Mickey's Stupid Thoughts

Hashtags

2009-11-19T14:08:00.000-08:00

I knew buying my Three Keyboard Cat Moon t-shirt would bring up my slow-to-catch-on, geek street cred. But I want to go further and take the online around with me everywhere in a way that even my phone can't. That is why I will begin ending every statement with hashtags.

(If you are slow to #, this Google search might help).

So, for example, if my friend Seth says to me, "The Sharks are going to win the cup this year," I will reply like so: "you have a sad, sad understanding of how the universe works. Hashtag losers. Hashtag secondround."

Or, if I have to give a toast at Justin's wedding I might say, "And I hope you have a wonderful time on your honeymoon. Hashtag babymaking. Hashtag penetration."

It's so easy, the world's gonna eat it right up. Hashtag irock.

I Will One Day Crave Human Brains

2009-10-17T18:14:00.000-07:00

I have been doing an unhealthy amount of thinking about zombies today. And I have realized one thing: at the first hint of a zombie outbreak, I am finding one and letting it bite me.

I know this sounds backwards, but from what I could recollect from every zombie movie I have ever seen, this is the best plan of action for me.

You know that minor actor who is the friend/brother/life partner who gets bitten in the beginning of the movie? That’s all they get. Bitten. Well, I mean, they get undead disease too, but they only get a bite. You remember that hero who fights off hordes of zombies for ages and saves the pregnant woman/self-centered business man/young dude at personal risk? What do they get? Ripped apart and eaten alive by a mob of very starved zombies. Literally dozens of mouths and hands biting and tearing at them like they were kids getting candy that just fell out of a piñata. Vicious.

I don’t like pain.

So I will just get an easier ow-ie early and then roam around looking for some gray matter. And if the movies are true, later on I will even pop by to say ‘hi’ to my silly friends who try and survive. (Zombies clearly have some remnants of their former, not singularly food-focused selves stored away in there. Or there is a God and he really likes to fuck with people by having their undead loved ones try to devour them).

Say what you will (which is probably that I am the biggest pussy ever), but I don’t like guns and my weak, little, girlie wrists will probably break when I try to decapitate a necromorph with a shovel. Hell, I once struck out at a slow-pitch softball game, melee will do me no good. So I know my best chance at survival is to get in with the in-crowd and start trying to orally lobotomize you.

Or maybe nibble on your left arm. Because even though zombies are supposed to be into brains, I have never seen them cracking at a skull, just feasting on appendages. Which is strange.

Hmmmm. Do they ever show them trying to eat actual brains?

Now I’m starting to think this zombie thing is a gigantic sham. Fuck you, George A. Romero!

Doling Out Peace

2009-10-10T21:21:00.000-07:00

The Nobel Peace Prize was created by the man who invented dynamite. This really isn't ironic in that gunpowder had been around for ages prior and the only person I can think of who used dynamite for violent purposes is Wile E. Coyote. But something about it still seems strange. Much like Barack Obama receiving the Nobel Peace Prize. Apparently for saying words like 'hope' and 'change' and making foreign countries feel all warm and fuzzy after spending eight years with the Incarnate of Evil Administration, he is the ultimate bringer of peace (this year).

I know all sorts of people truly believe Obama deserved this. Personally, I think it is just going to mire us in more Republican trouble and headaches from cries of 'elitist' and 'Europe is evil' and set progress back even farther. But the prize has been given and I don't have a time machine or clout. However, knowing now how lax the standards are for bestowing the honor, I would like to give my short-list for next year's running.

Marvin Gaye: A posthumous award to the man who made music to which war can never be fought. When you hear those first two seconds of 'Let's Get It On' there is only one feeling roaming your skin. The feeling to start bumpin' uglies, because the blood is pumping to the goods.

Dan Brown: Generally it is believed that ignorance is a leading cause of violence. The theory is that the undereducated tend to be more of an aggressive bunch because they are not civilized blah-blippity-blah-blah. But the way in which Dan Brown dumbs people down does not lead to violence (except among those fairy, 'reader' types, right?). Dan 'The Metaphor Crusher' Brown slaps around the English language like a pimp and makes it his whore, bending whatever ungodly way it needs to bend for the money. The result is a pile of rubbish that leaves the reader a slobbering, lobotomized mess, not likely to hurt a poorly depicted fly.

Glenn Beck: Because that would just be funny as fuck.

The Internet: The award would have to be diced up and given to those sites most deserving, but the Internet on the whole would be the winner. For that first time you came across YouTube and you didn't stop clicking through links until that lingering smell of four day old poop in your pants finally registered with your Numa Numa saturated brain. Facebook quizzes eat larger and larger hours out of your work, personal and love-making time. Your Amazon cart fills with purchases you'd someday like to make and Wikipedia prepares you for Jeopardy. The Internet is a master at keeping the peace (except for WoW griefers) because the only time you get violent is when your DSL lag causes hiccups in your new favorite Kanye West/Debbie Does Dallas/Auto-Tune mash-up. (Don't you try to bring up Twitter and Iran as a 'real' example. I will cut you!)

Television: This is my personal favorite to win. With all do respect to the Internet, Television has been keeping people docile and un-rebelious for far, far longer. And, unlike the Internet, Television is not interactive. When you hang out with Television, you are in a near catatonic state. The only thing proving brain activity is your hand moving from the Cheetos bag to your mouth to your pants (for a napkin!). I think the addiction to reality TV creates far more complancency than even internet porn. Yes, Television has kept Americans (and many other countries' citizens) an apathetic and fat-assed class for decades past and (knock on wood, says the politician) decades future. Also, it has some really, really good shows. I can seriously give you a list for your TiVo if you like. Seriously.

I hope the Nobel Prize Commitee will take my selections into consideration because I think they are genuinely good prospects. And also, the Commitee have really proven that they don't give a crap and just phone in their votes anyway. Maybe Television has had it's way with them too and that's why they gave their award to a man who has done little to nothing. I mean, we all know Television (except for that scrotum-like Fox News section) says Barry rulez.

Steve Jobs < Jesus

2009-10-05T14:03:00.000-07:00

I know all you iPhone-toting douche bags want to think Steve Jobs is the Second Coming. He isn't. And despite the fact that I know this because Jesus and I have regular games of drunken darts and tickle fights, I am aware you won't believe me. Still, will you stop trying to convince yourself that the iPhone is the cause for any other company's success or failure within the last century?

I really hate it when articles involve the iPhone in places it doesn't generally belong. Like a recent New York Times piece that, essentially, says that the video game industry is being brought to it's knees by the 99 cent casual games purchased on iTunes.

Here is the question that seems to drive the whole article: "How can Nintendo, Sony and Microsoft keep consumers hooked on game-only consoles, like the Wii or even the PlayStation Portable, when Apple offers games on popular, everyday devices that double as cellphones and music players?"

That is one of the most retarded question I have heard asked by a professional journalist in a... well, OK, probably not that long.

Still what follows is a piece about the recent downturn in the console market and how it is nearly entirely caused by the success of the iPhone and not like, say, oh, I don't know, a MELTDOWN OF THE GLOBAL FUCKING ECONOMY! Yeah, nothing to do with the NEAR DEPRESSION we are working ourselves out of. Video games are fucked because of the goddamn, perfect and heavenly iPhone.

That is like saying that the board game industry fell to pieces when the New York Times added crossword puzzles.

It is two entirely different markets. It can somewhat be related the Wii's success due to it's broader appeal and ease of use. Without these Nintendo would not have a console in my mother's home and even my grandmother's home. Just because Grammy has a Wii doesn't mean that the Halo universe or the GTA franchise have crumbled and moved into the bobble-head racer genre. Hardcore and casual can, surprisingly, co-exist.

Casual gaming on your iPhone is a success because it allows people a simple way to kill time on the subway or in the lobby. But you are not going to get the depth, graphics or many of the other things you get on a console.

Yes, there are things consoles can improve on. For example, Microsoft can make a system that doesn't have a higher death rate than cancer patients. Sony can quit over-charging for technology that is as much of an improvement as putting a little make-up on Natalie Portman (that means it was already pretty to begin with). Nintendo can try and stop all the crappy shovelware and woo real publishers back.

But the game market isn't going through armageddon because of the jEsusPhone. It's not movie theater to home theater crisis or newspaper to internet disaster. It's Sear's Catalog to Sick Fetish Monthly.

So shut the fuck up about the goddamn iPhone.

P.S. The "iPhone-toting douche bags" thing doesn't apply to my sister or her husband.

It's The End Of The World (Again). Sigh.

2009-09-25T19:34:00.000-07:00

I have a sick obsession with doomsday. Anytime Discovery or National Geographic or The History Channel air anything to do with Armageddon (in the biblical or the secular, science-y asteroid type), I am there. As a kid I used to love to be spooked by The Weekly World News. I can't stay away.

But even I can't buy this crap: 'Web-bot project' makes prophecy of 2012 apocalypse.

You should read the article, but if you're too lazy I'll summarize. There is this web tool that has supposedly predicted September 11th, The Boxing Day Tsunami and Hurricane Katrina by perusing the under workings of the internet. And now it is saying the Mayan Calendar Doomsday theory is right, we will all die on December 21, 2012.

How does this sophisticated machine work? Much like Google. It crawls the web, finds keywords and trending topics and, unlike Google, tells us we will all perish in a tragic, fiery way. Because you know that those damned tectonic plates were tweeting up a storm about throwing a big wave a Thailand. And those storm clouds were blogging about their true desire to make Bush look bad while getting the satisfaction of drowning poor people.

The internet CANNOT predict natural disasters. Scientists can create simulations for studies that become popular and crawl up the search results, but that doesn't mean it's going to happen! Yes, maybe it could be helpful for human created acts, like September 11th, but that's it.

And maybe these findings are skewed by that crappy new Roland Emmerich movie and searches and stories that would increase the number '2012.'

Still, 12/21/2012 is a Doomsday scenario I know little about, so I took to Google (and helped the Web-bot get even more stubborn on it's feelings of correctness). One of the first few articles I came across was actually a little frightening. The author took the convincing scientific approach to proving the downfall of human civilization. All sorts of events are going to happen to form a perfect fry-the-earth event with solar flares and gravitational forces and pole shifting and celestial alignment.

The only problems are that the galactic alignment happens over 36 years and it's peak was in 1998 and "polar shift" isn't even the correct event, it would be geomagnetic reversal, which happens over 5000 years, not one day.

It's the end of a calendar. As one great article borrowed from a book: "…when a calendar comes to the end of a cycle, it just rolls over into the next cycle. In our Western society, every year 31 December is followed, not by the End of the World, but by 1 January. So 13.0.0.0.0 in the Mayan calendar will be followed by 0.0.0.0.1 – or good-ol' 22 December 2012, with only a few shopping days left to Christmas."

It's that simple. And this is coming from a guy who might as well have doomsday trading cards and posters and bedsheets. It's a calendar that flips to the next cycle.

And what if it is the end? I don't want to know. Sure, I like shows about super volcanoes, but I am having enough trouble enjoying life while I am trying to find a new place to live. How would I do anything if I knew that I was going to die and there was no way around it? I want to enjoy life while it is right here and stop worrying about tomorrow. (Yeah, like that'll happen).

Also, if I am wrong, we'll apparently be dead so quick you'll never have the chance to say I told you so.

Kitty

2009-07-14T20:20:00.000-07:00

My cat had to be put down today. And I was three thousand six hundred some odd miles away.

My friend found PigPen being attacked by some kids about 8 years ago. She had seen him around with no apparent home, so she defended him from the brats and then called me. I have always been a sucker for cats.

And I knew Piggy was special because unlike most cats he was not only very excited to be in my car, but when we got to my apartment, as opposed to running and hiding like most would, he hopped up on my bed, felt around for a moment, seemed to think “this will do,” and curled right up.

He was great like that.

Years ago I almost had to give him up to the Humane Society, which, contrary to their name, probably would have meant certain death. I was moving and I didn't have a definite place for him to live. We tried my girlfriend's family, but PigPen and their dog did not have the greatest compatibility. So I turned to my last source, my parents.

My family had cats over the years, so one wouldn't have thought that turning to my parents would have been that hard. But my sister had to go and ruin the party (sorry, Laurie), because her adorable, fatty cat, Buster, was a pee-er. He had previously marked his territory on her rock star roommate's head while he was sleeping. So my mom was hesitant to let him move in. And sure enough, Buster did some piddling around the household.

So cats were barred. Until Piggy faced a near-death sentence at the hands of non-adoption at the Humane Society.

But my parents took pity on me and my kitty (which is what they would continue to call him). Initially banished to “my” room (or the guest room that used to be my room), Piggy/Kitty was quickly allowed out to wander the hallowed grounds of the house. A few years later, he would be master of the house as I left the east coast for San Francisco.

My mom swears he hated her for the longest time. I don't know if that is true, but I know that he and my dad hit it right off. In fact, the last I knew, my parents' sleeping arrangements consisted of them, their collie, their german shepard and my cat, who would be curled up on my dad. He would lie down on the blueprints my dad was working on and sit on the back of the computer chair when my dad was there. And when I found a new place to live that could have included Piggy, my dad approached me in the most adorable fashion to say how I would probably just end up moving again, and all that moving wouldn't be good for Kitty, so... why not just leave him here. It was sweet.

Which is why I was glad that my dad was there with him, right until the very end.

On Sunday my mom said that Kitty was very melancholy so they would be taking him to the vets. Monday she called to tell me that a tooth infection had potentially caused his kidneys to shut down, so they would be doing blood work overnight. This morning my dad called me and said, “I have some bad news.”

He was already gone.

The thing that is most troublesome to me is that I couldn't be there. I had a whole night of knowing that he might possibly be gone the next day and I couldn't just zip on over to be there with him. I know he probably wasn't really missing me those last few hours, it had been a long time since he actually lived with me. But whenever I came home, he came right out of hiding. He might have not let me pet him because he was a little pissed that it took me so long to come back and visit, but he would always come out. And when I watched my parents house while they went on luxurious vacations, he always slept with me.

Now, the next time I go home, he won't be tiredly strutting around that corner. He won't be doing that love-proving thing where he gets you petting him and then slowly inches away to test if you will move just to keep making him happy. He won't be there doing any of the things that I so fondly remember. And I can survive that, but I just wish I could have seen him do it all one last time.

Which then leads me to the bigger worry. What if a scenario like this happens again? And what if it happens with a family member or a friend? And I'm stuck at my terrible little-box retail store with no resources and no feasible ability to get myself on a red eye and be back home with the ones I love.

That thought frightens the hell out of me.

A lot of things can suck about living in the city: jobs, roommates, expenses. But those things are able to change. The one solid sacrifice that I have to make to live here is to be virtually a universe away from my mom and dad and sister and brother-in-law and nephew and niece. The people who I will always love most in this world. And it's moments like this when I have to question if it's worth it.

To not be able to take a short trip to watch a football game with my parents. To consistently miss my nephew's birthdays. To not watch as my niece learns to walk.

For better or worse, that is the path I have chosen and will continue on. I am sure PigPen knew I loved him just as I am sure my family knows I love them and I guess that will have to do for now. (Cue the “Avenue Q” song For Now.)

I am going to attempt to quit being so mopey now and go and watch The State which, incidentally, was finally released on DVD today after years of fan warfare on MTV. You should buy it because it is one of the greatest sketch comedy shows ever (though some of the routines are a little dated and not understandable if you didn't watch MTV then). Ignore that last parenthetical remark. It may have made you not want to buy it. Which you should. Just as I should stop typing now.

RIP PigPen/Piggy/Kitty

2009-05-19T20:58:00.000-07:00

Steroids in baseball is all the rage these days. And, on the whole, creating all sorts of rage. But, unfortunately, not exciting on-field 'roid rage. Instead, “fan” rage. And if you really want to get your finger on the pulse of this elitist fan retardation, you need to read online comments.

There was a refreshing opinion piece on nytimes.com today entitled “Is Manny Ramirez Really All That Bad?” You should read it yourself, but I will recap a little. The focus was on the fact that technology plays an important role in athletes' physique and abilities. So why should we consider a little doping to be the equivalent of crucifying Christ himself? Cyclists train in wind tunnels, there are computer simulations, high-tech footwear as well as other equipment and, best of all, Tiger Woods paid for surgery that gave him 20/15 vision. Those are all OK by society's standards, but a little bit of extra testosterone is disgusting? It was decently thought out and a pretty well put together argument by author Randy Cohen.

Then you read the internet's open mic for douche bags, the comment section. Just like so many self-righteous talking heads, many commenters blindly defend the “integrity” of the game, they whine about cheating and there was even an accusation that getting needled in the buttocks by your trainer is the equivalent to theft.

