Oscars, Baby!

I have to admit, I have a huge soft spot for the Oscars. I don't really care a thing about any of the other awards shows, but I love watching the Academy Awards. The show just finished, I was shocked by the end, because Scorsese didn't get best picture or best director for "The Aviator." Now, I've just got to see "Million Dollar Baby" to find out what all the fuss was about. My favorite moment, by far, was seeing Charlie Kaufman win for best original screenplay. (I told you, Chris!) The part I look forward to every year is the ridiculous little awards like sound editing and sound mixing. What was funny about that this year was the fact that the nominees for sound editing and sound mixing were different. "The Aviator" won for sound mixing, but wasn't even nominated for sound editing. I can just see those pretentious academy bastards now, "You know, the mixing in that movie was great, but the editing sucked balls!" Give me a break. Another funny part is the ludicrous questions these idiots like Star Jones-Reynolds ask the nominees before they go into the building. "If you could name your top three non-human acting influences in reverse aphabetical order, who would they be and why?" "Has playing a real-life figure altered your perceptions of the color blue in any way?" "Are you excited?" "Was there any tension on the set?" "Will you please do mankind a service and shoot me in the face?"

The Scribe

I recently landed a job at the UCCS campus paper, The Scribe. I'm a reporter, which is awesome, because now, whenever I get a great idea for a story I can exclaim, "What a scoop!" and head off to my smoke-filled office and churn out another story on my typewriter. Good times. Seriously, though, it's not really going to be that great at first. For my initial few stories, I'm going to have to do all the crappy stuff none of the other reporters want to do. This week, I'm supposed to cover something on campus called the "Tree of Peace." I don't even know where this tree is. (Apparently, as I'd found out later, it's been several trees over the years. When one dies, they just move the plaque to the tree next to it.) What's so funny is that a boring-as-hell story like that would be right at home in this snooze-fest of a paper (it's not going to be like that forever, though. We're actually changing formats this week to make it more entertaining and eye-catching. At the moment, however, it's still boring). What I really wanted to do was a sort of "Hollywood Minute" thing where I just rip on pop culture in a short column, but somebody suggested a feature that's so similar to my idea, I'll never get to propose it. The one feature I did land is kind of a quirky one. It's called "Strange Medicine," and it's just a short column on weird diseases and unusual medical news. I can't go all-out and make it a joke right away, but I'm hoping that, over time, I'll be able to make this piece popular with a hefty dose of my caustic wit. Fingers crossed. Until then, I'll be stuck writing about walking corpse syndrome, in which the patient, having undergone surgery with anesthesia, believes that he/she has lost one or more limbs. "What do you mean everything's fine?! Get that bastard who chopped my arms off!"

Social Norms/Rules

When most people see social norms and rules, they see just that: guidelines to living a more socialy successful life. I, on the other hand, am not like most people. Let me give you some examples:

1. No outside food or drink. That, to me, is a challenge, not a guideline or rule. That says, "Please, PLEASE try to get your outside food into the theater." And I do. A friend of mine smuggled 6 tacos into a theater. The funny part is, I didn't have any food with me at the time, and I got strip-searched by the theater nazis while they allowed my friend to walk in untouched. That's profiling, and that's wrong. I once smuggled an entire albatross into a theater. Man, that was sweet.

2. Don't hit girls. OK, as soon as girls stop hitting guys, then we'll return the favor. Until then, forget you. It's not cute, ladies. Why do we have such a double standard on this issue?

3. No loitering. Oh yeah? I like to stand perfectly still in front of a "NO Loitering" sign and just laugh and spit. I keep laughing and spitting until I get asked to leave, and that's when I throw a handful of glitter in someone's face. OK, that's a lie.

4. There are no wrong opinions. What!? Are you insane? Of course there are wrong opinions. If I say, "It's my opinion that Abraham Lincoln is still alive," then I have a wrong opinion. Be less tolerant, because some things are just plain stupid.

5. Don't make fun of fat people. Unless they were born weighing 340 pounds, then it's not a condition they were born with, and I'll make fun of them until it makes a difference. When they're completely dead on the inside from all the pain and rejection that goes hand in hand with being a disgusting tub of Twinkie cream, then maybe they'll actually get up off the couch and start exercising. Nothing too strenuous at first. They can start out with walking to the tv and back, then, a few weeks later, move up to dressing themselves and maybe not using one of those electric carts when they go shopping. Baby steps.

We Feel So Sorry For You. No Really.

Paris Hilton had her cell phone hacked into and the contents were published on the internet! OMG! When I heard that, I almost slit my own wrists. Why, God, why? Why does Paris Hilton get all the crap of the world thrown on her? Why is she the target of fate's cruelest jokes? Why can't the adoring (read: illiterate and most likely ugly) public just leave this poor angel alone? What's she done to us? She just wants to live her totally normal millionaire lifestyle. Mostly, though, I'm just asking why anyone would ever give two craps about anything Paris Hilton does. She's about as talented as my elbow, and far less attractive. Here's the article in case you missed it while you were out in the world not caring about Paris Hilton.

