Saturday, December 31, 2011

My Resolutions

2012 is upon us. It's resolution time, people! Here are a few of mine:

1) Don't be such a dick

I like this resolution because the word "such" is a qualifier which enables me to still be a dick if the situation calls for it. You may be wondering how this is different from what I do now, which is be a constant dick to everybody, so I'll explain it since you're so stupid. Here's an example: normally, when someone does something stupid, and I'm able to witness it, I'll tell them that what they've just done was stupid. Most people think that sort of behavior is dick-ish or dick-like or maybe even dick-esque, but I figure that most rational people wouldn't want to repeat their same stupid mistakes, so telling them just how stupid they are can only be helpful. But that's the old me -- the 2011 me. The new me won't be such a dick directly to people. Now, when someone does something stupid, I'll wait until I get home and blog about it.

2) Stop being so awesome

If there's one thing you need to know about me, it's that I'm awesome. But, as none of you are aware, being awesome makes everyone else feel bad about themselves (as you are aware). So for all you losers out there that want a hug and a trophy because you merely finished the race, well, I'm here to at least give you a trophy because hugging sweaty people is gross. In other words, I'm dialing down the awesomeness from Winona Ryder-levels to maybe Christian Slater-levels and quite possibly even Shannen Doherty-levels of awesomeness just so you'll feel better about yourselves. You're welcome.

3) Stop judging people

When I say "stop judging people" I mean that I'll stop making unqualified generalizations regarding specific situations. For example, the old me would read a news article about a religious leader that commanded his married followers to stop having sex until said religious leader was released from prison, and judge that both the leader and the followers were equally batshit crazy. The new me looks at that same situation and judges that, while both parties are still batshit crazy, the religious leader's level of craziness is actually far batshittier than the batshittiness of the followers. See the difference?

Happy New Year or whatever.

Level 3 awesomeness (level 1 being the highest).

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

No Thinking Required

Well, everyone's second favorite prophet and polygamist is in the news again. Of course I'm speaking of Warren Jeffs. For those of you living in Utah, where prophets and polygamists are still considered cool and news-worthy, you already know all about this situation. For those of you that live in other places, where silly things like education, the economy, and politics are news-worthy, I'll give you some background. Warren Jeffs is/was the leader (prophet) of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or FLDS for short. Please don't confuse the FLDS with the straight up LDS church (you know, the Mormons) because both organizations believe different things. For example, the FLDS still practice plural marriage while the regular LDS folk (I'll call them RLDS) have evolved enough to realize that more wives exponentially increases the amount of bullshit one has to deal with. Another marked difference centers around race: the FLDS don't allow African-Americans to become members of their church while the RLDS started giving full-membership to African-Americans in 1978. Other differences include portfolio size, dress code, and probably a bunch of other things as well.

As far as I've heard (or just now made up) the "FLDS" sobriquet isn't well liked by either organization because it sounds too much like "F the LDS" which is about as rude as standing on street corner with signs supporting Prop 8 or doing other sorts of Christian activities. I have heard some shorten the "fundamentalist" part of the name to just the "fundies" or, in my case, I use the latter part of the word and call them the "mentalists" which is also the name of a television program on CBS about handicapped people.

As I mentioned above, Jeffs is back in the news again, this time because God has told him the world will end soon and he should alert his followers. The only reason that's news-worthy is because Jeffs is in a Texas prison, and I guess that having to give revelation to your followers via the telephone is news-worthy. The real news concerning Jeffs is how he got to prison in the first place. Long story short, God told Jeffs to marry several underage girls and have sex with them (by "underage" I mean 12- 15 years-old). According to Jeffs, however, it wasn't rape because God told him to do it (oh, the circularity!). So my question regarding Jeffs isn't about the end-of-world predictions, but about the God-sanctioned rape of children (good band). I'm specifically wondering how a religious leader justifies having sex with a twelve year-old under any circumstance, including a command from God. If God told me to marry a twelve year-old girl, I would think that I'm schizophrenic, or that the entity telling me to do something so objectively wrong (there's no room for moral relativism here) isn't a source for righteousness. Watch an episode of Lockup, Inside America's Toughest Prisons, or even Oz, and you'll find that rapists and child molesters aren't having as much fun as the other inmates. Why not? Well, it seems as though arsonists, vandals, thieves, drug traffickers, embezzlers, shoplifters, solicitors, money launderers, and murderers have a better moral compass regarding children than some religious leaders -- both current and past.

If it's all too much to think about, do what most other people do when faced with important questions -- ignore them.

Religion is just like prison, but not as uplifting.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Christmas or Whatever

Many of you don't know this about me, but roughly ten years ago I earned a best actor nomination for my role as the loving son opening Christmas presents from a crazy mother. A. O. Scott of the New York Times said that my performance would redefine acting standards for the industry. Entertainment Weekly's Lisa Schwarzbaum noted that my emotional performance caused her loins to moisten. And perhaps the most complementary review came from some asshole with a website claiming that I had more acting chops in my little finger than Freddie Prinze Jr. has in his little finger. Thanks guy with a website. That really means a lot to me.

As you might have guessed, my mom was a bit out of touch with younger folk like myself, and, from as far back as I can remember, failed to ever get me anything meaningful and rarely got me anything I needed. The performance in question was especially remarkable considering the gift: a white sweat suit and white knit gloves with sparkles. On the outside I made my chin quiver like I was about to weep and told her I loved it. I even wore the outfit through dinner (gloves included) and may have performed the second act of The Nutcracker before dessert. On the inside I was worried that my mom had lost her mind or was pranking me. Unfortunately, it was the former, not the latter: decades of drinking and smoking more than two Christopher Hitchens' worth of boxed wine and generic cigarettes can really fuck up your shit.

While those problems are a distant memory for me, new problems related to giving and receiving Christmas gifts are filling my head with new ones. For example, buying anything for my wife is difficult because she already has a roof over her head, food in the kitchen, and a car to go to the store to buy more food when she cooks all of the old food. What more could a woman need? Well, apparently this woman needs more because she asked me to make an effort in the gift-giving department. This year I bought her a new broom and dustpan and had her name etched into the broom handle. I know, I know, I'm a real catch. Anyway, she told me that the broom and dustpan were a step up from the year I bought her a blue and gray striped men's sweater, as if I was shopping for a color blind Freddy Krueger.

Regardless of the good and the bad surrounding Christmas, perhaps the best thing I can say about it is that it's over -- until next year anyway. But that gives me plenty of time to hone my acting skills. Another nomination would be nice.

Great use of scotch and cigarettes; even better use of words.
1949-2011


Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Who Gives a Shit?

As many of you may have heard, Nasa's Kepler telescope discovered two new "Earth-sized planets" earlier this week, much to Earth's chagrin. As far as I can tell, scientists are awkwardly and stereotypically missing high-fives throughout the world's observatories, and the rest of humanity is packing their bags for either one of these two new planets. With the startling amount of news coverage these planets are earning, you'd think that traveling to them and making them our new home would be as easy as traveling to your nearby McDonald's for dinner, but we all know that's not the case. Trips to McDonald's always end with either guilt, diarrhea, or both simultaneously. Trips to space, in this case, to either one of the two new planets, is a task so difficult Tom Cruise couldn't do it even if both Mission: Impossible and Scientology were at all real.

As I watch NBC's Brian Williams discuss the matter, I can't help but wonder why I should give a shit. According to Williams, the surface temperature on these new planets ranges from 800 - 1400 degrees Fahrenheit. On top of being as hot as the slice of pizza I just took a huge bite of, it would take over a million years to travel there. And of course, there's always the small problem of having to fly through fucking space to get there. Regardless of these silly obstacles, Williams concludes his report by saying, "It's nice to know they're out there." I think Brian Williams still wears unicorn Underoos.

