The Fold

11 months later.

2008-06-02T12:21:00.004-06:00

So I had this awesome column at the Northern Star, yeah? And it was called The Fold, yeah? It ran for a few months back in 2007 and I was all, "Ohh, yeah, I have my own little column at the school newspaper, look at me, I'm the coolest guy at school!"

THEN

Then I got shitcanned for screwing off and having a personality. Tough nuts. I then actually got my job back, but quit the very next day on my own terms (think that one episode of Scrubs where Dr. Kelso is going to get forced into retirement until the whole hospital backs him up to keep his job; then, the board agrees to keep him on. This news pleases Kelso, who then quits. Yeah, it's kind of like that). I loved the Star. I loved the people there (well, most of them). But for some reason they will not hire me back. I know who is behind this. As I am not a violent person, I don't exactly have it in for them. If anything, I'd probably just kindly tap them on the shoulder and say, "Hey. Um, hey you. Yeah. What's the deal, here?" Something like that. Most of these people are probably threatened by my fun-loving demeanor and life ambitions, though. Every comment people gave me when working there was, "Oh hey, Derek, you're awesome on the keyboards! Here, take this story," or "Derek! You have amazing ideas! Can I blow you?" Relatively close to that, actually. So does my not being hired back have anything to do with being a prick? Or are these people, these good journalists/not-so-good writers, just threatened I'll take their jobs and munch on 'em? Nom nom nom!!!

But, as the story goes, I started this little blog for both shits and giggles. Looking back on it all, I've had plenty of each. This was an outlet for my more comedic side (and conversely, my less talented side). I originally wanted to save some of this writing for an online version of The Fold, which we did have talks about producing. Those talks, like much of the happenings down at the Star, fell through. Which is a shame (but didn't matter; again, shitcanned). I rolled with this project for maybe 4-5 months, these posts now serving as nothing more than a time capsule for when I was a much poorer writer and person. I called it a day in July, who knows why. Maybe I lost my funny bone along the way, maybe I ran out of things to write about; who knows. While I still write in a few spaces, it is more personal chronicling than anything. Things like the racist drivel and pea-brained "rants" I filled this up with are more prone to negative feedback and incredulous thought. That, and nothing I wrote back then was at all that funny or even worthy of posting. I did like a few of the articles, especially the exclusives I did for here, but nothing else really captured my attention. Toward the end of this site's run I just copy and pasted posts from my myspace. It was then when I knew I had to let this thing die.

Overall, I liked the idea of this. It was fun to see what whacky ideas I had in my head. Posting about clowns, a fear of animatronics, old TV shows, bad movies, and overall silliness was more than satisfying - for its time. Now, a year or so later, I'm just not that guy anymore. Much like my former colleagues at the college newspaper, I sometimes fear I will not be able to write like this anymore. Whereas most are either good at writing the funny-type article or a journalistic news story, neither can carry both cards. Many have told me, and I have sometimes felt that I can. To be daft a second, not many people at that place knew how to write outside the ascribed format. Without that inverted pyramid in their life, they didn't know where to go with a story. I read an article about the Simpsons by this guy I am pretty sure hates me (and, coincidentally, is a honcho at the paper), and it sucked. It just wasn't good. It was a dip outside his comfort zone and it showed.

Anyhow, I'd just like to thank... um, myself for all I have done. And to the three or four people that have actually read any of this, good or bad. Sometime next July or August when I actually come back to read this insane ramblings once again, I'll be sure to check out what everyone has to say. Of course, it'll end up like this...

0 comments.

Who's Your Caddy? for Best Picture.

2007-07-20T22:46:00.000-06:00

Oh my shit, I've just seen a television spot for the best movie in history. It is called "Who's Your Caddy?" and stars... black people, and that fat 30 year-old from MTV2. Today's Hollywood lacks all the necessary racism and over-the-top golf puns this film seems to provide. I mean, the title is a pun in itself - a play on the oft-asked, oft-unanswered question, "Who's your daddy?" My daddy is Dave; he is 53, loves pornography, and barbecues every Sunday afternoon. Who's yours?

I suppose I don't understand that question to begin with. I'm not sure if it is supposed to be taken literally, or jokingly or what. A lot of black dudes used to say it when the Fresh Prince and Penny Hardaway were rad, and I know they generally don't have fathers, so who knows.

The film is directed by USA Network legend Don Michael Paul, an actor/writer/director with a staggering three first names. To think, most people struggle with one. With hits like "Renegade" and "Pacific Blue" already to his credit, I predict Who's Your Caddy? to open to huge numbers. Like, mega-huge. I'm not entirely certain on a number, but I'm ballparking around $120 million for opening weekend, but that might be a tad low.

A Hummer golfcart with rims! Why didn't I think of that?

I love "black people" movies, and I hate coming off as slighting or racist, but there's no proper term for the genre yet, to my knowledge. For my birthday, I'm asking for "Are We There Yet?" - another film whose title ends in a question - on DVD. Hey, I can't help it, I love Ice Cube.

I know this flick will be the standard "black people try to do a typically white people thing/sport and get turned away yet end up doing it anyway because they're an overcoming people and at the end, show whitey a lesson in how to 'get down'" piece, but I know I'm going to love it. It's films about overcoming the odds that I love, and this one will surely be a hole in one with that. It's like they're taking Tiger Woods' life, and throwing it on the big screen, only with more hip-hop music and racism.

The "CG" on his chest could only stand for one thing: "creative genius."

I know what you're telling yourself - "them 'colors' dress funny!" "That spook looks like Rerun!" And that's fine, that's what you're supposed to think, because the film is totally serious. Black people actually dress like that and Who's Your Caddy? nails 'em on it.

I'm not seeing this movie because Bruce Bruce and the midget from Bad Santa are in it (amongst a cast riddled with Academy-worthy black actors, or, as I know them, "blactors"). I am seeing it for what it's worth, a few laughs, and the effervescent screen presence of Jeffrey Fucking Jones. Yeah dude, Mr. Rooney is in this shit, and he's going to rob the Oscars blind come time. The man just knows his way around the acting bizz like no other. If you haven't seen his work, I suggest 1995's critically acclaimed, buzz-worthy laugher "Houseguest." It really, ahem, hits home on the funny. Oh, and I've heard good things about that "Beetlejuice" movie he's in, too, but Tim Burton's pretty gay.

Writer's note: Jeffrey Jones' middle name is, in fact, "Fucking."

I am hearing great hype for this picture already. While big-name honchos like Ebert's cancer-ridden corpse and Dick Roeper may not appreciate the collaborative genius that is those behind Who's Your Caddy? I sure do. But I really don't expect much less from Big Boi and company. Laughs, as they seem, are par for the course in this comedy.

Basically, all sports lovers should view this movie. Everyone who has even heard of Tiger Woods or has played miniature golf should see this movie. If you have a pulse, is what I'm getting at, you should see this movie. The people who make films like this, rap stars and, you know, they need to feed their families. All overpaid homosexuals like Tom Cruise and uh, Clint Eastwood need is to feed their oversized egos. Just see the movie, you won't be disappointed. And if you are, you can punch me in the testicles.

If you laughed at this photo, you are a racist. All pro-golfers wear kilts on the green (especially ones who can't point out Scotland on a map). Dipshit.

And may your roads be rashed (Two).

2007-07-20T22:41:00.000-06:00

Writer's note: Continuity still rules.
___

I never fully understand the premises behind most video games in the 90's. One title has a blue hedgehog frantically running for his life, escaping the grasps of an obese, over-mustachioed man. Another features a three-legged, red gremlin-like critter who we're led to believe is Flava Flav. Oh, did I mention he funkily wanders about the planet Funkotron with his whale's vagina-looking friend? Well, yeah, he wanders about the planet Funkotron with his whale's vagina-looking friend, and it is both absolutely awesome and ridiculous at the same time. Dig it.

One premise that makes perfect sense to me, and always has, however, is that of the Road Rash series. Simply put, 15 racers are pitted in competition against one another in some sort of cross-country/world race to the finish line (and the death). The winner of each course receives a generously whopping sum of $1,000 to spend on bike upgrades, a new bike, cheap overseas beer, dime-a-dozen Euro-hookers, and what-have-you. A cool grand is perfect compensation for taking a chain to the face or sliding off your motorcycle because an errant cow fell asleep on the asphalt.

HEEEEYWHOOOOAA HOLY SHIIIT!!!!!!

One of the most rewarding aspects to these games are your rivals, all of whom pulled their names from one of those online "Prison Name Generator" deals. Kakana is one of the more decorated riders in the league, and what he lacks in the English department, he easily makes up for with third and fourth-place finishes. Lucky Luc, as it turns out, may in fact be director Luc Besson in leather. Grimacing like a teenager bustling full of free beer and one too many burritos, Luc offers such Pulitzer-worthy advice as, "Speed and guts are what it takes, but you don't qualify. Watch me for pointers." For the guy who brought us masterpieces like – okay, nothing but a bunch of French shit, really – he talks some tall game.

Hey tough shit, purple is so your color.

P.E. Number 1, Belladonna, and Viper usually head up the pack, as does a jive brother known by Lawson. Clearly banking on the popularities of the Fresh Prince and the House Party series, Road Rash brings us our very own hugable-yet-street-tough black man. I like to think to myself that he is actually MC Hammer in full-on biker gear, trying to win back his earnings down to the penny by competing in someone's sinister idea of a street race. I like to think a lot of things.

Over the course of the second and third installments of the franchise (if you can call it that), your character will travel the world over. The United Kingdom, Kenya, Germany, Alaska, the Arizona desert, and Vermont are all ready to be shredded. Wait, Vermont? Who the fuck drag races in Mount Pilier? That shit just makes no sense to me. Then again, Germany is completely snowbound in this game and yet Alaska is experiencing record temperatures, save for the lone snowman off the side of the road.

Yeah, that's pretty much how I envisioned Alaska, too.

Another thing I don't really "get" is why these races are taking place and who is enforcing them. Whose bankroll are these things being funded out of? Who selects the roads they race on? The answer to these questions and more is quite clear: The giant Indian man. Reportedly, he runs an Indian casino on the side and regulates the small series of motorcycle events for fun, funding it all from the depths of his very own pockets. He is at the start of the race waving the green flag and at the track's end with the checkered. He rolls his own cigars, pitches his own teepees, and practices scalping and self-removing. Granted, none of this may be true. Curiously enough, he lacks a shirt.

Hey, ain't that the Indian I saw at the front of the cigar store not too long ago? Instead of "how?" I'm left asking "why?"

These races are apparently popular enough to garner some little-needed attention amongst the townsfolk. Because, hey guys, if I am going to zip down a public street at plus-100 speeds and smack that asshole Jorg in the mouth with a Billie club, I sure as hell would like a witness or two. Hell, in one of these shots, a mother brought her little boy to the race. I can only imagine the conversation going something like this:

O hi guys didn't see ya thar lol

"Come, boy, the race is just about to start!"

"Oh boy! How thoughtful of you, mother. You know there is nothing I value more in this world than watching grown men launch their crotch rockets down these otherwise safe city streets, endangering the wellbeing of families nationwide."

"I knew you'd appreciate it."

"Why sure, mother! Is there anything in this world more enthralling than a female going by the alias "Roz" slapping face-first into the hot desert pavement, tearing flesh from bone, chipping teeth, and failing to answer the paramedic's call of a flashlight sparkling through her blackened eyes? Not that I can think of. Only in the world of Road Rash are teeth trophies, scars stylized cool, and a blood-soaked blacktop a thing to behold. Thanks again, mother, what a terrific inspiration you truly are."

Dropping a collective deuce on the competition via oil can. Ah, what a deliberate pastime.

I'm no complainer, but the road is no place for civilians. Nor is it a place for random construction or destitute livestock. Seriously, if I fly off my bike one more time because a fucking rhinoceros took up the streets, I am going to autocide. A motherfucking rhino, splayed out in the middle of the street like nobody's business. Gee, what better place to cool off than the hottest God damn surface in the country. Why Biff or Slater never pulled for a bite to eat has always puzzled me. I mean, hey, when in Rome – err, Kenya, you might as well fry an egg on the tar just cause.

When all is spoken for, the Road Rash titles are prime real estate on the Genesis front. The plot doesn't necessarily make the most sense, nor does it truly have to. In an age of games completely devoted to delivering newspapers and solving puzzles on a hackneyed version of Wheel of Fortune, I guess colecocking a police officer with a lead pipe is a little bit more satisfying than the norm.

Beastiality lives.

2007-07-20T22:34:00.000-06:00

I love animals. Goddamn if I can't help but put my cat on my lap and pet her before I retire for the night. But some people, boy, do they really love animals. Take the folks over at the "BeastForum," for example, a forum dedicated to, you guessed it, beastiality! Below are my favorite posts (actually, just a small sampling, as the whole place is golden):

From the topic "Donkey Penis Size"
I always been somewhat attracted to Donkeys. In a way, I like them more then horses. I guess because I saw their dongs and became attracted to them long before I saw my first horse cock.

Maybe you should consider a minature donkey ? You would need to get him to drop his penis and measure it, then add at least an inch in case it wasn't fully erect. The same applies to horses. A good ball park figure for what a woman can take would be 10". It is better to err on the side of caution. You do have to get familiar with your potential partner first and make sure he feels comfortable with you playing around with his weapon. Take a look at some video clips showing human females mating with horses. Watch just how the horse or donkey positions himself when he is entering. In the few that I have seen the woman is usually yelling and it doesn't sound like she is having fun. Take it slow, get to know how well endowed your proposed partner is, experiment a bit first. Get under him and insert him into yourself and masturbate him. This will give you an insight into his length and girth and just how he is likely to be humping you. If you are careful it should all work out OK. Good Luck and have fun. ZZ.

Personally I prefer to 'chow down' on stallion tube steak.

From the topic "Dog Cum"
My dog has been giving me head for almost 2 years and I would like to return the favor.
What does dog penis and cum taste like?
Is it bitter or sweet?

From the topic "Sex With My Dog..."
Well, I finally decided to have sex with my dog. Its pretty big now and it took me a while to get it bathed, but I was gentle and it didn't "decline" the offer. I penetrated successfully and I decided to cum using my hands at the end. It was good for a first try. Any suggestions?

I guess it was a female dog?
How old is she, and what breed?

You ask for suggestions. Well, I suggest that you do it again when you get the chance if you both enjoyed it. I also suggest some oral and that you cum inside her next time.

Anyway, I'm glad you did it. Welcome to the wonderful world of special animal love.

From the topic "Fondling Bull Balls"
Hi, I love great big balls, I love to see bulls with huge balls. Has any of you ever had the chance to fondle great big bullballs?

From the topic "Sloppy Seconds"
i have had sloppy seconds quite a few times after a mare has been bred by a stallion .. the studs gel makes an awesome lube. the thought of breeding a mare after a stallion has been with her is just so erotic, but actually doing it and experiencing the warmth of the mare as well as the gooey stallion cum on you makes it just really hot.

though i must say that eating out a mare after she has been bred by a stallion has got to be the best taste in the world.

ahh the perks of working at a breeding farm

From the topic "Lamb Sex"
at what age should a sheep be before it is ready to have sex? i have two lambs about 3 months old but their vaginas seem too tight to recieve me. do they need breaking in like human virgins? if so how should i go about this? i should note that i have not forced myself upon these animals and i do not wish to hurt them. help!

From the topic "Horse Cum"
pigs are not really my thing...i only do horses and ocasonaly dogs if my mood is good..
i have swallowed dog before and they are pretty sweet...but it is horse cum i really want, but the horse i have, the cum is just to thin, and i can not gag on it to much..
any type of horse know for being really big and wide......and thick seman.......i would love to just gag on a big load...

Hey I'd swallow, I mean isn't that the best part about giving head to an animal?

a chick swallowing horse cum and covered in horse cum is sooooo hot! the more the better. There is a Bruno beast movie where a horse shots a huge load like a machine gun, but that's the only time I've seen it com e out like that. Do most horse movies use fake cum or do the horses cum slowly like that. Still, huge horse dick and a lot of cum all over a girl is the best!

YES!!!

PUMAMAN'S REVENGE!!!

Anyone can be anything - in America!

2007-07-20T22:32:00.000-06:00

I honestly am beginning to loathe society as a whole right now. The fact that anybody can be anything with the littlest amount of effort imaginable is unnerving. It is just an extra grain of sad that it is the world of sketch comedy that is hit the hardest. I mean, you produce one mildly amusing 3-minute clip and within the next handful of months, you have an agent, a booking company, and your own television program on a third-rate cable network. The American dream was founded around hard-working individuals becoming successes by doing honest labor, and busting their asses. Instead, you have a group of talentless clowns doing stuff a room full of monkeys can do.

The list of examples for this kind of stuff I have is rather limitless, but I'll do my best to throw as many out there as I can. And the first, and most annoying one to me, personally, are all these sketch comedy shows on the music networks, which I briefly alluded to in my introduction. Shows like "The Whitest Kids U' Know" and "Human Giant" are programs on FUSE and MTV, respectively, and each feature a band of idiots raping popular culture for its worth with videos that are more than likely part of the YouTube explosion. They're "witty," "edgy," and just so darned amusing that I must be the only guy in the world who doesn't find humor in it. Any of it.

