Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Four Lokos Bannedokos


After some user consumption analytics and some scientific testing enough evidence was found to ban the sale of Four Lokos(a caffeinated malt beverage) in our puritan state as well as many others. Critics of the drink sited the fact that the larger can and alcohol content of the beverage is misleading. As well as the fact that the high caffeine contents can delude consumers into thinking they are not as drunk as they really are because one of the side effects of alcohol consumption is, of course, drowsiness. So far six deaths, all in college communities, have been directly linked to the consumption of the beverage which is sold by a company founded by recent college grads of Ohio State University.

But I can't help but think about every other person ever besides the six people that died. Have we really calculated the utility of Four Lokos correctly here? Having only briefly tasted one of these beverages I set out researching the internet, sending out inquiries via phone/email, taking personal testimonies, and conducting my own "scientific" experiment. The results I think may shed new light on the debate and perhaps even shock the scientific community and politicians of this nation.

My first discovery, mostly based on interviews, is that people are actually pretty good at distinguishing physical specifications like mass, volume, etc. When handed both a 12 oz weight as well as a 24 ounce one exactly 100% of tested subjects could identify the heavier object regardless of which hand the weight fell into. In fact, even lifting each object separately the subjects were able to identify the correct difference in mass. The same 100% accuracy accompanied a test to identify the larger of two containers. Subjects would repeatedly assure me, "That one is bigger." But how can you be sure I would inquire. "Because I'm not fucking blind," was probably the most common follow up response.

Removing the abstraction level completely I asked a local college student straight up how many Bud Light cans he would purchase for himself at the liquor store. "Probably a six pack." What about Four Lokos? "I guess like two." Why not six, I pressed? "Because I dont need six Four Lokos to get drunk." My eye brows wrinkled at this so he continued. "You know...because they have more alcohol and are like twice as big." How can you be so sure? Again that most common response...

"Because I'm not fucking blind."
Or other times the close variant..."Because I'm not fucking retarded."

At this point I scribbled "fascinating" into my notepad and underlined it like a pro. My second discovery in favor of Four Lokos came a little more incidentally. It turns out that drinking caffeine in correlation with alcohol does increase overall consumption which makes subjects more drunk over the course of the evening. But the concept I unveiled that may shock the scientific mindset is that drinking a lot is apparently pretty awesome. In fact, there seems to be at least a linear correlation between consumption plotted against sweet times.

One fan of Four Lokos regaled me of a time that she drank five over the course of the night. When I asked her to summarize her experiences she responded that it was, "The fucking most awesome shit show eva!" She added, "I think that's the night I fucked the shit out of the dude I was obsessing over for like a month." As a scientific assessment we have to take this figure with a percent uncertainty then, but it seems clear based on her testimony and others that a night of knocking back Four Lokos is a recipe for "fucking good shit, man."

Next I phoned up the scientists that conducted the experiments resulting in the ban while they were home as not to impede on their work schedules. One lab coat went on and on about their discoveries until I forcefully cut him off finally. Listen I said. All I wanna know is would you rather have been conducting the study OR a subject in it getting to drink a bunch of Four Lokos daily for the sake of science? Dr. Limnitz admitted to me then that "I would have killed to be in that study. Those people had a fucking blast. I mean I kept some cans left over and let me tell you...this shits the bomb."

At this point I had to follow up...individually...for the sake of science. I drank four Four Lokos over the course of an hour, and well I can't remember too much now. Luckily I kept my notebook nearby:

Dood. Dewd. Dauhde.
Fuck man. How do u spell dat fucking word?
But man. Man. U gotta listen ta me man.

Reading the above refreshed my memory of that brown out evening. And the more I think about it - drinking a bunch of Four Lokos that Saturday was a lot like Friday when I did a shit ton of Jagger Bombs, Soco shots, then went out and drank all night. I'm almost positive both nights were pretty fucking awesome. Again with only a slight percent uncertainty.

This scientific article doesn't have an abstract, or a body, any real science, so I'm not gonna bother with a conclusion. But here's a question instead to ponder especially for the state legislators.

Whats the point of outlawing upside down left handed masturbation in bathtubs?