How To Appear Intelligent

Most of us are in college right now, so I think this is a perfect opportunity to give out a handy little guide to looking intelligent in college classrooms.

1. Arrive late. Some may think that this action will make them appear "apathetic" or "slow" or "a person who does not own an alarm clock." This is not the case. You'll look like, "I'm so smart, I don't even need to be on time to this class, bitch!" That's a good attitude to project.

2. Sit in the back. Similarly to the first rule, it will tell your prof that you've got more important things to do in his class, like text messaging and butt clenches.

3. Wear glasses. I know what I'm talking about. People just randomly walk up to me and ask me things like, "What's the quadratic formula?" and "Do you understand quantum mechanics?" and "How do you make such great looking ceramic horses?" and "Why are you so hot?" and "Can I have your child?" All because I'm wearing glasses. It's great. Sometimes, I even tell them the true meaning of life, but then I take off my glasses and they don't believe me anymore. What the heck was I talking about? Oh...

4. Always recap the prof's previous statement in your own words as if it were a question. Example: "...Thus proving that the honeybee is, in fact, a member of the kingdom Plantae." "So, let me get this straight. So... You're saying that, like, honeybees are, like, members of the kingdom Plantae?" Also, ask the question in a totally beach-bum stoned out voice. Professors will eat it up. THEY LOVE IT.

5. Disagree with your professor. Competition is their bread and butter. Try to do it kinda like this: "...Thus proving that the honeybee is, in fact, a member of the kingdom Plantae." "You're wrong, professor. I hate you and your whole stinkin' operation. You suck! I hope you get stabbed with cancer!" I will guarantee you at least a B+.

6. Only refer to yourself in the third person, preferably with a title: "Sir Andrew the Virile must use the restroom." Stuff like that. Also, only refer to your professor as "Big Fat Turd" or, if you're feeling REALLY smart, "Fugly Jackass."

7. Piss your pants. Hey, what's genius without eccentricity? That's like Girl Scout Thin Mints without a gag-inducing aftertaste.

So there you go. Just follow these simple rules, and you'll be graduating Summa Cum Laude in no time.

Danny Deckchair

This weekend, my family forced me to watch some movie I'd never heard of, "Danny Deckchair." I was ready to head upstairs, but my mom coerced me into staying until I'd decided I'd had enough. I was not looking forward to this at all, but as the first few minutes unfolded, I found myself pleasantly surprised. Made in Australia, "Danny Deckchair" takes the story of that guy who rose 30,000 feet in the air with the aid of weather balloons right in the middle of LAX's approach run airspace, and it makes a quirky romantic comedy (sort of) out of it. Once you get past the annoying Aussie accents (to me, a Texan doing a Cockney accent sounds less forced), it really is a good movie. It's not one most of you would probably check out on a weekend, but give it a try. I mean, it's no "Eternal Sunshine," but it'll do. Do yoursef a favor and, if you can find it, give "Danny Deckchair" a try. (I'm guessing the ladies will like this more than the men, though. I'm not the kind of guy who requires explosions to keep me entertained, so it was fine for me.)

RIP Hunter S Thompson

The original "Gonzo" journalist, Hunter S. Thompson, died yesterday in Colorado in an apparent suicide. He wrote the drug-laden novel, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and was Johnny Depp's inspiration for his character in the film version of the novel. What can I say? Not much, really, because I bet only three of the people who actually read this have ever even heard of Hunter Thompson. Oh well. Here's to you, buddy.

An Amazing Ability

Last time I suffered through Philosophy and Society, I discovered I have an incredible gift. I can sleep with my eyes open. Not only that, but I can even take sleep-notes! I kid you not. I woke up from a strange trance and realized I had no recollection of the previous ten or fifteen minutes. Then, to my amazement, I looked down at my notebook and saw half a page of notes. They were legible and everything! I tell you, this has opened doors for me I thought I'd never see opened. Actually, not really. OK, not at all. I have this amazing ability, but it's almost completely useless! If only I'd discovered I could absorb information simply by being present. Now that would be an ability that's actually useful in college. But why stop there? I could listen to people without actually listening to them. I could totally zone out in meetings. But no, I have to get the crappy skill of being able to appear awake while I am, in point of fact, asleep. I want to develop an awesome skill. Guess I'll have to start small. Maybe knife juggling or midget tossing...

Is That Normal?