I never thought I'd condemn YouTube, but I guess the time has come. What once was a place to watch illegally downloaded TV shows in 10 minute allotments, is now a place where moronic college kids without degrees, talent, or inherent ability could strut their proverbial stuff and make it to the big time. What the blog did for shitty writers (such as yours truly), YouTube has done for shitty actors.

Hey, isn't that the Inconsiderate Cell Phone Man? And that gap-toothed guy from Best Week Ever? And the guy I buy my scratch-off tickets from?

But back to these sketch comedy shows. The difference between a comedic clusterfuck (The Whitest Kids U' Know) and an American icon (Saturday Night Live) is that not everyone can do what the writers, actors, producers, et al can do on SNL. Yes, ever since Will Farrell left, the program's been in peril, but I'd taken 90 minutes of Amy Poehler and that hilarious Falconer fella over some untalented hacks any day of the week - especially Saturday.

The whitest hacks I know. Congrats, guys, you're doing what anyone else in the country can do.

However unfortunate these new YouTube-birthed shows are, they are not the only example justifying the phrase "anybody can be anything." As I lay in my bed this evening, I flipped on another FUSE-produced show called "Rad Girls," which I suppose is a female version of Jackass. While I appreciate how they didn't shoot for being "tough" by spelling their title "Girlz," their program isn't very good. In this suck-fest, three airheads (affectionately known as 'Munchie,' 'Ramona Cash,' and 'Darling Clementine') run around the city, pulling stunts on an unsuspecting public, and ingest various disgusting non-food items. And we have seen it all before, only done better by fellow idiots Johnny Knoxville, Bam Margera, and Steve-O. They were funny because it was as if they had no limits - something about running around a park, dumping creamed corn on yourself doesn't exactly sound too "tough." Just kind of pathetic. Women, if you're still wondering why you're not treated as equals, look no further than Rad Girls.

The tagline says it all. People only watch this show, nay, they only *have* a show because they have tits.

Just when will it end, dare I ask? You know Hollywood is scraping the bottom of the barrel when they resort to programs like these. It's only bothersome because I suppose I am actually earning my place in this world by going to college to earn a degree, with plans for graduate school soon after. A lot of money and effort is being put forth to ensure that I get to where I want to be. But hey, why even try to give an honest effort when I can just buy a video camera and fuck around with a few of my friends and chuck it on YouTube? My mother always told me I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up, and in a way I suppose that is true. But with that comes effort, which the people behind these TV shows know nothing about.

Introduction to Northern Illinois University.

2007-07-20T22:01:00.000-06:00

Greetings freshmen, and welcome to Northern Illinois University. I realize many of you chose this school for its proximity to home, and a good third of you chose it because it is a relatively fair state school. That's good. Great, even. I'm very proud of you and I hope your stay is relaxing, comforting, and "off the chain," as the 'boyz' like to say. But what many of you new to DeKalb and its surrounding areas may not understand yet is that this college is much like any other. And, well, instead of beating around the bush here, I'll fill you in as to why that is, exactly.

1. Posters of the following are fully acceptable:

-Jim Morrison, of "The Doors"
-John Belushi, preferably in a toga or with a sweater reading "COLLEGE." In fact, any scene with Belushi in it from "Animal House" will suffice.
-Any cheap alcohol, beer or otherwise. Coors, Bud and Miller Lite are all acceptable. Extra points for a neon glow sign or something that shines under a black light.
-Anything featuring the school's mascot, team name, or a combination of the two.
-John Lennon in a tank top reading "New York City."
-Your favorite sports team. Plus-five for football, plus-three for baseball, and plus-one for anything else.
-Women in precarious positions. I don't care if they're in the back of a pick-up truck, or posing with an alligator, it's all good here. Bikinis, wet t-shirts, and shiny neon thongs a definite plus.
-The Simpsons and/or Family Guy. Aging cartoon humor never runs dry.
-Stick figures. Whether the figures are showcasing the many different sexual positions one could find themselves in or what not to do around an officer of the law is up to you.
-Anything black light-ready. Bonus if you can score an angry-looking clown or a pair of flaming dice.

2. There is no such thing as the "weekday" in college. Every day around here is another excuse to drink. "Thirsty Thursdays" have paved the way for alliterative weekdays-turned-weekends. What do I mean, exactly? What about "moonshine Mondays"? Sounds pretty tempting, doesn't it? Go to your local frat house and make some of that exploding bathtub booty. Delicious! And Monday is just the start of the week. The day after that is its cousin "tipsy Tuesdays," where the primary objective is to get tipsy! Creative, ain't it? And considering Wednesday is already "hump day," I think dubbing it "wobbly Wednesday" is all but fitting. What you are wobbling and who at is completely in your own hands - literally.

3. Hug your lungs. Seriously. Because after a year or two in any college town, you're going to need to dust the suckers off, free them from their black, sooty casing. Smoking is a big deal around here. If you don't smoke, start. If you do smoke, smoke more. And if you're already a pack-a-day kind of guy, well, I heard there's some pretty good deals on cartons down at the Citgo. And if you're a "square" dude like me who is absolutely appalled by the stuff, never, ever leave your bedroom because you will live to regret it. As soon as you leave your residence hall, smoke will be blown in your eyes, nose, mouth, and every other hole above your belt line. I understand that it's frustrating and all that the bars are starting to ban smoking, but is revolting by sitting *right* in front of the doors where I enter completely necessary? Can you maybe blow it in a fellow smoker's face? I'm not trying to upset anyone's precious feelings, but I don't want to hold my breath every time I walk inside of a building. So, let's fix that, okay?

4. College football tickets are free, yes, but I am petitioning to those of you who know nothing about football to deny your free entry. Today was the home opener for Northern, and they faced the Ohio Bobcats. I fully understand that football games are a time for everyone to get drunk before noon and be with their friends and hoot and holler as obnoxiously as humanly possible, but let's save us all some trouble here. Never have I encountered a more detestable group of people in my entire life. Some girls asked their jock boyfriends, "why is he running backwards?" Others, "why don't they just give [Garrett] Wolfe the ball, then we'll win." Ignorance. He runs backwards because he is avoiding a tackle. They don't give Wolfe the ball because they are down by 11 and it is illogical to run the ball (and the clock) with a deficit such as that. I don't like sitting amongst a crowd of people who don't know a place-kicker from a place mat. I'd rather sit in a stadium composed of 14 fans than a packed house of drunken, ignorant morons who are there to add to the beer breath stench that haunts the stadium and take photos for their facebook. See, I took photos for facebook at the game too, but I at least watched the game.

5. Pettiness is godliness. When it comes to arguments in college, the pettier, the better. Do you call your soft drinks 'soda' or 'pop'? Or are you a tricky son of a bitch and combine the two with 'soda pop'? Do you follow the Cubs or the White Sox? Do you drink Busch or Bud? The answer to every question, as you may have guessed, is "who the fuck cares?" A hefty portion of this college do, apparently. All over facebook are groups devoted what you call your beverage, what sports team you obsess over, what color hair the bitch you banged last night had, and everything else. So honestly, allow me to restate: who the fuck cares?

6. Dave Matthews' second name is Jesus Christ. In college, you come to appreciate music. You listen to it when you are doing homework, you listen to it when you're on the number 7 bus, you listen to it to piss off your roommates who absolutely cannot stand the Three Six Mafia. But hey, I dare you to go room-to-room in your residence hall or apartment complex and check everyone's library. And if you don't find at least a handful of songs by Dave Matthews, the Dave Matthews Band, or all his other side-projects, then you have found a person lacking a soul. Eek. I sort of am in that bracket, truth be told. And boy, I feel super duper guilty for not having 16 versions of "Ants Marching," including two studio versions, three acoustic versions, nine live versions, and two versions where Boyd Tinsley has the bow to his violin so firmly wedged up Dave's ass, it gives the guy an actual reason to sing like a drunk pussy. Just keep in mind that Dave Matthews is the son of God or something.

7. People are easily impressed. Last week was the first week of classes, and on that Monday, it rained. Every street I walked down had at least a handful of boys and girls prattling amongst themselves that "it's raining!!" What the Christ? Does it, you know, like, EVER rain in the midwest? Are rain and winds akin to the outlying areas of Chicago? Well shit, I guess not because "it's raining!!" Another thing is that people really like to announce is when they are drunk as if we couldn't tell by their horrendous breath or the glossy look in their eyes. "Dude, I am sooo wasted right now!" Yep. You are. You're gone, man, and I doubt you're ever going to return to your normal, soberific state. Or how about, "we were so drunk last night!!" I wonder if the people who get drunk more than they remain sober wake up and say "man, I was sooo sober last night!" when they actually don't drink. Easily. Impressed.

8. Don't get used to your things. If you're expecting your room and the stuff in it to remain exactly perfect just as the day you brought it here, you might as well go home right now. Chances are, when your roommate is disabling the smoke detector with the door half-open, some random busybody will stroll down the hall and notice to himself "Ooh! Pringles! Great fucking Scot, Pringles! Grab grab grab." And then before you know it, you're down half a can of the mustache man. It just happens, there's really no way around it. My first week here, I was out about three Gatorades and several bottles of water. Because apparently the refrigerator is a public domain, and thus, whatever goes in it is as much mine as it is theirs. So what I did was open up the remaining Gatorades in my possession, spit in them, and put them right back where they were. I figure that if you're not good enough to ask me for something that's mine, you're not good enough to know that I blow loogies in my orange drink. So, sucks to be you.

9. Respect is disrespectful in itself. Every day in class, I am sitting there with my hands gripping my copy of the student-run newspaper, waiting for class to begin just like the three hundred other people in the room. The clock strikes the top of the hour, the professor and his aides walk out and begin class, and some people are still in "pre-class mode." Reading their newspapers, chatting on their phones, texting their friends about how drunk they were the night before or how high they got with the kid who makes a living in the Huskie costume. It's pathetic. I don't care who you are, but the one thing we all have in common is why we're here: to learn. Whether you pay for your own schooling or mom and dad lend a hand or two, money is being spent to learn. Lots of money. A whole lot of spending money. So Jesus, people, make a fucking effort to put down your phones and open a notebook while your professor babbles on for the next 50 minutes. That means shutting off your cell phones so your dick-in-the-ass Ciara ringtone doesn't go off half-way through the lecture. That means putting away the newspaper which you most likely weren't even reading anyways; that's right, I'm talking about you Sudoku-crazed motherfuckers. Fuck you. That also means shut the goddamned fuck up and LISTEN. Stop chatting with the loose neighborhood slut next to you because she sure as balls isn't going to give you a blowjob, and isn't going to give you her notes. So just be respectful and, whoooa Christ! Listen!

10. Niches, man, niches. All about town there are niches. And some are bigger than others. For example, the ratio of people who watch MTV greatly outnumbers the people who watch Freaks and Geeks. The number of people who enjoy the shitty, asshole country and rap music completely engulfs the niche of people who like that weird indie and emo music. That's me, by the way, hi. But what I am ranting about here is the fact that if you like what is popular, you will in turn *be* popular. If you like drinking fag beer to Rascal Flatts or OAR while flipping between Laguna Beach, you're bound to find a slew of people whose interests line up with yours. If you like popping the collar of you A&F shirt as you walk down the street in your flip-flops, you're going to get an ass or two. If chucking beanbags into a little hole and coveting partially-naked women is your deal, then you're probably a little higher on the "facebook friend" ladder than I am. And good riddance. I just wish there was a little bigger audience for people with different musical tastes or television shows. But I guess for every complaint I make, a wish by me goes unheard. Such is life.

11. Pictures are worth a thousand words, and even more in spending money. People in college are camera whores. Camera sluts. They literally dive on the dick of those snapping their shot. Just the other night as I was casually photographing my friends, each and every one of them walked up to me, patted me firmly on the shoulder and said, "Dude, you gotta put these up on facebook! Tag me!" Uh, okay. I guess I just don't comprehend or care about having 560 pictures of myself on the internet, but whatever. The thing that disturbs me a little is that if a picture comes off slightly hokey, the person with the goofy-looking face gathers every fucking person back, forces them into the exact same pose, and demands the man with the camera takes another 12 or 15. "Nooo, no, I look fat in that one, take another!' Fuck you, pal. Fuck you. I am not doing shit. I paid my money for this camera, and I am not risking cracking my lens on your ugly, cock-eyed face. Back of the line. So honestly, why do people care how many pictures of themselves are on this stupid site? This level of perceived popularity is quite disgusting. To anyone reading this, when I approach 100 or so photos, do me a favor and rip my dick off with your bare hands and kick it somewhere. Thanks. Until then I'll be savoring every piss I take and kissing the urinals with firm lips.

So that is it. While we've touched on many subjects, I expect you all as Freshmen to look out for not only yourselves, but for others, okay? Because there is a lot more than 11 things wrong with the general college lifestyle and it is neither my civic duty, nor my calling to list them all for you. So for now, enjoy what is in front of you, God or Buddha bless, and welcome to college.

11 things to live for.

2007-07-20T21:50:00.000-06:00

1. The Indiana Beach crow
This motherfucker is the coolest bird and dare I say, animal on the planet. Mickey Mouse? Bugs Bunny? Marvin the Martian? Not a fuckin' chance. There's more than corn in Indiana? Hell yes there is, like this little bastard. People give the state of Indiana shit all the time for being too pre-occupied with corn and fireworks and smelling like ass even though Gary is closer to Chicago than it is to Indianapolis. This little crow though (along with Manning-mania) helped resurrect the state from the cesspool it has turned into. And if the principal of the character isn't enough, the fact that he wears a retro-1950's swimming suit striped red and white makes him the absolute shit. And what's his name? "I.B. Crow." I.B. motherfuckin' Crow. The "I.B." doesn't stand for "Indiana Beach," oh no. It stands for Injurious Barbarian. How cool is that shit? F'realz. And it's like, "I.B. Crow, I be a crow, yo!" What a cool fucking guy. A real class dude.

His clothes are so awesome.

2. The Oreck vaccuum guy
News flash, people: Dave Oreck is the baddest motherfuckin' spokesman/old person on this planet and maybe even the collective terrestrial bodies as a whole. His name? David Oreck. His occupation? TV vacuum salesman. His hobbies? Kicking ass, taking names, and selling vacuums. I wish this guy was my grandpa no, wait, I wish this guy was my dad. How cool would it be to come home to this guy?

Daddy Oreck: Hey son! How was school?
Derek: *removes baseball cap* It was alright I guess.
Daddy Oreck: *russles my hair* Alright I gueeeessss?
Derek: Yeah. I was selling Mr. Waterman those spare vacuum compressors like you said I should do and at the last minute he says he doesn't want them.
Daddy Oreck: *clenches fists and dons a Zorro costume* Where does this "Mr. Waterman" live? I'll put his fuckin' skull on a plate and provide his family with a dainty funeral. At'll show him!
Derek: Go DAD!

With father's day coming up, I want to buy this man something. Would, say...a vacuum cleaner be too obvious?

These fellers can't believe who they're standing next to. And neither can I.

3. "Blank Check"
Such a masterpiece. Ok, here's a quick rundown of the plot: Rich bad guy runs over fag's bike. He's in a hurry so he gives him a blank check. Kid somehow cashes it in for a million (exactly a million, too, not to seem too obvious) dollars. Kid and random black guy buy shit. Kid macks on a broad 20 years his senior. Kid loses it all but the movie has a happy ending or something. This movie defined so many childhoods it makes my freaking nose bleed. The part where the kid and the bitch get caught in the fountain makes my dick move. Sure it's unrealistic that a bank would just hand over a million dollars or even have that kind of dough on hand, but who the fuck cares? Tone Loc delivers an Oscar-worthy performance in this masterpiece. Tom Hanks? Fuck Tom Hanks and fuck Forrest Gump, this deserved the Oscar. It deserved all the Oscars. Best supporting actor? Tone Loc. Best actor? Brian Bonsall. Best actress AND best supporting actress? Karen Duffy, peoples. Karen. Duffy. Best scene involving a negro and a 12 year old twerp named Preston boxing with super huge gloves? The scene where the negro and the 12 year old twerp named Preston box with super huge gloves. This movie is the shit people. Rent it, buy it, burn it, masturbate to it, do what you have to.

I <3>

4. Jive haircuts
What exactly are "jive haircuts"? Haircuts that only Mexicans and blacks get. Now, that's not a knock. You just don't see a white man gettin' a fade or a Hindu rockin' some cornrows. I love how certain ethnicities have their own hairstyles while white people just have a system of confusing numbers that corresponds to the length. We don't get cool, bitchin' names to show off our hair do's. I never tell the chick down at the Hair Cuttery (yeah, I go there, you got a problem?) to give me an "el fade" or "los cornrows" do I? I just tell her "short" or "thinner." It's so much easier being white, but I gotta give it up to you urbz, you know how to do some hair.

Shave it all!

