?
Phil: It sounds almost too good to be true, right? Like Playboy photographer or backup NFL quarterback. But it’s been the truth now for seven years running.
Thanks Phil.
Phil Villarreal is a writer.
Oddpodz: You write the blog Because I Told You So. You subtitled it “Free Porn” despite it having no porn. Besides disappointing me, what a genius SEO decision that is; can I steal it?
Phil: I was hoping to pull in some random hits from Google searches of “free porn,” so the acronym “Pretty Orignal Rants ‘Nstuff came naturally. Rather than stealing it I suggest you think of an acronym for “PARIS HILTON NAKED.”
Oddpodz: Is your novel Stormin’ Mormon about Mitt Romney?
Phil: No, it’s not. But I’m hoping McCain picks Romney as his VP running mate so as to reignite interest in Mormon culture, creating some spillover interest in my novel, which is a comedy about would-be lovers who pretend to be Mormon in order to get their significant others to break up with them. I’m also hoping Romney someday responds to my Myspace friend request.
Oddpodz: Your bio says you’re a movie and video games critic at the Arizona Daily Star in Tucson. No, really, what do you do?
Phil: It sounds almost too good to be true, right? Like Playboy photographer or backup NFL quarterback. But it’s been the truth now for seven years running.
Thanks Phil.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
What I hate about DVR
I love DVR. Love it. Prevents me from having to suffer through my wife's shows, "American Idol" or "Lipstick Jungle." But what I hate about it is how some people use it for sports. I know several fools who wait until games are over just so they can watch them really quickly. Something important will happen and I'll call them, only to be told not to say anything that's happened in the game because they're recording it for later.
Only for something as redudant and meaningless as baseball would something like that be OK., But for anything important, such as the NFL or college basketball, the practice is absolutely insane. It's like saving all your newspapers during World War II and waiting until it's over to read them all and find out who won and how it happened.
Only for something as redudant and meaningless as baseball would something like that be OK., But for anything important, such as the NFL or college basketball, the practice is absolutely insane. It's like saving all your newspapers during World War II and waiting until it's over to read them all and find out who won and how it happened.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Corality
Coral is the natural enemy of man. Yeah, yeah, go ahead and scoff at the statement. Be a disbeliever. But it's true and you know it deep down inside. Coral hates you, you hate coral, and one of you has got to go down.
How, you may ask, could a kaleidescopic, inanimate calcified structure slowly built by microbes over the millenia on the sea floor possibly pose a threat to humans in all their mastery? What, you don't know? That's because you're an irresponsible idiot who doesn't think things through. Let me present you with some evidence:
1. Long John Silver's - Do you see any coral on the menu? Nope. Coral is the one sea creature we have failed to be able to fry, butter and serve in a combo platter. Coral is more likely to eat you than you are to eat coral. One time I heard this coral say that his favorite food was popcorn humans. Serious.
2. Sea World - Do you see coral jumping through flaming hoops or bouncing balls for our entertainment? Nuh-uh. Coral is too smart to do that. It sits at the bottom of the sea chuckling while so-called intelligent dolphins and sea otters degrade themselves for drooling hicks from Minnesota and their nose-picking 9-year-olds. Coral can never be made a foolish slave.
3. Stoicism - While insecure humans feel the need to scamper about, inventing this, studying that, trying to impress everyone, coral just sits there smugly thinking, "I know I'm a badass. I have nothing to prove." And then it cops feels on hot scuba diver chicks who try to get a look at nearby sea turtles.
4. Fighting ability. Ever hear of rope-a-dope? Muhammad Ali copied the technique from coral. Seriously. Try to box coral, and it will take your punches for five, six rounds, tiring you out, biding its time, making you think it ain't got nothing left. And then comes a roundhouse jawbreaker to knock you the fuck out. Whoops, I said fuck, without deleting the vowels even though in the that’s what Newsweek does to make it OK for kids to read it without getting their minds warped. Well, reader, if you do happen to be a kid, it's high time you learned. Sometimes people say fuck, and sometimes coral is looking to whip your ass. Tread fearfully, for the dangers of the deep are deadly, little one.
