Thursday, February 28, 2013

Disney's "Cars" Responsible for Untold Deaths (Possibly 0)

Goddam it, Cars, stop teaching our kids that it is safe to guzzle things like engine coolant, "mouth watering" motor oil, and antifreeze.1

Those kind of drinks are only for responsible mommy and daddy cars over 50,000 miles.

1 Incidentally, antifreeze used to be clear and used to be removed from cars seasonally before it was discovered to double as an agent to also raise the evaporation point of gasoline during warmer months. Originally it would be drained in Spring and left in mason jars in many garages. Understandably, this led to several deaths each Summer, as overheated mechanics and their acquaintances mistook these bottles for jars of
   To this end, scientists dyed antifreeze a terribly unappetizing neon-green color. They later petitioned Gatorade to change it's color to avoid a resurgence of confusion, to which Gatorade politely told the nerds to shove it. Antifreeze was then dyed an icy blue. Gatorade really, really hates scientists.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

LEGO Still Has a Sense of Humor

Star Wars LEGOs have always been one of my favorite childish adaptations of an epic franchise. They always maintain an adorable humor about their place in the grand scheme of the Saga, but they never forget that serious poodoo is going on around them. Yeah, there's a G.I. Joe level of Stormtroopers miraculously surviving certain death, but droids bite it all the time and lasers still scare people. LEGO men and women still fear death.

Which makes this new medium-difficulty set all the more adorable horrifying adorifying.

The A-Wing fighter was first utilized cinematically in the Battle of Endor, during Return of the Jedi. The fastest ship in the rebel squadrons, it was frankly too quick to be easily shot down. This was important, since the small craft were very poorly shielded. This particular A-Wing, however, was piloted by Green Squadron commander Arvel Crynyd, who managed to recover enough control over his catastrophically damaged craft to plunge it directly into the bridge of Darth Vader's personal Super Star Destroyer Executor. This could have ended very badly for no one but Arvel, had Executor just lost its bridge shields to Green Squadron's lasers.

Arvel's quick thinking got him the New Republic's highest honors posthumously, as well as a new award named in his own honor. They also ironically renamed a captured Imperial-class Star Destroyer after him. It also got him a little LEGO man who looks like this:

All the other promotional images I've found offer more of a stern, lopsided grimace of concentration, but I refuse to believe this little guy on the box is thinking about anything other than how he's doing his duty but is still really uncomfortable with this notion of "dying in a giant fireball."

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

When I'm An Adult

Let's just assume this whole post is accompanied by a soundtrack
so Jewish it pleases my Yiddish grandmother.

Yesterday was "Homemade Tomato Sauce Day," and–like all things I hype on Facebook, failed so spectacularly that I am aghast at the sheer lack of quality of it all.

I really thought I couldn't ruin this too terribly.

1) Place ten skinned, crushed roma tomatoes in a crockpot with 1/4 cup olive oil, half a small diced onion, a couple garlic cloves, a pinch of cinnamon, and 1 tsp. each basil, oregano, salt, pepper, and Cheyenne.

2) Cook on low 1-15 hours.

That's it. No fuss.

No. Fuss. After 3 hours I could tell something was wrong since the spices were burning. I mixed them in, but to no avail. Over the course of the day I encountered only an increasingly brown and blackened paste that smelled strongly of over-spiced bruschetta. After eight hours I just gave up. My best guess is the slow cooker was too big, meaning instead of stewing the tomatoes just kind of heaped in a corner while the liquid boiled off and the spices turned to charcoal in the recesses of the pot. The taste I had burned with spice violently. It looked more like undercooked meat than overcooked fruits.

All things ruined, I gave up on life and window-shopped for expensive nerd toys I can't own, which led to a solid quarter-life crisis.

Things I Will Buy When I Am An Adult:

  • A custom Force FX lightsaber
  • Movie-accurate fitted Jedi costume with belt and boots
  • A new new car. I get to drive it off the lot and everything.
  • A bed with a headboard
  • More book shelves
  • A spice rack I can't tear off the wall and heave across the kitchen in despair

Monday, February 25, 2013

On the Oscars | Video Blog!

This is how I feel every time I read someone from my graduating class publishes something:

Also, it is a pretty uncanny impression of Bradley Cooper tonight.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Dolphins Reported to Gang Rape

Magic Tree House #9: Dolphins at Daybreak.

Look at that look the lower dolphin is giving that little girl. Just look at it. That is a filthy, filthy look. I'm reminded of that shot in The Lion King during "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" when Nala gives Simba that "Come f-ck me," stare of lion-y sexpots.