I can see why so many people are chomping at the bit: the possibility of a new planet -- a fresh planet. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could pack up the spaceship with just the essentials and go to a place with clean air and water? A place where elbow room, scenery, and stuff that's not human is the moral equivalent of the dollar? A place where there's no need for a fictional character like George Hayduke (or a real one like Tim DeChristopher)? Unfortunately, that's not reality. Reality is a spaceship full of plastic bottles, SUVs, and Affliction T-shirts minus the spaceship.

Maybe Brian Williams has the right idea... Where are my Spider Man Underoos?
"Wherever you go, there you are."

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Oprah Doesn't Care How You Feel

This week finds me dipping into the Oprah collective yet again, but unlike my last post, this one isn't very funny -- in fact, it's down right depressing. Why? Well, as you all know, I've been reading the Oprah magazine lately trying to find that special bit of information that might change my life for the better. It's been difficult because most of the articles are written for women, and, as I'm sure you're aware, I'm a dude. Regardless of Oprah's gender bias, I've continued reading, skipping past all of the articles about my vagina this, and my vagina that, until I found some information that pertained to the male gender. Needless to say, I didn't find anything dude-related until I picked up a copy of Road & Track, but I did stumble across a rather troublesome article on female body issues, one of which I have as well. Let's share!

Muffin Top

I love all types of muffins (except bran) and now that I know this is a human condition, I guess I love human muffins, too... Anyway, for those of you that look like Jennifer Aniston or Brad Pitt, you will not know what a human muffin top is, so allow me to enlighten you. HMTS (Human Muffin Top Syndrome) happens when you wear a human-sized paper muffin holder that's several sizes too small causing your fat waist to spill out in a seething, jiggling mass. In other words: what I look like right now. According to Adam Glassman, Oprah's creative director, the scientific definition is:

Excess stomach, hip, and back chub that hangs over the top of a too-tight waistband (a.k.a. love handles, spare tire).

While the Oprah magazine isn't a peer reviewed academic journal, I'm surprised that the copy and content editor didn't raise an eyebrow upon reading the word "chub" as a descriptor. As far as I'm concerned, chub will always mean a semi-erect penis, which only makes sense if you're in junior high school. I'm also surprised that no one thought chub sounded too much like C.H.U.D., which is a terrible movie with an excellent title. Perhaps the biggest problem I have with using chub as a descriptor for fat in a magazine that claims to empower women is that it is the written equivalent of curb-stomping one's self-esteem.

While Glassman and I have semantic differences regarding the definition, we both share the same solution for this terrible dilemma. Start by tightly covering every inch of your torso with plastic wrap and then apply a layer of duct tape for good measure. Breathing and movement will be severely restricted making that daily trip to the bathroom and Burger King nearly impossible, but rest assured that you'll look great in a bikini in three years (one year if you remove your thyroid).

Thanks, Oprah. I feel much better now.

c.h.u.d. monster
Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller:
Don't worry, it's a compliment.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

The Wizard of Dr. Oz

Health fads have been around for a very long time. Science tells us that, as early man stepped out of the Pleistocene, tools in hand, he noticed that he was fat and started something called the Caveman diet. Forsaking all forms of processed foods, caveman could only eat turkeys, dinosaurs, and I suppose various types of dirt. While the caveman diet certainly isn't the most thrilling thing for your palate, it does help you get lean. And getting lean means getting with the cave-ladies, which we all know looked exactly like Raquel Welch and Martine Beswick in the film One Million Years B.C.

As humanity moves into 2012, health fads have become less about merely changing the physical aspects of a person, but now must reshape the entire human structure. And let me tell you, reshaping the entire human structure requires not only complete dedication on the part of the reshapee, but a master reshaper must be at the helm of this reshaping ship, navigating the reshapee toward the ultimate destination of reshapiness. It just so happens that there is such a person capable of changing us in ways Nietzsche couldn't, but Mitt Romney might (if he prays about it) -- and that person is none other than Dr. Oz.

Many of you may know Dr. Oz from Oprah's show that will run in syndication long after an asteroid destroys all life on this planet. Together, Oprah, Dr. Oz., and another Oprah staple of pithy advice giving, Dr. Phil, make up the second most listened to trio just behind the Mormon Godhead, but still in front of the Catholic Holy Trinity by quite a wide margin.

In the latest edition of Oprah's magazine (a magazine! What's next, her own network?), Dr. Oz explains his 28-day program that will reshape your entire persona down to the cellular level. Here are his top three suggestions:

Look Before You Flush

Dr. Oz says that seeing a double rainbow in your stool isn't a good thing no matter how many times you watched that YouTube video. I won't go into all of the gory details here, but know that if you see any color other than what Crayola describes as "shit brown", you are dying. Consult your doctor if your toilet looks like a painter's palette.

Spread Kindness

It's obvious that being kind to others has it's advantages, although I wouldn't know because I'm the president and only member of the Salt Lake chapter of Misanthropes United. Regardless, Dr. Oz claims that simple actions, such as helping a stranger with directions, holding the elevator doors, and, a Utah favorite, baking a pie for your neighbor, are the leading cures of terminal cancer and getting into heaven.

Practice Saying No

Now that you've helped all those thankless strangers, kick yourself in the face because you didn't say no to them. Dr. Oz says that doing things for yourself is an important way to relieve the chronic stress caused by helping others. So next time that meth addict tells you that he ran out of gas in the Smith's parking lot and only needs two dollars to get back to Idaho, you can tell him to eat your off-color stool.

Welch and Beswick, making it so very hard
for adolescent males to finish their
homework in 1966.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Mike Myers (Not the Scary One) Does Everything

Many of my older readers will remember comedian Mike Myers form his work on NBC's Saturday Night Live and subsequent film spin-offs Wayne's World and the appropriately titled Wayne's World 2. Myers' more contemporary filmography includes the animated Shrek series, which debuted in 2001 starring Myers in the eponymous role. The first Shrek film did well at the box-office, which prompted a sequel called Shrek 2. The second Shrek film used all of the same jokes as the first film but still managed to outperform it at the box-office. With their coffers full, DreamWorks had nothing to lose by green-lighting a third Shrek film titled Shrek the Third: Cash Grab, which again featured all of the same jokes from the previous two films but included more B-list voice actors. After the considerable box-office success of this third film, the bean counters at DreamWorks realized that releasing another Shrek film would be all benefit and, with the same material as your morning bowel movement, pinched off a fourth film called Shrek Forever After, which is exactly how long the movie-going public will hate Mike Myers and everyone else associated with this franchise.


Thankfully, we don't have to rely merely on the Shrek movie franchise to see Myers' comedic talents. For those of you that have Shrek curtains, Shrek sweatshirts, an undoubtedly soil your Shrek pajamas while you sleep, you may remember these other Shrek-themed titles: Shrek in the Swamp Karaoke Dance Party video short; Shrek 4-D short; Shrek: Smash n' Crash Racing video game; Shrek the Halls video short; Donkey's Caroling Christmas-tacular short; Scared Shrekless TV short; and finally, no one can forget the Larry Flynt production of A Deliverance Tribute: Shrek Sodomizes Donkey DVD.

Fortunately for the movie-going public, Mike Myers has done more than just The Love Guru, I mean voice work. In 1997 Myers played both of his most famous roles as British secret agent Austin Powers and Powers' nemesis Dr. Evil in the film Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery. If memory serves me correctly, Man of Mystery finds Austin Powers frozen in ice on Antarctica. Once thawed, Powers kills and then replicates all of the people aboard the Nostromo. The film ends with an extended fight sequence between Keith David and Roddy Piper until both are blasted out of an airlock onto the surface of Mars... Anyway, Myers could take credit for Man of Mystery's modest success since he wrote it and played the film's two starring roles. In the sequel, Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, Myers again played both leads and wrote himself a new character who ate stuff called Fat Bastard. Finally, in 2002, proving that he could take more jobs that the EPA, Myers wrote, did the grip work, catered all the food, reprised his three earlier roles, and played the other title role in Austin Powers in Goldmember. Scotty don't!

