This is my first (and probably last) music video. Yes, I am mind-blowingly awesome.
P.S. If you like this version of the song spread it far and wide, my friends!
Lyrics
Wake up in the mornin' and I turn on the tube
Then I turn to MTV to try and get in the groove
I see this skanky chick crawlin' up out the bath
I can't believe my eyes, just shake my head and laugh
I'm talking this girl's a train wreck (wreck)
Got hickeys on her neck (neck)
Has lost all self-respect (ect)
I tell ya I start to avert my eyes (eyes)
But what I don't realize (ize)
My bathroom holds a surpriiiiiise
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
Had not a care in the world till I saw this chick
Now I got some milky discharge comin' out my dick
What do you have to do to earn that kind of funk?
Bet her coochie smells like old meat that's been left in the trunk
Im talking serious E. coli (I)
Feel sorry for the guy (guy)
Who next unzips her fly (fly)
I bet it knocks him on his ass (ass)
Like skanky sarin gas (gas)
Be better if he passed (passed)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
(Girl) you gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance
We've never met
Yet here I sit
Hoping I
Don't have herpes
(Girl) You gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance
We've never met
You piece of shit
You piece of shit
Now I can't ethically get my freak on
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Friday, April 9, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Skydiving Incident
This story is completely true. Until we get to the skydiving part, that is.
In his book Red Dragon, Thomas Harris said (I’m paraphrasing) that fear is the price of imagination. This rung true for me because most of my fears are indeed based upon my ability to imagine the worst.
The best example of this is my fear of heights. It’s one of those primal, crippling fears that I rarely even attempt to overcome. Don’t misunderstand; my acrophobia isn’t so bad that I steadfastly remain on terra firma regardless of the situation, like John Madden’s long-lost son. I’m not that much of a pussy. My phobia simply means that, on the occasions that I do tempt fate, I cannot help but imagine the horrible and gruesome death that my hubristic ascent into the heavens must surely lead to.
For example, anytime I find myself on a plane I inevitably picture the plane losing all power and dropping from the sky like the multi-ton hunk of metal that it is (airplanes are unnatural; surely only witchcraft of the most evil sort keeps them in the sky). I imagine my subsequent descent into madness, in which I lose all control over my mind and bodily functions, for the long wait between the realization that I am going to die and my actual death is what truly terrifies me about heights.
I have repelled into an open cavern (with no walls or stalactites nearby to provide even the slightest comfort), the only thing between me and my piñata-style death being a terrifyingly thin bit of climbing rope. I tried to enjoy the experience of hanging hundreds of feet above a cave floor, and I might have done so for about 6.3 microseconds, but the rest of the descent was spent in the company of an extreme surety that, any second now, that thin rope was going to snap and send me plummeting to a grisly death in which I would (with my luck) end impaled upon a stalagmite.
Then there was the trip I took to Italy with my family. We were in Florence, I believe, and decided to climb to the top of a bell tower or something. The stairs are on the inside of the building, you say? No problemo. Up we went. And up. And up. Until that point, I was convinced that only an Escher drawing had that many stairs. I was mistaken. When we finally reached the roof, we found ourselves approximately 80,000 feet above the city of Florence. It was beautiful. Pants-wettingly beautiful. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but imagine the inevitable earthquake that the gods would send to punish me for climbing to such unnatural heights. The earthquake would topple this tower of Babel, sending me racing towards the earth with thousands of tons of rubble at my flailing heels, just in case the drop somehow spared my life.
Despite this healthy and justifiable fear of a horribly protracted death, I occasionally get it into my head to tempt the Fates. This explains the repelling. It also explains the skydiving trip I recently took. Deciding that I once again needed to face my fears, I took a friend up on an offer to go skydiving. Sounds like fun, right?
We arrived at the airport at 9:00 AM and the process began. We signed waivers. “Something something undersigned…something something liability…blah blah high risk…blah blah see you in the afterlife…” Wait—what?! I re-read the end and was relieved to see that that last bit was merely a figment of my overactive imagination. I signed at the bottom, feeling the mild unease that one must surely experience when signing one’s own will. A little spooked, I began climbing into my jumpsuit, beginning to feel like a man who was being prepared for execution, but oddly giddy as well.
Our instructors did their instructy thing, telling us what to expect, how not to hurt ourselves when leaving the plane and landing, and generally psyching us up for a “bitchin’ time, dudes!” It worked. I was excited. You always jump tandem on your first jump, so I had a talk with my instructor before getting on the plane.
“Look, I’m kinda afraid of heights, so I might need a little help out the door. No matter what I do or say, I want you to please make sure we jump out of that plane as planned, okay?”
“No problem, bro. I’ve jumped with plenty of people like you. We always end up jumping and they always thank me for the help with that first step. It’s gonna be epic!”
I thanked him for his assurances and we all climbed into the plane. We took our seats and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The first thing that I noticed is that this aircraft, a medium-sized prop plane, was decidedly less steady than your average passenger plane.
“Okay,” I told myself, “I should have expected this. It’s a lot lighter than the other planes I’ve been on, so I’m sure that this alarming increase in bumps and noise is perfectly normal.” I tried to calm myself.
Up and up we went. It felt like an eternity. Finally we leveled out and I took a peak out of a window. I’m pretty sure I see stars. And was that a satellite that just cruised by at a bajillion miles per hour? The first creeping tendrils of mind-numbing terror began to wrap around my mind.
What the fuck am I doing?! I’m terrified of heights, and I’m about to jump out of a perfectly functional airplane! Good lord, I’m gonna die! The parachute is going to fail and my instructor and I are going to race each other towards our deaths. We are going to become one, in the most inescapable and appalling manner, with the earth and each other. Oh shit, I am officially freaking out!
Then someone opened the door.
It was as if they opened the door to Hades itself. The wind shrieked like a banshee, buffeting everyone inside with icy cold. I swear I could hear the screaming of the damned in that wind, and they’re all saying the same thing: “You’re gonna die, honky!”
“Dude, I can’t do this!” I yelled over the wailing wind. “I appreciate this opportunity to laugh in Death’s face, but I think I’m going to pass, ride down with the sane people piloting this thing, and live the rest of my life with a healthy and responsible fear of Death instead.”
The instructor laughed and told me everything would be fine. That son of a bitch! I decided that if I live through this I’m going to kill him and everyone he’s ever loved. Twice.
My friend and her instructor positioned themselves at the door. She gave me the thumbs up, turned back to the door and jumped out. I’m convinced that it’s the last time I’ll ever see her, unless, of course, you count the quick glimpse I’ll get of her mangled corpse embedded in the ground before I hit and become one myself.
We began walking towards the door. At this point I am nearly insane with fear. I beg. I plead. I threaten. Nothing fazes this guy.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t think I forgot what you told me! ‘No matter what I do or say, I want you to make sure we jump.’ I’m helping you face your fears, dude! Have fun with this!”
The small sliver of me that has managed to remain sane makes a mental note to invent time travel with the intent of going back in time and kicking my own stupid ass for uttering what was clearly the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. I’ll give me a beating I won’t soon forget!
I continued begging anyway. I was now crying, complete with snot running down my face. The instructor, hooked to my back, couldn’t see this. He patted me on the shoulder and we were out, falling towards the earth at what will soon be terminal velocity.
I screamed like a 5-year old girl who has just watched an axe-murderer butcher her favorite pony.
I flailed like an epileptic spider monkey.
Never in all my life have I experienced such mind-altering terror. My mind couldn’t even begin to process the enormity of the fear I was experiencing as I plummeted towards what was surely my death. And, oh great zombie Jesus, did I just…
Yep. I just wet myself.
At first it was warm, a somehow soothing feeling that spread from my nether regions. This did not last long. The thing about the air at that height is that it’s cold. The warmth of my ever-spreading urine is no match for the bitter cold of the air and wind at several thousand feet. The icy hands of fate quickly turned my naughty bits into a crotchsicle. I began to fear that, even should the parachute properly deploy, my now frozen penis might just snap off upon landing.
I estimate that it was at about this time that my instructor noticed something was wrong, because he suddenly yelled, “Dude!” He yanked the chord, and, much to my surprise, the parachute unfurled without a hitch.
“Dude, did you piss yourself?!” are the first words I’m able to hear once the wind dies down.
“Um, no!” I yelled back, trying to find a way to save my dignity. “I think we hit a duck! That must be blood!”
He wasn’t buying it. “Dude! Uncool, man! Uncool! I’m covered in man-piss!”
And without warning, my instructor began to retch uncontrollably.
This was an extremely unfortunate situation for me, as I was directly in front of him. As warm, chunky vomit covered my head and back I did what came naturally. I myself began to puke. Violently.
“BLAAARGH! OH GOD!” I screamed. “BLAAAAAARGH! SOME OF YOUR PUKE GOT IN MY MOUTH! BLAAAAAAAAAARGH!”
And so we descended back to earth, an ever-dwindling twin fountain of bile and breakfast. We landed and crumpled to the ground, two men covered from head to toe in vomit and urine, dry-heaving in the puke-splattered grass.
“Never—HUUUUUAAH—again—HUUUUUGGGGH,” I said between heaves.
“You got—HUAARGH—that right—HUUUAAAAH—buddy!” came my instructor’s reply.
And thus was I banned from skydiving in Colorado. I attempted to get my money back, citing the unprofessional manner in which my instructor unloaded the contents of his stomach onto me, but they would hear nothing of it.
Apparently a little pee puts the blame squarely on me.
*I would like to thank Tucker Max for inspiring me to move past simple urination and go for the gold--a full on floating vomitfest.
In his book Red Dragon, Thomas Harris said (I’m paraphrasing) that fear is the price of imagination. This rung true for me because most of my fears are indeed based upon my ability to imagine the worst.
The best example of this is my fear of heights. It’s one of those primal, crippling fears that I rarely even attempt to overcome. Don’t misunderstand; my acrophobia isn’t so bad that I steadfastly remain on terra firma regardless of the situation, like John Madden’s long-lost son. I’m not that much of a pussy. My phobia simply means that, on the occasions that I do tempt fate, I cannot help but imagine the horrible and gruesome death that my hubristic ascent into the heavens must surely lead to.
For example, anytime I find myself on a plane I inevitably picture the plane losing all power and dropping from the sky like the multi-ton hunk of metal that it is (airplanes are unnatural; surely only witchcraft of the most evil sort keeps them in the sky). I imagine my subsequent descent into madness, in which I lose all control over my mind and bodily functions, for the long wait between the realization that I am going to die and my actual death is what truly terrifies me about heights.