First of all, let's just make this clear: these guys get paid to hit a ball. Wait, let me rephrase that: these guys get paid ridiculous sums of money to hit a ball. And fans pay equally ridiculous sums of money to wear their jerseys, to sit in the stands, to get an autograph. These are not quantum physicists, brain surgeons or even coal minors. They're cheating is not the equivalent of scientists hiding bad pharmaceutical test results and causing future patients to die. Or an architect cutting costs, despite the knowledge that it will threaten the building's stability. These guys stand in a field while a million eyes watch them and they try to hit a ball.

Your cheating argument is fine, but let's not blow this issue out of proportion. I think Barry Bonds deserves an asterisk after his name. Maybe Manny should be eliminated from Hall of Fame contention. Then again, he is the man for which the adage “Manny being Manny” was created, so it is possible to assume he just juiced once for a lark so he could get an extended vacation in the middle of the season.

As for these fanatics who flip out at the idea of an impure athlete, how pure are they? Whether they are a beer guzzling, Laz-E-Boy type or still fit as in their prime, how many of them have never taken some drugs or cheated a little at their job or said an unforgivable word or had a 42 year-old woman accuse them of throwing her on a bed at the Ritz-Carlton in Pentagon City, VA, biting her on the back 15 times, sodomizing her, and forcing her to perform oral sex on him? Glass houses, baby.

You have a problem with performance enhancing drugs? Well then I assume you hate Hendrix and The Who. You would have preferred The Beatles stuck with the “Do You Want To Know A Secret” route. I am sure you despise Dazed and Confused or any Dave Chapelle film. Or many other creative works dated past the 1960s.

And while we're on the subject of performance enhancing drugs, Mr. Critic, why don't we discuss your collection of Viagra? I would say that lasting up to four hours is a better performance than you ever gave in your prime.

Ms. California got a performance enhancing boob job paid for by the Miss California Pageant, so her crown should disappear like her top did on that darn windy day. And let's not watch any actors who get any sort of cosmetic surgery to pretty them up for a few more years, because not all actors can afford that, therefore it is not a level playing field.

OK, comparing ill gotten biceps to gravity defying knockers is a little unfair. But both have an equal amount of impact on my life. Which is less than and not equal to, say, the economy.

One commenter had the stones (most likely in his brains, not in his pants) to say that baseball should have a one strike an your out policy because that's what bankers who cook the books get. Are you effin' kidding me?!?! Do you read any articles outside of the sports pages, jackass?

And this is where the problem lies for me. Yes, in a sport like football, steroid abuse could have a much more dangerous effect than in a sport like golf and it shouldn't be tolerated. Steroids can lead to other drug abuses. Of course we should never promote it because I don't want to see Little Leaguers sneaking HGH like they do with the chew and becoming mutant ogres when they get older. But, as commenter “ron” says: it seems like more people care about drugs in baseball then the torture of detainees in US custody.

You can eliminate steroids and HGH and something else is destined to come along. And athletes will continue to do them because they have little planned outside of sports, not all can become analysts and, did you know, that on average it takes 2 years for NFL players and 5 years for NBA players to go broke in retirement and I don't think the prospects are better for other athletes. Even big stars. In other words, athletes are fucked anyway.

So before we worry about who is juiced and who is not, why don't we get athletes, and everyone else for that matter, a little Economics 101 help today. Because you'll still be a season ticket holder tomorrow.

Thanks to all your integrity.

Post-Childhood-Neo-Traumatic-Stress Disorder

2009-02-26T21:03:00.000-08:00

I remember the day I visited my parents to find they had torn down the wall that divided the living room and the kitchen in my childhood home. Growing up, we were not the Joads living in a shanty in some sort of 1930's Hooverville, but I didn't grow up in a particularly large house either. It was big enough that my sister and I had our own rooms. It was also small enough that the newly non-existent wall was very noticeable.

And, apparently, very traumatic for me at the time.

Walls don't just disappear on their own. Nor do ceilings have the capability to fix the sizable hole that would have developed when said wall went missing. This was obviously a project that took a fair under-taking on my dad's part. Why wasn't I consulted? Why had they not tallied my vote on this dramatic change? Yes, it looked nice and gave the house a slightly bigger feel, but did they not realize this would do damage to me? That space was filled with wall since (at age three) I learned it existed. That wall was supposed be there.

Nay! That wall was destined to be there.

It actually shouldn't have done damage to me. And I am probably over-exaggerating the magnitude with which omitted plaster and 2x4s harmed my life. Nonetheless, when my eyes met the lack of room division, I was worried that I had accidentally ingested LSD or that my mutant powers had finally kicked in or that I had forgotten to take off my X-Ray Specs. So I had to walk over and feel the nothingness now dwindling between the realms of the food and television.

It was actually gone. As if it had never existed. As if it were Keyser Soze.

This knee to the groin of my inner child was good for me. It prepared the adult me for the disappoints that the memory me would continue to suffer. Like today.

About a week ago I was ordering a book on Amazon. I also noticed that the 25th Anniversary Edition of Trivial Pursuit was half-price. Hooray! I love many board games, and I certainly have a big, warm, fuzzy, cuddly hammock in my heart for Trivial Pursuit to curl up and lie down in forever. Half-off? Awesome game? It was destined to be. No need to read reviews or descriptions because this is a board game staple.

Today I giddily cut the tape off of that Amazon box and pulled out my new possession. It had strange , tacky box art, but that really didn't matter because inside was still Trivial Pursuit. My eyes soaked in the sight hungrily (of course, my belly was kind of hungry, so it might have been affecting my eyes). Shiny. New. Fresh-ish questions. Trivial Pursuit. Good ole Trivial Pursuit.

Let's just read the back to see how they describe this quarter-of-a-century lasting classic:

For the first time ever, Trivial Pursuit cards cover one topic with three question levels: easy, medium and hard. The more challenging the question you answer, the farther you'll move along the bonus track. And that's not all. The zones along the track let you steal wedges, move opponents' tokens, and more!

WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!?!?!

Bonus track? Stealing wedges? Three levels of questions? THIS IS NOT EFFIN' TRIVIAL PURSUIT!

It used to be that this game was for adults with moderate intelligence. If that was too much, you could get specialized versions like Star Wars Trivial Pursuit. And if you thought high-fiving was cool you could just get the Kids version (or just get Chutes and Ladders because, let's face it, you are probably too stupid to understand the rules of the game anyway).

And though this was not actually a game I played in early childhood it is not the first game I have found to be ruined. If The Game Of Life was an activity you enjoyed while you were young then I have news: THEY FUCKED THAT UP TO!

Why is there this new fascination with trying to make classic, time-tested things updated and hip? If something is really good, it will last, no fixing required. I know that not a whole lot of people play chess, but you still see mountains of them offered at all sorts of varieties of stores. And they didn't need to give the queen machine guns or make the pawns squeal like pigs when they are crushed like soulless automatons for the great good. It is still the same damn game and it still sells just fine.

It is in the same vein with the movie industry's inability to come up with new ideas, so they keep rehashing old ones (“But this time they have great visual effects!”). It seems like there is nothing new, so in an attempt to make things feel new companies need to screw with classic stuff in indescribably frustrating ways.

I know some games are reworked under a different name and while it is lame, it is fine. Because I would know not to buy Pivial Trursuit: Stupid New Reinventing The Wheel For Assholes Edition. I will not drink Coke Zero or whatever new failed version of Pepsi will be released this week. Because the old ones taste great. You don't need to do anything more to them. Start making new drinks. Have some balls like this Indian company that is going to produce cow-urine soda.

Still, I worry about what is next. I know Jeopardy's audience is an aging one. Does that mean they will feel the need to jazz it up?

“You know, Alex, you can be a smarmy bastard with the contestants, so why not kick it up a notch. Be a Canadian Simon Cowell to get the kids interested.”

Then, after a contestant gets one wrong, Trebeck can give him a little what for. “You stupid, little, ignorant, dick face. The correct response is 'what is Han Jingdi,' not 'Han Wudi.' Your brain cells must have withered away since learning that one foot goes in front of the other. The primordial ooze that swishes around in that soft cranium of yours should be a disappointment to your mother who I hope, for her sake, is dead so she does not have to suffer the social stigmata of your embarrassing televised answer. As a matter of fact, I am now having the producers shut off your buzzer so that you can spare what is left of your now stained family name. Please leave the stage.”

Carrot Top can co-host and a shitty techno remix of the Jeopardy theme song can play as they go to commercial.

We can make Post Offices giant ball pits so everyone can have fun while they wait for the old lady to count out eight hundred and forty pennies. We can constantly vary the frequency and time permitted at crosswalks to make it more interesting for drivers and pedestrians alike. We can secretly switch some firefighters hoses with flame throwers. Let's add chainsaws to kickball and make it a grudge-match-style competition that can air at 2 a.m. on ESPN.

Seriously, how far are we going to go to preserve this craving for new entertainment that is not backed up with original ideas?

Trivial Pursuit might have been a boring game for some people, but then they just don't need to buy it! Right?! And if the fine folks at Parker Brothers had any ability left after corporate life became their only life, then they could get some minds together and CREATE a NEW game for the people who don't like Trivial Pursuit. Or they could just steal a good idea from a self-publisher who does not have the ability to mass market. Companies never have any problem doing that. As long as they are leaving my games alone then I don't care.

But I guess one thing that really bothers me about this whole board game drama is me. Am I really becoming such a crotchety old man that I am once again saying, “back in my day, there was no need for three level questions. People who knew how to read could play the game with just one question per category per card. None of this rootin' tootin' three level hee-haw gibber gabber.”

I have always known that if I lived to be old I wanted to be a creepy old man in a creepy old house. Not the kiddie-molester type of creepy, mind you. I would not have any popsicles down in a freezer in my basement or drive a “rape van.” I would be the scary, angry type. Quite literally screaming at the kids to get off my very unkempt lawn. And they would bicycle quickly past my house so that the frightening gargoyles adorning my roof couldn't catch them. If I did my job right, as they got older, they would get braver and egg my house just so they could see my coming running out in my underwear, bouncing around all willy nilly with my hairy crack exposed to the world while I fruitlessly try to throw egg shell remnants and yolky liquid back at them.

I probably will be that angry man. The reason being, of course, because by that time I would have had to hemorrhage out enough cash for the “Classic” editions of everything I loved. Because companies will have never learned to leave the good things alone. And I will be an idiot who buys the messed up “hip” version because I am stupid and will still not read the description on something I think has no reason to change.

Evolution for people. Stagnation for Trivial Pursuit. Please.

P.S. I have a spam mail for male enhancement with the subject line, “Your little friend is watching you tie your shoes?”

Eight And A Half Pounds Of Gold Plated Tin

2009-02-22T16:33:00.000-08:00

There is a lot of debate this year as to why The Dark Knight did not receive a Best Picture nomination. Though I have not seen The Curious Case of Boring Boredom Sleepy Time Movie I bet Batman had the better movie. Knight (as they probably say in the industry because they are cool) was a good movie. A really good movie. But was it that good?

I am going to ask you a question and I want you to be really honest with yourself. Don't feel bad for knowing what is true. Here it goes: If Heath Ledger hadn't died, would we be having this discussion?

Let's be really honest now. Screw the Best Picture category. If Heath Ledger hadn't died, would he really be up for Best Supporting Actor? I agree, he did a phenomenal job and was, in my opinion, the person that made that movie worth watching. His performance was outstanding and he was showing the world what a ranged and gifted actor he could be. But if he hadn't died, The Joker would have been remembered as a really cool role he played between Brokeback Mountain-esque films that would have been built to be Best Picture nominees. Not the defining role of his career.

“But look at the box office numbers! The Dark Knight should be nominated on that alone!”

Yes, occasionally the stars do align so that a film like The Godfather is a box office and critical success, but we all know that the Best Picture is about big budget art house films. Going by numbers, Mall Cop could be a contender next year. And if you want to bring in the numbers, I will show how devoid I am of emotion as I invoke Heath Ledger's death once more: If we are being completely honest, had he not died, would The Caped Crusader have captured so much success?

Seriously. You can tell anyone you like what an evil, evil,bad photocopy of a human being I am, but inside your head, answer honestly.

There was buzz because of his great performance, but it was also his last performance. It was potentially the performance that killed him. I am not saying studios should off actors to help in tough times (unless it is somehow involving David Schwimmer [maybe in a snuff film so we can all enjoy it]), but his demise helped to raise that film and it's profits.

Maybe if they had cut that last ten minutes of preachy, monologuing, I would call it an Oscar worthy, great film on it's own merits. Then again, it is preachiness that gets you the nod, isn't it? But as my friend Seth posed to me as I was asking him these questions, “And besides, Iron Man was a way better film, bro.”

I agree. It had action, it had really good comedy and it had political points that were obvious without bludgeoning you like a baby seal. So why aren't we making the case for Tony Stark?

Because Robert Downey Jr. still lives. And he got nominated for doing black-face.

Not only did he do black-face, but he was part of an on-screen conversation that I had been arguing for years. If you want an Oscar, you have to do retard.

But what does an Oscar really matter? It ups your pay check and it gives you cred. Does it really matter for your rememberability? Probably not.

Quickly, without Google, who won the Best Actress award in 1986? 1990? 2000? 2006?

I believe Alfed Hitchcock's only Oscar was a Lifetime Achievement award even though he was nominated 6 times.

Heath Ledger was a great actor in his own right. And I hope he doesn't become the James Dean of our generation; just a poster hanging in dorm rooms of people who have never and will never see his unfortunately short list of films.

He might have won plenty of Oscars had he seen more days. But The Joker should not be his defining role and The Dark Knight was not an Oscar worthy movie.

Sorry.

P.S. If we are going to have that reel of pictures of movie industry people who died in the last year, can we please cut out the audience “appreciation” clapping. Just because the guy who built a better camera isn't as known as an actor, doesn't mean he deserves any less applause. And to hear that small smattering of polite golf clap followed by thunderous, room shaking cheers just makes me sad.

And probably the tech guy's family too.

Unicorns Are Not Masculine

2009-02-17T20:56:00.000-08:00

(Note: While I am generally a fan of the thesaurus, I used the word “gay” 219 times in this piece. I am not trying to be derogatory [more than usual, anyway]. Since I was already being callous, I figured I would just stick with “gay” as opposed to starting down the woeful path of synonyms like “faggy,” “queer,” “fairy,” etc. Just remember that gay also means happy and enjoy.)

I was going to write a piece of biting social commentary in the vein of Eddie Murphy's classic SNL white face comedy bit. I was going to attack all those Vast Right Wing Conspiracy Theorists with their ignorant preachings of how people choose to be gay. I was going to attempt to choose to be gay and find the pleasant surprises it brought to life. Satirically.

But then I realized a number of things: A) Only a small number of friends and family actually read my strange scrawlings, so I would do absolutely no damage to the Right Wing. B) I really don't think I want to fiddle another man's faddle, so it would only be a very superficial, Will & Grace style homosexuality. C) The joke is already kind of tired and stupid because most people realize attraction to the same sex is not a choice and, more importantly, there is nothing wrong with it.

But probably the biggest reason as to why I never finished the piece is the fact that I already am SUPER gay.

Not really. No parades of pride or anything like that. I am not the lovable gay who can get catty with you about The Hills or whatever other things gays like to love and trash. I am not the type of gay that can redecorate your house or correct your clothing choices. I will not drink glasses of wine and eat fine cheeses. Potentially I could be one of those crazy mustache, biker-type gays, but that is not me. Though I am not afraid to boogie down like Spiderman to It's Raining Men.

Still, I am super gay. My type of gay is one that exists, I believe, only in straight men. Let me just warn you now that it can be quite distressing, disturbing and nauseating.

What is it? Well, I don't know why it is and I don't know how to stop it, but for some reason I just can't stop sexually harassing my male friends. And I am not talking about little asides. I am talking about things that would make fetish film producers blush. The homo-eroticism of tights-wearing, ass-slapping, frat boy, football teammates ain't got nothing on me.

And I wish I could say it was some altruistic, post-feminist support of women who are too often objectified and treated as nothing more than creatures to meet the fantastical sexual needs of men. But it's not.

And I don't think it is because deep down I have some well-decorated closet to break free of. 9 times out of 10 I would choose a vagina over a penis. What about the tenth time? I would be choosing none of the above, because that skank's got a nasty kooch. It would be like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. No fun for anyone involved.