*** Text has been made bold for extra scientific merit. Anything in bold is essentially ultra-science but in the least super-science. You know this is true because this too is in bold.***

Monday, November 15, 2010

I Knew The Economy Was Going To Collapse


After the housing bubble burst and the economy crashed a truckload of books littered the market about what went wrong on main street and on wall street. Its not that all these reporters and economists wrote books in a week. They had been working on them for years because they knew what corporate douches either didn't or ignored. Some economists saw the bubble bursting when it first formed at the turn of the millennium. But I knew the recession was gonna happen in 1992...when I was seven.

Siggi. That is such bullshit. So's your face.

My family was first generation which is a euphemism for disadvantaged which is another phrase for lower class which is equal to 'poor as shit' which is just a different way of saying 'garage sale reliant.' We did what all impoverished citizens did...bitch. Except for my dad. As the patriarch of our raggedy clan he had another agenda...he had to justify it. We're poor because the world is better for it.

But who was he to vent on? My brother was only five. The faintest allusion to money would remind my mother of the much more affluent life she could be living back in the mother land and such notions would plummet her into a depression. The rest of the country spoke this language called English while my dad spoke a very loose variant that most people deemed "vatdafuck." These filters essentially limited his audience to one set of ears. These babies.

Practice was half an hour away and essentially every day. That's an hour a day combined trip in a car that has only one radio station: Ramblings on the world economy hosted by an overworked soviet Hungarian immigrant. Todays topic is a continuation of the same exact one we cover every other day: Being poor sucks but it is better than being a stupid American. Discuss.

Dad: You think your friends are living the dream. But they're all in debt. Paying off credit cards with credit cards. Three person families with four cars. All bought on loans. Next they'll get a house and then refinance to free up some cash. And the banks will let them to keep up with their competitors, but then what will happen?
Me: I dunno. I'm hungry. Can we get some chicken nuggets on the way home?
Dad: Are you even listening to what I'm trying to tell you?
Me: I'm trying...I'm just hungry...I feel like if I just had some chicken nuggets to increase the blood sugar my brain would be ready to absorb this.
[We stop at McDonalds. At this point I have labeled myself a genius]
Dad: There. You ate. Now recap what I was saying earlier.
Me: ...Ugh...I mean...I dunno. It makes less sense than all those time travel movies.
Dad: Time travel is simple. It can't possibly happen. Ever.
Me: So you can't build a time machine?
Dad: Nope.
Me: You're positive?
Dad: Absolutely.
Me: Well I guess that's good. already ate the nuggets...
Dad: YOU SON OF A--!!!

My dad then proceeded to beat out some of the knowledge he just bestowed on me, but as always some of it managed to stick. At night I didn't get bedtime stories to put me to sleep. He read me Newsweek articles...and he wasn't trying to put me to sleep.

Dad: Siggi. Wake up. We're just getting to the good part.
Me: Better than your explanation of LIBOR and foreign exchange swaps?
Dad: You betcha!
Me: What about instead of a time machine you give me a pill so that when I wake up its like way after this conversation?
Dad: YOU SON OF A--!!!

My dad's information was well researched. His logic was sound and his pessimistic outlook was apt - look simply at where we are today. But his economics had one flaw. Something his commie associates had historically also forgot to account for. Prisoner's dilemma. Tragedy of the commons. Sure all these stupid Americans and knavish suits are going to ruin the economy, but our plight wasn't going to change that. Our suffering then was for nothing.

And that, my avid readers, is how your humble narrator and his brother got a Super Nintendo in 94. The student had become the master. And the master was far from pleased as evident by the transposed face he had to mine walking out of that ToysRUs. In a few months... I made up for this defeating event when we got into a derivatives discussion.

Dad: So there's all these levels in these debt obligations but the payouts at those levels are only based on a non encompassing standard deviation-
Me: Whut dah?
Dad: Its the square root of the-
Me: Whut dah?
Dad: You know how 3 times 3 is 9? Well that makes 3 the square root of 9. Get it?
Me: So more money is bad?
Dad: I don't follow.
Me: Well if money is the root of all evil then the more money you multiply by itself the more evil you produce. And since goodness is the opposite of evil the only way to be good is to be poor.
Dad: That might be the least scientific and most nonsensical sentence ever uttered by a human, but I could cry tears of joy right now...*sniff*...did you hear what my boy just said Lenin?