Except this porpoise's gaze is also full of malice. This is not a "Come f-ck me," stare, this is a "Grab your knees and bite your sock," stare. This dolphin is up to some serious no good.

You can even tell from his friend. That little boy is all excited about where they're going to go and what they're going to do, but his mode of conveyance has his asymmetrical teeth gritted, that elongated jaw set tight and a frown on his face shouting, "Damn it, Jerry, not another one! I can't have any more of these kids on my conscience!"

This is the dolphin-y opening to a very aquatic episode of Law & Order.

Five minutes from now an octopus cab driver is going to pull up on a rotting whale carcass to eat, very happily, and shriek a terrible gurgle of horror as he finds these children's legs sticking out from behind it, wedged haphazardly into the blowhole as if to be hidden, a single shoe askew to reveal the mangles form within.

Two weary and bleary-eyed dolphins approach the scene as a team of sturgeon cordon off the local marine life.

"Ee-ee-ee-eeee-eeee-eee-e-ee-eeee," says the first.

"Eeeee-e-eee-ee-ee-e-eee-ee," replies the older, graying Jerry Orbach dolphin.


"Eee. Ee-eeee-ee … click-click-ee."

Bum-bum. Da-da-da-da daaaah duuuuuuhhh.

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Secret Codes in Teen Novels

The Barcode Tattoo by Suzanne Weyn. Teen fantasy/sci-fi novel. Scan the barcode on the back or look up the ISBN and it'll say as much.

Scan the barcode on The Barcode Tattoo, and you'll come up with the ISBN for this:

Gerald and Loretta Handman's Napoleon and Josephine.

So the hidden secret here is either

1) kids reading trashy sci-fi should be reading trashy histories, or

2) Scholastic has a thievingly lazy art department. Seriously, they could read the last chapter and code whatever the barcode is supposed to mean into an actual barcode. Online. For free. In about a minute. Instead they just swipe the ISBN barcode from their own products. Was it just a subtle product placement plug? Really, Scholastic?

Friday, February 22, 2013

The Greatest Thing In Ketchup Since Green Happened

I've been cursing ketchup packet manufacturers for quite literally decades for their tiny, inadequate fast food condiment offerings. They're awful. Palatability of a seven year old tomato-vinegar paste aside, there's just not enough of it.

Twelve. Twelve packets it takes for me to have a sufficient enough puddle of dipping sauce for my French fries. Honestly, opening them and squeezing their contents onto a little paper wrapper is tiring and messy. I understand the concept of using a minimal number of packets and recycling unused ones, but it can't possibly be cost effective. It just can't.

How many times to the two extra packets that escaped the reaping of your mighty handful end up in the garbage, either by your hand or that of an over-eager busboy? That's a waste. And all that packaging for–what?–maybe a quarter-ounce of non-Newtonian solid? You could save much more money by just doubling the amount of ketchup per packet. Wendy's does fairly well with a dip/squeeze combo packet, though it doesn't work nearly as well as a squeeze-only. Why not just make a larger plastic pack??


Thank you, Heinz. You have never steered me wrong. Not once. Not even with green ketchup. You r funny labels? Actually funny. Your flat caps for gravitational assistance of fridge storage? Actually on the bottom. And now, you've improved the ketchup packet.

Bravo, sirs. I plan to purchase one of these for my stash of food at work, for every time I get fries but don't want to spend the money on a full bottle.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Star Wars Spin-Offs I Could Live With

One of the ideas being kicked around for the reinvigorated Star Wars film franchise from Disney has been the idea of spin-off movies featuring big-name characters, the original rumor naming Yoda as a left-field frontrunner, but when that had to be a prequel for obvious reasons (is "death" a spoiler if the movie came out in 1983 and a solid 20%1 of the living human population has seen Return of the Jedi?) immediately other prequel ideas came out of the wood works.

Boba Fett was a chief contender, although I'll admit he had a way cooler backstory before Lucas got involved with it. Other possibilities would be young Luke/Leia/Han/Lando/etc. kind of films. Now, these would most likely come with all the same problems as making Boba Fett a small, whiny Kiwi kid, but they'd certainly have more recognition than a Knights of the Old Republic film or TV series employing original or lesser-known characters.

Only two of those have solid adventures and source material, though.

Yes, I am advocating for a Young Han Solo/Young Lando Calrissian film series.