I have repelled into an open cavern (with no walls or stalactites nearby to provide even the slightest comfort), the only thing between me and my piñata-style death being a terrifyingly thin bit of climbing rope. I tried to enjoy the experience of hanging hundreds of feet above a cave floor, and I might have done so for about 6.3 microseconds, but the rest of the descent was spent in the company of an extreme surety that, any second now, that thin rope was going to snap and send me plummeting to a grisly death in which I would (with my luck) end impaled upon a stalagmite.
Then there was the trip I took to Italy with my family. We were in Florence, I believe, and decided to climb to the top of a bell tower or something. The stairs are on the inside of the building, you say? No problemo. Up we went. And up. And up. Until that point, I was convinced that only an Escher drawing had that many stairs. I was mistaken. When we finally reached the roof, we found ourselves approximately 80,000 feet above the city of Florence. It was beautiful. Pants-wettingly beautiful. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but imagine the inevitable earthquake that the gods would send to punish me for climbing to such unnatural heights. The earthquake would topple this tower of Babel, sending me racing towards the earth with thousands of tons of rubble at my flailing heels, just in case the drop somehow spared my life.
Despite this healthy and justifiable fear of a horribly protracted death, I occasionally get it into my head to tempt the Fates. This explains the repelling. It also explains the skydiving trip I recently took. Deciding that I once again needed to face my fears, I took a friend up on an offer to go skydiving. Sounds like fun, right?
We arrived at the airport at 9:00 AM and the process began. We signed waivers. “Something something undersigned…something something liability…blah blah high risk…blah blah see you in the afterlife…” Wait—what?! I re-read the end and was relieved to see that that last bit was merely a figment of my overactive imagination. I signed at the bottom, feeling the mild unease that one must surely experience when signing one’s own will. A little spooked, I began climbing into my jumpsuit, beginning to feel like a man who was being prepared for execution, but oddly giddy as well.
Our instructors did their instructy thing, telling us what to expect, how not to hurt ourselves when leaving the plane and landing, and generally psyching us up for a “bitchin’ time, dudes!” It worked. I was excited. You always jump tandem on your first jump, so I had a talk with my instructor before getting on the plane.
“Look, I’m kinda afraid of heights, so I might need a little help out the door. No matter what I do or say, I want you to please make sure we jump out of that plane as planned, okay?”
“No problem, bro. I’ve jumped with plenty of people like you. We always end up jumping and they always thank me for the help with that first step. It’s gonna be epic!”
I thanked him for his assurances and we all climbed into the plane. We took our seats and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The first thing that I noticed is that this aircraft, a medium-sized prop plane, was decidedly less steady than your average passenger plane.
“Okay,” I told myself, “I should have expected this. It’s a lot lighter than the other planes I’ve been on, so I’m sure that this alarming increase in bumps and noise is perfectly normal.” I tried to calm myself.
Up and up we went. It felt like an eternity. Finally we leveled out and I took a peak out of a window. I’m pretty sure I see stars. And was that a satellite that just cruised by at a bajillion miles per hour? The first creeping tendrils of mind-numbing terror began to wrap around my mind.
What the fuck am I doing?! I’m terrified of heights, and I’m about to jump out of a perfectly functional airplane! Good lord, I’m gonna die! The parachute is going to fail and my instructor and I are going to race each other towards our deaths. We are going to become one, in the most inescapable and appalling manner, with the earth and each other. Oh shit, I am officially freaking out!
Then someone opened the door.
It was as if they opened the door to Hades itself. The wind shrieked like a banshee, buffeting everyone inside with icy cold. I swear I could hear the screaming of the damned in that wind, and they’re all saying the same thing: “You’re gonna die, honky!”
“Dude, I can’t do this!” I yelled over the wailing wind. “I appreciate this opportunity to laugh in Death’s face, but I think I’m going to pass, ride down with the sane people piloting this thing, and live the rest of my life with a healthy and responsible fear of Death instead.”
The instructor laughed and told me everything would be fine. That son of a bitch! I decided that if I live through this I’m going to kill him and everyone he’s ever loved. Twice.
My friend and her instructor positioned themselves at the door. She gave me the thumbs up, turned back to the door and jumped out. I’m convinced that it’s the last time I’ll ever see her, unless, of course, you count the quick glimpse I’ll get of her mangled corpse embedded in the ground before I hit and become one myself.
We began walking towards the door. At this point I am nearly insane with fear. I beg. I plead. I threaten. Nothing fazes this guy.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t think I forgot what you told me! ‘No matter what I do or say, I want you to make sure we jump.’ I’m helping you face your fears, dude! Have fun with this!”
The small sliver of me that has managed to remain sane makes a mental note to invent time travel with the intent of going back in time and kicking my own stupid ass for uttering what was clearly the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. I’ll give me a beating I won’t soon forget!
I continued begging anyway. I was now crying, complete with snot running down my face. The instructor, hooked to my back, couldn’t see this. He patted me on the shoulder and we were out, falling towards the earth at what will soon be terminal velocity.
I screamed like a 5-year old girl who has just watched an axe-murderer butcher her favorite pony.
I flailed like an epileptic spider monkey.
Never in all my life have I experienced such mind-altering terror. My mind couldn’t even begin to process the enormity of the fear I was experiencing as I plummeted towards what was surely my death. And, oh great zombie Jesus, did I just…
Yep. I just wet myself.
At first it was warm, a somehow soothing feeling that spread from my nether regions. This did not last long. The thing about the air at that height is that it’s cold. The warmth of my ever-spreading urine is no match for the bitter cold of the air and wind at several thousand feet. The icy hands of fate quickly turned my naughty bits into a crotchsicle. I began to fear that, even should the parachute properly deploy, my now frozen penis might just snap off upon landing.
I estimate that it was at about this time that my instructor noticed something was wrong, because he suddenly yelled, “Dude!” He yanked the chord, and, much to my surprise, the parachute unfurled without a hitch.
“Dude, did you piss yourself?!” are the first words I’m able to hear once the wind dies down.
“Um, no!” I yelled back, trying to find a way to save my dignity. “I think we hit a duck! That must be blood!”
He wasn’t buying it. “Dude! Uncool, man! Uncool! I’m covered in man-piss!”
And without warning, my instructor began to retch uncontrollably.
This was an extremely unfortunate situation for me, as I was directly in front of him. As warm, chunky vomit covered my head and back I did what came naturally. I myself began to puke. Violently.
“BLAAARGH! OH GOD!” I screamed. “BLAAAAAARGH! SOME OF YOUR PUKE GOT IN MY MOUTH! BLAAAAAAAAAARGH!”
And so we descended back to earth, an ever-dwindling twin fountain of bile and breakfast. We landed and crumpled to the ground, two men covered from head to toe in vomit and urine, dry-heaving in the puke-splattered grass.
“Never—HUUUUUAAH—again—HUUUUUGGGGH,” I said between heaves.
“You got—HUAARGH—that right—HUUUAAAAH—buddy!” came my instructor’s reply.
And thus was I banned from skydiving in Colorado. I attempted to get my money back, citing the unprofessional manner in which my instructor unloaded the contents of his stomach onto me, but they would hear nothing of it.
Apparently a little pee puts the blame squarely on me.
*I would like to thank Tucker Max for inspiring me to move past simple urination and go for the gold--a full on floating vomitfest.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
What a Load of Crap: The Bastard Mocks a Relationship Article
Another recycled blog, this time from December 27th, 2009.
I love to read articles claiming to have all the answers about how men and women should interact with each other. Every now and then, the advice is actually quite good. Usually, however, the articles are utter tripe, sometimes in a funny way and other times in the most appalling manner. The latest article I’ve read (10 Things a Husband Should Never Do) is just horribly, horribly bad. Not only is the advice questionable and superficial, but the tone of the article has “bitch” written all over it. I have reprinted the article, with my commentary in italics. The original article can be found here: http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/sex/10-things-husbands-should-never-do-552285/
Guys, we love you, we really do. But as wonderful as you are, every so often you do something that makes us want to jump out the nearest window (or push you out first). Please, please, don’t ever…
Uh, ok… You want men to listen to you, but you tell us that we make you want to push us out of a window? I’m listening, but only because I’m afraid for myself and my bunny…
1. Offer to “babysit” your own kids. When your 16-year-old neighbor does it, it’s called babysitting. When a parent does it, it’s called child care, and it lasts for at least 18 years. Get it?
Get this: a freshman psychology major has more sense than you. Want us to listen? Drop the attitude. And honestly, this is simply semantics. Whether we call it babysitting or child care, we’re offering to take care of the kids while you do your own thing. Shut the hell up and go have fun before we change our minds.
2. Imply that office work is harder than housework. At the end of a hard day, there may be smoke coming out of your ears, but let’s face it: You’ve basically been sitting on your butt. That same smoke is coming out of our ears too—but we’ve cleaned the house, shuttled the kids around, run errands all over town and lugged grocery bags besides. When we say we’re exhausted, we are exhausted.
First of all, using your mind can be just as exhausting as using your body. Second, way to break free of gender stereotypes, Mrs. Cleaver. What is this, 1950? While there are still plenty of stay-at-home moms out there, most couples these days contain two working parents, meaning that, at the end of the day, both parents have “just” been sitting on their butts (and let’s not forget that there are stay-at-home dads out there, too). If you are fortunate enough to have a husband or wife who makes enough money to provide for the entire family, perhaps you should try thanking them for allowing you to stay home and take care of your kids instead of sending them to some strangers at day care. Unless of course you see your children as just another chore, as you seem to. If that’s the case, then your husband/wife should divorce your frigid ass and find someone who actually wants to be a parent to your children. And by the way, I agree that implying that office work is harder than housework is unfair. But don’t act like the guys is a lazy bum because you’re doing all the things he doesn’t have time to do. You SHARE the load. Quit bitching and do your share.
3. Give a home appliance as a gift. Forgive us if we can’t work it up for this one. A new washing machine? Really? Can we get you some new snow tires?
As someone who just paid $450 for tires, yeah, I’d love it if you’d buy me some tires. Maybe someone should take your washer away and make you go to the river to wash your clothes. Want that washing machine back now?
4. Buy us the “cougar” perfume. Under our crew-neck sweaters may beat the heart of an untamed vixen—but most of us don’t want to smell like one. (Nice try, though.)
This is so stupid that the only reason I’m commenting on it is to point out how moronic it is.
5. Brag about your driving. This is supposed to let us know that ours isn’t so great. If my husband tells me one more time that he’s been “accident-free since 1978,” I’m going to reach over, grab the wheel and make the car swerve into something, just to shut him up.