5. Grimace
Not enough can be said about Grimace. He's big, he's purple, he's unafraid to slap a dyke when provoked, and he gets all the action from the fry girls he wants. And believe me, when you're the fucking Grimace you're getting it all over the fry girls. Many have questioned what exactly a "grimace" is. Those people don't have a goddamned clue. Grimace, obviously, is an alien bringing happiness, joy, and glee to school children and obese over-eaters everywhere. That's a grimace. And why do people always complain about him, asking what he is? What the fuck's a Hamburgler? Is it a man or a nymphoid or some sort of zombie or what? Seriously. And what kind of bird is this Birdie whore anyways? Jeez. Lay the fuck off Grimace. Never have I heard so much shit for such an awesome, Hershey-Kiss shaped badass like I've heard for Grimace.

Grimace gets ALL the bitches, rain, sleet or snow, he gets his ho.

6. Mel Gibson's last-year beard
Come on. Just look at this fucking thing.

'Nuff said, niggas.

7. Tim Taylor's hotrod
Through-out the history of Home Improvement, all Tim would go on about is his goddamned hotrod. And all Jill would ride his ass about is that stupid hotrod. "Tim, put down those tools and come to dinner!" and "Tim, put down those tools except for the power-drill that doubles as one of those fucking machine dildo things you see on the websites while the kids are still at karate, soccer, and play practice and fuck me on the dinner table, then enjoy some of my famously bad cooking, grunt a few times, bring up what Wilson said to you 5 minutes ago and somehow manage to completely miss the picture, injure yourself in some hilarious fashion, put down Al's mother, and talk to your family about good, clean, wholesome fun, with or without an theme relevant to the overall plot." That's how it always goes, man. But back to the 'rod, man... that was Tim's baby. His pride and his joy. He poured so much blood, sweat, tears, and semen into this thing that it makes the sticky floors down at the discount cinema seem tame by comparison. And in one of the last seasons, he finished it. And it most likely exploded off-camera. Just his luck.

Haw haw haw haw!

8. Schemer from Shining Time Station
Schemer was (and still is, in my heart) the lousiest human being in the world and yet, he was such a warm, thoughtful character. And that's why I love him, because he schemed people...he didn't joke around. He didn't mess with you. He didn't pull pranks, oh no. He played schemes, all of which were equally devastating as the black-paint around the eye of the periscope. In fact, half his schemes WERE the black-paint around the eye of the periscope. Not the most original fella, but dammit, he TRIES! Is that worth NOTHING to you people? Schemer was defined by his slick hair, sharp outfits, and hell-fucking-yes, those blue suede shoes! Pop a quarter in that juke box and rock the fuck out, babay. Holy balls was Schemer the shit. Here's a picture of the guy in a train, seconds before he slams the thing into a group of school children.

Next stop, orphanage!! lol!

9. Victory Auto Wreckers guy
For those not native of the Chicago area, Victory Auto Wreckers is a low-budget auto wrecking place and they have 1 commercial which has been on the air for 25 years. Since 1981, this long-haired fucker in a tight blue shirt and even tighter jeans has been leaping backwards from his car. "That old car could be worth money!" God, that shit never gets old. The fact that the dude is like, 50 and still making some sweet cheddar off this commercial is hilarious, and is a great indication of his staying power. Communism? Where the hell did that go? Berlin Wall? Long gone. Bo Jackson? See ya. But this little bastard? He's still here, every early-morning around 4:30 between infomercials of the Ronco guy and shit. He's long overdo for a new commercial, but until then, enjoy this one. I have video, fools! Check out the best 25 year old commercial and coolest fucking hipster guy in the Chicago area here!

Whoamg!

10. The Charmin bears
These bears are the ultimate in awesome. Why? Because any bear, let alone group of bears that can wipe their collective assholes out in the open, in broad daylight, and get away with it deserve to have such praises. Most bears will run up to you and rip your clothes off before tipping you on what toilet paper to run out and buy, but these rad dudes aren't mean. They aren't queers like that kid from Snuggle. They're genuine nice guys who are there to offer a helping paw to those in need. Don't know where to wipe your bung? Come to the forests near the Charmin factory, plenty of ass-wiping room and plenty of bears smiling and eating shit. Fuckin' aye.

That big bear totally has a camel toe.

11. Amelia Bedelia
This dumb slut is much unlike Mr. Magoo, who haphazardly runs around and actually accomplishes things. Ms. Bedelia, however, runs around, but she fucks everything up. And it's hilarious. No matter what you ask of this fucking woman, she will fuck it up. As her to take a shit before she fills her panties and she'll run to the nearest port-o-let and scoop out as much crap as she can using the palms of her hands. What a wretched excuse for a woman, eh? Naw, see, Amelia KNOWS she's fucking up and has been keeping the act up for years! At first you're all like, "Oh noes, she's gonna ruin the party!" but then you're like, "Oh yes, this bitch is rusin' these assholes, step on that cake, woman!" And all is good n the hood. And shit.

Odds that cake'll be on the ground in the next...second? 1:1.

Further analysis of a chain letter.

2007-07-20T21:45:00.000-06:00

You know what the best part of myspace is? The bulletins people post. The lot of the millions of idiots on there actually think that by reposting that shit, the tooth fairy will climb through their window and give them a handjob for their molars. Here's one of the better ones pertaining to racism, and how "unfair" whites have it in today's America.
___

You call me "Cracker", "Honkey", "Whitey" and you think it's OK.
Heh, honest to God, I've never been called any of those names by anyone other than a fellow white person. If I was called a cracker, I probably wouldn't be offended because hey, quite frankly, crackers are delicious. You have graham crackers, those are pretty damned tasty. Saltines, now those are just amazing. Uh, cracker jacks. I mean, does it get any better? If anything, I'd take it as a compliment. And honkey shows social status I suppose, right? It's like, "hey man, at least I own a car to honk, where's your horn?" Whitey? Well, I am pretty white. Peachy, actually, but 'whitey' sounds a little better than 'peachy' or 'rosey'. "Hiya Rosey, wanna lick of my sucker?" Nah.

But when I call you Kike, Towelhead, WOP, Sand-nigger, Camel Jockey, Gook, nigger,wetback, FOB, cotton picker or Chink you call me a racist, .
Camel jockey. Haha. FOB? Friend-of-Bush? He seems like a nice enough guy.

You say that whites commit a lot of violence against you, so why are the ghettos the most dangerous places to live?
Uh, the 60's? Lynch mobs? Cross burnings? Dogs biting the pants off some dude? Ringing no bells, is it? And who says whites commit violence against "you" anyways? I don't even think the thickest headed person says that.

You have the United Negro College Fund. So.
You have Martin Luther King Day. He would deserve it, regardless of color.
You have Black History Month. Which, upon closer inspection, is a month with 28 days, which isn't even a month. Women have a month, too, are we racist for giving them one?
You have Cesar Chavez Day. Um, we do?
You have Yom Hashoah Now you're stretching.
You have Ma'uled Al-Nabi Again, stretching.
You have the NAACP. Aaand back to the blacks.
You have BET. Yeah, definitely not the best representation of their culture, but I guess it'll suffice.

If we had WET(white entertainment television) ...we'd be racists.
No, if we had "white entertainment television" it'd be pretty much what we have already. Do we really need a channel with a bunch of people dancing poorly? What would you show on this "WET"? Roseanne reruns and old, 1950's NFL highlights? C'mon now, think logically, fellas.

If we had a White Pride Day... you would call us racists.
Whoa, there's such a thing as a Black Pride Day? Dude, what day is that?

If we had white history month... we'd be racists.
Yeah, pretty much.

If we had an organization for only whites to "advance" our lives... we'd be racists.
How much more advanced do we need to be? We're at the top of the food chain already.

If we had a college fund that only gave white students scholarships...you know we'd be racists.
Oh, I know it.

In the Million Man March, you believed that you were marching for your race and rights. If we marched for our race and rights...you would call us racists.
Whoa, slow down here. White people have had almost every right since time began. What rights do white people even have to march for? The right to vote? Oh, wait, we've had that for a couple hundred years already. The right to be treated equally? Oops, I totally forgot that the minority groups weren't in fact holding us down. This is just a moot point. This is beyond moot. This is the mootest point I've ever seen.

Did you know that some high school students decided to make a club for only the white students because the other ethnicities had them... they all got sent to court for being rasist but the african-american, latino, and asia clubs were not even questioned.
There is no "Black Club". There is no "Red Skin Club". Clubs like the Asian Club and Latino Club are there to celebrate their cultures, not to reign some sort of superiority over the other races. They're not celebrating their skin color, they're celebrating their backgrounds and their cultures. That is why these other clubs "were not even questioned". Had this "White Club" been called something less skin colored-based, like say "European American Club," the outrage wouldn't pour in as fast. What would a white club celebrate, anyways? American things? Baseball? Apple pie? Theodore Roosevelt? Give me a break. Any and all "white people things" are already being celebrated to the max.

You are proud to be black, brown, yellow and orange, and you're not afraid to announce it. But when we announce our white pride, you call us racists.
That is because they are minorites, and it takes a little more guts to announce the pride you have for your people when there are significantly less of them. And go up to a black or latino person and tell them you're proud of your race and culture. If they don't have their heads up their asses, they won't give a shit. But being proud to be "white" should carry negative connotation. "White" and "Caucasian" are completely different. Being proud of being caucasian isn't racist at all.

I am white. OK.
I am proud. Good for ya.

But, you call me a racist.
Who does? The invisible people on the streets? Or the other white guys reading this bulletin?

Why is it that only whites can be racists?
It's not. Many blacks and latinos and indians and islanders and everyone else are equally racist. It's just that because they're in the minority (which they are) that it isn't played out as much. Chris Rock? He's black, but clearly he's not a racist. Carlos Mencia? Again, not a white guy, but he's not racist at all. So yeah, definitely only white people can be racist.

Repost if you agree.
Does me posting this in my blog and tearing it to shreads count? Because I really don't agree with this.

Additional facts and figures on race: (www.cia.gov/)
-Whites account for 81.7%. of the total population of the United States. More than 4/5. What about blacks?
-Blacks account for 12.9%. Not even 1/5. And latinos?
-Latinos have their own category apparently, so screw it.
-Asians? Whoa, don't even get started on them, they only tally up 4.2%.

So, obviously, all us white folks deserve free money and scholarships and cars and women and extra houses and maids and stuff, because we have is sooo rough.

A year has passed and it's already dated... Yo Momma

2007-07-20T21:18:00.000-06:00

For the past few summers, MTV has filled my skull with a steady diet of poorly dialogued, date-related programming, and underground rap/rock hip-hop shows hosted by ugly black dudes sitting in an overly-cushy studio. Whether it be "Next," "Date My Mom," "Parental Control," "Room Raiders" - and, in a similar case, its offspring, where you simply put the name of a party state after it, or whatever, my television's ass has been bright pink with overuse. But now, what do we have here, MTV? A fusing of the two genres of shows you continually pump out? It's true.

Advertising itself as "your" show, the newest take on the oft-hilarious, even oft-er-overdone "yo momma" jokes comes, originally titled, "YO MOMMA." In this showcase of raw, pure talent, a gang of several combatants will spar, spitting out jokes about everything from the other person's clothes, to their weight (either obesity or skinniness, there never seems to be a joke about a person of just average proportion), to their mothers. And it's just not a group of schmoes, oh no. It's a group of schmoes from suburb of Los Angeles, seemingly chosen at random for hilarity's sake. And to top it all of, it is hosted by dongzilla himself, our little foreigner, Wilmer Valderrama! That's right, this guy:

Better known as 'Fez' on "That '70's Show," Wilmer has decided to venture into the television market he so helped establish. After all, he does have his own production company, aptly titled "Wilmer Valderrama Productions," which displays a cute banner ad upon the [much welcomed] completion to every episode. But we'll get to our 'boy' Wilmer in just a second. First, let's dissect how this show operates, and I promise, it'll be a little less painful than watching an actual episode (or, in my case, 6 or 7).

As is television standard, no show is complete without at least a half-way established hierarchy or villains. In Yo Momma's case, Wilmer sits atop the proverbial ladder while his stooges Jason and Sam do the heavy-hauling. In the start of each episode we are taken, forcibly, to a suburb of Los Angeles where we are met with a group of 20 or 25 people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and creations. After all, would it be as much fun if everyone was black and skinny as a rail? There needs to be that fat white guy to rip on, you see? Out of those people, 6 or so must "step up" and "throw down" on one another. Now, I'm not sure if these people know each other or what, but if some random guy from my town is talking about how below the poverty line I am, I'm a little freaked out.

Controlling the chaos, of course, is one of Wilmer's cronies, either the thugalicious Sam, who has possibly more white per capita than myself with a name like "Sam," and Jason, some sort of hybrid creature unleashed on this Earth, if only to confuse people about his true racial roots. I'm guessing Cuban, but I've been wrong in the past. Anyways, one of these boys is sent to keep the peace (or prevent it, knowing how this show operates). They then inform the 'contestants' of this great show that they are competing to see who has what it takes to compete against some other picked-out-of-a-hat Los Angeles town, and win $1000 cash money. The overall emphasis of cash money is important later on, so pay attention.

Then, as every contestant has stepped up to the imaginary chalked line, the showdown begins. Some jokes will actually be hilarious and get no response (ie: yo momma's so black, they use her bath water to dye bowling balls) and some will be so terrible, but elicit a tremendous pulse from the gazing onlookers (ie: yo momma's had more rappers in her than an iPod - am I riiiiight?) Either way, as the dust settles, either Sam or Jason must choose 2 to face off for a chance to battle the other dude later on in the show. And, as soon as that battle is done, we have our winner! From the first town. Then it's all rinse and repeat for the other guys until we come down to 2 final, final combatants.

Here's where our buddy Wilmer comes into play. After sitting on his large, grandiose ass for half of the show, Wilmer meets one of the players at his future opponent's house to get "dirt" on him or her for the final showdown. Here's where Mr. Valderrama earns his paycheck, truly earns that cash money he so enamors over. When checking the other guy's room, Wilmer will display no sense of privacy. He'll be picking up things, playing with the guy's underwear, trying on the guy's clothes, picking through the guy's stash of dirty magazines, everything. And half of the time, the stuff, erm, "dirt" they find isn't all that tragic. One example that sticks out in my head is where Wilmy found an "extra sensitive" condom in one person's room and started to feign tears. "I'm an extra sensitive guy..." he quips, to no response. Lifestyles extra sensitive condoms...for guys. With feelings. Yep.

After Wilm makes a complete jackass out of himself in that person's home, he then throws the show into the rinse cycle once again, and helps his opponent rummage through his trash. It's actually quite amusing to watch them pick up and sniff the underwear and panties that have been lying on the floor for what could be weeks. Why would anyone do that? It's just one of those things in life that makes as little sense as possible, but we don't care anyways - sort of like organized religion.

When the show picks back up from one of MTV's long, drawn-out commercial breaks (where they plug the '10-Spot' for a good 2 minutes of such), we find ourselves outside some sort of factory at night-time, in downtown Los Angeles. The stage is set, and the stage is divided between town A and town B. In one corner, you have the winner from town A, and his group of friends, family, illegal immigrants, whatever. And in the other, town B, etcetera. And after Wilmer, Sam, and Jason explain to the viewers at home, as well as the two who are battling that this is a 3-round affair, we are ready to begin. Usually, the first round is joke-specific, like "Yo momma's teeth" or something. The second round is most likely about the other guy's "crib." And the final round is the much anticipated KNOCK-OUT PUNCH! It's your one chance to prove yourself, of course, and win one for your town! And that thousand dollars cash money. Thank the Lord, we're almost through!

Once the 3 rounds have completed, Wilmer and his goons whisper to each other some nonsensical, strewn together horse shit about how both guys had their flaws, their good points, and had the crowd working for them at one point or another. Then, eliciting the dazed calm you'd expect from an LA country cocaine dealer, Wilmer slams down his hand and simultaneously summons a name - that of today's winner! Yay! Show over, right? Well, kind of.

We then hear a 10-second piece from the loser on why he didn't bring his "A-game" pr how he thought he was better, or whatever lie they're convincing themselves of. Then Wilmer jumps back and forth and congratulates the day's champion, as if this was the only moment in the entire goddamn half-hour worth emoting about - but I understand his reason why. Wilms then proclaims that so and so is the day's best, and they have won not only the bragging rights for their town, but for one thousand dollars cash money! It's that reason and that reason alone that I watch every single episode I can. What reason is that? Well, seeing as how Wilmer is not of this country, his voice still maintains that awkward accent, which makes cash money sound so incredibly ridiculous that you just can't help but smile and want to pull the ears off the side of your head. It's truly a remarkable program, really. A terrific half-hour that flies by as if it were only 30 minutes. Wilmer then crosses his arms and we roll credits. Genius.

Now that we've practically gone over the show from the inside out, what's left to be said about the show? Or Sam? Jason? Wilmer? I thought I'd offer you all a little profile for each of the boys, just for kicks.