And as he grasped me in bolshevikian embrace I cried too because that's the moment I knew that pretty much the same fucking year I would graduate college, 15 years from then, a waterfall of CDO defaults and CDS claims would instantly metamorphose the world into an amalgamation of feces and dysentery.

And if you don't believe me...well. I say prove it, bitch. But you'll need a time machine to do that. And like I said...I already ate them nuggets.

They were delicious.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Halloween Timeline

Ages under 5

Costume: I was a phenomenal looking baby and my parents didn't need that reassured to them by dressing me up in a cute pumpkin costume and going door to door. Then for my toddler years I was first secluded from the existence of Halloween(it was the last holiday on the "the longer they dont know the better list"). Then when I was five I'm pretty sure father told me Halloween was only for naughty children. Or it was contrary to the beliefs of Hungarianism(other things on this list: television, pizza, video games, spending money, crying and smiling).
Total Cost: $0.00
How much it looked like intended: I looked 100% like the oblivious/sad kid that I was.
General Neighborhood Reception: Where's that adorable little boy from nextdoor(assumed reception with 98% +/- 95% accuracy).

Ages 6-10

Costume: Alternate between sheet with two holes and a cape (yea. like a cape and that's it).
Total Cost: $0.00 cuz by sheet I mean rag that got thrown away.

Dad: Who says ghost is white? I think patchy industrial revolution grey is much scarier. Think of the allegorical implications.

...and by cape I mean black rag that got thrown away + bobby pin.
How much it looked like intended: "Oh look dear....its a dirty mop." However, I guess I looked 100% like a kid with a rag bobby pinned around his neck. Just not like much else.
General Neighborhood Reception: "Give these boys some extra tootsie rolls, Charles. *whispering* Can't you tell how poor they must be?"

Age 11

Costume: Turtle mask over eyes, duct tape on elbows and knees, and sticks instead of weapons. Basically me and Ivor's costume was like a Ninja Turtles beginnings type story. Like before they learned karate I'm sure they were just sewer drenched over sized reptiles that hit each other with sticks and ate shit off the floor.
Total Cost: $0.87
How much it looked like intended: "Jesus fucking christ kid. You crawl out of a sewer?" Win.
General Neighborhood Reception: "Give these boys some extra tootsie rolls, Charles. *whispering* Can't you tell how poor they must be?"

Age 13

Costume: Aware that no matter what I would be laughed at at every single door I knocked on...I decided to just embrace the embarrassment and dress up in some of my old baby clothes and pop in a pacier. Now I could say they were laughing with me...right...
Total Cost: -$0.45 (note: the negative sign comes from inflation adjustment)
How much it looked like intended: 100%........ridiculous.
General Neighborhood Reception: "Give these boys some extra tootsie rolls, Charles. *whispering* Can't you tell how poor they must be?"

Age 18

Costume: Fake skates, pink dress with puffy shoulders, busted up knees...aka Nancy Kerrigan.
Total Cost: $19
How much it looked like intended: 100%....awesomeness.
General Neighborhood Reception: Things were going great until a yah dood pushed me and when I went to retaliate my skate blade(metal and duck tape on sneaker) broke and I face planted. Now my knees actually did hurt and I got beer poured on the back of my head. "Why? Why? Why me?"

Pictured: Me at the party.

Age 25

Costume: Ke$ha
Total Cost: $31
How Much it looked like intended: See below.
General Neighborhood Reception: "Are you Lady Gaga?" Fuck you Chilean minor #908. Fuck you in your aspergers.

Pictured: Me and some friends getting ready to go out for Halloween.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Movement or Typical Motions?

Why are we calling a couple of million tards that believe what FOX news tells them a “movement”? Not just any movement, a political one. The tea party is at best a bowel movement. And at its worst it’s a post Chinatown luncheon bowel movement. It’s also not grass roots or third party in any sense of the word. Maybe in ‘08 it was when Ron Paul was at the helm, and Rand Paul was an acorn not far from the tree. But now Rand and his angry mob are nowhere near Ron’s libertarian tree. They’ve moved to a completely different tree…the republican one. This isn’t a grass roots movement; it’s another cog in GOP agenda.

