OMG!!?!

Having majored in Computer Science, you would think of all people, I would champion its wide-spread popularity. However, I’m here to lodge a complaint.

I was driving back to my apartment the other day when I noticed a certain license plate:

Note: not the actual plate, just my finest Photoshop work to date, which admittedly isn’t that great. Come on, I’m a programmer, not a graphic designer. Geez, what a caption.
OMG, in case you didn’t know, is internet slang for “Oh My God.” As if it weren’t enough that some people actually say this and LOL out loud in real life to actual people, someone found it necessary to imprint this on their license plate.

First off, there’s the point that vanity plates are typically owned by assholes. Think about it, you see plates like these:



more often than:


Right?

Second, what is the statement being made by an OMG plate? At least the aforementioned criminal sexual offender plates know their limitations—they’re bound by the desire in their fiery loins—so they don’t pull punches. What are you saying exactly, that you’re either (a) an internet addict (which is always the first thing you want to put out there when attempting actual physical contact) or (b) are in a constant state of shock and awe (and no, I won’t take any shots at our retarded little President)?

Either way, I will give this person (who I hope to happy Christcakes is a girl) the benefit of the doubt

Quick personal note: I always think of this when I hear or read the phrase “benefit of the doubt.” In sixth grade, my math teacher (who had an identical twin that also taught math—I wonder if their parents dressed them the same) caught me with a page ripped out of a dictionary. What was on the page, you ask? You know how the first word of the page is bolded at the top? Well, just imagine me handing the page to her and her eye immediately going to masturbation. Since she didn’t see me actually tear it out (which I did), she said “Look, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Just give me three dollars for a new one and we’ll forget about it.” That was great, because it meant I didn’t get in trouble. However, 11 years later, I’ve come to a couple realizations. First, how is paying for the dictionary getting “the benefit of the doubt?” Second, she taught me how to bribe my way out of trouble. Thanks Mrs. Mascarelli!

and say it’s possible that they weren’t intending the internet slang. I have compiled the following list of possible explanations:


Okay, that was stupid.

However, this next table will be better. I see where the trend is going. People will keep coming up with acronyms until every possible human expression can be summed up in a series of characters. My recommendations:


Yeah, that’s better.

While we’re on the topic of license plates (God how many times have I said that), I’d like to point out one that makes me angry every time I see it:


To me, this plate is presumptuous. It assumes:

1. I am currently not loving ‘em.
2. That I feel bad about this, and was only waiting for a sign from a license plate to change my ways.

Don’t think so? Well imagine if the plate said:


Wouldn’t you feel like it was telling you your life sucked but that you might as well enjoy it, because it’s all you have, you piece of crap?

Thank you, thank you. Put the Pulitzer on the mantel, next to the vase.

If you for some reason enjoy my antics, shoot me a blank email and I’ll put you on the Peanut M&Ms mailing list, which will in all likelihood have two members.

Don't let her get away! Order Now!

While sifting through my email, I came across one labeled “Meet Singles With Christian Principles.” I can only imagine the personality profile you have to fill out for that…


And this is the ad that was in the email:


Now, I realize that the nature of this blog would lead one to believe that this is a doctored--or perhaps entirely fictitous--image, but I assure you that it is not my creation. In fact, I am a fan of it. I am, however, a little disappointed that they didn’t present the ad they originally came up with, which had a decidely different theme:


The next email came from my friend Amanda, who among other things, informed me of a product known as forget-me-not panties. Again, I did not make this up; this is a real product, whose site can be found at:

http://forgetmenotpanties.contagiousmedia.org/index.html.

I urge you to take a look at it before proceeding.

The main page begins:

protect her privates
Ever worry about your wife cheating?

Want to know where your daughter is late at night?

Need to know when your girlfriend's temperature is rising?

This amazing device will answer all of your questions! These panties can give you her location, and even her temperature and heart rate, and she will never even know it's there! Unlike the cumbersome and uncomfortable chastity belts of the past, these panties are 100% cotton, and use cutting-edge technology to help you protect what matters most.

I can’t say “protect her privates” is the best header I’ve ever seen. Kind of makes me think they’re in danger, like maybe there’s a bear trap in there she doesn’t know about. And frankly, it seems a little odd to me to be worried about your wife cheating on you when your girlfriend’s temperature is rising. I mean, the girl may have a fever for crying out loud!

The best part though, is that she will never even know it’s there! Unless, of course, the product is actually successful and she recognizes the company’s flower logo on the panties you keep buying for her.

forget-me-not panties will help protect the women in your life!