For those of you that can't get enough of Myers' narcissism, it's been announced this week that he'll start writing a prequel to the Austin Powers franchise for Broadway. No word on how many different roles he'll play, but I'm betting it's no less than five. Anyway, I'm sure it's all just a warm-up for another Austin Powers film, or maybe another Shrek film, or possibly even an Austin Powers versus Shrek film. Whatever the case may be, Myers will surely add more characters that he can play himself to whatever new movie or project he does. My hope is that the result more closely resembles Lee Marvin's Oscar performance as Tim Strawn and Kid Shelleen in Cat Ballou rather than Keanu Reeves' Non-Oscar performance as Ted Logan and something called "Evil Ted" in Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey.

Perhaps the most annoying bit that will come out of all of this will be the new catchphrases. Just when you thought you'd heard the last utterance of a fourteen year-old boy (or a thirty year-old man, for that matter) tell something or someone to behave or to get in his belly, along comes Myers, shifting focus from important political and social issues to shagging, bad teeth, and God forbid, maybe even blogging.
Jean-Claude Van Damme's portrayal of twins Alex and Chad Wagner did not
earn him an Oscar nomination, contrary to popular belief.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The Concrete Jungle

As many of you may know, going to prison is not very high on my list of things to do. I'm not especially worried about losing my freedom (I rarely leave the house) or any specific creature comforts (they have Xbox in prison), but I am very worried about having to do everything my cell mate tells me under threat of violence (I already have a wife). If pressed, I may confess that the single scariest thing about prison would be the clothes. You see, I am tall, skinny, and have disproportionately long legs. This combination makes finding pants long enough to cover my ankles as difficult as finding an ounce of coherence in the GOP. And, just as my tearful cries for long-enough pants fell on my mother's deaf ears when I was an adolescent (she did my shopping), my formal petitions would go unanswered by the prison warden.

Its important to point out that all of this prison talk isn't leading up to anything illegal. As far as I know, silently judging stupid people isn't a crime (don't tell the Utah legislature) and neither is wishing those same people to die screaming like they're a villain in a Renny Harlin film. I admit that I do "bend" the occasional traffic law and have, in a very distant past, been charged with racketeering, securities fraud, and witness tampering (no convictions -- see "witness tampering"). I'm clean and want it to stay that way.

All things considered, prison would be the worst place in the known universe for a person of my stature and non-existent fighting abilities. And by "all things considered" I mean rape. Instances of male rape cause one to reconsider the very notions of security, stability, and quick access to lubricants. Remember how we cringed when Zed raped Marsellus? Remember how we flinched when hillbillies forced Ned Beatty to squeal like a pig? Remember how we clenched our collective butt cheeks when George Lucas committed the ultimate anal injustice to the original Star Wars trilogy with "updated" scenes? Well, that's what prison is like, and if Andy Dufresne couldn't hack it, neither could I.

These pant's won't do in the concrete jungle.






Thursday, June 23, 2011

American Idiot

America has long been at the forefront of new developments and inventions -- technological or otherwise. Our cup runneth over when it comes to brilliant individuals with brilliant ideas that have the tenacity to see a product move from the idea stage to store shelves. Some of these ideas start out fine, but lose their luster as more and more people are allowed input. Take the Ford Mustang as an example. Ford got it right with the first generation 'Stang but then screwed it up for the next 40 years. Same goes for Wendy's Old Fashioned Hamburgers. When Dave Thomas was still around, Wendy's had a simple menu, great service, and quality was the recipe. Now, when you visit a Wendy's they will ask you if everything looks right on the screen as if that somehow translates to getting everything you ordered into the bag. But both Ford and Wendy's had it right for a while, and that's all that matters (yikes). Let's take a look at a five American ideas that are antiquated, overdone, or just plain lame.

1) American Idol

American Idol is a televised singing competition in which viewers decide the program's outcome by calling or texting as many votes as they can before their parents take away their cell phones. The person with the lowest number of votes per week is sent home with nothing more than their pre-teen dreams crushed before an audience of 30 billion people in Utah alone. The losers sob and hyperventilate on stage when Ryan Seacrest tells them their 15 minutes of fame has ended 14 minutes early. The winner gloats and is crowned with Apollo's granite-imbued diadem of the ranunculus (+4 to beauty), the magniloquent microphone stand of euphoniousness (+3 to melody), and a record contract (+5 to all skills). But the dumbness doesn't revolve around the awards or the pageantry, but that America rarely votes for the best singer. In fact, this past season the best singers in the group didn't even make it to the final two. It's unfortunate, but America is casting votes for who they think is the best looking, or the nicest, or who has the most comprehensive foreign policy package. Sorry, wrong election. Anyway, if it's too difficult for America to elect the best singer in a singing competition then the contestants should take up the sword and fight Christopher Lambert for the title.

There can be only one.

2) The Shake Weight

The Shake Weight is a dumbbell that you shake rather than lift. That alone should be enough for anyone to see that this is pure nonsense, but I'll continue anyway. The makers of the Shake Weight claim that a six minute workout is all you need to look like whoever Leonardo Dicaprio's current girlfriend is. The real rub of the Shake Weight is that anyone using it looks like they're training to be a world champion masturbator. But everyone knows that by now -- except for everyone on television that is. Nearly every talking head with a television show, from the prickly David Letterman to the glib Matt Lauer, has marched out the shake weight to make a jerk-off joke without saying the words. Congratulations, you've made a joke about the Shake Weight as funny and relevant as a joke about Donald Trump's hair.

This costs extra.

3) Subprime Mortgages

The subprime mortgage brokers recognized two important facts. 1) That not all Americans can afford the American Dream and 2) that they could make even more money granting home loans to people hoping that they could afford to pay them. Well, as we all know, hope doesn't pay the bills or generate any income whatsoever. After a bazillion foreclosures, Gordon Gecco's wildest dream hurt nearly everyone in America except for the rich. That's probably why Thomas Aquinas added greed as one of the seven deadly sins, ranking right behind wrath but slightly ahead of the atomic bomb (another American invention).

Greed is better than the sequel

4) The Flatulence Deodorizer

It's very rare when a fart smells like roses or a puppy or anything other than air over poo. With that in mind, this invention sounds like a good thing -- especially if you're one of those poor souls whose farts smell worse than average (remember that the average smell is shit). Simply attach the product, which looks just like a maxipad, to your underwear and begin farting. The offensive air is filtered through a thin charcoal membrane that eliminates any foul odors (as well as your dignity) upon contact. If you have a medical condition that prevents you from holding your farts (fartus continuous), this invention is for you. Unfortunately, the people that can't hold their farts due to medical complications probably can't hold much of anything else. Giving them what amounts to a fancy shaped napkin to plug a leak of this magnitude will leave any one's pants looking like the New Orleans levee district after Katrina. Based on that analogy, it's quite obvious the target demographic for this product is the type of people that buy their toiletries at Chevron and get their meals from Hostess. When you fart in elevators, airplanes, or movie theaters because you can't be inconvenienced to hold it, you definitely aren't the type of person that purchases fart pads.

Fart pads don't protect you from anal probes.

5) God

Before you get your flatulence-deodorizing-equipped panties in a bunch, let me say that I know God wasn't invented in America. I’m well aware that the history of God is long and complicated and differs between cultures and religions alike. When I say that God is an American invention, I'm simply referring to the American conception of God: imagine the business acumen of Donald Trump but better looking.