Which is what? Well the economy crashed and the deficit is bigger than Kanye West’s ego, but the GOP needs to get top bracket tax cuts and wall street deregulation to continue onward. The rich vote is in the bank…clearly. The platform for the impoverished is static, the same as it has been for decades: we think you’re cancer and hope you all die, but if you believe in Jesus you have to vote for us. But how do you get the middle class to agree to give Lloyd Blankfein tax cuts and more poor people’s mortgages to place bets with?

Enter from stage right Dick Armey and his sprawling dick army. Enter Beck, Palin, and Rove with a very logical explanation for everything that went wrong with the economy: minorities. The problem is drug dealers buying houses they can’t afford (they already buy pimpmobiles they can’t afford. What did you think was gonna happen next?!?!). The problem is Mexicans getting scooters from the scooter store with medicare(I guess they put blades on them and resell them as lawnmowers or something).

And people (they call themselves ralliers) believe this shit. What they don’t believe is that this is racist. We’re not racist…we can just be easily manipulated into believing that whites are the poor victims in the financial downturn and the problem isn’t the broker in a 2G suit at Morgan but, in fact, the janitor in the jump suit. Saying the tea party is not racist just patriotic is like saying the Hitler youth were just proud countrymen. Get the fuck out of here.

But hypocrisy is the cornerstone to their “movement” and selective memory a staple of modern conservatism. Where were you when Bush was making it rain with tax payer money? Where were you when Bush took a steamy Texas size dump and wiped his ass with that constitution you all seem to cherish with the patriot act? “I was out on the streets then too! Rallying for America!” Really? I didn’t hear shit. Were you miming about your cause? Get the fuck out of here.

There are parts of this “movement” the GOP won’t be able to absorb. Christine O’Donnel rode into office on their anger and will push her own crazy ass agenda. But republicans don’t care about her. What’s she gonna do? Propose 'get a spank if you wank' bills? She thinks Pinky and the Brain is a factual TV show. She’s a collective get the fuck out of here. I did a sporcle that was name all 50 states and it took me like ten minutes to remember fucking Delware. Deleware…get the fuck out of here.

But the rest of the party voting for Rand Paul et all is just voting for republicans. They vote for less spending and what they’ll get are tax cuts for the rich and deregulation. But that’s GOP SOP(standard operating procedure). You promise abortion laws. You give tax cuts to the affluent and fight for big business. You promise social security reform. You give tax cuts to the affluent and fight for big business. You promise welfare reform. You give tax cuts to the affluent and fight for big business. You promise the second coming of Christ. You…alright we get it. Get the fuck out of here.

American mass political thought is a lot like bros icing bros. Glenn Beck walks around with a bag full of ideas that are really hard to swallow(smirnoffs) and approaches people with them. Every now and again the person has a clue, a counter idea, and blocks the icing.

Two hippie professors from the 60’s are the reason the economy collapsed.(He actually said this)

I dunno man. I think it had something to do with the opaque derivatives market.

Aw shit. You got me.

Beck swallows his pride and moves on to the next guy. This one has no brainwaves.

Obama is a communist.

Is it cuz he’s black?


Get down on one knee and welcome to the tea party bro. The bros icing bros website thought that if everyone was on one knee then you had to be cool, right? Naw bro. You’re just a moron. And Americans think that because 30 million others are angry for the same nonsensical reasons they must be part of something, a “movement.”

Naw bro. You’re just a moron.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

What I Learned About Parenting from Parental Mistakes Pt 1


Never force kids to do anything/forbid kids from doing anything.

You have to be creative. Hyperbolize consequences, reaffirm fears, subtlety question their intelligence, and exploit insecurities. For instance, when children reach middle school parents feel obliged to give the sex talk. Whatever you do, don’t ever use the following words in that speech: “don’t have sex.” Cuz in 12 months that screaming baby preventing you from getting a good nights sleep is 100% your fault grandpa.

You see with adults, planting an idea in the mind requires a team of handsome men that penetrate dream levels and are adept at riding snow mobiles. With a child it’s very simple. If you want them to put sunscreen on simply tell them not to. But if you don’t want them to then by god, don’t tell them not to.

Let’s return to our birds and the bees example. We know that forbiddance, whether it comes from father or the holy father, results in babies and aids. Sometimes babies with aids. No good. Remember our alternatives:

Hyperbolize consequences – “Sure. Have sex. But don’t come to me for aids medication…....FOR YOUR BABY!!!”