Lando has a trilogy of short novels taking place just a few years prior to A New Hope, followed by a trilogy of Solo. Hand eve has two novels set even earlier. The time gap is enough to recast the rolls with decent-looking, competent actors and make it work within regular continuity. Through in a svelter, leaner Chewbacca and you're all set. Han Solo and the Paradise Snare. Lando Calrissian and the Mindharp of the Sharu. Hell, the trilogies were written as trilogies, with full story arches and self-contained villains and friends. Best of all, they could coincide as a couple Han movies introduce Lando, then Lando's wrap up with the beginnings of the Sabacc tournament on Cloud City where Lando loses the Falcon to Han.

Come on, Disney, give me a paycheck, already. I just gave you 7-8 movies complete with post-credits scenes.

So the question is, who could possibly 'replace' Harrison Ford and Billy D. Williams?2

To the latter, I give the answer which, when it occurred to me precipitated this entire tirade:

Donald Glover.

Looks like BuzzFeed had the idea already, when Donny topped their list of 12 actors best suited for the role. Taking into consideration that he's the only one who is age appropriate and looks anything like Billy D., he's the only choice for me. Don Lando in 2015. (Hashtag #DonLando please.)

For Han, I'm going to go out on a limb and name an actor who's youthful-looking enough to play Han from the ages of about 18/19 up to the 29 of A New Hope as he continues to age through about 6 years of film making. He's got a jawline, the cockeyed smirk, the build, and–this is both a point for and against him–he's got a pre-existing relationship with the Disney Corporation. He's since done adult roles, and reportedly says "nigger" in his upcoming The Paperboy.

Coached well, Zac Efron would make a solid Han Solo.3

1 Utterly made up statistic.
2 If you say "Shia LaBeouf" I will murder you with a flying saucer.
3 Efron does not get a Photoshopped picture. I'm not that committed to this idea. 

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Pocahontas' Meeko A Deadly Menace

A raccoon, behaving strangely, out in the daytime?

Pretty sure Pocahontas' little buddy frothing-crazy rabid. Poor little guy.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Secrets of Hollywood

Secrets of Hollywood #779:

Brett Ratner is colorblind.

Michael Bay, however, actually lives in an orange-teal world.

I would like it noted that this image is, to my knowledge, entirely untouched.
This is what it's like to be Michel Bay.

Monday, February 18, 2013

Walter White's Proctologist

I wonder if a scholarly article has been published yet analyzing the variance in flatulent expulsions among addicts of crystalline methamphetamines. They could call it "Breaking Wind."

Science nerds love punny journal titles and they love getting published. Come in guys, get on that.

Keeping In Touch

I'm working on keeping in touch with my ex-girlfriends nowadays. I used to try for a while and eventually they'd fall by the wayside, but not anymore. I've come up with a new solution: direct mailer family newsletter.

My aunt sends one of these out every year to give everybody a Cliff's Notes of what happened in the past year. It's a pretty brilliant idea, really.

First I get a photo of me, so they know what it is as soon as they open it. Let's make sure it's  picture of my looking cool, and having fun so they know we're all good even now. And make sure I'm wearing nice clothes, this is going out to a lot of people, after all.

The girls need to know that I have friends and I still consider them in that group. We should include other people in the photo so it doesn't look so much like a headshot. Maybe some other girls so they know I'm not pining over them. Pretty ones, too. That way they don't think, "What was I ever doing with him?" Yeah, that one up top should be fine.

Then on the back, or inside if I need room, we just do tasteful little summaries of my year, major job changes, life plans and such.
This year we had some ups and downs. Mom broke her kneecap on some ice but her physical therapists are already marveling at how quickly she's recovering.

We also added Jessica and Carol to our little circle (though not at the same time! – Sigh), so they'll be CC'd this year and from now on. Hi, girls! Jess is going back for her master's, and we wish her great luck. Carol has since moved to Philly with her new boyfriend who's a pilot! We're all taking bets on when they adopt their first terrier.

Yearly test results came back clean, as usual, so once again you all dodge an awkward phone call.
Shoutouts this year to Mel, Caitlyn, Tammy, and Joqueesha for their local production of The Vagina Monologues. It was really sweet of them to invite all of us, and especially putting us in the thank-yous of the playbill.

Best of luck to you all! And as always, I've seen you naked.


Sunday, February 17, 2013

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness, Which is Next to Pompousness

This note was left for a manager where I work yesterday. Since one was not available to speak to immediately.

Dear Manager,

Please forward this to the CEO:
I can tell by your lack of Godly cards that this company in not long for this world. When you try (as our whole nation is trying) to take God out of the picture, He eventually takes you out, instead. Turn back to God, and it will go well for you.

Joe [something I can't make out]"

 Alright, some commentary:

First, "Godly cards" refers to greeting cards. We apparently do not stock enough religious Christian greeting cards.

