I have solved the mystery of why it is whales choose to beach themselves. They catch killer, once-in-a-lifetime waves that I sometimes find on my boogie board, and they just ride those suckers on home. When they approach the shore they think "Man, I should totally just stop and bail right now, but I wanna see how far this tubular ride takes me."
By the time their wiser nature takes over and they stop living in the moment, it's too late and people are futilely tossing buckets of water on them while they wait for the equipment to shove them back into the blue.
So yeah, it's either that or suicide.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Friday, May 07, 2010
Movie Review: Babies
(This is also up at OKmagazine.com) You know the feeling. You ask a coworker with genuine interest if she’s got any pictures of her newborn. She giddily pulls out her phone and shows you picture after picture after picture after picture.
After a few minutes she’s in her own world, and you are but a defenseless captive as she obliviously proceeds to sort through roughly 10 million photos of her little bambino, supplementing each insufferable snapshot with an uninteresting story.
In other words: Hell. Such is the at-first-charming but gradually infuriating French documentary Babies. Dialogue-free, the movie was originally released in France, where it was known as Le Awwwwwww.
The “aws” turn to “arghs” roughly at the halfway point, when you’ve had more than your fill rotating among among infants from Mongolia, Namibia, San Francisco and Tokyo. They drool, squeak, pee, slap and cry, convincing you of the urgency of birth control with primal force.
An anthropologist might find it fascinating to sort through the various nurturing rituals from around the world. Either that or the anthropologist would cringe from the blatant stereotyping. The Namibian baby spends most of his life rolling around in the dirt, the Mongolian baby dodges cows, the San Francisco baby gets new-agey-overcoached into early mental complexes and the Tokyo baby is terrorized by Godzilla.
Well, everything but that last part is true.
This is the point in the review when you might go “Right, Phil. That movie looked stupid to begin with, so enough with the overkill and where the hell is my Iron Man 2 review?”
And my answer to that is “C’mon, yo! It’s freakin’ Iron Man 2. You already either have your tickets pre-ordered or the move pre-pirated on your computer, so you don’t need me to give you the yay or nay on such an automatic blockbuster.” But the real answer is I would have loved to have reviewed Iron Man 2.
Hell, I’d rather have reviewed Catwoman 2 than Babies. But there inexplicably was no Iron Man 2 screening in Tucson, yet there was one of Babies. Which brings to mind my favorite quote from the movie: “Waaaaah!”
After a few minutes she’s in her own world, and you are but a defenseless captive as she obliviously proceeds to sort through roughly 10 million photos of her little bambino, supplementing each insufferable snapshot with an uninteresting story.
In other words: Hell. Such is the at-first-charming but gradually infuriating French documentary Babies. Dialogue-free, the movie was originally released in France, where it was known as Le Awwwwwww.
The “aws” turn to “arghs” roughly at the halfway point, when you’ve had more than your fill rotating among among infants from Mongolia, Namibia, San Francisco and Tokyo. They drool, squeak, pee, slap and cry, convincing you of the urgency of birth control with primal force.
An anthropologist might find it fascinating to sort through the various nurturing rituals from around the world. Either that or the anthropologist would cringe from the blatant stereotyping. The Namibian baby spends most of his life rolling around in the dirt, the Mongolian baby dodges cows, the San Francisco baby gets new-agey-overcoached into early mental complexes and the Tokyo baby is terrorized by Godzilla.
Well, everything but that last part is true.
This is the point in the review when you might go “Right, Phil. That movie looked stupid to begin with, so enough with the overkill and where the hell is my Iron Man 2 review?”
And my answer to that is “C’mon, yo! It’s freakin’ Iron Man 2. You already either have your tickets pre-ordered or the move pre-pirated on your computer, so you don’t need me to give you the yay or nay on such an automatic blockbuster.” But the real answer is I would have loved to have reviewed Iron Man 2.
Hell, I’d rather have reviewed Catwoman 2 than Babies. But there inexplicably was no Iron Man 2 screening in Tucson, yet there was one of Babies. Which brings to mind my favorite quote from the movie: “Waaaaah!”
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Sorry, Tecmo Bowl Throwback Fans -- No Update Coming After All
Awful news from Tecmo: That title update the Tecmo Bowl Throwback publisher promised last week isn't going to happen. I got a note from a Tecmo PR rep claiming there's no problem with rage quitters getting off without penalty while those they quit on get no credit for a forfeit.
From Tecmo:
I don't know what the producers are looking into, but they're wrong. I feel like Charlie Brown having Lucy pull the football away. This makes the online play worthless.
From Tecmo:
As for the title update, our producers have been looking into the quitting issue with wins and losses not showing on player records, and it looks like the system is working properly but it takes some time for the records to update. They will continue monitoring the records system for issues, but there is not a title update planned at this time.
I don't know what the producers are looking into, but they're wrong. I feel like Charlie Brown having Lucy pull the football away. This makes the online play worthless.
Tractor Boy
Luke is big into improv. He likes to cast me and himself as teammates in various ventures such as farming, war, racing and dragon/dinosaure/robot killing. He tends to make himself the man and me the boy. For instance, when he is Tractor Man, I am Tractor Boy. When he is Batman I am Robin. When is Good Army Man, I am Good Army Boy (we fight The Bad Army). And often we are the Bad Army, battling that uppity Good Army.
These games are quite informative, as he interprets my parenting style and discipline and inflicts his version of them on me. For instance, this morning I tried to turn on the tractor (an ottoman) by turning the imaginary key.
"No, Tractor Boy," he said sternly. "That's too dangerous. Don't you touch that or you can't watch a show later."
Sometimes he offers subtle hints of how he'd like to be treated when the situations are reversed. He calls himself The Maker and starts messing around with the effeminate play kitchen Jessica insisted on buying him at a garage sale. Then he says "Boy, here's some ice cream."
"Don't I have to eat my dinner first?" I ask.
"No, that's OK. That's your rule. My own rule is you eat ice cream."
That is one of the few benefits of being the boy. Mostly I am condescended to, sheltered and forced to wait there idly as Luke accomplishes his tasks. Yesterday I was so bold as to get up and go to the bathroom.
"Did I say you could leave?" Luke shouted.
Such is life as Tractor Boy.
These games are quite informative, as he interprets my parenting style and discipline and inflicts his version of them on me. For instance, this morning I tried to turn on the tractor (an ottoman) by turning the imaginary key.
"No, Tractor Boy," he said sternly. "That's too dangerous. Don't you touch that or you can't watch a show later."
Sometimes he offers subtle hints of how he'd like to be treated when the situations are reversed. He calls himself The Maker and starts messing around with the effeminate play kitchen Jessica insisted on buying him at a garage sale. Then he says "Boy, here's some ice cream."
"Don't I have to eat my dinner first?" I ask.
"No, that's OK. That's your rule. My own rule is you eat ice cream."
That is one of the few benefits of being the boy. Mostly I am condescended to, sheltered and forced to wait there idly as Luke accomplishes his tasks. Yesterday I was so bold as to get up and go to the bathroom.
"Did I say you could leave?" Luke shouted.
Such is life as Tractor Boy.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
TV Shows Everyone In The World Should Be Required To Watch
It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia - Just funny for the first couple seasons, then it suddenly gets perfect in season 3 and gets doubly better every nanosecond since. This is the greatest comedic accomplishment in the history of mankind.
Sopranos - A sweeping epic that justifies the existence of television. Every death of an important character stings forever.
Californication - I have a feeling this show is just David Duchovny re-enacting his life in front of the camera, as Larry David does in Curb Your Enthusiasm.
Weeds - Has a boldness rarely seen in non-miniseries TV, changing locations and paradigms by season to tell an ongoing story with comedic and dramatic punch.
Six Feet Under - Stares death in the face constantly without obsessing over it. Has greatest series-ending episode of all time.
Flight of the Conchords - Impossibly funny, with catchy music set to inventive magical realism videos.
Wonderfalls - Killed off after only one season, which adds to its charm. The best quarterlife crisis drama.
Mad Men - Don Draper has the ability to get men and women alike to cheer for him to cheat on his wife with a different woman every episode. A phenomenal character and everyone around him is nearly as comepelling.
Breaking Bad - I don't care that this is set in New Mexico, it's straight-up Arizona through and through. A saga of a man confronting his mortality and morals, twisting them in a desperate scrap to make things right before his number is called.
Entourage - Excellent male daydream, in the same vicarious vein as Californication. Excellent characters and relationships, and a sense of authentic joy and optimism permeates the episode. Plus Ari owns.
Curb Your Enthusiasm - Definitive proof that Larry David was the brains behind Seinfeld.
Sons of Anarchy - Sopranos Lite, transposed to a motorcycle gang.
Battlestar Galactica - Delivers political and philosophical messages with elegance and great special effects. Terrible wrap-up though.
The Wire - Sometimes it's a slog and often its plotting is tough to understand, but it howls with street cred and delves inside a buried America most of us try to shield ourselves from. Each season focuses on a facet of what has broken modern society, and the final season, which rips apart the media, is its best.
True Blood - Moody, tense and sexy vampire action that somehow keeps its subject relevant in an era of Twlight overkill.
Big Love - Gets better each season, which is saying something because it started off amazingly. A stunning analysis of going against the grain with your scruples and sacrificing for what you believe is the greater good.
Deadwood - Its first season is the finest of any television show ever created, and the fourth episode is the best single hour in TV history. After that it trails off, but the cowboy Shakespeare dialogue always sings, and Al Swearengen and Seth Bullock are two all-time great characters.
Twin Peaks - A head trip that soaks you into an unsolvable mystery and keeps throwing you off by getting weirder and weirder.
Seinfeld - The best network TV could get, although it's severely dated now.
He-Man and the Masters of the Universe - Best cartoon ever.
Beavis and Butt-head - Stinging satire of idiot culture.
Sopranos - A sweeping epic that justifies the existence of television. Every death of an important character stings forever.
Californication - I have a feeling this show is just David Duchovny re-enacting his life in front of the camera, as Larry David does in Curb Your Enthusiasm.
Weeds - Has a boldness rarely seen in non-miniseries TV, changing locations and paradigms by season to tell an ongoing story with comedic and dramatic punch.
Six Feet Under - Stares death in the face constantly without obsessing over it. Has greatest series-ending episode of all time.
Flight of the Conchords - Impossibly funny, with catchy music set to inventive magical realism videos.
Wonderfalls - Killed off after only one season, which adds to its charm. The best quarterlife crisis drama.
Mad Men - Don Draper has the ability to get men and women alike to cheer for him to cheat on his wife with a different woman every episode. A phenomenal character and everyone around him is nearly as comepelling.
Breaking Bad - I don't care that this is set in New Mexico, it's straight-up Arizona through and through. A saga of a man confronting his mortality and morals, twisting them in a desperate scrap to make things right before his number is called.
Entourage - Excellent male daydream, in the same vicarious vein as Californication. Excellent characters and relationships, and a sense of authentic joy and optimism permeates the episode. Plus Ari owns.
Curb Your Enthusiasm - Definitive proof that Larry David was the brains behind Seinfeld.
Sons of Anarchy - Sopranos Lite, transposed to a motorcycle gang.
Battlestar Galactica - Delivers political and philosophical messages with elegance and great special effects. Terrible wrap-up though.
The Wire - Sometimes it's a slog and often its plotting is tough to understand, but it howls with street cred and delves inside a buried America most of us try to shield ourselves from. Each season focuses on a facet of what has broken modern society, and the final season, which rips apart the media, is its best.
True Blood - Moody, tense and sexy vampire action that somehow keeps its subject relevant in an era of Twlight overkill.
Big Love - Gets better each season, which is saying something because it started off amazingly. A stunning analysis of going against the grain with your scruples and sacrificing for what you believe is the greater good.
Deadwood - Its first season is the finest of any television show ever created, and the fourth episode is the best single hour in TV history. After that it trails off, but the cowboy Shakespeare dialogue always sings, and Al Swearengen and Seth Bullock are two all-time great characters.
Twin Peaks - A head trip that soaks you into an unsolvable mystery and keeps throwing you off by getting weirder and weirder.
Seinfeld - The best network TV could get, although it's severely dated now.
He-Man and the Masters of the Universe - Best cartoon ever.
Beavis and Butt-head - Stinging satire of idiot culture.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Good News, Bad News
Luke: "I have good news and I have bad news."
Me: "What's the good news?"
Luke: "The good news is I have blue chalk" he says, showing me the piece of broken sidewalk chalk in his right hand.
Me: "What's the bad news?"
Luke: "The bad news is I have purple," he said, displaying the purple chalk in his left hand.
Guess the kid doesn't like purple. But that moment resonated with me. It's impossible to know what really is good or bad news, because bad things can spring from things that seem good at first, as well as the opposite. Without context or a crystal ball, news is neither bad nor good. It's just blue or purple.
Me: "What's the good news?"
Luke: "The good news is I have blue chalk" he says, showing me the piece of broken sidewalk chalk in his right hand.
Me: "What's the bad news?"
Luke: "The bad news is I have purple," he said, displaying the purple chalk in his left hand.
Guess the kid doesn't like purple. But that moment resonated with me. It's impossible to know what really is good or bad news, because bad things can spring from things that seem good at first, as well as the opposite. Without context or a crystal ball, news is neither bad nor good. It's just blue or purple.
Monday, May 03, 2010
I'd Like These To Be Renamed
1. American Idol - These people don't become "idols" anyway. The winners have maybe one song on the radio and then vanish into obscurity. Call it American Addiction.
2. Family Guy - The title means nothing and is pathetically uncreative, not reflective in any way of the awesome randomness of which the show often consists. Call it Tries Too Hard.
3. NATO - There is nothing North Atlantic about the treaty organization about countries such as Turkey. Just call it the We Are Still Afraid Of You, Russia Organization.
4. MTV - This is an old one, sure, but it bears repeating because there is no music whatsoever anymore on the channel. Call it Pandering Youth Reality Show Network.
5. HBO - Again, this is another TV network title that was once apropos but has aged out. People get the channel for the shows, not the irrelevant movies. Call it Overpriced Elitist TV Watching Club.
2. Family Guy - The title means nothing and is pathetically uncreative, not reflective in any way of the awesome randomness of which the show often consists. Call it Tries Too Hard.
3. NATO - There is nothing North Atlantic about the treaty organization about countries such as Turkey. Just call it the We Are Still Afraid Of You, Russia Organization.