A few days ago, I was walking down the stairs at the UCCS library, hands in pockets. As I neared the bottom of the stairs, a horrible thought struck me: What if I were to trip and fall flat on my face? I don't think I'd have time to pull my hands out of my pockets in time to keep from knocking out five or six teeth. Then I'd get up and try to find the teeth while cupping my hand underneath my chin to catch the dripping blood. OK, I know that's not a normal thought to have, but what about this one: I was instantly more worried about what people would say to me and whether or not they would laugh at my disgusting bloody mess than I was about any sort of physical pain. Is that a normal thing? I don't think it is. Most people would probably be worried about getting the teeth back in or how badly it would hurt. Not me. I think I've discovered something. I could totally take Woody Allen's place as the most neurotic man in America as soon as the little guy dies. THAT, my friend, is a dark side.

Shirt Of The Day

There's a guy in my Critical Thinking class who, I swear, has a different shirt set aside for each day, with the cycle repeating exactly over the course of one week. I'm totally not making this up. I first noticed it a few weeks ago, and since then I have been keeping track of the shirts he wears on the two days I have that class. (I wouldn't normally notice something like this, but he sits in front of me EVERY DAY.) He's got two different shirts that I've seen every Monday and Wednesday for as long as I've been paying attention. That's just plain gross. I'm not big into clothes at all, but at least I have enough shirts to last me more than a seven-day cycle. Maybe if he just mixed it up a little by wearing them inside-out or backwards, I wouldn't care so much. Or maybe he could place duct tape strategically in places on the shirts to make a new "design." Something. ANYTHING. I'm just so sick of seeing nothing but his nappy hair and his stupid Hurley shirt every day. I'd buy him a shirt if I thought he'd actually change his schedule, but something tells me he likes it that way. Maybe that's the only method he has for determining what day it is.

Sexist Language

We have to write an essay on Plato's Republic in my Philosophy and Society class. My professor gave us a two-page guide on how to write a paper. That's funny. I thought I was in college. She told us about proper essay structure and that "you should make several drafts of your paper." Wow. Thanks for that "outside the box" thinking, you moron. I totally couldn't have thought of that on my own. You've saved my college career. What really pissed me off was that she wrote "Refrain from any sexist use of language." Dang. I was planning on squeezing this little ditty into my paper: "The central problem facing Socrates and his companions is not that justice is difficult to define, but that it is realistically impossible to enforce. And girls are poopheads." Well, forget that.

Car? What Car?

Have you seen that Mercury Mountaineer commercial? You know, the one where the wife rolls the garbage can all the way down the driveway except the last four feet, then the husband backs out and nearly hits the garbage can. Then, he gets out of the car and moves the garbage can the final four feet. Every time this commercial comes on, I get the overwhelming urge to throw a football helmet at my tv. Oh, she really showed him. She proved to her husband who wears the pants in that relationship by doing a purposefully half-assed job at a task that she started. Plus, the kicker is the fact that the entire commercial says absolutely nothing about the car. "Man, that wife sure showed her husband! I'm totally buying that crappy Mercury!" I don't think so.

Not The Way To Prove Your Point

I was watching tv last night, and my brother was just walking around making strange noises and throwing things. This really pissed my sister off, so she said to him (in the nicest way possible), "You need to go on ritalin or something." When he heard that, my brother picked up a stool and yelled, "I'm going to beat the crap out of you!" in a misguided attempt to prove to my sister that, indeed, he could control himself. Now, I may be wrong, but if the accusation is that you're too hyper to live a normal life without the aid of drugs, then I don't think it would be the best idea to argue against that point by making threats of physical harm. Just a thought.

Happy Un-Valentine's Day

I purposefully didn't write a post concerning Valentine's Day yesterday, because the vast majority of the blogosphere was already concerned with the fact that they were alone. I took the liberty of researching some blogs (and when I say "research," I mean I kept clicking on the "next" button and reading the top post on the blog), and you know what I found out? Bloggers are lonely people. Maybe they spend too much of their time sitting in front of a computer to actually go out and get a Valentine. Now, don't get me wrong, I didn't have a Valentine either. I simply chose to wait until today to tell the world about it. I read all kinds of posts about how bad being alone on Valentine's Day sucked. "Oh, the guy that I like didn't say anything to me, even though I clearly told him I was interested by asking him to pass the ketchup in the cafeteria. God help me. I'm a blimp! No one loves me or even cares. I'm going to kill myself!" Why don't you do it already and stop bothering me about it? Grow up. Hundreds of thousands of people were affected in one way or another by the tsunami in the Pacific. If you could pull yourself together long enough to watch the news, you wouldn't feel so bad about your daddy cancelling your credit cards.