Name: Sam
Ethnicity: Black(?)
Hobbies: Mismatching clothing, standing atop high, abandoned Los Angeles buildings, the word "arright"
Hates: Wilmer's fashion sense

Name: Jason
Ethnicity:
Hobbies: Looking dissenting, shilling products for DC Clothing Company, styling his facial hair into all sorts of fun, festive shapes
Hates: Italian food, his Napoleon complex

Name: Wilmer Valderrama, Fez
Ethnicity: Some sort of Latino, I'm guessing
Hobbies: Mispronouncing everyday syllables, looking "tuff," 14 year old girls, handing out cash money
Hates: People with a penis smaller than his, and believe me, he'll know.

THIS IS *YOUR* SHOW, MOTHERFUCKERS! WATCH!

Analysis of a chain letter.

2007-07-20T21:06:00.000-06:00

girl and guy were speeding over 100 mph on the road on a motorcycle...
Girl: Slow down, I'm scared.
Guy: No, this is fun.
Girl: No it's not. Please it's too scary!
Guy: Then tell me you love me.
Girl: Fine I love you. Slow down!
Guy: Now give me a BIG hug.
Girl hugs him
Guy: Can you take my helmet off and put it on yourself? It's bugging me.
(in the paper the next day): A motorcycle had crashed into a building because of brake failure. Two people were on it, but only 1 had survived. The truth was that halfway down the road, the guy realized that his brakes broke, but he didn't want to let the girl know. Instead, he had her say she loved him and felt her hug one last time, then he had her wear his helmet so that she would live even though it meant that he would die. If u love any one this much...let them know...before its too late... I love you 4 ever.....and always 2 the end....i cant live without ya.....b-cuz ur my friend..... Send this to 10 ppl in the next 5 min....and....u will get kissed on friday by the love of your life.... DONT BREAK THIS . 2morow will be the best day of your life.
However, if u don t send this 2 @ least 10 ppl by at least 12:00 2nite u will have bad luck in your love life 4 the rest of your life. Just copy & paste & send no send backs

Point A: It was said that the loving couple were speeding at over 100 miles per hour on the road. What road? Who knows. But one must question the female's judgment to a) get on a motorcycle in the first place and b) still get on the motorcycle knowing that her boyfriend is a lead-footed commie. 100 MPH? Where are they, Belgium?

Point B: "No, this is fun." He says it so convincingly, too. I know when I'm staring death in the face, flying at hyper speeds down some imaginary highway, I use my reserved indoor voice with hints of monotony. One could also make a strong case that this young lady is getting raped. This gentleman finds is sufficient to keep going even though she clearly doesn't want to do it anymore. That, my friends, is rape. Now if she's underaged, then we could be looking at jail time. But then again, he's probably the Clyde to her Bonnie, so he's outrunning the law anyways. He's that hardcore.

Point C: The woman isn't really too serious with her claim of love, is she? She rushes her speech, not allowing any time for her man to savor her words. How rude. But then again, the guy is a little demanding. If I were in the guy's position, I probably would've asked for a steak and a blowjob every night while watching 'Pardon the Interruption' on ESPN. Not some stupid words. This guy sucks at making demands.

Point D: Isn't a two-person motorcycle ride already a "BIG hug" in itself? If they're flying down mystery boulevard at 100 MPH, then she is most certainly hanging on for dear life. Any BIGger of a hug would squish the gentleman's kidneys and cause years and years of bladder irritation. That just isn't good for his health. But hey, he's going to die anyways, right? Death is never painless one figures.

Point E: Yes, your helmet is bugging you, right. What a horrible explanation of what's going on. I am sure that the first thing on your mind facing impending doom is that your helmet is bugging you. And why is only one of them wearing a helmet? Either this girl is really ridiculously retarded, or she is too poor to afford a bike helmet from Toys 'R Us. Whatever excuse it is, it's pathetic.

Point F: How do you crash into a building on a road? Were the foolish construction workers erecting a new library in the middle of the street? Where is the logic in this man's death? Yeah, the brakes failed, go find the nearest building to try and slow yourself down. That's the smart thing to do, pal. Don't, like, y'know, try and lay off the accelerator like a normal person would. Disgusting.

Point G: How the HELL do you survive that crash? This isn't Gran Turismo, where you could crash a million dollar F1 racer into a crash barrier at a hundred miles per hour and not get a dent or ding on it. How does a helmet save this woman from exploding along with her little buddy there? I doubt you'll find a motorcycle that crashes into a building at that speed in one piece. Where did they crash? An ice cream factory? A popcorn, pillow and pudding emporium? This woman though, with her magical helmet that is apparently made of space-age material, survived. This given the fact that she was holding the man at the time in respect to what Point D illustrated. You wouldn't ever survive.

Point H: How are they talking so much if they are driving on a nameless street, on a motorcycle, going over 100 MPH? It makes no sense. You can't even hear yourself think, let alone some broad behind you.

Point I: No one loves anyone that much!

Conclusion: Both parties are horrible people and deserved everything they had coming to them. The male, for being a hulky-bulky jerkoff who found it appropriate to take his girlfriend on a magical mystery tour of the faceless valley of smiles on his Honda, and for only bringing one helmet. The female for being a simple-minded douche who let her gullibility kill the person she loves. Loved. Can't love the dead. And the person who wrote this horrible piece of shit, for not knowing how to operate a computer keyboard or tell a story logically. This just fucking sucks.

Six steps to becoming a successful comedian.

2007-07-20T20:49:00.000-06:00

Writer's note: I love continuity.

___

Today got me thinking... Derek, exactly how does one acquire chicks? Is it your big brain that the ladies are after? Is it your dyed hair that makes those lionesses purr? Or is it your impeccable taste for the fast, fatty foods? Surely, it could be a combination of any of these things, but the real way to anyone's heart, not just a female, is through their funny bone.

This had me wondering how these comedy folk do it. Night in, night out, they rattle the laughy-cages of audiences everywhere with their cunning and masterful jokes. So I've taken it upon myself to compile a list on how to become a successful funnyman in today's world. I have a feeling if you follow these tips, one or all, you will make someone laugh so hard, they'll lose their ball joints. Oh, we can only hope.

6: Don't tell "jokes"
Now now, comedians don't tell jokes anymore, they tell "stories." Stories that more than likely are truer than your Aunt Kay's cream of wheat, or Great-Grandpa Stu's toupee. "Why did the chicken cross the road" is being phased out for "So, the other day, I was in a Citgo. And inside Citgo, there was this guy name Houshmani. Houshmani! What a funny name!" Stories are funny. Jokes, while by definition, are funny, in today's society of jokesters, are not funny. That's why you see guys like Bob Saget outside of Denny's trying to get gigs.
Biggest Perp: Dane Cook, Jerry Seinfeld.

5: BE LOUD
No comedian reserves their voice, anymore. It's all "WHY AM I SCREAMING SO LOUDLY!!!" nowadays. The best example of this is Daneial Cook. It's proven fact that jokes, stories rather, are much funnier when screamed at the top of your lungs. And the stories don't even have to make sense. You could recite the Declaration of Independence, a document that isn't even funny (well, to 18th century Brits it may be, but to us Americans is certainly is not), and by screaming it, it'd be a hoot.

"HE HAS REFUTED HIS ASSENT TO LAWS, THE MOST WHOLESOME AND NECESSARY FOR THE PUBLIC GOOD!!!!!!!!"

Hi-larious. You could even make something as un-funny as a natural disaster seem hilarious in this wonderfully rhythmic prose. Take Mount St. Helen's for example:

"AT 8:32 SUNDAY MORNING, MAY 18, 1980, MOUNT SAINT HELEN'S ERUPTED. MANY DIED. LOTS OF DAMAGE WAS CAUSED. CHILDREN DID SOMERSAULTS IN THE ASHES OF THEIR HOMES AND SHAT ON THE GERIATRICS."

Funny!
Biggest Perp: That fat, long-haired comedian that died from drugs and had a really annoying voice, and wore those greasy, dirty clothes and looked like he lived on the street, Dane Cook.

4: Make funny sound effects
Since normal, uneducated audience members don't know what everyday objects or appliances sound like, it's in your best interest to give them the heads up on what you think they sound like. This most often comes when you're deeply embedded in a fast-paced story, and you just know there's an opportunity to bust out one of your over-done, sounds-nothing-like-the-object-I'm-imitating effects. Here's a little example.

"So one day I went by my buddy Jerry's place. Jerry loves his fucking moped. He loves it so much he let me drive it. VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMM SCREEEEEEEEEEEECCCCHHHHHH!!!!! I slammed on the brakes and I hit an old lady in the fucking calves! OWW!"

Again, funny stuff. Never be afraid to imitate something you find funny in everyday life. Just because it makes a funny sound doesn't mean you can't mock it by voicing it.
Biggest Perp: Dane Cook, Pablo Francisco, The guy from that Midas commercial where he goes "Errrrrreeeeeeek!" simulating the sounds of screeching brakes.

3: Be self-depreciating
It's common practice to hate yourself when you're on stage if you're a comedian. This is an easy, yet somewhat amusing way of getting people to feel sorry for you, and drop a round of applause in your sympathy jar. The comedian will be heavily involved in his story, pull out a few sound effects, and then shoot himself down, even when he's getting huge hoots and hollers.

"So you know, there was this cat down in Arkansas named James. And James was so damn huge he could swallow catfish whole. MMMGLOBALOB MMMM GULPGULP. I know, that was awful...that was James swallowing a catfish. God, I'm so fucking stupid."

At this point, the audience would go "aww," thus boosting the funnyboy's self-esteem to tell more awful stories about his everyday, mundane life.
Biggest Perp: Dane Cook - ssssssssss (the sound of food 'cook'ing).

2: Swear. A lot.
It's yet to be proven that swearing cures cancer, but I'm willing to bet that half of these story-tellers think it does. Talking like a sailor with a nail through his foot not only accentuates the current joke you're on, but it makes you seem more "mature." Because only real adults swear. Kids, they never swear. Only adults. Mature ones. With fancy cars with 3 doors and supreme trunk space. And a profile on HotJobs.

"So back to James... this motherfucker was so fucking HUGE! He ate catfish! Probably because he was so fucking fat, and fat fuckers eat a lot of fucking catfish. Goddamn this shit, it's so fucking amusing! And I just said "fuck" seven times in the span of less than one paragraph! Ahhhhhhh exclamation point!"

Too funny. Yes, swearing can help out a story or a joke, if used in moderation, but it most certainly doesn't help if every other word out of your mouth starts with "F" and rhymes with "duck."
Biggest Perp: Dave Chappelle (with 2 P's and L's), Dane Cook, Bob Saget, post-Full House, pre-living out of a shopping cart.

1: Be callous.
I'm not asking for you to push your grandma down the stairs (or am I?), but at least be as disrespectful as you possibly can. Whether that means being racist, discriminatory towards fat Koreans, or just hurting something random in the most random way possible, do it. For me. In fact, I've devised the "Dane Cook 'Hurt Something' Generator." Check it out.

I just want to [how to hurt someone/thing] it in the [body part].

Here are a few examples. Be sure to make them as radically awful as possible.

"I just want to stab that baby in the fucking eyeball!"
"I am going to chainsaw that grandma in the vagina!"
"I just feel like sporking that tatertot in the ovaries!"
"I just want to throw a ball of spikes at Dane Cook's third teste!"
"I punched that oversized mountain elk RIGHT IN THE JAW!"

Never, ever be afraid to improvise. You can yell towards the end of your little spiel, there. Go forth and scream out the location of where you want to hurt said person. It's quite easy, really.
Biggest Perp: Dane Cook.

Road Rash: A history in rust (One)

2007-07-20T20:21:00.000-06:00

Road Rash was always a favorite game of mine. I always enjoyed playing it on my Sega Genesis Entertainment and Gaming Console System. There were always some things that bugged me though; well, there were a lot of things that bugged me. In fact, the whole game pissed me off...which is why I'm here to write an angry rant about the fact that I have all this suppressed rage from a game I failed to beat 10 years ago.

First and foremost, you play as a no-name biker. You're simply known as "Player A." Player A? What are you, on drugs? Not "Player 1" or "Untitled" or something? You play as Player A? What the fuck. Now, that isn't even the worst of it. That doesn't even scratch the cusp on the imagination of how bad this game pisses me off.

So when they start you off, you're, of course, in 15th place. I like how they choose to start you off in last place. Even if you win the race and come in first, there you are, very next race, in 15th once again. And why 15th place? They couldn't find another person with a stupid gimmick name to enter to make it an even 16? Why 15? Fuck 15, that's stupid. 15 makes me feel like I fucked someone's wife in the ass to be stuck here. 15 makes me feel like they just stuck me here in the back to because my feelings would be hurt if I wasn't allowed to enter the race. After all, look at my clothing. You think to yourself, "This isn't racing attire! This isn't racing attire at all!" It looks like you stole the jumpsuit out of your local Shell station's bathroom closet, and decided to race with it. There's going to be a Mexican cleaning some feces who is going to be mighty freakin' pissed. Fucking 15.

They make you feel like a complete fucking moron when you play this game. The guys in front usually have the best bikes. I have a rat bike piece of shit with tires made out of old sweaters. "These aren't tires! Maybe in the land of Firestone these'll qualify, but not here! Not in Alaska!" I cheated before. Yep, I did. I was given the mega sex ball buster bike 2000, with the cup holder and the built-in Venus 2000 sex toy penis massager. Yeah, it's pretty sweet. It's got all the works, goes 205 miles per hour, blows you when you're sticking a dude in the face. Pretty cool. But if I have the best bike, and am going 200 MPH to start off a race, HOW are these dudes with their shitty power bikes ahead of me by a mile and a half? That just makes no sense. No sense at all.

The best part of the game, obviously, is the rashing. I never understood the title of the game, exactly. "Road Rash." Is it some kind of herpes-like disease your first crummy bike gives you? Does it give you the road rash? That's disgusting. "Win the race, get the rash, that's how it works around here." Oh, thanks Bella Donna. Bella's the local penis intake around here, usually places 4th or 5th, only after being knocked out like a little dyke from my CLUB OF DEATH. Yes, the CLUB OF DEATH is very influential. See, you don't just buy a CLUB OF DEATH. You must acquire one by ripping it from the hands of its very owner. Is that the "rashing"? Knocking some dumbass unconscious with your CLUB OF DEATH?

The weapons in this game, simply phenomenal. You have your standard issue CLUB OF DEATH, your chain, your wet towel, your milk jug, your personal sized vibrating dildo. There's a big selection. There's nothing more satisfying than beating a cop over the head with your dong. There just isn't. Name me one thing better than beating the living crap out of an officer of the law with something blunt. "Well, I heard sex is pretty good." No no no no no, this is much better. Much much better. And then when you get his health down in the red, you begin to wonder if you killed the cop. "Oh no, I think he's dead! Is he dead? Is - is he dead? Is the pig really dead? Did I bone him too hard?" So now you killed a cop. What happens if you get busted next time around?

Officer 57: You're coming with me, big boy. You'll like it in there!
-$5000
-$25000 Officer killing fee (Good day!)

What I love about this game is its overall cheesiness. Yes, it was the 90s, but still. You don't see people named Biff or Rhonda anymore. There has never been a Lucky Luc. And each one of them has something to say, pending the outcome of your race. You win?

Sergio: Say, essa, you're goin' down next time.

You lose?

Sergio: Told you you'd go down, essa. Better luck next time!

This makes me realize what arrogant jerks they are. Even when you knock their tails unconscious, they still talk. They're still talking. It's unreal.

I was playing on the final level, and it was in JAPAN. Japan of all places. Nope, no motorcycle races there. And the weird thing is, there were little to no Asian riders. That's weird. But this level, JAPAN, gave me a diabetic seizure. And I'm not even diabetic, so you know this level's fucked up. And the cops in this level are WHITE! There's no little Japanese men with their tiny automobiles chasing you, there's nothing like that. The cops in this game are all white. There's no Japanese with swords. I like cops to have swords, that'd be fuckin' grand. Samurai Cops, f'real.

Another level I quickly enthused through was Brazil. Yes, Brazil. I had to burn several rain forest for these Kevlar-coated tires. You see, I'm not an environmentalist by any means, but I need my Kevlars. Or, I could have the tires that once they deflate, you pour green ooze in. I need me some of those. I'd like, purposely get the challenges wrong on Double Dare to steal me some of that green ooze for my tires.

Marc Summers: Derek, Joe Carter was, A) The 39th President of the United States, B) My latest crush, or C) A hippity hoppity baseball player?
Derek: I don't know, Marc... I'm gonna have to ask Mo.
Marc Summers: That's "GUTS."
Derek: Do I haaave it?
Marc Summers: Do you have what?
Derek: The GUTS?! Now give me that fucking slime, neat freak.

But I am in Brazil, and I'm cruising along, going 205 MPH in my super sex dick polishing bike when all of a sudden, I run into a cow! A fucking cow! In the middle of the road, there's just a giant, fat-assed cow! Who the hell curtails their livestock in such a way that their cows interrupt my victory lap? Those assholes. And on top of things, as this game is #1 in the realism department, the cow didn't even budge. But as soon as I was flung from my sex machine 2000 penis contoured bike, I run up to the cow and tip that bitch over. On foot! Yes, I can run into a cow and kill it, but I can't run it over going 205 MPH. Ooh, hear that Electronic Arts? It's the logic police, and you're getting taken in. Bastards.