Secondly, I would point out that we have a reasonably large Baptist population in the tri-town area. This also explains the frequency with which I have to explain to church returnees that "All Christian bibles contain both Old and New Testaments."

Now, this person actually is not included in this bunch. If I may be a little Sherlockian for a moment:

The missive itself is properly formatted, addressed, signed, and grammatically accurate down to superfluous serial commas, implying both a secondary education and practice, as well as a relative lack of experience with text messaging and email. The mostly cursive text seconds this, but the printed acronym tells us the writer worked in relation to business enough to make logos important, graphically, even when personal handwriting is less than ideal. The idea that a major chain store manager could forward a message through any proper channel to the CEO of the entire company reflects a dearth of any knowledge of big business and corporate environments, and a implies a significantly sheltered world view. These two factors in tandem would indicate a older gentleman remembering small-town economies and conservative values including education and a predominately Christian-led society where religion was a fact of life and not an option with a plethora of possible answers. The vague connotations and threats of failed business, death, and judgement imply a righteousness likely acquired early in life but a willingness to be politically outspoken likely acquired later, this is cemented by the use of the "prayerfully" sign-off, which is bordering on the archaic. "Our nation" shows a sense of ownership, of which the directed are either not a part of or may not necessarily consider themselves to be so. The only trusted men placating religious and racial fears in media while encouraging their followers to be outspoken are preachers and forcefully FOX News. Handwriting says Joe is right-handed and meticulous. His confidence in his identity and validity are expressed through large, swooping, letters and commas and strong strokes, but not rushed.

Thus we can surmise that Joe is likely white, between the ages of 55 and 70 and worked in small-business for his entire career, possibly self-employed but has been retired for more than 6 years. He was probably the patriarch of his family, though he bares weight from his own father's dominance before him. He watches Bill O'Reilly and has at least one televangelist he openly finds appealing.

He also has nothing better to do with his day,  and makes the poor decision to shop for greeting cards in a book store.

Saturday, February 16, 2013

Everyone's A Critic

Some punk's Been marking up the men's room lately and so far even money is on the kid who sneaks Penthouse Letters in there for 5 hours a day.

I got tired of seeing his cheap scrawls.

My solution:

(Click to enlarge.)

Friday, February 15, 2013

I Give Up

Walking through the grocery store I saw Easter candy out.

Fine. It's the next logical holiday. I mean, yes, it was Valentine's Day, they coud have left out some red crap for the last-minute screw-ups or us "I want discount chocolates on the 15th" people, but fine. Fat Tuesday passed, Ash Wednesday passed, now V-Day is over and the next sugar-crash is going to be Easter, so let's roll out the goddam eggs. Fine.

Oh fuck you.

I can't even tell if this is way too early or just super-old. Those cardboard boxes look like they're in awfully good shape for being around five-plus months….

Done. Whatever. Game over, man. I'm out.

See you all in the fat-ass Wall-E future.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

White Woman Too White to Say 'N-Word'

Thank you again, BBC, for once again providing me with comedy stylings at the last precious minute.

Short version: Director asked her to use the word "nigger" in a movie set in Florida in the late '60s, a time and place where one would find many current and former convicts, many old people, and many racist people. Kidman immediately refused. Black costar was pleased by this.

However, what does this say about Kidman?

As an actor: Nicole Kidman lets her personal beliefs and feelings get in the way of providing an authentic performance. So does her actual performance, but now it's clear she's comfortable being naked on camera or playing "a blowsy hairdresser who has won the trust of the felon through sexually explicit correspondence," but not behaving dislikably as a character.

As a white person: She's not a moron. White people don't get to say that word without some serious shit going down.

Are they whitewashing the movie? No.

Thankfully, a different character still drops the N-bomb to make the movie historically accurate even if Kidman was afraid to:

Zac Efron.

Yes, Nicole Kidman is so desperate to be liked by the movie-going public that she will not use a certain word that would make her seem unlikeable or harshly antagonistic, even if it is a part of her character and her director explicitly asks this of her. However Zac Efron will probably use it a dozen times à la Shia LaBeouf's cursing in I, Robot.

"Look at me, I'm not a child actor anymore! I swear and look at asses and appear in movies not produced or sanctioned by the Disney Channel!"

Except Zac already made his jump to adult cinema. Yeah, it was Carlie St. Cloud and some other Nicholas-Sparks-esque 'chick-flic' garbage without any reality to speak of, but he's already playing characters over 20. He doesn't need to drink and smoke on camera to look older.