How, you may ask, could a kaleidescopic, inanimate calcified structure slowly built by microbes over the millenia on the sea floor possibly pose a threat to humans in all their mastery? What, you don't know? That's because you're an irresponsible idiot who doesn't think things through. Let me present you with some evidence:
1. Long John Silver's - Do you see any coral on the menu? Nope. Coral is the one sea creature we have failed to be able to fry, butter and serve in a combo platter. Coral is more likely to eat you than you are to eat coral. One time I heard this coral say that his favorite food was popcorn humans. Serious.
2. Sea World - Do you see coral jumping through flaming hoops or bouncing balls for our entertainment? Nuh-uh. Coral is too smart to do that. It sits at the bottom of the sea chuckling while so-called intelligent dolphins and sea otters degrade themselves for drooling hicks from Minnesota and their nose-picking 9-year-olds. Coral can never be made a foolish slave.
3. Stoicism - While insecure humans feel the need to scamper about, inventing this, studying that, trying to impress everyone, coral just sits there smugly thinking, "I know I'm a badass. I have nothing to prove." And then it cops feels on hot scuba diver chicks who try to get a look at nearby sea turtles.
4. Fighting ability. Ever hear of rope-a-dope? Muhammad Ali copied the technique from coral. Seriously. Try to box coral, and it will take your punches for five, six rounds, tiring you out, biding its time, making you think it ain't got nothing left. And then comes a roundhouse jawbreaker to knock you the fuck out. Whoops, I said fuck, without deleting the vowels even though in the that’s what Newsweek does to make it OK for kids to read it without getting their minds warped. Well, reader, if you do happen to be a kid, it's high time you learned. Sometimes people say fuck, and sometimes coral is looking to whip your ass. Tread fearfully, for the dangers of the deep are deadly, little one.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Rainbow Cuddlefluff Finds a Friend
It was a bright, peaceful day at Doily Meadows, a sweet-smelling, happy corner of Cloud Cove, nestled in the foothills of the Sugardove Mountains. Cloud Cove was home to a society of cheerful koala bears, who all loved one another very much.
Rainbow Cuddlefluff, the nicest and cutest of all the koalas of Cloud Cove, scribbled in her koala diary before she went out to handle the days errands, which included sliding down grassy embankments, frolicking with butterflies and flying kites in the cool, refreshing Joyfun Breeze, a tradewind that made Cloud Cove even nicer and friendlier than it would have otherwise been.
“Dear Koala Diary,” Rainbow wrote, “Today will be another beautiful, fantastic adventure for me, Rainbow Cuddlefluff. I hope I’ll make new friends and enjoy life to the fullest, as I always do. Yesterday Pumpernickel and I agreed to meet over by the Lake Sunshine after my errands, and I’m ever so excited!”
Pumpernickel, the girl koala who lived next door, was Rainbow’s very best friend. They had liked one another as long as they could remember. Going back to the time they were puffy-eyed, furrball koala toddlers, they would often fall asleep on one another’s shoulders. Of all the love, acceptance and friendship in all of Cloud Cove, nothing came close to the mutual adoration between Pumpernickel and Rainbow Cuddlefluff.
With thoughts of her friend Pumpernickel on her mind, Rainbow went through her day as usual. She squeaked with delight as she slid down the grass, and clapped happily when two butterflies she knew well landed on her shoulders.
“Flowfun and Sonnet!” Rainbow exclaimed, addressing the butterflies by name. “How are you two doing today?”
“I’m afraid this is not a social visit,” said Flowfun, perched on Rainbow’s left shoulder. He did not appear as ebullient as usual. His colorful wings sagged, and he spoke with furrowed antennae. “Pumpernickel has gone missing!”
Perturbed, Rainbow turned her attention to Sonnet, who sat on her right shoulder with a look of sadness to match that of Flowfun.
“Sonnet, this is terrible news! I had planned on meeting Pumpernickel at Lake Sunshine this afternoon!”
“Aye, me lass,” said Sonnet, who for some reason no one quite knew spoke like a sea captain. “Ye wench has bo’ a mite o’ trouble. I fear ‘tis Davey Jones’ locker poor t’which Pumpernickel has found her way.”
“D- d- d- do you mean she might be hurt?” Rainbow inquired.
Without a word, Flowfun and Sonnet took to the skies, filling the air with their kaleidoscopic glory. Discouraged that her butterfly friends would be of little help in finding the whereabouts of Pumpernickel, Rainbow Cuddlefluff dropped to her knees in prayer.