The about page seems to imply that by protecting a woman, we assume it’s something they want to be protected from. If your wife/mistress is cheating on you or your daughter is getting hot and heavy with Todd from the yearbook club, chances are she doesn’t want your crazy ass finding out about it. What they won’t be able to protect her from is the severe beating which will likely follow when her paranoid and insecure boyfriend/dad finds out she’s been banging the guy who cuts the hedges.

There’s only one thing notable on the “sensatech system” page, which is the link to order:

Don't let her get away! Order Now!

That’s right: by catching her in the act of cheating, you will undoubtedly win her heart back. Nothing says “Let’s work it out” like yelling Why did your vagina suddenly become 3 degrees warmer when you were ‘out shopping with Rita’!? I’m sure things like tricking her into wearing a GPS has nothing to do with why she wants to be with someone else.

The most disgusting of all is the testimonials page.

david:
When my daughter hit puberty I nearly had a heart attack. She started looking like a woman and suddenly she was wearing revealing clothing and staying out late with her friends.

Rather than become an over-protective parent, I decided to try forget-me-not panties™.

They work wonderfully. My wife and I bought our Sarah several pairs so we can watch her around the clock, and if we see her temperature rising too high, we intervene by calling her cellphone or just picking her up wherever she is. My only comment is it would be great to have a video camera, maybe you can work that into V.2.

Thanks forget-me-not panties™, now we have true peace of mind.

There’s so much material here I had a little kid on crystal meth write the following:

First, doesn’t it say something about the mindset of David now that he’s noticing his daugher starting to look like a woman? I’m not sure I would have included that particular piece of information in my testimonial of a ‘typical’ customer.

Second, calm down David! If you were physically there snooping on her, that’s one thing, but there’s absolutely nothing over-protective about monitoring somebody’s location without their consent. Little Sarah will never know what’s going on when you happen to call her everytime she’s about to get busy or randomly show up at the guy’s house she didn’t tell you she was going to be at.

Calling her is a better idea though. I know everytime I’m about to ‘toast the bagel’ and someone calls, I always stop, answer the phone, and then promptly put my clothes back on and go home immediaely. What exactly is the ideal situation there if she does answer? If Sarah doesn’t know she’s being illegally spied on, something tells me she’s going to lie to Pop. What then, call her out?

Sarah: Hey Dad, what’s up!?
Dad: Where are you honey…what are you doing?
Sarah: Um, just hanging out with Stacey and Moses. We’re at Applebee’s having a sundae. Yum!
Dad: That’s funny. Tell me why I’m seeing Todd’s penis on the screen then…

Oops, getting ahead of myself. Dear old Dad must have got his wish with the second version of forget-me-not panties and its embedded video camera. I was going to go easy on Dad for checking out his daugher, but this is just too much. Really, what are the advantages of being able to see things from the point of view of your daughter’s underwear?

This Swedish workhorse is a beauty, too

There is something about the past that is inherently intriguing. It offers us a glimpse into a different time. Think about those VHS tapes your parents have. You know the ones, the movies and shows taped off of TV. Sure, they don’t have the quality of the illustrious DVD, but they do have something that you can’t put a price on: old commercials. If you’ve ever popped one of these tapes in and found something recorded in the eighties, you’re in for a treat.

I believe I found a real gem that I would like to share. A couple years ago, I came in possession of a Facit typewriter. In fact, it was the New Facit Portable. Packaged with the typewriter was a six-page manual (can you even buy anything now that comes with a manual that’s less than 50 pages?) that suggests a date of 1951. What a goldmine. Without further ado, let’s inspect the mindset of 1950’s typewriter manual writers, a much neglected audience:

Page 1

Here’s my guess of what the photographer was saying to the family to get that shot:

“Timmy (Boy in blue on the left), I need you to give a half-ass wave, like you’re watching some relative you don’t like pull out of the driveway after a long day of ‘Why don’t you have a girlfriend yet’-type questions.”

“Mary (the lazy-eyed number in the middle), what I need from you is a big welcome gesture. Remember: you’re bringing a typewriter into your family, so you better damn well go stand on the porch and welcome the new-fangled invention’s arrival into your home, or it will type your entire family to death. Oh, and make sure you don’t look the same direction as everyone else.”

“Listen Todd (the tall drink of water), I know you’ve got a lazy eye worse than your darling wife, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to screw my shot up. Your job is simple: place a firm hand on your wife’s shoulder, with a grip that says ‘I’m the master of this house’ “

“You’re killing me Jeanine (the spicy brunette who also happens to own the same sweater as Timmy). I said Mary’s hand needs to be dangerously close to her son’s crotch, but it kind of ruins it when you stick your meaty paw in front of the action, now doesn’t it?”