4. MTV - This is an old one, sure, but it bears repeating because there is no music whatsoever anymore on the channel. Call it Pandering Youth Reality Show Network.
5. HBO - Again, this is another TV network title that was once apropos but has aged out. People get the channel for the shows, not the irrelevant movies. Call it Overpriced Elitist TV Watching Club.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Words To Live By
Misfortune favors the bold.
If at first you don't succeed, sue.
"One in the hand is worth two in the bush" would make a good punchline in a porno.
When the going gets tough, the tough get owing.
Look before you leap out of the limo with no underwear on.
No rest for the wicked.
Early to bed and early to rise makes you miss out on the night life.
All work and no play make Jack a successful stock broker.
Cleanliness is next to an OCD diagnosis.
An Apple a day keeps Bill Gates at bay.
Winning isn't everything, but it will be once they finally get rid of the damn BCS.
You can't buy happiness, but you can borrow it from a payday loan provided you don't mind the 300 percent interest.
The best things in life are free, but the Wal-Mart DVD value bin is still a damn good deal.
It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you're able to deny afterward that you used performance-enhancing drugs.
Music tames the savage priest.
All kids' toys from China are poison.
If at first you don't succeed, sue.
"One in the hand is worth two in the bush" would make a good punchline in a porno.
When the going gets tough, the tough get owing.
Look before you leap out of the limo with no underwear on.
No rest for the wicked.
Early to bed and early to rise makes you miss out on the night life.
All work and no play make Jack a successful stock broker.
Cleanliness is next to an OCD diagnosis.
An Apple a day keeps Bill Gates at bay.
Winning isn't everything, but it will be once they finally get rid of the damn BCS.
You can't buy happiness, but you can borrow it from a payday loan provided you don't mind the 300 percent interest.
The best things in life are free, but the Wal-Mart DVD value bin is still a damn good deal.
It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you're able to deny afterward that you used performance-enhancing drugs.
Music tames the savage priest.
All kids' toys from China are poison.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tecmo Bowl Throwback Update On The Way
I love the Xbox 360 game Tecmo Bowl Kickoff, which is a pitch perfect replica of old-school Tecmo Super Bowl for the Super Nintendo. It's everything I hoped for and more, finally adding decent online multiplayer to the best football game ever created.
The online play, though, is crippled by an anomaly that lets losing players quit games midway through without being punished with a loss on the leaderboards. It's also annoying that you have to use pre-set playbooks in online play. Hoping against hope for some kind of fix to these issues, I sent this email to a Tecmo PR rep:
And about an hour later I was elated to get this reply:
So next week all those scared, pathetic wusses who fled when I was whipping them last night won't be able to repeat their offenses against humanity. Hallelujah!
The online play, though, is crippled by an anomaly that lets losing players quit games midway through without being punished with a loss on the leaderboards. It's also annoying that you have to use pre-set playbooks in online play. Hoping against hope for some kind of fix to these issues, I sent this email to a Tecmo PR rep:
Please please please please release an update that punishes people for quitting online matches by giving them a loss for forfeiting and gives the other person credit for a victory. Also, let people customize their playbooks for online matches. Other than that, perfect game, but if you don't fix these problems your online community won't sustain.
And about an hour later I was elated to get this reply:
Update from the producer:
We're working on pushing a title update to fix the issue with online matches. Hopefully it'll be out by next week.
So next week all those scared, pathetic wusses who fled when I was whipping them last night won't be able to repeat their offenses against humanity. Hallelujah!
Gun Control
Although I am terrified of guns and will never own one, I don't begrudge people who keep them around. I just think they're a false security blanket that won't actually help you prevent a late-night break-in and are more likely to harm yourself or someone you love. Or someone it would be really awkward to kill, like your next-door neighbor's cat. Do that and you'll have a hard time asking them to get your mail for you the next time you go out of town.
I understand gun ownership more if you've got an empty nest. Firearms are impossible to keep safe from kids unless you lock them unloaded in a safe with a separate safe for the ammo. So if someone breaks in on you how could you possibly have enough time to unlock both safes, load the gun and cap the intruder? If people are bold and crazy enough to bust down my door, I'm not going after the dudes. My defense plan is to scoop up the kids and some important video games, then run away or hide while dialing 911.
If you take the Yosemite Sam route, you'd better be a sharp shooter under pressure. You do, however, have great odds of destroying your TV or computer, which is awesome because then you have a great excuse to go out and buy better ones.
I understand gun ownership more if you've got an empty nest. Firearms are impossible to keep safe from kids unless you lock them unloaded in a safe with a separate safe for the ammo. So if someone breaks in on you how could you possibly have enough time to unlock both safes, load the gun and cap the intruder? If people are bold and crazy enough to bust down my door, I'm not going after the dudes. My defense plan is to scoop up the kids and some important video games, then run away or hide while dialing 911.
If you take the Yosemite Sam route, you'd better be a sharp shooter under pressure. You do, however, have great odds of destroying your TV or computer, which is awesome because then you have a great excuse to go out and buy better ones.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Fast Talking
I took four years of Spanish in high school and can decipher the language if I stare at a sentence for a few minutes and look up a few words on Google. Sometimes when I'm watching Spanish-language subtitled movies I think I understand what's being said because I'm looking at the subtitles while listening to the words and my egotistical brain starts tricking itself into thinking I actually understand the language a little bit.
Then I go out into the real world and someone speaks actual Spanish and I'm lost. The words go by in a 110mph mega sentence and I can't decipher a word. It's for this reason that I'm sure I will never be able to fully comprehend Spanish or any other fast-spoken language. That goes for English, too. I can barely understand half of what Micro Machine Guy or auctioneers or horseracing announcers say. To me it's
Andheeeeescominaroundthebackstretchgoingfortheinsidepositionthreequarterlegthsaheadofstormingsuepullingintothethreequartermileamakahannukahsupercalafragilistaimsecretlytalkinggibberishbutyournonethewiserbecauseivelostyouandbythewayphilihadsexwithyoumommaaaaaaaaaandscarletsunshinewinsthekentuckyderby
Am I alone here?
Then I go out into the real world and someone speaks actual Spanish and I'm lost. The words go by in a 110mph mega sentence and I can't decipher a word. It's for this reason that I'm sure I will never be able to fully comprehend Spanish or any other fast-spoken language. That goes for English, too. I can barely understand half of what Micro Machine Guy or auctioneers or horseracing announcers say. To me it's
Andheeeeescominaroundthebackstretchgoingfortheinsidepositionthreequarterlegthsaheadofstormingsuepullingintothethreequartermileamakahannukahsupercalafragilistaimsecretlytalkinggibberishbutyournonethewiserbecauseivelostyouandbythewayphilihadsexwithyoumommaaaaaaaaaandscarletsunshinewinsthekentuckyderby
Am I alone here?
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
New Laws The Arizona State Legislature Should Consider
-Ban Burritos: Keep them around and you'll never get rid of those pesky Mexicans. It's like milk bowls and stray cats.
-Fund Robotic Hand Cannon Program: Every citizen will have a semi-automatic robotic arm cannon with a silencer and rocket launcher capabilities fused to their dominant appendage.
-Forbid Health Care: Not only will Arizona ignore federal health care reform, but health care will not be allowed in any form whatsoever, in order to protect our Constitutionally-mandated right to die of pneumonia.
-Burn Every Public School To The Ground: The vacant land will be used for shooting ranges. And as an added bonus, this won't cause significant harm to our No. 49 in ranking education.
-Recognize George W. Bush As President Forever And Ever: He may not have been perfect, but at least he's got an authentic birth certificate and didn't choose to infringe on our civil liberties. Well, except for that whole Patriot Act thing.
-Ban Gibberish Languages: This is America, dammit, so speak American or go back home to your stupid country. Correct grammar and spelling optional.
-New Official State Bird: The Illegal Immigrant-Spotting Police Helicopter will replace the cactus wren.
-Fund Robotic Hand Cannon Program: Every citizen will have a semi-automatic robotic arm cannon with a silencer and rocket launcher capabilities fused to their dominant appendage.
-Forbid Health Care: Not only will Arizona ignore federal health care reform, but health care will not be allowed in any form whatsoever, in order to protect our Constitutionally-mandated right to die of pneumonia.
-Burn Every Public School To The Ground: The vacant land will be used for shooting ranges. And as an added bonus, this won't cause significant harm to our No. 49 in ranking education.
-Recognize George W. Bush As President Forever And Ever: He may not have been perfect, but at least he's got an authentic birth certificate and didn't choose to infringe on our civil liberties. Well, except for that whole Patriot Act thing.
-Ban Gibberish Languages: This is America, dammit, so speak American or go back home to your stupid country. Correct grammar and spelling optional.
-New Official State Bird: The Illegal Immigrant-Spotting Police Helicopter will replace the cactus wren.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Infinite Comedy
Kids provide infinite comedy. Yesterday 3-year-old Luke soaked his clothes by messing around with an Iron Man mask squirt gun -- makes it look like he's spitting -- outside.
He came in and asked for new clothes, so I stripped him down then went to dig out a fresh outfit. When I came back he was fending off his 1-year-old sister, Emma, who had just noticed that Luke had a penis and kept pointing at it and trying to grab it, saying "this" over and over again. Luke shoved Emma away from him. Emma, miffed at the indignity, began smacking Luke across the face again and again. "No, Emma," Luke said. "Hitting hurts," repeating the scolding Jessica has given him time and again. "You get time out, Emma."
He came in and asked for new clothes, so I stripped him down then went to dig out a fresh outfit. When I came back he was fending off his 1-year-old sister, Emma, who had just noticed that Luke had a penis and kept pointing at it and trying to grab it, saying "this" over and over again. Luke shoved Emma away from him. Emma, miffed at the indignity, began smacking Luke across the face again and again. "No, Emma," Luke said. "Hitting hurts," repeating the scolding Jessica has given him time and again. "You get time out, Emma."
Thursday, April 22, 2010
I Wonder What A Drew Rosenhaus Guarantee Means
Superagent Drew Rosenhaus guaranteed client Rob Gronkowski, a former Arizona tight end, would be chosen in the first round of the NFL Draft.
Gronkowski didn't get picked, which everyone except for Rosenhaus and Gronkowski knew would happen. After all, Gronkowski hurt his back before last season started and didn't play all year, then chose to enter the draft in an effort that stunk of desperation, as if he was trying to cash out without having to prove he could still play at his pre-injury level. Since Gronkowski entered the draft partially due to Rosenhaus's ill-advised guarantee -- who wouldn't want to believe it when a smooth-talking power player tells you you're a surefire multimillionaire? -- I'm wondering what Rosenhaus's guarantee entails.
I say the agent owes Gronkowski the difference between Gronkowski's eventual salary and whatever the Saints pay the No. 32 pick, cornerback Patrick Robinson.
Rosenhaus should also vow to no longer fill gullible, egotistical Arizona superstars' heads with lies and thus rob the players and the fans of the success they deserve.
Gronkowski didn't get picked, which everyone except for Rosenhaus and Gronkowski knew would happen. After all, Gronkowski hurt his back before last season started and didn't play all year, then chose to enter the draft in an effort that stunk of desperation, as if he was trying to cash out without having to prove he could still play at his pre-injury level. Since Gronkowski entered the draft partially due to Rosenhaus's ill-advised guarantee -- who wouldn't want to believe it when a smooth-talking power player tells you you're a surefire multimillionaire? -- I'm wondering what Rosenhaus's guarantee entails.
I say the agent owes Gronkowski the difference between Gronkowski's eventual salary and whatever the Saints pay the No. 32 pick, cornerback Patrick Robinson.
Rosenhaus should also vow to no longer fill gullible, egotistical Arizona superstars' heads with lies and thus rob the players and the fans of the success they deserve.
Things From The Future That I Never Want
1. The Minority Report hologram computer that lets you move things around with your hands -- Seems sort of labor intensive, no? When I'm dicking around on the computer I don't need a workout. Just some mouse clicks and key macros will do just fine for me, thanks.
2. The death ray -- If I'm not to be trusted with a gun, something that gives its unintended victim a chance to live, I really shouldn't be messing with no death rays.
3. The tunic -- They don't have pockets, and although I have no fashion sense it would be sort of depressing to look in my closet and see nothing but metallic tunics. How would I let people know I like the Arizona Cardinals without having to talk to them?
4. The holoband from Caprica -- Mario Kart and Tecmo Bowl are addicting enough. I don't need to be plugging in to a futuristic Second Life that's even more of a time suck.
5. Hovercars -- Every now and then I'll screw up when I'm driving and hop a curb. Translated to air driving, that would mean a 54-car accident that ends in death for all. No thanks.
2. The death ray -- If I'm not to be trusted with a gun, something that gives its unintended victim a chance to live, I really shouldn't be messing with no death rays.
3. The tunic -- They don't have pockets, and although I have no fashion sense it would be sort of depressing to look in my closet and see nothing but metallic tunics. How would I let people know I like the Arizona Cardinals without having to talk to them?
4. The holoband from Caprica -- Mario Kart and Tecmo Bowl are addicting enough. I don't need to be plugging in to a futuristic Second Life that's even more of a time suck.
5. Hovercars -- Every now and then I'll screw up when I'm driving and hop a curb. Translated to air driving, that would mean a 54-car accident that ends in death for all. No thanks.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
My Private, Confidential Note To Golf, NASCAR, The NHL And NBA
Do not read this unless you happen to be one of the parties to which I'm addressing this directive. If you stumbled upon this post by accident, move along because there's nothing for you to see here.
OK, boring sports that last too long and have 5-minute offseasons. I've gathered you hear for a reason. While all of you have more than your share of redeeming qualities -- well, except for you, NASCAR. Oh, and you, too, golf -- you fail at life because your seasons never stop. If you don't give fans a chance to miss you, lament how tough it is to deal with life without you and wonder what it will be like when you come back, people will start to hate you at best and become apathetic to you at worst.
Your championships mean nothing unless you give the winners and their fans -- and especially all the losers they violated -- a chance to meditate on the implications of their dominance.
Take a look at the NFL. Did you see how the media went crazy today when the league did something so pathetically insignificant (although on measure incomprehensibly awesome) as release its schedule? Realize, for a moment, that there is virtually no mystery to NFL schedules because every game and its location is predetermined by a set formula. All the NFL had to do to make the sports world swoon was announce that "Yes, you know those 17 weeks of games we have every year? We're doing that again and we've even put them in order!"