Reaffirm Fears – “Aids, sweetie. It’s like having mono for 3 years and then you die!...Magic Johnson? They have to put babies in a blender and inject the resulting stem cells into his eye every night…No sweetie. Healthy babies…from India."

Subtlety Question their Intelligence – “Fuck every guy you see…Lindsay Lohan did, and she’s rich!”

Exploit Insecurities – “If you show a guy parts that your bathing suit covers…well…he’ll see that ugly mole on your inner thigh. Just sayin.”

Your daughter might cry. Sure. But would you rather wipe her tears or an infant’s ass crack? Or your credit card at the aids hospital (they exist. trust me.)? That’s what I thought.

So only forbid them from doing something if you actually want them to do something. Of course, conversely…only force them to do something if you really didn’t want them to do it. So things like “clean the bathroom” should just simply never be spoken. Clearly you’re not trying to prevent your child from cleaning the bathroom so what was the point? Now your bathroom looks like a short bus full of mentally handicapped kids went to town in it after a taco special lunch then tried to clean it up with toilet paper, a bar of soap, and some band aids (for the cracks in the wall).

The child psychology is insanely complex. And really that’s a euphemism for ‘folded so many times over with irrationalities that it almost becomes rational.’ Allow me to digress into an anecdote from my own childhood. And it’s not really an anecdote. It’s like 90% of my youth.

You see my mom’s only goal in life was to force intellectually productive things onto me. So I’d do well in school, go to a good college, etc, etc. This was too important to bestow to fate so every second of every day she was ramming her idea of helpful tasks down my throat. The result was a complete deconstruction of the Freudian framework. I never ever...ever fantasized about my mom in Freudian ways. About frolicking with her alone or about anything remotely sexual. I did, however, fantasize about reenacting the wood chipper scene from Fargo...before seeing the movie…like when I was six.

In her mind: Siggi is not a native English speaker. I heard that a lot of the SAT’s deal with vocabulary. I know he’s only 9 but nothing bad can come from starting soon. I will force him to read these vocabulary books four two hours a day, and he will do well on the SAT. Then he will know that I am only trying to do the best things for him. He will see this and love me. I am the best parent who ever walked this earth.

In my mind: Are you fucking serious woman? Triskaidekaphobia. Fear of the number 13. What the fuck is this book? Is there some sort of hotline I can call to prove to her that she’s god damn insane? I’d rather die of aids than do this. If I do this and I get a 100 on our next vocab quiz that has words on it like ‘train’ and ‘spike’ she’s definitely gonna think that it’s all because of her and her intervention. Then it’s over. She’ll force me to do so much stupid shit I’ll go Cobain and shit. I’ll have to fail the next vocab test. Then I can say it’s because my mind was fried from reading this piece of shit book.
Yeah. That’ll show her.
Either way if I want dinner tonight I’ll have to go to the room for two hours and pretend like I’m doing this. But what am I actually gonna do? Can’t watch TV or anything that makes noise. Oh wait. I’ll day dream about a plane hitting our house. I hate the goddamn universe. I hope everyone dies and I can just live in peace and play.

Have intentions and consequences ever been more polarized? She wants me to have a better future. I’m contemplating both suicide and killing EVERYONE. Over the next decade she never figured this out. I was clearly a genius…just lazy. She started punishing me often. Forcing more reading. She started sitting there and watching me read. Results? I would scan the lines with my eyes so that it looked like I was reading and the page flips would come at appropriate times.

Of course, at this point you’re all thinking…wouldn’t it be easier, even more interesting to just read the book?


I’d rather die of aids. The counter productivity was baffling. If I didn’t think she would only take credit for successes and dismiss failures as mine (a valid assumption mind you) I would have done heroine just to stick it to her. Instead I had no outlet for my rage other than to do nothing. At least I wasn’t complying. I’d sit their fuming. Biting my tongue. Screaming into pillows. Every time the cheers of a frolicking child flittered through my windows as I sat there at my desk …I contemplated early Eminem Slim Shady LP type shit. Like animals and microwaves type shit.

She was concerned with my future. But I was the manifestation of rage at present. A nanometer from a crime of passion. But think about your brighter future Siggi. That’s like telling a man his wife slept with his best friend and then trying to counteract that as he reaches for the kitchen knife by reminding him of how strong his 401k is.