“Finally, Susie Q (the little girl missing a thumb)…girl you’re just an angel, and I don’t have any complaints. Everything you do is swell.”

Page 2

If there’s one thing I’m getting sick of, it’s hearing about those famous Swedish craftsmen. “Famous Swedish craftsmen this, famous Swedish craftsmen that…enough!” But I’ll give them credit, because thanks to them, the Facit can “take all the beating a busy family can give it.” With Timmy cranking out paper after paper in the eighth grade, housewife Mary writing that secret little novel, and chauvinist Todd writing daily letters to Bassmasters, it’s a wonder that the little typewriter doesn’t up and quit.

As for the photo, I think the Busy is as busy does paragraph really sums it up. But together, they prove a powerful force for reminding women where there place is: “to type recipes, dash off letters, make up shopping lists—even to work on a correspondence course while the meatballs are cooking. And it’s quiet enough not to wake the baby.” As you can see, little Suzie is in woman training right now. Let’s take a peek and see what they’re doing. It appears Mom is checking over her book report…on shish-kabobs. You may not be able to see that from the image, but I assure you those really are shish-kabobs on the cover of the book. Let’s hope Suzie learns how to make them before her baby pops out!

I especially adore the last paragraph:

This Swedish workhorse is a beauty, too. You never have to say, “Quick, put away the typewriter, company’s coming”. The Facit portable has classic lines and smart colors to harmonize with any décor. Just leave it out, ready and waiting to get your job done.

I don’t know about families in the 1950s, but when I have people coming over, the most I usually do is pick up my skid-marked boxers from the floor. I don’t know if I’d go out of my way to hide the typewriter, no matter how hideous it may be. As for what smart colors are, I don’t know, but I have a feeling it may have to do with the sneaky little typewriter that’s “waiting to get your job done.” No, sir, I wait to get the job done. It’s not like as soon as I turn off the lights at night, the Facit slowly starts typing a letter to Aunt Chelsea, thanking her for that darling little top she bought for Suzie that matches the skirt she wore on the cover. It’s marketing like that that made people of the 1950s afraid of technology.

Thank Christ we’ve come around and have technology at our fingertips 24 hours a day. I don’t know what California bitches did before playing Tetris on their cell phones while sun-bathing by the pool.

Page 3

As you can see, the New Facit Portable is so handsome, you really can leave it out when company is coming. In fact, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t spruce up the room. Where it looked rather dark and bleak before—despite the many sources of light readily available—a blue beacon of hope now sits front and center, threatening to capture the heart of all who pass by.

“Whoa nelly, what is that sexy beast? Mind if I run my fingers over that darling piece of machinery?”

“Why no Ted, be my guest. In fact, the typewriter has already pushed the chair out in wild anticipation of your typing task, whatever that might be.”

Pages 4 and 5

[Since it's hard to see details with both pages together, I uploaded them separately as Page 4 and Page 5]

I’ll be honest; it was this 2-page spread that inspired this post. I found the situation pictured was so ridiculous that it absolutely had to be shared with the world. Despite the fact that 95% of the picture has absolutely nothing to do with the product, somehow we know the typewriter in the background is really just watching over the family.

Let’s set up the scene: it’s a lazy Sunday in August. The kids are out of school, the folks have the weekend off, and there’s only one thing on everyone’s mind: TANG PARTY!

Timmy (handing his tray of cookies over to his sister Jeanine, even though the whole damn tray is within her reach): “Here you go sis. Now will you show me how to smile and drink through my teeth simultaneously?”

Mary (who has obviously given Susie Todd’s vodka-enhanced drink—look at that wild-eyed stupor, she’s blind drunk!): Yes child, drink up. The more you have, the less Todd gets…and the smaller my black eye will be tomorrow. Hurry, he knows! See how he’s leaning over there—with his zipperless pants and non-functioning pipe—he’s catching on! He’s got that I’m gonna lunge over there and smack the crap out of you look again!

Now for the bottom portion of the pages, with comments in parenthesis:

The Facit Portable can serve the whole family (as it clearly is in the photo). Don’t worry about leaving it around children (he’s much better now). It’s a good idea to let children become familiar with a typewriter (like people even use keyboards anymore…shit). And the Facit Portable is so rugged it’s virtually “child-proof.” (Let me tell you, that thing weighed about 25 pounds, and a haphazard knock to a hardwood floor would likely rupture one of its 14,000 internal delicate workings).