The reason for the reaction is the NFL treats us like lovers who give us the best night of our lives, only to throw us out on the streets and not talk to us again for half a year. Meanwhile, you guys are like yapping puppies, so eager to please and hard up for attention you won't stop trying to hump our legs for five seconds.
So please, NHL, NBA, PGA and NASCAR, just stop for a few months after your current seasons end, just to see how things go. And NASCAR, go ahead and just stop.
OK, boring sports that last too long and have 5-minute offseasons. I've gathered you hear for a reason. While all of you have more than your share of redeeming qualities -- well, except for you, NASCAR. Oh, and you, too, golf -- you fail at life because your seasons never stop. If you don't give fans a chance to miss you, lament how tough it is to deal with life without you and wonder what it will be like when you come back, people will start to hate you at best and become apathetic to you at worst.
Your championships mean nothing unless you give the winners and their fans -- and especially all the losers they violated -- a chance to meditate on the implications of their dominance.
Take a look at the NFL. Did you see how the media went crazy today when the league did something so pathetically insignificant (although on measure incomprehensibly awesome) as release its schedule? Realize, for a moment, that there is virtually no mystery to NFL schedules because every game and its location is predetermined by a set formula. All the NFL had to do to make the sports world swoon was announce that "Yes, you know those 17 weeks of games we have every year? We're doing that again and we've even put them in order!"
The reason for the reaction is the NFL treats us like lovers who give us the best night of our lives, only to throw us out on the streets and not talk to us again for half a year. Meanwhile, you guys are like yapping puppies, so eager to please and hard up for attention you won't stop trying to hump our legs for five seconds.
So please, NHL, NBA, PGA and NASCAR, just stop for a few months after your current seasons end, just to see how things go. And NASCAR, go ahead and just stop.
What Tarot Cards Really Mean
Sometimes you can get down in the dumps if you ask Tarot cards how your career prospects are going to turn out and you keep getting the death card. That's because you're not reading them in the right way. The beauty of Tarot cards is that they're so vague, and every symbol can be interpreted in a hundred different ways. If the cards actually could predict the future with precision, people would use them to find out lottery numbers, scores of tonight's NBA playoff games and which talk show host Jay Leno will randomly have fired.
So the death card can just as well mean you're going to "kill it" in that next job. And this is why without ever looking I can guarantee you that every dealing of a Tarot deck for me will predict that I will become a mega-billionaire king of everything. Because that's what the death card means to me.
So the death card can just as well mean you're going to "kill it" in that next job. And this is why without ever looking I can guarantee you that every dealing of a Tarot deck for me will predict that I will become a mega-billionaire king of everything. Because that's what the death card means to me.
Monday, April 19, 2010
My 3 Year Old Is Smarter Than Me Now
I've always been confident that peoples' kids turn out to be smarter than them eventually. I remember being able to run little ruses on my parents at age 5, so I figured it would take at least that long for Luke to surpass me.
Turns out I was a couple years short.
Yesterday, just to be a dick, Luke locked Jessica and I out of the house. Despite our protests, he calmly flopped on the couch and started watching Space Jam. No matter what sort of threats we yelled at him he was unmoved, wise enough to know there was nothing we could do to him because there was a bolted glass door separating him from any punishment.
Luckily the garage door was still open, so I was able to breach Luke's defense's that way, throw his ass in time out and give him a stern lecture about the consequences of his actions. No TV, no playing in the sand box, no good snacks for the rest of the day.
"Aww, man!" Luke whined.
Oddly, I wasn't as mad at him as I was proud.
Turns out I was a couple years short.
Yesterday, just to be a dick, Luke locked Jessica and I out of the house. Despite our protests, he calmly flopped on the couch and started watching Space Jam. No matter what sort of threats we yelled at him he was unmoved, wise enough to know there was nothing we could do to him because there was a bolted glass door separating him from any punishment.
Luckily the garage door was still open, so I was able to breach Luke's defense's that way, throw his ass in time out and give him a stern lecture about the consequences of his actions. No TV, no playing in the sand box, no good snacks for the rest of the day.
"Aww, man!" Luke whined.
Oddly, I wasn't as mad at him as I was proud.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Sniping In Video Games Is One Of The Most Awesome Things Ever
Sniping in video games is basically my favorite of all activities in life. It's incredibly fulfilling on many levels. It's incredibly fun to crouch far away, watching your enemies mull about, not realizing what's coming. Then you get your gun out, zoom in on the unsuspecting marks and decide which one to send to digital hell first.
Popping the first one, watching the pretend blood spurt out of the neck to make a mini-geyser where the head used to be, is phenomenal. Then seeing everyone freak out and scurry, and then raining death upon them as well, is sublime.
Popping the first one, watching the pretend blood spurt out of the neck to make a mini-geyser where the head used to be, is phenomenal. Then seeing everyone freak out and scurry, and then raining death upon them as well, is sublime.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
So Double Downs Are The Cure For Swine Flu
I'm reasonably sure that the malady I've been battling the past several days is swine flu. I have all the symptoms -- fatigue, sore throat, headache, fever -- save for the vomiting and diarrhea. (By the way, high five to my strain of the swine flu for choosing that symptom as the one to leave out). The self-diagnosis makes even more sense given that I am the only one in the household who came down with the flu, and was also the only one not to get an H1N1 vaccination.
Anyway, I didn't make a marked improvement until I ate a KFC Doubl Down. Which means by scientific decree, Double Downs cure swine flu, and possibly all diseases. Thank you, KFC. As video kills radio stars, you destroy H1N1.
Anyway, I didn't make a marked improvement until I ate a KFC Doubl Down. Which means by scientific decree, Double Downs cure swine flu, and possibly all diseases. Thank you, KFC. As video kills radio stars, you destroy H1N1.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Once When I Was A Kid
I woke up in the middle of a night and felt a furry claw scrape my clothes. I've always wondered what it was, assuming it wasn't a nightmare. A badger? A raccoon? A ghost bear?
Thankfully it never returned. But whatever it was, it was rude. Because who goes around scraping kids in the middle of the night? I demand an apology from you, claw creature. If you're reading this feel free to make nice by leaving a comment.
Thankfully it never returned. But whatever it was, it was rude. Because who goes around scraping kids in the middle of the night? I demand an apology from you, claw creature. If you're reading this feel free to make nice by leaving a comment.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Double Down
Before I get into a review of the KFC Double Down, let me dazzle you with an edict I will enact once I finally come to power: All standalone KFCs must be shut down.
Hold up, now, before you start planning a coup d'état (phrase totally cut and pasted from Wikipedia), focus on my exact wording: STANDALONE KFCs are what must be shut down. And the same goes for Taco Bells. No KFC or Taco Bell should operate separately, but rather must be joined into glorious Kentacko Bells, such as the one located about a mile from my home. The place where a lifetime of misery ended and my new era, filled with regular doses of the Double Down, began.
The reason for this union can be found in the Bill of Rights, which states plainly that man was not meant to survive on a meal of fried chicken alone, because what's he supposed to do about his Grilled Stuffed Burrito fix? Nor can a human subsist simply on microwaved pseudo-Mexican food. You need a biscuit to be complete. And while we're reaching for ideals here, let's accept Kentacko Bells as only the minimum scenario for utopia, yet strive for Kentacko Huts, which also add Pizza Huts into the fold, and which seemingly only exist in northern Phoenix. For the Lord to have manifested such a perfection in such a bilious hellhole is to prove his providence in placing shreds of hope in darkest despair.
Another mark of Godly excellence is the Double Down, pictured above. It's a cheese and bacon sandwich with two pieces of fried chicken replacing bread slices. Some have railed against the sandwich as a sign of the wretched excess of our times. Yet these people have railed wrong, because the Double Down is not too much, but not enough. Roughly the size of a Snack Wrap, the Double Down is laughably overpriced at $5. Resultingly, the calorie count is but 540. You get more calories that if you accidentally swallow some toothpaste.
Despite the overwhelming cost, I struggled throughout the day with the quandary I knew I'd face come dinnertime. The angel on my left shoulder sternly demanded I get only one Double Down, and thus risk withering down to nothing, while the devil on my right shoulder insisted I get two of them, and as a result have so little money left over that I would surely face foreclosure on my home.
I placated the angel and devil by telling them they were both right. As they congratulated each other in smug satisfaction, I interjected "But you're also both wrong! I am smarter than you ninnies and have devised a better solution: I shall have one Double Down and also a bean burrito! For this is a Kentacko Bell and I will taste the rainbow, beyotches."
So I ordered the Double Down and burrito, remembered to snap a picture of the former, and during the 90 seconds it took me to devour both noted that I could taste neither the bacon nor the cheese because fried chicken, especially the kind the Colonel makes, was not built to complement or yield to other flavors, but to dominate them. And of course I was still hungry after eating the Double Down, so luckily I had that burrito to stave off manorexia.
So there you have it: Do not order the Double Down to fill yourself up, or to appreciate the bacon that is rumored to be contained therein. Order it to fly too close to the sun, to dream like an insomniac and plan for a better world.
And don't forget that bean burrito chaser.
Going Viral
Forget all this Weight Watchers and South Beach and Atkins Friendliness and juice fasting. If you really want to lose weight, and lose it quick, get infected with a nasty virus. Plus you'll get a vacation.
The first day you'll be stuck in bed, unable to move, but your fever will be torching those pounds off. Plus, since your head throbs whenever you so much as get up to approach the bathroom, you won't be so motivated to raid the fridge.
The day fever will fall to the wayside on day 2, but the next four nights will be plagued with sleepless, jittery cold sweats that continue to trim your waistline. By the time the malady has moved into your chest and cold -- making you so unpleasant to talk to or be near that no one will ask you to go out to a caloric lunch -- you'll have lost five pounds, and will be on the way to be losing many more.
That is if you're still alive. If there are any takers, I will sell you my used Kleenexes at a dollar apiece.
The first day you'll be stuck in bed, unable to move, but your fever will be torching those pounds off. Plus, since your head throbs whenever you so much as get up to approach the bathroom, you won't be so motivated to raid the fridge.
The day fever will fall to the wayside on day 2, but the next four nights will be plagued with sleepless, jittery cold sweats that continue to trim your waistline. By the time the malady has moved into your chest and cold -- making you so unpleasant to talk to or be near that no one will ask you to go out to a caloric lunch -- you'll have lost five pounds, and will be on the way to be losing many more.
That is if you're still alive. If there are any takers, I will sell you my used Kleenexes at a dollar apiece.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
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.
“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.
Fear Is Better Than The Backhand
People who hit their kids to discipline them are unimaginative at best. Better to mess with their minds and coax them to behave the way you want them to out of fear, the prime motivator for humankind. "Get over here or I'll spank you" is nowhere near as effective as "Get over here or aliens will trap you and take you away as you sleep."
If you hit a kid, you're only teaching them that brutality solves problems. But if you tell them crazy stories, you're teaching them to be creative and that you can get your way with empty threats. It's a lesson that will serve them well.
If you hit a kid, you're only teaching them that brutality solves problems. But if you tell them crazy stories, you're teaching them to be creative and that you can get your way with empty threats. It's a lesson that will serve them well.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Things I Am Incapable Of Doing
I have a pretty big ego, but I do realize my limitations. I know that there are some things I am incapable of, and they are:
-Martial arts - I lack the balance and discipline.
-Breakdancing - No coordination. The same goes for all dancing.
-Orienteering - Even with a GPS I can barely find my way around a grid of streets, and when I'm playing a video game without a flashing indicator that tells me where to go I'm screwed.
-Pretty much anything athletic. There was a time I could hang on the basketball court, but I gave up playing when it became obvious to me my future was not in the NBA. I'm OK at skill games like tennis, racquetball and whatnot -- sports that reward you for being quick enough to pretty much stay in the same spot if you have enough skill.
-Standing for more than a couple minutes. I've got a bad back that requires me not only to sit whenever possible, but to be able to lean back against a surface. If there's not constant pressure on my spine, it starts to ache. I've had it checked out and the doctors can't find anything wrong with it.
-Doing anything with my hands other than typing. I cannot fix, weld, construct, deconstruct, repair, cook or modify anything. Mostly because I have no interest in learning how to do any of those things. If I lived in the days of cavemen or frontiersmen, I would have had no chance of survival.
-Fighting. I don't have enough experience and can hardly ever channel the requisite rage. I haven't lifted weights in more than 10 years. If you are a comparable size to me, you are going to win. So I am going to throw dirt in your face and run. The problem with that is I'm pretty slow, so you'll probably be able to chase me down.
-Shooting. I am terrified of guns and will never own one. So add that to the lack of fighting ability and I've got no chance of withstanding any sort of violent confrontation.
That about wraps it up. After reading all that, you might wonder what it is I can do. The answer is not a whole heck of a lot, but because I'm so aware of what I can't do, I play to my strengths, stay out of situations that exploit my weaknesses and spend a lot of my time sitting and writing, watching movies or playing video games. Luckily for me, I live in a time when it's possible to do that, make enough money to feed a family of four and still feel damn good about yourself. So I win.
-Martial arts - I lack the balance and discipline.
-Breakdancing - No coordination. The same goes for all dancing.
-Orienteering - Even with a GPS I can barely find my way around a grid of streets, and when I'm playing a video game without a flashing indicator that tells me where to go I'm screwed.
-Pretty much anything athletic. There was a time I could hang on the basketball court, but I gave up playing when it became obvious to me my future was not in the NBA. I'm OK at skill games like tennis, racquetball and whatnot -- sports that reward you for being quick enough to pretty much stay in the same spot if you have enough skill.
-Standing for more than a couple minutes. I've got a bad back that requires me not only to sit whenever possible, but to be able to lean back against a surface. If there's not constant pressure on my spine, it starts to ache. I've had it checked out and the doctors can't find anything wrong with it.
-Doing anything with my hands other than typing. I cannot fix, weld, construct, deconstruct, repair, cook or modify anything. Mostly because I have no interest in learning how to do any of those things. If I lived in the days of cavemen or frontiersmen, I would have had no chance of survival.
-Fighting. I don't have enough experience and can hardly ever channel the requisite rage. I haven't lifted weights in more than 10 years. If you are a comparable size to me, you are going to win. So I am going to throw dirt in your face and run. The problem with that is I'm pretty slow, so you'll probably be able to chase me down.
-Shooting. I am terrified of guns and will never own one. So add that to the lack of fighting ability and I've got no chance of withstanding any sort of violent confrontation.