I am a good driver. And I’m proud of it. Mentioning it has nothing to do with you. This may come as a shock, but we don’t spend all day thinking of obscure, passive-aggressive ways to criticize you. That’s your job, apparently. Quit finding things to get pissed about and save your anger for something that deserves it.
6. Be unimpressed by a meal that took a lot of time and trouble. I don’t know whose fault this is (Food Network? Julie and Julia?), but every so often we get the idea that it would be fun to make stock and spend the day basting. If the result is less than earth-shattering, say something nice anyway.
Holy shit! Something I agree with! I guess even a broken clock is right twice a day.
7. Buy clothes without trying them on. We know that the second you get into a department store you start to feel faint, but do us a favor and take the extra five minutes. Otherwise, you know who gets stuck with the returns?
No. I hate trying things on. You never know who’s put their nasty ass in those jeans before you did. I’ll take them home, wash them, and then try them on. If they don’t fit, I’ll take them back. If you’re enough of a doormat to return your husband’s things for him, then that’s your problem, not his. Grow a pair and make him fix his own mistakes.
8. Know it all, especially in public. Oh, honey. While you’re going on at length about whatever it is, we’re taking the temperature of the room, and we know everyone’s starting to fidget.
Oh, honey. This is funny, coming from someone who sounds like a know-it-all who writes for the public. Ironyyyyyyyy. Drop the patronizing tone, and just tell your spouse, as nicely as possible, that he’s making an ass of himself.
9. Say anything remotely critical about our new haircut. Sometimes getting a new cut goes well; sometimes it doesn’t. Usually we know the difference. Don’t rub it in.
We’re not “rubbing it in;” we’re just stupid enough to think you want honesty. If you don’t want our opinion then don’t ask for it. It’s that simple.
10. Expect a medal for doing a little housework. Umm…it’s your house too, right? For now, we’ll give you the bronze. Maybe someday, if you work hard enough, you can pick up a gold.
I am so glad you’re not my wife. I don’t even know you and I keep hoping that someone drops a house on you. If your spouse is trying to help out, then be thankful. A lot of men (and women) don’t bother. Odds are he’s like a kid who drew his mom a picture for the fridge; he just wants a little pat on the head and maybe a treat. Is that so bad? Maybe someday, if you work hard enough, you won’t sound like a bitter, spiteful bitch who allowed her husband to convince her to give up her dreams to become a mother instead. And really, whose fault is that, ultimately?
Grrrrr… Perhaps you think I’m misogynistic after reading this. Untrue. I just hate when people, out of all the things that there are to complain about in this world, pick this kind of petty bullshit to whine about. And I'm appalled that this woman is gainfully employed as a writer while I'm delivering pizzas.
In fact, I strongly believe that, if it’s possible, one parent should work and the other parent should stay home. I don’t want strangers taking care of my kids if I can help it. And I’m perfectly happy staying at home if my future wife makes more than me and it’s enough to live off of (and if my current girlfriend and I stay together and she becomes a neurologist as she’s planning, then that’s exactly what will happen…assuming we have kids). I have no problem with not being the provider, because I’m not fool enough to hinge my self-worth upon whether or not I’m meeting ridiculous and outdated stereotypes of what it means to be a man, husband, or parent.
Want to know what a husband should never do? He should never take his wife for granted. He should never forget things that are important to her, like birthdays and anniversaries. He should never stop making his wife feel like she’s the only one for him. He should never be afraid to communicate his thoughts and feelings. He sure as hell should never cheat on her. He should never break important plans for stupid reasons. He should never assume that raising a child is solely the woman’s job. He should never, under any circumstances, suggest that her sister is in any way superior to her. He should never assume that he understands his wife, because there is no way in hell for a male to decipher the female mind. Is that ten? No? Then he should never marry an emasculating, disrespectful woman like the author of this article.
How’s that for good advice?
I love to read articles claiming to have all the answers about how men and women should interact with each other. Every now and then, the advice is actually quite good. Usually, however, the articles are utter tripe, sometimes in a funny way and other times in the most appalling manner. The latest article I’ve read (10 Things a Husband Should Never Do) is just horribly, horribly bad. Not only is the advice questionable and superficial, but the tone of the article has “bitch” written all over it. I have reprinted the article, with my commentary in italics. The original article can be found here: http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/sex/10-things-husbands-should-never-do-552285/
Guys, we love you, we really do. But as wonderful as you are, every so often you do something that makes us want to jump out the nearest window (or push you out first). Please, please, don’t ever…
Uh, ok… You want men to listen to you, but you tell us that we make you want to push us out of a window? I’m listening, but only because I’m afraid for myself and my bunny…
1. Offer to “babysit” your own kids. When your 16-year-old neighbor does it, it’s called babysitting. When a parent does it, it’s called child care, and it lasts for at least 18 years. Get it?
Get this: a freshman psychology major has more sense than you. Want us to listen? Drop the attitude. And honestly, this is simply semantics. Whether we call it babysitting or child care, we’re offering to take care of the kids while you do your own thing. Shut the hell up and go have fun before we change our minds.
2. Imply that office work is harder than housework. At the end of a hard day, there may be smoke coming out of your ears, but let’s face it: You’ve basically been sitting on your butt. That same smoke is coming out of our ears too—but we’ve cleaned the house, shuttled the kids around, run errands all over town and lugged grocery bags besides. When we say we’re exhausted, we are exhausted.
First of all, using your mind can be just as exhausting as using your body. Second, way to break free of gender stereotypes, Mrs. Cleaver. What is this, 1950? While there are still plenty of stay-at-home moms out there, most couples these days contain two working parents, meaning that, at the end of the day, both parents have “just” been sitting on their butts (and let’s not forget that there are stay-at-home dads out there, too). If you are fortunate enough to have a husband or wife who makes enough money to provide for the entire family, perhaps you should try thanking them for allowing you to stay home and take care of your kids instead of sending them to some strangers at day care. Unless of course you see your children as just another chore, as you seem to. If that’s the case, then your husband/wife should divorce your frigid ass and find someone who actually wants to be a parent to your children. And by the way, I agree that implying that office work is harder than housework is unfair. But don’t act like the guys is a lazy bum because you’re doing all the things he doesn’t have time to do. You SHARE the load. Quit bitching and do your share.
3. Give a home appliance as a gift. Forgive us if we can’t work it up for this one. A new washing machine? Really? Can we get you some new snow tires?
As someone who just paid $450 for tires, yeah, I’d love it if you’d buy me some tires. Maybe someone should take your washer away and make you go to the river to wash your clothes. Want that washing machine back now?
4. Buy us the “cougar” perfume. Under our crew-neck sweaters may beat the heart of an untamed vixen—but most of us don’t want to smell like one. (Nice try, though.)
This is so stupid that the only reason I’m commenting on it is to point out how moronic it is.
5. Brag about your driving. This is supposed to let us know that ours isn’t so great. If my husband tells me one more time that he’s been “accident-free since 1978,” I’m going to reach over, grab the wheel and make the car swerve into something, just to shut him up.
I am a good driver. And I’m proud of it. Mentioning it has nothing to do with you. This may come as a shock, but we don’t spend all day thinking of obscure, passive-aggressive ways to criticize you. That’s your job, apparently. Quit finding things to get pissed about and save your anger for something that deserves it.
6. Be unimpressed by a meal that took a lot of time and trouble. I don’t know whose fault this is (Food Network? Julie and Julia?), but every so often we get the idea that it would be fun to make stock and spend the day basting. If the result is less than earth-shattering, say something nice anyway.
Holy shit! Something I agree with! I guess even a broken clock is right twice a day.
7. Buy clothes without trying them on. We know that the second you get into a department store you start to feel faint, but do us a favor and take the extra five minutes. Otherwise, you know who gets stuck with the returns?
No. I hate trying things on. You never know who’s put their nasty ass in those jeans before you did. I’ll take them home, wash them, and then try them on. If they don’t fit, I’ll take them back. If you’re enough of a doormat to return your husband’s things for him, then that’s your problem, not his. Grow a pair and make him fix his own mistakes.
8. Know it all, especially in public. Oh, honey. While you’re going on at length about whatever it is, we’re taking the temperature of the room, and we know everyone’s starting to fidget.
Oh, honey. This is funny, coming from someone who sounds like a know-it-all who writes for the public. Ironyyyyyyyy. Drop the patronizing tone, and just tell your spouse, as nicely as possible, that he’s making an ass of himself.
9. Say anything remotely critical about our new haircut. Sometimes getting a new cut goes well; sometimes it doesn’t. Usually we know the difference. Don’t rub it in.
We’re not “rubbing it in;” we’re just stupid enough to think you want honesty. If you don’t want our opinion then don’t ask for it. It’s that simple.
10. Expect a medal for doing a little housework. Umm…it’s your house too, right? For now, we’ll give you the bronze. Maybe someday, if you work hard enough, you can pick up a gold.
I am so glad you’re not my wife. I don’t even know you and I keep hoping that someone drops a house on you. If your spouse is trying to help out, then be thankful. A lot of men (and women) don’t bother. Odds are he’s like a kid who drew his mom a picture for the fridge; he just wants a little pat on the head and maybe a treat. Is that so bad? Maybe someday, if you work hard enough, you won’t sound like a bitter, spiteful bitch who allowed her husband to convince her to give up her dreams to become a mother instead. And really, whose fault is that, ultimately?
Grrrrr… Perhaps you think I’m misogynistic after reading this. Untrue. I just hate when people, out of all the things that there are to complain about in this world, pick this kind of petty bullshit to whine about. And I'm appalled that this woman is gainfully employed as a writer while I'm delivering pizzas.
In fact, I strongly believe that, if it’s possible, one parent should work and the other parent should stay home. I don’t want strangers taking care of my kids if I can help it. And I’m perfectly happy staying at home if my future wife makes more than me and it’s enough to live off of (and if my current girlfriend and I stay together and she becomes a neurologist as she’s planning, then that’s exactly what will happen…assuming we have kids). I have no problem with not being the provider, because I’m not fool enough to hinge my self-worth upon whether or not I’m meeting ridiculous and outdated stereotypes of what it means to be a man, husband, or parent.
Want to know what a husband should never do? He should never take his wife for granted. He should never forget things that are important to her, like birthdays and anniversaries. He should never stop making his wife feel like she’s the only one for him. He should never be afraid to communicate his thoughts and feelings. He sure as hell should never cheat on her. He should never break important plans for stupid reasons. He should never assume that raising a child is solely the woman’s job. He should never, under any circumstances, suggest that her sister is in any way superior to her. He should never assume that he understands his wife, because there is no way in hell for a male to decipher the female mind. Is that ten? No? Then he should never marry an emasculating, disrespectful woman like the author of this article.
