Sunday, November 26, 2006

Karma is a bitch!

Last week it rained really hard here in D.C. So hard in fact, that many roads were washed out and dozens of car crashes occurred. Stuff like that is pretty typical in the city with the second or third worse traffic in the country. Most of the time everybody is just on the edge of getting into accidents, saved by the grace of God, or by the skin of their teeth. It’s pretty amazing we aren’t all dead yet.

I had the need to drive in this most foul and horrendous weather last week. I was on my way to visit my most sainted and elderly grandmother in the old folks home. I was to bring her cookies and sing folk songs to all of those wonderful octogenarians who resided there. Their own families couldn’t always make it out there to visit their parents and grandparents often enough, so I liked to fill that void of love by visiting and listening to all their exiting and interesting stories. My grandmother had the best.

It was rough going that day my friends. The weather started getting rough, my tiny car was tossed. It took all of my cunning and skills to keep my car (name: Keep Getting Caught, interesting story there, but that’s for another time) from skidding off the road and ending up overturned, trapping me in a ditch where I would slowly and painfully suffer and die. I wasn’t digging too much on that idea, so I kept my speed slow to ensure my getting there safely to bring joy and happiness to the old people without whom America would not be the great country it is today.

As I came closer to the nursing home, a car appeared in my rear view mirror. It had no headlights on and was driving a little too quickly for my taste. As it closed in on me I saw just how erratically the car was swerving. I got nervous, so I pulled over to the next lane, just to get out of this cat’s way. It didn’t work.

He must have been going to the same place as me, (maybe he had a booty call at the nursing home. I dunno, who am I to judge?) because he made all the same moves I did. Finally I got an idea. I decided to slow down enough to piss this guy off (who was obviously in a rush) so that he’d go into another lane. Dynamite idea, right? Sho nuff!

I slowed down. The speed limit was 45 mphs, I was going 20. There’s no way somebody going so fast would tolerate such a slow driver in front of them. And I was right, after a minute of his brights blinding me and his horn making me deaf, he pulled over into the other lane. I thought I was safe. But there was something I didn’t notice: He didn’t speed up to pass me.

A minute went by; I figured that everything was gravy, so I started to increase my speed. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the car speeds by me and immediately swerves into my lane! The bastard cut me off! I wasn’t ready for that maneuver and was caught by surprise. I jammed my foot on the break, and tried to keep the car from spinning out of control. I barely managed to maintain. Furious at his insane behavior I kept driving. Slowly my heart rate went down until I could drive without seeing red in front of my eyes.

Then it happened.

Like a flash, the car, (which was a hundred yards in front of me) went too fast on a turn and hit a concrete embankment. It flipped, it caught fire. It was brutal looking. I slowed as I came near. No other cars were in sight. I rushed from K.G.C. to see what had happened to the driver. Smoke filled my lungs and stung my eyes until there were tears. I coughed and blindly made my way to the overturned driver’s portion. Then I saw him and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

His head was a mass of cuts, shards of glass from the window were embedded in the skin of his face. Parts of his scalp hung loosely from the top of his head in flaps. The bone from his right arm jutted gruesomely from the soft pulpy flesh of his forearm. His legs lay in unnatural positions, one behind his head, one in front of his face. Had he the ability to move his body, he could have kissed his own shin. By the way he was sitting I knew that most, if not all, of his ribs were broken.

I braved the heat and the disgusting sight until I was close enough to see him, to touch him. Then, as his eyes opened and focused in on my approach, I knelt down in front of him.

And punched that asshole right in the face.

“That’s what you get for cutting me off you bitch!”

The moral of this story? If you cut me off in traffic you are going to die. Pretty simple and straight-forward moral I think.

(This story brought to you by the Van Munchausen Board. Have you had your Munchausen today?)

Friday, November 24, 2006

An ode to good times, good weather and big ass paintball welts

There’s nothing like a cold paintball hitting you in the ass at one million miles per hour to make you feel alive!

It was a cold, brisk autumn (I prefer saying autumn instead of fall because I’m pretentious like that) morning. I found myself, at ridiculous o’ clock in the morning, at a paintball (place? Site? Area?) with one of those names that inspire feelings of excitement and adventure in people when they go there. Something like, “Exciting Adventure Balls” or whatever. Not important, on with the story.