For some reason, however, I just can't stop with the comments. It starts with a simple term of affection like “honey pie,” “sweet cheeks,” or “finger puppet.” Some how it always ends with a “let me fondle you” or a whispered “I want you inside me.” And when words aren't enough I just like to loudly smell them while I am walking by.

Yes, you are now disturbed. And being that this is the first time I have really contemplated these actions, I am even more disturbed than you.

I began thinking about this because one of my victims, who I think is most disturbed of all, has recently began promising me a list of what men are supposed to say to each other. Since he has not provided said list, and because it might be a good training course for my rehabilitation, here is what manly straight men should apparently be saying to each other, as compiled in my mind:

“Hey, Teddy, check out the boobies on that fetching lass.”

“Girls have cooties, but I do sure love to do them.”

“NASCAR might not be environmentally friendly or any fun to watch, but I love it.”

“I admire firemen for their tough work and not for their centerfold bodies that I wish I had so I wouldn't disappoint my feminine other with my flabby bag of folding flesh.”

“Beer is only meant to come from a can, like soda and beans.”

“Cans makes me think of jugs, which is also another word for ladies' luscious love globes.”

“Tupperware is only useful to hold my corpse until Science finds a cure for whatever ass-kicking way I died.”

“Reading is the leading cause of retardation.”

“Yes, I am an inattentive husband. And yes, the ugliest, butt-crackiest plumber could probably have a chance with my depressed, pill-popping wife. But I can still drink you under the table.”

“Diet soda leads to premature ejaculation.”

“Fuck teachers. And don't fund them or their stupid educational system either.”

“My other car is a fishing boat which is exactly why women love me and fish fear me.”

“I retain life by eating the souls of wild creatures. (Actually, most of them are tame, raised in cages and then slaughtered some where far, far away. But I am still not afraid of mad cow disease or salmonella, fuckler.)”

“I only brake for Jesus.”

“Beers, bitches and biplanes.”

“I did not get weepy during the 7th Harry Potter book, because I already told you that reading is for retards.”

“Suckle mine wang, wench.”

“Fruit is only good when delicately chopped up and put in pancakes that I can soak with 500 times their weight in Aunt Jemima.”

“I got crabs, but I will be sanitary and Saran Wrap my junk before I come over to your house.”

OK, it got a little “bumper-stickery” in there, but I assume "real" men only learn vocabulary from tailgates and Larry The Cable Guy while they drive their 18-wheelers and slug down some Buds. Oh, and they probably picked a little something up from Hair Metal too.

Since I have no real end, I will just tack on this true story from the original “I'm going to choose to be gay piece”: I told my friend that from now on I would be gay. She said, “you will be like a unicorn.”

Sadly, while homosexuals are cut from a special cloth, they are not magical. Also, it is now proven men aren't the only ones who say the fuckedest things. Sober.

Divining Divinity

2009-02-06T18:51:00.000-08:00

A friend recently asked me, “do you think scientists will ever splice DNA?” This, of course, could leave mankind, while not entirely X-Men like, with wings or gills or no need for Enzyte thanks to horse genes.

My response to him was simple: not will, but when.

With cloning and stem cell research and tomatoes the size of abnormally large tomatoes, it is not a question of will scientists ever splice DNA, but when the political atmosphere will be right that they don't need to be like mad scientists hiding in Denmark putting tentacles on giraffes just to see what happens. Like Patton Oswalt said, “Science, we're all about coulda, not shoulda.”

And when I get to thinking about Science and the wonderfully magical things they do (thank you Doctors Frank Gerow and Thomas Cronin), I also naturally start thinking about manticores and other mythical creatures they could make or mutate people into. How awesome it would be to be described as a “creature of myth” (a title I have strived for in the bedroom, but have acquired for the wrong reasons). And when you think about mythical creatures, how can you not think about Jesus?

If there is one thing that I think both Science and Christianity can agree on, it is that we should clone Jesus.

Yes, the religious people are inevitably crying “Blasphemy” right now, but they know deep down that they want to see Jesus on Oprah. Doing some of his little parlor tricks. “And you get some water to wine! And you get some water to wine!” Fuck Tom Cruise's “memorable moments,” this would be some shit that would revive the ad revenue of local affiliates. And VH1 could make tons of I Love The Jesus and Charm School: Disciples, etcetera. Hell, Oprah should have Jesus smiting Tom Cruise for being a Scientologist and then releasing the Church of Scientology's warehouse of legal team funds to the meek.

You know you want to meet Jesus, so shut the hell up and just hear me out, Christians.

Now, scientists are inevitably also crying out. But it is more along the lines of, “Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.” Translated from science speak, this means that even if Jesus were real, what remnants do they have to clone him from? It also means they think it is kind of bullshit.

You scientists can also drink a nice tall glass of Shut Your Face Malt Beverage for your answer is simple: The Shroud of Turin.

This revered piece of cloth is believed in some circles to be Jesus' burial cloth, because it kinda has a sorta Jesus-ish looking face on it. And for some reason it is more believable than that Jesus-shaped mold in a Floridian bathroom that people pay five dollars to see and touch (because the mold will heal them for it is the magic of Jesus [and also penicillin]).

For the sake of argument, let us all agree for a moment that Jesus existed. Whether he was the son of God or a sorcerer in the vein of Merlin or just a really good, pre-Barnum con man who was hittin' that kooch left and right and side to side, Jesus existed.

Debate goes on about the Shroud and what it actually is and how old it is. I am not here to argue one way or the other. The part that interests me is the stains that appear and are believed by many to be made of blood. If this is Jesus' death blankie, than this is Jesus blood. What harm would it do to take a little off and see what we can do?

OK, their would surely be a big outcry about outright cloning the Lord and Savior. So we start small. Jesus was all about healing, right? So let's use that Jesus blood to make a be-all-end-all cure to everything. I'd even be fine with all Christian faiths splitting the profits of Jesus' Magical Topical Rubbing Lotion: Great for cancer, herpes, gangrene, far-sightedness, ass pimples, cleaning off those nasty grease stains and even a lubrication (to be used only in acts of marital procreation, otherwise it will cause burning like the fires of Hell).

Society would be healthy, maybe even in Africa, if profit could be made. And once society is healthy, we can take all that money that is given by the government to medical science and apply it to something useful. Like more of those sensible rebate checks, because I need a PS3, dammit. There would be no more 5K walks. All that donated, good-faith money could then go to internet porn and the porn industry would no longer need a big government bailout. Then the economy would be fixed. Because if there is one industry that knows “trickle down,” it is porn.

But why just deal with healing the sick and the meek with an enchanted potion? That is boring. That does not make for good reality TV or a great Discovery channel documentary. Let's just clone Jesus and get it over with.

Why? Because it will end a whole lot of bullshit.

Think about it. Say the Shroud of Turin is really the cloth Jesus was wrapped in before he took his stairway to heaven. If Science is right, then a test-tube-baby-mini-Christ will be born, watched with the fervor only matched by American Idol or The Superbowl commercials. If Science were to prevail, eventually Jesus V 2.0 would be exposed as a fraud. Sure, Christians would call the little freak of nature a false profit and shout how they were wrong about the Shroud just like how the Pope was late to the game on the Holocaust, but the rest of us would know.

What, however, if Christians are right? Then it would bring about their blessed Second Coming. How poetic would it be for the Armageddon to be brought around by Science attempting to play God? It's a much better potential ending brought by Science than a nuclear winter.

It's a big gamble, but I think it's one Christians should take. If only to prove that they haven't become soft since the days of witch hunts and burning people at the stake.

Because religion is all about leaps of faith. So why not go all in with your pocket aces, Christianity? Or are you just bluffing and waiting for that logical comet to hit the Earth and bring about the End Days for you?

Pussies.

Bring Forth Mine Medieval Garb, Wench

2009-01-07T23:20:00.000-08:00

It is no secret that I am a huge fan of the Harry Potter series. Rejecting it at first as pop-culture, malarkey, Americana (yes, I know it hails from Britain), I did not pick up a tale of the young wizard until after the sixth in the series was released. Why I finally picked up The Sorcerer's Stone, I am still not quite sure. Perhaps it was on a bet or to give it a false shot so that I could mock the uneducated masses who loved it so. The same reason I used to tune in to Rush Limbaugh. Or maybe I was just Confunded. Or Imperiused.

Waiting until after The Half-Blood Prince was probably the best thing for me, because I began devouring the books at such a feverish pace I was worried I might become a reader at the level of one Hermione Granger. When I was through the sixth and then had over a year to wait for the seventh I couldn't stand it. Sleepless nights were spent on MuggleNet reading people's theories about The Deathly Hallows. What was it that J.K. Rowling just said? What was it she accidentally let slip? Can I buy her used tissues on eBay? I needed to find out. I slaved for answers like a House Elf.

And I will proudly state here, as I have so many times, that I rightly predicted that the previously unnamed manager of the Hog's Head was in fact Dumbledore's brother, Aberforth. I knew this due to a single paragraph in The Order Of The Phoenix. My only great regret was never writing my thought to MuggleNet. But my mom will back me up and not just because she's my mom. Still, it was like using Legilimancy on J.K. Rowling herself.

When The Deathly Hallows finally arrived on my doorstep (not by owl) I seriously considered telling my grandmother I couldn't make it to her 88th birthday party because [some ludicrous explanation, probably involving Inferi, a Horcrux and Diffindo]. I didn't, but I practically Apparated home and then finished the book as quickly as I could, only pausing to weep slightly.

Still, even then, I didn't realize the truth.

Then two years passed and The Tales Of Beedle The Bard was released. I yearned so hard to see one of the original seven copies. If only I could use Accio. But that was not possible because I am a Muggle, so I waited to get the one I knew I would receive for Christmas (my family is very into the Harry Potter as well). And on the flight (by plane, not broomstick) back to San Francisco, I absorbed it.

Still unaware. I would be enlightened, however, a few days after I returned home.

I was talking to my mom on the phone. She asked me what I thought of Beedle The Bard. This is when I realized it:

"It was OK. The children's tales were mediocre. Hairy Heart was pretty good. But I got a little upset at 'Dumbledore's notes,' because she wrote for him in ways I didn't think he would write. For instance, at one point he is discussing Lucius Malfoy and Dumbledore was writing things that were very... libelous. Now, these might have been things he would have said in conversation with close acquaintances, because what human doesn't vent like that sometimes? But it doesn't seem to me the thing he would put pen to paper about. His secrets and good nature and all. He obviously would have been thinking about publishing it some day and that is just so not Dumbledore....

"OH MY GOD I am way too into these books. I am an obsessive geek! Like, for real this time!"

The realization happened.

For years myself and my friends would all refer to me as a geek or a nerd, but I knew it was never true. I was faux-geek. I wanted to be a geek, but I am not smart enough to program a computer or build a robot that feasts on human organs. I couldn't tell you anything that happened in the Star Wars universe outside of the movies (and I haven't really watched them over a dozen times). I never had a problem with acne.

But here it was, the dawn of the truth. I was (am) obsessed with a magical land and magical creatures and have gotten into real arguments about it. I was actually debating what a fictional character would or wouldn't say. Why don't I just join in the Kirk/Picard argument?

Where does this go from here? Will I become Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons? Do I go to Renaissance Fair-style Harry Potter gatherings where we speak in Gobledegook and eat Chocolate Frogs? Are we going to have slow moving wand "duels" where a person will be accosted for using Crucio, or worse, trying to use some Charm instead of a Hex? Will we have terrible "matches" of Quidditch where we run around with broomsticks between our legs while passing around a "Quaffle" that is really a kickball? And how do you recreate the Snitch, really? That would be the toughest part. The snitch is supposed to fly free and be hard to catch. How do you do that?

Look at that! I am more concerned about how to accurately make a proper Snitch-like action than the fact that I could potentially be running around in flowing robes with a piece of wood between my legs that isn't sexual in nature.

So why not just go all in; accept the truth? Maybe it would be a good job for me to tour around the country in some sort of Renaissance Festival. I could peddle chainmail. "Knights and knaves, come hither to feast your eyes upon the glorious sight of Lancelot's Finest. The flat world's greatest metals forged in a way that no broadsword can pierce. Also, wearing it will beef up your pecs in a way the maidens will really dig. But make sure to have a shirt on underneath or else Vaseline up your nipples because it will cause chaffing."

I could attend Comic-con as a really tall hobbit. I could attend Star Trek conventions as a Tribble. I could just accept the obsessive side that has always been present, but I have repressed to a FanBoy closet. I'll just kick down the door and run over to my computer to play WoW.

And my solace will be that you, the reader, might have taken in 90% of the Harry Potter references. If you did, and you are honest with yourself, then my geeky coming out might make it easier for you. And we can shamelessly plan a trip to New Zealand for the Lord Of The Rings tour.

These Beds Are For Midgets

2008-12-18T10:35:00.000-08:00

Hotel Employee Training Guide: Chapter 16, Section 4
"These Beds Are For Midgets"

It is a surprisingly rare time when you will actually confront a very, very irate customer. However, it is still a situation you should always be prepared for.

You will receive a call from one of the 03s. The sweet sounding woman on the other end will say, "Hi, this is Mrs. Florian and I was just wondering if we could get a different room for tonight. The beds in this room must have been made for midgets." You will not correct her. Yes, "midget" implies smallness and only terms like "dwarf" and "little people" are acceptable in the Munchkin community, but that is not important because you are about to find out it is just big people talking anyway. "I'm only 5'4", but this bed is way too short." You will apologize and offer her a new room. Then you wonder if she does the Worm in her sleep.

Fifteen minutes later her husband, a giant, estimated to be about 5'8" and 120 pounds, will arrive for the new key. You understand why they need a bigger bed. His frame appears frail and weak and short, but a look into those eyes tells you that his name is, in fact, Bruce Banner. When he has bad dreams he obviously turns into the Incredible Hulk, a mass no double-sized bed could hold. Slightly frightened by this thought, you apologize again and try to hide the quiver of your hand as you pass him his new key.

Another fifteen minutes will pass. Then Bruce Banner will return.

"That is the same size as the other bed."

"I'm sorry, sir, but that is a queen bed."

"No. No, no, no, no. I sleep in a queen bed. That is not a queen. I sleep in a queen."

You will stammer as you try to find a retort. You probably wouldn't know how to argue this point under normal circumstances. Use some measuring tape and the Wikipedia definition of the dimensions on the second biggest of beds, maybe? But you can't think logically because you are averting eye contact with this goateed stick figure, praying he does not get truly enraged and become a literal bull in a china shop (if the Hulk were more like a minotaur and the hotel lobby sold fine china, of course).

So he picks up the conversation for you. "Don't you have a KING size you could give us?"

"We have no king beds."

"Well this just sucks! That is not a queen bed!"

You would like to tell him that thousands of guests have come through before him and none have disagreed with our (and the mattress seller's) definition of the size of bed that suits a female monarch. And some, if only have few, of those previous visitors even reached the towering height of six feet. On occasion we have even had side-show, carnie freaks who were taller that six feet (gasp). They all seemed comfortable, even with their height problems. This is what you want to say. What comes out of your mouth, however, is this:

"You are more than welcome to find other lodgings if you like."

"WELL THAT'S NICE! More inconvenience to us! Just like last night when the toilet jammed up and we had to clean it ourselves!"

Not positive about the previous night's happenings you assume he was reading the Wall Street Journal while dropping a deuce, got infuriated with the days financial woes and pushed out a Hulk-sized shit that broke the toilet in two. Bruce Banner probably cleans up after the Hulk a lot.

"I'm sorry..."

"This sucks! This sucks!" He continues to bellow this mantra as he stares at you and walks to the elevator. You are listening more carefully to the noise between his repetitive refrains for the tell-tale signs of fabric tearing over rippling pectorals. You are staring, but not to be tough. You are searching for hints of green tinting his pasty-white skin.

"THIS SUCKS!"

Bruce Banner reaches the elevator, which, unfortunately, is only located about five feet to the right of where he had been standing before. The elevator is upstairs. He has to wait. As the line of sight between the two of you is easily maintained, you are both desperately anticipating the slowest elevator on Earth.

Elevator music plays in your head.

You try not to look right at him, but you can feel his pointy, receding hairline navigate at you every couple of seconds. Clearly he wants to see that you truly feel remorseful. You however, want to laugh because you have escaped false tales of your super-villainy (you know, the Hulk would have to explain to the police why he decapitated you with his pinky and then peed down your neck hole. So he would lie and say you were trying to blow up the Inn or trying to destroy Earth or something).

Laughter is your enemy now. Find some other emotion. Anything. Sad memories. Please. But there is nothing. So you go with your next best idea: pretend like you were lobotomized. Have nothing going on upstairs or on your face. Yes, that is it!