How’s that for good advice?
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Your Mamma's Such a Muggle...
For true Potterphiles.
And yeah, I admit that a lot of these are lame, but I was deliriously sick when I wrote them, so yeah.
Think you can do better? Post your own "Your mamma's such a muggle..." jokes in the comments! I'd love to hear more. :)
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that The Boy Who Lived was a movie on Lifetime.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a broom is for sweeping.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that an engorgement charm is the wizarding equivalent of Viagra.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Weird Sisters are chicks.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Chamber of Secrets is something a girl should keep to herself until she’s married.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Norwegian Ridgeback is a dog.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Moaning Myrtle is an adult film.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Aragog is a character in Lord of the Rings.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Felix Felicis was that old black and white cartoon cat.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Order of the Phoenix is an item on a Chinese take-out menu.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Sirius Black is an eye shadow color.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Goblet of Fire is a flaming shot.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Death Stick is a new metal band. \m/ \m/
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a fidelius charm is a girlier version of a purity ring.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Longbottom is a kind of boat.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that St. Mungo’s is a Catholic hospital.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that’s Edward, not Cedric.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Mad-Eye Moody is a sign that her kid’s on drugs.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Death Eater is something you see at the circus.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she can’t tell the difference between a Knarl and a hedgehog.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that catching the golden snitch means you need antibiotics.
And yeah, I admit that a lot of these are lame, but I was deliriously sick when I wrote them, so yeah.
Think you can do better? Post your own "Your mamma's such a muggle..." jokes in the comments! I'd love to hear more. :)
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that The Boy Who Lived was a movie on Lifetime.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a broom is for sweeping.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that an engorgement charm is the wizarding equivalent of Viagra.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Weird Sisters are chicks.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Chamber of Secrets is something a girl should keep to herself until she’s married.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Norwegian Ridgeback is a dog.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Moaning Myrtle is an adult film.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Aragog is a character in Lord of the Rings.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Felix Felicis was that old black and white cartoon cat.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Order of the Phoenix is an item on a Chinese take-out menu.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Sirius Black is an eye shadow color.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Goblet of Fire is a flaming shot.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Death Stick is a new metal band. \m/ \m/
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a fidelius charm is a girlier version of a purity ring.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Longbottom is a kind of boat.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that St. Mungo’s is a Catholic hospital.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that’s Edward, not Cedric.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Mad-Eye Moody is a sign that her kid’s on drugs.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Death Eater is something you see at the circus.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she can’t tell the difference between a Knarl and a hedgehog.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that catching the golden snitch means you need antibiotics.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Why God Hates Gay Marriage
Most of you have read this already, but I'll be damned if it ain't one of my favorite bits that I've written. Originally released on May 2, 2009.
We all know that gay marriage is an abomination that will forever sully the sacred institution of marriage, destroy society, and upset the natural balance and order of our Lord God’s universe. The signs are already there for all to see: this new swine flu—excuse me, the H1N1 flu—is a pestilence sent by God to show his disapproval of Iowa; Satan’s minions are hard at work off the coast of Somalia; and Paul Blart: Mall Cop was actually the number one movie in America for that short, dark time in our lives not so long ago.
We all know that gay marriage is an abomination that will forever sully the sacred institution of marriage, destroy society, and upset the natural balance and order of our Lord God’s universe. The signs are already there for all to see: this new swine flu—excuse me, the H1N1 flu—is a pestilence sent by God to show his disapproval of Iowa; Satan’s minions are hard at work off the coast of Somalia; and Paul Blart: Mall Cop was actually the number one movie in America for that short, dark time in our lives not so long ago.
“But J,” you ask, “how do we know God hates gays?”
Well, friend, the answer is simple: it’s in the Bible. The Bible gives us a very clear answer to this question. If you read Leviticus, you shall know our kind and gentle God for the gay-hating deity that he is. Leviticus 18:22 says, “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination.” Clearly, God hates gays. If you need more proof, look no further than Lev. 20:13, which states, “If a man lie with mankind, as he lie with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death.” This is a clear indictment of homosexuality, and even suggests you go out and bash some homos (bring the kids; it’s fun for the whole family). So as you can see, God hates gays with a passion pure and true.
“But J, doesn’t Jesus say that we should all love one another? Didn’t he tell us to ‘judge not, lest ye be judged’”?
I’m glad you brought that up, friend. You see, sometimes it can be hard to tell what God hates, especially with Jesus’ message of love and understanding mucking things up. First of all, God knew that the Bible was a really, really long book, and that most people wouldn’t have the time or twelfth grade reading level necessary to read it all. That’s why he put the really important parts like Leviticus in the front. So when in doubt, ignore Jesus’ hippy rantings in favor of the Old Testament’s more wrathful take on things.
Second, most people have an incomplete Bible. Most Bibles completely omit the Gospel of Cletus, the thirteenth apostle. Cletus was once an attendant at a Roman bath, until Jesus showed him how totally gay it is to stand around helping naked men all day. As a result, Cletus quit his gay job in order to follow another man around the Holy Land. The Gospel of Cletus shows Jesus’ true feelings about homosexuality, which the other homo-loving apostles left out. Cletus 13:34-37 clearly states, “A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another. Excepting, of course, those damn queers. Oh, and brown people. God, I hate brown people. I guess what I’m trying to say is that ye should love those people which ye hold dear, and feel free to hate everyone else. I mean, c’mon. How hard would it be to actually love everyone? That’d be, like, impossible.” As you can see, a complete Bible shows us the way our good Lord really feels about all manner of things.
“Thank you, J, for showing me the light. I now understand why I should hate gays. But did God say anything about gay marriage? Would it really be so bad if gays were granted the rights they so desperately seek?”
A fine question, my good friend. No, God doesn’t say anything about gay marriage explicitly, but it’s easy to read between the lines. Marriage is a sacred institution, meant to be shared between a man and a woman. We heterosexuals treat marriage’s sanctity with the proper amount of respect. Elizabeth Taylor is a shining example of this. She loves and respects the institution of marriage so much that she’s been married eight times! If gays were allowed to marry, they would desecrate the institution with their flirty eyes, pouty lips, and hard washboard abs. How could a man resist the urge to cheat or divorce when constantly faced with the firm yet supple man-ass that surrounds him at gay clubs, restaurants, and libraries? It’s impossible, and God knows it. Thus, he hates gay marriage. And as for wanting to be able to visit each other in the hospital, inherit each other’s belongings, and get tax breaks . . .what do gays think they are? Human?
I’m glad we had this talk, friends. I hope that I have cleared up any doubts that you may have had regarding the evil nature of gayness and gay marriage. Never forget that it is a pestilence that will spread throughout the land, infecting us all with good fashion sense, the desire to go to the gym, and a love of show tunes. Now if you’ll excuse me, the Lord has just commanded me to go take a cold shower.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Lady's Limerick
Just because I'm bored.
There once was a man from California
Who thought it'd be prudent to warn ya
If you dress like a ho
Wherever you go
Ain't nobody gonna respect ya.
There once was a man from California
Who thought it'd be prudent to warn ya
If you dress like a ho
Wherever you go
Ain't nobody gonna respect ya.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Bastard: 50 Ways To Be a Special Roommate
In honor of my obnoxious roommate (who seems to be slowly moving out!), I give you this list, originally published on January 6th, 2009.
1. Take your roommate’s shit without asking. They’ll appreciate the lack of clutter that you’ve helped them achieve.
2. Use all the hot water. It loosens up the skin, so your roomies will thank you for the tight, firm skin provided by the ice-cold water they will be forced to use after you’ve finished creating your own personal sauna.
3. If you have a significant other, do your best to scream at them on a daily basis. This will provide a sense of structure to your roommate’s day, providing joy and comfort. Makes sure the arguments are completely superfluous and imbecilic. And don’t forget: you can never be loud enough!
4. Eat whatever you want out of the fridge. This will help them eat less, keeping them slim and in shape. Make sure not to replace it! That would defeat the purpose.
5. Never leave the house. Your roommates will appreciate your constant presence.
6. Anticipate your roommate’s actions. If you think they’re heading for the tiny kitchen you share, get there first. If you think they want to do laundry, sneak a load in before them.
7. Speaking of laundry, do it every day. Every day! If possible, do it while they are in the shower, stealing the modicum of hot water that you may have accidentally left after your own shower.
8. Buy annoying pets that bark at the slightest provocation and piss on your roommate’s bed. The urine is essential to making them feel like a part of the family.
9. If your roommates have pets, make sure your pet eats as much of their food as possible. I recommend not feeding your own pet to facilitate this.
10. Invite your friends to stay over for indefinite periods of time. Your roommates will appreciate the extra company and thank you for introducing them to new and exciting homeless people.
11. Speaking of which, make obnoxious friends, and bring them over constantly. This will keep your roommates on their toes, helping to keep their minds nimble.
12. Buy a small refrigerator and freezer, then stuff it as full as you can. See #4 for reasoning.
13. Leave your stuff everywhere. Does your roommate have a bookshelf in the living room? Put picture frames on it. Do they have their own bathroom? Put some random nick-knacks in it, despite never using it.
14. Remember: toilet paper is evil. Take one for the team and use as much as possible to save them from a papery death. Never offer to replace the thin little bits of evil, but if you must, buy single-ply. And remember, the texture you’re aiming for is sandpaper.
15. Keep the door locked at all times, even when you’re home. You never know when that serial rapist might come around. This is especially essential if your roommates have gone shopping at Costco.
16. When cooking, never clean your mess. Roommates, by nature, love to clean, especially other people’s messes. A filthy kitchen is to a roommate what crack is to a crackhead.
17. If you borrow a movie, make sure not to return it. Leave them lying around the house. Roommates love a scavenger hunt.
18. If your roommate is a recovering alcoholic, do your best to drink in front of them as much as possible. This will strengthen their willpower.
19. Leave all the lights on that you can. Leave up (and use!) your Christmas lights until mid-June. (If your roommate is the aforementioned alcoholic, this will help them stay too broke to afford to fall off the wagon.)
20. In winter, keep the thermostat at a mild 85 degrees. In summer, 55 should do nicely.
21. If you get up before your roommates, be as loud as you can. Stand outside their door and loudly talk on your cell phone, slam cupboard doors, or yell at your dog to be quiet. And please, think of this as the perfect time for one of those loud fights with your significant other.
22. Remember: the sound of slamming doors is like the laughter of children to a roommate’s ears.
23. Buy as much useless crap as you can, then spread it all over the house. Nothing livens up the living room like an empty Corona bottle piñata.