Anyway, days earlier, in a drunken haze, I had foolishly agreed to go paintballing with some friends. I’d never done it before, but thought it looked like fun. I did plenty of laser tag when I was a kid, (remember that shit?!) and figured that it would be similar, but more colorful. Besides, I thought to myself, I spent five years in the Army and two years in Iraq, I should beast all over the other paintballers like Rambo in a northwestern hick town! Which could make sense, except that I never fired my rifle in Iraq and I wasn’t even in the infantry. Hell, the only military maneuvers I know I learned from Stripes. And I don’t think they would apply on the paintball battlefield.

My first assessment of the paintball place was grim. It was full of little kids wearing eighty different varieties of camouflage. And here I was in a neon-bright orange shirt with yellow stripes, which could be seen from outerspace. Not the smartest move on my part. Luckily I had a left over protective chemical suit from the army, which, besides the elastic strap that goes from the back of the jacket to the front via the crotchtal region, was quite comfortable and warm.

After (literally) three or four hours of waiting, we were finally given the gear and instructions we needed to paintball successfully! (Instructions: Please don’t shoot the wildlife and don’t hit somebody in the head from less than 20 feet. Two annoying rules that I planned on immediately breaking.) Armed with my awkwardly weighted paintball gun and over 700 paintballs, I was ready to go forth and do battle in the name of queen and country!

The ineffectual employees of Adventurous Balls of Excitement trundled 40 of us would-be paintballers about a quarter-mile down this path, laced with rocks, stumps, roots and other hazards designed to rip an unsuspecting foot off. The whole time we had to wear our masks over our faces, just in case an errant paintball found its way into our eye sockets.

The rules were simple; a seven-minute game of capture the flag, 20 on 20. Try to shoot people without being shot. Lather, rinse, repeat. When I stepped out into that wooded playing area, filled with obstacles and barriers, I felt alive! I was a man, getting back to my most primitive urges of trying to shoot other people in the face, and loving every minute of it. Then, just as my sense of connectedness with the world reached it’s ultimate peak and I could barely contain the primal hunter within me, they blew the whistle to start the game.

That’s when everything went to hell.

My enemies melted into the woods, invisible to my neophyte eyes. Paintballs came flying at me from the left, the right and in front of me. I immediately reverted to my finely honed military training, dodging and weaving through the fierce hail of balls, (wow, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say!) hoping for some sort of cover, a barrier from these small spherical objects filled with a paint that suspiciously had the same color and texture of jizz. But it was no use. My opponents were skilled in the art of paintballing, they knew how to use angles and junk to take out their foes. I was no match for them.

We played a total of six games. In five of those games I was shot in the face. And let me tell you, that mask doesn’t offer that much protection. When we were done and I was able to take the mask off my face looked like I was the willing recipient of a Bukkake shot. Unsavory.

In that one game where I wasn’t shot in the face, I was shot in the ass. To be able to shoot me in the ass a player from the other team would have to have gotten through enemy lines and attacked me from the rear. Since this wasn’t possible three seconds after the game began, I could only assume that it was one of the dozen of people who were standing behind me on my own team who did the evil deed. That’s gratitude for you.

Next time I’m going to freeze my paintballs and then shoot everybody, regardless of what team they’re on. Then, once everybody is dead I will bring democracy to the paintball field and restore the infrastructure there. After all, it’s the American way!

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

The History of Thanksgiving

Ahhh, the colors of the leaves on the trees, the smell of a plump and juicy (unless you’re at my mom’s house in which case it’s a dried out and whizzled old) turkey, the sound of people shuffling through dead leaves, lost on their way back home because it gets dark unnaturally quickly, the taste of a fresh and deliciously prepared pumpkin pie, and the feel of something vaguely autumn-related on your fingertips; they all combine to spell out one thing: tryptophan. Just kidding, they spell out Thanksgiving, the American holiday dedicated to eating large quantities of food, watching football games and falling asleep at random points in the afternoon. Oh yeah, and giving thanks.