The thing I'd like to see most from this game, other than more people named after their dogs, is a movie. Yes, a movie. And the perfect man for this role is Tom Hanks. Forrest Gump himself in this Spielberg epic masterpiece mega-motion picture production. The teaser poster'd look a little something like this:

I'd lick balls to see that. Serious balls.

The NFL cares about animals

2007-07-20T03:12:00.000-06:00

PETA recently discussed protesting the NFL over Michael Vick's purported dog fighting syndicate, and that makes me feel like a big ball of, well, dog shit. It's not fair that because one dumb, crack-addicted shitty quarterback, the rest of the league has to suffer. I love animals, but I love football just as much. I mean, I watch both the Super Bowl and the Puppy Bowl every February, and if I to pick a side, I just don't think I could.

So what I did was write to PETA about the whole Vick situation, to prove to them that the NFL isn't a corrupt, animal-neglecting business. As this is a difficult time, the NFL players, coaches, and owners have banded together to fight this, and overcome PETA's disloyalty. First, the letter:

Dear PETA,

I love your organization and everything you stand for. While I eat animals for lunch, dinner, and sometimes breakfast, I do support your cause. And please be aware that I only eat animals that are slaughtered in the slaughterhouses; none of this back-alley stuff for me. I find no problem with eating some beef or pork, you know? But when they try and sell me a Siamese cat or some dog meat down in China town, I just can't eat that, right? It's just inhuman. And inhumane.

On the subject of dogs, I wanted to be forward with you on your protest of the NFL. Michael Vick grew up in Virginia, where times were tough and his mother had to scrap together as much as she could just to feed her children. Do you know how she got that money? Prostitution. A foul act, indeed, so far be it for Michael Vick to fight a few dogs here or there to feed his family.

I graduated from the Michael Vick school of thought in that running fast is really cool, but more importantly, different dogs are bred for different reasons. Greyhounds, for example, are bred to race and help put me through college. Chihuahuas are bred to be stored in the designer purses of the Hollywood fashion glamourati. And pitbulls, as you may've guess, are bred to fight one another. Think of them like boxers, only unpaid, and without the creative nicknames and colorfully striped shorts.

With that, I disagree with your protest of the NFL. The National Football League loves animals. I bet you didn't know this, but 16 of the NFL's 32 teams are animal-based! That's half! Would a league that supposedly "hates animals" [sic] name so many of their teams after horses and birds? I don't think so. That number is even higher if you take into consideration the team logos and the inherent lack of humanity some possess. Have you seen the logo for the Oakland Raiders? Sure, I've never seen a dog wear an eyepatch before, but who are you to tell me that thing is human? And the Cleveland Browns? What the hell is a Brown? With the inclusion of the Houston Texans who, for my best guess, represent any and all living things in the state of Texas, including animals, your total comes to a whopping 19 teams. Some animal negligence on their part, huh?

You are not alone in your struggle, PETA. American Indians have oft-protested the legitimacy of the Washington Redskins, citing that they're "racist" because their logo has a grump-faced Indian on it and the term "redskin" is no longer in active use. If I can't call Chief Tiger Cloud a redskin, then what the hell am I supposed to call him? You tell me, PETA. You tell me.

In the end, your protest is no different than the highly industrious field turf installed in the majority of the NFL's many stadiums - it holds no water whatsoever. If you think Roger Goodell and the NFLPA will just buck this thing, you're in for a long, sleepless night. The Super Bowl is annually the highest-rated program on television, and you think some little strike is going to hurt them? Last I checked, PETA, Baywatch was cancelled and Martha Stewart was sitting at home contemplating calling up the pals she made in prison. The NFL will not support your protest and will deal with Michael Vick accordingly.

Best of luck and keep fighting (not biting!),
Derek Walker

With that at hand, what about those who suffer, here? What about those representing the league, on the billboards and posters across America? They are the victims here, not some dogs. Without PETA, well, they might as well be left to the dogs. So here's a few photos I've found on various NFL-related websites, showing the world just how much they care.

First we have former Cowboys coach, and Hall-of-Famer Tom Landry who, in his famed hat, holds a cute pooch by the name of, you guessed it, "Five Trophies bitch!" This photo, believed to be taken shortly before (after?) his death in 2000, should serve as proof that not all Dallas Cowboys are dickheaded dog-beaters.
Is this the face of a dog whose legs are beaten repeatedly by his owner? Why no, it's the face of a dog in love!

Next we have St. Louis Rams' sensational wideout Torry Holt! A consumate professional on the field, Torry is more lax off of it. We all know Torry's dog "Steve" agrees that his owner loves animals - heck, he plays for the Rams!
When not catching 100 balls a year, Torry Holt crouches uncomfortably against a graffiti-ridden wall in a town not resembling his own!

Hey! If it isn't New Orleans Saints sensation Drew Brees! A wizard at the passing game, Drew's dog "Koko B. Ware of Dog" sure gives him a workout during one of their many games of fetch! Koko is even a survivor of Katrina, making he and his owner survivors, in a way.
Throw this dog a bone, Drew! We all know you can!

Some people are just cat people, though, and there's nothing wrong with that! Dolphins alum Don Shula emphasizes a strict gameplan with his cat "Snickers," feeding him only the best kitty food and giving him plenty of exercise! It's a regimen that is surely undefeated!
"Hey Marino, guess how much weight I lost on that Nutri-System?" I guess you can't blame the coach for keeping both himself and little Snickers fit, can you?

The Falcons may no longer sign Jim Mora, Jr's paychecks, but that doesn't stop him and his cat "Playoffs?" from having a ball (of yarn!).
Grab hold, Playoffs?, Jim's about to give you some of that West Coast offense... a few runs with his fingers over that little belly of yours, complete with plenty of passes along that gorgeous coat of fur!

When the Chicago Bears' third or fourth-string quarterback Kyle Orton isn't partying with drunk college girls, he's partying with his snake "Quarterback Snake."
You might find a worm occasionally at the bottom of Orton's tequila, but that's nothing compared to Quarterback Snake, the five-foot coiler in this Bear's camp!

Whoa, slow down a minute! It's Dominic Rhodes and his bird brain has made it all the way to Uganda to hand out birds for the children. Is that honestly the doing of a man you'd arrest, PETA? I don't think so!

First he played in the Super Bowl, now he's the kind and caring Super Soul of the NFL. The lone representative of the league's "Birds for Ugandans" sponsorship, Dom needs to remind these kids that these birds, while edible, make for much better pets!

Hey Coach, over here! Vince Lombardi, possibly the most prolific mind in the NFL, loved cows. Heck, coaching in Wisconsin for all those years, you almost have to! The moon may be made of cheese, and that's all his cow "Keith Moo-n" needs to jump, jump, jump for joy at it, and for the cheese heads of Green Bay!
When he wasn't making the AFL look like a pile of cow dung, Lombardi took his cow out for a walk and some pie. Cow pie!

Another genius of the gridiron, coach Dick Vermeil is often criticized for caring too much about his players. Baaaaa to that, I say! Here, Dick coached his prize sheep "Lamb of Rod Gardner" to first prize in the county fair! That fares well with me, Dick!

First prize! While the headset may be a little much for a sheep-herding competition, you've got to give it to Dick Vermeil - he leaves it all on the field. Maybe we should call him Dick Verveal from now on?

Vince Young is a Tennessee Titan, but he's always had aspirations to play for the Denver Broncos. Well, nobody wants to play for the Broncos, but I am sure his steed "Foghorn Longhorn" doesn't care who his best friend plays for.
I see Vince and I see horse. Seahorse! The only thing I don't "see" is the need to ford the waters of the Gulf with a pony, but I guess we all have different hobbies!

Who says Matt Millen doesn't care about the Lions? Not only does he own them, he trains them, too!
Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Well, one out of three ain't bad. Millen's lions Shenzi and Bonzai are natural-born winners, just like the football Lions!

So as you can clearly see here, the National Football League isn't conducive of Michael Vick's actions and love animals, big and small, smooth or scaly.

Daytime talk shows

2007-05-17T22:56:00.000-06:00

For whatever reason, I watch a lot of daytime television. Whether it is reruns of Lazy Town, or soaps, I can’t really get enough of it. But for all that is good, I cannot overcome my addiction to the talk shows. In essence, these programs are the real reality TV. Whether it is seeing the incredible journey of a man with no arms and legs or a fat lady who is married to a really skinny man, this is real. A bunch of skinny white folks living on an island, or a group of skinny white women all pining for the wallet of an equally attractive white man named Chris or Jesse just doesn’t seem “real” to me. Real life happens on stage in front of a live audience, not in some tribal council.

For every titan of daytime talk like Maury Povich, you have a second-rate lank like Montel Williams. I guess the irony in it all is that I prefer Montel’s smooth jive and neatly trimmed goatee over Maury’s wrinkle-face and condescending demeanor. But hey, I’m just atypical. Other personalities floating about the airwaves include Tyra Banks and her Ken Griffey-sized forehead and Jerry Springer, as well as now-defunct vehicles from Jenny Jones and Ricki Lake. No matter who you tune into, the basis of the program will be relatively similar to something you’ve already seen a million times by now, which is why I’ve taken upon myself to break it down for you.

Generally speaking, there are six “go-to” subjects a talk show host could fall back on in the event they’re running short on ideas for the week. Any of these topics will produce not only the desired ratings, but the “oohs” and “ahs” from the captivated audience. So, without further ado:

Paternity
The most common trend on these shows is paternity tests for irresponsible couples. The stories are nothing out of the ordinary: white trash floozy sleeps with 27 different guys at the party and cannot determine who her baby’s daddy is. So Maury brings this hapless slut on stage, humiliates her by calling her on her life’s many mistakes, waves a folder in her face for about an hour, then reveals that none of the two dozen dudes she boinked that day is the father. It’s pretty humorous, as the reactions of the mother and father of the child almost always conflict with one another. She will be so certain of one of the men being the father, but he will stalwartly disagree. I think this is explained better with a little sample dialogue, actually:

Maury: We have the results in. Kortni, Chazz, are you ready?
Kortni: Yeah Maury, look at that baby. Look at that baby! Look at those eyes, Chazz! Look at her! How is that not your baby? She has your eyes!
Chazz: Whatever, whatever. That baby ain’t mine, Maury, it don’t even look like me!
Maury: Well, the results are in – Chazz… [pause]… you are NOT the father.
Chazz: *celebrates by throwing hands up in air wildly* YEAH! YEAH BOY! I TOLD YOU!
Kortni: *cries uncontrollably, runs backstage*
[Maury follows Kortni backstage]
Maury: Hey. Hey. What’s wrong?
Kortni: He my baby’s daddy, Maury. I just know it.
Maury: But he’s not.
Kortni: But he is! I just need a daddy, Maury! I need a daddy.

It’s estimated that close to 55% of all daytime shows are paternity tests (according to this spiffy pie chart, anyway). Do we really have nothing better to do with our time than to watch this crap? The answer is… no. To this day I still revel at how they are unable to afford an abortion, yet have enough money to pay for 600 paternity tests. It really makes you wonder.

What to look for:
-A contrast in opinion between mother and father
-Showing the baby on the big screen looking cute
-Portrait of the mother: usually missing teeth, in trashy clothing, nappy hair, Southern accent
-Portrait of the father: almost always in oversized clothing, hair way too short or way too long, traces of facial hair, generally a person who no woman would normally have sex with

Obesity
Coming in second place is tales of fat people, usually children. At least one program a week is dedicated to these disgusting Michelin babies. We tune in because we are not them and the human mind is generally fixated with bodily wonders. If you’re telling yourself you have no interest in the bearded lady or those African people with the plates in their lips, you’re a liar.

What I find enjoyable about this topic is when the parents bring their chubby, shirtless child onto the stage. The audience gasps, the camera pans back to try and get the entire thing on film, and the mother starts crying. It is at this point where the production people will roll some home video of the child eating a breakfast composed of two slabs of ribs, a porterhouse steak, three servings of mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, a few chicken breasts, a full pancake dinner, and a large pepperoni pizza, with a two liter bottle of Coke to wash it down. For breakfast. At the end of the clip, the diapered tot will be covered head-to-toe in barbecue sauce and will still be hungry.

Back to the live action, the mother (it’s always the mother) will blame the child, which again makes the audience suck a breath of air into their lungs in awe. It’s amazing to think that it could be solely the child’s responsibility to feed themselves and pay for all this food single-handedly. No where in this did the parents say, “Hey fatty, here’s some more food. You asked for it, and instead of being a halfway responsible person by telling you ‘no,’ I am a person of weak moral character, so I choose to give in and keep feeding you until your little heart explodes.”

Then you have the fat adults, Jesus Christ; don’t even get me started on them. But those are usually “special” episodes encapsulating some somber ass story about how a half-ton mammoth of a man lost half his weight and is getting back to a healthy lifestyle, despite the fact that he still weighs a good three hundred pounds more than the rest of the world.

What to look for:
-Fat children with as little clothing as possible, if only to emphasize their amount of rolls and lack of an “innie” belly button
-Crying mother
-The child approaching the camera and/or doing something cute to play up the sympathy/“we’ve got to help them!” card
-While rare, cutting out the wall of a house as the obese person cannot fit through the doorway is exciting
-Home video footage of the child eating way too much food for their own good

Bad Children
I’ve seen the movie Problem Child (and loved it!). I’ve also seen its sequels, as well as the first two Home Alone films. Based on my taste in cinema, you can assume I am either unreasonably homosexual, or a pedophile. Or both, even. But the truth of the matter is I love films about spoiled, idiotic little brats running around beating the living shit out of their elders, the more unconventional the method the better. So it isn’t too out of the realms of possibility that I would enjoy shows discussing little annoying punks who make their parents’ lives a living hell, is it?

The mother (again, just the mother) will come on first and explain her side of the story. She will chit and chat about how their kid is on drugs, drinking and having sex at age 10, even though their reproductive organs aren’t fully functional yet. Then they are likely to cry as the show focuses more on how their bad child abuses them or those around them. Once again, the parents are never, ever at fault, and the blame is shouldered 100% on the child. It’s not like they could be bad parents or anything. I mean, is that even conceivable? Of course it isn’t.

These episodes are generally pretty hilarious and are chockfull of audience feedback. The crowd always sides with the inept parent, and will gasp in horror when they hear the list of bad things the kids have done. Because, in all our lives, we’ve never done drugs, had sex, or held negative thoughts. Then, near the end of the show, they will interview the upstanding citizens in the seats, allowing them to ask questions to the bratty children, usually followed by a “whatever, you ain’t own me!”

The cherry on top in these shows is when they bring out the large, overbuilt black man who will “whip these kids into shape.” That’s right, boot camp! Screaming at the top of his lungs right in their faces, this angry gentleman will jump up and down, veins bulging out of his thick neck, and force the kids to do push-ups or something. After the guy pops a few blood vessels by screaming so loudly, the kids will start crying like the little cocaine-snorting heathens they are. Then, apologetically, will hold their mothers and claim to change right there, on the spot. It’s magical.

What to look for:
-The producers will set up a “back room” full of various unaccounted for merchandise. This is a trap, as they want to catch the kids stealing the goods, or damaging their property to prove they are, in fact, “bad kids”
-They will always introduce the kids with those swiveling camera angles and quick cuts, as if the producers are telling them how to act backstage. And the kids will always rattle off a list of how “bad” they are
-The boot camp guy will always be in full military attire, as if he is a General in the army. And will always be black
-I like to play a little game with my friends when these episodes air; we predict how many guys the underage girls have slept with, and what drugs the boys have done

Makeovers
The screen goes black and white, a frizzy-haired lady is struggling to get her brush loose from the rat’s nest she calls a head of hair, and the inaudible screams of a matron in distress fall on deaf ears. This isn’t the scene of a Judy Garland flick, although I can see how one would make that assumption; it’s yet another dramatization in the world of daytime talk.

Clips like these are pivotal to the program, which usually centers around a mother who works too hard, and a family who wants the best for her. More often than not, they’ll show the lady in ludicrously over-the-top situations to exaggerate her problems. Now, this could be something as dimwitted as spraying two cans of hair spray simultaneously, or pretending to have a back ache of epic proportions.

Before the parent is brought out, a little backstory is given by the children or spouse. So and so works too hard, they think they don’t look bad, they’re burn victims or sensationally poor, so they are just, if not more worthy than anyone else receiving their life-altering appearance change. And it’s always one of those three things, too, which kind of says something… “if you cannot afford your own makeover, you are not hard-working, poor, or lesioned enough to deserve one.” Is that what we’re telling ourselves?

But that’s only half the show, of course. The other half revolves around how incredible these ugly sons of bitches look after their treatments. Speaking of those treatments, it should be noted that it is just a hair cut and dye job, and a new outfit. It’s never like, sucking the extra lard out of mommy’s ass, or giving dad that colonoscopy he so dearly needs. And after their trip to Borics and the Gap, the make-overee gets to strut their stuff in front of a ravenous crowd and a most rambunctious, excited family. Pretty formulaic, but nevertheless satisfying.