Too bad you always sucked at poker.

The only thing about you that resembles a person who has had their frontal lobe removed is that bit of drool trickling down your chin, glistening in the florescent light.

Finally there is the soft clunking of a claustrophic death trap arriving on the ground floor. The elevator is here and the frail, shaking figure hiding certain painful death is gone...

Until he walks by later that day, when you have forgotten his face. You give him a friendly nod and the whole disaster begins again.

The Obscene Lives of Bears

2008-11-22T22:39:00.000-08:00

I'm not even going to bother messing around with witty metaphors, you know the country is in an economic morgue with no Pie Maker to bring it back to life (RIP Pushing Daisies).

So are we going to be Negative Nancys or are we going to be Positive Pattys?

Let's start fixing this country one company at a time. Screw Ford. First, I would like to suggest Vermont Teddy Bear. It is struggling like every other company, but I am a Positve Patty with the ideas to fix it.

I have a special place in my heart for Teddy Bear because it is the former employer of my brother-in-law and a friend of mine. I also hold special feelings for the Bear because they were part of such a strange backlash a few years ago.

If you don't remember, the VTB released a product called the "Crazy For You" Bear. Crazy For You Bear was dressed in a straight jacket which caused a furor amongst "mental health advocates" who, in quite a fit of irony, went absolutely insane. They claimed that this bear continued a false stereotype that all psychos wear straight jackets and that because of this object, meant for affection, people would not go get help for their suicidal thoughts and schizophrenic ideas.

It was the stupidest thing since pro-lifers started killing doctors.

It also caused the discontinued bears to be purchased at alarming rates and resold on eBay for hundreds of dollars. So why not use the same American, P.C. psychosis again in an effort to revive a company that sells unneeded items at ridiculous costs?

Here are my ideas for a few bears that might just do the trick.

Obsessed With You Bear - complete with a phone that is on constant redial and a lock of it's beloeved's hair that it sniffs frequently.

Intoxicated By You Bear - A hobo, complete with bindle, who wets himself.

Arrested By You Bear - preferably designed with leather gimp outfit, handcuffs and, of course, ball-gag.

Still Got It For You Bear - An elderly bear with a big smile and a pack of Viagra.

Jungle Love Bear - A bear designed with 70's blacksplotation in mind.

Bear On A Bear Skin Rug Bear - Should get the red paint a-flowin' with the PETA people.

Infected By You Bear - I don't know how you design a bear to have AIDs...

Happy To See You Bear - this one could be causing too much of a problem. Other names could include Excited For You Bear or Raging Hard-On Bear

Tea Bag Bear - Again, I don't really know how to design this one.

Asking Her To Bring Another Girl To Bed Bear - A speaking bear that says, "If you really loved me, you'd do it."

Back Door Bear - Maybe alluding to Kevin Smith's Mallrats, we'll put this bear in the back of a Volkswagon.

I'm Sorry For Spunking In Your Eyes Bear - A very apologetic looking bear who is offering up some goggles and a wetnap.

Heart Breaker Bear - Not all bears need to be sexual in nature. We could bring this back to the Mortal Kombat controversy of the early 90's and have one bear whose arm is entering the other's chest and exiting his back and holding a beating heart. You know, "Finish Him."

Or, they could just do Crazier For You Bear - Screw the straight jacket, we're going all out with razor blade inserted in wrist and bad emo poetry by the bear's side.

Badges and Buttocks

2008-07-12T17:21:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago I saw a teenager who must have tremendous calf muscles. He was managing to walk while wearing the waist of his jeans around his knees. That's a lot of lower leg work. He might even suffer one day from arthritis because of this.

My pants sag. That is inevitable. I wear baggy, loose pants with belts that don't work that great. And I really am too damn lazy to care about it. But to wear your pants around your knees and still function? That is one effort for fashion. An effort I can't muster because, as I said two sentences ago, my pants sag because I am lazy.

I am not fully disgusted by this style. It began when my generation was in high school, so it is something I am used to. But I can understand why people don't like it. I can't, however, understand, why Flint, Michigan thinks it is a worthwhile effort to warn, ticket and potentially arrest kids for "disorderly conduct" and indecent exposure.

(See the story and great pictogram for yourself here. And let us all thank MaryJane for passing it along).

This is certainly not the first attempt to get kids to pull their pants up. About a year ago there was an attempt by some towns to ticket kids for being unsanitary for their sagging jeans. Well, if that is the case, there are a few homeless guys in my neighborhood who should be getting regular police reminders to bathe. And, if it is so unsanitary, then why not arrest my dad (like so many others) for being a health-code violator? Even though my pants sag I keep my underwear up, unlike Quarter Moon Man and the Ass Crackers.

According to the Flint PD (and their lovely pictogram [I'm not sure if that is the right term, but it was my first chance ever to use it, so I am]), however, apparently a little bit of "butt cleavage" is becoming a problem. So they need to crack down (I didn't even see that pun until proof-reading).

This law is obviously reflective of just another need to be able to search anyone they feel like. I would say that the evidence is certainly there to create a convincing bar graph of the saggage to criminal-likelihood ratio, but there is also convincing evidence of a mustache size to douche-baggedness ratio for cops. Does this mean we get to send all mustachioed officers before Internal Affairs on suspicion of police brutality?

Most people in the comments section below this article seem to be for the law. Because they don't want to have to look at that sort of thing. Well I don't want to have to look at your stupid, snout-nosed, pig face. So do what I do: look away. Just like how you change the channel if you don't like what you are watching (or write the FCC and ruin it for the rest of us, whatever cloth your cut from.).

The real reason these people don't like the baggy-pantsed kids is because they are intimidated by them.

They should be. Kids are pricks. But what they fail to remember when reminiscing about their "old-fashioned values" is that kids were pricks in the 50's too. And they are going to be pricks in the next set of 50's. What is more, it doesn't matter if they are wearing a 50 Cent shirt or a Ralph Lauren shirt. ALL kids are pricks. Some have just been raised to hide it a little better than others.

Finally, there is the issue of, "well if they can arrest kids for wearing this, what other styles can they arrest for?" A bunch of people are happy that values are being supported by harassing a kid who doesn't know what a belt is. So if we are arresting for butt cleavage, then why not for breast-style cleavage? I heard a comedian long ago saying something along the lines of, "if girls can wear v-necks and show off a little of there goods, why can't I show a little neck?" You figure out the neck he is talking about.

But it's true. What if boobies offend me? Why not arrest for low-cuts and midriffs? Why not get everyone wearing burkas?

That's fine by me. Our culture is too promiscuous anyway. So why not get everyone to cover everything up? Porn and the bra section of the J.C. Penny catalog will be way more stimulating when it isn't something you can see walking down any street in America.

But, then again, I thought that the reasons that the Twin Towers fell was because Western women wear bikinis? Well, that and because planes hit them, but you get my point.

So if everyone is covering up everything, isn't that letting the terrorists win? Maybe we should go against the grain and become one giant nudist colony. Then everyone would just be bringing towels with them everywhere. Of course, then cops would probably just harass the black kids because their towels were to... whatever.

Oh, whoops. Did I say black?

I meant the baggy-pantsed kids. Cops wouldn't harass only the black baggy-pantsed kids.
Because some cops live in towns with no black kids.

More Apologies To Mrs. Clinton (Some Restrictions Apply)

2008-07-04T18:02:00.000-07:00

Dearest Hillary,

I promise that my apologies will not be as shallow as last time. I am here to offer you the sincerest and truest regrets I can muster. Why? Because I singled you out of all the candidates still in the race in January and called you a "two-bit plastic whore." I am not apologizing for calling you that, because that is what you are, but I have found that there is someone who tops you. Who annihilates you.

A super-mega plastic whore, if you will.

Barack Obama has shed his grass-roots, by-of-and-for the people, standing up for those who can not speak, "Yes We Can" change things, populist skin like a snake offering an apple of ignorance. I have not seen such a crazy, back-pedaling attitude since the last time I got drunk and called my ex-girlfriend late at night:

"Oh, baby, I didn't mean it when I said we needed a 16 month time table. And the telecoms should not be prosecuted. And I won't take the public funding. And all that stuff I said about being a person of change, I didn't really mean that. I want commitment. I want to commit to the same broken system we have been running all this time, honey. I really do promise this time."
OK, maybe he didn't come right out and say that last part, but it is only a matter of time. Just like lapel pins.

You have nothing on this super-mega plastic whore, Hillary. You might be a cyborg, but at least we have known that about you for a while. At least we knew what to expect with your nomination.

Here is where I would normally fill a piece with funny critiques in the form of metaphors and similes, but honestly, Hillary, I am a little irked by this situation. It would have been foolish for even the most ardent Obama cultist to think that he wouldn't slink to the center now that it is general election time and the need to woo those "independents" is so necessary. Still, Obama has forgone the traditional quiet path and has screamed "look at me, look at me," like a child who is not getting enough attention so he is threatening to jump off the roof.

While I have criticized your supporters for their poor sport, "I'm taking my ball and going to McCain" attitude, I wouldn't have been nearly so harsh had they done so after his full-throttle race to the right. Now it probably won't be just your supporters abandoning the democrats. The difference is that the young, x-treme, passionate vote that Obama so superbly used to his advantage will not run to McCain. They will just stay home on November 4th and get tore back off bottles of Robitussin.

And that is unfortunate.

But it is why I am so cynical. It is why I called you a two-bit plastic whore to begin with. It is why I don't have faith in our "two party" system. It is why I had intended not to vote.

Obama had changed that for me. I wasn't head over heels for him, but I was ready to vote for him after I swore off voting. Now I see that it is pointless. Unless my vote helps to affect congress. Because presidents are not born, they are made out of promises and falseness.

All those who still remain dedicated to the cause can hope for is that people don't really care about issues. It is, like I have maintained, a system of pop-culture politics. And it will come down to campaign pins and flag waving and good looks. Because Obama certainly has the looks over McCain and his weird, creepy, child-molester-esque, tired-looking, toothy smile.

Yay America.

Happy 4th Mrs. Clinton. Congratulations on not being a super-mega whore.

Sincerely,

Mickey Stiletto

In Obama We Trust (To Defend Us From Our Own Words)

2008-07-01T14:44:00.000-07:00

We learned from the Reverend Wright "issue" that Barack Obama is a man who has to apologize for his friends and associates words, even if he isn't around when they think up their thoughts or spout them out loud. Now we have learned that Obama has to apologize for more than that.

Recently, General Wesley Clark, long time Clinton supporter, said in reference to John McCain, "I don't think riding in a fighter plane and getting shot down is a qualification to be president."

Of course, Obama, who has a non-existent (but not quite Bush-like) war record, had to distance himself from this comment simply because they are both of the Democratic Party. But when I read an article in the New York Times on this issue, I was very surprised by a portion of their take. After discussing Obama's distancing, the article said this:

Asked if he wanted an apology, McCain said, "That's certainly up to Senator Obama."

So now, Obama does not just have to apologies for comments made by people who he has chosen as friends in the past, he has to apologize for anything anyone says anytime and anywhere ever. You could say tomorrow, "Pepsi is better than Coke," and Obama would apparently have to hold a rally for Coke supporters (not the Wall Street ones) and proclaim how he has equal love for both soft drinks and he apologizes on behalf of the person he has never met who posted it in a vlog on YouTube.

Even though I will be an Obama supporter in November, I feel like we should vet him a little bit harder. So here is a list of random quotes I just made up to see how well he can dodge a bullet that is not even related to him (and I am certainly not implying anything about Hillary's "Bobby Kennedy" comment with that "dodge a bullet" comment):

"Nuns are just women who couldn't get laid in high school."

"McCain's momma had a love affair with a muppet."

"DIE, WHITEY! DIE!"

"Hillary needs a makeover, badly."

"9/11 was a hoax dreamed up by leprechauns and manticores."

"Swedes are hose-swilling, garlic mongers."

"Chubby Checker was a douche-bag."

"March of the Penguins was a stupid movie for stupid people. And so was Saving Private Ryan."

"Recycling is for gays."

"Steven Seagal is gay."

"Some other homophobic comment that ends in gay. (Preferably one about the Dali Lama because he's super queer and so are celebrities who love to associate themselves with him)."

"Driving an SUV makes you sterile."

And finally...

"Obama told me that he can totally kick Chuck Norris' ass and he will take him on any time, any where, even if that sissy, little Defender of Huckabee were to jump out from a bush with a samurai sword."

So there you go, Obama. Good luck digging yourself out of the hole I made for you.

I Was Slowly Murder By The Darjeeling Limited

2008-04-29T01:11:00.000-07:00

I wanted to call this piece "The Darjeeling Limited can suck my ball sack which I now have to tuck in my left sock because I have aged 90 years through the course of this film." But that would be too long (much like the movie).

I should clear up two things before I continue. First, I loved The Royal Tenenbaums. A lot. I have been a fan of Wes Anderson's work and I was excited for this film. Second, I would normally not waste time reviewing a film after it has been out on DVD for so long. But I have strong feelings about this film. Really strong feelings. And I want to save you from it.

We start off with a "short" film called Hotel Chevalier. They say it is short, but it is really about 13 hours of movie that supposedly is a worthwhile prologue to the feature presentation. While it was great to see Natalie Portman (in the buff or not), this storyless moving picture could have easily been done in about two minutes and still have had plenty of time for the stagnant, pretty shots and the poetic prose. Unfortunately, Anderson seemed to want to test my patience like an old woman at the post office who is enjoying her last few years by admiring every one of the two thousand pennies she is counting out to buy a book of stamps.

Finally, Natalie is dressed and credits roll. Better take a bathroom break before you embark on the bleak pilgrimage of cinematic voyage ahead of you. Though, if you take a pit stop in the middle of the film, chances are you won't miss one of it's five jokes.

The film was shot well. The film was acted well. The film stole, by my calculations, two and a half years from my life well. It moved slower than a snail crawling the wrong way on a conveyor belt at the airport while the Bush Administration tries to waterboard it.

Waterboarding. I think that would have been a more pleasant way to spend the two consecutive weeks it took this film to conclude. Yes, I said I would rather have the unpleasant sensation of a fake drowning for two weeks straight then watch this movie ever again.

Are you getting it? This film was loooooong. And I will stop with the analogies for the time being in the fear that this piece could become so long.

Then we have this recurring theme in Wes Anderson films. Uber-rich with eccentric neuroses that clash with their uber-rich siblings who have equally eccentric neuroses, though with their own special, quirky feel . It was cute in Tenenbaums. But if you expect me to keep loving rich people for their hard times when I am finding it harder and harder to scrape together the three bucks to rent a movie then you are as confused as the fragile, self-centered creatures in these films. The theme is getting tired and my admiration is wearing as thin as my futon.

The Darjeeling Limited raised visceral reactions in me. When it finally ended, the first thing I had to do was find the fastest paced television show I could, whether it starred Carrot Top or not. It just needed to be the most coked-up, cracked-out, blindingly fast experience ever thought up by any two-bit hack. If Speed 2 was PCP, let's say. Luckily I took in some Family Guy.

But now I have to fundamentally question my taste in movies. It is like I am a frat boy just wiping the lube out of my ass from Hell Week and wondering if it was all worth it.

Should I spend the rest of my movie watching days under the flickering pictures of such sure to be top notch successes like What Happens In Vegas? I mean, honestly, this film made me love Natalie Portman a little less because she acted in it.

If that isn't a quake to the fundamental spirit, then I would hate to witness the rock bottom that is.

God, I Am Actually Defending The Church

2008-03-19T20:22:00.001-07:00

Well, sort of.

I think it is absolutely ludicrous that Barack Obama give any sort of weight to this argument that he should have to apologize for his preacher.

If my father were to run for political office, would he have to apologize for things Rush Limbaugh said. I mean, he listens every day, so doesn’t that make him responsible for the fat, drug addicts words?

If I were to run for office, would it be assumed that I would have sex publicly (perhaps on the inauguration stage) because my eyes before might have glimpsed a porn or two? By this logic supporting the argument for Barack’s apologies, it would be logical to then assume that I am hung like Ron Jeremy.

It’s one of the feeblest political tactics to ever be so successful.

And one of the worst portions is when I see clips of this Reverend Wright and his "seditious" statements, they are generally quotes where he says horrid, unAmerican and untruthful things. Such as blaming American foreign policy for 9/11. Sure, Osama bin Laden, the man we agree is the mastermind, has clearly said it was American foreign policy, but that doesn’t mean it is OK for an American to say it.

Let alone a lively, black reverend.