I would be remiss this holiday season if I didn’t help those of you out there with any and all Thanksgiving questions. Because who hasn’t wondered about the secret, mystery-shrouded origins of this ancient and beloved holiday? I know that I wonder. A lot. It consumes me. So, I figured that other people might also be interested in the past, and maybe settle a bar bet or two. Please sit back and enjoy as I present this short, but completely thorough and one hundred percent accurate history of Thanksgiving.

THE NEW WORLD, (i.e. America) 1645

After a long and devastating war between the Catholics and the Protestants, resulting in the deaths of millions and the invention of the microwave oven, the super up-tight Protestants gathered together on boats made from billions of pine needles woven together and began their journey to America where they could live in up-tight splendor. Not engaging in sexual relations, drinking, using soap or showing any parts of their bodies beneath the lower lip

When these pilgrims (Latin for geeked-out loser) arrived in America, they landed at Plymouth Rock, which immediately sunk their boats, removing all hope ever returning to the old country (Blatislava I think?) But the pilgrims didn’t mind because they looked only to the future and because they were really stupid. What they didn’t count on was landing during the biggest snowstorm to ever hit the east coast, (as featured in the movie The Day after tomorrow)

The first thing the pilgrims did was to sign a pact, while they were still on their boat (the SS Minnow) that no matter how bad it got in the new world, they would never eat each other. This important and history-making pact is known to us today as The Something-or-Other. I did a report about it in 8th grade.

As previously mentioned, the pilgrims were stupid, and didn’t really know what it would take to survive in this new and exciting world. Whereas a normal person might bring tools to build houses and seeds to plant vegetables, these people only brought corkscrews and Playstations. This was quite a tragic move as electricity had not been invented yet. So basically, ye olde pilgrims were screwed.

Until they met Squanto. You see, Squanto was a hero amongst his tribe (the asquamotavotivains) which was located very close to the cesspool the pilgrims decided to set up in. He was the Indian version of Superman, he could do anything: fight bears with his legs tied behind his back, swim up waterfalls to spawn with the trout, fly across giant precipices and make love to five squaws simultaneously.

Squanto taught the pilgrims how to plant barley, hops, yeast, bananas and cannabis trees. He showed them the secrets to trapping and killing the wiley and extremely cunning wild turkey, and he instructed them on the proper way to drink wine while acting pretentious and snooty.

The pilgrims were so thankful for the things Squanto showed them that they decided to have a really big party with food and fun for everybody. It was to be the first Thanksgiving. Sadly, the pilgrims got distracted and slaughtered Squanto’s tribe instead, but at least their hearts were in the right place, right?


The nation was deep in a war between people who were for turning to communism and people who preferred a totalitarian oligarchy. Our 23rd president, Abraham “Deep Pockets” Lincoln needed something to unify the people of America. Luckily, Lincoln had a time machine and was able to go back to the planning of the first Thanksgiving. He thought it was a great idea, (though it lacked a little in the execution) and decided to bring it back with him. Thus Thanksgiving was born. He also placed it on the fourth Thursday of November. This might seem arbitrary, but it actually required a lot of calculations and phases of the moon and junk like that. Trust me, it was a lot of work.

YOUR HOUSE, TODAY (well, not today really, tomorrow would be more accurate)

This Thanksgiving you will most likely (unless you’re a dirty, hippy vegetarian!) enjoy turkey, cranberry sauce, some sort of potatoes, gravy, some pies, booze and Go-bots. This is because of the sacrifice and hard work put forth by the pilgrims so long ago (and by the sacrifice and hard work put forth by the illegal aliens last week.) So be proud of your heritage and be sure to fill yourself to bursting this Thanksgiving. Do it for Squanto!

Friday, November 17, 2006

Help people, don’t annoy them

I’m sitting here in my apartment, trying to find the ultimate in Amish-Midget-Donkey porn online, when a commercial catches my eye. It’s another in the long and frustrating series of commercials by a group that I like to call “beating you over the head with the truth until you want to”

You might be familiar with these people, they stage public events and demonstrations to show just how naughty cigarette-smoking is. Many of these commercials feature hip and attractive young people taking their displeasure at the very idea of smoking cigarettes to the world by putting piles of body bags outside of a tobacco company, or physically attacking and maiming innocent smokers on the streets of random cities. Well, they don’t actually attack anybody, but I think they’d get their point across better if they did.