And now...I was gonna continue by giving some alternatives to forcing your child to doing something directly, but alas..........I can’t. I’m all sorts of riled up now just thinking about my childhood. A manifestation of rage at present. A nanometer from a crime of passion. So I’ll have to end it here-








Wednesday, July 14, 2010

The Latest Fartbender

Platforms of interest as we approach the midterms:

1. Stabilization of the economy.
2. Addressing environmental concerns.
3. Passing legislation that prevents M Night from making films.

Anderson Cooper: President Obama. What will you do to prevent M Night Shyamalan from making another film?
Obama: I'm glad you bring that up Anderson. It's a very important topic, and...

When James Cameron first claimed copyright infringements on M. Night Shyamalan’s latest, which was supposed to be called Avatar: The Last Airbender, I remember thinking Cameron is such a dick. The animated show of the name came out long before his stupid fucking movie so deal with it. Then I went out and saw The Last Airbender, and it all makes sense to me now. It wasn’t that Cameron didn’t want another film released within the year to share a title with his epic. It’s that he didn’t want his film to share a title with a film made by M Night. And that…actually makes perfect fucking sense.

Imagine a ten year old asking his mom for Avatar on DVD for Christmas. Seeing that kid prance down the steps on that snowy morning, storm to the tree, and gleefully unwrap his gift only to find a copy of Avatar: The Last Air Bender is like the fucking exact opposite of Christmas…and I don’t mean like Easter. That’s like asking your mom for ice cream and she goes outside, pisses in the snow, scoops it up, packs it up nice and tight, hands the block to K-Rod who pitches a scorcher to A-Rod, who then belts it right into the eyeball of the poor boy. Then the three of them sit around eating ice cream and laughing while the boy rolls around in pain. James Cameron woke up from a nightmare very similar to what I just described and got on the horn with his lawyer immediately. Good call.

Avatar was a let down. 500 million and insane technical skill wasted on an unoriginal story. But James Cameron can direct. M Night clearly cannot. Everything in Pandora was thought out to the finest detail and brought to the screen magically. M Night doesn’t seem to understand even the most basic basics of our world let alone a fantasy universe. A million fireballs are thrown…nothing ever catches on fire. In the opening scene a chick drops a ball of water on her brother sitting off screen…he stands up and complains but there isn't a single drop of water on him. I mean I can understand how M Night doesn’t understand our world seeing as he lives inside of his own ego. But if Nickelodeon hires you to make a movie about the fucking four god damn elements can you at least Wikipedia ‘fire’ or something? For fuck’s sake, man. Ask your assistant to bring you some of this so called ‘water’ and pour it on yourself.

Why is it sticking to me like that?
That’s called being wet, sir.
Wow. Its feels like what my drawers feel like after I watch one of my masterpieces.
I know, sir...I do your laundry.

And we already know from The Happening that the guy doesn't know how air works. Despite the cartoon pictures on your local weather report, M Night, it turns out wind does not travel in definitive waves that you can try to run away from in open fields.

Moving on.

Sam Worthington was railed by critics over Avatar and those other 20 fucking movies he made in 2009(dood was the new Orlando Bloom for a second). And there's justification to the criticism. The Aussie has to exert so much energy into sounding American there is no effort left for acting. But Worthington would seem like Daniel Day Lewis if he was in the Last Airbender. I mean my god was the acting awful. M Night can even make good actors suck: mark wahlberg, sigourney weaver, paul giammati. So if he directs a bunch of no name children you had better prepare yourself. Its like they were trying to get a tax cut so they hired a bunch of teens from a camp for kids with special needs. Why don't you water bend the droll off your face before we do this next take?

Every line of dialogue is delivered so over deliberately and slowly its like we're watching a play for partially blind and death people. And it does feel like a play. To save money there are really only a few set pieces. Characters literally say stuff then leave the screen for a few minutes only to return a few minutes later. Its like where the fuck did you the vending machines? Then they all return with stunned faces like...

Omg what happened while we were gone?
The fucking bad guys came man...didn't you pass them in the hallway cuz you literally got here just as they left.
Well the bad guys must have exited stage right.