While I am glad Barack made such an earthquaking speech about racism, I am appalled that it was assumed he should make apologies for someone else.

Because I am certainly not hung like Ron Jeremy.

Berkeley, the Lovable Child Molester

2008-02-15T10:56:00.000-08:00

Being mad at the city of Berkeley for the the strong wording against the Marines is like being mad at Michael Jackson for inappropriately touching children.

Back in the 60's people should have been surprised and upset and jarred by the community of Berkeley. Then they were new, creative, surprising, original and crazy. Similarly, people were justifiably upset when it first came out that Michael Jackson had a thing for little boys. It was surprising, gross and very scary.

But it has reached the point with Michael Jackson that it is certainly a big national joke and it is (almost) adorable. You know that the parents who brought lawsuits more recently were just gold diggers hanging their plump, luscious children out there as bait for a genetically modified pedophile. You know he is going to want to "share a room" with them. And you know Jay Leno is going to have some killer punchline about Jacko.

And you also know Berkeley is going to do crazy anti-war stuff because that is just what they are known for. So what is the big effin' deal?

(It should be noted at this point that I have tried to find the actual letter online, but thus far have only come up with the same basic quotes repeated in the press. While I would like to examine it to gain an independent perspective, it would appear that it would take more time than it is worth for this little piece.)

So Berkeley apparently used strongly worded language against the Marines saying they were unwelcome guests (ooohhhh!), but much like many Democratic resolutions, they did not actually do a damn thing. They certainly did not make any real maneuver to kick them out. Unless you count sicking the Modern Hippies on them. Sunshine and Rainbow and their functionless, pot molested, uncreative and thoughtless brains might make one opt for certain drastic measures to free themselves from the monotonous, uniformed babble.

Still, all in all, Berkeley really did nothing but use their supposed "freedom of speech" in a way that might be improper for a City Council.

Why then have the Republicans latched on to this thing like a virgin at a peep show? Arguments rage. Blood boils. Feelings get hurt. Because FOX News and like-minded affiliates have decided Berkeley is the new France. They are marching all over this issue, skewing as they like, as if they were the Republican Public Relation Machine of old.

And maybe that's the real issue.

The Republican Public Relation Machine once had you believing a war in Iraq would be over in 90 days. They had you believing WMDs were hidden up your own ass. The RPRM was so fine tuned, so on, so pitch perfect, they could have shown that little bitchboy, Joseph McCarthy, how a witchhunt is done.

At their prime, say around 2002, when free speech was punished and Karl Rove roamed the Earth, the Republican Public Relations Machine could have had you duct taped inside your own home, eating nothing but lobbyist-pushed Hershey bars and Ovaltine, refusing even Amazon delivery for fear of Anthrax and committing incest to insure the survival of the Human Race until the devastating threat of the Brown Islamic Tide had passed. Don't lie to yourself, they were that powerful.

But that is not the case anymore. If you are not a political junkie who watches FOX News and listens to Rush Limbaugh out of a pure masochistic self-loathing you might not have noticed that the crazy talking head Right were putting all of their support behind Mitt Romney after it was clear that Rudolph "The Boy Who Cried 9/11" Giuliani was out of the race.

After John McCain had won a couple of primaries, this merry band of Brooks Brothers clad gun nuts put all of their effort into screaming about how John McCain was not a truly Conservative candidate! "He is as fake as Britney Spears breasts, as old as the Vietnamese who tortured him and as gay as Richard Simmons," they sang in unison.

They spent the 24 hours leading up to Super Tuesday election results verbally clubbing that battered old war veteran into the ground like he was the most adorable baby seal you could find.
And what happened?

The Straight Talk Express rolled on to significant victory. And once that champion of Keith Richards and the crazy Evangelicals, Mike "I Heart" Huckabee backs out of the race, McCain will be the official winner. (I'm sorry. I don't know why I have a thing for giving people boxing nicknames right now.)

Of course there have been a myriad of other examples of late of how the RPRM metaphorical Cialus induced priapism, which lasted for well over four hours, has finally returned to a state of flaccidness (and, understandably, why your ass hurts a little less). But this was the point that they were pushing for. It was their surge. It was their Waterloo. It was their Battle of the Bulge. They knew they were destined to win and protect the white man from evil, parading, gay immigrants, but they failed.

And then the Berkeley City Council had to go and write that letter. The stupid, forgetful, pork-bellied Republican Elephant was dead. Berkeley gave it mouth to mouth.

Berkeley didn't really do anything un-Berkeley. Berkeley just stuck out their leg and said, "Here Republicans, dry hump this false issue for a little while."

And dry hump they have.

But the pendulum is obviously swinging back to the left, no matter how small the margin between the leftness and the rightness of Democratic candidates has gotten. And no matter how weak the Democratic Public Relations Machine is, it is swinging their way. The pendulum will not stop, unless the Left continues to give the Right teats of nourishment to suckle from.

So for the love of God (or Buddha), Left Wing, if you truly love your country, do what your Democratic Representatives do best and say absolutely nothing about nothing. Especially about soldiers.

Because Republicans might not care about babies once they are born or anyone else's kids getting an education or society outside of their own backyard or equal rights or even a soldier once he/she is in a VA hospital missing a few limbs (unless of course they can exploit him/her for a picture or name-dropping opportunity), but they sure as hell care when you talk about the abstract idea of soldiers and military and "freedom." Because that is what they spend all of the government's money on.

Think about what you spend on your money on, hippies. Would you really like someone to make fun of your ridiculously expensive hemp clothing collection?

So be good. Respect consumerism. And shut the hell up. Or else I will tell Michael Jackson where your children live.

How The SUV Will Save Robert Frost

2008-02-14T22:06:00.000-08:00

I don't like Robert Frost.

I don't.

In fact, I think I might hate him.

I know he is dead. That is probably for the best. Because I very well might have hunted him down and said some nasty, nasty things to him. And I think he knows why.

I hate him and Norman Rockwell and Currier and Ives and anyone else who makes people think snow is good, happy, pretty or special. Snow isn't fun. Snow is heavy, wet, cold and after a day it gets dirty and nasty looking.

Most people have a plow guy they can call. Or they have a snowblower. But not me. I keep it old skool (because I am cool/poor). I have a snow shovel and a roof rake. Do you know how much it sucks to use a roof rake when it is six inches of snow that has been rained on? I have been trying to get in shape, but I am not Atlas. I am a feeble little computer guy. I have weak little girlie wrists. And Mother Nature is trying to break them with her evil, evil "fluffy" white.

And as far as the shovel... It isn't even a real, flat, basic, used since the times of Jesus "Kill Me" Christ type shovel. It is one of those PC, ridiculous, back-breaking ergonomic shovels (incidentally, it is not mine and I don't know why I haven't bought a new one. Maybe because I can't drive to the store because my car sucks in this weather). Yes, for old people shoveling one inch of powdery snow, those things are effin' awesome. But when God has emptied a veritable salt shaker upon the Earth, like an MSG obsessed Chinese restaurant, you can not get the proper lift to throw the snow more than a foot. Which means you shovel the same snow 7 times(!), but each time you are having to toss more and freakin' more!

I will admit, I do dream of a White Christmas. That is nice. But just a dusting and then THAT'S IT!

Mother Nature has dumped enough snow here in the past two weeks to bring the pile nearly to the height of the one-story house. If I wanted that, I would move to Mounty plagued Canada. But it hasn't just been snow. It has been sleet and freezing rain and I think a little bit of Mother Nature's pure hatred for the human race. If it had all been snow, I don't think you would be able to see the house any more.

So for all those people who buy their fake Christmas trees that are dusted in white, to those assholes who drive 6 hours up to the ski resorts in their SUVs and to anyone who uses precious non-renewable energy Googling Robert Frost, I say, "FUCK YOU!"

Because I have seen The Day After Tomorrow and I know that Global Warming will bring about another ice age. That means more Fucking Snow for my atrophied arms to dig through.

So, for my health, please listen to Al Gore. I mean, I don't care if 9,000 species die off this Earth from carbon emissions. Take the penguins, the lemurs and the giraffes. But if it snows any more, I think the shoveling might give me a heart attack.

And isn't that really what the fight against Global Warming is about? We all know the Earth will be fine. But fragile little humans will die.

And I am very fragile.

Minute by Minute Super Tuesday Coverage

2008-02-05T11:41:00.000-08:00

2:02 p.m. EST – People are still voting.

2:03 p.m. EST – People are still voting.

2:04 p.m. EST – We don't really know anything yet because people are still voting.

2:05 p.m. EST – All the 24 hour news channels are orgasming expectations.

2:06 p.m. EST – Still not really sure about anything.

2:07 p.m. EST – Rush Limbaugh just made some bold prediction.

2:08 p.m. EST – 24 hour news channels still managing to fill time with crap.

2:09 p.m. EST – Breaking News: I think Obama sneezed.

2:10 p.m. EST – Sean Hannity thinks Obama sneeze could cost him Super Tuesday.

2:11 p.m. EST – People are still voting.

2:12 p.m. EST – Still well over five hours until first poll closes (excluding those weirdos in West Virginia).

2:13 p.m. EST – Bill O'Reilly thinks McCain should be taking victory lap so he will die of a heart attack and Romney will get the nomination.

2:14 p.m. EST – Still amazed that the 24 hour news networks can fill the day with so much crap.

2:15 p.m. EST – I think I am being slowly hypnotized by the 24 hour news networks.

2:16 p.m. EST – Watching the 24 hour news networks on a large plasma TV makes begin to think Wolf Blitzer might eat my head.

2:20 p.m. EST – Where did the last few minutes go? I was so drawn in to the captivating talk. Fox News thinks it is worthless to call Romney a flip-flopper because "he did what he needed to survive in a blue state." This makes no sense. Flip-flopping is what got Kerry. But I am starting to believe them.

2:21 p.m. EST – I cannot take my eyes off the television. I had to gnaw my hand off for sustenance. I think I am sitting in my own fecal waste, but atrophied has taken away the feeling in my buttocks.

2:22 p.m. EST – All the talking. All the talking make my brain go jelly. Me vote for Obama. No. Now me vote for Huckabee. I heart Huckabee. They funny. Wait. They tell me vote different now.

2:23 p.m. EST – I think I have recaptured some of my sanity. I tried to look away from the television, but I think Fox has encoded some sort of computer program in my brain through the HD. Any time I look away or even blink, I hear the shrill call of the elephant.

2:24 p.m. EST – I have set myself up like Alex from A Clockwork Orange. I cannot look away. I must know what they all say.

2:25 p.m. EST – Without blinking I have begun to realize that they don't actually even discuss the merits of a candidate, but whether they could win. Not based on ideals or credibility, but on likeability. Because you would rather have a beer with this guy, it makes him better than the smarter guy.

2:26 p.m. EST – I hate democracy.

2:28 p.m. EST – My eyes have begun to bleed, but I have promised you minute by minute coverage.

2:30 p.m. EST – Representatives of all the major news networks stand at lonely polling stations through out the country talking about average citizens who have shown up there. Why?

2:35 p.m. EST – TV talks loudly
Somewhere, candidates say something
But none has value

2:40 p.m. EST – Oh Jesus, I wrote a haiku. I don't even remember doing that. OH GOD! Why is there a dead hooker on the floor?

2:42 p.m. EST – People are still voting.

2:43 p.m. EST – Clinton has accused Obama of having an inexperienced sneeze.

2:44 p.m. EST – I think the CIA is coming for me.

2:45 p.m. EST – Oh look, a clip of McCain's speech somewhere.
2:47 p.m. EST – GIANT SPIDERS!

2:48 p.m. EST – CNN has an interesting discussion on right now.

2:49 p.m. EST – NO HEAD OF WOLF BLITZER! DO NOT EAT ME!

2:50 p.m. EST – A moments peace. Commercial breaks all around the 24 hour news networks.

2:55 p.m. EST – KILL ME NOW ALAN COLMES! KILL ME NOW!

2:56 p.m. EST – WHY ARE PEOPLE STILL VOTING?! CAN'T THIS COVERAGE JUST END ALREADY?!?!

2:57 p.m. EST – [Gun shot]

2:58 p.m. EST – Oh my, I seem to have shot off my pinkie toe. Unfortunately, this means I can no longer serve the minute by minute coverage team. Oh how sad I am. Goodbye.

With Angst Like A Suicidal Teenager Who Loves The Smiths

2008-02-03T21:58:00.000-08:00

God how I wish that title could be With Joy Like a Slut at a Sex Shop With Ron Jeremy.

I am a Patriots fan. Always have been. Always will be. No matter what turn the road takes.

And though I am as hollow as Rush Limbaugh's skull and as numb as a pins-and-needles sickened leg, I sit here proudly in my Kevin Faulk jersey. Because Kevin Faulk will always embody the true spirit of the Dynasty Patriots to me.

And because Kevin Faulk showed up to play tonight.

But my people, the people I deal with in life and the people I prefer to tell jokes to, they will never understand that. Beginning at the name Faulk and ending with the sport of football, few of them will ever get it. As a matter of fact, most of them are very shocked that their local neighborhood Commie could ever like the sport of football. Let alone love it.

And it is not surprising. Most of them find football to be a misogynistic, brutal, boring game of greed and testosterone. Honestly, they might not be entirely wrong. But they are shocked that the Commie doesn't feel the same way.

And for those who don't feel that strongly, they have a superficial like or dislike of football, only caring about it when their local team has made it to a big game. Much how I, in my ancient age, am about the Red Sox (though I have much fonder memories from my youth). I join the Red Sox for the post-season, but only with the game on in the background while I do something more exciting. And that is how many are with the Patriots.

For me, though, New England Patriots gameday was the only time my family came together. Christmas, Thanksgiving and every Sunday in the fall and winter (except for bye weeks). We cheered, booed, hated, loved and screamed on the same page. The rest of the time we were on our own.

So football may have flaws. It may be testosterone fueled. Players might earn too much (though Pats heroes like Tedy Brushi took pay cuts to stay with the team). But I love it. And I love the Patriots.

And it hurt tonight when they lost. It was painful to watch Brady play one of his poorest games (incidentally, I have no shame in saying, "Great Job, Giants Defense.") It was horrible to watch 3(!) dropped interceptions on the Giants final drive. It was probably all made a lot worse by the fact that a Manning won the trophy.

But what may be worst will be when my friends, who do not understand the game and could not comprehend my intense emotional bond (to the point of an unhealthy fanatic-ness) will begin giving me their condolences tomorrow. Because they will approach me as if a loved one has died (it does kind of feel a little like that). And then they will ask a question which will force me to replay the things that cost the Patriots the game (again, well earned by the Giants D).

The pain will linger.

So please, let us move on. If you care for what is left of my sanity, no more questions about Spygate, no "maybe next years," no "what went wrongs" and certainly no "I'm sorrys." While I appreciate your true sympathy at my time of sadness, it turned out the way it turned out. Maybe the Pats got too cocky. Maybe Brady really couldn't handle the pressure. Maybe they didn't have illegal videotapes of the Giants walk though. Or maybe the Giants Defense really just did an incredible job. All in all, it is done.

So please leave me to wallow in this dark twisted room of mental sports memorabilia and water coolers filled with tears. Because it is a place only true fans are invited to.

No offense. (Haha, no offense. Just like the Patriots tonight!... Ouch.)

And sorry there was no humor in this blog. The darkness currently enveloping my soul traded it on Craig's List for a roofie to try and forget the past 6 hours.

I HATE Immigrants

2008-02-03T13:59:00.000-08:00

Yes, you read that title correctly.

There is something happening in this country that is so filthy, so horrible, so un-American, so despicable that I cannot keep my silence anymore. We should be screaming out in unison against immigration!

Those fucking limey Brits and drunken Aussies think they can come in here and take jobs from hard working Americans. It is time we tell them that they can't. If you care about this country like I do, anyway.

I didn't begin to realize that immigration was such a problem until we reached award season. That is when the Golden Globes nominated some of my favorite television actors for their phenomenal performances. That is when I began to hear interviews. That is when I began to hear the truth for itself in it's evil devil-tongued accent!

You know that cutie from Pushing Daisies? The one that plays the dead girl, Chuck. Well, I recently heard an interview on immigrant-hugging NPR with Anna Friel. Despite how well she uses the fast talking and dry wit of the show to pretend to be American, she is a fish and chip guzzling Brit! I used to love Chuck. Now I feel dirty like I just had sex with a transsexual prostitute.