The problem with most of the commercials these guys do, (actually all of the commercials) is that this organization chooses the worst ways to explain just how much they don’t dig on cigarettes. They end up coming across more as annoying jerks than people out to do the public good. They’re the kind of people that you wouldn’t invite to a party because they’d spend the whole time hassling the other guests about something and justifying it by saying that it’s for their (the other guests) own good.

I feel kinda bad for the people at “nobody cares about the” because even though they’re winning the battle to outlaw cigarettes, they’re doing it the wrong way. Everybody knows cigarettes are bad, we all know they have toxins and chemicals and radioactive material and whatnot that isn’t the best stuff to be around because they cause birth defects, cancer horrible mutations and conversions to Scientology. Yet this group insists on telling us this stuff constantly, as if we’re all relatives of George W. or something (ooh, that was a low blow wasn’t it? I mean, there are plenty of people stupider than him, like Jessica Simpson, Tom Cruise and, ummm, that one person I don’t like because she did that thing that one time.)

Check this out, in the second sentence of the last paragraph, I summed up, in only 38 words, (I think, my math really sucks, when I was counting I ran out of fingers and toes at 20 and had to guess the rest of the numbers) the entire point that “smoking isn’t so” has been trying to make for years. There! It’s done! They can retire and go annoy people about other things! I’ve got a great mission for them. As a left-handed person I am forced to live in a world that is not made for me. Scissors, school desks, M-249 machine guns, all of those things are made for you right-handed spawn of Satan. This group could do some shady medical studies about how having to cope with this mad mad mad mad mad mad world has caused severe suffering for my tendons or something. Not to mention emotional damage.

Then, if they’re successful, we could sue just about every company in the world and force things to be more equalitarian for us southpaws. Because when you think about it, we’re the last unrepresented minority group. It really will be a matter of time until something goes down. With so many causes being taken up by groups and celebrities, there’s barely any causes left to champion.

And I’ve got a great idea for the commercials. We could have members of (you like that?) go up to random people on the streets of cities, towns and villages across America (does America even have villages?) and slap them in the face with their right hands. Then, some guy holding a piece of paper that looks like an official document, with various sentences blacked out to make it look like somebody’s trying to hide something from regular Joe American, can say how those slaps would be less painful if people were forced to use their left hands more. Then we’d throw some “stats” up on the screen, without citing any sources (sources? We don’t need no stinkin’ sources!) about how people are forced to use their right hands too much and that they are much stronger than their puny, underdeveloped left hands. And if certain laws were passed, everybody would have to use only their left hands for five years or so, just until both sides were equal.

I think that message is strong and will definitely bring out all types of legislation for change. So join me, in giving left-handed slaps more strength! Our motto? “Keep your left pimp hand strong!”

Friday, November 10, 2006

For your viewing pleasure

As hinted at (repeatedly) in previous blog columns, I used to be a professional movie reviewer for a newspaper. And of course, by professional I mean that I wrote an 800-word column about whatever movie I had seen that weekend and the newspaper printed it. I had no experience or training in films, I’ve never been in a movie, (though I have been in a commercial, music video and t.v. show, but that’s a topic for another day) and I don’t hob-knob or rub elbows with movie stars or directors. Which makes me in no way qualified to be a movie reviewer. Yet I was anyway, which just goes to show you, (I don’t know what it goes to show, but it’s something.)

Anyway, I’ve decided to introduce a new reoccurring column topic which is sure to annoy and vex many a person. Sound like fun?

Allow me to introduce the concept of movie reviewing without actually going to see the movie that’s being reviewed! That’s right, this is my first installment of:


Borat: Sorry everybody but this movie looks like straight ass to me. I don’t find it funny, just really, really annoying. It’s the same guy who does Ali G right? How many people saw his Ali G movie? All of none of them! Trust me, this guy peaked when he was the limo driver in that one Madonna video. I’m sure Borat will be the number one movie in America for eight weeks or whatever, but on the other hand, this is the country that’s had America’s Funniest Home Videos on the air for the last two decades even though it’s the same basic idea in every video, (somebody gets hit in the nuts by something and hilarity ensues.)