24. Never get the mail. If you can, throw out or hide their credit card statements. They're stressful!
25. Buy four cars. The lack of parking will encourage your roommates to buy bikes, thus helping them stay fit. Fill your garage with boxes if you have to.
26. Use whatever you want, whenever you want. Asking is for pussies.
27. Never forget the first rule of roommates: Mi underwear es su underwear.
28. Leave your cat’s vomit on the floor for at least a month. Ask it to pay rent.
29. Move their shit around. Tell them a ghost did it.
30. Watch movies in the middle of the night. Make sure that subwoofer is turned up all the way! It will rumble them to sleep like wee little babies.
31. Use their wardrobe to soak up the oil on the driveway. They need new clothes anyway.
32. Do your best to interrupt them during coitus/masturbation as much as possible. It adds adventure to their experience.
33. Are your roommates allergic to pollen? Sounds like someone needs a get-well bouquet!
34. Have Tivo? Delete their shows. That’s what repeats are for. Besides, it’ll give them time to finish that book they’ve been reading.
35. Break something, then throw it out. Deny all knowledge of said item.
36. Never, under any circumstances, break down cardboard boxes before putting them in the recycling or trash.
37. Never take a crap in your own bathroom. That's what their bathroom is for. (Remember #14?)
38. Buy them something they hate, then act hurt when they thank you in an obviously insincere manner.
39. Change the locks. Forget to give them a copy of the new key. The best time for this is winter.
40. Use all the milk. When asked to buy more, conveniently “forget” to do so until they get fed up and buy it themselves.
41. Over the course of the year, slowly steal money out of their change jar.
42. Have sex with your door open. When they pass by, call them a pervert. Or invite them in. If they agree, ask them how they feel about being anally penetrated by large household items.
43. If your roommate is single, set him up on a date with the ugliest friend you can find. Forget to tell him that “Shannon” is actually a dude.
44. Institute casual Fridays. Wear nothing but flip-flops.
45. When watching the game, flip to Lifetime during the most crucial moment. Tell them you need a quick, cleansing cry.
46. Have pink eye? Fart on their pillow.
47. Put up a live webcam in their room. Neglect to tell them.
48. Sneak into their room to watch them sleep. If they wake up and freak out, tell them they never minded before. Pants optional.
49. Use their computer to look at porn sites. When asked, deny all knowledge of hornyseptuagenarianbeastlovers.com.
50. Never, ever treat them like a human being worthy of compassion and respect. All roommates are masochists. Otherwise, why the hell would they be living with you?
1. Take your roommate’s shit without asking. They’ll appreciate the lack of clutter that you’ve helped them achieve.
2. Use all the hot water. It loosens up the skin, so your roomies will thank you for the tight, firm skin provided by the ice-cold water they will be forced to use after you’ve finished creating your own personal sauna.
3. If you have a significant other, do your best to scream at them on a daily basis. This will provide a sense of structure to your roommate’s day, providing joy and comfort. Makes sure the arguments are completely superfluous and imbecilic. And don’t forget: you can never be loud enough!
4. Eat whatever you want out of the fridge. This will help them eat less, keeping them slim and in shape. Make sure not to replace it! That would defeat the purpose.
5. Never leave the house. Your roommates will appreciate your constant presence.
6. Anticipate your roommate’s actions. If you think they’re heading for the tiny kitchen you share, get there first. If you think they want to do laundry, sneak a load in before them.
7. Speaking of laundry, do it every day. Every day! If possible, do it while they are in the shower, stealing the modicum of hot water that you may have accidentally left after your own shower.
8. Buy annoying pets that bark at the slightest provocation and piss on your roommate’s bed. The urine is essential to making them feel like a part of the family.
9. If your roommates have pets, make sure your pet eats as much of their food as possible. I recommend not feeding your own pet to facilitate this.
10. Invite your friends to stay over for indefinite periods of time. Your roommates will appreciate the extra company and thank you for introducing them to new and exciting homeless people.
11. Speaking of which, make obnoxious friends, and bring them over constantly. This will keep your roommates on their toes, helping to keep their minds nimble.
12. Buy a small refrigerator and freezer, then stuff it as full as you can. See #4 for reasoning.
13. Leave your stuff everywhere. Does your roommate have a bookshelf in the living room? Put picture frames on it. Do they have their own bathroom? Put some random nick-knacks in it, despite never using it.
14. Remember: toilet paper is evil. Take one for the team and use as much as possible to save them from a papery death. Never offer to replace the thin little bits of evil, but if you must, buy single-ply. And remember, the texture you’re aiming for is sandpaper.
15. Keep the door locked at all times, even when you’re home. You never know when that serial rapist might come around. This is especially essential if your roommates have gone shopping at Costco.
16. When cooking, never clean your mess. Roommates, by nature, love to clean, especially other people’s messes. A filthy kitchen is to a roommate what crack is to a crackhead.
17. If you borrow a movie, make sure not to return it. Leave them lying around the house. Roommates love a scavenger hunt.
18. If your roommate is a recovering alcoholic, do your best to drink in front of them as much as possible. This will strengthen their willpower.
19. Leave all the lights on that you can. Leave up (and use!) your Christmas lights until mid-June. (If your roommate is the aforementioned alcoholic, this will help them stay too broke to afford to fall off the wagon.)
20. In winter, keep the thermostat at a mild 85 degrees. In summer, 55 should do nicely.
21. If you get up before your roommates, be as loud as you can. Stand outside their door and loudly talk on your cell phone, slam cupboard doors, or yell at your dog to be quiet. And please, think of this as the perfect time for one of those loud fights with your significant other.
22. Remember: the sound of slamming doors is like the laughter of children to a roommate’s ears.
23. Buy as much useless crap as you can, then spread it all over the house. Nothing livens up the living room like an empty Corona bottle piñata.
24. Never get the mail. If you can, throw out or hide their credit card statements. They're stressful!
25. Buy four cars. The lack of parking will encourage your roommates to buy bikes, thus helping them stay fit. Fill your garage with boxes if you have to.
26. Use whatever you want, whenever you want. Asking is for pussies.
27. Never forget the first rule of roommates: Mi underwear es su underwear.
28. Leave your cat’s vomit on the floor for at least a month. Ask it to pay rent.
29. Move their shit around. Tell them a ghost did it.
30. Watch movies in the middle of the night. Make sure that subwoofer is turned up all the way! It will rumble them to sleep like wee little babies.
31. Use their wardrobe to soak up the oil on the driveway. They need new clothes anyway.
32. Do your best to interrupt them during coitus/masturbation as much as possible. It adds adventure to their experience.
33. Are your roommates allergic to pollen? Sounds like someone needs a get-well bouquet!
34. Have Tivo? Delete their shows. That’s what repeats are for. Besides, it’ll give them time to finish that book they’ve been reading.
35. Break something, then throw it out. Deny all knowledge of said item.
36. Never, under any circumstances, break down cardboard boxes before putting them in the recycling or trash.
37. Never take a crap in your own bathroom. That's what their bathroom is for. (Remember #14?)
38. Buy them something they hate, then act hurt when they thank you in an obviously insincere manner.
39. Change the locks. Forget to give them a copy of the new key. The best time for this is winter.
40. Use all the milk. When asked to buy more, conveniently “forget” to do so until they get fed up and buy it themselves.
41. Over the course of the year, slowly steal money out of their change jar.
42. Have sex with your door open. When they pass by, call them a pervert. Or invite them in. If they agree, ask them how they feel about being anally penetrated by large household items.
43. If your roommate is single, set him up on a date with the ugliest friend you can find. Forget to tell him that “Shannon” is actually a dude.
44. Institute casual Fridays. Wear nothing but flip-flops.
45. When watching the game, flip to Lifetime during the most crucial moment. Tell them you need a quick, cleansing cry.
46. Have pink eye? Fart on their pillow.
47. Put up a live webcam in their room. Neglect to tell them.
48. Sneak into their room to watch them sleep. If they wake up and freak out, tell them they never minded before. Pants optional.
49. Use their computer to look at porn sites. When asked, deny all knowledge of hornyseptuagenarianbeastlovers.com.
50. Never, ever treat them like a human being worthy of compassion and respect. All roommates are masochists. Otherwise, why the hell would they be living with you?
Introducing Polymathic J
Well, I've introduced The Buddhist & The Bastard, but I never really introduced myself. So, in the interest of rectifying that (and because I haven't had much time to write lately), I give you "25 Random Things About Me," something that was circulating around Facebook a year ago (this was originally released January 31st, 2009). I suppose this means that most of you have already read it, but there are finally at least a few people reading this blog who don't know me at all (woo-hoo!), so this one's for you guys. Thanks for the support. Hope it amuses you.
Oh, and for those of you who know me, just refer to me as J here in the Garden. No need for people to know too much about my crazy ass.
I hear undead syphilitic hookers will devour my friends and family if I don’t join in on this thing, so here goes. So if I tagged you in this (Facebook users), you're supposed to make your own list. But don't feel obligated. I'm sure your loved ones will enjoy being VD-carrying zombies.
1. I have 20/800 vision in my right eye and 20/850 in my left. Let’s put this in perspective: Find something 800 feet away. See how blurry that is? That’s how clearly I see something 20 feet away. And that’s my good eye. I’m so blind that I’ve only met one person who has vision worse than me, and he was legally blind (no joke).
2. I make a list every year of all the books I read. I hear my Grandma did this too, although I struck upon the idea independently. Last year’s total: 7 (by far an all-time low). This year’s total thus far: 5.
3. I’m afraid of heights. This does not stop me from wanting to skydive, although I imagine I’d need help out of the door. And I’d probably piss myself. Sorry instructor guy.
4. I miss California immensely, and my home town even more so. I miss living in the woods.
5. I believe that Coke is the nectar of the gods (Screw ambrosia! Who even knows what that is?!). Give me a Pepsi when I ask for a Coke, and you risk losing an eye.
6. I believe that, when viewed objectively, sex is just about the silliest act one can commit. This does not stop me from enjoying it.
7. Speaking of sex, if I was forced to have hairy man-sex, I’d probably pick Colin Ferguson (he plays Sheriff Carter on the show Eureka) to be my first. He seems like he’d be gentle. That said, I’d much prefer some alone time with his castmate, Salli Richardson. What a babe!
8. I love all things Anthony Bourdain. If you have the Travel Channel and aren't watching No Reservations (Monday nights!) then you should be thrown in jail. Just finished his book, Kitchen Confidential, and loved every second of it. I seriously don’t recall ever laughing out loud so much while reading. In fact, on one occasion I literally had to bite my fingers to keep from waking my girlfriend.