As far as I can tell from listening to various religious leaders give commands (or is it commandments?) to their followers (or are they soldiers?), American God has shed the silly Western European and Greek ideals of omnipotence, omniscience, omnipresence, and omnibenevolence in favor of attributes much more worthy of a supreme being such as elitism, celebrity, power, and money. Crazy bits of moral tripe, like the Golden Rule, are meaningless if the "others" just happen to be racial minorities, women, gays, or (American God forbid!) non-believers. It turns out that messages of love and compassion for our fellow man really only includes men -- white men.

And just like Karl Malone, American God gotta do what American God gotta do, even if that means being unfair. As of late, American God has committed the ultimate injustice against some of his own followers by allowing The Book of Mormon (a musical!) to run on Broadway. According to most experts who haven't seen the show yet, the musical is full of lies and tarnishes whatever image the religion has left after polygamy, proposition 8, and Mitt Romney. Many are taking to Facebook, Twitter, and something called MySpace to let the world know that The Book of Mormon musical is simply another form of persecution they must endure with Job-like submissiveness -- boils and all. Before there's too much weeping and gnashing of teeth, I'd like to point out to the LDS faithful that having to put up with a single Broadway musical (and a few South Park episodes) is small time compared to the persecution the Catholics had to endure at the hands of Monty Python for over twenty years (not counting re-runs).

How to skewer religion: Volume 1.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Oscar Mayer Weiner

Many of you have been diligently checking this blog every Friday wondering where the hell I ran off to for the past month. The simple answer is I've been on hiatus. That's right. Hiatus. Consider this blog much the same as a television series. A network orders a certain amount of programs which run for a select amount of time and when that's finished, nearly everyone associated with the series goes on hiatus until next season. Since I am the sole creator of this series, and have no network chumps pressuring me into creating anything new, I go on hiatus whenever the f*** I feel like it. Reread the older posts if you're bored.

Many of you may be wondering what I do while I'm on hiatus. Well, let me take this opportunity to inform all of you fine people from all over the world that it's none of your damn business. But seriously, I watch television, see movies, read books, and enjoy adult beverages every weekend while playing "tiles" with my peeps. I also work and maybe do some other stuff as well. Satisfied? Good.

The real question you may be asking is why didn't I remain on hiatus longer than just a month? The answer is simple: the length of my hiatus is directly related to the amount of stupid shit happening in the world. In other words: the more stupid shit people do, the more I have to write about. The person you have to thank the most for my brief respite is none other than New York Democratic Congressman Anthony D. Weiner.

If this is your first time hearing about Weiner's issue, and you're of voting age, then you're either stupid or Amish and the Amish have an excuse. Most of you that have heard of Weiner's hard times know that his name is pronounced exactly as is appropriate for this rather sticky, sensitive,  and girthsome situation. If you still think Weiner's name is pronounced like wine-er, then perhaps this description from a Reuters article will help you out: "Weiner's name ... doubles as American schoolboy slang for the word penis." Obviously the good folks over at Reuters have no idea that the word wiener ranks far below "Captain Winky" but just ahead of "The Midget" on the penis-derivations hierarchy.

Let's get back to the case at hand, shall we? On May 28th, Weiner committed the biggest boner of his career by accidentally posting a picture of his wiener on his Twitter account (flaccid). He removed it once he realized what had happened but the damage had already been done (mild arousal). Weiner later claimed that his twitter account was hacked and that it was probably just a harmless prank because of his unfortunate name (engorging). But the intense scrutiny regarding the unfortunate posting continued, finally causing Weiner to admit that he did in fact post a picture of his penis (fully engorged). Weiner claims that he panicked and created the phony hacking story to cover his tracks (solid rhythm). It turns out that those tracks led to multiple women with various pictures of Weiner at different stages of undress (ascendancy!). Finally, Weinergate shrivels during his resignation press conference earlier this week when a heckler shouted: "The American people want to know: are you longer than seven inches?" We've all seen the pictures -- he's not.

So what's to become of Weiner now? Well, once everyone forgets about his past political accomplishments he'll be reclassified into a new of group of people. This new group won't be as politically powerful as the politicos he used to run around with, but it will certainly be more appropriate for a man of his infamy. Goodbye, Barack Obama and Arianna Huffington, and hello to everyone else that has ever shown their junk in pubic, I mean public.

This all could've been prevented if Weiner had only known the right people. And by "right people" I mean those ultra-talented individuals that can show their goodies and make it really seem like an accident. People like Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, and any female with the last name Kardashian. That group of women has not only dragged feminist theory kicking and screaming into the eighteenth century, but taken uncrossing your legs without underwear to a height only Sharon Stone could appreciate. With a little help, Weiner could've learned that celebrity gossip sites will take and post pictures for you, rather than have you make up a ridiculous excuse. Weiner only needed to sunbathe naked like Brad Pitt, play the bongos naked like Matthew McConaughey, or sext pictures of his wang to a sideline reporter like Brett Favre ... Well, maybe not like Favre. Athletes don't carry the same weight as politicians -- especially when they lose.

I guess it could have been worse for Weiner. He could have spent most of his political career spewing the conservative company line about gays being sinners because of a single sentence in Leviticus, and then been caught in the closet just like Mark Foley, Larry Craig, Ed Shrock, and Ted Haggard, to name just a few. I'm certainly not condoning Weiner's actions, but they do seem to have less cognitive dissonance than a man that secures votes on an anti-gay/family-values platform only to be caught instant messaging underage boys about penises. But this is American politics, after all. What else should we expect?

This is how we do it!

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Rocky the Dog 1998-2011

We lost our four-legged family member this week making it difficult to entertain you. I'll return June 17th with a shopping cart full of delight. Thanks for your patience.

 Rocky

Friday, May 20, 2011

A Love Letter

Watching television with my wife can be a good or bad thing. It's all good in the hood when we have an agreed-upon show or movie to watch or recorded stuff in the DVR. It gets bad when we've watched everything, but still feel like chillin' in front of the boob tube. You see, while the old lady and I agree on most everything else such as how I like my laundry finished (don't hang it, fold it), the amount of her weekly allowance (very low), and whether or not she's allowed to leave the house (only on even days), we absolutely do not agree on what to watch once all other options are exhausted.

Last night, for example, once we finished Modern Family or possibly M*A*S*H, I took charge of the remote and started my ritual of scrolling through what looks to be over four million channels. Unfortunately, my wife noticed that the Oprah Winfrey Network was playing When Harry Met Sally, which is as far as any relationship would get if a guy that looked like Billy Crystal tried to hit on a girl that looked like Meg Ryan. I most graciously allowed her to watch When Harry Met Sally while I continued scrolling through the channels. After what seemed like days of searching through the channel guide I noticed that my wife had fallen into a conscious dream state (the weaker gender!) brought on by too much Rob Reiner. Every so often she would unknowingly make comments in a distant voice like "Billy Crystal is gross," and "Her outfit is so cute," and "I like this version of Meg Ryan's face better than the new one." Her blank glassy-eyed stare told me that I'd better find something else to watch and fast or she would drift from the Rob Reiner state into the deeper and seemingly more-real Nora Ephron state until finally free falling into Penny Marshall limbo. Just as I was losing all hope of ever seeing a gunfight or a fart joke in a movie again, along comes HBO Lithuania showing a movie that would not only kick my wife out of her chick-flick dream state, but appealed to my heightened sense of refined taste and intellectual development. Of course I am referring to Balls Out: Gary the Tennis Coach which is rated R for being so mynd-numminglee stoopid that I can no longer spell mind-numbingly stupid without a dictionary. Obviously I didn't get to watch Balls Out because it was nearly over by the time I found it and my wife doesn't need any kind of kick to get back to reality. She said, "No way." And that was that.

Seriously. What does she see in him?