The Santa Clause 3: I actually liked the first one of these, and the second one wasn’t too horrible, but I think the third is overkill. How many damn clauses are in this Santa contract? Why is there a contract anyway? Do Santas die on the regular? Is there no job security for them? Perhaps health care? A Santa stubs his toe and he’s automatically dropped for a new guy? I don’t get it. If you do go see this movie make sure it’s because you have kids who want to see it. Don’t go see it in the theater alone, while wearing a raincoat. I learned that the hard way.

Flushed Away: Another kids’ movie. Remember when CGI movies were few and far between and were of better quality? Then they started coming out with these things eight or nine times a year with cutesy little woodland creatures that are highly merchandisable and America began its descent into a lower circle of hell. Flushed Away is CGI, but it’s done in the style of that guy who does claymation movies with cheese-fiend Wallace and his dog Gromit. He also did Chicken Run. You can tell this guy’s style because every character’s mouth looks as though he just gambled and lost with a messy fart in his pants. I think it’s dumb, but that’s just me. I’m sure kids will like this movie since, well, they like anything. Hell, I had the most fun as a kid playing with a cardboard box.

Saw III: The first two movies in this series were damn good, and really freaky, (that one scene in Saw II with the chick in the pit of hypodermic needles was really nasty.) So I think this sequel (triquel?) will be good, I just hope they don’t run the well dry by making too many. But didn’t the killer die in the second one? Who’s going to be the killer in this one? (My money is on Donald Rumsfeld.)

Well, I could spend all day doing this, but then there wouldn’t be any movies to review next week. Maybe I’ll actually go see these flicks then we’ll see just how good my skills as a movie reviewer are.

(And everybody don’t forget my banner contest. Remember, a kick ass banner linking to my blog, will win that creator a very special and super-duper prize, that isn’t at all a cheap t-shirt made by some two-year-old in a Chinese sweatshop located in the bowels of some tenement in the Bronx! God Bless American Capitalism. Anyway, the contest ends November 15th, at which point I will declare the winner and put his or her name out in the public for praise or ridicule, depending on what you think of this blog in the first place. Thanks for your participation and thanks for reading my blog. I write to be funny and I’m glad that you all seem to appreciate it and get the joke.)

Friday, November 03, 2006

She blinded me with Science (then severely beat me into a coma with Science)

So I was watching this show last night on Discovery Science Nature National Geographic Lifetime Learning Channel, or one of those 8 million types of channels, about Giant Squids, (you might have seen it too, and if you did then may god have mercy on your eternal soul!)

Anyway, the show was about these two scientists in different parts of the world, (Japan and New Zealand) who have dedicated their lives to finding and documenting the famous and incredibly elusive giant squid, (hence the subject of the show.) These two guys were really intent on finding out everything about the giant squid and they figured that once they were able to put all the pieces to that long-existing puzzle together, the world would be a much easier place to understand and it would all make sense.

That’s when it hit me. Here are two guys, they’re probably professors or something along those lines, I’m sure they’re smart, I mean, they know more about giant squids than I do, but they don’t seem to realize that NOBODY GIVES A DAMN ABOUT GIANT SQUIDS!!!!

And I started to wonder, how many other scientists and smart guys are out there trying to figure out things that nobody cares about and will have no impact on our lives one way or the other? Oodles, I bet. Oodles and oodles. Oh and before you start trying to rationalize the search for the giant squid, they don’t have some kind of gland that will cure anything we have or give us superpowers, (I checked) so it truly is pointless.

Think about it, honestly. We’ve got brilliant people dedicating their lives and who knows how many untold millions of dollars on things that will never affect us (people) at all. Do we really need a drug injection that can make mice stronger? Has there been a demand for that? Historically recreating, in excruciating detail, exactly what a Maculinea alcon arenaria looked like, is that vital in any way? (It’s a subspecies of Alcon Blue Butterfly, whatever that means, that was native to New Zealand and went extinct in the 1970s in case you were wondering. Hooray for Wikipedia!)

What happened to the scientific promises of our past? Where are the jetpacks? The hovercars? Robotic girlfriends with realistic warm flesh that won’t say no and will love you no matter how fat or ugly you are or how long you go without bathing? (a personal dream of mine) What about movies being directly beamed into my head, or virtual reality? Weren’t we doing something with VR back in the 90s?