That about wraps it up. After reading all that, you might wonder what it is I can do. The answer is not a whole heck of a lot, but because I'm so aware of what I can't do, I play to my strengths, stay out of situations that exploit my weaknesses and spend a lot of my time sitting and writing, watching movies or playing video games. Luckily for me, I live in a time when it's possible to do that, make enough money to feed a family of four and still feel damn good about yourself. So I win.
Google, You're Sorta Freaking Me Out
Google, I realize you're just trying to be helpful to your bottom line when you suggest I buy Battlestar Galactica the complete series from Half.com when I mention the show to someone in Gmail, but could you at least provide me with the false sense of security that, I don't know, you're NOT snooping on every word I type and trying to interpret my needs via your evil algorithms?
And what's with all the suggestions for "male enhancement?" What makes you so sure I'm not well endowed? Are people sending me coded messages that reveal this fact to you? Maybe you're interpreting all my rejection letters from publishers as sexual denials?
If you're gonna be stalking me, why can't you be more helpful about it? Maybe suggest some clever things to say now and then, or compliment me when I use a particularly witty turn of phrase?
Since you apparently know more about my life and my desires than I do, maybe you could suggest some non material things that could make me happy. Maybe I just need someone to hear me out, Google. A confidant. Someone to play co-op with me in Halo 3 and finally get me past the dune buggy level. You could be that shoulder to cry on. And you can tell me your problems -- maybe you're a little insecure about Bing and we could talk about how you're totally hotter -- and we really could share everything.
Let's start over, Google. I'm Phil, nice to meet you. What can I do for ya?
And what's with all the suggestions for "male enhancement?" What makes you so sure I'm not well endowed? Are people sending me coded messages that reveal this fact to you? Maybe you're interpreting all my rejection letters from publishers as sexual denials?
If you're gonna be stalking me, why can't you be more helpful about it? Maybe suggest some clever things to say now and then, or compliment me when I use a particularly witty turn of phrase?
Since you apparently know more about my life and my desires than I do, maybe you could suggest some non material things that could make me happy. Maybe I just need someone to hear me out, Google. A confidant. Someone to play co-op with me in Halo 3 and finally get me past the dune buggy level. You could be that shoulder to cry on. And you can tell me your problems -- maybe you're a little insecure about Bing and we could talk about how you're totally hotter -- and we really could share everything.
Let's start over, Google. I'm Phil, nice to meet you. What can I do for ya?
Monday, April 05, 2010
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Number Luke
My 3-year-old son Luke has taken to naming monuments after himself. While driving up I-10 toward Phoenix, he asked Jessica what Piacho Peak was called. She responded "Picacho Peak." He shot back. "No, I think it's 'Number Luke.'"
He calls the peak "Number Luke" whenever we drive past it now, and I've adapted the term as well. Someday they'll throw out the old name and usher in the new one.
Luke has also named our future dog. For those who don't know, our beloved lab Goose succumbed to bone cancer late last year. Luke has declared that our next dog will be "WorseGoose," since no future dog could possibly equal the excellence of Goose. Luke took it a couple steps further by declaring it wouldn't be acceptable to have just one dog, but we'd need at least three. The other dogs would be "Daddy WorseGoose" and "Mommy WorseGoose." He foresees an entire lineage of dogs with the "WorseGoose" surname.
Jessica laughed it off, but I pretty much will demand that our next dog actually be named WorseGoose. It's impossible to think of a better name.
We passed Number Luke yesterday while discussing the future WorseGoose, and I bragged to Luke that before he was born I climbed Number Luke several times. Unimpressed, he shot back "why?"
I paused for a while, incapable of a coherent response, before babbling something about how it gave me a view that let me see far, far away. Luke didn't buy it, responding with "No, why?"
He calls the peak "Number Luke" whenever we drive past it now, and I've adapted the term as well. Someday they'll throw out the old name and usher in the new one.
Luke has also named our future dog. For those who don't know, our beloved lab Goose succumbed to bone cancer late last year. Luke has declared that our next dog will be "WorseGoose," since no future dog could possibly equal the excellence of Goose. Luke took it a couple steps further by declaring it wouldn't be acceptable to have just one dog, but we'd need at least three. The other dogs would be "Daddy WorseGoose" and "Mommy WorseGoose." He foresees an entire lineage of dogs with the "WorseGoose" surname.
Jessica laughed it off, but I pretty much will demand that our next dog actually be named WorseGoose. It's impossible to think of a better name.
We passed Number Luke yesterday while discussing the future WorseGoose, and I bragged to Luke that before he was born I climbed Number Luke several times. Unimpressed, he shot back "why?"
I paused for a while, incapable of a coherent response, before babbling something about how it gave me a view that let me see far, far away. Luke didn't buy it, responding with "No, why?"
Friday, April 02, 2010
A Few Words On Its Always Sunny In Philadelphia
It is the greatest show of all time, without anything even close in comparison. It's the only thing I watch with full attention while not doing several other activities at the same time.
It's my church. And Night Man and Day Man are the psalms. Charlie Day is the funniest person to have ever graced the planet and I aspire to be like his character in everything I do.
Just one time in life I want to walk into a room and say "Cat stuck in the wall? Now you're talking my language" and have it apply to a real-world situation.
Also, I need a DickTowel.
It's my church. And Night Man and Day Man are the psalms. Charlie Day is the funniest person to have ever graced the planet and I aspire to be like his character in everything I do.
Just one time in life I want to walk into a room and say "Cat stuck in the wall? Now you're talking my language" and have it apply to a real-world situation.
Also, I need a DickTowel.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Best April Fools Joke Ever
Came in 1988. I was 9, obsessed with the first sports team I ever loved, the all but unbeatable Arizona Wildcats basketball squad, let by future NBA players Sean Elliott, Steve Kerr, Tom Tolbert and Anthony Cook. The juggernaut had stormed off to a 35-2 record, the No. 1 ranking and the school's first berth in the Final Four.
April Fool's Day fell just before the national semifinal in Kansas City against Oklahoma, and my dad woke me up that day with somber news:
"Kerr and Elliott got arrested for drunk driving, Phil," he said. "They're gonna miss the game."
It was all I could do to keep from falling to my knees and bawling. The tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't even muster a retort. I sat on the edge of my bed as he left the room and stared into nothingness, consumed in the void. The world went from color to black and white. Flowers shriveled up and died. My blood stopped flowing.
After half an hour my dad returned and sprung me back to life by shouting "April Fools!" Color was restored. Tulips blossomed. My blood started flowing once again.
And then the next day Arizona lost to Oklahoma and I was sad, but not nearly as devastated as I was when my dad had punk'd me.
The moral of this story: the best April Fools gags degrade victims into unfathomable despair, like an awful, inescapable nightmare, before releasing them unexpectedly into the bliss of normalcy. Any setbacks they'll face next will seem insignificant in comparison.
April Fool's Day fell just before the national semifinal in Kansas City against Oklahoma, and my dad woke me up that day with somber news:
"Kerr and Elliott got arrested for drunk driving, Phil," he said. "They're gonna miss the game."
It was all I could do to keep from falling to my knees and bawling. The tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't even muster a retort. I sat on the edge of my bed as he left the room and stared into nothingness, consumed in the void. The world went from color to black and white. Flowers shriveled up and died. My blood stopped flowing.
After half an hour my dad returned and sprung me back to life by shouting "April Fools!" Color was restored. Tulips blossomed. My blood started flowing once again.
And then the next day Arizona lost to Oklahoma and I was sad, but not nearly as devastated as I was when my dad had punk'd me.
The moral of this story: the best April Fools gags degrade victims into unfathomable despair, like an awful, inescapable nightmare, before releasing them unexpectedly into the bliss of normalcy. Any setbacks they'll face next will seem insignificant in comparison.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
I Wouldn't Have Been A Good Cowboy
I am thankful that I was born in an era in which people can make their living by typing on a computer all day. And I do mean computer, because I'd be screwed in the era of typewriters. I never go more then a sentence without realizing what I just wrote was unintelligible drivel and having to double back and retype it.
So if I were alive in the 1800s and forced to make my existence as a cowboy, it wouldn't have worked out so well. I can't sleep with rocks as pillows, am incapable of lassoing and am not very good at shooting, even in video games when the auto-aim takes you from bad guy to bad guy.
I've never ridden a horse, so there's another ding to my resume. I don't trust myself on the back of a horse. I'm pretty sure I'd do something wrong that would get me bucked off and paralyzed.
In summary, if I were a cowboy I'd be a paralyzed insomniac who walks everywhere while being the slowest draw in the West. On the other hand, most cowboys would probably have made mediocre bloggers.
So if I were alive in the 1800s and forced to make my existence as a cowboy, it wouldn't have worked out so well. I can't sleep with rocks as pillows, am incapable of lassoing and am not very good at shooting, even in video games when the auto-aim takes you from bad guy to bad guy.
I've never ridden a horse, so there's another ding to my resume. I don't trust myself on the back of a horse. I'm pretty sure I'd do something wrong that would get me bucked off and paralyzed.
In summary, if I were a cowboy I'd be a paralyzed insomniac who walks everywhere while being the slowest draw in the West. On the other hand, most cowboys would probably have made mediocre bloggers.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
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, sensei, sensei!
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 sensei. 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, sensei, sensei!
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 sensei. 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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Go Butler
It's unfair that Butler will be competing in the Final Four against mere mortal NCAA teams, given the fact that its three competitors use college kids while Butler loses immortal magical ninjas with bionic powers and robot legs.
Butler has won 35 million games in a row and never misses baskets. Every time the other team has the ball, Butler steals it and throws down crowd-wowing alley-oop dunks that end in teabaggings and shattered backboards.
This one time a team of aliens played Butler for the right of ownership of the Milky Way Galaxy, and Butler owned them 103-99 in double overtime. Because that's how Butler does. It likes to give you a false sense of security, maybe make you think you've got a chance, then rip out your beating heart and it to you in brown cardboard to-go boxes. All you can do is fowl them and hope they miss free throws, but it's not gonna happen. Because we're talking Butler, baby, which is so clutch that clutch has to pay Butler copyright royalties whenever it breathes.
Butler will not only with the NCAA title this year, but the next 30, all with the same players. Because immortal magic ninjas don't graduate, they just go to grad school and keep on picking up MBAs and doctorates until they're smarter than Yoda times Miyagi plus the Oracle from the Matrix.
Do you know why health care reform passed? No, it wasn't because Democrats finally got their stuff together, it's because Butler told Republicans that if they didn't shut the eff up about the filibuster it would visit every one of their mothers and posterize them in awesome half-court 360 teabag dunks. You get a threat like that and you take it seriously. So even though the Republicans are acting all mad about it and breaking windows and stuff, secretly they're totally glad it happened. And as they go to sleep at night they're whispering "gimme that socialized medicine, baby! I want it so hard!" because they know the alternative would be a grim one indeed.
Las Vegas is wise to how badly Butler will ownelize Michigan State Saturday, and have set the point spread at 25,000. Definitely bet on Butler to cover, if not for all the reasons explained above but because I'm a genius of betting who owned the Luxor for a $60 profit a couple weeks ago.
Butler has won 35 million games in a row and never misses baskets. Every time the other team has the ball, Butler steals it and throws down crowd-wowing alley-oop dunks that end in teabaggings and shattered backboards.
This one time a team of aliens played Butler for the right of ownership of the Milky Way Galaxy, and Butler owned them 103-99 in double overtime. Because that's how Butler does. It likes to give you a false sense of security, maybe make you think you've got a chance, then rip out your beating heart and it to you in brown cardboard to-go boxes. All you can do is fowl them and hope they miss free throws, but it's not gonna happen. Because we're talking Butler, baby, which is so clutch that clutch has to pay Butler copyright royalties whenever it breathes.
Butler will not only with the NCAA title this year, but the next 30, all with the same players. Because immortal magic ninjas don't graduate, they just go to grad school and keep on picking up MBAs and doctorates until they're smarter than Yoda times Miyagi plus the Oracle from the Matrix.
Do you know why health care reform passed? No, it wasn't because Democrats finally got their stuff together, it's because Butler told Republicans that if they didn't shut the eff up about the filibuster it would visit every one of their mothers and posterize them in awesome half-court 360 teabag dunks. You get a threat like that and you take it seriously. So even though the Republicans are acting all mad about it and breaking windows and stuff, secretly they're totally glad it happened. And as they go to sleep at night they're whispering "gimme that socialized medicine, baby! I want it so hard!" because they know the alternative would be a grim one indeed.
Las Vegas is wise to how badly Butler will ownelize Michigan State Saturday, and have set the point spread at 25,000. Definitely bet on Butler to cover, if not for all the reasons explained above but because I'm a genius of betting who owned the Luxor for a $60 profit a couple weeks ago.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Sports As Metaphors For Life
Football is like life because no matter what you do, you rely on the clockwork-like actions of several other people to mean success. You take devastating hits and spend most of your time waiting around for something to happen. And that clock is always running.
Baseball is like life because you need to wait your turn, benefiting from the work of those who came before you and doing your best to leave things better for those who follow you.
Basketball is like life because both consists of countless little victories and defeats, and it's important to keep an even keel -- never getting too high or too low -- but to maintain the cool that's necessary for success.
Hockey is like life because we're all stuck in the awkwardness of life, having to maneuver on a slippery surface at varying skill levels, constantly ready to burst out in fits of rage.
Soccer is like life because no matter how enthusiastic and daring our endeavors are, whatever we do is far more likely to end in failure. Even the possibility that we may be on the way to goals is worth reveling in and celebrating.
Golf is like life because despite all illusions to the contrary, we are devastatingly alone. And our accomplishments in our own personal vacuum will be constantly compared to those of others, and unless you are Tiger Woods there is always room left to ascend the neverending leader board. Satisfaction can only come from refinement, persistence and inner peace. And if you are Tiger Woods you're still never satisfied until you've managed to bed every revolting slut on the planet.
Bowling is like life because we take on the same routines over and over again, thinking we're doing things the exact same way, which led to success in the past, oblivious that no two attempts at anything are exactly the same, and the line between success and failure is decided in fractions of centimeters and just the right touch.
And NASCAR is like life because it's mostly boring and just going around in circles, save for the rare crashes and rarer victories.
Baseball is like life because you need to wait your turn, benefiting from the work of those who came before you and doing your best to leave things better for those who follow you.
Basketball is like life because both consists of countless little victories and defeats, and it's important to keep an even keel -- never getting too high or too low -- but to maintain the cool that's necessary for success.