Fine Print

I was driving home from school today, listening to talk radio as usual (it's not really by choice; for some reason, my car radio only gets AM), and I heard an ad that had a list of warnings, rules, and restrictions that was, I kid you not, longer than the actual commercial. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever heard (except when I'd forgotten to use ear plugs before my friend John fired his assault rifle for the first time in my other friend John's front yard). I couldn't believe it. There were more things to clarify than there had been things to initially say. Then it got me thinking about all those drug commercials that have those ridiculous health warnings and qualifiers. You know, "This drug should not be taken by people over the age of forty-five, or under the age of twelve. Women who are pregnant or who may become pregnant should not use this drug. Common side effects included, but were not limited to, vaginal bleeding, ulcers, penile sores, dry mouth, insomnia, Tourette's syndrome, diarrhea, bowel cancer, ugliness, loss of hair, loss of teeth, loss of friends, death, and a strange marking that may or may not condemn you to the depths of hell for all eternity. However, some of these side effects were also seen in patients given a placebo." Now, that last part is really the part that scares me. What it means is, if I were given a sugar pill and told it was a miracle anti-sunburn drug, I might actually get some of those horrible symptoms WITHOUT THE BENEFITS OF THE DRUG. Ah, the human mind is an amazing thing.

Be Proud Of Yourself, But Know Your Limits

As the great actor Michael Caine once said to the great comedian Steve Martin in the underrated comedy "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels," "All I'm saying is: know your limitations, Freddy. You are a moron." That, my friends, is the simple request I make today. If you are ever made aware of the fact that you have the vocabulary of a pelvic bone, please adjust your speech accordingly. There's a guy in my Critical Thinking class who does not appear to be blessed with this knowledge. In fact, I think he thinks he's a genius. One day, he was talking about some moral dilemma (you'll notice this is a pattern. Whenever I write something about an occurance in class, the actual educational content will have mysteriously been lost in my memory. This is for two reasons: 1) I'm taking easy classes that don't require such peripherals as "thought" or "attendance," and 2) I have the attention span of a tsetse fly). Where was I? Oh yeah. This guy was talking about some moral problem, and he used the word "ethnocentric" in a context that was perfect for the word "narcissistic" or possibly "egomaniacal." "Ethnocentric," however, was NOT a good word choice. I have a feeling that the professor, myself, and two other people were the only ones who actually caught this flagrant error, and that scares me even more than the use of the word did. The worst part is, this guy and I usually find ourselves in total agreement when we discuss certain things as a class, so now I'm worried that I'll look like an idiot when I make statements that are indicative of an opinion that is sympathetic to his.

Wrong Number

Last night, I was sitting at Starbucks with a friend, and I got a call on my cell phone from a number I didn't recognize. It went pretty much like this:

Me: "Hello?"
Caller: *nothing*
Me: "Hello?"
Caller: *incoherent mumbling*
Me: "Hello!?"
Caller: (quietly) "Hi"
Me: "Um, hi"
Caller: *more incoherent mumbling*
Me: "What?"
Caller: "Where are you?"
Me: "Uh... I'm at Starbucks."
Caller: "Oh...um... Dick was trying to get you to call him."
Me: (realizing for the first time that, since I don't know anyone named Dick, it must be a wrong number) "Oh really?"
Caller: "Yeah. You should call him."
Me: "Well, I just might do that."
Caller: "Do you have his number?"
Me: "I might."
Caller: "Okay. You call him then."
Me: "Alright"
*click*

So, if that lady were reading this right now, I'd just like to say that, even though I thought it was really funny to let you think you knew who you were talking to, I do kinda feel bad about it now. For what it's worth, I apologize.

A Trip To Sam's Club

You want to see some weird people? Take a little excursion through Sam's Club. Today, in a forty-minute period, I saw a three-year-old that appeared to weigh almost a hundred pounds, a woman wearing a sweatshirt with an indecipherable slogan on it, and a mother teaching her developmentally-challenged teenager how to "drive" a shopping cart through heavy foot traffic. And that's just a small window into the freak show that is the Colorado Springs Sam's Club. That little fat kid was amazing. He was like two feet tall and almost as wide. He was walking around Sam's Club with a cup full of ice cream, following his mother who had with her what appeared to be a gigantic Little Debbie ultimate sampler. There wasn't a single fruit or vegetable in that cart. Later, I saw this lady wearing a sweatshirt that said "Colorado cigarettes are hands down cheap and deadly." Now, aside from the obvious grammatical awkwardness of the statement itself coupled with the fact that it really makes no sense at all, I was amazed that it was on a sweatshirt. It seemed like something you'd see written on one of those standard t-shirts you see people wearing when they're working out at a YMCA or something. This was a full-blown sweatshirt that probably cost at least $20. I was really glad to see that message, though, because prior to today, I was totally unaware of the fact that cigarettes were deadly. Thank you, good woman, for saving my life! Then there was the kid learning how to operate a shopping cart. That was just plain weird. Sam's Club on a Sunday is not the place to teach your child how to make a left turn across traffic in a busy shopping cart intersection. People were getting pretty mad at this poor duo for getting in their way. I thought it was hilarious.