What to look for:
-The black and white flashback segments are always funny.
-There isn’t much variety in the type of people getting a makeover. It breaks down to a woman needing her hair de-frizzed or an outfit changed, and a guy needing to cut the long hair/beard he is so attached to and to stop dressing grungy.
-Almost always, the person in question will be unwilling to change and think they look halfway presentable when we know that isn’t the case.
-The people cutting the hair will, 9 times out of 10, find a use for tin foil. “What do you need? Just a trim? Alrighty, let me get out the Reynolds Wrap, here.”

Opposites Attract
That’s the phrase, anyhow. But is it true? Well, as daytime talk shows go, it certainly does. And I guess leave it to these programs to show us that love can blossom between a midget and giant. Part of me thinks that is a fetish, where the really tall guy just wants to wear the short woman around his waist as an ornament, but I could be mistaken.

The stories here are never too fulfilling. Fat woman marries skinny man, the aforementioned tall and short people – issues of size, mainly. Other than that, they always have a really old lady on there and a 14 year-old or something ridiculous to break the monotony. I personally would rather date someone who is more similar to me than opposite, as it is nearly impossible to imagine me shacking up with a midget. Or woman with below-zero metabolism. Or a really heavy midget. Eww.

But the moral of the story here is that opposites can, in fact attract and in doing so, the couple is happier than most couples not featuring an albino and an unreasonably dark black guy. However, this is 21st century America; is a height differential really that daunting anymore? Here are some suggestions on future “opposites attract” episodes:

-A woman who has found love in a horse
-A man involved in a polygamous relationship with two dead brides
-One of the Blue Men is engaged to a lady with orange skin (which actually seems plausible, given today’s tanning solutions… or if they date Gerbert)
-A Hitler re-enactor and an Anne Frank re-enactor find true love

What to look for:
-Midgets. Lots and lots of midgets
-Despite their differences, they are always, without failure, happier than we are
-Awkward bonding techniques. The big guy will always put his little queen on his shoulders, or the fat chick will always let the little man use her as a chair. It generally makes the host uncomfortable

Wishes Granted
What a terrific idea for a show, everyone. Let’s gather a handful of the most colorful deformed children we could find and grant their wishes for them. Well, OK, that was a touch harsh, but the point stands. Whenever a show like Maury takes a break from paternity testing, they’ll scrape the bottom of the barrel by giving people with random illnesses a “wish” which they will then grant. It works because A) everyone naturally feels sorry for diseased kids and B) it’s a feel-good story we could all, heck, feel good about!

The segments usually start with the parents of the children, or the children themselves describing how life-threatening their cases are. Little Johnny has TB, Little Shannon has mouth cancer (too much chew, you dumb broad), Little Blackie is over-porous from being shot too damn much, and the list goes on. But hey, don’t worry kids, despite the fact that you’ll, uh, die in a few years, we have a big shot celebrity here to cheer you up!

And off they go to tour Yankee Stadium and spend the day with Mandy Moore. These are all really heart-wrenching tales, but they’re done in the matter where cheese factor isn’t at all taken into account. It’s just bad television, but I guess that’s why suckers like me keep tuning in.

What to look for:
-The illnesses are never that life-threatening where the kids will die the next day or something
-It’s always interesting to see what these kids’ wishes are. Usually it involves a shopping spree of some sort… because the thing I want to do most before I die is picking out clothing I’ll never have a chance at wearing

Six steps to becoming a good photographer.

2007-04-29T19:27:00.000-06:00

Photography. Ah, what a terrific hobby. What a way to get to stress out, isn't it? Point and shoot, clickity clack, snap snap. It's difficult, though - you know, the photography deal. In light of its steep learning curve, I figured I'd give you all a few tips on how to improve your photography skills. As a *professional* afterall, who better to assist you in your quest to become the next Ansel Adams?

1. Camera quality is key.
Generally speaking, everyone in the world owns a digital camera as of April 29th, 2007. Even those who don't know what they're doing with them. Megapixels are like penis size, these days; the more, the better. Last year, I was suffering with my little ole Kodak 3.1 megapixel model. The photos were all fuzzy, colors were never quite right, and it was large and clunky to carry around. These days, I carry with me a 7.1 megapixel Olympus model. It's good, but still not porn star quality... err, porn photographer quality. As it stands, my camera is good for the price, but just doesn't stack up to the ones my [richer, more spoiled] friends have. Those little bastards have their parents drop $1,500 on them for a deliciously robust SLR from Canon or Nikon, complete with the super sturdy straps, 2GB memory cards, and built-in vibrator/massager.

What you want to try to do is make enough money to acquire one of these. One model I fancy is the Canon Digital Rebel. It's lightweight (compared to others in its family) and produces fine, crisp photos in gigantic resolutions. Do what it takes to get the two grand to get on of these babies. Throw yourself in front of a motorcyle, jump off a train, or survive a boating accident. Actually, any vehicle-related mishap should net you enough coin to purchase one of these things. And when you finally do get your over-complicated sex-machine that you have no idea of how to operate it, remember why you flew a plane with clipped wings into the ravine: to take photos that the ladies lust for.

2. Photoshop is a must, even better if free.
So, digital photography rules the world at large, now. And glam magazines air brush and contort their models into alien-like, absolutely unrecognizable creatures without guilt. So when it comes to modifying your photos, don't feel too bad about doing it. And all you need is a copy of Adobe Photoshop, which you could easily acquire illegally for free over the interwebs. Let me show you an example of how precious this little tool could be:

BEFORE

AFTER

Wow! What a difference!

3. Thick white borders prove professional.
For one reason or another, throwing your photo between a giant white border makes it look a lot more professional. I think it's because real photos and paintings have frames, and since it would be ridiculous to print out a digital picture, laminate it, then overpay for a frame for it, you're better off doing it in photoshop. But here is another "before/after" comparison, using the two pictures from before:

BEFORE

AFTER

Beautiful. We're almost there.

4. No border is complete without self-gratification.
We all like to think we're the best at what we do. Heck, that's why we do what we do. And we all want to get out voices out there, more so than that, so what we need to is put a hokey little copywrite and some faux-photography company moniker on the aforementioned white border, preferably at the bottom, making the piece seem like it's part of a catalogue or, ah, a company! Example:

BEFORE

AFTER

Now we're getting there.

5. Watermarks prevent thievery (optional).
As if us photographers could get any more pompous, we have to go and throw a watermark on our work to ensure ourselves that nobodies like you won't steal our goods! Usually when constructing a watermark, you want to make it as non-visible as possible. Y'know, so it looks like it's there when it really isn't supposed to be there? Something like that.

BEFORE

AFTER

S-U-C-C-E-S-S, that's the way we spell success!

6. You need the look (optional).
Photographers are amongst the most anti-social, yet, lusted after folk on the planet. I don't know how, nor why, but they just are. Part of it, I believe, stems from the fact that everybody wants to be photographed. I know I do, but I can do that by myself in a dimly lit room late at night. But it takes a special kind of man to photograph all the ladies. It takes a freak. You can't just be a normal guy with Old Navy pants and a regularly-fitting shirt. You can't listen to regular music or have a standard haircut or act naturally around your friends. You have to be as unique as your work and therefore, an apple in a field of oranges. You must be a freak (in a good way, though... people love freaks)!

So there you have it, people. Six tips to up your cred in the photography world. Turns out it doesn't take any talent to create art - it just takes enough money and the right look.

Today we are all hokey

2007-04-18T14:19:00.000-06:00

The massacre at Blacksburg was an American tragedy. However, with tragedy comes exploitation, as seemingly every citizen of this country is trying to outdo one another in terms of how "sorry" they are for the victims of this horrific event. Let's get one thing clear right off the bat - I am sympathetic to the 32 who died and the many more who were injured. It is scary that such a thing can happen on a university campus and as a college student myself, it adds an entirely new shade of realism to it. It is abysmal and I feel terrible about it, but my feelings have limitations, as they should without exception.

Certain people, unfortunately, know no limits as we have a battle of who cares more on our hands. This nauseating one-upsmanship is not only offensive to me, but demeening to the people who actually lived through the terror on that awful day. I have no problem with people showing their support, saying their piece, and moving on. But to be frank, all of these ribbons with the Virginia Tech logo on them in people's Facebook profile pictures disgust me. The phrase "Today we are all Hokies" disgusts me. The acquisition of maroon and orange sweatshirts and ball caps and and other memorabilia digusts me.

The people all the sudden wearing their newly-purchased Virgina Tech merchandise and attending these candle-light vigils say they are "caring," but are they really? I call bullshit on the whole ordeal. These people do not care, they were not personally affected, and this probably means less to them than it does me. As humans, we have certain personality defects built-in upon birth that act up and act out in times of tragedy. We all want to be the one to bear the bad news. We all want to be the first to show support and grief. We all want that because it makes us look like better people, more caring people; people who have their priorities in order when, in actuality, it is the complete opposite.

Shortly after 9/11, every major corporation capitalized on a country's grief by producing some of the most ludicrous merchandise imaginable. Since we are human, we ate it up. Hats with "FDNY" on them could be seen on heads nationwide. Sales of "I [heart] NY" t-shirts were up hundred-fold. Little flag lapel pins and magnetic "never forget" ribbons for your car and an onslaught of American flags in a whole array of sizes were created for the sole purpose of being consumed by a capitalist society. It seemed like the person with the most flags on their car windows and most New York merchandise was automatically the most caring, sympathetic person.

And really, the story here is not at all different. The person in the most "Never forget Virginia Tech" groups on Facebook and the most Hokie merchandise sees themselves as the best American even though the tragedy more than likely has no personal effect on them whatsoever. Not only do they see themselves in that light, but they hope others do, as well. What better conversation starter than "Oh, you were at that vigil last night, too? Sad, isn't it?"

As cute as the notion of "never forgetting" is, you have to admit that a year from today, everyone not personally attached to the incident will have forgotten, moved on, and have handed down all their once-worn Hokie t-shirts to the nearest Red Cross. While those attending Virginia Tech will never forget this event, people at any other university will not care nor remember because caring is only pertinent the week or two immediately following tragedy. Let's face the cold reality here - since 9/11 was what, six years or so ago, the number of FDNY hats I've seen has gone down dramatically. I don't see any more flags on front lawns or "I love America" bumper stickers. Don't get me started on Columbine, either, that's so last century. I guess we only cared about that while it was newsworthy, while the survivors of that still have nightmares about that day. Virginia Tech is the hot topic, and until a tragedy of greater or equal stature comes along, it will remain as such.

The way this country moves from tragedy to tragedy is disgusting. Equally disgusting is how long we dwell on the negative and focus so little on the positive. Barack Obama becoming the first black President will be noteworthy for maybe a month after it happens. But these horrific days in our history are seemingly never forgotten nor forgiven. The United States as a whole has a huge problem with moving on, whether it be with common enemies or handling various crises.

So yeah, today I guess we're all hokies, key word being "today." Because you know in a year (or when another bad day comes along to replace it) we will go back to whatever we were doing and who we were before.

Los Hermanos Garcia

2007-04-15T15:23:00.000-06:00

I like Nickelodeon. I don't know why, exactly, but I just do. Perhaps it is my lust for television programs featuring awkward, skewed visions of the traditional gameshow, or the oddball sitcom featuring whacky casts of characters. Whatever the reason seems to be, Nick has yet to disappoint me.

The slimerific channel has always been high on the cusp of differently-raced familial sitcoms. Kenan and Kel featured the antics of an obese Afro-American store clerk and his part-retarded, part-surfer pal and the family life that came with it. Another fun black comedy (that is, comedic program with a black cast and not a "am I wrong for laughing?"-type comedy film) was My Brother and Me, which introduced the world to this lovable pile of Goo.

Several years after the world adjusted to seeing some more, er, colorful characters on their screens, Nick sold us The Brothers Garcia, a look into the auspicious lives of an immigrant - excuse me, Hispanic, family. Capitalizing on census data showing that the Hispanic demographic is on the incline, we finally have a show that explains to us exactly why our next door neighbors cut their grass so frequently. And thank the Lord.

Though the focus of the program is on the trio of brothers, there is much more to this humble little nugget than meets the eye. A show about three Latino amigos wouldn't be too funny, would it? Nah, 'course not, which is why we are introduced to their family... so let's meet the Garcia clan, shall we?

Ray Garcia is the papa oso of the familia, and is the prototypical Nick father-figure: a smug, pompous-faced doofus. Seriously, watch any other Nick program and you'll pretty much see Ray. According to the official website, Ray is "a hardworking and kind dad, but he has strong principles," which is understandable, as every sentence in his description ends in violent exclamation. Ray loves his kids! Ray is not afraid to take out the belt! Ray likes gravy on his turkey, and if he doesn't get any he isn't afraid to make an example out of his whore wife!

Sonia Garcia is the family's milf-worthy madre who happens to run a hair-salon out of her home, and does so for financial profit. In a show already alienating stereotypes to a nauseating degree, our friends at Nick decided to give the parents "Mexican-people" careers. Ray cuts grass for a living, presumably. The eldest son is a luchadore. The daughter is a salsa dancer. And the youngest two lads lasso cattle and ride bulls on the weekends. Frankly, I'm surprised that Sonia only popped four little brats out of her vadge when their car can easily hold 10 or 12. C'mon, Latinos, think economically.

Lorena Garcia is, well, there's no other way around this - a dirty spic. She's the brat of the pack and will screw anyone and anyone over in order to get her way, and in her mother's good graces. She enjoys the Spaniard soap operas - y'know, the kind with the fat guys in diapers and eye patches? The kind I like to watch between classes. This bitch always gets in the brothers' way and it pisses me off, because I just want to see the three rape her or threw her down a flight of stairs or something. But sadly, that never happened.

Carlos Garcia is the greasy-haired eldest son of Ray and Sonia, and quite the little stud (emphasis on the STD). As the heartthrob of the program (every show needs one - for All That, it was Josh, for Drake & Josh it's Drake, for Rugrats it was Tommy) Carlos goes down the halls of his high escuela with his uncut penis hanging out of his pants in hopes to hook up with some of the youngest, tightest chicas the town has to offer. Ay yi yi! Carlos is characterized by his big lips and... well, I can't honestly get past those fucking things. It's as if Zach Braff knocked one out of the park with Angelina Jolie, and their love child got a year's worth of collagen shot into their face. El terrible!

George Garcia is the younger, somehow fatter and stupider version of Carlos Mencia. His hombres pester him about his weight problem (as well as his gay problem) which is really the only reason to watch the show. Apparently the producers of the show are trying to play the duality card on us with his weight issue because "this nine-year-old is a heavyweight in the brains department too." Subtle, Nick. If I were this actor, I'd probably be looking for the nearest bag to suffocate myself in right about now. I mean, it's bad enough he had to play the "queer Mexi" on a kid's TV show, but now you make light of his bulbous ass? Not cool, man.

Larry Garcia, at least according to the official website, is the youngest child at age 11. However, George's description lists him at 9 years of age, which es a huge discrepancy. Anyway, the littlest boy is narrated by fellow green carder John Leguizamo, best known for his role in... nothing. The twin of Lorena, he often gets into spats for sharing the same DNA and clothing. I feel quite sorry for the guy, because if I had to share the womb with that bean bag he calls a sister, I might have put a bullet in my brain. Back to the narration aspect of the show, though. Nick actually pulled a fast one on us by making this show take place in two different time periods, "now," and "the future." Listen to what they have to say on the website: "A more grown-up Larry narrates the show, looking back on the adventures he shared with the rest of the Garcia clan." Huh?

I like shows with this kind of dynamic. It gives hope to people like the immigrants down my block, because they now know that they too can make it in America. I mean, hey, the Garcias did it, why can't we? But it really makes me wonder, because I don't know where the folks at Nick can go from here. With the increase of African Americans in the United States, we've seen more programs featuring them in prodominant roles. With the rise of Latinos in America, we've seen the same. What's next? I have a couple ideas.

The al Hazeen Jihad Hour is a new program about a gang of festive, young terrorists who wage war against their local Afghan neighborhood, but all in good fun! It's bombs away when they try to martyr themselves for their creator, but the townspeople always seem to get the better of them as they stop their attack unwittingly. It's an hour of nappy beards, tongue-heavy warbles, and lunacy in The al Hazeen Jihad Hour, exclusively on Nickelodeon!

Another new program from Nick is Trail of Queers, a revolutionary and groundbreaking series about the lives of two homosexual Native Americans. But watch your backs, guys (literally!) as you never know when pesky neighbor Andrew Jackson will drop by for a visit. Every hour promises buffalo mercy kills, headhunting, riding a steer, attacks of covered wagons, scalping, sex inside a bear-skin teepee, and laughs by the boat load! Catch the first episode tonight at 9 on Teen Nick!