Speaking of things called Chuck, Sarah, the tall, blonde, undercover, Weinerlicious, ass-kicker from the NBC program, is not indeed from the land of milk and honey. Yvonne Strahovski hails from the land inhabited by the criminal class of the limeys: Australia. I feel most ashamed by the fact that I should have known with a name like Yvonne that she wanted to put another shrimp on the barbie and have sexual relations with a kangaroo! But I didn't find out until, in true blatant enjoyment of our under-reaching immigration policy, she admitted to her Foster's-slugging heritage on little promo breaks during the recent release of two new Chucks.

What other shows are infested with pond-swimming, sadly-toothed Brits? House, Wiithout a Trace, Bionic Woman, Life, Nip/Tuck, Heroes and, probably most surprisingly, American Idol with its superstar Simon Cowell.

Now would be the time to band together and boycott these shows!... If the Writers' Strike hadn't taken care of that problem for us. But writers, be warned of failed union attempts of the past. Learn from the current problems of American actors. Who is to say that Conservative Hollywood won't throw off the chains of the WGA and begin importing their writers from England or exporting their scripts to Australia?

Writers! Is it really important that you get your fair share of revenue? Can't the hard-line, greed-oriented studios make just a little bit more off of your creativity? If you don't allow it you just might find yourselves without jobs. Because there are plenty of pot-of-gold-having Irish or Hobbit-loving New Zealanders who want your job. And they will gladly do it without the internet play or DVD residuals.

Think about it.

Because soon you might not have a job. And you are American. Which means that you are above doing construction or house-cleaning. And that's good. Because, thankfully, we have those Mexicans who are happy to do it and will work for next to nothing. And they'll let us rape their land. And the whole time they will be thankful for a shot at the American dream.

God Bless the Mexicans.

Bring Your Little League Team to Senate Sub-Committee Hearings Day

2008-02-02T08:23:00.000-08:00

What issues concern you today? If you are like the Average American, they are likely to be Health Care, the war, immigration or the New England Patriots illegal video-taping practices.

Don't deny it. You cry out loud, "What a waste of government time and money! For a fiscal conservative to be so irresponsible and actually call a Judiciary Hearing on the non-felonious actions of professional athletes and their coaches is ridiculous! Why not do more questioning of the Bush White House and how much it knowledgeably fudged information to promote a war we are losing? Why not ask Democrats why the hell they would ever be considering another tax rebate after the ridiculousness and the hurtfulness of the Bush one of yesteryear? Why not spend more time on the research of stronger levees, which more cities will need if Al Gore is right?"

That is what you cry on the outside. But we all know that is not the case on the inside. You are a Jets fan. You are a Colts fan. You are a Dolphins fan. And you want nothing more than to see the accomplishments of this incredible New England team falter before they even have a chance to lose the Super Bowl. You are happy. You want to see them beaten like a black man surrounded by NYPD.

That is surely how Senator Arlen Specter feels. His precious Eagles came so close to ending the "pursuit of perfection" long ago. But they didn't come through. And he, being the proud, failed athlete (but successful armchair quarterback) plans to be the hero for the legions of fatty, beer guzzling, human walrus fans of the other 31 teams in the league.

So he will call NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell before the Judiciary Committee to ask why Goodell destroyed the evidence that Goodell already used to slap the Patriots and Coach Bill Bellichick with major fines. It makes sense!

Could you even still be questioning why Specter would be calling upon him? We probably have a solution to that Iraq miscue thingy and Democrats haven't done anything punishable in a while, so why not spend your tax dollars preserving the purity of a sport you only superficially care about? Why not? We did it with baseball!

We did it with baseball and now we know Roger Clemens was taking some sort of banned substance. Though he fervently denies it. So I guess we don't really know. (Though we, like that superstar representative of the judicial system, Judge Judy, have already passed our judgments.) We may not know about Clemens, but surely now steroids will forever be out of baseball. A sport preserved, thankfully, by the U.S. Government.

I read somewhere that Comcast was the second biggest supporter to Specter's campaign and he might be trying to help them out by breaking up the over-powerful juggernaut that is the NFL by changing their antitrust exemption, but that is just crazy talk. Because two giants like Comcast and the NFL don't need some whiny, little, dickless, saggy-faced Senator from Pennsylvania to fight their battles. Right?

So hooray to Specter and his witch hunt against guys who hit each other for a living. Because he will prove that this Patriots season was tainted by a videotape that was taken from them in the first quarter of the first game of the season. And despite all the extra league surveillance of the New England organization over the year, they did not earn whatever happens on Sunday.

And let us hope that next he brings forth Little League teams who may have 16-year-old players. And girls basketball teams who have failed male athletes playing, unbeknownst to the team, in drag. And minor league hockey teams that are an ensemble of rag-tag players who don't get along at the beginning of the season, but, after a few losses, have a few yucks and beat the well-oiled machine that is the league leader for the championship.

Senator Arlen Specter: he's Comcastic!

Edwards for Gigolo!

2008-02-01T13:52:00.000-08:00

My friend, we'll call her “McLovin,” was very saddened recently when Senator John Edwards took himself out of contention for the Democratic nomination for President. Because Edwards was her guy. She couldn't wait for the Vermont primary to roll around in 2009 (or whatever non-poignant time it is located) so that she could vote pointlessly for him. But she will now not get the chance.

I suggested to her that she write him a letter telling him how disappointed she was. It won't change the outcome on this primary season, but it might make him feel a little bit better about himself.

She called me a fool.

So knowing what I know about her and her views of Edwards, I have composed this open letter on McLovin's behalf.

[Ahem...]

Dear Senator John Edwards,

I was very saddened when you recently took your hat out of the presidential ring. Perhaps you will get you the Vice-Presidential nod, but that is so long without seeing you on my television. So, John Edwards, let me please at least tell you why you were my favorite candidate.

Because I want to fuck you, John Edwards.

I would walk in the room and take my clothes off. You would say, “Pretty-boy likey.” Then you would take your clothes off, John Edwards. And I would say, “I see why the symbol of the Democrats is a donkey. Now let me ride you.” And then I would see some erection results.

But you would finesse me like a trial lawyer finesses a jury. You would tease me, John Edwards. Until I scream, “I'm your Oval Office, enter me and dictate. Dictate!” And you would make such sweet love to me, John Edwards. So sweet. And you would say sweet things like, “do you like my hanging chad?” And I would say, “spank me like I am a bad HMO.”

Without getting too graphic, John Edwards, let me tell you how it would end. It would end with you saying, “I'm getting ahead at the polls.”

This can still happen, John Edwards. Just give me a call at XXX-XXX-XXXX.

Sincerely,
McLovin

That is how I think she would write it anyway.

My Apologies to Mrs. Clinton (Plastic Cyborgs Inside!)

2008-01-22T17:35:00.000-08:00

Dearest Hillary Clinton,

I feel I owe you an apology. With all the talk of unfairness being thrown your way because you are a woman I have realized that I have accidentally become a part of that problem. And I apologize from the bottom of my heart.

You see, for quite some time now I have taken to calling you a “two-bit plastic whore.” “Whore” is such an ugly word that is used unfairly against women to demoralize them for alleged promiscuity because men are so self-conscious that they need to take women down with them. It is unfortunate, but it is our culture.

The part of the phrase I meant people to be taking away from it was “plastic.” You are plastic. You are fake. You are presenting yourself in as many ways as possible to be accepted by the general public, but few of those ways are really you. And I point this out regularly because I feel sometimes people let their sorrow for you remove that thought from their minds.

I could have just as easily called you a two-bit plastic dick. Or a two-bit plastic bastard. Or a two-bit plastic Republicrat.

But when I actually think about it, “whore” is the word that fits best. Not in the traditional promiscuity sense. No. In the “whoring yourself to the masses” sense, like a B-rate pop-singer or a movie star who is trying to make it big no matter what the artistic cost. Because that is what you do. When you put on that fake southern accent or send your friends out to give speeches about how cute you were when you used to flirt with boys in high school, trying to give yourself that “more human appeal,” you are being a whore.

I do not intend to single you out. You are no different then most any other politician out there, aside from those hopeless third party candidates.

However, if you had just tried being a natural human being before hand (something I fear first-ladyhood and the Republicans sadly stole from you), maybe it wouldn't have come to this. Maybe then it wouldn't have been such a big deal when you cried in a New Hampshire cafe. But, then again, that is certainly what you needed to help “humanize” yourself, right? I don't know about you, but I would certainly be worried about me if people thought I needed to "humanize" myself. That would make me think I was a cyborg.

A plastic cyborg.

All in all, Hillary, I guess my apology is pretty thin. I apologize if you misunderstood my usage of the word “whore.” It has nothing to do with you being a woman. Honestly, I wouldn't care if there was a Chinese Muslim hermaphrodite leading this nation of ours. Because to get to the Oval Office they would have had to be a two-bit plastic whore.

Sincerely,
Mickey Stiletto

Voodoo Politics (not economics)

2008-01-10T16:05:00.000-08:00

I'm technically a New Hampshirite for a few more months. And so, despite how I preach how worthless it is, I did the American thing and went to the polls on Tuesday. It was actually quite nice because I did it as a family outing with my (Republican) parents.

Ahh, to try and dissuade my father's ideals.

Heading to the polls I was not quite sure where my vote would land. A Vermont friend asked me to vote Edwards for her. Because by the time Vermont has it's primary, it is all too pointless. Since I have no affiliation, admiration or respect for either party, she asked me to stand up for her. And I wasn't completely against the idea because Edwards was the actual "talker" out of the Democrats truly potential herd.

Of course, I could have voted for long-time hopeless candidate Dennis Kucinich. Not because of the hot wife. But because he talks bigger than Edwards and I actually believe, if pigs were to fly over a frozen Hell, that he would do his damnedest to follow through with his promises. But a vote for Kucinich is merely a protest vote. A vote far more worthless than a 2000 Nader vote.

Or I could have gone to the Republican side of things just to make my small attempt to screw up their race. A vote for the candidate who I believe has the least chance in the General Election. And, honestly, that would be Mitt Romney. Huckabee is a crazy evangelical, but he is very, very likable and has such cute little stories about pardoning Keith Richards. Not too mention the support of action-god Chuck Norris. And while McCain does not have the support from the far right, he has support from the unaffiliated Independents. And when it comes down to it, the right-wing is, on the whole, going to vote for the Republican candidate because it is their lesser of two evils.

Also on the right there was always Ron Paul. A candidate the left-wingers have support for because of his stand against the Iraq War. Unfortunately they have never looked into the rest of his crazy ideas.

So I could have voted for the flip-flopping Mormon. Or I could suck it up and vote for one of the two real Democratic contenders. My choice would be Obama. But certainly not whole-heartedly. Because, while Obama is a phenomenal public speaker, he says absolutely nothing of substance. He has been playing it safe because, sadly, he knows what it takes to win.

The only person who I knew would not be receiving my vote was Hillary Clinton. The poor excuse for a plastic whore would not receive a check on my ballot. Ever. Why? While I have no particular problem with anything she has or hasn't done since being in the Senate or even being First Lady, she could never win the White House. She is truly a plastic whore. But she also carries with her a horrid and unfair perception of "ball-breaking lesbian."

Of course I have no problem with lesbians (not that she is one). But when people say that word in reference to her, they don't mean a typical lesbian. They mean, and, as I said, unfairly so to all involved, man-hating, controlling, conniving, evil woman. She got this persona from the Republicans in the Clinton years because A) she tried to bring America Universal Health Care (a mistake she will never make again) and B) was the stiff board standing next to Slick Willy, commie-liberal, stainer of unattractive intern's dresses Slick Willy. (By the way, I take offense at the fact that Republicans would apply so beautiful a word as Communist to Bill Clinton).

While America's perceptions may be unfair and erroneous, it is still the fact of the matter. And she would not beat any Republican in the General Election. So Hillary Clinton would not be getting my vote.

As I took the two hour drive to my parents' house, I passed lots of candidate's signs. They represented mostly only two people. Two very surprising people from how the pundits were talking all day. The first was Ron Paul and the second was Hillary Clinton.

This made me a little nervous.

But as I drove I also passed a lot of polling stations. Out front I saw, generally, only supporters of one candidate. Hillary Clinton.

This heartened me. Surely people would see the desperation invoked by the Clinton campaign and know that this was not a cause to back. What were these sign wielding idiots hoping for? That people who were entering the polling station with the plan of voting Giuliani would see them and mystically change there vote to Hillary?

Things were looking good.

My Dad pulled the car into the polling station. It was packed. Certainly it would be a record day. And I finally knew who my vote was going to be cast for.

That's when it happened. As a trio, we took the corner and came face to face with them. Two supporters, each holding very long boards with four or five signs attached. Hillary signs.

We neared and the supporters looked towards us. "They will not change my mind," I thought. But as we approached, they said an unsynchronized "hello" and shook their sign-overloaded boards.

It was the feeling I imagine takes place when a spell of real Voodoo has been cast by a Witch Doctor. A warm, not so tingly, feeling of content and peace with the world began at my pupils and spread, slowly, but surely. My mind felt at ease and my body slackened ever so slightly. I had only one thought. Not a determined thought, but a nice thought.

I must vote for Hillary.

And with a simple motivation, the three of us entered to vote for Hillary.

Of course nothing like this happened at all. But apparently those assholes with the signs really expected it to. Maybe it does. It is possible that out of the hundreds of thousands of voters they changed 3000 votes and changed the election (or perhaps the Obama campaigned slacked with confidence). I don't know.

But one thing is for sure. The sign holders are still assholes, even if they do give you a very kind "hi."

I Don't Like You (Volume 1)

2007-11-28T17:45:00.000-08:00

"Why do they call it a funny bone if it hurts so much when you hit it?"

This is a line often said by hack comics or the guy struggling really hard to be funny at the party or goofy dads. (Personally, when I wrote it, I heard the statement said by the voice of Jerry Seinfeld, though I am sure it originated long before his whiny voice hit the small screen).

If you proclaim this little quip then you are stupid. But I won't just baldly state this fact, I will even explain why you are an idiot.

People often take this phrase to be a little brilliant thought about life. But it is not.

Think about it, idiot.

When you break your leg, do you immediately get up and run a marathon? If your drawing hand gets gnawed off by a pitbull, do you quickly use the stub to sketch out a masterpiece? If your eyes are pierced by errant nails from a sloppy co-worker, can you easily stargaze that same evening?

NO!

Would it then stand to reason that if this alleged bone, which contained all your humor and laughter, were to be injured that you would laugh out loud? I thought not.

So by saying this simple little phrase you are proving that you are both unoriginal and have no basic sense of logic. But I am very grateful when you do, because I know in advance that I don't like you.

God In Pancakes

2007-11-12T17:58:00.000-08:00

I used to believe, up until about an hour ago, that everything happens for a reason.

I was pondering this belief while taking a long drive. And, as anybody who knows me knows, my long drives lead to many pit stops. It was at one of these pit stops, with this internal debate still waging quietly, where I found evidence (or lack there of) to disavow my belief. Here is how the event unfolded:

I, driving my lovely, silver, old ladies' car that properly represents the crotchety young man I am, pull into a gas station/convenience store. Choosing a parking spot I drive at adequate speed towards it when I realize that the space has a full glass bottle of some sporty tea drink lying on its side within the yellow lines. Easily, I avoid this bottle as I park, but I realize that on the exiting journey I might accidentally back over it, so I decide it is necessary to dispose of said potential trouble maker.

I exit my car and immediately get on my belly and reach below the hot metal for the cold bottle. Somewhat awkwardly I grab the bottle and pull it out. I rise from the ground, bottle in hand, and begin my cool guy walk towards the entrance. Clearly I see a trash receptacle, but no recycling bin. Being a man who believes himself not ignorant, I realize this glass bottle will end up in that trash can sooner or later, so I decide to be un-environmentally upfront as opposed to leaving the sporty tea drink near the trash hoping in the mean time that a recycling truck will show up, driven by Al Gore, who will exclaim, "A recyclable," and properly take care of the wasted item.

Let us now cut the story to inside, where a young, relatively attractive girl is working at the counter and apparently watching the soon-to-be excitement outside.

The tall, dark, handsome stranger nears the front door. With the windows starting so high, I can only see his chest of rippling pectorals and his comforting biceps. The beautiful figure makes a brief move towards the trash can. A movement that starts out so slight and barely noticeable, as if he is so incredibly cool that Mother Nature herself will not allow his sexy, wind-swept, seemingly slow-motion strut interruption. Suddenly a shocked look streaks across those exhilarating eyes.