Hockey is like life because we're all stuck in the awkwardness of life, having to maneuver on a slippery surface at varying skill levels, constantly ready to burst out in fits of rage.
Soccer is like life because no matter how enthusiastic and daring our endeavors are, whatever we do is far more likely to end in failure. Even the possibility that we may be on the way to goals is worth reveling in and celebrating.
Golf is like life because despite all illusions to the contrary, we are devastatingly alone. And our accomplishments in our own personal vacuum will be constantly compared to those of others, and unless you are Tiger Woods there is always room left to ascend the neverending leader board. Satisfaction can only come from refinement, persistence and inner peace. And if you are Tiger Woods you're still never satisfied until you've managed to bed every revolting slut on the planet.
Bowling is like life because we take on the same routines over and over again, thinking we're doing things the exact same way, which led to success in the past, oblivious that no two attempts at anything are exactly the same, and the line between success and failure is decided in fractions of centimeters and just the right touch.
And NASCAR is like life because it's mostly boring and just going around in circles, save for the rare crashes and rarer victories.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Pager Days
Remember 15 years ago, when cell phones were for rich drug dealers and Zack Morris, and anyone who was anyone had a beeper? Being no one at the time, I did not have one.
Back then every TV and radio station would air commercials approximately every 45 seconds for J.J. The King of Beepers that ended "I am J.J! (guy spoke exclusively in exclamation marks) I am the owner! And I am the KING OF BEEPERS! (often he spoke in ALLCAPS). And then J.J., like Dallas Cowboys playoff success, simply vanished. Cell phones came along and the world had changed.
The beeper era, though, bears remembrance because was the birth of text messaging. People wold just sit by their phones, using them not to call each other but to tap in one-line puzzle-messages that could only be read upside down and by using quite a bit of imagination. For instance, remember that elementary school joke about Dolly Parton getting plastic surgery where you added a bunch of numbers together and got 55378008, which translated to "Boobless?" It was just like that. You could spell "love u," "call me" and other stuff somehow if you knew the right codes. 911 meant call me back immediately. I've forgotten all the other ones, but all that matters is that they once existed. And they made up a beautiful, pathetic language of seduction. And drug deals, too, I'm sure.
During the summer of 1998 I had the pleasure of borrowing my friend's beeper when he went on vacation for two weeks. I used the device to steal his girlfriend by responding to her "911" messages and paging her with clever little messages that were so confusing she had to call me so I could explain them to her. That's actually a pretty impressive accomplishment, one that the kids of today will never be able to match, what with their iBerries, sexting and Facespaces. I challenge you, young'ns: The next time you decide to violate your friendship to seduce a woman, try it by texting only numbers. If you can pull it off, both J.J. and I would be proud.
Oh, and by the way when my friend came back from vacation I gave him back that pager and the girl stopped talking to both of us because things had gotten too awkward. We all turned the page, as it were.
Back then every TV and radio station would air commercials approximately every 45 seconds for J.J. The King of Beepers that ended "I am J.J! (guy spoke exclusively in exclamation marks) I am the owner! And I am the KING OF BEEPERS! (often he spoke in ALLCAPS). And then J.J., like Dallas Cowboys playoff success, simply vanished. Cell phones came along and the world had changed.
The beeper era, though, bears remembrance because was the birth of text messaging. People wold just sit by their phones, using them not to call each other but to tap in one-line puzzle-messages that could only be read upside down and by using quite a bit of imagination. For instance, remember that elementary school joke about Dolly Parton getting plastic surgery where you added a bunch of numbers together and got 55378008, which translated to "Boobless?" It was just like that. You could spell "love u," "call me" and other stuff somehow if you knew the right codes. 911 meant call me back immediately. I've forgotten all the other ones, but all that matters is that they once existed. And they made up a beautiful, pathetic language of seduction. And drug deals, too, I'm sure.
During the summer of 1998 I had the pleasure of borrowing my friend's beeper when he went on vacation for two weeks. I used the device to steal his girlfriend by responding to her "911" messages and paging her with clever little messages that were so confusing she had to call me so I could explain them to her. That's actually a pretty impressive accomplishment, one that the kids of today will never be able to match, what with their iBerries, sexting and Facespaces. I challenge you, young'ns: The next time you decide to violate your friendship to seduce a woman, try it by texting only numbers. If you can pull it off, both J.J. and I would be proud.
Oh, and by the way when my friend came back from vacation I gave him back that pager and the girl stopped talking to both of us because things had gotten too awkward. We all turned the page, as it were.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Things That Will Happen Now That We Gots Health Care Reform
-The Death Panel, which consists of Dick Cheney, Mr. T and the clown from the miniseries IT, will now decide everyone's fate. If the panel -- which makes its decisions the same way the Batman villain Two-Face does, by flipping a coin -- says you die, you die.
-Everyone will start using the metric system, saying "aboot" and be covered in snow, rescuable only by trusty mounties.
-We will devolve into a communist society and sprout breadlines. Washington D.C. will be renamed Obamagrad. People will be kept behind walls with machine guns, we will start battling Checnya and start having awesome Olympic hockey teams.
-No one will actually get health care anymore. We'll just sit around, waiting for it because it will be rationed so severely that whatever ails us, including common colds, will kill us before we get a chance to see the doctor.
-Conservatives will start crossing the border illegally into Mexico.
-Even without conservatives in congress, Democrats will be unable to pass any meaningful legislation that doesn't devolve into a watered-down, convoluted mess.
-Everyone in America will quit their jobs and become unmotivated bums who do nothing but sit around and wait for the free health care they won't actually get.
-Small businesses will all go under and as-of-now-unheard-of things called giant corporations will emerge and start to control the economy.
-Illegal immigrants will steal your social security numbers so they can pretend they are you and not get the health care that they are not paying for, just like you.
-Doctors and execs from pharmaceutical companies and insurance agencies will become so poor they will only be able to afford 45 golf vacations a year rather than the usual 427, and they'll have to scale back to H2s or H3s rather than real Hummers. Also, their liquid gold-spouting bidets will have to be replaced by plain old liquid silver-spouting bidets. And those medical professionals who can no longer afford bidets will resort to wiping their butts with torn-up pieces of the Constitution that will be delivered directly from Obamagrad.
So basically we're all screwed. It will be sad indeed to live in a world in which the poor can afford to have their broken bones set and families will no longer be driven to bankruptcy by appendectomies. Cherish the memories of the old days, son. Cause they are gone, baby gone.
-Everyone will start using the metric system, saying "aboot" and be covered in snow, rescuable only by trusty mounties.
-We will devolve into a communist society and sprout breadlines. Washington D.C. will be renamed Obamagrad. People will be kept behind walls with machine guns, we will start battling Checnya and start having awesome Olympic hockey teams.
-No one will actually get health care anymore. We'll just sit around, waiting for it because it will be rationed so severely that whatever ails us, including common colds, will kill us before we get a chance to see the doctor.
-Conservatives will start crossing the border illegally into Mexico.
-Even without conservatives in congress, Democrats will be unable to pass any meaningful legislation that doesn't devolve into a watered-down, convoluted mess.
-Everyone in America will quit their jobs and become unmotivated bums who do nothing but sit around and wait for the free health care they won't actually get.
-Small businesses will all go under and as-of-now-unheard-of things called giant corporations will emerge and start to control the economy.
-Illegal immigrants will steal your social security numbers so they can pretend they are you and not get the health care that they are not paying for, just like you.
-Doctors and execs from pharmaceutical companies and insurance agencies will become so poor they will only be able to afford 45 golf vacations a year rather than the usual 427, and they'll have to scale back to H2s or H3s rather than real Hummers. Also, their liquid gold-spouting bidets will have to be replaced by plain old liquid silver-spouting bidets. And those medical professionals who can no longer afford bidets will resort to wiping their butts with torn-up pieces of the Constitution that will be delivered directly from Obamagrad.
So basically we're all screwed. It will be sad indeed to live in a world in which the poor can afford to have their broken bones set and families will no longer be driven to bankruptcy by appendectomies. Cherish the memories of the old days, son. Cause they are gone, baby gone.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Things Luke Tells Me To Be
My 3 year old Luke is big into role-playing. Here are things he has asked me to be when we are playing:
A cat.
A mean robot.
A nice, repogrammed robot.
The door to his train.
A horse.
A tiger.
Him, while he is me.
Him, while he is his soccer coach.
Emma, his 1 year old sister.
"Aster-boy" (Astro Boy), as well as other "Aster-things," such as an aster-robot, aster-alien and aster-pirate.
A gun.
A stool.
A mean T-rex.
A nice, reprogrammed T-rex.
Chick Hicks.
A mean army of aliens.
A cat.
A mean robot.
A nice, repogrammed robot.
The door to his train.
A horse.
A tiger.
Him, while he is me.
Him, while he is his soccer coach.
Emma, his 1 year old sister.
"Aster-boy" (Astro Boy), as well as other "Aster-things," such as an aster-robot, aster-alien and aster-pirate.
A gun.
A stool.
A mean T-rex.
A nice, reprogrammed T-rex.
Chick Hicks.
A mean army of aliens.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Statistics From My Las Vegas Sojourn
Net money won: $60
Money won at tables: $125
Money lost on basketball: $50
Money lost on slots: $15
Money spent on flight: $189
Money spent on hotel: $180
Total hours slept over three days: 11
Hours slept more than everyone else on the trip: 3
Most consecutive hours awake: 21
Text messages sent or received: 163
Times received the message "When did you start texting?": 5
Drinks imbibed: 19
Money spent on drinks, including tips: $21
Times buzzed: 2
Times drunk: 0
Racist-named mixed drinks heard invented: 1
Cab rides taken: 1
Tram rides taken: 1
Monorail rides taken: 5
Money spent on transportation: $41
Miles walked: 5
Times ate at buffets: 0
Times ate at McDonald's: 4
Times ate at Burger King: 1
Times ate at Quizno's: 2
Times ate at Nathan's: 1
Times ate at random non-Quizon's sub places: 2
Times Mormon dude recommended I bet against BYU: 1
Times that bet was successful: 1
Times Wisconsin screwed me over: 2
Times sat at blackjack tale: 2
Times sat at slot machine: 2
Money triumphantly deposited back into ATM upon return from Vegas: $350
Number of times heard Jamiroquai's "Virtual Insanity:" 3
Money won at tables: $125
Money lost on basketball: $50
Money lost on slots: $15
Money spent on flight: $189
Money spent on hotel: $180
Total hours slept over three days: 11
Hours slept more than everyone else on the trip: 3
Most consecutive hours awake: 21
Text messages sent or received: 163
Times received the message "When did you start texting?": 5
Drinks imbibed: 19
Money spent on drinks, including tips: $21
Times buzzed: 2
Times drunk: 0
Racist-named mixed drinks heard invented: 1
Cab rides taken: 1
Tram rides taken: 1
Monorail rides taken: 5
Money spent on transportation: $41
Miles walked: 5
Times ate at buffets: 0
Times ate at McDonald's: 4
Times ate at Burger King: 1
Times ate at Quizno's: 2
Times ate at Nathan's: 1
Times ate at random non-Quizon's sub places: 2
Times Mormon dude recommended I bet against BYU: 1
Times that bet was successful: 1
Times Wisconsin screwed me over: 2
Times sat at blackjack tale: 2
Times sat at slot machine: 2
Money triumphantly deposited back into ATM upon return from Vegas: $350
Number of times heard Jamiroquai's "Virtual Insanity:" 3
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
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 it doesn’t cut off her circulation. Lara propagates 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. You know, if I was still single.
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. One knock against her, though, is she digs the metrosexual type. Link is such an effeminate, gown-wearing, manicure-getting, 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/or 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 busy work 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 rogering 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 halftime 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 is enough of a minx to seduce multiple ghosts at the same time in the maze
This was stolen from 2008 because I had no time to do a post
LARA CROFT (6.5/10)
Breast size is overrated, and Lara proves that in spades. Her shirt is way too tight. She’s lucky it doesn’t cut off her circulation. Lara propagates 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. You know, if I was still single.
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. One knock against her, though, is she digs the metrosexual type. Link is such an effeminate, gown-wearing, manicure-getting, 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/or 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 busy work 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 rogering 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 halftime 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 is enough of a minx to seduce multiple ghosts at the same time in the maze
This was stolen from 2008 because I had no time to do a post
Monday, March 15, 2010
Rumspringa
The Amish have a well known ritual called Rumspringa, the ritual that allows them to take leave of their ultraconservative lives at age 16 to galavant in the city as alcoholic junkie whores for a period of time before returning to the roost.
Why should the Amish get to monopolize Rumspringa? Why don't 31 year old married fathers of two get one? Well, not to become a junkie or a whore, but instead to behave like a jackass, spend a couple days staying up all night getting drunk and gambling their money away and the next day sleeping it off, then spending the ensuing week of life as an alcohol-poisoned, sleep-deprived zombie. The answer is my people do get their own Rumspringa. And it's annual, baby, as eternal as arrested adolescence. It takes place in Las Vegas in the third weekend of March, when the NCAA Tournament and Spring Break collide into leashing an unholy mess of humanity onto Sin City.
I've been going to Las Vegas with friends for the tournament just about every year for the last decade. What was born as a quarterlife crisis is now approaching a midlife crisis, and although the sojourns grow tamer and less populated every year, as friends shy off from the tradition because of job or family responsibilities (even I ditched out last year because I had a one-month old baby), and every time I go I am so sick of Vegas by Sunday morning that I always leave for the airport hours early hoping to catch an early flight out, it's still by far the highlight of my year.
The movie The Hangover captures the essence of what a Rumspringa can mean to a man of a certain age. At home I'm a conservative 9 to 5er, but in Vegas I'm a drunken slob who thinks nothing of screaming at maximum volume at a 20-year-old sophomore on TV for missing a free throw, threatening his grandmother as I pound my fist on the chair in front of me. At home I never touch alcohol, but in Vegas, when it's flowing for free, I am Barney from the Simpsons, unleashing slurred chance for Villanova I make up on the spot because I've got $5 riding on them to win their game by 5.5 points at least. At home I work out regularly and count my calories. Well, kinda. In Vegas I inhale so much anonymous food at buffet tables that I can hardly stand to waddle my way back up to my room to recover. At home I'll scan movie reviews intently before deciding on the movie I'll pay $10 to head out to see. In Vegas a pal will suggest I plop down $20 to see some weird 30-minute IMAX movie in the bowels of the Luxor, and I'll hate every minute of it but still consider the outing a triumph because I didn't puke on my seat.