Now Here's One I Like

I just found this quotation, and I really like this one.

"All progress is based upon a universal innate desire on the part of every organism to live beyond its income." -Samuel Butler

Ok, this is the last quotation for a while. I just wanted to put this up for the sake of comparison. The previous quote concerning success could easily be confused with one that is actually, you know, "correct" or "not a huge load of horse crap." This, on the other hand, is not LITERALLY correct, but is a humorous quotation whose meaning is based on an absolutely true idea. It's a joke, but with truth behind it. This is much more favorable to me than one that is serious in execution, but laughable in meaning.

Gather 'Round. It's Quote Readin' Time!

I stumbled upon this quotation a few days ago.

"Don't confuse fame with success. Madonna is one; Helen Keller is the other." -Erma Bombeck

That just doesn't make any sense. This quotation is indicative of another, more serious problem. We tend to glorify someone who has been involuntarily shoved into terrible tragedies by making ordinary "successes" into great triumphs. This, my friends, is sooo wrong. Sorry, Erma, but you're an idiot dressed up in a genius' clothing. Let's look at this from an example, shall we? Let's say I'm playing a game of checkers, only I'm starting out with half of my pieces missing already, while my opponent starts out with a full set of pieces. We play, and sure enough, I lose after having taken only three of his pieces. Would you call the game a success for me? Absolutely not. Why, then, would you call Helen Keller a success? (Now don't get all pissy at me. I'm not saying she was a failure, either. In America, we don't have just the two options. There are tens of millions of people who don't fall into either of those two categories. I'm one of them, for the time being, and so was Helen Keller.) A great success is simply acheiving a great goal that has been set. That's it. Madonna IS successful. So is anyone who's ever been elected President of the United States, won a Nobel Prize, or allowed a man who killed both his wife and an innocent bystander to go free. Helen Keller was able to come as close to living an absolutely perfectly normally life as is possible for a blind and deaf person in today's world, but that's not an "accomplishment." Putting men on the moon is an accomplishment.

Still don't believe me? Well, Helen does and even agrees with me. These are her own words: "The public must learn that the blind man is neither genius nor a freak nor an idiot. He has a mind that can be educated, a hand which can be trained, ambitions which it is right for him to strive to realise, and it is the duty of the public to help him make the best of himself so that he can win light through work."

Societal Rules

Every society has certain unspoken rules that may not be rooted in any sort of morality or ethics, but are important nonetheless. People who break these rules don't receive any real punishment beyond scowls and glares from other people. I don't like that. I think we should be allowed to conduct on-sight polls and vote on whether or not that person should receive a blow to the head. My example is most commonly seen in movie theaters, but most college students will have seen this in a lecture hall at one time. People sit on one side or the other of a row, then, when they have to leave the room, they cross the row THE LONG WAY and get all pissd at you when you refuse to move your feet or stand up. I'm not getting up for someone who apparently lacks the ability to measure and evaluate distances of less than twenty feet. There was one guy who actually grabbed my sweatshirt and pulled me toward him and yelled in my face, "Did you just try to trip me?!" I was 14 at the time, so I didn't have the presence of mind to get back into his hostile little face or scream "Rape!" so I just said "No, sir." in my most sincere sounding little kid voice. I should have told someone that this blowhard thought he could get away with accosting a minor, but I was too scared. If we had the voting system, that man would forever more think twice about being a jackass in front of his kids. There should be other rules, too. Walking down the left side of the aisle in a supermarket: no good. This isn't England, people. We do everything on the right side. You want to be a rebel, do it at home in your halls. Not taking credit cards at fast food places: we should be allowed to castrate a worker of our choice. This is 2005. Most people don't even carry cash anymore. What, do you think you're special or something? The rules of civilization don't apply to you? Get a credit card machine, idiot. I'm sure there are more things people do that they really shouldn't, but I can't think of them right now.

It's Not An Opinion

There are plenty of idiots walking around, but only the dangerously stupid ones make the mistake I saw today. My professor was droning on and on about something or other and happened to mention a SCIENTIFIC FACT that had been repeatedly proven in innumerable experiments (I don't remember what it was, but it's not important), and this girl in the class started off her personal little spiel by saying, "You know, I think I agree with that." Oh really, you drooling idiot?! And where did you get this magical "agreement" to something that can't be disputed? That's the same as saying, "The sky is blue" and receiving the response, "I think that's actually right. I totally agree with that idea." It took all of my willpower not to throw my shoe at her head.