Surprise bonus! You won’t find another portable with a carrying case so handsome you can use it as an overnight bag or briefcase. It’s tastefully designed in black with red lining. The children will take it off to college if you’re not careful.

Not if I tell them they’re not going to college!

Impromptu guesses at the conversation taking place:

-“Mary dear, I know you’re busy packing your strange brown things for the time capsule, but can you possibly fit my Wall Street Journal? Then we’ll know when we buried it, AND I’ll be able to see how the stock market has changed!”

-“Just what in tarnation do you think you’re doing!? Oh, packing your things huh? Going to mothers, you say! I don’t think so missy. In fact, I think you’re about overdue for a newspaper beating. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that dang typewriter lurking in the background either, I’ll take it back to Sears and Roebuck before you can say ‘But it was a birthday gift for you honey!’ “

Students say the new Facit portable easily makes the grade. Typed homework is always well received by teachers. The clean, clear Facit type faces will make an especially good impression. And the Facit has the same size keyboard schools use to teach typing.

Impromptu jump into Timmy’s mind:

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve run into my sister’s room while she was on the phone. I tell you, it was about the only time she wasn’t using the thing! What’s this, a journal! Gee whillickers, let’s read it while she’s talking to her bitch friend Stacey!

Dear Diary,

My brother Timmy is so hot in that pleather suit.

Oh God, I’ve made a horrible mistake. I need to slip out unnoticed.

You seals take our land, pollute our water...

The other day I remembered a paradox from my youth. From an early age, I had always just sort of known that there was no such thing as a picture of a young Steven Seagal. It was peculiar: obviously he hadn’t been born a 6’4’’ swizzle stick, so it would be assumed that he was at one point in time a smaller, more docile human being. However, this contradicts the whole ethos of Steven Seagal, who, as you may recall, looks like this most of the time:

You see, to understand Steven Seagal the man, you have to understand the kind of man Steven Seagal portrays in his movies, which is to say one who is hell-bent on revenge. For what exactly, is immaterial. What matters here is that he is PISSED and he is going to punch you, and then shoot you.

Worried about being typecast, Steven Seagal has an amazing variety of movies that he has been in. Ranging from a cop who avenges his murdered family to a bounty hunter that avenges his close friend’s murdered family, Seagal’s career has really run touched upon all the cinematic genres.

As a treat for all you SS fans out there, I have prepared a little game called Spot the Common Theme, or simply, SCOTLAND. Just look at the following picture (but not yet!) and see if you can identify something that connects all the movies. Before you start though, I want to give the same disclaimer that Dan Brown gives on his website: “[This] is very difficult. Only a very small percentage of people who visit this site have broken it. Don't get frustrated. Keep trying!” I’ve spent the better part of my life creating this puzzle, so I expect it will take some time to crack. Just know that there is a running theme here, because Steven Seagal is just that fucking crazy and smart.

Equally as intriguing are the titles of his films, which consistently break the mold of what can be expected from the name of a movie. And Steven isn’t just a 7^th degree black belt in aikido, fuuuuuuuuuuck no; he’s also a literary genius of the ages. It’s sad that so few people know about it, because his tongue is also a 7^th degree black belt...in speaking. He absolutely melts the hearts of all people within earshot each time he chooses to open his mouth and enlighten them. And it doesn’t even have to be about anything significant. He could be talking about Nigerian nationalism and all the girls would still line up just to touch him, just like in Hard to Kill, pictured above.

All the girls want to do him.

All the guys want to be him.

And everybody just wants to know him.

It saddens me when I think of how articulate he is in his films and in real life (we hang out every Thursday, right now he’s on my porch sweeping up dog shit) and the fact that most people don’t even realize it when they hear him. As a public service, I have gathered some of his most inspirational lines from over the years. Grab a box of Kleenex folks, there won’t be a dry eye in the house!

Above The Law (three-word-common-expression for a movie title count: 1)
Nico Toscani: You guys think you're above the law... well you ain't above mine!

Hard To Kill (2)
Mason Storm: We're outgunned, and undermanned. But you know sumpin'? We're gonna win. You know why? Superior attitude. Superior state of mind.

Some time later, confronting the bad guy:
Mason Storm: This is for my wife. Fuck you and die!

Marked For Death (3)
John Hatcher: You bailed out a Jamaican street named Monkey the other day, I want him. This other piece of shit, Screwface, I want him. I know you're a scumbag and a puke, I don't mind that, but give me what I need and I'll leave here a nice guy. If you don't, I'm gonna fuck you up.