I was always hoping we’d be going somewhere with cloning. I personally have no morals or ethics of any sort, so I don’t mind the idea of cloning. In fact, I was depending on it. I dreamed that by the time I was an adult, cloning would be perfected to the point where we could create and mature a clone in less time (with a few modifications a la genetic tinkering, if you know what I mean, wink wink!) and we’d be able to transfer memories and brainwaves and other scientific stuff of that nature into the new clone. Because I don’t know about the rest of you, but I personally don’t plan on dying. Ever. There’s way too much for me to accomplish and I need at least a few centuries to get it all done.

So, what’s the deal? Are there congressmen we can write to, to tell them about this waste of money and intelligence? Perhaps some colleges we can go to and tell them to knock that shit off? I dunno. But something needs to be done, because I need my own Vicki (the robot chick from Small Wonder, remember that shit?) to live with for the next 200 years or so. And at this rate none of that’s gonna happen.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Cartoon logic at its finest!

I have no life. I freely admit that. And what little life I do have revolves a lot around cartoons. But, after 25 wasted years of life I’ve come up with a few questions, most of them deal with Scooby-Doo, but a lot of them are just Hanna-Barbara related in general.

Why do Scooby-Doo and Astro have the same speech impediment? Wouldn’t they have figured out how to correct speech problems in talking dogs in the future?
What kind of name is Scooby-Doo anyway?
Why doesn’t Srappy-Doo have the same speech impediment?
Speaking of an inability to speak properly, why is Donald Duck the only duck in the Disney universe who has beak issues? I mean, every other frickin duck has no problem enunciating.
And don’t even get me started on Porky Pig. I’ve got no problem with speech impediments, but is there some kind of union rule that all major cartoon studios can’t hire based on handicaps? Why not a cute little paraplegic titmouse? (I just like saying tit) or a raccoon without a paw or something?
Mystery Inc, (Scooby and the gang), do they actually live anywhere? I mean, in every episode you watch they’re always driving to some uncle’s house or something to spend the weekend. Don’t they have jobs, or houses or something like that? How do they even survive? They don’t charge for their mystery solving skills!
Velma: gay?
Peppermint Patty and Marcie: lesbian couple?
How did the entire prehistoric Flintstone society invent advanced shit like dishwashers and showers, but they totally missed the boat on pants? They’ve got ties, so they must have some fashion sense. But no pants? Either they were stupid in some pretty obvious ways or they were a lot freakier than we first realized.
Speaking of pants, why do cartoon animals always wear shirts and gloves, (gloves?) but not pants? Don’t their giblets get cold? I guess not, they seem to all be pretty barren down there, (not that I’m looking at cartoon animal groins, but some things, or lack of things kind of stand out)
Goofy can talk, Pluto can’t. They’re both dogs. Can somebody explain? And why does Mickey have one dog as a best friend and one as a pet? Doesn’t Goofy ever get pissed at how his boy treats a fellow dog?
Who doesn’t wish that their lives had some groovy cartoon sound effects?
Anime? (Not any question in particular just, Anime?)
What’s up when cartoon characters watch cartoons? Does that strike anybody else as weird?
I know this is an obvious one, but Bart as been 10 and in the fourth grade for 17 years now, anybody see a problem with that?
Anybody else think that the Simpsons movie could possibly (and I know this is blasphemy) suck?
Is Gem really excitement? Is she truly outrageous?
This isn’t really a sane thing to say, but I’ve got a thing for the older sister from Lilo & Stitch, is that wrong? (That little pooch she’s got is sexy!)

And there’s dozens more questions where those came from. I didn’t even get to the fact that cartoon characters always wear the same clothes, (except for the kids from Weekenders) sup with that?
Aah! I’m getting a headache. I need to go lie down.

(And everybody, don’t forget my banner contest. Remember, a kick ass banner linking to my blog, will win that creator a very special and super-duper prize, that isn’t at all a cheap t-shirt made by some two-year-old in a Chinese sweatshop located in the bowels of some tenement in the Bronx! God Bless American Capitalism. Anyway, the contest ends November 15th, at which point I will declare the winner and put his or her name out in the public for praise or ridicule, depending on what you think of this blog in the first place. Thanks for your participation and thanks for reading my blog. I write to be funny and I’m glad that you all seem to appreciate it and get the joke.)