That's Just Not Right

I was sitting in class today when I noticed something really strange in the corner of my eye. It wasn't something I thought I'd ever see in a class on a college compus. The guy two seats down from me had his arm in his pants up to his elbow. He was repeatedly shoving his hand down there, and I finally realized that he was tucking his shirt in. Now, I don't understand that at all. It was pretty much in the middle of class. He didn't have anywhere to rush off to afterward. I know because he stayed behind at the end of the class to speak with some of the other members of his "team" for an upcoming project. He didn't stand up in front of the class at any time. There was really no reason for him to need his shirt tucked in at that moment, but he was tuckin' like there was no tomorrow. I wouldn't normally make a big deal about this (I think), but what put it over the top was the fact that he was wearing a cap that had some restaurant's name on it, and I'm not talking about one of those purposefully weathered caps you can get from American Eagle. This was a cap that had a BUCKLE on the back. I mean, Sam Jackson would look like a nerd in this thing. NO ONE could pull it off, but especially not this guy. I don't know where he's from, but I don't think the "tucked in plaid shirt and a backwards gift hat" look is popular anywhere right now. He was so sad looking, I almost wanted to kill him to put him out of his misery. He'd have thanked me in heaven.

Superpowers

I love to ask people which superpower they would choose if they had the option to either fly or become invisible. If you were somehow given the choice between flying and invisibility, which would you choose? After thinking about it for a long time, I decided that I'd rather have the ability to become invisible. I mean, flying would be sweet, don't get me wrong. I just think invisibility would offer more options on how to utilize the ability. I could pretty much do whatever I wanted. Personally, however, my choice is usually a third option: stopping time. You know, like the way that girl did on the short-lived 80's sitcom "Out Of This World." Man, that would be sweet. I'd mostly use it to rig sporting events. I'd stop time while a basketball were in mid-arc and change its course just enough to keep it from going in. Or, maybe I'd use it to cheat on board games. Yeah, that would be awesome.

Congratulations On Absolute Mediocrity

I hate it when people celebrate things that really give no reason for celebration. Kids graduated from kindergarten? Wow, they must be the first kids EVER to do so. You get a parade! You've been sober for eight weeks? Great! Here's the key to the city and your own Daihatsu dealership. Just got out of rehab? Well here's your very own made-for-tv special, controlling shares in Kraft, and a truck full of moon pies. It's ridiculous. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's people who celebrate the most meaningless crap because they think it's, well, not. Oh, you had a healthy baby? Well, since that NEVER happens here in America, I think you deserve a lifetime supply of pork cracklin's and an autographed picture of Jesus. What about those of us who never STARTED doing drugs in the first place? What about the people who aren't sucking on the teat of healthcare with eight little versions of themselves running around? Where's our parade? When's our time? I learned to "just say no" to drugs before I cut my first tooth, for crying out loud. What, just because I have more self-control than a drunk college chick at a kegger, I don't deserve any kind words? Apparently, being good means nothing, unless you used to torture children and birds, then you're a national hero. Is that what I have to do? Kill a few people, and then have a miraculous change of heart in prison? Screw that. I'll never go back to that hell hole. I'll die before you put me back there! Vive La Resitance! ( I don't even know what that means.)

Kickball

Do you remember kickball? You know, that cross between baseball and soccer but worlds better than both? When I was a little kid, around second grade I think, we played kickball every day. Sometimes twice and three times, depending on the recess schedule for the day. We all had those awesome pump-up shoes that had the little bubble on the tongue, and we KNEW that pumping that bubble a certain number of times would give us the best kick EVER. You know, a little extra cushion, er... something like that. I miss those days. One thing I used to fantasize about was if there ever were a "Kickball World Series," my friends and I would beat the living hell out of any other wannabe team that crossed our path. I thought it would be so awesome if we could ever find out where this mythical, magical world series would be. Then, we'd get in and win, with an incredibly tense last-minute grand slam by yours truly. Oh, it would be sweet. Elementary school was great for that reason. We could do whatever we could imagine. Sometimes, that wasn't such a good thing, like the time I kicked that one kid in the neck. He was pissing me off by, like, "looking at me funny," or something like that. So, I argued with him about whose dad could beat up whom for awhile, then I got fed up and kicked him in the neck. He cried, and I think he actually had to go home. I got sent to the principal's office, but I somehow (and nowadays I really wish I remembered how) talked my way out of it. I think I said something like, "He was tying his shoe, and I tripped over a rock and my foot hit his neck... (now, the magic words) ON ACCIDENT." Whatever it was, it was a terrible excuse, but it just might be that, if it weren't for the gullibility of the principal, I'd be one messed up guy today.