9. Speaking of my girlfriend, she is the best. I’m totally retarded for her.
10. I believe that everyone (but especially the wealthy) should be forced to live off of a crappy job like Pizza Hut for at least a year or two. I think the world would be a kinder place as a result.
11. I have a relatively large tattoo on my back, and hope to one day have the money to get the rest of it covered (my back, not the tattoo).
12. My dream is to write a book. If it gets published and you don’t buy it, I will come find you.
13. I think the phrase “drugs and alcohol” is a farce. I’m sorry to inform you that if you honestly believe that alcohol is not a drug, well, you’re a moron.
14. If I had three wishes, one of them would probably be spent on going back in time and convincing myself that no, that mullet does not look good on me. In fact, I’d just buy myself a new wardrobe (and glasses). And then I’d chastise my parents for allowing me to walk around looking like the world’s biggest dork. Never let anyone tell you that personality doesn’t go a long way, because I never would have had girlfriends if it didn’t.
15. If forced to choose between saving a drowning dog and a drowning human, I honestly don’t know who would get saved. This should tell you three things. 1. I love animals. 2. I don’t have much respect for humans. 3. You should really learn to swim.
16. I love the Niners and Sharks. They make September through May/June worth living through (although it does get a bit depressing seeing the Niners suck and the Sharks lose in the second round every year). The absence of football and hockey is one of the reasons I’m not a fan of summer.
17. I think Hawaii is the most overrated vacation destination of all time. Been there twice, was unimpressed both times (although snorkeling in Cook’s Cove was, admittedly, a hell of a lot of fun). Want a better tropical destination? Try Costa Rica. It’s probably cheaper, too.
18. I finally got to visit Italy a little over a year ago. I fell in love with Venice. If I’m ever filthy rich, I’m totally buying an apartment there. Preferably on the top floor. And Michelangelo’s David? The most awe-inspiring work of art I have ever witnessed with my own two eyes. It’s perfection almost (almost!) brought tears to my eyes.
19. I love America, but anyone who says we’re the greatest country in the world has never been out of this country. We’ve got a great country, and it may be the one you prefer above all others, but it is definitely a fixer-upper in need of a lot of work.
20. I like cupcakes.
21. I am an unrepentant geek. I love comics, Harry Potter, and Firefly. Wanna fight about it?
22. The Beatles are unquestionably my favorite group of all time. Despite that, my favorite genre of music is hip-hop. This honky got some soul, na’mean? (For you crackers in the crowd, that means “Do you understand what I mean, fine ladies and distinguished gentlemen?” And yes, I use it ironically. Have you seen me?! I’m practically an albino!)
23. I am, on rare occasions, a smart ass. (wink, wink)
24. I am, on frequent occasions, a pompous ass.
25. I believe the fact that I only got about 5 ½ hours of sleep last night may have slightly affected the tone of this list.
Oh, and for those of you who know me, just refer to me as J here in the Garden. No need for people to know too much about my crazy ass.
I hear undead syphilitic hookers will devour my friends and family if I don’t join in on this thing, so here goes. So if I tagged you in this (Facebook users), you're supposed to make your own list. But don't feel obligated. I'm sure your loved ones will enjoy being VD-carrying zombies.
1. I have 20/800 vision in my right eye and 20/850 in my left. Let’s put this in perspective: Find something 800 feet away. See how blurry that is? That’s how clearly I see something 20 feet away. And that’s my good eye. I’m so blind that I’ve only met one person who has vision worse than me, and he was legally blind (no joke).
2. I make a list every year of all the books I read. I hear my Grandma did this too, although I struck upon the idea independently. Last year’s total: 7 (by far an all-time low). This year’s total thus far: 5.
3. I’m afraid of heights. This does not stop me from wanting to skydive, although I imagine I’d need help out of the door. And I’d probably piss myself. Sorry instructor guy.
4. I miss California immensely, and my home town even more so. I miss living in the woods.
5. I believe that Coke is the nectar of the gods (Screw ambrosia! Who even knows what that is?!). Give me a Pepsi when I ask for a Coke, and you risk losing an eye.
6. I believe that, when viewed objectively, sex is just about the silliest act one can commit. This does not stop me from enjoying it.
7. Speaking of sex, if I was forced to have hairy man-sex, I’d probably pick Colin Ferguson (he plays Sheriff Carter on the show Eureka) to be my first. He seems like he’d be gentle. That said, I’d much prefer some alone time with his castmate, Salli Richardson. What a babe!
8. I love all things Anthony Bourdain. If you have the Travel Channel and aren't watching No Reservations (Monday nights!) then you should be thrown in jail. Just finished his book, Kitchen Confidential, and loved every second of it. I seriously don’t recall ever laughing out loud so much while reading. In fact, on one occasion I literally had to bite my fingers to keep from waking my girlfriend.
9. Speaking of my girlfriend, she is the best. I’m totally retarded for her.
10. I believe that everyone (but especially the wealthy) should be forced to live off of a crappy job like Pizza Hut for at least a year or two. I think the world would be a kinder place as a result.
11. I have a relatively large tattoo on my back, and hope to one day have the money to get the rest of it covered (my back, not the tattoo).
12. My dream is to write a book. If it gets published and you don’t buy it, I will come find you.
13. I think the phrase “drugs and alcohol” is a farce. I’m sorry to inform you that if you honestly believe that alcohol is not a drug, well, you’re a moron.
14. If I had three wishes, one of them would probably be spent on going back in time and convincing myself that no, that mullet does not look good on me. In fact, I’d just buy myself a new wardrobe (and glasses). And then I’d chastise my parents for allowing me to walk around looking like the world’s biggest dork. Never let anyone tell you that personality doesn’t go a long way, because I never would have had girlfriends if it didn’t.
15. If forced to choose between saving a drowning dog and a drowning human, I honestly don’t know who would get saved. This should tell you three things. 1. I love animals. 2. I don’t have much respect for humans. 3. You should really learn to swim.
16. I love the Niners and Sharks. They make September through May/June worth living through (although it does get a bit depressing seeing the Niners suck and the Sharks lose in the second round every year). The absence of football and hockey is one of the reasons I’m not a fan of summer.
17. I think Hawaii is the most overrated vacation destination of all time. Been there twice, was unimpressed both times (although snorkeling in Cook’s Cove was, admittedly, a hell of a lot of fun). Want a better tropical destination? Try Costa Rica. It’s probably cheaper, too.
18. I finally got to visit Italy a little over a year ago. I fell in love with Venice. If I’m ever filthy rich, I’m totally buying an apartment there. Preferably on the top floor. And Michelangelo’s David? The most awe-inspiring work of art I have ever witnessed with my own two eyes. It’s perfection almost (almost!) brought tears to my eyes.
19. I love America, but anyone who says we’re the greatest country in the world has never been out of this country. We’ve got a great country, and it may be the one you prefer above all others, but it is definitely a fixer-upper in need of a lot of work.
20. I like cupcakes.
21. I am an unrepentant geek. I love comics, Harry Potter, and Firefly. Wanna fight about it?
22. The Beatles are unquestionably my favorite group of all time. Despite that, my favorite genre of music is hip-hop. This honky got some soul, na’mean? (For you crackers in the crowd, that means “Do you understand what I mean, fine ladies and distinguished gentlemen?” And yes, I use it ironically. Have you seen me?! I’m practically an albino!)
23. I am, on rare occasions, a smart ass. (wink, wink)
24. I am, on frequent occasions, a pompous ass.
25. I believe the fact that I only got about 5 ½ hours of sleep last night may have slightly affected the tone of this list.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
I'm With Coco
Unless you’ve been living under a rock or have no internet connection (in which case I must ask, “How the hell are you reading this?!”), you’ve likely heard about NBC’s decision to move the faltering Jay Leno Show from 10 PM to 11:35. This would bump Conan’s Tonight Show from its long-standing time slot and move it to 12:05, which, as Letterman astutely noted, would make it the Tomorrow Show. This, of course, is lunacy, and Conan said as much in a statement.
Full disclosure: I don’t watch late night TV. I am, however, awake at such hours, and my occasional late night flybys of the networks have left me with the impression that the late night hosts should be ranked in the following order: David Letterman, Conan O’Brien, Jimmy Kimmel, Craig Ferguson, Jimmy Fallon, Carson Daly, whoever is on Telemundo, Johnny Carson’s corpse, a flock of retarded geese, Jay Leno.
The long and the short of it is that I don’t like Leno. Never have. I’m not sure if it’s his obnoxious voice, his Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade-sized chin or what, but he’s always gotten on my nerves. I’ve long preferred Letterman, who has been nothing short of hilarious whenever I happen to catch him. As for Conan, well, I’m a geek, so we’ve certainly got that in common. And he wrote for The Simpsons, which gets him automatic cool points in my book. And whenever I’ve caught his show, it’s been funny, intelligent, and weird. I can dig that.
Leno and NBC went out on a limb and created a show at 10 PM. I’ve never seen it, but it sounds like it blows goats. I’m assuming there’s at least one metric shit-ton of money involved with the show, so NBC is scrambling to keep it afloat, and this debacle was their answer.
Explain to me why Conan should pay because Leno screwed up? Does that seem fair to anyone? I realize that life isn’t fair (my parents assured me of this at least 15.2 billion times when I was a child), but there are certain things that simply shouldn’t be done. Those things include rewarding mediocrity, and making someone else pay for that mediocrity. This is exactly what NBC is trying to do. Conan says he won’t stand for it. I applaud him for this, and stand behind his decision.
I ask you to do the same. Voice your displeasure and sign the petition to NBC here. Tell them, "Moving Leno's unfair! Stick with the Hair!" For those of you on Facebook, join the group I'm With COCO. If you’re apathetic but like Bill Hicks, listen to him rip Jay Leno on YouTube.
I’m with Coco. Now will someone please explain to me why the hell he’s nicknamed Coco?
Full disclosure: I don’t watch late night TV. I am, however, awake at such hours, and my occasional late night flybys of the networks have left me with the impression that the late night hosts should be ranked in the following order: David Letterman, Conan O’Brien, Jimmy Kimmel, Craig Ferguson, Jimmy Fallon, Carson Daly, whoever is on Telemundo, Johnny Carson’s corpse, a flock of retarded geese, Jay Leno.
The long and the short of it is that I don’t like Leno. Never have. I’m not sure if it’s his obnoxious voice, his Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade-sized chin or what, but he’s always gotten on my nerves. I’ve long preferred Letterman, who has been nothing short of hilarious whenever I happen to catch him. As for Conan, well, I’m a geek, so we’ve certainly got that in common. And he wrote for The Simpsons, which gets him automatic cool points in my book. And whenever I’ve caught his show, it’s been funny, intelligent, and weird. I can dig that.