“Oh, Prata,” she sayed, bowing in reverence to the fictional idol the koala worshipped. “Please oh please bring Pumpernickel back safely!”
Up in koala heaven, Prata heard Rainbow’s wishes. He looked upon her soul and found that since she was a good koala, who was kind and gentle, he would break his usual routine and answer her prayer directly. Prata appeared to Rainbow from behind a cloud of smoke.
“Hello, youngling” Prata bellowed as Rainbow cowered behind a few overgrown blades of grass in the field.
“Is that you, Prata?” Rainbow asked. “I, uh…”
“Silence, inferior!” Prata bellowed, pinning Rainbow to the ground with his psychokinetic powers. “Tis I, Prata, lord of all koala, doer of all things. I am aware of that which you ask. I can return this friend of yours to you, but first you must perform a task which I command.”
Rainbow brushed away the tall grass blades to look her master directly in the eye. It was an honor for Prata to address one of his koala minions face to face, and she was overcome with joy and happiness. Not only did she get to speak to her idol, he had told her he would bring back Pumpernickel.
“Yes, Prata,” Rainbow said, “I will do whatever you like. What shall I do? Sacrifice a bumblebee hive? Lay paws upon your highest throne in the Temple of Reverence?”
Prata replied with anger. “CHILDISH NONSENSE!!” he declared. “I will not tolerate such superstitious insolence, youngling. Here is what is to come. You will perform oral sex upon my golden scepter,” – Prata, being a pompous, self-referential idol, referred to his sex organ as the “golden scepter” – “and then if you please me I shall reunite you with your friend.”
Rainbow wasted no time in fulfilling Prata’s request, for nothing was too much to ask when Pumpernickel’s safety was on the line. She went to work on Prata, servicing Prata’s smokey golden scepter so feveredly that she nearly passed out. After 20 minutes or so, Prata tapped Rainbow Cuddlefluff atop her little head, signifying that he was satisfied.
Prata raised his left hand and in a shower of light, Pumpernickel appeared before Rainbow. She ran over to her friend and they hugged and rubbed noses with elation.
“HAHAHAHAHA,” Prata chuckled. “Rainbow Cuddlefluff, I have both tricked you and proven you a whore. I am beholden by the covenant of the koala, which binds me to undo all the evils I bestow on your kind. It was I who made Pumpernickel disappear, and to make her reappear all you needed to have done was recite the covenant chant – Prata, Prata, undo your unsavory deeds!”
Rainbow whispered something into Pumpernickel’s ear, and Rainbow and Pumpernickel chuckled together as Prata spoke. He asked them what was so funny.
“Oh, Prata!” Rainbow chuckled. “I know well my koala scrolls. And I have never claimed not to be a whore.”
Rainbow’s words struck true, for in a land of such love as Cloud Cove, there was a whole lot of sex going on – oral, anal, and other stuff you don’t wanna know about. Rainbow smiled full at Prata, revealing lips infected with koala herpes.
Rainbow Cuddlefluff, the nicest and cutest of all the koalas of Cloud Cove, scribbled in her koala diary before she went out to handle the days errands, which included sliding down grassy embankments, frolicking with butterflies and flying kites in the cool, refreshing Joyfun Breeze, a tradewind that made Cloud Cove even nicer and friendlier than it would have otherwise been.
“Dear Koala Diary,” Rainbow wrote, “Today will be another beautiful, fantastic adventure for me, Rainbow Cuddlefluff. I hope I’ll make new friends and enjoy life to the fullest, as I always do. Yesterday Pumpernickel and I agreed to meet over by the Lake Sunshine after my errands, and I’m ever so excited!”
Pumpernickel, the girl koala who lived next door, was Rainbow’s very best friend. They had liked one another as long as they could remember. Going back to the time they were puffy-eyed, furrball koala toddlers, they would often fall asleep on one another’s shoulders. Of all the love, acceptance and friendship in all of Cloud Cove, nothing came close to the mutual adoration between Pumpernickel and Rainbow Cuddlefluff.
With thoughts of her friend Pumpernickel on her mind, Rainbow went through her day as usual. She squeaked with delight as she slid down the grass, and clapped happily when two butterflies she knew well landed on her shoulders.