The Most Expensive Minute On Television

Since the Eagles aren't that great and I have an unnatural hatred for the Patriots, I mostly watched the superbowl yesterday because of the commercials. This is not new. Every year, more and more people tune into the game without actually watching the game, and spend their "watching energy" on the commercials instead. We all know this already. What's my point? The commercials, for the past six or seven years, have been getting steadily worse. They're big, expensive productions, to be sure, but so was "Deep Impact," and that was the biggest, sweatiest turd of a movie ever to star Morgan Freeman. Just because they're expensive, it doesn't mean you have to pretend you like them. I'm tired of these incredibly over-hyped superbowl commercials that suck more than Ben Folds. They're just plain bad. The best commercial of the night, in my opinion (obviously), was the Anheuser-Busch spot that featured the US soldiers being applauded in an airport. Now, THAT was a commercial. Who cares if it didn't tell you jack about the product? They're Anheuser-Busch. There's not a single person reading this that doesn't know what Anheuser-Busch makes. It's called "brand awareness." You don't have to say anything new about your company if you've got a memorable commercial that sells an attitude, image, or lifestyle. The attitude was obvious, and in contrast to the other loud and obnoxious commercials, the somber mood of the ad made it stand out in a crowded field of losers.

People Who Claim To Hate Starbucks Are Hypocrites

I went out for coffee with a friend a few days ago, and she ordered a very complicated drink. The guy behind the counter said, "You sound like a Starbucks customer." She thought that was funny, and replied, "Oh no. I work at a local coffee house. I never go into Starbucks." Now, I'd be fine with people whose PRIMARY complaint about Starbucks is that it doesn't taste good. That's a perfectly logical reason not to buy food from any shop. I don't eat food from several places because I don't like their food. That, however, is not the primary argument posed by 90% of the people who claim to hate Starbucks. It's a complaint, nonetheless, but it's not the PRIMARY complaint. BY FAR, the most common complaint about Starbucks is that it's "killing small business." That, ladies and gentlemen, is the stupidest and most baseless complaint you could have possibly come up with against Starbucks, and here's why: The people who complain this way are total hypocrites. They speak their piece against Starbucks while wearing Ralph Lauren sunglasses, listening to their iPods, eating Kraft macaroni and cheese, and wearing an American Eagle beanie. You cannot genuinely complain about big business taking over the territory of local businesses unless you stop shopping at the mall altogether. You'd only be able to eat food from local non-chain restaurants, unless you happen to live near a farm, then it's ok to eat food from the local non-chain grocery store, but only for the food that is grown on that local farm. You also cannot wear clothes that were not made by local clothesmakers. You cannot even buy shoes from PayLess, because that's a national chain. You see where I'm going with this? It is impossible to EXCLUSIVELY support locally owned and operated businesses. Besides, who works in a local Starbucks? I'll give you a hint: Starbucks doesn't send in ringers from NYC and LA to take over all the local barista positions. They're filled BY LOCALS. They're also managed BY LOCALS. Again, I don't want people telling me that it's also because Starbucks doesn't taste good. I'm only talking to the people who claim that it's "ruining" local business.

Curves

I recently saw an ad on tv for this new gym called Curves. In case any of you don't know what this place is, I'll give you the rundown. The commercial actually explains it all. There's this woman who is seen stretching before some sort of race, presumably a marathon. Now, she's not the skinniest woman in the world. OK, she's fat. Then the gun goes off and all the other SKINNIER women take off while the fat woman covers her ears at the (apparently) unpredictable sound of a gun firing. Then, the voice-over starts, "Maybe your workout isn't working because you're doing the wrong one." Then, it cuts to shots of fat women doing awkward-looking exercises such as "walking" and "looking at exercise equipment from afar." Then, the skiny-sounding voice-over lady tells all the fat homemakers who are already hooked by that oscar-worthy editing work that they, too can have the body they want by only working out thirty minutes a day, three days a week. So basically, the whole premise of their ad campaign breaks down like this: Being fat makes you very sensitive to the sound of gunshots, so instead of actually "doing something about it," you should just come here and feel skinnier by comparison for 90 minutes a week, then go right back to eating sticks of butter and hams the size of small children. That, in essence, is their message. "You're not doing the right exercise, because you're just too dang fat. The solution is obvious: work out less." They should be more upfront about it, though. Their motto should be "Curves: Come Fat. Stay Fat. Leave under the false impression that you've actually done something you couldn't have done in line at Dairy Queen."

That's So Cliche

I'm sick and tired of movie critics talking about cliche as if they actually know what it means. They're using it incorrectly. A cliche is an idea that is repeated ad nauseam, usually to the point of becoming a joke. Now, in some cases, there are lots of cliches in a movie, but they're not nearly as prevalent as critics would have you believe. They are confusing cliches with genre standards. For example, they say things about Jerry Bruckheimer movies being riddles with cliches, but what they mean is that the movies are full of elements that are essential for the correct categorization of the movies as "action movies." If there were no action "cliches" as you so incorrectly put it, then the movie would become a drama, which, by the way, has its own set of genre standards. Something that's cliche would be the classic (70's and 80's) setup-punchline format for sitcoms. That whole practice of the obvious setup followed by an incredibly predictable (and thus not funny) punchline is a true cliche. I have a lot of respect for some of them, but the vast majority of film critics are complete morons.