Out For Justice (4)
Detective Gino Felino: You, fuck nuts!
Station Wagon Tough Guy: Hey, you talkin’ to me?
Detective Gino Felino: Yeah, would you happen to be the guy who threw a puppy out of the window of this car the other day?
Station Wagon Tough Guy: Hey, why's that your fuckin' business anyway?
Detective Gino Felino: Cause I'm the animal lover.
Station Wagon Tough Guy: Animal lover, huh? Look, asshole, if you won't mind your fuckin' business I'll place you in the fuckin' receptacle and toss you out of the fuckin' window. How about that?
Detective Gino Felino: You're the tough guy, huh?
Station Wagon Tough Guy: Tough guy? I'll show you how fuckin' tough guy I am.

On Deadly Ground (5)
Forrest Taft: For 350,000 dollars I'd fuck anything once.

Exit Wounds
Orin Boyd: What am I, a shit magnet?

A bit later, in an obviously better mood:
Orin Boyd: You see this? This is a happy face. You'll be lucky to ever have a face as happy as this.

The Foreigner
Dunoir: It was the least I could do after you killed me twice.
Jonathon Cold: Sorry about that, but you know what they say, three's a charm.
Jonathon Cold: [Dunoir tries to open the package] Don't do that. If you touch it again, I will blow your 2-inch dick off.

Belly Of The Beast
Jake Hopper: I liked you a lot better as a bitch.

Out Of Reach (6)
William Lancing: This is my favorite moment in life.
Faisal: What's that?
William Lancing: That's when the predator becomes the prey.
Faisal: Also my favorite moment, but it remains to be seen whose the predator and who is the prey.

Into The Sun (7)
Travis Hunter: [Travis pulls out a sword and says in Japanese] This one is so sharp. I'll use it tonight. This kills very well.

So now you know who Steven Seagal the man is. I did some digging around on SS fan sites (I know, I was surprised they existed too--some people look up to anyone) and actually found a photograph of a young Steve. You know the man, now prepare to meet the boy:

But I found something wrong with this picture. Something about it just didn't seem right. I looked into it and found out that the photo had been altered. Using a supercomputer (TI-89), I recreated the original image, shown here:

Um, the thing hanging on the wall wasn't real either.

It was about this point that I realized Steven Seagal would be nothing if his name was Steven Seagul. I mean really, how many people would go to a movie with a cover like this:

I gotta go, I have a movie to make.

What do you mean did I hear about Jen and Brad--Nooooooooooooo!

Before I begin, it now seems customary to give a little preface. And by the way, it’s pronounced “pref-ess,” not “pre-face.”

I thought I’d start with explaining my views on the media. And by the media, I mean just about everything: magazines, movies, television, newspapers…you know, what we occupy our time with. Basically, I hate them all. I can’t stand 99% of it and I avoid most of them as much as possible. Let’s go through them categorically:

Magazines
Oddly enough, this medium seems to be the most difficult to avoid. Think about it: what do you do when you’re in line at the grocery store (this, of course, assumes you don’t shoplift your Cadbury Cream Eggs)? You look at those god damn magazines, which are always the same.

Cosmopolitan: SEX! SEX!!!!!!!!!!!!! SEX! How to please your man in ways he loves but will never admit! (we really mean it this time!!) Oh and how to turn your fat ass into a superhuman machine of efficiency (Lovehandles too!)

People: More specifically, people whose lives you care more about than your own

Maxim: Look inside for more ways to think exactly how women expect you to

Us Weekly, The Star, Entertainment Weekly, etc.: See People

I feel I need to elaborate a bit on this last group, which adds absolutely nothing to humanity. I really don’t care about Hollywood, and when I say that, I mean I choose to stay uninformed in the goings on of celebrities lives. However, this is impossible, because I knew about Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt’s breakup at most two hours after they did. I couldn’t escape it, and you still can’t, as the current issue of Us Weekly makes damn sure:

Isn’t it telling about out country that the checkout is lined with similar depictions, instead of, you know, things that actually matter. And don’t you love the ‘story’ on the cover. You have one half of what used to be Bradifer standing there, in her favorite shirt from third grade, looking completely shocked and embarrassed, when in actuality she was probably just staring at my ass. It’s the same tactic employed by E’s True Hollywood Stories. As soon as they get to the point where the subject started doing drugs again, or whatever their tragic turn is, they show a photo, usually black white, that shows them looking like shit. But the truth of it is, it’s just like one of those pictures someone snaps at you at a party without your knowing, and your expression happens to be reacting to someone vomitting on your wall. Anyway, on the other side, we have Mrs. Jolie, who apparently thinks it’s always a good time to look seductive. It’s almost like they’re looking at each other, and Angelina Awesometits is saying Yeah I did it, what is your perky-yet-admirable-tits going to do about it?