Of course, just as most Amish do as their Rumspringa comes to an end, I always look desperately forward to returning to my real life. Rumspringa helps me appreciate things I may have started to take for granted, and helps snap me back into perspective.
This contentment lasts about a week, until I come to, regain my faculties and start looking forward to next year's trip, when I'll be another year older and poorer, grayer and weaker. Ready along with any remaining friends willing to come along to give mortality the finger once more, with feeling.
Why should the Amish get to monopolize Rumspringa? Why don't 31 year old married fathers of two get one? Well, not to become a junkie or a whore, but instead to behave like a jackass, spend a couple days staying up all night getting drunk and gambling their money away and the next day sleeping it off, then spending the ensuing week of life as an alcohol-poisoned, sleep-deprived zombie. The answer is my people do get their own Rumspringa. And it's annual, baby, as eternal as arrested adolescence. It takes place in Las Vegas in the third weekend of March, when the NCAA Tournament and Spring Break collide into leashing an unholy mess of humanity onto Sin City.
I've been going to Las Vegas with friends for the tournament just about every year for the last decade. What was born as a quarterlife crisis is now approaching a midlife crisis, and although the sojourns grow tamer and less populated every year, as friends shy off from the tradition because of job or family responsibilities (even I ditched out last year because I had a one-month old baby), and every time I go I am so sick of Vegas by Sunday morning that I always leave for the airport hours early hoping to catch an early flight out, it's still by far the highlight of my year.
The movie The Hangover captures the essence of what a Rumspringa can mean to a man of a certain age. At home I'm a conservative 9 to 5er, but in Vegas I'm a drunken slob who thinks nothing of screaming at maximum volume at a 20-year-old sophomore on TV for missing a free throw, threatening his grandmother as I pound my fist on the chair in front of me. At home I never touch alcohol, but in Vegas, when it's flowing for free, I am Barney from the Simpsons, unleashing slurred chance for Villanova I make up on the spot because I've got $5 riding on them to win their game by 5.5 points at least. At home I work out regularly and count my calories. Well, kinda. In Vegas I inhale so much anonymous food at buffet tables that I can hardly stand to waddle my way back up to my room to recover. At home I'll scan movie reviews intently before deciding on the movie I'll pay $10 to head out to see. In Vegas a pal will suggest I plop down $20 to see some weird 30-minute IMAX movie in the bowels of the Luxor, and I'll hate every minute of it but still consider the outing a triumph because I didn't puke on my seat.
Of course, just as most Amish do as their Rumspringa comes to an end, I always look desperately forward to returning to my real life. Rumspringa helps me appreciate things I may have started to take for granted, and helps snap me back into perspective.
This contentment lasts about a week, until I come to, regain my faculties and start looking forward to next year's trip, when I'll be another year older and poorer, grayer and weaker. Ready along with any remaining friends willing to come along to give mortality the finger once more, with feeling.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
When Left To My Own Devices
Through a twist of fate -- my sister in law's baby shower in Phoenix that coaxed Jessica to bring the kids and leave me at home -- I was left alone pretty much the entire weekend. Being able to choose when I wake up, what I watch on TV, when I play video games and where to go to eat gave me flashbacks to 2004, when I lived in my house alone.
I was expecting to get bored, but instead it was the opposite. I had too many things to do, and because I was so unused to planning my agenda on my own it was a little stressful. It was a little like what agoraphobia must be like, only with the panic replaced with copious amounts of God of War III.
Anyway, here are things I learned about myself when I'm alone:
-I stay up too late and don't get enough sleep. Seriously, Phil? You feel the need to stay up until 2 a.m. when you know the sun from that impossibly huge window in your bedroom will wake you up at 7?
-I eat badly. When nothing's standing between me and the Philly cheesesteak place across town I've heard of for years, it's bad news.
-Eventually I will get tired of playing video games. After only a few hours, too.
-My kids and wife do not prevent me from writing a new book. Laziness does. They're here, I think "you guys are the meaning of my life but I really should be get some work done." They leave and the excuse is gone, and I realize my brain's eyes are bigger than it's stomach and I spend all my time watching old episodes of How I Met Your Mother.
-People who work 50 hour a week jobs or less with no kids, or even just one kid, should never ever complain about being too busy. Your lives are cruising down Easy Street and you don't even realize it. I had a lot of stuff to take care of this weekend - 2 hours of weed spraying in the back yard, grocery shopping, laundry and cleaning the house in my halfassed style, but it was all way too simple because a 3 year old and 1 year old weren't tugging on my legs I was trying to do it. Also, since having a second child I've lost a little bit of respect and pity for single parents of just one kid. It's really not that bad if the parent-kid ration is equal. It's when you're outnumbered that things get crazy.
-I have the tendency to go outside only when absolutely necessary. I stunned myself by not going for a run Saturday when I had so much time to do so. I will today though, after I'm done writing this, or so I tell myself.
I was expecting to get bored, but instead it was the opposite. I had too many things to do, and because I was so unused to planning my agenda on my own it was a little stressful. It was a little like what agoraphobia must be like, only with the panic replaced with copious amounts of God of War III.
Anyway, here are things I learned about myself when I'm alone:
-I stay up too late and don't get enough sleep. Seriously, Phil? You feel the need to stay up until 2 a.m. when you know the sun from that impossibly huge window in your bedroom will wake you up at 7?
-I eat badly. When nothing's standing between me and the Philly cheesesteak place across town I've heard of for years, it's bad news.
-Eventually I will get tired of playing video games. After only a few hours, too.
-My kids and wife do not prevent me from writing a new book. Laziness does. They're here, I think "you guys are the meaning of my life but I really should be get some work done." They leave and the excuse is gone, and I realize my brain's eyes are bigger than it's stomach and I spend all my time watching old episodes of How I Met Your Mother.
-People who work 50 hour a week jobs or less with no kids, or even just one kid, should never ever complain about being too busy. Your lives are cruising down Easy Street and you don't even realize it. I had a lot of stuff to take care of this weekend - 2 hours of weed spraying in the back yard, grocery shopping, laundry and cleaning the house in my halfassed style, but it was all way too simple because a 3 year old and 1 year old weren't tugging on my legs I was trying to do it. Also, since having a second child I've lost a little bit of respect and pity for single parents of just one kid. It's really not that bad if the parent-kid ration is equal. It's when you're outnumbered that things get crazy.
-I have the tendency to go outside only when absolutely necessary. I stunned myself by not going for a run Saturday when I had so much time to do so. I will today though, after I'm done writing this, or so I tell myself.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
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, Adrian, 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, Adrian, 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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Everyone Important From The 80s Is Dead
Even though I could never tell Corey Haim apart from Corey Feldman, I'm still angry that he's gone to that great big rehab facility in the sky. I'd like to take this moment to recall some of the other important people from the decade who are no longer with us. The first four all share the first name of "Mr."
Mr. Belvedere: The epitome of austere British regalness, Belvedere was an illegal immigrant before being an illegal immigrant was cool. Wesley was such a dick in that episode where he tried to get Belvedere deported. And remember that time when Belvedere got addicted to pinball and had his Hearts of Darkness Apocalypse Now Col. Kurtz moment? That ruled.
Mr. Miyagi: He was the smartest man to ever live and could karaticize a hundred Cobra Kais at the same time. Everything people were saying about Chuck Norris five years ago applied double to Miyagi. He was a renaissance man and a truly great human being, and I'm pretty sure Yoda had a poster of him on his bedroom wall when he was growing up. I guarantee you that by the time the Grim Reaper finished dragging Miyagi to the netherworld, he had a broken jaw and his scythe was shoved up his skirt.
Mr. Wizard: You know Isaac Newton, Darwin, Galileo, Marie Curie and Bill Nye? All were blithering idiots compared to Wizard, who invented most science we know today and perfected that science that existed before he was born. He would pull out those lightning balls -- you know the ones, crystal balls with lightning trapped in the middle -- to demonstrate that he had control of the very elements, not unlike Thor, Norse god of thunder. Weather itself had to ask him permission to do whatever it had planned for the day. Sometimes Wizard would approve, sometimes he'd tell it to shove it and come back to him when he wasn't so busy.
Mr. Rogers: To be honest I never much liked Mr. Rogers. Never would have wanted to be left in the same room as the guy. But he was an icon, and rumor has it he was a Vietnam sniper with a hundred thousand headshots in his day. Wikipedia makes no mention of his 'Nam experience, which probably means it's not true, but there's a reason you always thought it might have been true, right? Guy was a stone cold killer, if only metaphorically, and he was tight with King Friday. Maybe a little too tight, but whatever.
Alf: He wasn't that funny, wasn't that real looking, and wasn't big on stage presence. But Alf, like Frankenstein, did it his way, and parlayed his limited abilities into a damn respectable career. So you've gotta take your hat off to the alien puppet, because he was at least as big as Webster in his day.
Donkey Kong Jr: Nintendo shoved Jr. aside for "Diddy Kong," who I believe was a Kong that Donkey Kong Sr. adopted and decided he liked better than his own blood offspring. Somewhere Junior deliberates in seclusion, plotting his sweet revenge. And when it comes time, Junior, you shall have a brother in arms.
Bayou Billy: OK, the sign I'm pretty much done is that I'm exclusively talking about video game characters now. But what the hell, developers? Why does Bionic Commando merit a remake and Bayou Billy not? I may just have to make this game myself, and trust me, you DO NOT WANT TO SEE THAT HAPPEN.
Like this post? Check out my books.
Mr. Belvedere: The epitome of austere British regalness, Belvedere was an illegal immigrant before being an illegal immigrant was cool. Wesley was such a dick in that episode where he tried to get Belvedere deported. And remember that time when Belvedere got addicted to pinball and had his Hearts of Darkness Apocalypse Now Col. Kurtz moment? That ruled.
Mr. Miyagi: He was the smartest man to ever live and could karaticize a hundred Cobra Kais at the same time. Everything people were saying about Chuck Norris five years ago applied double to Miyagi. He was a renaissance man and a truly great human being, and I'm pretty sure Yoda had a poster of him on his bedroom wall when he was growing up. I guarantee you that by the time the Grim Reaper finished dragging Miyagi to the netherworld, he had a broken jaw and his scythe was shoved up his skirt.
Mr. Wizard: You know Isaac Newton, Darwin, Galileo, Marie Curie and Bill Nye? All were blithering idiots compared to Wizard, who invented most science we know today and perfected that science that existed before he was born. He would pull out those lightning balls -- you know the ones, crystal balls with lightning trapped in the middle -- to demonstrate that he had control of the very elements, not unlike Thor, Norse god of thunder. Weather itself had to ask him permission to do whatever it had planned for the day. Sometimes Wizard would approve, sometimes he'd tell it to shove it and come back to him when he wasn't so busy.
Mr. Rogers: To be honest I never much liked Mr. Rogers. Never would have wanted to be left in the same room as the guy. But he was an icon, and rumor has it he was a Vietnam sniper with a hundred thousand headshots in his day. Wikipedia makes no mention of his 'Nam experience, which probably means it's not true, but there's a reason you always thought it might have been true, right? Guy was a stone cold killer, if only metaphorically, and he was tight with King Friday. Maybe a little too tight, but whatever.
Alf: He wasn't that funny, wasn't that real looking, and wasn't big on stage presence. But Alf, like Frankenstein, did it his way, and parlayed his limited abilities into a damn respectable career. So you've gotta take your hat off to the alien puppet, because he was at least as big as Webster in his day.
Donkey Kong Jr: Nintendo shoved Jr. aside for "Diddy Kong," who I believe was a Kong that Donkey Kong Sr. adopted and decided he liked better than his own blood offspring. Somewhere Junior deliberates in seclusion, plotting his sweet revenge. And when it comes time, Junior, you shall have a brother in arms.
Bayou Billy: OK, the sign I'm pretty much done is that I'm exclusively talking about video game characters now. But what the hell, developers? Why does Bionic Commando merit a remake and Bayou Billy not? I may just have to make this game myself, and trust me, you DO NOT WANT TO SEE THAT HAPPEN.
Like this post? Check out my books.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
My Favorite Misquoted Song Lyrics
The song: "Hoochie Mama," 2 Live Crew
The misinterpretation: "Big booty odds, get wit it"
The real lyrics: "Big Booty hoes, up wit it"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: My friend Tyler came up with this one while we were in Las Vegas. He was drunk and wearing heelies at the time and had just heard the song in the cab for the first time despite it having existed for more than 15 years. When you're in Las Vegas, you want big booty odds so you don't get home broke.
The song: "Glory of Love," Peter Cetera
The misinterpretation: "Like a knight in China"
The real lyrics: "Like a knight in shining armor"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: My sister Laura came up with this when she was 5, and since then the image of a knight in China has just stuck in my head. It works.
The song: "It's My Life," Bon Jovi
The misinterpretation: "Like Frankenstein I did it my way"
The real lyrics: "Like Frankie said I did it my way"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: The entire civilized world came up with this interpretation immediately upon the song's release a decade to go, and since then it has been obvious that Frankenstein is the way Bon Jovi should have gone with the song. I mean, Sinatra was known for doing it his way, and even wrote his own song about doing so, but no one -- and I mean no one -- did it quite like Frankenstein.
The song: "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," Tin Pan Alley
The misinterpretation: "Buy me some crackers and Apple Jacks, I don't care if you never come back"
The real lyrics: "Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don't care if I never get back"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: Another gem from Laura, age 5. Apple Jacks are better than Cracker Jack in all ways, and it's also funny to tell the person you're with at the baseball game to do something so impossible as to somehow get you some Apple Jacks. Then you add insult to insultry by saying you don't care if they never come back. Basically Laura's version of the song is to tell your seatmate that they're talking too much and you'd rather watch the game alone.
The song: "Up in Here," DMX
The misinterpretation: "Godspomaikmee do my mind"
The real lyrics: "Y'all gonna make me lose my mind"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: Drunken Tyler again. His reimagining of the lyrics recall that of an Estonian immigrant who has never heard the English language, yet is still inspired by the joyie de vivre of the music. Tyler thought so much of his version of his version of the song that he once made his own Talk City site titled Godspomaikmee Do My Mind. It was really funny, too. And then Talk City deleted everyone's site without telling anyone and it was lost forever, then from that point on, devastated Tyler vowed never again to make another website and has held true to the promise.