Oh. And by the way...the plot makes no sense, the dialogue and narrations make you long for the big speech from Avatar or even the 500 different variations of 'whats happening' from Night's last film, the villains are less menacing than the larger mutts from the Puppy Super Bowl, theres 30 minutes of terrible Tai Chi, and instead of a twist ending we have a lead in to a sequel that by jove hopefully doesn't ever happen. And the pinnacle of the suckitude had to be this excerpt from the script:

Ext. Beach - Day

Aaang sees a necklace on the ground.

I remember when I gave this to Jong.

Cut to: Flashback of Aang handing some monk a necklace and then cut right back to the scene.


Shyamalan is already peddling another project throughout Hollywood. As always, one of his assistants goes to exec's offices with the scripts and as soon as they have finished their read she leaves with it. Does he really think his ideas are valuable in 2010? That top execs are gonna fight over his latest project? He has to be the worst investment ever: a promise of non return on investment and instead of dividends you get Razzies. Yipie! You might as well buy stock in a company that sells VHS tapes and medicine for small pox.

Harvey Weinstein: Goddamit! Can you grab some toilet paper from Bob's office, Pam?
Pam: He's all out too Harvey. You want me to try another floor?
Harvey: Fuck. Tell ya what. Go to my desk and see if there are any scripts from M Night's people on it.
Pam: I think its soggy. Bob and Jim were laughing so hard when they read it that they soaked our only copy....I got Transformers 3, though, and Jessica Alba's latest out here.
Harvey: *sigh*....Its just not the same.
Pam: You want me to check the hard drive for The Village or something and print it out?
Harvey: You read my mind again, Pam. You read my mind.

Monday, June 21, 2010

There Is No Recovery

Scope these lyrics for a sec:

I feel like I’m losing control of myself,
I sincerely apologize if all that I sound like, is I’m complaining,
But life keeps on complicating, an’ I’m debating,
On leaving this world, this evening, even my girls,
Can see I’m grievin’, I try and hide it,
But I can’t, why do I act like I’m all high and mighty,
When inside, I’m dying, I am finally realizing I need help.

New Perfect Plan song you ask? Or surely that's Hobastank from the new Twilight movie soundtrack...right? I dunno, you got me. Some emo band that I haven't listened to since my middle school wrist cutting days?

Nope. That, my friends, is a lil sample from Eminem's new album, Recovery. So please. Please stop posting youtube comments, America, about how "he's back" and the "best rapper alive....again." He's done. Put a fork in him. He's like a Spartan baby born with a birth defect...HOPELESS (unless the defect happens to be a really thick skull and wings cuz that babies getting punted off a cliff).

Outkast will almost certainly get together potentially later this annum and drop another classic. Maybe even M. Night will make another solid movie before he dies. Even he can have an epiphany, an idea so good that no amount of egotistical embellishment can ruin it. Maybe Lindsay Lohan will sober up and win an Oscar in her thirties. Maybe....maybe...Michael Jackson didn't actually die and he'll come back with a foot stomping smash hit.

But there's no maybes here. Eminem will never make another good album. Never. One day there will be a cure for cancer. A vaccine for HIV. But there's no medical solution to "losing it." The only thing that can save Eminem is a time machine. But since we can't literally make a time machine we're forced to pursue figurative time manipulations ie throwing one of Eminem's first two albums into the CD player and "going back" to the good ol days. That's all we have left at this point. That's all we'll ever have. I leave you all with this:

All I see is sissies in magazines smiling
Whatever happened to whylin out and bein violent?
Whatever happened to catchin a good-ol' fashioned
passionate ass-whoopin and gettin your shoes coat and your hat tooken?

Whatever happened, indeed? Now where's that new The Roots CD I just bought...?

Monday, June 14, 2010

Siggi Explains the Universe 2: Only Poor People (Really) Fall in Love

Giacomo will be a tender 14 years when his older brother Mario will ask him to assist in the murder of a gemmorah rival. "I need your help. They don't know you. You don't have to pull the trigger. Just help me. Don't you want to save your brother?" Mario presents a cold black pistol, but Gia turns from him.

"No one can save you."

Mario will follow through without his brother. He has no other choice, but he will soon find himself in a bathtub tied up, a chainsaw buzzing near him. It is quick. Like all gangster lives, it is over in a blink or two.

Fearing revenge the gemmorah will decree that if Giacomo leaves his home he is to be killed on sight. He will spend the next six years a prisoner in his own rooms, hallways, and courtyard. But during those six years he will prepare, his mind, his body. On his twenty first birthday he lets Sicily know that he will be leaving through the gates of the garden and no one can stop him.