I hate the magazines for it, but I guess I can’t blame them, because it draws people in. Something about attractive celebrities relationships have taken priority over most other events. But even that isn’t right. Being a hot celebrity in a relationship with another hot celebrity will draw eyes, but when things start going in the shitter, that really turns heads. Because, Christ, if Brad and Jen can’t make it, what the hell hope do we have?! We’re uglier and more boring versions of them, not the cute waitress from Office Space and the guy with dick lines from Fight Club!

What it all boils down to is this: I can’t believe Brad Pitt gets to go from banging Jennifer “Nipples” Aniston to bagging Angelina “Rent Gia just for the part where she walks up to an elevator nude” Jolie. I don’t think his bed record would be so impressive if you slipped an “e” in the middle of his name and he became Bread Pitt.

Film
Anyone who knows me knows I love movies…probably too much. Just today I decided to type up the list of ones I plan on seeing before I die. I mentioned that I typed it up, because my hand-written one was getting full, and I’m serious. You know what doesn’t happen to me? This:

Random non-descript female I’m currently bagging: What movie do you want to watch?
Me: I don’t know, RN-DFICB, I don’t know.

It doesn’t happen because I have A LIST, from which I can choose such titles as “Cool Hand Luke” and “The Last Picture Show” and avoid others like “Kangaroo Jack” and “Bad Boys II” and whatever other fecal matter Jerry Bruckheimer manages to squeeze out of his butt.

Since I’ve become a connoisseur (which is spelled more French-y than I ever imagined) of movies, I consciously try and avoid most big-budget blockbuster films, for the simple reason that most of them are painful to watch, much like local television news (ooh, getting ahead of myself). When you take out the explosions, mandatory car-chase scenes, the computer research part late at night, and the shootouts, you realize they’re devoid of plot and composed entirely of filler. The characters are cardboard (which, I think, means stereotypical and/or flat, 2-dimensional, insert other critic buzzword) and there usually isn’t much of a story, or one that requires any intellectual thought.

Now, we all have those lazy days where the entire day’s plan is to lay down, eat food and watch movies that don’t require much thinking. But does every day have to be a lazy day for the American moviegoer? We produce a lot of the entertainment of the world, and this is what we have to show for it, as pulled from IMDB’s top 10 grossing movies of the past four years:

2001
#10 Planet of the Apes (Jesus Christ himself wept at this)
#9 Jurassic Park III (Why more than one? Stay off the fucking island!)
#7 Pearl Harbor (I’m trusting Trey Parker and Matt Stone on this)
#6 The Mummy Returns (To be followed by The Mummy Still Isn't Gone)
#5 Rush Hour 2 (Interracial comedies are fun!)

2002
#8 Men in Black II (When was Will Smith ever really appealing, other than for a short time in the early 90s?)
#3 Star Wars: Episode II (I really can’t even get started on this)

2003
#10 Cheaper by the Dozen (Seriously, Ice Cube, Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy need to kick this shitty kids movie habit and get their foul-mouthed souls back)
#9 The Matrix Revolutions (I loved watching a whole movie about keeping Trinity alive only to see her randomly killed in a car crash in this one)
#8 Terminator 3 (When the illustrator, main writer and director decides the story is done after the second one, listen to him)
#5 Bruce Almighty (not even Jim Carrey could carry this hokey comedy)
#4 The Matrix Reloaded (see #9; and never show me Keanu’s bare ass ever again, even if it performs better on screen than his face)

2004
#10 Shark Tale (I just love that the current comment on IMDB describes it as “ 'Shrek' leftovers and sloppy seconds to 'Finding Nemo".”)
#9 National Treasure (For when you just can’t wait for The Da Vinci Code)
#8 The Day After Tomorrow (Special effects does not a movie save)

2005 (albeit these won’t last long, but it looks off to a good start!)
#4 Elektra (What’s next? Ephram The Retarded Rabbit?)
#3 Racing Stripes (Honestly, after seeing the trailer, I got a vasectomy, so that I would never have any ratty little bastards dragging me to see this awful piece of shit)

Well, it seems once again, I didn’t even get through my preface, let alone the actual topic I had in mind. That, oddly enough, was supposed to be making fun of President Bush in his latest press conference. As proof, here was one piece I selected ahead of time:

“THE PRESIDENT: And here's the problem: the -- as dictated by just math, there is -- the system will be in the red in 13 years, and in 2042 the system will be broke. That's because people are living longer, and the number of people paying into the Social Security trust is dwindling. And so, therefore, if you have a child -- how old is your child, Carl?