Wake Up And... No, You're Still Not Awake

I want to throttle the guy who does the voice-over for those Carl's Jr commercials. He sounds higher than that "Dude, you're gettin' a Dell" idiot that got busted for pot a while back. Number one rule in advertising: You have to believe in your own product. Now, I don't know about you guys, but I have a hard time believing that that moron is excited about ANYTHING. I guess he couldn't really be a pothead, because it's FOOD. I seem to remember that they kinda want food when they're stoned. Another explanation may just be that no one in their right mind would actually want to eat a BREAKFAST BURGER. Eggs are one thing. Some people put eggs on their burgers. I'm fine with that. The potatoes COMBINED with the eggs make this a whole different ballgame. I'd rather lick clean the toes of a skunk that just climbed out of the butt of another skunk than eat a breakfast burger. Apparently, this loser agrees, because he sounds about as excited as Stephen Wright on Valium. I've pooped things that were more lively than this guy. I hope he accidentally falls down an elevator shaft... onto some bullets.

Happy Black History Month

I'd honestly forgotten until today that February is black history month. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's the time of year when all the Jews in Hollywood decide that they've made enough movies about the holocaust for the time being, and focus one month on pretending to care about the plight of the African-American. Or, in short, it's a total joke. Black history month is an excuse for the History Channel to get lazy on us and only air the same three documentaries on MLK, the Klan, and the Civil War ad nauseam. That's it. I'd bet that most black people don't even care that this is black history month, but that doesn't stop some local tv station from constantly airing reminders that this month is, indeed, black history month. Who cares? If there were a Christian history month, or a white people's history month, or a German heritage month, I sure as hell wouldn't care. But, for some reason, we are forced to put up with endless ads for PBS specials and documentaries that no one will watch. Why are we force-fed this pseudo-tolerant gibberish? Why not call it what it really is: "We-Still-Feel-Guilty-About-Something-We-Didn't-Even-Do Month." We really are just kidding ourselves if we think we're living in an equal society. It's only equal if you're not white.

The 2005 Bloggies

I just wanted to apologize for taking so long to put up that last post. It's just that I was so upset about not getting nominated for a single Bloggie. It was like a slap in the face. No, actually, it was more like I'd been working and working and working on a sand castle and then some guy came along and complimented everybody else on the beach, but then when he got to mine, he kicked me in the neck. That's how devastated I was. It took me a while to recoup from the massive tissue damage to my wrists before I could try hanging myself from the ceiling of a high school gymnasium. After those nice cops finally got me off that pesky suicide watch, I went home and realized that EVERY SINGLE PILL in my house had been confiscated. Damn police. Anyway, as a last resort, I'm here again, your trained dancing monkey, as it were. I'll be here to continue amusing you with my antics for as long as I can (or at least as long as my parents keep me away from the paring knives). "Dance, monkey! Dance!"

Philosophy And French And Professors Who Know Neither

You'll excuse the tardiness of this post because, well, you really have no choice. Anyway, I had another interesting day in my "Philosophy and Society" class. My professor, if I hadn't mentioned it before, is as pinko as you can get. Sometimes she just randomly screams out, "Karl Marx, I want to have your baby!" which is really distracting when you're trying to do the reading that was due last week. But I digress... Today, she decided to read to us from a book on philosophy written for the lay person (i.e. everyone but college students). Now, before I get to the main point of the post, I have to explain something. She hates America and everything to do with it. She wouldn't tell you that, oh no, but she does. She's always talking about Americans in the third person plural because she either failed 8th grade English, or she doesn't even consider herself an American. She's constantly reminding us of how tough philosophy is for American students to grasp because we're very much fixated on practicality rather than theory (maybe it has something to do with the fact that the people who care only about theory are the kind of people who play Dungeons and Dragons in the engineering building and have never spoken to a girl without having to give up their credit card numbers). She honestly spends more time telling us that philosophy is hard than she does TEACHING US PHILOSOPHY. Another thing she does is constantly remind us of the fact that she was educated in the French philosophical tradition. Every time we turn around, it's French this and French that. Everything she says is so incredibly important because it was taught to her by people who saw France one time, or something like that. Anyway, so, she was reading this book to us. When we got to one part, where the author tells us about some painting that moved him when he was ten years old (I know. What kind of retarded ten-year-old likes fine art?) He described several paintings, all done by... you guessed it, French artists. The funny thing was, my professor totally butchered the names! It was as if she'd never heard someone speak the language. Here's this woman who has spent most of her communist life studying every facet of French philosophy, and she couldn't pronounce a single French name to save her life! I know, you could cut the irony with a scythe. Or a toaster. Or a really sharp communist.