Once Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan were finished breaking up and getting back together for the millionth time, the movie ended and we went off to sleep. Well, that's not entirely true. I should have said my wife went off to sleep while I listened to her make the noises I imagine a Gitmo detainee makes while being waterboarded. For your convenience, I have broken her snoring down into three levels based on noise-type, volume, and frequency:

Level 1) Vin Diesel

Vin Diesel is an American actor and director born of Italian and African-American ancestry. I only mention that not because I believe that my wife's snoring sounds like she has Italian and African-American ancestors, but because I thought Vin Diesel was white. Anyway, Mr. Diesel has starred in many films including all fourteen of the Fast and Furious movies as well as a space movie and probably some other films as well. While I'm not a Vin Diesel connoisseur, I can tell you that I've seen enough of his films to know that my wife sounds exactly like him while she's in Level 1 snore mode. As far as I can tell from his films, Diesel intermittently communicates with a series of one- maybe two-syllable grunts that occasionally string themselves together to make a longer low rumbling noise. In fact, the resemblance is so uncanny that I thought someone had left a Vin Diesel movie playing on the TV at four in the morning. If you're still not sure what either Vin Diesel or my wife sounds like while she's sleeping, try to imagine Arnold Schwarzenegger with a thick Brooklyn accent, but with less love children.

Big muscles mean eating protein.
Babies are protein.


Level 2) Wildebeest

Just to be clear here: I'm not saying that my wife is a wildebeest, only that she sounds like one when she passes through Level 1 Vin Diesel snore stage into Level 2 wildebeest snore stage (that should keep me out of trouble, don't you think?). For those of you that don't know what a wildebeest sounds like, I can't help you because I've never heard one. But let me assure you that my wife's snoring (Level 2, mind you) sounds like what I believe a wildebeest would sound like if I had ever heard one. I will post a picture of a wildebeest below this paragraph so you can see one and thus imagine what one might sound like. Needless to say, hearing the call of a wildebeest at three in the morning is alarming. Our dogs cry and whimper because they somehow believe that they have been magically transported to the Serengeti Plains of Africa, which is a lot for their simple minds to process.

Imagine it snoring.

Level 3) Chewbacca

Many of you know Chewbacca from the Star Wars films, novels, comic books, video games, and my bedspread and curtains from when I was twelve. Many of you don't know that Chewbacca and my wife have many wonderful things in common: they are both gentle, hairy, non-English speaking co-pilots of a spaceship; they both hail from the planet Kashyyyk; they are both masters of the bowcaster; they both have family members named Mallatobuck, Attichitcuk, and Lumpawarrump; and finally, they have both received a Lifetime Achievement Award from MTV. But the thing that my wife and Chewbacca have most in common is their vocal stylings -- especially when she snores. Once the Vin Diesel and wildebeest stages pass, my wife makes the same noise that Chewbacca did when he saw Darth Vader in Cloud City. And on nights when I don't wake her up (I'm too afraid), she wails like Chewbacca did when Han was frozen in carbonite.

Most of the time I really don't care what she watches, or that I need to reinforce the walls and ceiling of our bedroom with sound-absorbing materials, because we've been together so long I can't remember a time without her. That's just the stuff -- maybe even the good stuff -- that happens in a long-term relationship (read that as marriage). This entire post was really just a way of letting her know that I love her, and that this should count as that love letter you've always wanted. That's something I have in common with Han Solo: we're both hopeless romantics.


Good with a bowcaster (pictured). Terrible for sleeping.
Still a cute couple.


Saturday, May 14, 2011

A Brief History of Bad Ideas

Many of you have noticed that over the course of the twelve posts since I began this electronic undertaking, that my favorite subject (target) has been former Utah State Senator Chris Buttars. I loved riffing on his LDS Church inspired politics and the fecal blizzard (credit Dennis Miller for that beauty) that erupted from his mouth every time he opened it. Unfortunately, when Buttars abruptly retired at the end of this year's legislative session, he took his comedic relevance (and most of my material) with him. But fortunately for me, the God that denies luxuries such as clean water, food, and basic medical needs to impoverished children around the globe, has bestowed upon me a confederacy of dunces so ripe for cyberbullying that you may find Swift and Toole high-fiving in whatever place your religion tells you dead people go. The current champion and leader of this confederacy is Donald Trump, who, based upon his recent string of bad decisions, clearly earns his new title. A few quick examples from the Trump Bad Decision Hall of Fame: Trump continues to push the birther movement (just like you push a bowel movement); Trump accepts an invitation to the White House Correspondents' Dinner; and, awkwardly (or triumphantly if you're Seth Meyers), Trump actually attends the White House Correspondents' Dinner. After that debacle, the only bad decisions Trump has left to make are running for President and trying out for a spot on American Ninja Warrior. Karate chop!

Too smart for American politics.

Much like Chris Buttars, Donald Trump is far too easy of a target mainly because of the large number of bad ideas that he not only thinks of, but carries out. With that in mind, there are plenty of other people with plenty of bad ideas floating around in the world worthy of mention. One of my favorites is a woman named Orly Taitz. Taitz is (in)famous for two things: being the "mother" of the birther movement, and being the only person in the world that believes Stephen Colbert is actually a Republican. Taitz emigrated from the former Soviet Union in 1987 and has since found great success as a capitalist. She has degrees in dentistry and its natural counterpart: law. She is also crazy as a loon. A quick check of her website shows a post on May 3, 2011 that reads: "Fox Reported that Bin Laden Died in December of 2001. Why is the Show Now?" By "Show" I believe Taitz is referring to the 1995 documentary about the culture of hip-hop starring Snoop Dog and Dr. Dre (he's no dentist!) or Major League Baseball. Either way, using Fox News as a credible source is as crazy as a PhD candidate citing Wikipedia in a dissertation. Earlier this month, Taitz and her ilk (Trump) were dealt a crushing blow by President Obama when he publicly released his long form birth certificate effectively changing the name of the birther movement to the "afterbirthers."

Idiots and egomaniacs aside, other people have bad ideas too. Take Andrei Kirilenko as an example. As everyone in the world knows (snicker) good ol' number 47 plays professional basketball for the Utah Jazz and just got a tattoo the size of Wyoming on his back. I was initially impressed when I first heard about Kirilenko's new tat, but became frightened when I actually saw it. My first thought was to call Will Graham and warn him that the Red Dragon was still alive, but then Kirilenko explained that it wasn't a representation of his "becoming" through the ritualistic murder of middle-class families, but merely his level 80 paladin from World of Warcraft. Whoops. And when I say "whoops" I mean that Kirilenko should have worried more about scoring buckets and grabbing boards than building power points in Templar's Verdict or Word of Glory. But we can't judge Kirilenko too harshly; what can we expect from someone that embraces a cheap and easy-to-get machine gun as a nickname? Leeroy Jenkins!

Andrei Kirilenko shows of his new tattoo to Carlos Boozer,
Ronnie Brewer, and the guy that looks like Ashton Kutcher, and
asks if they're jealous. They can't answer because they're still playing
basketball.

Perhaps the single best tools we have to explore bad ideas (even better than athletes and politicians) are video cameras, computers, and the web. Thanks to their simplicity and easy access, people have been building websites based upon video clips that chronicle bad ideas throughout the world. Normally these sites break down various bad ideas into categories such as "epic" and "fail" or a combination of the two usually noted as "epic fail." For example, a skier can make an epic jump over a mountain road with busy traffic or your roommate can fail to make it to the refrigerator because you smeared butter on the kitchen floor. A good example of an epic fail may be one in which the skier gets struck by lightning mid-jump and then falls crotch first on to a fence while his buddies laugh hysterically.