The song: "Viva La Vida," Coldplay
The misinterpretation: "Roman Catholic choirs are singing"
The real lyrics: "Roman calvary choirs are singing"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: I was so sure it was "Roman Catholic choirs" that I bet Jessica, who knew otherwise, that it was. I lost the ability to name our daughter Emma because I was wrong. But then she thought about it and relented, and our daughter is named Emma. So I won, and even though things looked dark at the time, the big booty odds were up wit it.
The misinterpretation: "Big booty odds, get wit it"
The real lyrics: "Big Booty hoes, up wit it"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: My friend Tyler came up with this one while we were in Las Vegas. He was drunk and wearing heelies at the time and had just heard the song in the cab for the first time despite it having existed for more than 15 years. When you're in Las Vegas, you want big booty odds so you don't get home broke.
The song: "Glory of Love," Peter Cetera
The misinterpretation: "Like a knight in China"
The real lyrics: "Like a knight in shining armor"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: My sister Laura came up with this when she was 5, and since then the image of a knight in China has just stuck in my head. It works.
The song: "It's My Life," Bon Jovi
The misinterpretation: "Like Frankenstein I did it my way"
The real lyrics: "Like Frankie said I did it my way"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: The entire civilized world came up with this interpretation immediately upon the song's release a decade to go, and since then it has been obvious that Frankenstein is the way Bon Jovi should have gone with the song. I mean, Sinatra was known for doing it his way, and even wrote his own song about doing so, but no one -- and I mean no one -- did it quite like Frankenstein.
The song: "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," Tin Pan Alley
The misinterpretation: "Buy me some crackers and Apple Jacks, I don't care if you never come back"
The real lyrics: "Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don't care if I never get back"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: Another gem from Laura, age 5. Apple Jacks are better than Cracker Jack in all ways, and it's also funny to tell the person you're with at the baseball game to do something so impossible as to somehow get you some Apple Jacks. Then you add insult to insultry by saying you don't care if they never come back. Basically Laura's version of the song is to tell your seatmate that they're talking too much and you'd rather watch the game alone.
The song: "Up in Here," DMX
The misinterpretation: "Godspomaikmee do my mind"
The real lyrics: "Y'all gonna make me lose my mind"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: Drunken Tyler again. His reimagining of the lyrics recall that of an Estonian immigrant who has never heard the English language, yet is still inspired by the joyie de vivre of the music. Tyler thought so much of his version of his version of the song that he once made his own Talk City site titled Godspomaikmee Do My Mind. It was really funny, too. And then Talk City deleted everyone's site without telling anyone and it was lost forever, then from that point on, devastated Tyler vowed never again to make another website and has held true to the promise.
The song: "Viva La Vida," Coldplay
The misinterpretation: "Roman Catholic choirs are singing"
The real lyrics: "Roman calvary choirs are singing"
The reason the wrong lyrics are better: I was so sure it was "Roman Catholic choirs" that I bet Jessica, who knew otherwise, that it was. I lost the ability to name our daughter Emma because I was wrong. But then she thought about it and relented, and our daughter is named Emma. So I won, and even though things looked dark at the time, the big booty odds were up wit it.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Greek Gods That Should Exist But Don't
As I play God of War III and impale various Greek deities with their own pitchforks, swords and staffs, I can't help but wish the ancient folk had taken their imaginations a few steps further and come up with some more immortals for me to kill in video game form.
If the Greeks ever get a chance to take the lead in advanced civilization once again and reassert their own religious system, here are some gods they might consider.
Comcastacus, God of Cable -- At will, he decides whether or not you can go on the Internet or watch Big Love. He takes mischievous pleasure in erasing your entire DVR, yet sometimes rewards you with 3 free months of HBO for suffering his undignified pranks.
Gassius, God of Gas Prices -- A juggler by trade, his numbered balls spell out the day's charge for regular unleaded. His pet pup is Econimicus, an unpredictable sheepdog who tends to urinate on crops, causing them to fail and hurling economies into recessions.
Toby, God of Pens -- He watches over ballpoints, felt tips, and what have you, aiding the just by giving them a little extra ink when they really, really need it, and forcing leaks on the wicked.
Cardinalos, Hater of Cardinals -- He personally makes the Cardinals lose every year, sort of like the University of Washington ghost basketball player in The Sixth Man, only he's a total dick and makes this guy drop passes and that guy (looking at you, Kurt Warner) retire. His half god, half mortal son is Matt Leinart, whose greatest myth is that some believe he will be a reliable quarterback despite four years of failure.
Portopoticron -- Decides whether or not there are enough portable toilets for social functions. Also the patron god of peeing behind dumpsters while peeking over your shoulder to make sure no one is looking.
Titleninite -- A goddess dedicated to ensuring the televised equity of men's and women's basketball. Whenever an Arizona State-Washington game that inexplicably runs 40 minutes long on Fox Sports Net and causes you to miss most of the first half of the Arizona-Washington men, 'tis the grinning femme fatale Titleninite who is behind the mayhem.
If the Greeks ever get a chance to take the lead in advanced civilization once again and reassert their own religious system, here are some gods they might consider.
Comcastacus, God of Cable -- At will, he decides whether or not you can go on the Internet or watch Big Love. He takes mischievous pleasure in erasing your entire DVR, yet sometimes rewards you with 3 free months of HBO for suffering his undignified pranks.
Gassius, God of Gas Prices -- A juggler by trade, his numbered balls spell out the day's charge for regular unleaded. His pet pup is Econimicus, an unpredictable sheepdog who tends to urinate on crops, causing them to fail and hurling economies into recessions.
Toby, God of Pens -- He watches over ballpoints, felt tips, and what have you, aiding the just by giving them a little extra ink when they really, really need it, and forcing leaks on the wicked.
Cardinalos, Hater of Cardinals -- He personally makes the Cardinals lose every year, sort of like the University of Washington ghost basketball player in The Sixth Man, only he's a total dick and makes this guy drop passes and that guy (looking at you, Kurt Warner) retire. His half god, half mortal son is Matt Leinart, whose greatest myth is that some believe he will be a reliable quarterback despite four years of failure.
Portopoticron -- Decides whether or not there are enough portable toilets for social functions. Also the patron god of peeing behind dumpsters while peeking over your shoulder to make sure no one is looking.
Titleninite -- A goddess dedicated to ensuring the televised equity of men's and women's basketball. Whenever an Arizona State-Washington game that inexplicably runs 40 minutes long on Fox Sports Net and causes you to miss most of the first half of the Arizona-Washington men, 'tis the grinning femme fatale Titleninite who is behind the mayhem.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
The Most Disgusting Breakfast Cereals Of All
Ranked in order from not so gross to inedible:
5. Shredded Wheat - If you've ever wanted to know what it felt like to be a horse, make yourself a bowl of this hay-like substance, tie a saddle on yourself and nail some metal shoes onto your feet and hands and you'll be there. The least enjoyable part of the experience will be the Shredded Wheat, which can't taste any more bland than actual wheat.
4. Rice Krispies - They're good in Rice Krispy Treat form, but just about anything would be palatable if you mix it with marshmallows and butter. Unbuttered and unmallowed, Krispies are uninspired at best, a soggy mess of glop at the worst. A pathetic underachievement in cereal engineering, Krispies stands up to milk the way the Democrats do to the Republican threat of a filibuster. Within minutes Krispies lose all their integrity and morph into amoebic slimeballs that sink to the bottom of the bowl and cling to the side the way algae suckers do in aquariums.
3. Special K - "Special" is used to describe K in the same way the term is used for... well, let me stop myself before I get into trouble. Let me just say that Special K lives up to its name. The turn-offs start from the box, which usually features a 1980s aerobics woman, which is just about the opposite of sexy. From that point on you know you're in for a "healthy" experience, which means boring and gross, because Special K probably has less calories than other cereals and as everyone knows, the less calories things have the worst they taste because calories are a quantification of flavor.
2. Frosted Mini-Wheats - You may wonder why I'd rank Mini-Wheats, which include frosting, as more detestable than unfrosted Shredded Wheat. The reason is because the designers took a good idea -- to slop sugar all over something -- and only followed halfway through with the concept. As a result, when you're eating a bowl your tongue becomes accustomed to the sweetness so when you come up against the compacted hay the absence of the frost is all the more acute. If I were a medieval inquisition torturing guy I would make heretics eat bowls of Frosted Mini-Wheats until they repented and converted to the one true faith.
1. Cheerios - The name is a lie. There's nothing cheery nor worthy of an O in these circles of hateful agony. I hate Cheerios for many reasons. Maybe its their utter lack of flavor. Maybe its their tiny stature, which eludes capture by spoon when you're down to the final few bites. And maybe, just maybe, it's that my mom forced my family to eat nothing but Cheerios for several months in the 80s because we were saving up boxtops to send away for a free basketball that ended up popping on a cactus right after we got it. Cheerios, I hate you with my entire soul, as well as the souls of all my ancestors and descendants combined into one ginormous Care Bear stare of withering death-ray angst.
5. Shredded Wheat - If you've ever wanted to know what it felt like to be a horse, make yourself a bowl of this hay-like substance, tie a saddle on yourself and nail some metal shoes onto your feet and hands and you'll be there. The least enjoyable part of the experience will be the Shredded Wheat, which can't taste any more bland than actual wheat.
4. Rice Krispies - They're good in Rice Krispy Treat form, but just about anything would be palatable if you mix it with marshmallows and butter. Unbuttered and unmallowed, Krispies are uninspired at best, a soggy mess of glop at the worst. A pathetic underachievement in cereal engineering, Krispies stands up to milk the way the Democrats do to the Republican threat of a filibuster. Within minutes Krispies lose all their integrity and morph into amoebic slimeballs that sink to the bottom of the bowl and cling to the side the way algae suckers do in aquariums.
3. Special K - "Special" is used to describe K in the same way the term is used for... well, let me stop myself before I get into trouble. Let me just say that Special K lives up to its name. The turn-offs start from the box, which usually features a 1980s aerobics woman, which is just about the opposite of sexy. From that point on you know you're in for a "healthy" experience, which means boring and gross, because Special K probably has less calories than other cereals and as everyone knows, the less calories things have the worst they taste because calories are a quantification of flavor.
2. Frosted Mini-Wheats - You may wonder why I'd rank Mini-Wheats, which include frosting, as more detestable than unfrosted Shredded Wheat. The reason is because the designers took a good idea -- to slop sugar all over something -- and only followed halfway through with the concept. As a result, when you're eating a bowl your tongue becomes accustomed to the sweetness so when you come up against the compacted hay the absence of the frost is all the more acute. If I were a medieval inquisition torturing guy I would make heretics eat bowls of Frosted Mini-Wheats until they repented and converted to the one true faith.
1. Cheerios - The name is a lie. There's nothing cheery nor worthy of an O in these circles of hateful agony. I hate Cheerios for many reasons. Maybe its their utter lack of flavor. Maybe its their tiny stature, which eludes capture by spoon when you're down to the final few bites. And maybe, just maybe, it's that my mom forced my family to eat nothing but Cheerios for several months in the 80s because we were saving up boxtops to send away for a free basketball that ended up popping on a cactus right after we got it. Cheerios, I hate you with my entire soul, as well as the souls of all my ancestors and descendants combined into one ginormous Care Bear stare of withering death-ray angst.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Let's Do More With Mâché
Why is it that paper (or papier, as the French so sillily refer to it) is the only thing that gets mâchéd? Scientific fact has it that any object saturated in Plaster of Paris will harden into an tough shell impregnable to anything other than the furious swipe of a 5-year-old swinging a pinata bat.
What if we really pushed physics and engineering to the max and made steel mâché? Could you imagine how tough that material would be? You could make it into Cylon armor and conquer entire continents with only a few robots.
There are other uses for mâché that don't involve enslaving innocent populaces. What's say we built airplanes out of, say, airplane mâché. Planes wouldn't crash, they'd just bounce on the ground and begin to fly again, dropping candy canes and sunshine on the happy people below. Furthermore, we could also build houses out of stucco mâché and windows out of glass mâché . There would be no more home invasions, nor house fires, because think about it -- have you ever seen a mâché'd object catch fire? Of course not, because not only is mâché invulnerable to bullets, nuclear warfare and steel-toed boots, but it's also flame retardant.
I think I'm sort of in love with mâché. I wonder if I can get its number. I know it's weird because I'm married and have 2 kids and all but the heart wants what it wants. Mâché, I will pine for you until you're mine and our relationship status is made of commitment mâché.
What if we really pushed physics and engineering to the max and made steel mâché? Could you imagine how tough that material would be? You could make it into Cylon armor and conquer entire continents with only a few robots.
There are other uses for mâché that don't involve enslaving innocent populaces. What's say we built airplanes out of, say, airplane mâché. Planes wouldn't crash, they'd just bounce on the ground and begin to fly again, dropping candy canes and sunshine on the happy people below. Furthermore, we could also build houses out of stucco mâché and windows out of glass mâché . There would be no more home invasions, nor house fires, because think about it -- have you ever seen a mâché'd object catch fire? Of course not, because not only is mâché invulnerable to bullets, nuclear warfare and steel-toed boots, but it's also flame retardant.
I think I'm sort of in love with mâché. I wonder if I can get its number. I know it's weird because I'm married and have 2 kids and all but the heart wants what it wants. Mâché, I will pine for you until you're mine and our relationship status is made of commitment mâché.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
5 People And Things I'm Afraid Of
1. Mr. T - Anyone who's seen Rocky III is with me on this. The yellow teeth, the eyes of terror. He's such a bad man that he kills Rocky's trainer, Mickey, simply by being in the same building with him. He openly hits on Rocky's wife in front of him, then proceeds to give the greatest fighter mankind has ever known a sickening whipping that makes what Ivan Drago did to Apollo Creed seem like pat-a-cake in comparison.
2. Dick Cheney - If him and I were ever in a room together, I don't think I would be coming out of there alive. The guy carries a Darth Vader-ness to him to such an extent that it's not so much that Cheney has a Darth Vader-ness but that Darth Vader has a Dick Cheney-ness. He could snap his fingers and have me disappeared at any second. Wherefore by the grace of Dick am I allowed to walk in freedom.
3. Heights - Screw the term acrophobia. When I come to power I'm eradicating that word from the dictionary and coining "moronosity," which is the mental condition in which people for some reason are NOT afraid of heights. Because it's scary to be way up high, with nothing separating you from splatterage but what seems like a 90 billion feet fall of screaming agony and anticipation of your evolution into road pizza, even though you're only on the upper level of the mall.