Which means Zac Efron said "nigger" on film because it was the right thing to do to make a better movie, and when his director said so, he did it because the whole story is more important than one snooty bitch of an actor's ego.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

The Most Emo Pre-K Workbook Ever

• Remember, it's down the road, not across the street.

• While most kids cry for their mommies, some just cry for attention.

• Soundtrack: Punk Goes Raffi


• This is why I'm against letting toddlers where long sleeves.

• This is what happens when your kid gets into your My Chemical Romance CDs. Never keep My Chemical Romance around the house. Or anywhere.

• And here I thought I had been the only cynical, self-deprecating five year old.

• Actually, using safety scissors for this type of endeavor is less a plea for help than an exercise in raw dedication.

• Next thing you know, he'll be skipping out on day care to smoke cigarettes behind the 7-Eleven with nine year olds and shacking up with the chubby goth girl from playgroup.

• And listening to The Smiths.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Further Atrocities of Romance "Literature"

Though writing trashy novels certainly paid better than etymological research could ever hope to, the word "author" never had quite the same pizazz on her business cards as, "Olivia Cunning: Linguist."

Monday, February 11, 2013

On Puzzles

I've wanted to break out my old 500 piece holographic Star Wars theatrical poster puzzles for a few months now, but I just never got around to it.

I tend to collect puzzles. Fidgets. Brain teasers. Anything that can occupy my brain for a few minutes to either distract myself from one problem to let my subconscious work on it, or distract myself AND MAKE THE VOICES STOP.

Alright, I embellish. Mostly, it's just own voice, telling me I'm awful and ruin everything. However it is much easier to shut that voice up when you have to assemble a 1500 piece jigsaw of a Faerie wedding my roommate's friend rolled out after starting it two years ago.

Looking at my bookshelf now, I can see two 3D puzzle cubes, a secret-compartment cube, a collection of Klix chains, nanodots, a Rubik's Cube, some wooden box made of I think 18 logs, a teal pyramid thing, a Rubik's Cube with all the colors reduced to black, a numerical slider game, and a couple puzzle balls. Then juggling bean bags, dice, and an unnecessary number of credentials. Really, anything to keep my mind occupied procrastinate.

I basically sat down with a Sam Adams and worked on this giant monstrosity through all of "I Love you, Man" of cable and an episode of Daniel Tosh after that. Really, if I didn't need to have a human sleep schedule I'd probably sit at that thing for a few hours more. Hopefully, when they go to roll up the current progress, my roommate is aghast at how much I did in only a couple hours.

In an impressed way, not in a "We should really get him some help," sort of way.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Ways to Describe My Beard

  • One week into a really bad breakup
  • My head-start on No-Shave November
  • For that matter, my all-year tribute to the mighty ball sac
  • Chia-Face
  • Cousin Itt bukakke
  • In a completely different way: A Japanese man's wet dream
  • Your girlfriend who shaved for you for Valentine's day, on March 1st
  • Waffle Fries (because it's so bad, but feels so good)
  • That weird button you found in the wash, in that you're afraid to ever really get rid of it
  • Sampson's Mane
  • Hipster's ski mask
  • Lopsided and shitty

Saturday, February 9, 2013

The Effects of Inter-Species Reproduction on the Well-Being of Lois Lane

Hold tight, sweetie, or all Mommy's internal organs will fall out
after you ripped her open by poking her belly button.
I have, for years, heard the argument that Lois Lane and Superman could never reproduce due to … incompatibilities in their biologies. Mallrats had the most terse remark:
If Lois gets a tan the kid could kick right through her stomach! Only someone like Wonder Woman has a strong enough uterus to carry his kid. The only way he could bang regular chicks is with a kryptonite condom, but that would kill him."
As much as I love everything Kevin Smith touched prior to and including 2001, it's an argument I never bought, and have only been irked further after reading that it was included in a truly awful script to come to light of late, that may have been an actual working draft for the Tim Burton "Superman Lives" movie starring Nicholas Cage, after Smith himself was fired for refusing to include heinously idiotic shit in his draft (which I also have).

Now, thankfully, Superman Returns did us all a favor and just showed a living, mostly healthy if a little asthmatic sire of Supes by way of the Lane-gina,  even if it did little to reinvigorate the franchise. If nothing else, it showed three important things: Lex Luthor being truly evil, Lois being borderline incompetent when it comes to avoiding getting murdered, and the fact that Kal-El and L.L. went and did it Krypto-style in the Fortress of Solitude one lonely evening.

Here's the rub: that kid is accurate.