The truly wonderful thing about viewing bad idea web videos is that the simple yet descriptive titles prevent you from searching endlessly through the interweb for what you want. You say you have a sadistic need to watch skate punks get hurt? Look no further than "Skateboard Roof Jump Fail," or "Epic Rail Grind Nuts Fail." Perhaps you despise Parkour more than you despise skateboarding? You should certainly watch "Parkour Rocket Ship Jump Fail," or "Epic Parkour Empire State Building Fail." Don't like cats? Why not try "Cat Versus Rhinoceros Fail," or "Cat Pole Vault Epic Fail?" You see? There's almost every imaginable category of bad ideas at the tips of your chocolate-stained fingers. And if computerizing is too difficult, let Daniel Tosh and the tee-vee do all of the thinking.


Skateboarding and bizarre film titles can hurt your genitals.
Wear a cup.

Occasionally, the traditional fail and epic fail labels are replaced with the word "owned" or even something called "pwned." This new usage of owned throws off my contemporary definition which used to describe past-possessive ownership, but now means to have destroyed or dominated an opponent or a situation. The pwned variant means the same as owned, but people argue about its origin just like people still argue about what happened on the grassy knoll that fateful November day. The Urban Dictionary website offers many different insights into its origin, but since the entries are submitted by people that still wear calculator wrist watches, the subsequent definitions are as useless as electronic toilet paper. I suggest a typo -- O is next to P on the Qwerty after all -- and must leave it at that because I can feel myself getting dumber.

There are different versions of pwned, such as pwn (present-tense: I pwn you!) and pwnd (because typing the E is so f****** hard) and my favorite: pwn3d, which means that you got your ass kicked in three dimensions. The object of owned, pwned, pwn, pwnd, and pwn3d is usually a newcomer to a game or someone that has failed at something so miserably people begin to question their reality. If that criteria applies to you, then the Internet will refer to you as one or more of the following: noob (rhymes with tube), n00b (those are zeros to make you feel extra-bad after getting slaughtered), newb (because typing the entire word is difficult while masturbating), newbie (this person has at least a High School education), nooblet (I believe they like to be called "little people"), and of course, the ultimate rookie slam: n00bz (because nothing says f*** you like swapping out vowels for numbers and ending the whole thing with a Z).

What has all of this taught us? Well, don't let your friends record you doing anything stupid or accidentally doing anything stupid -- especially in this electronic age -- because it will become a permanent fixture in the electronic universe. Even if Kirilenko gets that tat removed, his back will never exactly be the same and the Jazz still won't have a championship. Even if the government decides to turn the SETI funding back on, it could still be too late to warn of an alien attack. Even if your most trusted friend tells you that dog wigs are a good idea, you'll always be the dog wig maker (good band)! Even if you think you'll start blogging because someone told you that ... Damn ...

Ouch.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

I'm Taking a Vacation

No, seriously. I'm on vacation this week. Check back next Friday for more words.




Monday, April 25, 2011

Hell on Earth: A Belated Easter Present

Back in February I foretold the coming apocalypse with such surety that my name changed to Ron the Revelator. Unfortunately, the world hasn't exploded yet so Ron the Revelator has been dropped for more appropriate names like man-child, lazy, and useless. Regardless of what my wife says about me, I still believe that the world will end in the future. See? It's easy to be a prophet! Anyway, I'm briefly rehashing that previous post because I want my readers to know that two posts touching on religion (including this one) doesn't mean that I'm starting a doomsday cult. Even though I am well-spoken and very (very) charismatic you must remember that I am located in Utah where many of the residents already enjoy their particular flavor of Kool-Aid. Cheers!

Now that you know I'm not trying to brainwash you into joining a new and very hip doomsday cult, you are ready to learn about this week's topic: Hell. Hell is a very interesting concept because its nature largely depends upon what religion is giving the description. The problem of subjectivity is difficult to overcome because no one (no one reliable anyway) has ever gone to Hell and reported back their findings. By the term "no one reliable" I mean war correspondents such as Chris Hedges, Evan Wright, and Edward R. Murrow. Aside from these yellow journalists, Hell is mostly experienced by dead people that have done something wrong while alive or living people that have completely and utterly lost the social lottery (think nearly everyone on the African continent).

Social lottery winners Bernie Madoff and what looks to be Meg Ryan
closing in on their final destination: Hell.

For brevity's sake, if we are to consider Hell we must do so from the broadest and most popular view which says that Hell is a really, really bad place that you go to for eternity. Hell will contain people that you know of like Donald Trump, Stephanie Meyer, and Gandhi, as well as many people that you don't, like most of your neighbors, your elected officials, and probably your parents. According to most early theologians Hell is located somewhere beneath the Earth's surface, but based on what I've seen, I think it's a bit closer to the surface (I'm looking at you Hell, Michigan, pop. 266). There are other interesting facts about Hell that I'm sure many of you are unaware of like:

Hell has cheerleaders called Hellcats. These Hellcats root for the various sports teams representing Hell's favorite institution of higher learning: Lancer College. While Lancer isn't poised to become the Ivy League's newest member anytime soon, it is ranked slightly higher in graduation percentage than Faber College, mainly because it took John Belushi so long to earn his degree. Lancer is also ranked higher than the lowly Grand Lakes University where even Rodney Dangerfield can graduate (but Grand Lakes has a much better diving team). Unfortunately, Lancer ranks significantly lower than Pacific Tech because that's where Val Kilmer and Gabriel Jarret developed the world's largest popcorn popper.

A five-megawatt laser is better than your microwave at popping popcorn.

Just like any secular cheer squad, the Hellcats have a motto: "Being here doesn't mean you belong." This motto demonstrates that the people in charge of admittance to the squad are just as competent as the people in charge of our criminal justice system. The motto also inherently promotes hazing because, apparently, you don't belong if you're above a size zero like that porker Ali Michalka who's so fat she can't even hide behind a microphone stand. Gag me with a spoon. I'm not exactly sure who created this motto, but since the Hellcats are found on the CW right after America's Next Top Model, I blame Tyra Banks more than I blame the Devil himself, or even Kaiser Soze.

And I was all, "Don't eat that carrot!" And she was all, "Like, I'm hungry!"
And I was like, "But you're so fat!" And she was like, "Okay."

Another interesting fact about Hell is that it has angels. Sure, it sounds like a very disturbing theological contradiction but you can do whatever the hell you want in Hell, or you and your musician buddy can try to defeat Satan in a "rock off" behind a bar. Satan will pay your rent if you win, but may take your buddy as his sex hostage if you lose. Anyway, there are some subtle differences between the more-popular Heaven's angels and the denim-clad Hells Angels. The obvious difference is that the Hells Angels eliminate the apostrophe to make everyone think that I don't know how to write (good one, Satan), but the deprecated apostrophe is really about letting everyone know that there are "many versions and forms of Hell" which you can learn about on their website. Other differences: the Hells Angels might not have Paul Bettany and super-cool angel wings, but they do have cocaine and super-loud motorcycles. In a surprising twist, no matter how hard the Hells Angels try -- or how bad of a job they do covering security at a Stones' concert -- they will never be as scary as the angels God uses to destroy most of the world in Revelations.

Apart from cheerleaders and angels with outstanding warrants, Hell also has something called Devils Tower. This super-cool rock formation is found in northeastern Wyoming and has roughly 400,000 visitors every year including Richard Dreyfuss, space aliens, and, obviously, the Devil. I say "obviously" not because the tower is named after the Devil, but because of the general malaise and confusion that once again surrounds the absent apostrophe in its title. Apparently, Satan's grammarian (best band name ever!) has a second job with the USGS because he's purposefully dropped that handy bit of punctuation from nearly every place name in their registrar. This instance of the deprecated apostrophe coupled with the Hells Angels' aversion to it creates so much grammatical confusion that people begin to use  - it's - and - its - interchangeably, and sometimes even - its' - which automatically tells any reader with an I.Q. above a shoe that the writer is a moron.

This means something. This is important.

