I Am Better Than Celebrities

Most people who know me in real life don't take advantage of that fact nearly enough. Why? Because I'm just plain better than celebrities. Sure, they can try and match me by starring in their little "movies," but they'll never come close to my awesome awesomeness. Let me tell you what I mean. I'm taller than Mel Gibson. By several inches. There are probably things in Mel's OWN HOUSE that are too high for him to reach. I could reach them, though. This clearly makes me better than Mel Gibson. Stupid short little tiny man. I'm also stronger than some celebrities. I could beat Dakota Fanning in an arm wrestling contest EVERY TIME. No joke. She wouldn't even stand a chance. I'm smarter than Scarlett Johanssen. I bet she can barely spell her own name. I would beat her in a spelling bee by like a billion points. For seriously. And the list goes on. I can run way faster than Stephen Hawking, I can kick a ball way farther than Kelly Clarkson, I can jump higher than Vern Troyer, I can speak with a better American accent than Naomi Watts, and I can count marbles faster than Sean Penn. Celebrities ain't got nuthin on me. I am all that is man.

Excuse Me, You're In My Bubble

I was at the self-checkout thingy at King Soopers about an hour ago, when I came as close as I've ever come to throttling a woman and her child to death. I have a relatively large personal space bubble. For most Americans, it's like eighteen inches. For People in Japan, it's about 12 inches. My bubble is about three feet. If you come into my bubble for too long, I will break your legs. Anyway, this woman was standing about ten inches away from me, even though there were six other people in the line for the self-checkout lanes. She apparently didn't realize that the function of a line is more than just to organize the people who are in her way. Her son moved in even closer than she'd been. He was standing so close to me, I could practically smell the Ritalin. I finished my purchase, and waited impatiently for my receipt. As it slowly printed out, the woman had already begun piling her stacks of crap onto the shelf. I couldn't believe it. She was freaking breathing down my neck. I walked away without giving them the hairy eyeball or anything like that, a feat I happen to consider greater than the resurrection of the dead. I did, however, announce audibly to everyone in the immediate area that this woman and her son were "vultures." I actually came just about *this* close to kicking her in the neck. For seriously.

The Director's Cut

Generally, when a studio releases "The Director's Cut" of a beloved movie, it features scenes that the director desperately wanted in the movie, but was forced to remove due to pacing or time constraints. I have never EVER seen a director's cut of a movie turn out SHORTER than the theatrical version. That is, until now. A week or two ago, the director's cut of Alexander was unleashed on an unsuspecting public. It revealed in a few short words what I've known for at least forty years: Oliver Stone is a self-indulgent, money-grubbing son of a bitch. "Newly inspired! Faster paced! More action-packed!" This is what it says on the director's cut of Alexander. I kid you not. Now, Americans may be stupid, but I would have found it difficult to believe that such a level of stupidity could actually exist outside the churches of Mormonism and Scientology until I saw the DVD case for Alexander. Oliver Stone is apparently trying to say, "Look what the studio made me put in! I didn't want it, but they forced me to make a nearly-three-hour film by threatening to have me outed." Yeah, right. This "newly inspired" crap is ridiculous. "Wow, suddenly, I'm inspired to cut some of the man-love and mind-numbingly boring dialogue scenes from my crappy movie, because I have a new, more American-friendly version in mind." If I ever see Oliver Stone on the street, I'll kick him in the face and kill his entire jackass family as punishment for not aborting him.