4. Getting Night Frozen - Sometimes I'll wake up, only I won't wake up, because I'll be paralyzed, unable to move a finger. I think I'm halfway asleep, halfway a week, and it sucks. I can't even open my eyes. I scream as loud as I can but can hardly eke out a whisper. Sometimes I'm laying on my side and can feel a night freeze coming on so I rocket out of bed and do a little dance in order to fend it off. Yeah, I'm not what you'd call "normal."
5. Turning 50 - Wouldn't that just suck? What is there to look forward to at that point, other than annual rectal exams? I mean, it's better to turn 50 than to die at 49, but still. You're old, and there's no way around it. 40 may be the new 30, but 50 is not the new anything. It's the old everything, and although it's moderately better than being 85, it's still horrifying.
2. Dick Cheney - If him and I were ever in a room together, I don't think I would be coming out of there alive. The guy carries a Darth Vader-ness to him to such an extent that it's not so much that Cheney has a Darth Vader-ness but that Darth Vader has a Dick Cheney-ness. He could snap his fingers and have me disappeared at any second. Wherefore by the grace of Dick am I allowed to walk in freedom.
3. Heights - Screw the term acrophobia. When I come to power I'm eradicating that word from the dictionary and coining "moronosity," which is the mental condition in which people for some reason are NOT afraid of heights. Because it's scary to be way up high, with nothing separating you from splatterage but what seems like a 90 billion feet fall of screaming agony and anticipation of your evolution into road pizza, even though you're only on the upper level of the mall.
4. Getting Night Frozen - Sometimes I'll wake up, only I won't wake up, because I'll be paralyzed, unable to move a finger. I think I'm halfway asleep, halfway a week, and it sucks. I can't even open my eyes. I scream as loud as I can but can hardly eke out a whisper. Sometimes I'm laying on my side and can feel a night freeze coming on so I rocket out of bed and do a little dance in order to fend it off. Yeah, I'm not what you'd call "normal."
5. Turning 50 - Wouldn't that just suck? What is there to look forward to at that point, other than annual rectal exams? I mean, it's better to turn 50 than to die at 49, but still. You're old, and there's no way around it. 40 may be the new 30, but 50 is not the new anything. It's the old everything, and although it's moderately better than being 85, it's still horrifying.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Conspiracies I'm Trying To Get Going
I'm a big conspiracy guy. I'm always looking for the hidden angles, the secret handshakes and the man behind the curtain. I want to connect the invisible dots and believe there are secret societies of super-elites who pull all the strings and know just how everything is going to play out.
But I fear that I'm deluding myself and just believing in fairy tales for the sake of belief, and that it's a folly to string together coincidences as cause and effect. I'm terrified to imagine that my favorite conspiracies are just the work of people with too much free time who just make stuff up.
And if my fears are true, I want to be one of those guys. So following are conspiracies I have made up in the hopes I can get morons like me to believe them. I don't believe in any of these... or do I?
1. Sarah Palin paid Ryan Miller to let Sidney Crosby's gold medal match overtime game-winner past him in order to deflate American nationalism and prime Palin's bid for the 2012 presidency.
2. Barack Obama is not only not an American citizen, but nor is he an Earth citizen, and in fact hails from Triton, moon of Neptune, home to a civilization that deems it a goal to eradicate universal health care from the universe. By feigning weak-sauce health care reform that has no chance of passing even it its pathetic state, he furthers the Tritonian agenda.
3. The 1990 UNLV national championship basketball team were lizard people with time-stopping abilities, rather than humans. Because otherwise Arizona would have beaten them in the Sweet 16 that year and there wouldn't be a black hole in my soul.
4. Two and a Half Men, Dancing with the Stars, NCIS and Ghost Whisperer are secret government plans to identify viewers with no ability to decide what to watch on their own. They are implanted with subliminal messages that turn people into a massive sleeper cell that at the snap of the finger will capture and enslave all normal people.
5. Alf was not a puppet. He was a genuine alien with a heck of a personality and crackerjack timing, not unlike Yakov Smirnoff and Mr. Belvedere. Because of his puppet resemblance, Alf was able to convince NBC that he was an inanimate object and thus would be best used to entertain millions rather than be submitted to copious government tests. Alf so valued his freedom that he allowed an actor to stick his hand up his butt and pretend like he was controlling him for a half hour every Monday.
Hopefully some of these will catch on and one day believers will discover they're not real and feel every bit as crestfallen as I do.
But I fear that I'm deluding myself and just believing in fairy tales for the sake of belief, and that it's a folly to string together coincidences as cause and effect. I'm terrified to imagine that my favorite conspiracies are just the work of people with too much free time who just make stuff up.
And if my fears are true, I want to be one of those guys. So following are conspiracies I have made up in the hopes I can get morons like me to believe them. I don't believe in any of these... or do I?
1. Sarah Palin paid Ryan Miller to let Sidney Crosby's gold medal match overtime game-winner past him in order to deflate American nationalism and prime Palin's bid for the 2012 presidency.
2. Barack Obama is not only not an American citizen, but nor is he an Earth citizen, and in fact hails from Triton, moon of Neptune, home to a civilization that deems it a goal to eradicate universal health care from the universe. By feigning weak-sauce health care reform that has no chance of passing even it its pathetic state, he furthers the Tritonian agenda.
3. The 1990 UNLV national championship basketball team were lizard people with time-stopping abilities, rather than humans. Because otherwise Arizona would have beaten them in the Sweet 16 that year and there wouldn't be a black hole in my soul.
4. Two and a Half Men, Dancing with the Stars, NCIS and Ghost Whisperer are secret government plans to identify viewers with no ability to decide what to watch on their own. They are implanted with subliminal messages that turn people into a massive sleeper cell that at the snap of the finger will capture and enslave all normal people.
5. Alf was not a puppet. He was a genuine alien with a heck of a personality and crackerjack timing, not unlike Yakov Smirnoff and Mr. Belvedere. Because of his puppet resemblance, Alf was able to convince NBC that he was an inanimate object and thus would be best used to entertain millions rather than be submitted to copious government tests. Alf so valued his freedom that he allowed an actor to stick his hand up his butt and pretend like he was controlling him for a half hour every Monday.
Hopefully some of these will catch on and one day believers will discover they're not real and feel every bit as crestfallen as I do.
Monday, March 01, 2010
A Day In The Life
It seems like I've always done what I've been doing forever, and will continue to the same thing ad nauseum, marching through my standard routines throughout the rest of time.
This isn't true, though. The current rut I'm in replaced a previous rut, and is just a link in a chain of ruts that changed a little from ruts preceding, dating back to when I was 5 years old, playing with little plastic Army men and picking my nose and wiping it on the Spider-Man poster above my bed.
With that in mind I will record my current weekday rut in the interest of looking back on it one day and realizing how much everything's changed.
6:30 a.m. - 1-year-old Emma announces the new day by screaming until I lumber out of bed and pull her out of the crib. I unzip her zip-able sleep blanket and bounce her around until she snaps out of her horror and starts pointing at various objects, saying "this," asking me what each is called. I resume a Netflix I'd watched half of the night before, then I take her outside and grab the newspaper, come back inside and strap her into her high chair, dumping a handful of Cheerios and slicing 3/4 of a banana onto her tray. As I swallow my multivitamin and proceed to shovel Cinnamon Toast Crunch into my mouth, she eats some of her meal, tossing the rest of it to the ground.
6:45 a.m. - 3-year-old Luke emerges bleary-eyed from his bedroom. I hug him and say "I'm so glad you're awake!" He responds "I'm so glad you're awake, too," and asks if he can watch a show. I turn him down and microwave a frozen Costco breakfast sandwich for him, plopping the food on the counter along with a glass of milk and two Marvel heroes chewable vitamins.
7:05 - I tell Luke it's time to go wake up Mommy. He runs into our room and pounces onto the bed until Jessica wakes up. I give her a 30-second status update on the kids and shave and shower.
7:18 - I play with Luke and Emma as Jessica eats breakfast before I head off to work at 7:21.
8-4 - I zone out and crank out news stories at the Arizona Daily Star. Lunch is either Chef Boyardee ravioli or Banquet pizza & pudding, with the occasional run to Carl's Jr. for a Six Dollar Burger thrown in to keep me sane.
4:25 - I return home to Luke hiding behind the entryway to the living room, and I pretend to be scared. Emma claps and jumps into my arms. I give Jessica some free time to exercise or take a nap, handing Emma a stick of string cheese and Luke a packet of fruit snacks. When Jessica is finished, I either run or watch the kids as she makes dinner.
6:45 - After we eat, I make a bubble bath for Luke and Emma, then sit with them as they splash around and I read Sports Illustrated, Newsweek or Game Informer. If I'm done with my magazines I beg off and get Jessica to sit with them while I play a few minutes of whatever video game is tormenting me at the moment. After the bath, I dress one kid, Jessica handles the other and we sit down together to watch something on TV of Luke's choosing.
7:15 - I brush Luke's teeth as Jessica brushes Emma's. Then I read Luke a story. Most often it's something from this big Disney treasury book that has a bunch of capsulized, 10-page summaries of an assortment of animated Disney movies from the last 15 years. His favorite is the worst of the bunch -- Chicken Little. I always ask him if he wants to read Dr. Seuss's "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" -- which I never get sick of -- but most of the time he turns me down. After the story, Jessica puts Emma to bed and says prayers with Luke and talks about his day as I fire up the laptop.
7:30 - I check my email and power through my Google Reader, then start writing my Consumerist posts. Jessica either plays around on her computer as I watch a Netflix or sits besides me and watches one of the 400,000 shows she has saved up on DVR.
9 - Jessica and I lie in bed and talk about stuff for somewhere between half an hour and 90 minutes.
2-4 a.m. - One of a number potential emergencies yanks me out of bed. Emma will wake up crying, or Luke will amble out of bed shouting "Daddy, clean me!" because he's peed his bed, which happens a little less than half the time -- gradually decreasing as the boy garners nighttime control of his bladder. After I put out the fire -- the Luke peeing instance is the more arduous, requiring me to strip him down, wipe the urine off him with wet wipes, re-clothe him, start a load of laundry with the soiled clothes and bed sheets, then put him back to bed. I use the late-night wake-up to finish up my Consumerist stuff and bang out a Becauseitoldyouso post, all while watching Netflix or stuff I've got saved on the DVR. When I finish my writing, I drift back to sleep until Emma's thundering roar ushers in a new day.
This isn't true, though. The current rut I'm in replaced a previous rut, and is just a link in a chain of ruts that changed a little from ruts preceding, dating back to when I was 5 years old, playing with little plastic Army men and picking my nose and wiping it on the Spider-Man poster above my bed.
With that in mind I will record my current weekday rut in the interest of looking back on it one day and realizing how much everything's changed.
6:30 a.m. - 1-year-old Emma announces the new day by screaming until I lumber out of bed and pull her out of the crib. I unzip her zip-able sleep blanket and bounce her around until she snaps out of her horror and starts pointing at various objects, saying "this," asking me what each is called. I resume a Netflix I'd watched half of the night before, then I take her outside and grab the newspaper, come back inside and strap her into her high chair, dumping a handful of Cheerios and slicing 3/4 of a banana onto her tray. As I swallow my multivitamin and proceed to shovel Cinnamon Toast Crunch into my mouth, she eats some of her meal, tossing the rest of it to the ground.
6:45 a.m. - 3-year-old Luke emerges bleary-eyed from his bedroom. I hug him and say "I'm so glad you're awake!" He responds "I'm so glad you're awake, too," and asks if he can watch a show. I turn him down and microwave a frozen Costco breakfast sandwich for him, plopping the food on the counter along with a glass of milk and two Marvel heroes chewable vitamins.
7:05 - I tell Luke it's time to go wake up Mommy. He runs into our room and pounces onto the bed until Jessica wakes up. I give her a 30-second status update on the kids and shave and shower.
7:18 - I play with Luke and Emma as Jessica eats breakfast before I head off to work at 7:21.
8-4 - I zone out and crank out news stories at the Arizona Daily Star. Lunch is either Chef Boyardee ravioli or Banquet pizza & pudding, with the occasional run to Carl's Jr. for a Six Dollar Burger thrown in to keep me sane.
4:25 - I return home to Luke hiding behind the entryway to the living room, and I pretend to be scared. Emma claps and jumps into my arms. I give Jessica some free time to exercise or take a nap, handing Emma a stick of string cheese and Luke a packet of fruit snacks. When Jessica is finished, I either run or watch the kids as she makes dinner.
6:45 - After we eat, I make a bubble bath for Luke and Emma, then sit with them as they splash around and I read Sports Illustrated, Newsweek or Game Informer. If I'm done with my magazines I beg off and get Jessica to sit with them while I play a few minutes of whatever video game is tormenting me at the moment. After the bath, I dress one kid, Jessica handles the other and we sit down together to watch something on TV of Luke's choosing.
7:15 - I brush Luke's teeth as Jessica brushes Emma's. Then I read Luke a story. Most often it's something from this big Disney treasury book that has a bunch of capsulized, 10-page summaries of an assortment of animated Disney movies from the last 15 years. His favorite is the worst of the bunch -- Chicken Little. I always ask him if he wants to read Dr. Seuss's "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" -- which I never get sick of -- but most of the time he turns me down. After the story, Jessica puts Emma to bed and says prayers with Luke and talks about his day as I fire up the laptop.
7:30 - I check my email and power through my Google Reader, then start writing my Consumerist posts. Jessica either plays around on her computer as I watch a Netflix or sits besides me and watches one of the 400,000 shows she has saved up on DVR.
9 - Jessica and I lie in bed and talk about stuff for somewhere between half an hour and 90 minutes.
2-4 a.m. - One of a number potential emergencies yanks me out of bed. Emma will wake up crying, or Luke will amble out of bed shouting "Daddy, clean me!" because he's peed his bed, which happens a little less than half the time -- gradually decreasing as the boy garners nighttime control of his bladder. After I put out the fire -- the Luke peeing instance is the more arduous, requiring me to strip him down, wipe the urine off him with wet wipes, re-clothe him, start a load of laundry with the soiled clothes and bed sheets, then put him back to bed. I use the late-night wake-up to finish up my Consumerist stuff and bang out a Becauseitoldyouso post, all while watching Netflix or stuff I've got saved on the DVR. When I finish my writing, I drift back to sleep until Emma's thundering roar ushers in a new day.
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 FAQs I said I would always sanitize cuss words so it would be 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 FAQs I said I would always sanitize cuss words so it would be 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)