“Flowfun and Sonnet!” Rainbow exclaimed, addressing the butterflies by name. “How are you two doing today?”
“I’m afraid this is not a social visit,” said Flowfun, perched on Rainbow’s left shoulder. He did not appear as ebullient as usual. His colorful wings sagged, and he spoke with furrowed antennae. “Pumpernickel has gone missing!”
Perturbed, Rainbow turned her attention to Sonnet, who sat on her right shoulder with a look of sadness to match that of Flowfun.
“Sonnet, this is terrible news! I had planned on meeting Pumpernickel at Lake Sunshine this afternoon!”
“Aye, me lass,” said Sonnet, who for some reason no one quite knew spoke like a sea captain. “Ye wench has bo’ a mite o’ trouble. I fear ‘tis Davey Jones’ locker poor t’which Pumpernickel has found her way.”
“D- d- d- do you mean she might be hurt?” Rainbow inquired.
Without a word, Flowfun and Sonnet took to the skies, filling the air with their kaleidoscopic glory. Discouraged that her butterfly friends would be of little help in finding the whereabouts of Pumpernickel, Rainbow Cuddlefluff dropped to her knees in prayer.
“Oh, Prata,” she sayed, bowing in reverence to the fictional idol the koala worshipped. “Please oh please bring Pumpernickel back safely!”
Up in koala heaven, Prata heard Rainbow’s wishes. He looked upon her soul and found that since she was a good koala, who was kind and gentle, he would break his usual routine and answer her prayer directly. Prata appeared to Rainbow from behind a cloud of smoke.
“Hello, youngling” Prata bellowed as Rainbow cowered behind a few overgrown blades of grass in the field.
“Is that you, Prata?” Rainbow asked. “I, uh…”
“Silence, inferior!” Prata bellowed, pinning Rainbow to the ground with his psychokinetic powers. “Tis I, Prata, lord of all koala, doer of all things. I am aware of that which you ask. I can return this friend of yours to you, but first you must perform a task which I command.”
Rainbow brushed away the tall grass blades to look her master directly in the eye. It was an honor for Prata to address one of his koala minions face to face, and she was overcome with joy and happiness. Not only did she get to speak to her idol, he had told her he would bring back Pumpernickel.
“Yes, Prata,” Rainbow said, “I will do whatever you like. What shall I do? Sacrifice a bumblebee hive? Lay paws upon your highest throne in the Temple of Reverence?”
Prata replied with anger. “CHILDISH NONSENSE!!” he declared. “I will not tolerate such superstitious insolence, youngling. Here is what is to come. You will perform oral sex upon my golden scepter,” – Prata, being a pompous, self-referential idol, referred to his sex organ as the “golden scepter” – “and then if you please me I shall reunite you with your friend.”
Rainbow wasted no time in fulfilling Prata’s request, for nothing was too much to ask when Pumpernickel’s safety was on the line. She went to work on Prata, servicing Prata’s smokey golden scepter so feveredly that she nearly passed out. After 20 minutes or so, Prata tapped Rainbow Cuddlefluff atop her little head, signifying that he was satisfied.
Prata raised his left hand and in a shower of light, Pumpernickel appeared before Rainbow. She ran over to her friend and they hugged and rubbed noses with elation.
“HAHAHAHAHA,” Prata chuckled. “Rainbow Cuddlefluff, I have both tricked you and proven you a whore. I am beholden by the covenant of the koala, which binds me to undo all the evils I bestow on your kind. It was I who made Pumpernickel disappear, and to make her reappear all you needed to have done was recite the covenant chant – Prata, Prata, undo your unsavory deeds!”
Rainbow whispered something into Pumpernickel’s ear, and Rainbow and Pumpernickel chuckled together as Prata spoke. He asked them what was so funny.
“Oh, Prata!” Rainbow chuckled. “I know well my koala scrolls. And I have never claimed not to be a whore.”
Rainbow’s words struck true, for in a land of such love as Cloud Cove, there was a whole lot of sex going on – oral, anal, and other stuff you don’t wanna know about. Rainbow smiled full at Prata, revealing lips infected with koala herpes.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
A comprehensive list of absolutely everything that's more boring than NASCAR
And here we go:
Uh... still thinking...
I guess that about wraps it up.
Uh... still thinking...
I guess that about wraps it up.
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