Superman's powers come from a highly evolved biology, but nearly every power can be brought back to two distinct features of Kryptonian physiology: manipulation of one's own magnetic field, and an incredibly dense cellular structure.

Now, the latter would seem to argue that even a half-breed Kryptonian baby could easily burst accidentally forth from the abdomen of a simple Earth woman, if not for two facts:

1. The instances where Superman gets his ass handed to him any time he becomes depowered. And

2. That Superman himself gives his weight at about 220lbs.

Were density the reason for Superman's great strength, he would be incredibly massive for his size, or otherwise hollow and made of diamond. Since we know his biology to be compatible with a human's enough to interbreed (arguably meaning they are not really different species, assuming the child itself is fertile), that is not the case. Also, this should be fairly obvious in general. Moreover, density cannot be affected temporarily by radiation.

Now manipulation of his own EM field, that explains most of Superman's powers, ranging from internal and external force fields (or 'structural integrity field' if you prefer), levitation, heat and X-ray visions, selective telescopic and microscopic–even subatomic–vision, super hearing, all of those are resultant from mastery over one's production and absorption of radiant energy. In theory, Superman could even, if perfectly controlled, convert his mass directly into pure energy, decreasing that mass and allowing himself to not only fly, but achieve the speed of light, though not surpass it.

And all of this powered by solar energy.

Any child with a similar biology, conceived internally at least, would maintain typical human-Kryptonian strength and abilities as a fetus, until exposed to sunlight, even then taking a while to absorb enough to "power up," assuming this is an immediate effect of our sun as in the Christopher Reeves movies and not a maturation thing as in "Smallville."

Short Answer: Lois, avoid in-vitro and give birth in a windowless room under fluorescent lights.

Now, I still maintain that unless they do it under red sunlamps, Superman's great care to not tear our tissue paper world asunder with his might would surely be broken at the moment of climax, and he is more likely to shoot a water saw jet of super-swimmers through Lois' pelvis or up through the ceiling à la The Pro.

Friday, February 8, 2013

Vietnam Magazine | For the shell-shocked history buff

This is a real magazine. It comes out monthly with Civil War Times and American Revolution Monthly and Marine Warfare. The difference being there are only a few men alive to remember WWII Times while the rest are long out of living memory, but there's one "police action" that's still with our aging veterans.

I don't see copies of "Gulf War (I) Digest" lining newsstands. I'm honestly surprised anyone would buy this magazine, save a few guys really into the history but were too young to have been there. Most war magazines tend to be purchased by people who've actually fought wars, ironic, since they typically had no extreme desire for murder prior to that.

Who wants to remember what Vietnam was like? No one's having flashbacks reading about the Battle of Trafalgar. Who would want this?

Maybe your shrink, I guess. They especially love old magazines.

"Well, Sergent, we've never really gotten to the bottom of what happened to the village that morning, but perhaps some nice READING MATERIAL WILL JOG YOUR MEMORY!"

Oh god, oh no, please, make it stop! I don't want to remember! Those faces! Those poor faces! *Sobbing*

"I think we've made real progress here today, Billy."

How many Vietnam vets would actually buy this magazine?

You don't know, man. 'Cuz you weren't there.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

"Snob" Surprisingly MORE Pretentious Than "Aficionado"

Here's a picture of Frasier's Brother's brother Frasier from Frasier, Kelsey Grammer–better known as the only acceptable live-action iteration of X-Man Dr. Hank "Beast" McCoy–on the cover of Cigar Aficionado magazine:

What a classy gent. Thin-checked jacket with matching button-down and cardigan? The man just oozes class.

Now, let us consider the world's #2 cigar magazine, Cigar Snob. One might think that someone self-identifying as a "snob" has more of a sense of humor about his tastes, that he puts on less of a pretense about what he likes and why. This is … possibly accurate, in the sense that Playboy is a gentlemen's magazine with high-profile interviews, fiction, and scholarly articles.

Photo via @cigarking since apparently CS hasn't updated their website in 2 years.
I checked. She is holding a cigar. In her right hand just above the barcode. Incorrectly. Along with some binoculars. Call me old fashioned, but I seem to remember pretense as being all about one thing and claiming to be something completely different.