Q Fourteen years old.

THE PRESIDENT: Yes, 14. Well, if she were --

Q He, sir.

THE PRESIDENT: He, excuse me. (Laughter.) I should have done the background check. (Laughter.) She will -- when she gets ready to -- when she's 50…”

Get 'er done

While driving in Ypsi yesteday, I came up behind a car, the brand of which I do not remember. But for all intents and purposes, let’s say it was an H2, since there seem to be more and more of these cinder blocks on wheels around.

Before addressing my main concern, allow me to rant a bit on these vestiges of war. The average fuel efficiency of these tanks is 10 miles per gallon. I’m inclined to think most underdeveloped countries could develop something better using only tree bark and mosquitoes. My new car gets 26 miles per gallon, and it would be higher if they had had the one I wanted in stock. Since the Mazda3 is apparently a popular car (thus must hang out together in a secret society, cause I sure as hell haven’t seen them), I had to steal the first car with keys in the ignition, which happened to be a Yugo. Now, those unfamiliar with the luxury of a Yugo are in for a treat:



Introduced in the summer of 1986 at a price of $3990, The Yugo was a unique automobile that really defies description, but I’ll try. As the picture on the left indicates, the Yugo is similar to a Chevy Nova, but shittier. The image on the right suggests the woman sitting on the hood is freakishly huge, but in reality the Yugo was an extremely tiny car. The girl was part of the most successful marketing campaign ever, in which every Yugo came with one hot chick. The only drawback was that she had to remain on the hood, which became the premise for many profitable adult movies.

My Dad, whose name is Wendall, had one in his late thirties (he can’t ever seem to pass up the free woman deals) and all I can remember is that, in some strange way, the car smelled like the Yugoslav, despite the obvious fact that I’ve never been. But who has, honestly? You never see your neighbors pack up the kids, and wave goodbye to you, saying “See you next week Charlie, we’re going to the ‘Slav!” Among the Yugo’s characteristics were a window crank that busted completely off (as well as my Dad’s brother’s Yugo) and the violent shaking that would commense when behind a semi-truck that made you scared for your life.

So before a vein of digression explodes in my head, allow me to get back to Hummer’s. When a company’s motto is “It’s not more than you need, just more than you’re used to” you know they don’t give a shit. They know it’s more than anyone needs, save Kyle Reese. And we know that too. We, for reasons I’ll never figure out, just don’t care. We want the biggest fucking thing on the road that will absolutely destroy smaller cars, like our good friend the Yugo. Not that I want anyone to get hurt, but I’d like to see a head on collision with an H2 and say, a Miata. Maybe then, when the driver (who is undoubtedly either a redneck or a soccer mom) steps 3 feet down from their unscathed Hummer and sees that the other car and driver is completely under theirs, will they realize “Hey, I probably shouldn’t be spending 50 grand on a car that might as well be spraying CFC-injected canisters directly into the ozone.” I’m not holding my breath though.

So anyway, like I said a long time ago, there was a main concern that has inadvertently been misplaced. I came upon this H2 which seriously looked like this:



with the intricate art being those “Support our troops” stickers everyone has seen. Now, I’m all for supporting the soldiers that are doing the duties I sure as hell don’t want to be doing, I just don’t support the cause, but that’s a whole different digression that time and space won’t allow for.

The problem I have with this picture (which was Photoshopped, but I’m sure you’ve seen similar situations) is this inane sense of patriotism that people feel the need to prove ever since 9/11. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but you can’t prove it with stickers. I saw a guy about a week ago that had 6 flags flailing all about—one on each corner and then two on the roof where it meets the windshield. This was commonplace in the weeks following 9/11, but can’t we see how ridiculous it is now, especially on the tops of cars that everyone hates us for? Drive to Canada, and see how many SUVs you see…it’s amazing.

How about this, instead of adding that 14th sticker to prove you’re more supportive of the troops than anyone else, how about you do something that actually helps them? You know, like voting for someone who would have at least tried to get them out soon, rather than the guy who extends tours involuntarily and calls up the reserves because, no matter what, we gotta get ‘er done.

Alright, the next post will be a little lighter.