Then he proceeds to do some sort of spastic monkey dance as his head looks in many directions, possibly trying to share some goofy laugh or potentially to spot any who would mock him for something that I cannot see. After a moment of continued standing seizure, he continues on his path to the door. Quickly, however, he stops and looks down, as if examining the bottom of his shoe for bugs or dog excrement. Then, once again, he continues to the door. Only now he has lost the strut and is dragging his back leg as if he were Igor looking for his beloved Dr. Frankenstein.

Now we return to my side of the tale.

I enter the convenient store to see a young, relatively attractive girl looking at me with an expression that has somehow managed to combine confusion, fear, laughter, a little more fear and a deep longing to buy me some nicer clothes. "What happened?" she questions with slight amusement in her sweet voice.

And now I quote myself verbatim: "Well, I was pulling into the parking spot and there was a full glass bottle there so I parked my car and then crawled under to pick it up so I didn't back over it. I had it and was walking over to throw it out, but somehow, from a mere half a foot away, I managed to miss the big hole at the front of the trash can so the bottle bounced back at me and then shattered on the ground all around my feet and words cannot describe the amount of suave-ness I am feeling right now."

The girl laughed and asked me if she should go clean it up. Not being a manager (or even a fellow employee for that matter), but thinking it was a good idea, which I would have done myself had I not had to pee so incredibly badly, I said, "probably."

So she got the broom and headed up front. I continued on the journey to the urinal.

I came back out while she was still cleaning it up. I apologized again, but she gave me a relatively attractive smile and told me it was no problem at all. This was, apparently, not a rare occasion for her to have to pick up after goofy bastards like me.

So I got in my car and left.

How does this story relate in anyway to the first two paragraphs of this blog? Well, if everything happens for a reason, then what was my reason for breaking that bottle?

Could it be that I am moving soon to a place where I will need to be more social and this was an event that proved I could talk, even though embarrassed, to a relatively attractive complete stranger? Or was it simply to give me the vehicle to compose this piece?

Or maybe it was a reason that was not about me. Was the girl about to snap and destroy the Hostess' or Hershey's rack until I brought a little bit of humor to her day? Was she going to walk back to the dumpster with that broken glass and see a bird flying by which some how reminded her she needed to call her friend Abigail?

Or is it really that humans, a species with no self-confidence and a constant fear of what happens when we die, absolutely need there to be reason so that their lives aren't truly just about masticating and procreating?

Essentially, does everything happen for a reason or do we just need to find reason in everything that happens.

Is finding a hidden reason in every day occurrences any different then those yahoos who find the image of Jesus in their stack of pancakes? Is it any different then those wackos who find the voice of ghosts hidden in static of audio recordings?

It seems to me that far more people believe in the theory that everything happens for a reason than believe in Flapjacks Jesus or EVP. But isn't it all just the same thing? A desperate human need to prove that we are not mere mortals, but spirits who will live on, in heaven, in hell or in limbo. That there is some sort of higher power, be it a bearded man in the sky or some sort of unseen subatomic connection between all the Universe's elements, that allows us to continue on past this life of skin and bones.

Though, when it comes down to it, it seems that there is an even more fundamental level to this. Might it not stretch to the scientist who has only a certain number of "facts," but draws conclusions that become universal truth until 10, 20 or 100 years later when that theory is destroyed by the unveiling of new "facts?" When science is constantly groping for truth yet simultaneously disproving its own beloved beliefs, is that much different then the ever present search for God?

So, when it comes down to it, it is not just proof of everlasting, but an eternal search for some sort of knowledge. Because that is, after all, "what separates us from the animals." Yet when we as a species cannot maintain a steady structure of knowledge, what is really known except the sun and the moon appear and disappear frequently and sex feels really good?

I am not saying we should give up and accept our fate as ignorant creatures who can play Nintendo Wii because of our opposable thumbs. We will obviously keep growing and creating and building and polluting until that asteroid falls from the sky or the super volcano explodes. I am simply saying that maybe we, as humans, should humble ourselves to admitting that we don't know a damn thing about anything.

The only thing that we know is that we desperately need to know. But because we don't our desire will keep driving the delusion that we see God in pancakes.

F**k MTV / Release The State

2007-11-07T18:10:00.000-08:00

Say what you want, but I am not an idiot. I know that few other people on this globe look back with as much fondness as I do on that too-short-lived, early 90s, sketch comedy show, The State. Hell, I ask every person I meet if they used to watch The State and not many even know what the hell I am talking about.

For those of you who don't remember The State, let me tell you this: It bred many other things you love. Reno 911! and Stella combined are created by and star six of the eleven members of The State. As a matter of fact, all eleven cast members were a part of Reno 911!: Miami (the movie). You will also find differing members are responsible for the motion pictures: Balls of Fury, The Ten, Wet Hot American Summer, The Baxter and Wedding Daze.

I would say that, as a 12-14 year old, The State helped to shape and define my sense of humor for years to come, but I believe a sense of humor is something someone is born with. I will say, however, that The State helped me to realize what I really love in humor. The State is the mark by which I judge every other comedic entity to pass my way (OK, that might be a strong statement). But do you get it?! I LOVE THE STATE!!

Despite the fact that there are not many who still remember it, I am not alone. For years petitions swept the internet and copies of copies of copies of VHS tapes have been sold on eBay. Finally, earlier this year, MTV released the first season of The State to iTunes, with the promise that if it did well enough it would be released onto DVD.

And apparently it did. So members of The State have been continuity spreading the good word that it would finally be released on DVD this fall. David Wain even put this lovely little video together. My mother, my sister and myself were trying to plan out who would buy it for who for X-Mas, but we were so overjoyed that we couldn't concentrate.

Then the sky crumbled upon my world. I visited the official State website to try and find out when the exact date of release would be. There was no release date. There was this:

* * * NOTE (Nov 1, 2007): We are sorry to report The State DVD is now NOT being released this fall. We worked closely with MTV to make a great DVD set with lots of extras for the show, and the DVDs are completed, but they have chosen not to release the set at this time. We don't know why.

The DVDs are completed, but MTV, despite urgent requests from overzealous fanboys like myself, has chosen, for unknown reasons, to deny us our ultimate pleasure. Since MTV is being difficult and I still only have my iTunes copy of season 1, lets look at some of the mind-blowing television series that have managed to be released to DVD. To nothing but awe and big piles of money, I'm sure.

21 Jump Street
The Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog
ALF
The Amazing Race
America's Funniest Home Videos
The Anna Nicole Show
Baywatch
Beverly Hills 90210
Bridezillas
Candid Camera
Captain N: The Game Master
Cops
Cribs
Dinosaurs

OK, I can't pick through the list anymore. You get the point.

Yes, I realize these are not all the responsibility of MTV, but if the major networks can release Dinosaurs, for Christ's sake, then I am sure Viacom can cough up The State. They released fucking Cribs! It is not like Viacom spends any money developing on Comedy Central, they just play constant reruns of South Park and Chappelle's Show. And I love both those shows. But with all the money they save, can't they give a little something back? Hell, you could air it on Comedy Central first and, for the most part, it wouldn't really be dated.

Just do something with it. Because it is too brilliant to let it pass silently into oblivion like that.

And, MTV, until you do something with it... I am never watching My Super Sweet Sixteen again!

More Michael Moore

2007-11-07T18:00:00.000-08:00

A few months ago I wrote a piece on Michael Moore. It was actually intended for my stand-up, but I never had a chance to use it, so I blogged it in the crude, meant to be spoken word, form. In that piece I warned the left against treating Michael Moore as the right treats Bill O'Reilly or Rush Limbaugh. I told them that Fahrenheit 9/11 sucked, but it was Michael Moore so they still ran around calling him the greatest man to ever live and that this was a dangerous path. And the reason I wrote this a mere few months ago was because Moore had a new movie coming to theaters called SiCKO.

I basically said something along the lines of, "don't start giving Moore proverbial fellatio just because he is Michael Moore. Wait and see how the movie is or else you are no better than the Dittoheads."

Well, there was no fanfare for the DVD release of SiCKO, so I was greatly surprised when I saw it sitting on the shelf at my local video store (I know, I know, how archaic it is of me to still support a local video store as opposed to some national online distributor).

Now that I have seen the movie I can tell you with no shame that Michael Moore has created another great movie.

As aforementioned, I was not a fan of Fahrenheit 9/11, but I have enjoyed his previous works. Even the two lesser knowns, The Big One and his fictional work, Canadian Bacon. I have also enjoyed most of his books. I just thought Fahrenheit 9/11 was a rushed piece of garbage that only won such acclaim because it was made at a time when people were still skiddish of attacking our war (and, of course, because he is who he is).

But Moore has taken his time and made a film that delivers in every way.

I am not going to sit here and write a full review. My time is too precious for that (HA!). I just didn't want my last blogged word on SiCKO to be a warning against blindly trusting idols. Because Moore really did make an excellent film.

The Virtue of Candy Corn

2007-10-29T18:27:00.000-07:00

I am on my way to L.A. very, very soon. Which means I need to get cut, ripped, jacked. Or down to 95 pounds. I am too lazy to work out unless it is some sort of Wii based exercise, so I guess I have to drop 80 pounds.

I am not into vomiting or starving and I am illiterate so those books on dieting are no good for me. Which is why I needed to invent my own dieting system. AND I DID!

It is the best and simplest dieting system in the world. All you need is Candy Corn. With Halloween about over, I would suggest going and stocking up before you finish this sentence.

OK, you need more than Candy Corn. You need regular food too. But the most important thing is Candy Corn. Because if you are like me and you need a snack and you sit down with a nice bag of tasty chips or a fresh bucket of lard you can't just stop when you know you should. It tastes so good that you keep going and going and going, but in a way that leaves you the anti-Enegizer Bunny.

This is what makes Candy Corn perfect. You buy the Candy Corn as your snack food. Unlike most, apparently, I like Candy Corn. But what can I eat? 10 pieces at the most before a nasty taste spreads through my mouth like that disease in that Dustin Hoffman movie, Outbreak. Now the Candy Corn has put a little bit o' food in my belly, but it has also left my mouth with a feeling of complete rejection for any foreign object that may try to gain access to the throat. The mouth has become a PCP-addicted bouncer that thinks every piece of food is ugly as sin.

In short, you can only eat a few pieces, which gives you a little bit of a snack, but you can't binge like Kiefer Sutherland at the Happy Hour that occurs right before his mandatory driving time.

No one seems to believe me, but it is the absolutely perfect plan. Go ahead. Try it out. Start small. But test quick because once November 1st is here all those bags of awful goodness are packed away until next year. (Incidentally, of course I have heard Lewis Black's bit on Candy Corn and it being "recycled." The truth is that all of your holiday treats are held onto until the next year. And most of it will continue to be held until it sells because it just can't go bad. Yummmm.)

Try the Candy Corn diet and if in one week you haven't at least maintained the same weight than I won't care and you can just call me wrong. But I'm not. Jerk-face.

Saying Goodbye

2007-10-26T18:30:00.000-07:00

How do you say "goodbye" to someone you've known and loved for over eight years?

You both know it is never going to work out. One of you is moving to the completely other side of the country. You've both changed greatly over the span of your relationship. You no longer see eye to eye on anything. Your goals have changed. Your views of the world have changed.

But how do you end an eight year chapter of your life? Almost one-third of your life? What do you do when you know that the chances are very high that this is the last time you two will ever see each other face to face? It is probably the last time you will ever speak words to one another. Ever again.

How do you do that?

There will be a hug. There will probably be a quick meeting of the lips. But this is forever.

Should it be memorable? A big, thematic affair with weepy words and a five minute sexless, tearful embrace.

Should it be just like any other goodbye that you have ever said before? Simple and quick with the false tones of seeing one another tomorrow.

Or should it just be the final fizzle of a relationship that has degraded into a twisted friendship? An unreturned "I love you" and a simple, mournful squeeze of the hand.

Why even worry about this moment like it is the one that will define your life? Somehow goodbye will be said and one will leave, closing the door on what was always a very unusual thing. And that will be it. Yes, there will be an immediate sadness, but life will move on. One will never forget about the other as sure as the other will never forget about them, but as time passes those memories will become fewer and farther between.

Because it is not truly a goodbye of the most surprising and unwanted form. It is a goodbye that probably should have happened seven years ago. But neither could do it. Each needed the other in the oddest way. Now, however, that time has passed. And both know it is for the better. Neither need the other like they once did before. That is the only sadness of the tale.

So it probably won't be weepy and mournful just as it won't be happy with falsely high compliments. It will most likely be as strange as the two people parting.

Still, even though one might like to ignore it, let the moment just happen organically, as it undoubtedly will, no matter how many previews play in your head, you can't. When you are faced with such a major juncture in your life, a final farewell to one you still love so much, just not in that way, you can't keep the thoughts off your mind. All you can do is try to avoid those quiet moments.

When your head keeps repeating, "how do you say 'goodbye' to someone you've known and loved for over eight years?"

Epilogue:

Three days have passed....

She just left. Her tears are still wet on my shirt. I am still numb with the knowledge that we have just said goodbye.

For the final time.

Still, I don't know how I feel. It needed to happen. But she is gone.

Chuck Norris Fights Lions!

2007-10-23T18:31:00.000-07:00

OK, I kind of lied. This is not the big new upcoming Pay-Per-View event of the season. But I think Chuck might have been kicked in the head a few too many times and may soon be ranting about lions as Stephen Colbert rants about bears. (The explanation is a few paragraphs away.)

It recently made news sub-headlines that Chuck Norris, in his exclusive column on WorldNetDaily (a right-wing rag that totes itself as "A Free Press for Free People"), has officially backed Mike Huckabee for President. Whatever. If the rest of Hollywood can stand up and declare their love for the spineless whores on the left, I see no reason why a Sunset Strip Outsider can't stand up for what he believes.

After all, I am not one of those who thinks it is horrendous that actors have viewpoints. Because it is America where everyone supposedly can. I think some of the actors may be ill-informed and mildly stupid, but we shouldn't complain that they have such a big platform. If you want to follow the Britney Spears' kids crisis and see it on the cover of every goddamn magazine at the check-out then that is your prerogative. But if you are willing to pay so that paparazzi find it worth their time to be so invasive of her life, then she should be allowed to say that she wants to vote for Obama or Clinton or Huckabee or Donald Duck.

So when Chuck Norris stood up and spoke out, I took interest. Not for your typical reasons, though. My interest is more based on the e-mail passed around years ago, Chuck Norris Facts, and this song. My interest in Chuck Norris could be called nostalgic if I had any memories of his movies or TV shows from my youth. It is more like an interest in 8-tracks and Atari. Things that amaze me because once they were so incredibly cool to so many others, but I see them in clear hindsight as silly and kinda cute.

Yeah, I said it. Chuck Norris is cute in that I-worked-with-Bruce-Lee-but-than-had-to-take-my-act-to-bad-television-but-no-really-I-swear-I-am-a-bad-ass way.

So I went to WorldNetDaily and saw Chuck's "column." (Just admit it. Back in the day it was an Editorial or Opinion Piece, but now it is just a freakin' blog). Which was fine. He obviously doesn't reach the level of my parentheses happy genius, but he writes solid enough for a guy who made a living outta beatin' ass.

The real excitement didn't begin until I clicked on the link to ChuckNorris.com, however. That is where I found all the best stuff.

And the best among the best was Chuck's link (and yes, I say "Chuck's link" because I read in that e-mail how he invented the internet, so I am sure, judging by the early-90's styles (post-homepage), that Chuck designed it himself)... Sorry, I lost myself there. Among the best was Chuck's link called "Christian Area."

Here are the links you get, listed in order, when you click "CHRISTIAN area": KickStart, World Combat League, Norris Family Films, United Fighting Arts Federation, WorldBlackBelt.com, Norris Racing, Walker Store, Media World, New Man Magazine, Tirk Wilder "The Eyes of The Ranger" Buy the CD!, World Net Daily News.

Please, feel free to review those first few again. That is right. They are all about fighting, mostly in arenas.

So here is the conclusion I draw. Chuck Norris has been conked about enough that he believes that one day soon the Romans will return and all Christians must prepare themselves to be thrown into the arena to battle the lions. We also see Norris Racing. Perhaps he believes there will also be chariot races.

Chariot races where you must also battle ninjas. For all I know he thinks they are monkey ninjas.

BUT NO! Now that I have had my laugh at Mr. Norris, I must be honest. Chuck just did some poor page design and set-up a faulty link. A link to the "Links" section, actually. So if you click on "Christian Area" from this Links section, you get a list that is far less scary.

Here are a few descriptions of links from the Christian Area:

The National Council on Bible Curriculum
A program is underway to serve the public through educational efforts concerning a First Amendment right and religious freedom issue. This is to bring a state certified Bible course (elective) into the public high schools nationwide.