Terrible, Just Terrible

Andrew is taking the day off, so he asked me to fill in for him. I'd like to take this opportunity to, you guessed it, blame more things on president Bush. First of all, I like Andrew. He's a nice guy. Sweet, funny, and the strongest person I've ever known. It's just that he's got his politics all screwed up. How could he, in good conscience, support a president like George Bush? What kind of president takes a vacation in the middle of a tense international conflict without receiving any sort of sexual gratification? I've said it for years: Never trust a commander-in-chief who refuses to be pleasured by his interns. They're the kind of guys you really have to worry about. And what's the deal with Bush refusing to speak to me one-on-one for a second time? I clearly remember learning in elementary school about the people's right to be within slapping distance of their president. Don't even try to tell me that's not true. Besides, what does he have to be afraid of? This is a non-partisan protest of the war in Iraq in general, not of Bush himself. It's not like I ever worked for Michael Moore or anything. Besides, even if it was, it's not like my son is here to tell me I'm wrong. Because of that monster, Bush, my son no longer has the ability to stop me from sullying his patriotic and conservative reputation. Now that he's dead and out of the way, I finally have the freedom to completely undermine everything he ever stood for without worrying about the hassle of knowing that I've pissed him off. In fact, I think it's safe to say I never really liked him much anyway.

-Cindy Sheehan

I Want Some Crack

I seem to have all the traits commonly associated with a cocaine habit, except for the actual addiction to cocaine. Then again, maybe I really do have a cocaine problem. Maybe I just have multiple personalities, and one of the other guys is completely addicted to cocaine. I find myself constantly sniffing and rubbing my nose. Also, I've been noticing a spike in my energy levels recently. I haven't found any large bags of what looks like powdered sugar, but maybe my other personality is just too smart for that. Apparently, my coke problem is so bad, I can't even remember doing it. Maybe I should talk to my pothead brother. See if he has any tips for getting this glorious white-powder monkey off my back. Then again, maybe I just need to stop being so paranoid and go back to my binge drinking and heavy smack addiction.

Breckenridge

In order to sort of clear our minds before having to fill them up again in school with useless facts like "carbon dioxide is bad for you" and "there really was a holocaust," my family drove up to Breckenridge for part of the weekend. In spite of all the skiing we didn't do, it was actually pretty fun. I always have fun when I have to sit in a car with my siblings for two hours, listening to them argue about who is uglier than whom. Mostly, we just walked around downtown Breckenridge, taking shots of milk straight out of the carton and tripping fat people. You know, standard stuff. On our way back home, we drove through Georgetown.

Of all the crappy old cities I've been to, this one is the crappiest. Don't get me wrong, it was fascinating to be in the middle of a town with some buildings that have been around since the early 1870's. In fact, we actually walked into a grocery store that was, as far as the owner knew, the oldest continuously running store in the state of Colorado. Pretty cool. What depressed me, though, was the fact that people have to actually live in this town. We walked into a rare book store, which was filled with first editions of books like "Paradise Lost" and "Pilgrim's Progress." The store owner wasn't exactly what you'd call a "people person." He seemed like more of an "alien." He was perfectly silent as my family (we were the only people in the entire store) politely browsed through what appeared to be this guy's former personal book collection. You could tell we'd been the only people to set foot in his store since the late 70's. He didn't have any concept of "being a normal social being" or even of "not being a jerk." I was afraid of breathing too hard on the books, for fear of being on the receiving end of this guy's wrath. He looked like he swung a mean hockey stick.

Overall, I'd count it a good trip. No broken bones, no Indian witch doctors, no terrorist plots, and only one bout with a lesbian. Thumbs up.

Now Who's Un-PC?

The NCAA recently announced that all collegiate athletes must wear diapers on game day... wait... er, no, that's not it. They recently announced that they would ban certain colleges from competing in their tournaments, as long as those colleges continue to use nicknames and logos that are "offensive" to injuns... er, Native Americans. Among the offending schools is Florida State University, who use the nickname "Seminoles." Apparently, though, the Seminole Nation isn't as sensitive as they should be, because they've given their blessing to the university. Hear that, you NCAA jackasses? Even the SEMINOLE PEOPLE don't mind it. Also on the list is any school whose nickname is "Warriors." Now who's the racist? The people who want to have a cool sounding basketball mascot name, or the people who just naturally assume that the word "warrior" has a meaning that exclusively connotes the Native American people group? To me, it'd obviously be the latter, but I guess that's just me. "Warrior" doesn't mean "Indian," you retards. "Warrior" means "one who is warlike." And how 'bout this one: Oklahoma students can wear stuff that says either "Oklahoma" or "Sooner." Only, does anybody know what these words actually mean? A "sooner" was a person who took land away from Native Americans before it was recognized by the US government as being legal to do so. In other words, they took the land sooner than they should have. Yeah, that's a really nice name. At least the mouth-breathing jackasses at NCAA headquarters think so (which, by the way, is in Indiana, which means "land of the Indian." Yeah, that's nice and PC.) Oklahoma is a Chocktaw word meaning "red-skinned man." Quite a sensitive term, wouldn't you say? The NCAA needs to pull their thumbs out of their butts and realize that they aren't fit to plan a trip to the drugstore, let alone the entire schedule of major collegiate sporting events.

