"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.

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.

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.

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."

The Batman Is Always Silent

"Holy [something apropos]!"

"…Batman."

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

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

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."

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."