Still, I get that naked women sell. Believe me. And yes, I've heard the wisdom:

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."
                 - Sigmund Freud (probably maybe)
And sometimes it's a metaphorical phallus by which to fantastically fuck supermodels, coupled with a vestigial oral fixation likely stemming from weening and unresolved feelings of abandonment by your mother.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

This Is How Irrelevant the Post Office Is

I had heard the US Postal Service was considering ending Saturday delivery. Brilliant. No one really needs them anyway, might as well save the man hours. Personally, I never understood why they did add mail on Sundays by simply employing Jews, Muslims, and all other non-lazy non-Christians on Sundays. (Non-Christians who are also non-lazy, not a double-negative saying all Christians are lazy. You are some of the most industrious murders in history. Hi Crusades!) We've certainly gotten out of enough last-minute Friday meetings with that whole "Sabbath" excuse, and I still can't believe you buy this "Passover" thing, but good on us, I guess.

More to the point, I read that this was being considered in passing yesterday. Today I wake up and I read that it's been decided on the BBC. I was surprised I hadn't heard on any of my news sites. Surely this was a bigger deal than Monopoly replacing the iron with a cat, which is goddam everywhere today. (Guys, they replaced the least liked piece with the least hated new idea. Not earth-shattering.)

Yet no. All my sites are internet-related. iO9, Gizmodo, MacRumors, RSS feeds from astrophysics sites and blogs and tumblrs, and no goddam mention of the US Post Office, because why would that ever matter?

All I ever get in the mail are bank statements because fuck you, Chase, I'm watching my money and I want this written down for when the EMPs go off, tax documents, medical insurance bills, and junk mail. Like 80% junk mail. There are many days I don't even receive a piece of that. Honestly, making me walk to the mailbox on Saturday if I'm not working is a dick move. I'm glad it's gone.

But I shouldn't have to hear about this from the goddam BBC.

Let's check CNN. Straight-up news, right out of America, and if there's any political slant it's one I'll generally tend to not want to strangle a former Alaskan governor over.

Feel free to expand that.

Yeah, there was a story on it right there.

You see it, don't you? Under the 'World's Fastest Hillbilly.' Under Jennifer Lawrence. Below the break in the section without pictures.

Under business. Second row, second from the left, first story. At least it got that much.

And what's that at the top of "U.S." news? Right after Donald Trump?

Eff this, I'm signing up for email notification of everything and just wrapping my laptop in a Faraday cage for the rest of my life.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Genetic Makeup of the Perfect Italian Take-Out Place

1. One Grandpa, approx. 109 years old.

Stands behind counter, does not seem to do much but talk. Is a living recipe guide, with a woodon spoon attached for "instruction" purposes.

2. One Working-Class Guido, approx. 35 years.

 Takes orders at the counter, shouts orders, seems to have the financial stake in the business, so is more invested than the rest.

15 will get you 20.

3. One Jailbait, approx. 15 years old.

Answers phones, takes orders. Is perpetually in training, as this is a rotating position quickly vacated when Grandpa becomes overtly "handsy" after one too many long and leering ogling sessions.

Basically, yes, be Jesse Eisenberg.
4. One Pizza-Faced Delivery Boy, skinny, pale, approx 17.

Used for home orders, yelling at, and also leering at the Jailbait in a pathetic, white-knightly sort of way. Worth throwing to the wolves if shit goes down.

A complete dramatization. In the kitchen, they will be skinny,
though just as courteous.
5. Four to six Mexicans in the kitchen.

Depending on your location, substitute Ecuadorians, El Salvadorians, Cubans, or even Puerto Ricans, though the general rule will be to hold to Mexico, Central and South America, and Hispañola and the other Latin Islands. Beware of Brazilian knock-offs.

Monday, February 4, 2013

Who Guards the Lifeguards?

A coworker said her sister had to go to lifeguard training. A question coalesced then in my mind:

Is there a lifeguard on duty needed during lifeguard training?

Now, it seems like, if there are people in the pool, there must be a lifeguard. However, if there were ever a group of individuals exempt from a lifeguard, it would be other lifeguards and lifeguards being trained.

Still, they're not lifeguards yet, so perhaps they do, at least legally, require a lifeguard. Does that include the lifeguard training lifeguards, I wonder? Might that teaching lifeguard serve to guard the lives of those who would themselves guard lives? Certainly if one were to improperly attempt guarding life, it could result in peril that may in itself require life saving action. Is this then an at-risk group? Like unsupervised toddlers and the elderly?

If they are utilized, then, is guarding future lifeguards a punishment for ne'er-do-well lifeguards? Those guards who slacked off of their guarding whilst continuing life? I would imagine it would lie somewhere between aquarobics and free-swim on the scale of "Why Do I Have To Be Here?"

And at what point do you receive your nose zinc and license to roll all sleeves up into tank tops? Is that part of the mortarboard and tassel thing, or is their a seminar for that as well?

"Yeah, baby, you know you want this."