Chicken Fries?

Come on, Burger King, are you kidding me? "Chicken fries?" What the hell are those? People don't want to hear words like "chicken" and "fries" together in the same sentence. Just like they don't want to hear "motor oil" and "pie" in the same sentence. Same with "shave" and "tongue," or "liposuction" and "the secret ingredient in our milkshakes." It's no wonder Burger King stores are folding up all over the place. With genius ideas like chicken fries, they'll be a distant memory faster than you can say "new coke." Stupid Burger King. I wish they'd finally just give up and go home, already. I mean, those commercials... They're terrible. I already wrote about the creepy king mask ones, but these new ones with the ridiculous Slipknot knock-off chicken band thing are just plain said. It's like watching a little baby seal playing too close to a huge pack of dinosaurs. You can't bear to watch, but you can't bring yourself to look away or to stop poking the seal with sticks. It's a bad situation, especially since you're the one who brought back the dinosaurs from extinction, and put the seal in their cage. Covered in barbeque sauce... Um, what was I talking about?

The Whole Bloody Mess

Did I ever tell you guys about the time I kicked a kid in the neck? I seem to have this vague recollection of writing some little blurb about it in some other post, but I'm positive I didn't do the tale justice. So here it is, the complete, uncut version of the story about when I kicked that kid in the neck.

It must have been in like fifth grade. Fourth or fifth. I guess fifth. Anyway, we were playing soccer in the gravelly area behind the admin mods (hey, it was a Christian school; we did what we could with what we had). This little punk kid who I'd always kinda disliked, though for the life of me, I can't remember why, just wouldn't shut up. I have no idea what he actually said, but make no mistake, it was most definitely something earth-shatteringly annoying like "You walk funny." Well, we got into a shouting match. I didn't really have a very well-mantained temper at the time, so I lost it pretty quick. The shouting escalated into that stupid kid thing everyone used to do: nonverbally threatening your opponent by bringing your fist back over your shoulder, as if you're gonna punch 'em. We both did that for a while, unable to think of what we should do next, since neither of us was backing down. Finally, I decided to just walk away. He apparently decided this was as good an opportunity as any to say something to my back, and that just sent me over the edge. For whatever reason, he was bent over when I turned around and ran at him. Not much, but enough. I kicked as hard as I could, not really aiming for anything in particular, but hoping I'd nail a sweet spot, like his shin or his balls. Psh!

I hit him squarely in the neck, and in an instant, I froze. The look on his face was horrifying. Not knowing my own strength (or perhaps simply overestimating it), I naturally assumed the worst. "Oh my God, I killed him," I said to myself. And his eyes seemed to agree. They said to me, "You killed me. I didn't think you'd do it, but you did." I was scared out of my mind. I thought, "Jeez. I killed a kid. I'm going to go to prison. I'm gonna get the electric chair, and they're gonna fry me up good!" As tears streamed down his face, he ran straight to the office. I thought I was dead. I thought for sure I was going to get expelled from school, stripped naked, and forced to trudge the walk of shame over broken glass and sharp rocks. No such punishment came, though. Not a single teacher came up to me at all. To this day, that part has always bugged me more than the fact that I'm a viscious, monstrous, heartless, neck-kicked ghoul. That, I can live with. It's just the waiting that bothers me. I know it's still coming. YOU HEAR THAT? I'M WAITING FOR YOU! BRING IT ON!