And.

Billy Graham Evangelistic Association
Many people today accept lies as truth and consider the truth to be a lie. Read Billy Graham's message now.

And, my personal favorite.

Columbine Redemption
A Father's Plea to our Nation
by Darrell Scott

Since the dawn of creation there have been both good and evil in the hearts of men and of women. We all contain the seeds of kindness or the seeds of violence. The death of my wonderful daughter Rachel Joy Scott, and the deaths of the heroic teacher and the other children who died, must not be in vain. Their blood cries out for answers.

The first recorded act of violence was when Cain slew his brother Abel out in the field. The villain was not the club he used. Neither was it the NCA - The National Club Association. The true killer was Cain and the reason for the murder could only be found in Cain's heart....

Why is this one of my favorite? Because the media was so quick to blame Marilyn Manson and First Person Shooter video games. But maybe it was a Chuck Norris flick that inspired them. But then they found out they couldn't kick like he can, so they chose a different route.

I know, I am being overly callous on the very sensitive subject of Columbine. But read what that guy wrote. He said our children should not die in vain, let everyone still have guns because guns don't kill people. He is saying that the children of Columbine will have died in vain if we try and restrict gun ownership, because it was not the bullet that came from the gun that killed his daughter.

As the great Bill Hicks once said, "there have been studies done and there is no connection between having a gun and shooting somebody with it and not having a gun and not shooting somebody. There is no connection. And you'd be a fool and a communist to think so."

Why would Chuck Norris have a pro-guns statement in his Christian Area anyway? That is the part I really can't figure out. Because I know he would have just karate-chopped Cain before chariot racing the ninja monkeys and fighting the lions.

Just read Chuck Norris fact number 1. Guns don't kill people, Chuck Norris does.

The Poem Against the Machine

2007-10-20T18:52:00.000-07:00

So I was just now on MySpace when one of those flashing banners actually caught my attention. It said, "Take The Smart Test," only "Smart" was crossed out and scribbled above it was "Dumb." Being a fan of Jeopardy and Scrabble I was intrigued. When the flashing banner told me that "75% of You Have Failed The Dumb Test," well, I felt really challenged. So I clicked.

It was a lovely little trick quiz where you had to read the questions carefully to get them right. Nothing that special.

But at the bottom of every page was a question like this:

We want to know who is the dumber sex! Which are you?

And:

We want to know where the dumbest live! What's your Zip Code?

I am no internet fool. I knew what was coming.

And sure enough, the third (or 239th) to last page was more info on me. So, of course, I gave them fake info. Then there were pages and pages of offers and offers and offers to cover just about everyone. But I tried to surpass them all as they would be sending their junk to fake places anyway.

Alas, the Online Quiz would not allow this. I had to pick one. So I picked a poetry contest. But I had to enter a poem right then and there to get the results. And I am pretty proud of my little piece. It could be better, but I spent all of five minutes on it and apparently it will be displayed on Poetry.com.

I just wanted to take
a "free" online quiz
but nothing is free
it is all dot biz

So now I am just
making this up as I go
for fun things online
make you a ho

Someone has to sell you something
its the way of the game
"We just need to start off
with your name"(and Social Security number and telephone and address and date of birth and pet's name and mother's maiden name and defining birthmarks and blood sample...)

Unfortunately for you Poetry was
the offer I did click
because the other offer
shave a problem with my dick.

Compared to chemicals
I like poems so much more
but maybe I need those chemicals
because, after all, now I'm an internet whore

But for those who collected the info
the joke is on you
because I am not stupid
and it was fake like you too

Still I say Thanks
though you won't get a dime
because it sure has been fun
to make up this rhyme.

But then they told me that that poem was too long. So I got angry and wrote this one to Poetry.com:

You were the offer that I did click
because every other one hated my dick
Should I feel bad I gave you fake info
Or is it you that should feel the ho?
You ask if this is honest art
Yet with these "free" quizzes you take part
Is it I who has too much nerve
Or is it crap like this you deserve
With the "How Dumb Are You" Quiz
you aligned your dot biz
And you won't find another Dylan Thomas
that is one thing I can promise
when your means to get readers
is a path of bottom feeders
Who sell all sorts of snake oil
to those who imaginingly toil
We both should feel shame
for we both are to blame
For the internet being a breeding ground for whores.

And then they wouldn't allow the word "whores," so I had to change it to "[not accepted word]."

Should I feel bad about wasting a poetry site's time and money? Probably. But if they are whoring themselves out in that way, might they deserve it? Not necessarily.

And then I had pages and pages and pages more of offers. THEY WOULDN'T LEAVE ME A-GODDAMN-LONE!

But finally I passed through the battle field of offers. I think it was about half an hour over all. Why? To find out that I was correct and I wasn't dumb.

Or did I disprove that by clicking the flashing ad?

Big Brother In Your Head

2007-10-04T19:04:00.000-07:00

Big Brother is Not Watching You.

No one is. You are pretty boring.

A Stupid Wish

2007-09-30T19:10:00.000-07:00

I wish I was a rapper from Chicago.

Then I could release an album called Illa-Noize.

The Patriots Scandal

2007-09-17T19:11:00.000-07:00

I am a huge Patriots fan. Patriots games were really one of my few family bonding moments. I have loved them since they sucked and I will love them when they inevitably suck again. But in the wake of this scandal, let us all take a deep breath and be honest...

If it was your team, you'd say it wasn't that bad too.

I don't know how long the Pats have been doing this. I don't know if it ever gave them any real edge.

But if it was the Colts that had been caught, Pats fans would be saying it was the only reason Peyton finally got a Superbowl ring and Colts fans would be saying its just not that bad.

If it were Oakland who was caught, Raiders fans would be saying its not really horrible and everyone else would be saying, "judging by their record, it obviously wasn't that bad."

This is obviously a scandal and it obviously tarnishes the Patriots recent past. But punishments have already been handed out and people have already had reputations scarred, so lets just stop all the pointless, post everything, partisan bickering on message boards everywhere. Because if it was your team you'd say it was OK and if it was your rivals team you would think they should be banished from the league forever.

Its done.

Unless of course they find the Pats were making audio recordings too. Which I hope to God they weren't.

One thing we can all agree on: The Patriots won't, and certainly won't have an opportunity to, cheat for the rest of this season. So let us all let them speak the truth out on the field this year.

Of course, if they go all the way, every Colts, Jets and Chargers fan will say it was because they finally got some talented receivers and didn't need to cheat.

Ugh.

I still love them anyway.

Animation Annoyances (Vol 1 of 1000000000)

2007-08-30T19:13:00.000-07:00

For a while I have been excited to see a French film called Renaissance. And by a while I mean nearly a year. What was so intriguing about this movie? It is a 3D animated movie that was rendered in a stark black and white contrast; Sin City-esque without the occasional spots of color. I love animation, I love darkness and the French are OK. Finally, not too long ago, I got to see this film. And what happened?

I was very pissed off.

The plot was fairly boring, of the very mainstream American action sort, but it was French, so maybe it was groundbreaking over there. The voice acting was OK, nothing special, but not the worst I've ever heard.

"Well, gee, Mickey, none of this sounds that angering."

And none of it was. I made it through the movie, only letting my attention fall on a twittering bird outside for a short while, and I was fine. Then I went to the bonus features and I learned the truth.

"They were inspired by Blade Runner?" Who hasn't been? "The bonus features were in French with subtitles?" I can read, I have no problem with that. "Then what?"

It was feckin' mo-cap!

For those of you who are not mega-stupid-nerdy like me, you might not know what "mo-cap" is. It is the in-the-know term for Motion Capture. That is when a bunch of actors stand around in funny suits with white balls sticking out all over them and a series of special cameras record their movements.

"So what's so bad about that?"

Because this animated film that I had waited so long to see WAS NOT EVEN ANIMATED! Sure, I am positive there were some animators doing some clean-up work on material that was lost in translation. And the modelers and the lighting department and the special effects unit all did a bang-up job.

But when I pay money to see an animated film, I want that money to be spent on an actual animation process. Animators scrutinizing every little thumb movement and pelvic gyration and facial expression. I want the non-beautiful people getting paid to put the work in to make the motions even better and more interesting than a real person makes them.

Would you feel the same about the Mona Lisa or the Scream, knowing that Da Vinci or Munch had just taken a quick, cheap, digital image and used a simple Photoshop filter to make it look painted?

I am obviously not a Luddite. I am writing this on the internet and I do 3D animation myself. I am not screaming for the glory days of ink and paint because I know they are all but dead. Innovations are obviously a good thing, because I would not expect to animate an ocean particle by particle. God Bless the emitters.

But I do expect an animated movie to involve a real animation process. Because that is always what has made it so beautiful and perfect. The fact that it is our take on reality, not just exactly capturing reality.

Do not misunderstand me. I am not saying that we should toss all the mo-cap machines in the ocean (because that would be littering). I think mo-cap has a very integral part in Hollywood. As we have introduced more animated characters into films, it has left actors reacting to tennis balls on sticks. Which does not always translate that well. So let's get the voice actors out on the set in their mo-cap suits. Then we get better performances out of everyone involved. But that is all mo-cap should be used for.

I guess to summarize my disappointment, I would call as evidence this year's Oscar nominees for Animated Feature. Cars, Happy Feet and Monster House. The last two films used motion capture. Can they then really compete against a film that was wholly animated? "Well how could you use mo-cap to animate a car," you scream? Obviously, it would not be that effective if it were a person in a suit. But if we were to call the Pixar track record into account, I think you will see my point. As it says at the end of Ratatouille, "100% Animated! No motion capture or shortcuts were used in the making of this film."

And maybe that is just part of the reason why Pixar has consistently better movies. That mixed with their constant effort making sure they have a solid story and a terrific script and things like character development, which certain competitors, like (let's keep half their name a secret so we don't embarrass them) Dream_____ (no no no, that's too obvious) ______Works, do not come close to. But that is an argument for another day.

The point is that in the future I am looking at animated movies more closely before I pay money for them. If they aren't 100% animated, than they need to get themselves a new title. Maybe Spamimation or Ramenimation. Something that implies that mo-cap movies are perfectly acceptable, if you want something that is clearly a cheaper product on the whole.

Did I sound like too much of a snob just then?

New Orleans (and a joke relating to the disaster)

2007-07-10T19:16:00.000-07:00

So, I had a thought a long time ago. But I will repost it now to make it look like I am keeping up with a blog.

Is it wrong to love the song Walking On Sunshine?

You know it. Happy, poppy, 80's song. It makes you want to dance and do special things like clean the dishes.

But is it wrong, now, to love that song?

Because, after what happened in New Orleans, is it really OK to love a song by a band called Katrina and the Waves?

What Is God?

2007-07-07T19:17:00.000-07:00

A lot of people like to hope that when someone else gets to heaven, they find out that God is black or white or a man or a woman.

Screw that noise!

If you are really as colorblind as you say you are then you will hope like me.

I hope, if there is a heaven, that everyone gets there to find out that God is really a hermaphroditic zebra.

That would be a just solution.

Stop Snitchin'

2007-07-04T19:17:00.000-07:00

So I saw a kid walking with his girlfriend last night. He was wearing one of those "Stop Snitchin'" shirts.

I was overcome with this urge to hit his girlfriend upside the head with a shovel to see if he would Snitch.

Don't worry, in my fantasy I used a snow shovel. I would never want to permanently disfigure someone.

I just wanted to prove a point.

Michael Moore

2007-06-28T19:18:00.000-07:00

I have to say something right now, that left-wingers will not like. But it has to be said for us to be able to grow as a species.

So I want you to prepare yourselves for the worst before you read on.

Are you sure you are ready?

Really?

Why am I writing this like a chain e-mail?

OK, here goes.

Fahrenheit 9/11 sucked.

I know you want to love it because it was a big documentary that said the war was bad.

No, it sucked.

I know you want to love it because you love Michael Moore.

I like Michael Moore too. Bowling for Columbine, loved it. Roger & Me, loved it. Canadian Bacon, loved it. The Big One, liked it. But Fahrenheit 9/11 sucked.

It sucked. It sucked. It sucked.

And you are probably asking yourselves, "why is he writing this now? Years after it's release?"

Because Michael Moore has a new movie coming out tomorrow called SiCKO. And I don't want you people blindly rushing in and out of the theater screaming, "Oh, Michael Moore is a God amongst men." Especially if this movie sucks.

If you do that, then you are just like the Rush Limbaugh fans. The dittoheads.

And why are they called dittoheads? Because they can't think for themselves, as their fearless leader frequently tells them. So the dittoheads just run around yelping, "ditto, ditto! Oh, Rush is right! Rush is right! Rush, let me bend over while you tell me how to let the corporations fuck me even harder!"

I don't want you people to be dittoheads. I have more faith in you than that. So lean back, take a deep breath and remember never to let some big head on some giant screen dictate the truth to you.

Unless, of course, one day that big head happens to belong to me.

Procrastinating the Day Away

2007-06-20T19:24:00.000-07:00

Procrastination.

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

....

...A little bit later.

See, I am not entirely procrastinating at the moment. I am waiting to hear back from people before I can proceed with my work. I mean, sure, there are things I could be doing other than writing this blog entry.

BUT, in actuality, I have been procrastinating at writing a second blog entry. So that would mean that I am, in fact, battling against procrastination by placing keystrokes to digital medium. Right?

I have procrastinated entirely too much lately. This is not something new, however. Much like how I have always been a white guy, I have always been a procrastinator. I would have waited a little longer to start talking if I hadn't been so sick and tired of milk. I waited it out on the reading thing until I had to buckle down and complete those SATs.

One doesn't procrastinate. One is a procrastinator.

And you procrastinators need to just accept it, like I finally have. Because this is nothing you will ever overcome. You will never defeat it because it is you. It is your personality.

I know some of you might be weeping right now, crying out, "No! It simply can't be true! I cannot be a... a.... that thing! Noooo!"

It is true. But it is nothing to be afraid of. In fact, I will give you a list of great things about being a procrastinator.

1. We will live longer than everyone else.
All those minuscule things that we need to catch up on will add up. So we will be ready to die, but we just won't get around to it until tomorrow. Or 20 years later. Which gives us all the chance to become the curmudgeonly old person who lives in the creepy house scaring neighborhood kids away. Won't that be fun?This, of course, only applies if you are a procrastinator who is no dependent on medications taken at a timely interval.

2. We get to do more fun things in life.
Those silly perfectionists who want to get things done in a timely fashion so that they can do the things they want never do. They end up spending all of the time making their whatever... well.... perfect. We, on the other hand, get to play more video games, watch more movies, sleep more, snack more, think more, sleep more, read more, dance more and sleep more.This does not apply if you consider visiting foreign countries a fun thing. Because we will never do that. Don't kid yourselves.

3. I will get around to pointing that out later.

You know what? I'll just get to the whole point of this entry later.

I feel sleepy now.

Starting to Blog

2007-06-15T19:26:00.000-07:00

So I am starting to blog.

Why?

So I can share my inner most thoughts with the world? So I can practice as a writer? So you can get to know me better? So my idle hands aren't the Devil's play things? So I can look at my computer screen just a little bit longer?

No.

Because I am bored.

There are real things I'd like to do, but I have no energy to do them. Which is why I will turn on Strauss and leave this here for you, the gentle reader, to view.

But what exactly do I write about?

Computers? Comedy? Music? Movies? The virtues of Jhonen Vasquez? TV? Books? Cats? Money? Roommates? Shaw's never having, at the same time, the only three things I buy? Work? Life? Religion? My damn car falling apart? Aliens? Lemurs? Blogs? My theories on the 7th Harry Potter book?

There is so much I could write about, yet my lack of motivation on all other fronts seems to have conquered me here as well. I feel no urge to write about anything.

So I shall write about nothingness. But, in actuality, there is no such thing as nothingness. So say the scientists anyway. But they also believe bananas and clouds have nearly the same DNA. So who are they to make judgments? If they really are right about the Universe being 13 billion years old, then, in the grand scheme of things, they have been studying it for all of 2 seconds.

How much can they truly know?

Probably more than me.

So I guess that leads us back to this "blog" being about nothingness (how? I'm not quite sure). Well, not nothingness, it is just about nothing. But if there is no nothingness then how can this be about nothing because there is no such thing? Because one certainly can't do nothing, because they are always existing, breathing, thinking, smelling, hearing, seeing, touching, procrastinating.

Wow, I have really taken this blog to a new level of crap. And it is only my first entry.

So I guess this blog accomplished two things. It wasted some of my time. And it wasted some of yours.

I promise the next entry will be tons more meaningful.