While it seems perfectly obvious to me that Devils Tower is Satan's favorite national monument, historians dispute that Satan has anything to do with the tower because, as they claim, the name is wrong. In 1875, while Colonel Richard Dodge was speaking with a local Lokata tribe, the interpreter mistakenly said that the tower was called "Bad God" Tower instead of its actual Native-American name "Bear Lodge." But anyone with any sense can see the Devil's handiwork here. Only someone possessed to the point of earning a starring role in the Exorcist would turn the words "Bad God" into "Devil." They either fail to realize that God can't do bad things like support rape, slavery, and murder, or forget the tenets of Greek Mythology that emphasize the idea that Gods can do crazy immoral stuff like commit adultery, have sex with your sister, and release the Kraken, and still remain Gods. One or two bad acts don't make Gods into Devils because if they did, it would be impossible to adequately explain contemporary religions.

Hell has a bunch of other stuff as well like cities in California, the Cayman Islands, and Satan's favorite vacation spot: Norway. Hell also has a kitchen with a chef that's so evil he might take Satan's job. There's a Hellboy; Hell cow; Hell driver. You can find all of the pretty things there. T-shirts are there. Dante and Virgil briefly visited there. Pinhead is there. Samurai vampire bikers are there. Carrie is there. You can be dragged there. Richard was named after it. They serve beer there. You can get invited there. Nymphoid barbarians are there. Hell is on wheels. Hell has its own house. Hell has a mayor. Hell has a night. Hell has gates. The White Stripes want you to catch it. AC/DC want you to drive your cars on it and ring bells there. Pink Floyd wants you to run to it. Yngwie Malmsteen wants to see you in it. Kiss gives you the option of high water. Meatloaf wants to be a bat there. The Clash want you to go straight there. Pat Benatar thinks children belong there. Sometimes you can be hell bent for leather or Hell can come to Frogtown. Don't forget that the Devil is the supreme ruler of Hell so anything the Devil gets Hell does too like: Sympathy; a playground; rejects; a triangle; a violin; eggs; an advocate; a haircut; Prada; his own; and, saving the best for last: food cake. Happy belated Easter!

Hell has a motel, too. Wearing a pig's head and
wielding a chainsaw help the guests feel at ease
before they're dismembered.



Friday, April 22, 2011

Taxi Driving President

There are many jobs to be had in America -- just not that many right now -- but there are jobs none the less. A quick perusal of the "help wanted" section has positions open for cereal box author, bad breath smeller, and man back waxer (good band) but, unfortunately, you must have a very special skill set to obtain these jobs. For instance, I don't have what it takes to write sentences like "Hint of brown sugar," or "Does your breakfast make you amazing?" or "Contains: milk, wheat." I also know I don't have what it takes to smell another human being's bad breath because bad smells make me gag and eventually vomit. And the only thing less fun than vomiting is cleaning up vomit (usually because cleaning up vomit causes one to vomit more which is called "vomit circularity," if you're wondering).

There are other job openings as well: just this week, for instance, McDonald's expanded its workforce by offering 50,000 new openings in various restaurants across the country. While this act makes McDonald's look like the Jesus of multi-national corporations when compared to Monsanto, Pfizer, and Coca Cola, the low starting pay would keep even Mike Rowe away. It could be worse, however: I hear that there are still plenty of openings for armpit sniffer, turd burner, and livestock masturbator.

It seems like all the really cool jobs never have any openings, and if they do, you need to know someone on the inside to even score an interview. Or worse, you find yourself under-qualified for a job you were perfect for, or over-qualified for a job you didn't want in the first place. Or, perhaps you didn't get any of the jobs that your stepfather (or dad) wanted you to get because you wore a tuxedo and farted during the interview. Whatever the case may be, failing to get a job you want is heartbreaking, and even worse, watching someone incompetent land an important job is frustrating.

Take the most important job ever: President of the United States of America. There have been 44 presidents since 1789, some more effective than others. An effective president must embrace special interest groups, kowtow to campaign contributors, and keep all extramarital affairs secret until the biography. They must also do presidential stuff like wear suits, make speeches, and somehow manage not to fulfill a single campaign promise. With all that in mind, the stuff that constitutes a good/bad president seems to be subjective to party affiliation and most important, their alma mater.

It just so happens that talking about presidents and stuff is timely since party nominations are on the horizon. President Obama will most likely be the front runner for the Democrats, but the Republican nomination is anyone's guess. Right now, Republican buzz centers on Romney, Huckabee, and possibly Trump and Palin. On Facebook I joked that Palin, Trump, and Romney are a Republican political vacuum, which earned zero comments and only one "like." Conversely, an earlier comment regarding the demise of daytime television received seven comments and two "likes" which obviously means that America values Susan Lucci more than the GOP. It also means that we need a candidate more capable, likable, and exciting than any of our current options.

Of course finding a candidate that embodies these characteristics is difficult. Take current GOP front runner Mitt Romney. Romney seems capable enough since he implemented health care in Massachusetts so universal it makes Obama's health care plan look Republican. But let's not focus on something so ridiculous as accomplishments -- this is politics, after all -- but on what really demonstrates political aptitude: the title of your book.

In No Apology: The Case for American Greatness, Romney details this, that, and the other. I really wouldn't know because I haven't read it, but the title implies that America doesn't need to apologize to other nations for things like Iraq, the Kyoto protocol, and dropping the bomb. It may also imply that America shouldn't have apologized to its own citizens like Native-, Japanese-, and African-Americans for the unnecessary harm they were caused, or that there will be no apology for things like Fred Phelps, Joseph McCarthy, and Dina Lohan. America is great, even while committing atrocities.

It seems as though Mitt's book title falls a bit short in the political aptitude category (or a bit long in the pride category, whatever you prefer) but can he make up the difference in the likability category? Well, as many of you have already experienced, there is really only one method of determining likability with any kind of scientific accuracy: Facebook. According to Facebook, between Romney's own page and the unofficial pages spawned by his followers, er, supporters, he totals right around 8.5 million "likes." By comparison, Obama leads the "likes" category with 19.4 million.

That only leaves the excitability category, which has George W. Bush doing blow and murdering prostitutes for a benchmark. Unfortunately, Romney reaches his limit of excitability by skipping church once a year, seeing a PG-13 movie, or drinking an apple beer. I'm quite certain that we will never find a video on Youtube titled "Mitt Romney punches a cop" or "Mitt Romney loses his shit" or "Mitt Romney really f***** up that pimp." He's just not that type of guy. Perhaps the country needs someone that's not afraid to punch a cop if said cop gets mouthy during a traffic stop. Maybe the occasional shit-losing would be for the betterment of this great nation. What if the President of the United States actually f***** up a pimp or two every now and then? If you like that, you'll love De Niro for President.

It's not that far fetched of an idea (Donald Trump, anyone?) considering the absolute circus (Sarah Palin, anyone?) campaigning, and politics in general have become, or has everyone already forgot about Ronald Reagan? He was an actor and then held some lowly government job in California before becoming president. And Reagan only had charisma on his side. De Niro brings another dimension to the role. But we don't want average, everyday De Niro for President; we want Goodfellas and Casino De Niro. We want Raging Bull and Mean Streets De Niro. We certainly don't want any of the Meet the Fockers De Niro or the Awakenings or the Marvin's Room De Niro. And, please, whatever you do, don't give us This Boy's Life or Frankenstein De Niro. Only the Oscar worthy stuff, thank you very much.

Some of you may still be skeptical, as if this isn't a serious proposal. Well, what would you think if I suggested Joe Pesci as Vice President? Sound any better? I thought so. Talk about bringing more depth to a role. Sorry, Biden, but you are clearly out-toughed on this one (not like out-toughing Biden is difficult). But only if we get Goodfellas and Raging Bull Pesci. Or perhaps A Bronx Tale or My Cousin Vinny Pesci. Any of the Home Alone or Lethal Weapon Pescis need not apply.