Now, it may seem like I'm writing this out of regret. Not so. I really didn't like that kid. I'm sure either he's over it by now, or I actually did kill him, in which case he doesn't have to worry about it anymore. For whatever reason, I'm pretty sure I didn't see him again for the rest of my stint at Seattle Christian Elementary School. Would I do it over again? Uh... Hells yes I would! Who else has a story about killing some kid just by kicking him in the neck? Like, no one, that's who.

The New Hollywood

What if, and stay with me on this one, all the illegal immigrants in California suddenly decided they wanted to have their own country where the official language is Spanish and the official car is the lowrider Chevy S10 (and they were also unaware that there already is such a country, called Mexico), and they revolted against the US and formed their own country, New New Mexico? Well, the capital of American cinema can't be in another country, so they'd naturally have to move all the studios and stuff to another place inside US borders. I'd like to contend that all the movie crap from Hollywood should be moved to Denver. It would be a great location. Just look at all the completely sensible reasons I just made up right now:

1. It's a very clean city. You can count the bums on one hand. You'd just have to have like 30,000 fingers on that hand.

2. There are actually more people in the city who speak English than any other language. Imagine that. And in an AMERICAN city. Huh.

3. Who knows? Maybe skiing can be the new sunbathing. Or possibly the new "being tall."

4. No earthquakes. Always a plus. Instead, Denver has what's called "Lovequakes." Okay, so they don't really have those. BUT THEY SHOULD.

5. It's better than Salt Lake City, Boston, Atlanta, Toleda, St Louis, Sacramento, Austin, Vancouver, and Disneyworld COMBINED. Hey, don't shoot the messenger. It's science.

6. Who ever heard of a Hollywood omlet? NO you haven't, liar.

7. The Rockies kick the Sangre De Cristos' ass. I mean, what's a mountain without snow on top?

8. Could you pass up watching a show called "Access Denver?" I know I couldn't, and I don't watch ANYTHING on tv. Except Seinfeld, Friends, SNL, Reno 911, South Park, The Drew Carrey Show, The Simpsons, Family Guy, Arrested Development, The Office, Desperate Housewives, Grey's Anatomy, King of the Hill, the news, and anything else, as long as it's on the screen and moving.

9. Denver is way easier to spell. Nine out of ten US citizens would rather live in a city whose name they could spell, and eight out of ten currently live in cities whose names they cannot spell correctly. What? It's a real statistic, I swear.

10. There was never a famous country artist named "John Hollywood." That would just be totally gay.

11. I don't think Barbara Striesand would move to Denver. That, for me, seals the deal. If there were a universe in which Barbara Striesand were dead, I'd find a way to live in it.

-ist

Tomorrow, we have our first staff meeting of the year at The Scribe, and I start working on a column for every week this year. I guess now, I can actually tell people I'm a columnist. Exciting as that may be, I never really had a lot of respect for any profession that ends in -ist. Think about it. You've got artist, violinist, archivist, typist, humorist, alchemist, behaviorist, machinist, taxidermist, cartoonist, nutritionist, stylist, dentist... None of 'em are actual jobs. They're all just vague terms used to describe people who happen to get paid for their hobbies. Show me a man whose occupation ends in -ist and I'll show you a man who lived with his parents until they kicked him out of their house on his thirtieth birthday, complaining that "he just doesn't interest us anymore." If it weren't so true, it might be funny.

Thanks So Much

Wow. WOW. All I can say is WOW. I mean, I was hoping for a small collection of comments on the posts people liked, but I never expected THIS. Jeez! There must be thousands of votes here. I don't think I'll even have time to count them all. I don't know what to say except now I know who my real friends are. ALL OF YOU PEOPLE! I feel so blessed to know all of you, who are so giving and generous with your time that you would voluntarily tell me what posts you liked the best. As I sit here typing this, tears are streaming down my face. Tears of pure joy. I'd have considered myself lucky to just get three or four comments, but to receive well over ten thousand in a three day period... WOW. It's all just so overwhelming. God bless each and every one of you, and I really and truly hope that you never accidentally fall down an open elevator shaft onto a huge pile of knives and used-up hypos with AIDS in them. 'Cause that would be TERRIBLE.