Leno and NBC went out on a limb and created a show at 10 PM. I’ve never seen it, but it sounds like it blows goats. I’m assuming there’s at least one metric shit-ton of money involved with the show, so NBC is scrambling to keep it afloat, and this debacle was their answer.
Explain to me why Conan should pay because Leno screwed up? Does that seem fair to anyone? I realize that life isn’t fair (my parents assured me of this at least 15.2 billion times when I was a child), but there are certain things that simply shouldn’t be done. Those things include rewarding mediocrity, and making someone else pay for that mediocrity. This is exactly what NBC is trying to do. Conan says he won’t stand for it. I applaud him for this, and stand behind his decision.
I ask you to do the same. Voice your displeasure and sign the petition to NBC here. Tell them, "Moving Leno's unfair! Stick with the Hair!" For those of you on Facebook, join the group I'm With COCO. If you’re apathetic but like Bill Hicks, listen to him rip Jay Leno on YouTube.
I’m with Coco. Now will someone please explain to me why the hell he’s nicknamed Coco?
Monday, January 11, 2010
By George: A Rebuttal
This blog was originally released on August 17th, 2008.
I won’t normally do requests in this blog, but I was asked for an opinion about this article, and couldn’t resist (and it gave me a chance to learn just enough HTML to embed that link. Yay!). The article seems to be, at least in part, a response to the new Star Wars: Clone Wars animated flick that premieres this month. Essentially, the author begs George Lucas to stop making movies.
This seems to be a popular opinion among the geek population, and it’s one I definitely understand. Many people were able to overlook the tinkering Lucas did with the original trilogy, despite the narcissistic undertones of the project. Yeah, we all hated Greedo shooting first, and adding Jabba into the first movie was ridiculous at best (what kind of mobster allows you to walk away with your kneecaps intact after you step on him?!), but the faithful were willing to put all that aside, because we were so excited to be getting a new chapter in the saga.
And after waiting over 15 long years for a new Star Wars flick, we were all treated to…Jar Jar Binks?! That’s bound to piss people off. The gut reaction from Geek Nation was a unified howl of disbelief, mingled with a side order of outrage. “How could Lucas, the master storyteller who pulled inspiration from such intellectual and cinematic greats as Joseph Campbell and Akira Kurosawa, deliver to us this corny, over-rendered CGI ball of cheese?” complained the geek masses.
Apparently, they’d never really seen the first three movies. They’re just as corny, people. Can you seriously tell me that you can listen to Luke whine about “going to Tashi Station to pick up some power converters” and not feel the need to whack him upside the head with a decommissioned lightsaber? As Bilbo Bagshot (the sage who runs the Fantasy Bazaar comic shop on the show Spaced) once said, is Jar Jar any worse than those fuzzy little Ewoks? Not really. I think that we were treated to a perfect storm of events that revealed Lucas for what he really is: an old-fashioned cornball.
Let’s take a look at some of the projects Lucas has given the world. Original Star Wars trilogy? Corny, but good. Indiana Jones movies? Cheesy, but entertaining (he survived jumping out of a plane by riding an inflatable boat, for God’s sake!). Willow? I love it, but everyone else seems to loathe it for some reason. It’s filled with corny moments nonetheless. Then there are shows like The Ewok Adventure, and the Star Wars Holiday Special (which featured Chewbacca on his home planet of Kashyyyk). I mean, the name of his planet has 3 y’s in it. What part about Lucas’s cornball status is in question here?
All the last trilogy did was expose George for good. The cornball factor was less apparent in his other movies, but the leaps in technology that have been made since have allowed even Lucas’s cheesiest ideas to see fruition. C-3PO “losing his head” on Geonosis in Attack of the Clones is a prime example (Hell, the title “Attack of the Clones” is a prime example, although it has nothing to do with updated tech).
The real question people should be asking themselves is, “Is cheesy really that bad?” True, I’ve always enjoyed self-aware cheesiness (called camp, for the uninitiated) more than the accidental sort, but is there really that much of a difference between the two? You’re still getting cheese.
No, I think the real problem is that this latest trilogy was missing the one thing that the majority of geeks have lost since the first trilogy. No, not their virginity (they’re “saving” that for the girl who will dress up for them as Slave Girl Leia). I’m talking about their sense of childhood wonder. When you’re a kid almost nothing seems corny, so we accepted Ewoks and whiny saviors alike. But as jaded and cynical adults (who, even worse, are sexually frustrated), they are no longer willing or able to overlook the corny parts and enjoy the whole.
Lucas has created an entire universe. To simply attempt such a feat takes some serious cajones. Yes, there are corny patches, but the story as a whole is extremely satisfying. Don’t think this is just about the movies. The original trilogy is great, the second is fine, but the real meat of Lucas’s universe isn’t on the silver screen. It’s in the myriad books and comics that have come since the “Holy Trinity” was released.
Anyone who’s read Timothy Zahn’s Thrawn Trilogy (which stars Luke, Leia and the gang and takes place after Jedi) will tell you they would have much rather seen it made into movies than The Phantom Menace and its two buddies. Anyone who has read the comic book Knights of the Old Republic and seen its wonderfully detailed art will tell you that it blows The Ewok Adventure out of the water.
The reason behind this is simple: these were written by actual writers. Lucas is not a writer; he is an idea man. I know, because we can smell our own kind. Idea men may write and produce works that capture the imagination, but the actual writing is usually adequate at best. Just look at the dialogue in any Star Wars movie. It’s as wooden as R2’s ancient ancestors. But the world he has created is as real and varied as our own. Lucas had created one of the greatest playgrounds in all of creation, and a multitude of writers and artists have made the most of it.
So let’s give old George a break. Instead of acting like spoiled kids on Christmas who didn't get the present they wanted, instead of mocking him for his bad dialogue and cheesy writing, we should be thanking him for creating a place where talented writers and artists can go to let loose and express themselves. I hope that one day I may find myself in such a position, disgruntled geeks and all.
I won’t normally do requests in this blog, but I was asked for an opinion about this article, and couldn’t resist (and it gave me a chance to learn just enough HTML to embed that link. Yay!). The article seems to be, at least in part, a response to the new Star Wars: Clone Wars animated flick that premieres this month. Essentially, the author begs George Lucas to stop making movies.
This seems to be a popular opinion among the geek population, and it’s one I definitely understand. Many people were able to overlook the tinkering Lucas did with the original trilogy, despite the narcissistic undertones of the project. Yeah, we all hated Greedo shooting first, and adding Jabba into the first movie was ridiculous at best (what kind of mobster allows you to walk away with your kneecaps intact after you step on him?!), but the faithful were willing to put all that aside, because we were so excited to be getting a new chapter in the saga.
And after waiting over 15 long years for a new Star Wars flick, we were all treated to…Jar Jar Binks?! That’s bound to piss people off. The gut reaction from Geek Nation was a unified howl of disbelief, mingled with a side order of outrage. “How could Lucas, the master storyteller who pulled inspiration from such intellectual and cinematic greats as Joseph Campbell and Akira Kurosawa, deliver to us this corny, over-rendered CGI ball of cheese?” complained the geek masses.
Apparently, they’d never really seen the first three movies. They’re just as corny, people. Can you seriously tell me that you can listen to Luke whine about “going to Tashi Station to pick up some power converters” and not feel the need to whack him upside the head with a decommissioned lightsaber? As Bilbo Bagshot (the sage who runs the Fantasy Bazaar comic shop on the show Spaced) once said, is Jar Jar any worse than those fuzzy little Ewoks? Not really. I think that we were treated to a perfect storm of events that revealed Lucas for what he really is: an old-fashioned cornball.
Let’s take a look at some of the projects Lucas has given the world. Original Star Wars trilogy? Corny, but good. Indiana Jones movies? Cheesy, but entertaining (he survived jumping out of a plane by riding an inflatable boat, for God’s sake!). Willow? I love it, but everyone else seems to loathe it for some reason. It’s filled with corny moments nonetheless. Then there are shows like The Ewok Adventure, and the Star Wars Holiday Special (which featured Chewbacca on his home planet of Kashyyyk). I mean, the name of his planet has 3 y’s in it. What part about Lucas’s cornball status is in question here?
All the last trilogy did was expose George for good. The cornball factor was less apparent in his other movies, but the leaps in technology that have been made since have allowed even Lucas’s cheesiest ideas to see fruition. C-3PO “losing his head” on Geonosis in Attack of the Clones is a prime example (Hell, the title “Attack of the Clones” is a prime example, although it has nothing to do with updated tech).
The real question people should be asking themselves is, “Is cheesy really that bad?” True, I’ve always enjoyed self-aware cheesiness (called camp, for the uninitiated) more than the accidental sort, but is there really that much of a difference between the two? You’re still getting cheese.
No, I think the real problem is that this latest trilogy was missing the one thing that the majority of geeks have lost since the first trilogy. No, not their virginity (they’re “saving” that for the girl who will dress up for them as Slave Girl Leia). I’m talking about their sense of childhood wonder. When you’re a kid almost nothing seems corny, so we accepted Ewoks and whiny saviors alike. But as jaded and cynical adults (who, even worse, are sexually frustrated), they are no longer willing or able to overlook the corny parts and enjoy the whole.
Lucas has created an entire universe. To simply attempt such a feat takes some serious cajones. Yes, there are corny patches, but the story as a whole is extremely satisfying. Don’t think this is just about the movies. The original trilogy is great, the second is fine, but the real meat of Lucas’s universe isn’t on the silver screen. It’s in the myriad books and comics that have come since the “Holy Trinity” was released.
Anyone who’s read Timothy Zahn’s Thrawn Trilogy (which stars Luke, Leia and the gang and takes place after Jedi) will tell you they would have much rather seen it made into movies than The Phantom Menace and its two buddies. Anyone who has read the comic book Knights of the Old Republic and seen its wonderfully detailed art will tell you that it blows The Ewok Adventure out of the water.
The reason behind this is simple: these were written by actual writers. Lucas is not a writer; he is an idea man. I know, because we can smell our own kind. Idea men may write and produce works that capture the imagination, but the actual writing is usually adequate at best. Just look at the dialogue in any Star Wars movie. It’s as wooden as R2’s ancient ancestors. But the world he has created is as real and varied as our own. Lucas had created one of the greatest playgrounds in all of creation, and a multitude of writers and artists have made the most of it.