Can you imagine how much political type stuff would get done in this country if every politician was afraid that the Vice President would call them a little girl while stabbing them in the neck with a ballpoint pen? What would become of the pundits once they realized that the Vice President not only put people's heads in a vise, but was also an outstanding trial lawyer? What would happen when the President threw his first right hook to the body of one of his opponents? Or survived a car bomb? Or life on the streets? Or pulled double duty as a terrorist/duct repair man? Could you imagine a government shutdown with these two in office? Uh uh. No way.

I think the only legitimate problem we'd face with a De Niro/Pesci ticket would be getting them out of office once their term ended. You'd need to strip Pesci down to his tighty whities and beat him with an aluminium baseball bat in a corn field before he would leave. De Niro would leave only if Al Pacino shot him. Unfortunately, we won't have to worry about De Niro and Pesci leaving office because they aren't running, and probably never will. After all, why would they involve themselves in a job that lacks integrity, compassion, and fairness? And these guys work in Hollywood ...


The beginning stages of vomit circularity
brought on by thinking about American politics.


Friday, April 15, 2011

Spaced Out

April 12, 2011 marked the fiftieth anniversary of the first manned space flight. You may be thinking that I am incredibly smart for knowing this somewhat obscure fact, and I will gladly admit that I am incredibly smart (which makes you smart for thinking that I'm smart), but I must tell you that I only just learned about this historic fact because Google made its logo all spacey-looking and I clicked on it because space stuff is cool. However, once I read the article I learned that Russia -- Russia! -- not America has bragging rights to the coolest pissing contest ever held. In our defense, we were somewhat preoccupied organizing and managing the most successful invasion since World War II in Cuba's Bahia de Cochinos later that week. Anyway, we struck back in 1969 by putting men on the moon, and, in typical proletariat-crushing fashion, built the moon's first five-star hotel and miniature golf course combo called "Bourgeoisie Only." Take that Khrushchev.

The "Space Race," as it has been called, started with the Soviets long before Yuri Gagarin's first orbit around earth. On October of 1957, the Soviet Union launched the unmanned "Sputnik" using an ICBM rocket booster fueled with Stolichnaya. Only one month later, the Russians earned the honor of being the first country to kill a pet in space by shooting a dog named Laika into orbit with no plan for atmospheric re-entry. While Russia's space program was thriving, America's program was still feeling the sting after the Vanguard rocket exploded on the launch pad because the fuel tanks were mistakenly filled with Wild Turkey instead of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It wasn't until January of '58 that America finally realized its space-orbit dreams with Explorer 1 powered by the Oscar winning Juno rocket booster. Wizard. England tried to get into the space race act as well, but didn't launch anything successful until Sigue Sigue Sputnik's Love Missile F1-11 hit number three on the UK Singles Chart in '86.

The space race has continued over the years, even through the demise of the cold war, to varying effects. The major players largely remain the same although you will find occasional rookies trying to blast off and become their country's next hero or traitor, as the case may be with Lance Bass who moved to Russia to catch a ride on the Soyuz space capsule. In fact, Bass immersed himself so much in Russian culture during his training that he only ate borshch, memorized every line of Das Kapital, and started writing all of his consonants backwards. The hero side of things is exemplified by Oscar winner Tom Hanks who deals with more space-related issues in one day than you do in your whole space-less (and therefore un-American) life. Hanks has starred in space flight movies (Apollo 13), produced space flight movies (From the Earth to the Moon), has an asteroid named after him (Asteroid 12818 Tomhanks), and is the current president of NASA.

While the concepts "hero" and "traitor" help define the space race or space travel or whatever, the full picture would be lacking without other genre-defining concepts such as "Critters" and "Leprechauns." Take the appropriately named Leprechaun 4: In Space, not to be confused with Critters 4 (they're also in space) which is totally different from Critters 3: You are What They Eat (Critters in a tenement building) and Ghoulies 3: Ghoulies Go to College (they're pre-med) as an example. From what I understand, the American government was still reeling from its humiliating defeat by not being the first country to kill a pet in space so it tried to kill a leprechaun instead. Unfortunately, everyone forgets that these things have special powers like killing space marines with a miniature shamrock-colored lightsaber, shape-shifting, and regenerating to full size (though still small) inside a human man then exploding Alien-style out of his penis. The Critters do essentially the same stuff minus the lightsaber, shape-shifting, and exploding penis, but they do get to eat people and roll after Angela Bassett the entire voyage.

The likes of critters and leprechauns demonstrate that anything can and will happen in space -- especially if it's low budget. With that in mind, we mustn't forget about serial killers finding their way into the vast reaches of the universe. Take a particularly petulant and cantankerous fellow named Jason Voorhees. Mr. Voorhees has killed more people than God and might be as immortal, but still cannot be called anything other than an accidental astronaut with a machete. Once Jason found his way onto the Grendel after surviving over 400 years in cryostasis, his natural adaptability allowed him to thrive in space just like cosmonaut Gagarin except with more murder. If we learned one thing from Jason it's that psych-evals are a necessary evil and should be mandatory for anyone new to the rigors of space flight. Perhaps, with the proper evaluation, the crew on that ill-fated journey might have learned that Jason merely needs a hip father figure and intellectual stimulation from someone who is a physicist, neurosurgeon, and rock musician like Buckaroo Banzai, not more violence. Even if Jason didn't take to Banzai's in-jokes and existential catchphrases he would certainly be distracted by Jeff Goldblum's chaps long enough for the rest of the Hong Kong Cavaliers to blast him into a black hole.

So it looks like space can be a scary place or a slightly witty one if you have shoulder pads in your suit jacket and it's 1984. It also looks like those long space flights and trying to figure out why your spaceship isn't making the jump to light speed again can be boring and confusing, like the time my mom bought me white knit gloves covered in glitter for Christmas (not okay at any age, but particularly disturbing when you're 29). While all of those things can work against a young boy's dream of becoming an astronaut, that dream returns once the young boy realizes that modern-day astronauts have been in Playboy and Maxim. It was exciting enough watching Battlestar Galactica circa 1978 with Maren Jensen, Laurette Spang, and that stupid orange robot dog, but had the re-boot with Grace Park and Tricia Helfer been around back then, reservations at space camp would have been very hard to come by.

It's good to know that hot lady astronauts (astro-hots, as I like to call them) besides Sigourney Weaver exist in space because no one can hear your frustrated screams there. Along with boobs, space also has a certain sense of wackiness as embodied by the likes of Chewbacca, Tribbles, and Jake Garn. But just as easy as you can find growls, fluff, and foreheads in space, you may also find mystery, the sublime, and William Shatner. Or you may find a large, black rectangular object that sends a powerful radio transmission to Jupiter and is responsible for man's evolution. You may also find earth's space army dressed like Nazis fighting what looks to be large malevolent grasshoppers. Some members of Hollywood have been to space like Jodie Foster and Richard Dreyfuss, while some members of Hollywood are spaced out like Mickey Rourke and James Franco. If you look through space long enough you may even find Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd playing basketball with Michael Jordan and BYU's own Shawn Bradley (Bradley's space basketball career lasted longer than his earth one).

Sometimes you don't even have to leave this planet to find stuff from space like Mork, ALF, and French Stewart. The Prawn are here; The Thing is here; The Blob is here; and David Bowie fell here. Aliens and Predators are here but I can't tell which are Republicans and which are Democrats. George W. is here and so's his father. Ronald Reagan's not here but some of the Redwoods still are. I'm fairly certain that every member of the Utah Legislature is from space, and I've got a pair of those special sunglasses to prove it. Cool. I guess space is closer than I thought ...

Not only do these sunglasses let you see space aliens,
they help you kick ass and chew bubble gum as well.