I know what you're asking yourself... what's better than an entire season of Koreans on your tube? Well, new from Nickelodeon is Koreans in Space, the first-ever, barrier breaking, stereotype shattering smash hit about six space-bound South Koreans. Watch as they float around in their rocket and shake their fists at North Korea - from many miles above Earth! Many questions arise in the first, 2 episode season of the program. Will Xi Chi and Xu Qui hit it off? Why did that jester Quan Sho Hi bring a poodle on board? And where will the crew poop? Check it out this week on Snick!

Man, those shows are way better than what Nick currently offers.

The Big Comfy Couch.

2007-04-01T15:02:00.000-06:00

Clown families are a little different from ours. And baby clowns arrive in a very different manner! Loonette floated down under a dreamblanket parachute on the night of a Fool Moon after all the clowns had a Secret Circus. A Secret Circus is when clowns perform for each other and make each other laugh SO hard that bubbles of joy float up to the moon and a baby clown is born. Loonette landed in the loving arms of Granny Garbanzo and Auntie Macassar and Uncle Chester who have taken very good care of her.

I love children's television; I also, however, hold a certain disdain for clowns, as noted previously. So to have an afternoon nostalgia-trip about The Big Comfy Couch is particularly horrifying.

Of all the kids shows ever created, this one has by far the most ridiculous premise of them all. And yes, I say that with full knowledge shows like Zoobilee Zoo and Dudley the Dragon exist and continue to haunt a new era of America's youth. But what, you say, could be more terrifying than a part-retarded dragon or people as animals as people?

I haven't seen the show since I was a young lass of 10 or 11, yet even then such a ridiculous concept for a child's television program raised some eyebrows. I still hear the voice of my grandma asking me what the hell I was watching, and if I'd rather watch black-guy-on-Asian-virgin hardcore porn, as she was rather concerned for my mental state of mind.

The show follows a lady clown of ambiguous Latin origin who sings and jokes around with her band of equally clown-faced friends. You know this shit's serious when even her cat has a clown nose. It does come off a bit odd that all it takes to make a clown, seemingly, is a round red nose. With qualifications that broad, wouldn't any with a similar feature make the cut to clowndom? Like Rudolph, for example?

What made this show so intriguing was the fact that it had a hidden agenda. Every show they aired vaulted into song about how "fun" and/or "rewarding" searching your sofa could be, but I found that jamming my hand between the cushions just left me covered in a nauseating amount of dustmites. Or if you were like my family, it left you covered in your own blood, as beneath your ass lay several razor-sharp springs jutting out, just waiting for some hackneyed kids vehicle to tell you to leap in to their world of wonder palm-first.

The message in all of this? "You'll never know what you'll find beneath the Big Comfy Couch!" That was decidedly true, as I checked the contents of my living room furniture daily, finding everything from a nickel to the remote control for the TV to last month's edition of Fox magazine. Oh yes, the wonders of my big, comfy, cat fur-covered couch.

The most delightful experience I've taken from this masterwork is the Ten Second Tidy and the Clock Rug Stretch (not to be confused with the Clock Spider Stretch). During the former, our host Loonette would make her home all spic and span (no offense, quasi-Latina clown) in 10 seconds flat. On most days she would just eat like a pig and not clean up after herself, as if she needed an excuse to perform the Tidy. And the latter? Well, let's just leave it to the video.

Not only does this show promote the exposure to dangerous allergens, it teaches us that we are all more flexible than we've let on. However damning such a workout can be, it holds no candle to Loonette's doll pal Molly, who was only named such because of the assonance we've come to expect from this show.

As the late 80s and 90s were a time of incorporating anthropomorphic creatures into everyday afternoon programming, this show was no different. And thus, Molly the Dolly was born, a play-thing so creepy it really should be legal in less states than gay marriage. I don't know what Molly's deal is and, I am at least assuming she is a puppet with a hand up her hatch, but in the world of television you can't take any such chances. Molly shows us all that even dolls can be clowns, despite the fact that clowns are some of the most animated folk this side of that midget on Cops.

Finally now, let us run down the cast of characters that makes up The Big Comfy Couch:

Major Bedhead is a special needs gentleman who was allowed in Loonette's two-thirds ring circus assumingly by accident. He really adds nothing to the show other than looking like a cracked out version of the smirking guy in Norman Rockwell's "100 Years of Baseball" painting. And if you are a cracked out version of anything Rockwell has ever done, you have some pretty deep issues, friend.

Granny Garbonzo is overly stereotypically Italian and apparently widowed, as there is no "Grampy Garbonzo" to speak of. Her and her feline life partner Snicklefritz (which is far and away the most awkward yet amusing name I've ever seen for an animal) give the show a sense of stability that an autistic Central American girl her part-tard partner do not. Granny's a clown alright, and she's taking that red nose to the grave. Retirement is no option as she must carry on the Garbonzo name.

Not much is known about Uncle Chester besides the fact that he wears a really loud dress and keeps with the theme of multi-ethnicism. It strikes me as odd that this Latin girl is related to an old, senile Italian lady and a curiously African gentleman. Her family must have some real problems. Or, lest I forget, clown families are different! My mistake. Continue on your self-righteous political correctness trip, BCC.

Not much is known about Auntie Macassar, other than the fact that we can rightfully assume she is Asian and is married to Uncle Chester.

The Dustbunnies are a subtle jab at the lackadaisical experience you will have searching for things underneath your own couch. Them not actually being bunnies adds a whole new level of disappointment. This show can't get anything right.

Need further proof this show is a trainwreck of loveseat-sized proportions? Here are some additional video clips to scare, err, enlighten you. Yeah.

Clip 1 is the cast rapping. It is awful and disgraceful and makes me smile from ear to ear. Look at the kitty; he's wearing sunglasses. If that isn't awesome I don't know what it.

Clip 2 delves into Bedhead's secondary profession of psychology. And his thirdary profession of dancing like a jagoff.

Clip 3 brings this blog to a close with the [majority of] the opening theme song. Yahoo is, as always, years behind the curve, so the clip cuts at around 30 seconds.

So I truly hoped you enjoyed your trip through the world of The Big Comfy Couch. If what has been presented before you has given you nightmares, I have only done my job. And as my only current job is, in turn, giving people nightmares, I will thusly cry myself to sleep.

I fucking hate Youtube.

2007-03-22T07:54:00.000-06:00

I have come to hate sites where the average Joe is in charge of everything. Youtube is the greatest offender of this. What once was a humble site where one could upload videos of their child's first steps, or a clip of their band playing, has transformed into a bordello full of whores - attention whores.

The world of "vlogging," or "video blogging" has gotten so out of hand that anyone can become a celebrity by doing virtually nothing except sitting in front of a computer and hitting the 'record' button on their digital cameras. These people aren't talented, aren't skilled, and for the most part, aren't educated and yet, they get hundreds of thousands of views, some even hitting a million (or more). It's getting so ridiculous that when I am searching for a video of Chris Hansen busting a pedophile on Dateline, I come up with a video of Joe Nobody talking about his shower routine. And I don't fucking care, man. I just want to see some creepy 40-year old getting taken down by the police.

But alas, this isn't a blog to complain. It is supposed to be funny, and relevant. So here are some of the "best" vlogs I have come across. Keep in mind I celebrate opposite day, and "best" in no way, shape, or form actually means "good."

Someone walked in on you in the bathroom? Hilarious! Wait... no, not really. It's just kind of stupid. Watch as this 'Lucy in LA' chick gets over-excited and giggly about meeting the director in the shitter. You got a call back? Congratulations. Perhaps you will get the hell off this site and onto a soap opera nobody but old retirees dare watch.

1. Who the fuck is Jonas?
2. What's with the handheld camerawork?
3. Why are there so many cuts? It's like this video is entirely composed of five second clips.
4. What the hell is "the order"?
5. Kudos to the guy picking his Aunt's lock. Not too often you'll come across a good lock-picking video.

I reckon this kid to be an actor posing as a video blogger, but I can't be entirely sure. Either way, I think he's autistic, which means under normal circumstances I wouldn't make fun of someone like him, but again, the actor quandary. I am 17 seconds into the clip and I already want to throw up all over myself. Who the hell does this kid think he is with those sunglasses? And the suit jacket? A little passe there, bud. Hey wait, is this guy Eli Manning? Only in a more retarded sense? Yeah, that's got to be it. Note his inherent lack of teeth and the way he completely bugs out at the end. It's actually pretty amusing.

Look at this ugly little bitch. She's got a true face for radio.

Check out this Silent Bob-looking motherfucker. His screen name is even "blunty3000," as if he is some sort of enhanced future upgrade over the Kevin Smith we all know and seldom love. But get this... he's AUSTRALIAN! Crikey! Watch this fool bitch about how these "Tim Tams" come in packs of 11 - A PRIME NUMBAH! Gee golly, I've had enough.

So, thanks a billion, Youtube. You have created a lifetime's worth of contempt inside of me.

Thou shalt not steal?

2007-03-11T23:51:00.000-06:00

I love historical humor, probably more than any other type out there, in fact. Nothing brightens my day more than seeing cartoons depicting Adolf Hitler angstily fending off the Jews or Napoleon being stomped on by an elephant. It's just the kind of goof-ball stuff I enjoy.

I suppose a lot of it has to do with my ex-girlfriend, whose affinity for political and historical humor, alike, has rubbed off on me to a certain degree. OK, to a fuller extent than that, even. Every time I bowl, I cannot resist typing in "Anne Frank" or "Jon Benet Ramsey" as my moniker. Whenever I pass the "Adolf Funeral Home" in my hometown, I get all giddy inside. And half the characters I've created on my Nintendo Wii reflect how fun this type of stuff can be.

Tonight, I was reading the latest Penthouse magazine. I know, I know, smut magazines are bad and Larry Flynt is the devil, but I was bored and there was nothing else but Mission: Impossible reruns on the tube. Whatever my reason for picking up the magazine, what I found between the pages was something I couldn't believe.

I flipped to the comics section and noticed a startling similarity between what my old girlfriend had drawn, and what some schmuck named Grant Woolard drew. Here, see for yourself:

Ashley's "Massion of the Christ"

Grant's "Christ on a Cartesian Plane"

Gee, there are no similarities there at all. Ashley's was published in 2005. Mr. Woolard's? 2006. I am disgusted. Grant Woolard is the Carlos Mencia of Christ-related comics.

Again...disgusted.

My biggest fears, part I.

2007-03-02T00:08:00.000-06:00

There are a lot of things to be afraid of in this ever-changing world of ours. There’s bio-terrorism. That’s pretty frightening. Of course there are the spooky countries that continue to haunt our President in his sleep, like Iran and North Korea. Nevermind Iraq, since we have that situation under control. Global warming and climate change in general are terrifying. The very thought of my children having to live in a world where the summers are four degrees warmer creeps me out. It is a scary time for us, indeed.

But aside from the fact that the Doomsday Clock is minutes from midnight, I am not afraid. Death and disease never gave me the nightmares some of the things below have. Call me crazy, but there are a lot worse things to fear than being nuked by a second-rate, third-world country. And here they are.

Chuck E. Cheese’s
Eating pizza, playing games like skee ball and the “knock out the clown’s teeth,” and diving into the ball pit practically made my childhood. I circled the date of every one of my friend’s birthdays because I knew exactly where we were going. But as soon as we got there, and it was time to sit down and eat, something happened. Something so disturbing in nature that it could only be explained by this video.

Did you watch it? If you did, you have bared witness to exactly why I will never step foot into that damned joint ever again. Giant, animatronic rat; carrying infectious disease. And what about your friends? I believe they go by Munch, and his Make Believe Band? Yeah, screw that. A robotic dog in Western attire playing a banjo is disgusting. Almost as putrid as that giant…purple…thing. I mean, what exactly is it? And what kind of band has a talking bird, a keyboardist, and a pooch on banjo? My dreams will never be the same.

Ventriloquist Dummies
This one I can at least explain. Ever since reading the great R.L. Stine’s “Night of the Living Dummy” entries into his 400-book series Goosebumps, I’ve been afraid of both ventriloquist dummies. For starters, the things are basically just marionettes with the strings plucked and a guy’s hand jammed in their back. And marionettes are super cool. Also, has anyone honestly looked into the face of a dummy such as Howdy Doody? Little red-headed man with a kerchief, a freckled face that would give Lindsay Lohan the jitters, and the checkered shirt. He is iconic, sure, but he is also a creep.

Dummies themselves are the spawn of years of hate, frustration, and depression from the ventriloquists mouthing them. Seriously now, how messed up do the people throwing their voice for these puppets have to be? If these little lap-sitting gentlemen could talk (well, for real that is) they would most likely need to see a psychiatrist.

Sid and Marty Krofft
Damn you both. Sid and Marty Krofft are two fellows who are the bane of my existence. They only live and breath to torture me, in the same vain that Rasputin would never die. The Kroffts made their presence known in the late 60’s, the same 60’s that saw the uprise of hippies, marijuana usage, and Woodstock. People, I guess, were different back then. They appreciated different things. Shows like the Krofft-created H.R. Pufnstuf and the Banana Splits featured giant mascot-like characters with enormous heads and all sorts of whacky clothing. Whenever you go into watching a children’s program asking yourself, “Why is that overweight dog wearing a Kaiser helmet?” you know you’re not going to sleep to well that night.

I have never tried LSD, or any drug for that matter, and perhaps that is why I do not enjoy watching grown men prance around in furry costumes, subtly referencing their use of methamphetamines. Yet some part of me still loves going to baseball and basketball games and giving a high-five to the team’s mascot. That really makes me happy, and I don’t quite understand why. Perhaps it is because of the trampolines some of them jump off, or the motorcycles they sometimes ride on to entertain simple-minded folks like myself. Yeah, that’s it.

There is much more that frightens me, and I am sure I will get back to that somewhere down the road. But to be quite honest with you, I am having a hard time sleeping as it is.

Picture taking do's and don'ts

2007-03-01T22:12:00.000-06:00

Taking photos can be a rewarding, gratifying experience. To many, it’s an art form, a passion, a hobby, or interest. To many others, however, it is a game best played by embarrassing themselves ceaselessly. With social networking sites like Myspace and Facebook allowing users to post as many photos of themselves as humanly possible, it is all becoming a tad bit ludicrous to me. I have both a Myspace and Facebook account and check them daily, but that is as far as I go. Some people spend hours uploading photo after photo of themselves and their nitwitted friends making repetitive faces, and dancing around in repetitive poses. And it’s all becoming a little redundant.

As my journalistic integrity is at an all-time low, and boredom is at an all-time high, I am going to run down some do’s and don’ts of taking photos for these sites. So sit back, read the article, take pictures of yourself reading the article, then e-mail me those pictures, you goons.

DON’T take pictures of you and your group of friends in the “peace and pout” pose. This was brought to my attention recently by a fairly popular Facebook group whose title I cannot repeat as I wsurely will be fired. These photos feature groups of girls (and in some cases guys) flaunting a peace sign with one or both hands, and puffing out their lips like some sort of fish. The fact that nobody can just smile, or in a lesser event, frown, upsets me. You know the phrase “Give peace a chance”? Yeah. Don’t, in this case.

DO make sure your picture count on these sites is lower than your white blood cell count. It’s preposterous to have 500, 600, or even 1,000 pictures of yourself on any website. How many different ways can you take a photograph? Seriously, I would like to know. After the 300th picture of you and your friend grinning like an idiot, the product begins to look the same.

DON’T make a new photo album for every minor moment in your life. If you took some pictures for your 21st birthday and feel that the world needs to see them, by all means go ahead and show us. If you went to a concert and had a great time, I wouldn’t mind checking those out. But stuff like, “Oh boy, I bought a new pair of obnoxiously large sunglasses, now I’ll take 50 pictures of one basic concept: Me wearing my new sunglasses,” it gets a bit out of hand.

DO learn how to properly use your camera. I am sick and tired of looking at blurry, grainy pictures of people because they don’t understand the concept of “portrait mode.” I realize we don’t all have the money for a pricey SLR, the kind the nice folks down here at the Star use, but you have to understand that the concept of a “point-and-shoot” camera is just that: you point it at the subject, and shoot the photograph. It’s a rather reasonable notion that often goes overlooked and underappreciated. Your camera came with an instruction manual, didn’t it? Stop furthering America’s illiteracy rate and read it.

DON’T take your camera to parties. Of all my pet peeves, this one is somewhere between smoking and driving behind that really short, old lady who needs to sit on a couple phonebooks to reach the steering wheel. I am bothered by this for several reasons, the first being; I do not care what you look like when you are trashed. I know of some frat guys that might, but I am particularly uninterested. Second, when certain women have enough to drink, they get kissy. With each other. I guess I am just not a big fan of faux-lesbians. And finally, you are only incriminating yourself. You know you are not of age to drink, so every photo of you doing a keg stand is another round of ammunition for the police or people employing you. And nothing says “Hire me!” like a night of irresponsibility.

DO take pictures of things of relevance. The pictures of the Holmes Student Center and Northern Illinois University sign on Lincoln Highway have been burned into my memory because everyone photographs them, at least once. Yes, the Student Center looks like a phallus, and I’m sure we’re all have a big laugh about that, but after seeing it so many times, it loses any meaning it ever had. The university as well as the city of DeKalb are filled with great photo ideas. Let’s try some originality, for once.