So let’s give old George a break. Instead of acting like spoiled kids on Christmas who didn't get the present they wanted, instead of mocking him for his bad dialogue and cheesy writing, we should be thanking him for creating a place where talented writers and artists can go to let loose and express themselves. I hope that one day I may find myself in such a position, disgruntled geeks and all.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The Bastard: Pizza Hut Blues
NOTE: This blog has been retroactively labeled a Bastard Blog.
This is a modified version of a blog I wrote on July 23, 2008. And by the way, my wages have increased a whopping $.26 since I wrote this, and my share of the delivery charge has actually decreased. How's that for "caring" for your employees?
Being a driver for Pizza Hut is the latest in a long line of crappy jobs for yours truly. I've worked my share of soulless corporate jobs, but this may be the one that has made me feel most like an indentured servant.
Here's the scoop: I get paid the kingly sum of $7.02 an hour. Yes indeed, I am makin' those ends meet like a muthafucka. In this favorable economic climate, I am provided with a wealth of options on which to spend this abundance of benjamins. I can buy 15 sunflower seeds, two sticks of gum, or, if I feel like splurging, I have just enough to bribe the ticket guy to let me into a movie (not many people know that you can bribe those ticket office folks for a full $2 under your average ticket price). I can't afford prostitutes, but I can afford to pay them to watch me watch porn, so that's a start.
The point is, I live off of my tips. There are two problems with living off of tips. The first problem is the people I deliver to. They, in general, suck. Either my very presence is capable of causing a mild and temporary memory loss concerning how much it costs to fuel and maintain a car, or my customers consistently incur amnesia-inducing head wounds on the way to answering the door. Either way, I often end up getting screwed (metaphorically, that is; I have yet to experience that old porn classic tip-by-way-of-kinky-sex scenario, although I'm sure my girlfriend isn't complaining). It is not unusual for me to receive less than $1 as my "tip" (change is not a tip; it's change). I understand that times are hard, but when you get pizza delivered you are entering into an unspoken contract. "I agree to tip my driver in return for the convenience of him bringing me hot food." If you can't honor that contract, then get up off your lazy ass and get your own damn pizza.
Here's the truly screwed up Part 2 to this story: Pizza Hut is stealing money out of my pocket. Now don't get me wrong; I've been abused by my corporate masters since I started working. However, I'm just not accustomed to the abuse being quite so blatant and in your face. Each delivery comes with a $2.50 delivery charge. I believe it was $1.50 a year ago. Most people assume that this money goes to the driver. That would be logical, but it would also be wrong. I get a whopping $1.03 of that money, while Pizza Hut, who hasn't done diddly as far as I can tell, gets $1.47. A year ago, I got (I believe) $.87. So I went from receiving 58% of my delivery fees to 41% (or, to put it another way, in the last year my share has risen $.16, while their share has risen $1.00).
Now, I'm a progressive, 21st century kind of guy. I'm secure in my sexuality, and I agree with Playboy when they say that today's straight male doesn't have to be ashamed of enjoying anal stimulation. But I want to be shown a nice night out on the town, complete with dinner and dancing, before someone has their way with me, and it'd be nice if lube was brought into play. Apparently Pizza Hut has something more along the lines of Brando's "Last Tango In Paris," here's-some-butter-now-take-it-whether-you-want-it-or-not action in mind. Uncool.
I hear their rationale is that they have to pay for insurance for their drivers. Boo hoo. I already pay for my own insurance. Why should I have to pony up for theirs, as well? This is another fine example of a corporation screwing over their employees for another fraction of a percentage point of profit. The worst part of all? They sent out a letter saying they were raising the delivery charge because they "care so much" about their employees. Having money essentially stolen out of my pocket is bad enough, but telling me a bald-faced lie to justify it is like kicking me in the nuts after hitting me in the head with a bat.
The moral of the story? If there is a delivery charge from your local pizza place, find out how much of it goes to the driver and tip accordingly. Never tip less than $3 (I don't care if it's late; it's almost never the driver's fault), and if you know you're in an out-of-the-way location you should tip at least a dollar or two more than that. For those of you getting freebies, a free pizza does not mean you don't have to tip your driver; I still drove the damn thing to you, didn't I (you have no idea how often I bring a free pizza to someone's house and never see one cent from them)? If anything, you should tip a little better.
Oh yeah, and be at home when you order a pizza, or at least be where you can hear someone knocking on your door. I can't tell you how many times I've had to sit at someone's door waiting for them to get home or hear my incessant knocking, bell ringing, and phone calling. Nothing says "You mean less than nothing to me" better than making someone wait because you decided to go get a six-pack 30 minutes after you ordered a pizza.
And for god's sake, have your payment ready! I don't want to stand at your door while you scrounge up money from four different roommates or write out a check, especially in the winter. You've had plenty of time to do that, and I have other pizzas to deliver. Show some respect. And if one more person pays me completely in change, I swear to god I'm going to take off a shoe and sock, fill the sock with the change, and beat them with it (today I got paid $18 in change for a $17.60 order, which is doubly insulting).
It all boils down to this: your pizza driver hates his job, guaranteed. He has to deal with rude, inconsiderate people all day/night, not to mention working with people who generally don't give two shits about anyone but themselves. A few dollars doesn't mean much to you (if it does then you shouldn't be getting food delivered), but it means a lot to your driver. And if you have enough money to be truly kind and give a tip of $5 or more, you may just make someone's night. At the least, you'll be helping to compensate for the last asshole he delivered to who stiffed him.
So please, be kind to your pizza driver. Treat him like a human being, rather than a pizza with a large, mobile growth attached to it. It will help make his job a little more tolerable.
This is a modified version of a blog I wrote on July 23, 2008. And by the way, my wages have increased a whopping $.26 since I wrote this, and my share of the delivery charge has actually decreased. How's that for "caring" for your employees?
Being a driver for Pizza Hut is the latest in a long line of crappy jobs for yours truly. I've worked my share of soulless corporate jobs, but this may be the one that has made me feel most like an indentured servant.
Here's the scoop: I get paid the kingly sum of $7.02 an hour. Yes indeed, I am makin' those ends meet like a muthafucka. In this favorable economic climate, I am provided with a wealth of options on which to spend this abundance of benjamins. I can buy 15 sunflower seeds, two sticks of gum, or, if I feel like splurging, I have just enough to bribe the ticket guy to let me into a movie (not many people know that you can bribe those ticket office folks for a full $2 under your average ticket price). I can't afford prostitutes, but I can afford to pay them to watch me watch porn, so that's a start.
The point is, I live off of my tips. There are two problems with living off of tips. The first problem is the people I deliver to. They, in general, suck. Either my very presence is capable of causing a mild and temporary memory loss concerning how much it costs to fuel and maintain a car, or my customers consistently incur amnesia-inducing head wounds on the way to answering the door. Either way, I often end up getting screwed (metaphorically, that is; I have yet to experience that old porn classic tip-by-way-of-kinky-sex scenario, although I'm sure my girlfriend isn't complaining). It is not unusual for me to receive less than $1 as my "tip" (change is not a tip; it's change). I understand that times are hard, but when you get pizza delivered you are entering into an unspoken contract. "I agree to tip my driver in return for the convenience of him bringing me hot food." If you can't honor that contract, then get up off your lazy ass and get your own damn pizza.
Here's the truly screwed up Part 2 to this story: Pizza Hut is stealing money out of my pocket. Now don't get me wrong; I've been abused by my corporate masters since I started working. However, I'm just not accustomed to the abuse being quite so blatant and in your face. Each delivery comes with a $2.50 delivery charge. I believe it was $1.50 a year ago. Most people assume that this money goes to the driver. That would be logical, but it would also be wrong. I get a whopping $1.03 of that money, while Pizza Hut, who hasn't done diddly as far as I can tell, gets $1.47. A year ago, I got (I believe) $.87. So I went from receiving 58% of my delivery fees to 41% (or, to put it another way, in the last year my share has risen $.16, while their share has risen $1.00).
Now, I'm a progressive, 21st century kind of guy. I'm secure in my sexuality, and I agree with Playboy when they say that today's straight male doesn't have to be ashamed of enjoying anal stimulation. But I want to be shown a nice night out on the town, complete with dinner and dancing, before someone has their way with me, and it'd be nice if lube was brought into play. Apparently Pizza Hut has something more along the lines of Brando's "Last Tango In Paris," here's-some-butter-now-take-it-whether-you-want-it-or-not action in mind. Uncool.
I hear their rationale is that they have to pay for insurance for their drivers. Boo hoo. I already pay for my own insurance. Why should I have to pony up for theirs, as well? This is another fine example of a corporation screwing over their employees for another fraction of a percentage point of profit. The worst part of all? They sent out a letter saying they were raising the delivery charge because they "care so much" about their employees. Having money essentially stolen out of my pocket is bad enough, but telling me a bald-faced lie to justify it is like kicking me in the nuts after hitting me in the head with a bat.
The moral of the story? If there is a delivery charge from your local pizza place, find out how much of it goes to the driver and tip accordingly. Never tip less than $3 (I don't care if it's late; it's almost never the driver's fault), and if you know you're in an out-of-the-way location you should tip at least a dollar or two more than that. For those of you getting freebies, a free pizza does not mean you don't have to tip your driver; I still drove the damn thing to you, didn't I (you have no idea how often I bring a free pizza to someone's house and never see one cent from them)? If anything, you should tip a little better.
Oh yeah, and be at home when you order a pizza, or at least be where you can hear someone knocking on your door. I can't tell you how many times I've had to sit at someone's door waiting for them to get home or hear my incessant knocking, bell ringing, and phone calling. Nothing says "You mean less than nothing to me" better than making someone wait because you decided to go get a six-pack 30 minutes after you ordered a pizza.
And for god's sake, have your payment ready! I don't want to stand at your door while you scrounge up money from four different roommates or write out a check, especially in the winter. You've had plenty of time to do that, and I have other pizzas to deliver. Show some respect. And if one more person pays me completely in change, I swear to god I'm going to take off a shoe and sock, fill the sock with the change, and beat them with it (today I got paid $18 in change for a $17.60 order, which is doubly insulting).
It all boils down to this: your pizza driver hates his job, guaranteed. He has to deal with rude, inconsiderate people all day/night, not to mention working with people who generally don't give two shits about anyone but themselves. A few dollars doesn't mean much to you (if it does then you shouldn't be getting food delivered), but it means a lot to your driver. And if you have enough money to be truly kind and give a tip of $5 or more, you may just make someone's night. At the least, you'll be helping to compensate for the last asshole he delivered to who stiffed him.
So please, be kind to your pizza driver. Treat him like a human being, rather than a pizza with a large, mobile growth attached to it. It will help make his job a little more tolerable.
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