A real bunch of garbage

Thrilled that the end of the semester was mere hours away, I did what anybody who’s excited does; I put on my party hat.



Soon after that, I took a look in the mirror, appreciated my beautiful physique and wondered why my legs were so bulbous. Then, curious if my legs were in fact bulbousy, I consulted a dictionary. When only a Spanish dictionary was available, I spent several hours perfecting the language. When I was confident I had mastered the Latin dialect, I hopped on the first flight to Guadalajara. In the airport, I stopped the first Spanish-looking person I saw, who happened to be a famous Mexican wrestler known only as “The Legend,” which, in Spanish, is “El Legendo.” When I grabbed him by his arms--which were somehow larger than my own--he gave me an intimidating look. I was sure that he thought I was just another American tourist, so I slid him a sexy little snippet of Spanish:

Hola, encontré una caja de sus niños.

Some fourteen hours later, I awoke in a dumpster behind a brothel with a deep gouge on the back of my head. I touched my hand to the wound and when I brought my hand back around, I was surprised to find that I no longer had a hand, and for that matter, never did. So odd that I would think it would magically be back. Oh well, I just blame The Legend.

Needing medical attention, I went into the lobby of the bordello, hoping I wouldn’t run into a bad Corey Feldman movie. It was strange; the lobby looked exactly like a dentist’s office, complete with People Magazine and The Daily Dental. Apparently there were some fine concubines at The Tasty Fish (at least that was who the magazines were addressed to), as there were 6 people waiting to get their jollies. I took a seat and picked up a particular copy of The Daily Dental, as the cover caught my eye:



It was right then that I realized what my mistake was. It seemed I had not mastered Spanish after all, because while trying to say “Hello sir! Good day! Aren’t my legs bulbous?” I had mispronounced when saying Hola, encontré una caja de sus niños., which translates to “Hello, I found a box of your children.” I immediately called up The Legend, apologized, and agreed that the only way to settle things was in the wrestling ring at Wrestlemania XXXVI: Does Anyone Really Care Anymore?

It was after this call that Marie walked into the lobby. She was a dominatrix, and informed me that one of the ladies could see me now. Before passing the threshold, I took a quick look back at the six others who had obviously been waiting longer than I had. Everyone was too busy reading People magazine to notice, except for a seven-year-old girl, who called me something in Spanish which I’m pretty sure meant asshole. I quickly ran back to the lobby and slapped that little bitch square across the mouth. I later found out she grew up to be a successful paleontologist. Thus began my Smack Bitches phase and political slogan.

Marie walked me down a long corridor for what seemed like a long time. The walls looked wet, and for some inane reason, a voice inside my head said “Touch them.” The walls were indeed wet, and my remaining hand immediately rotted off from touching old Spanish man juice.

After a while, Marie (which she pronounced MaaLee) stopped and extended her hand, showing me the room I was to enter. I thanked MahLee, and promptly smacked her in her little bitch mouth. She then brought out a hatchet and lobbed off my third hand.

The room’s décor left something to be desired; namely cleanliness. When I turned the light on, the roaches and wildebeests scattered under the oven. While I awaited my whore, I surveyed the room, noting the flickering yellow light and the distinct smell of Lucky Charms mixed with urine. Then, to my delight, I saw a mirror. Lying on the sink below it was a rusty razor. I had been wanting to shave the whole day, but one thing led to another, and now here I was in Guadalajara. The razor didn’t look particularly good for my health, but I figured fuck it, I’m in Guadalajara, I might as well.

I turned on the faucet and out came a liquid that I can only describe as blood. Well, I wouldn’t call it blood per se, but well, yes it was blood. When I finished shaving, I noticed I had a couple nicks on my face. I figured it was due to the rusty blade, but then I saw something moving in the mirror…on my face. I leaned in a bit closer, and found, to my horror, the cause of my nicks:



Yes, there was an agitated demon closing in on my left sideburn, the good one. Determined to never let anyone mess with my sideburns again, I slapped that angry little bitch of a demon right in his mouth. Unfortunately, he saw my attack well ahead of time, and bit off the index finger of my fourth, yes fourth, hand.

Just then, a short little Mexican walked into the room. She introduced herself as “Steve” and told me I was about to experience a little piece of Guadalajara I wouldn’t soon forget. I thought she had a pretty face, but the penis scared me off. I told Steve I had better get back to America, for fear of becoming cultured, and he said he understood. I caught the first flight back to “Freeze your tits off” Michigan, got back to my house at 2:43 am, with just enough time to take a little nap before my last final.

Whew, what a day.