Rating Peyton.

2007-02-26T23:51:00.000-06:00

Peyton Manning is one of the most accomplished quarterbacks in NFL history at the ripe age of 30. He has his own bookshelf full of hand-written record books, a trophy case packed from top-to-bottom with awards, and a seemingly unlimited potential. He is the true breadwinner in a family of pure athletes. To swim in the Manning gene pool would be to soak yourself in some sort of unnatural blend of Holy water and the water spurting from the Fountain of Youth. His father Archie was a prolific performer for the New Orleans Saints. His brother Eli is an up-and-coming quarterback for the New York Giants. And I am sure whatever spawn Peyton and Mrs. Manning churn out, male or female, will someday live to supercede everything their mother and father have ever accomplished in their respective lives, combined. It's just in the genes.

Aside from being the best thing going in the NFL and the current Super Bowl Most Valuable Player, Peyton is a tremendous actor. While his skills aren't up to par with fellow sports all-star-slash-actor Michael Jordan (who, with "Space Jam" became every 10 year old's hero), Manning is perhaps the most natural in his role as Celebrity Corporate Shill. Am I saying that like it's a bad thing? Suckas gots to get paid.

Despite harboring a multi-million dollar contract on the NFL's top team, Manning is still dollar-hungry. And rightfully so, as the guy takes pay cut after pay cut to assure the front office that they can resign some of the other contributors on the club. What a guy.

So what is a guy to do? Star in as many commercials for as many corporations as possible, of course! Again, am I saying that like it's a bad thing? Nevermind that. When MasterCard reached out to touch someone, Peyton proudly fired a football at those outstretched hands, telling media and mass marketing that he was ready for the spotlight. And so a legend was born. As MasterCard usually offers humorous commercials, Peyton took this as a sign to break character, offering a more lax, laid-back fellow to counter that of the uptight perfectionist he plays on the field. And that brings my long, drawn-out introduction to a close. Let's get to the commercials, already!

This is one Peyton did for the aforementioned MasterCard. It's a rather amusing look into Manning's life during the off-season. What's a football player to do when he has downtime? Some play Madden to hold them over, others vigorously work themselves out in preparation for the upcoming summer, and Peyton hangs out on beaches in his bath robe. Pretty sweet gig, to be honest. "You're my favorite linebacker," he tells Super Bowl XLI foe Brian Urlacher. Oh Peyton, you're my favorite quarterback!

This commercial is one of the better ones, albeit lesser publicized ones in Manning's video vault. I can't figure out why, exactly, either. I mean, the obvious underlying homosexual connotations are worth the price of admission (free) alone. Long walks on the beach with buffed-up meatheads, friendly shoving matches in nothing but their robes, sensual massages. And it wraps up by saying "Getting closer to the people that impact you most: priceless." Yeah, sounds pretty gay to me.

Here we go again. This is one of Manning's more enjoyable, popular segments, and it isn't hard to understand why. It's not overly witty, and the idea itself is rather simplistic, but seeing number 18 act like an overzealous fan - the same type of fan who more than likely pesters the guy to no end at autograph sessions and pre-game festivities - is deeply satisfying. "Cut that meat" forever goes down as one of the better athlete-turned-actor lines in history, right behind "Bo knows," and slightly ahead of "Hi, I'm John Elway and I can throw a Koosh football real far!"

Peyton Manning and his favorite blue hoodie are back in yet another MasterCard spot. This one is great because several people potentially die during it. "Wendy" is most definitely fired for dropping all those dishes onto the ground. In football, this is called a "fumble," or a "Culpepper." "Johnny," the metrosexual latte jockey is probably facing second-degree burns to his face and neck. That wouldn't be so bad if he didn't yelp like a woman. The multi-racial "moooover" tandem let a $3,000 piano slip through their fingers, where it may or may not have rolled onto a nearby highway and hit a school bus full of mentally deficient orphans. And "Bobby"? He may still have the best arm in the neighborhood, but as soon as his father hears about breaking Peyton's suburban mansion window, his ass is bound to get the belt. MasterCard is pretty sadistic now that I think about it.

Here is Sprint's now world-famous commercial featuring a mustachioed Manning promoting a new cellular phone in his garage for some reason. Of all the places to shoot a commercial, whose idea was it to film in a garage? Or is that why Peyton is dressed like a Goomba? Dark, greasy hair, Dago mustache, and a self-serving attitude. For some reason, as if we were unable to identify him by the Southern twang in his accent, and the other 312 spots he has appeared in, he is wearing his iconic blue jersey. Because if I were in the NFL, I'd hang out in my football attire on the days I'm not getting my ass kicked by 300-pound thugs. Who said football had to be a weekly sport, anyway? Whatever the reason, one thing stands: I love my 6'5, 230 pound quarterback, and his laser-rocket arm.

Here is one from the vault, and it's for DirecTV's NFL Sunday Ticket. A youthful Manning is again seen sporting some Indianapolis Colts attire here, if only to remind the satellite TV guy that he is, in fact, an all-pro quarterback. And the installation guy, who does he think he is? Assuming Peyton is only into football. God, no. Why, Peyton loves his foreign films and cooking shows just as much as the sport he loves and plays for a living. I am sure Peyton has Emeril on speed dial and selected Pan's Labyrinth to win every single Oscar, including ones it wasn't even nominated for. But in the end we learn that Peyton is a joker and an asshole at heart, playing a ruse on the poor sap who was scared so shitless, it was as if he dropped the soap in the prison on the wrong side of town. Good for a laugh.

And finally, we have a commercial for the XBOX's "NFL Fever 2003," which was a pretty atrocious sports title in its own right. In this clip, we are led to believe that Manning is illiterate beyond repair, as even the simplest of common phrases gives him worlds of trouble. For one of the more mouthy quarterbacks in the league, his struggles with the English language are a spit in the fan of irony. If it weren't painfully obvious this ad was for a mediocre football game, I would swear this was a commercial for Peyton's struggles with basic ebonics andco-opting black culture. "Your defense is offensive?" question two bi-racial buddies in this special politically correct piece. Their defense is as offensive as the game this commercial advertises.

Playlist for 2/26/07

2007-02-26T00:43:00.000-06:00

Every week I'll throw out five or more songs that are currently piquing my interest.

1. "The Universe!" - Do Make Say Think
I saw these guys (and girl) tonight and had a hell of a time. Their show was electric, and they really seemed to enjoy themselves when they were performing. That is important in a band, in my opinion. Many bands do it for the money, selling out larger venues with relative ease and conducting lazy shows to energetic crowds. But the Toronto natives in Do Make Say Think think otherwise as they played in front of a weather-ruined crowd of 50 or 60 people. They happened to play this song tonight, and it was beyond words how awesome it was. The pacing is fast and frantic, and it really holds your attention for an instrumental song. It's not that instrumental music is boring, but it is definitely harder to captivate audiences without the combination of lyrics and music.

2. "Shut Up I Am Dreaming of Places Where Lovers Have Wings" - Sunset Rubdown
Sunset Rubdown are a lot of fun. They can hit you with a variety of tones, and this certain seven and a half-minute piece hits softly with somberness. While I'll admit that the band isn't particularly on heavy rotation on my iPod, this song is. The title may be long and somewhat confusing, but the lyrics are poignant and true: "He says your name out loud/At miniature rooms where no one's found/It's a desperate sound." It touches you, but at the same time, you just want to rock out. Not many songs do that to me; this one does.

3. "Little Motel" - Modest Mouse
The Mouse are back and a lot better than they were three years ago when they released their previous record. This time they are back, and with Johnny Marr, and hit it out of the park. On this track more so than the others, frontman Isaac Brock comes off as a caring, bittersweet individual. A lot of long-time Modest Mouse fans will shake their head at how "soft" they feel this song is, but soft doesn't always mean bad, even if it is from a group such as this. Beautiful song on a strong record.

4. "Blue Suede Shoes" - Chris Garneau
Chris Garneau has been likened to Elliott Smith, Sufjan Stevens, and Rufus Wainwright, among others. Well, yes and no. Garneau is indeed a healthy combination of the names listed above and more, but he isn't a carbon copy of any of them. He has the wry lyricism of Smith, the soft-spoken voice of Stevens, the joyous harmony of Wainwright, and a style all his own. On this track, Garneau sings about what he knows best: heartache. The song is quiet and depressing, but perfect if you are in that fragile mood we all experience from time-to-time. It happens, and when it does, we listen to Chris Garneau.

5. "Swansea" - Joanna Newsom
Many consider 2006's Ys from Newsom to be the album of the year, and rightfully so. It's sharp, it's bold, it's lyrically boundless, and it is most certainly the break-out success of her career. But looking past all the hype created by Ys, one could easily overlook her 2004 record, The Milk-Eyed Mender. And in an album highlighted by the harpsichord-strong "Peach, Plum, Pear," it is easy to look past this gem. Newsom is terrific because she is not for everybody. Her almost childish voice adds another layer of originality to her already brilliant choice of instrumentals. Overall, just a perfect song from one of the world's rising artists.

Memories of my childhood: Volume I

2007-02-25T15:17:00.000-06:00

The following is the first in an endless series of nostalgic memories I have built up inside my head.

"West Allis"
When I was a child of five or six, my parents compensated for years of disappointing vacations by taking my sister and I to where else - West Allis, Wisconsin. My father, a natural pteromerhanophobe, refused to get on an airplane unless it was to either Hawaii or Las Vegas. In other words, unless he can get totally shit-faced while staring at half-naked ladies in coconut bikinis or lose half his life-savings on the blackjack tables - or perhaps both, he didn't want any part of flying. So just outside of Milwaukee was where we vacationed, and to be honest, it is something I still have nightmares about.

It wasn't that the vacation was horrible. I mean, when my teacher asked me where I went over the summer, I proudly told her, "The International Clown Hall of Fame!" Aside from the occasional state fair and the Clown Hall, the city of West Allis is a literal hole in the ground. But alas, my parents, bankrupt from paying off that year's credit card debt, found something worthwhile in the little off-shoot of Milwaukee.

I am not terrified of clowns. I watched Bozo on WGN every Sunday morning before church. I always wanted to play Bozo Buckets and win $100 or a bike or something. And the delightful ladies donning the makeup at my father's work picnics were never that scary, although the pictures I have of meeting said clowns have me covering my ears and closing my eyes. But as it stands, I have a good history with clowns. That is, until West Allis.

If you were my parents, you would probably be patting yourself on the back because of how genius bringing your children to this rundown ghost town is. It's inexpensive, and hey, kids love clowns, right? Unfortunately, this wasn't an inauguration for the best and brightest in clowning. This was a museum, a relic room completely devoted to old, decrepit gentlefolk who made a living blowing up balloon animals and wearing baggy pants with colorful suspenders. On display were dozens of oversized costumes from clowns I had never heard of. Giant wigs, giant pants, giant noses even. Everything they had there was seemingly grandiose in stature. Because wearing things that fit just ain't funny.

As frightening as this all was to my sister and I, the effects it had on my parents are unknown. As we squirmed and tears ran down our cheeks (and the brown stains gathered in my Ninja Turtle underoos) my mother and father kept us in there. It felt like a prison cell to which there was no key. We hit probation when we were told, no way around it. So to make the best of a bad situation, I took comfort in the display for Bozo the Clown, whom I was familiar with. That jovial fellow was the only thing preventing me from tying my tube socks in a knot and stuffing them down my throat, a la Jack Bauer.

But the Bozo I know and love is apparently not the only Bozo, as this museum of horrors would have it be known. Oh no, the world is much too large a place for only one red-haired, squeaky-voiced clown. And because of that, we have this guy:

Look at this guy. While his cuffs certainly read "Bozo," I sure as hell don't believe it for one second. He looks like something out of your enemy's worst nightmares. If this guy isn't a convicted rapist or ATM-bandit, I will sign my next paycheck over to you on the spot. This is the original Bozo the Clown? Thanks to this guy, I can never look at my Bozo and his gang of howling hooligans the same way ever again. That includes Cooky:

Oh, Cooky. I am forever endeared to your billowing yellow neck-tie and painted on smile, even though we all really know you were cancer-ridden and on your deathbed during nearly every taping of the entire run of Bozo's Circus. But that's OK. You were one of the good guys. You never tried to touch me in my sleep or have me fight against Al Jazeerah. It's a shame the world doesn't have more clowns like you, Cooky. It's a tragedy you're gone, but at least you died doing what you loved: hitting people in the face with pies. God bless you sir, for the hold you had on my childhood. A hold you have to this very day.

Although Cooky is gone, he and his flappy clothing are enshrined at the Hall in West Allis. Also there are several other, less comical clowns. These tragic heroes are more terrifying than the "Bozo" I have listed above, if only for the fact that they don't want your giggles - they want your money. Take Red Skelton's "Freddy Freeloader," for instance:

Freddy was typified by his ashy face, fingerless gloves, and overall lack of self-concern. When he wasn't picking through your garbage for that fish skeleton you sometimes see in the cartoons, ole Skelton was complimenting the townspeople and asking a drunken Santa Claus for his weight in cocaine. That's a lot of blow. As I digress, Red too has his face painted on a goose egg in West Allis.

I know my parents wanted the best for my sister and I, but it was difficult to concentrate on my supposed love for clowns when I am face-to-face with shit like this. Somewhere in my attic is a video of this horrific time in my life, most likely buried underneath headless wrestling action figures and X-Files paraphernalia. Perhaps it is best left in a box with the unopened Fox Mulder action figure and recorded copies of movies off the TV.

Because re-living that any more than I have to, quite frankly, would be too much.

Frat night

2007-02-24T06:16:00.000-06:00

I went to a fraternity party tonight. Normally I restrain myself from paying 10 bucks to some hopped-up jocks in Hollister threads, but tonight was not any night. No sir, tonight was special. After all, Mardi Gras comes but once a year - and despite the fact that Northern is approximately 960 miles away, and the actually celebration is over, I figured it would be fun to get out of the house.

Me, as well as three of my darker friends ventured down Annie Glidden to Greek Row, the place the frats call home. The place date rape calls home. The place drunk girls passed out on the front lawn calls home. But the frat we hit tonight was Sigma Alpha Epsilon, or SAE as they like to be called. As we got to the door, which was guarded by several larger, big-waisted gentleman, I asked the head cheese how much a buy-in for a night of hardcore ho-downing would run me. "10," said the gent in as many words. I handed him a $20 and promptly asked for my change. What, am I supposed to tip the guy for handling my dead Presidents? Giving me a shit-eating grin, the man then passed me off to a man who drew what appears to be a pair of brackets on my hand. Then he passed me off to another guy who handed me two sets of beads. Both purple, My favorite color!

My chocolate posse and I made our way into a smoke-filled basement, complete with make-shift bars and a DJ booth. The room was completely pitch-black, save for the glow of a black light which was proudly aglow in the dank pit's center. The place wasn't too crowded upon arrival, but that was to be expected. Apparently it is common decency to only fully inebriate one's self after the midnight hour. Politeness, or something.

The ladies, who get in for free, and also got to drink for free, were everywhere. On the little dance stages they had set up, smoking, in the corner smoking, getting drunk downing shots next to the bar smoking. Oh yeah, did I mention smoking? Although nothing honestly attracts me to women more than seeing them inhale cancer and then complain about it on their death beds years after the fact, something about it got to me. Perhaps it is because I value my lungs enough to not pollute them with toxins. Yeah, that could be it. Or it could be that the junky smoke-machine these people were using already darkened my innards. At least I think it was a smoke-machine; knowing this crowd, I wouldn't be surprised if it was just the DJ booth emitting a thick grey smokey substance.

As if paying $10 to walk around a crowd of mostly drunken imbeciles was not enough, as I had a penis, I had to pay additional for drinks. $1 for shots of apple-smelling stuff, another arm and leg for other drinks, and I didn't even care to check the pricing on the beer. Beer sucks. If I wanted something bitter to the taste and incredibly non-alcoholic (to harder liquor, comparitively) I would just urinate in a Gatorade bottle and drink that.

By the later hours of the night, the place was packed from shoulder-to-shoulder. It took 10 minutes to walk from room-to-room, a stroll that would normally take no longer than five seconds. It was hot, it was sweaty, and boy howdy was it uncomfortable. I liken it to Jesus Christ being resurrected in today's world - I can just imagine him looking at some of these people and getting an earful of some of the songs they played and being like, "What the fuck is this shit? I came back for this?"

By 1:00 AM, I was fine and ready to leave. I looked like hell and smelled like both an ashtray and the inside of one of the drunken lady's mouths, which is ironic as I didn't drink or smoke the entire night. Huh. But I left alone as half of my newfound 'Glidden Gang' as I would call them was either missing or had their tongue down some unsuspecting woman's throat. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. And the bad rubbish was this party.

All in all, I suppose I had a decent enough time. I didn't see any boobs and I gave my beads to the one girl who was as bored as I was. The place itself was disgusting and a tragic fire harzard. If a fire did break out, which is a distinct possibility seeing the carelessness of some of the smokers in the room, we would have all burned to death several times over. And with the amount of alcohol in the hell hole, we probably would have exploded, too.