Sunday, February 3, 2013

The Batman Is Always Silent

"Holy [something apropos]!"


"Thanks. Though the 'Batman' was implicit."

"Mmn. Silent. The Batman is always silent…."

Saturday, February 2, 2013

Miley Cyrus is Addicted to Sex…ually Exploiting Herself

Now that she's of legal age to bang Bret Michaels and smoke salvia and get her labia cosmetically altered to resemble chick rock guru Pink, Disney has apparently decided to stop sexualizing Miley Cyrus.

In its defense, a company that makes a small country's GDP by surreptitiously marketing around the notion of hypersexualized pre-teens can't very well be caught fetishizing legal consenting adults. That would be pornographic.

Still, Cyrus seems to be doing a fairly good go at keeping the tradition alive. She's been caught with magically appearing new tattoos, piercings, cropped and/or violently dyed hair, leather, spikes, side boob, under boob, excessive cleavage, smoking, drinking, flashing her underwear, and after years of tireless efforts by paparazzi the world over: flashing no underwear.

I've mentioned before how the best way to get on the cover of a women's magazine is to be a mostly-naked woman. Cyrus, it seems, is no exception:

So that's low-rise, lack-of-shirt, cleavage, underboob, do-me eyes,
and a large, very phallic Italian ram's horn necklace between her mammaries.
And white, because she's so pure.

I count eight headlines on that cover, three of which are not overtly sexual, one of which is legitimately platonic. ("FINALLY - Stop living paycheck to paycheck.")

"Super SEXY Spring," "Hot abs and butt," "Best sex ever!" Those are splashed around Miley Cyrus along with "Threesome confessions." I don't know what happened in that hot tub in Malibu with Selena Gomez and the Biebs, and frankly I don't even want to watch the leaked tapes.

And what's the headline around Cyrus née Montana?

"It's Miley, bitches … 'I never faked anything.'"

The insinuation is orgasms, but let's be real, Cyrus has an orgasm every night when she rolls around in a giant pile of money stroking her … hair … to a looped vinyl of "Missundaztood."

Friday, February 1, 2013

Post #1500! | On Supervillainy

When I was younger–I mean very, very young–my mother always told me, "Use your powers for good."

She emphasized the honor of the Ninja Turtles, the sincerity and righteousness of Superman, her intent being to prevent my intelligence from slipping towards the megalomaniacal. Being inconvenienced by those dumber than you is consternating, and considering both my parents' families, it seemed much more reasonable to become a Lex Luthor or a Kingpin, and simply crush beneath my heal through Machiavellian duplicity and sheer force those who would belittle and opress me for my weaker natures.

So yeah, probably best to teach the high road at a young age.

My only regret, really, is that the dastards always had the best toys. Them and Batman. The plot devices, as well as actual devices, always came from masterminds of vengeance and a dash of cruelty, innovation from fury and resentment, unencumbered by societal norms or arbitrary bureaucracy. Were they happy? Never. But man did I still want a trap door in my life.

A couple days ago, I caught my roommate watching an episode of MTV's Cribs, that show where rich assholes show off how unreasonably they spend their money on extravagant homes and furnishings. I had thought there only one thing more opulent than this, that being Cribs Teen or Cribs Kids or whatever it was called when producers devoted an entire season to children showing off how much money their parents have. They are meaningless, completely without merit. I recall a room with a double-king bed. It was basically a raised, plush floor.

As it happens, there is something worse than this yet: Extreme Cribs.

Imagine if you will, homes so outlandish, they cannot be contained within a single episode of regular Cribs. They must somehow be described by an additional adjective, preferably one involving an X.

The home I saw was a castle. They called it a castle, it looked like a castle, it was built out of a castle. It was a legitimate castle. Doctor Doom would have thought the renovations tasteless, but manageable. And as I left the room to have an actually productive day, I hear the preview for the Up-Next episode:
… and an outdoor barbecue powered by an active volcano."

I'm sorry, no.

No. You do not have an active volcano. You don't get to have an active volcano and be a real person. Why do you have an active volcano? And don't tell me, "To power the barbecue!" Just don't. I know most of the power in Scandinavian nations comes from volcanic vents, but yeah, vents. For countries. They don't plop a house down on top of Eyjafjallajoku and say, "Have at it, Doctor Evil."

What the fuck is wrong with you? Is your Crib shaped like a giant skull? Do you keep a secret camouflaged hoverpad under the garden gnomes? Under what circumstances can we just rightly assume that a human being is attempting to create a doomsday machine and hold the world ransom just to toy with an arch nemesis?

Hint: I think one is "Owning your own active volcano."