Twenty armed men soon arrive and line the narrow alley way leading to the gate. None of them hate this boy they never met, but they must stand their ground. Such acts of ruthlessness are embedded in their lifestyle, but none of them imagined the following deathstyle. The door explodes open and the gangsters open fire. When the smoke clears Gia emerges a desert eagle in each hand and covered in a self made armor he spent six years expertly crafting.

He throws no grazers. Every shot he fires rips through flesh even as he glides down the alley seamlessly eluding fire. He takes care of the last two thugs with a katana then looks back to the gate. His mother is standing there crying. Happy that her son will have a chance to fall in love and continue the family legacy. Sad that she will never see him again.

Gia escapes to New York. At a small jazz club his eyes will lock with the piano player, Missy, the daughter of a Naval Officer and a Vietnamese farm girl. Missy has been blessed with the best features of both her comely parents, but generations of fatigue and oppression reflect off her pupils. Gia looks right past this and falls in love with her soul on first sight. Missy lost her father to warfare and her mother to sorrow. The only thing getting her through life, literally and figuratively was music, her only love...until she met Gia.

Imprisoned for years Gia learned not only to shoot fatally but also to play the violin so well it made his mother cry every time he caressed the strings for her. Neighbors would sit outside his garden late into the night just to hear him practice. The new lovers decide to go and play in the only place that seemed right to them...New Orleans. On the corner of Dumaine and Chartres people throw dollars into their collection hat not just because they envy the tandems mastery of their respective instruments but because they envy the way the two smile at each other like nothing bad can happen to them.

But something bad does happen. When the hurricane breaks Gia will be at a gig in Houston. He knows Missy won't leave without him so he makes his way back on foot, all 300 miles. Along the way a woman will drug and seduce him, but propelled by love he will break from her spell and escape. An eye patched sociopath will try to kill him, but Gia's self taught fighting skills will save him one last time. The storm will rage but nothing Poseidon can muster will stop Gia from reaching his love.

The water will be up to Missy's chest when she finally hears the call of her savior. She finds Gia on a small boat with two other refugees he has rescued. For the next two days they will taxi people from their rooftops back to the shelter. 33 lives are extended by their sacrifice, and a sacrifice it will be.

Following the sound of a crying infant the couple will find themselves on the roof of a building that will suddenly cave below them. As they escape through the building they end up in a small room with no windows. The door gets barred behind them and they are trapped. They stare at each other until they are treading water. "I love you more than life," she tells him. "You are my life," he responds.

She will go first. Her grip on his arm will give way. He takes firm hold of her so that she can't drift off. Suddenly a hole is torn in the planks above him and Gia sees an escape path, but there is no choice to be made here. He pulls the only thing he took with him from Italy, his grandmothers ring, from his pocket and places it on Missy's finger.

He closes his eyes, and waits for her to reappear.


Whitney Anna Whitfield is at ballet practice because it is a Friday. On a Thursday she would be at figure skating. On the drive down to their cape house her parents both try to pitch their alma mater's to their soon graduating offspring. She decides to pin the decision on whether Sara or Melanie texts her back first.

"Omg. His bangs were so cute today," comes across the wire from Melanie. Harvard it is. Her father is so pleased he buys her a boat when they reach the shores. Her mother is sad at first, but soon its time to take her medication and its all smiles from there. What a nice boat she thinks.

Such acts of fate will befall Whitney numerous times in her life. The next big one unfolds when she pounces off the sidewalk alongside the Charles and into the grass to avoid grazing past two negro men. Christopher Winchester Whitman Jr. has made the same evasive action and sends them toppling head over heels. Lying on top the boy who has broken her fall; she looks into his eyes and loves how green they are. As well as how white the white part is. Its the whitest she's ever seen.

At a nearby cafe the two realize they like their coffee the same way: rich, ice cold, and never ever black. The similarities don't end there they soon discover. They both love boats, fine wine, and ipods. Christopher buys her new ones every year until she has a boat in every harbor on the east coast and an ipod to go with each day of the week. His family's wealth goes all the way back to his great grandfather, a German factory owner who made millions selling a special shower head that could alter dispersing liquid or gas at the flip of a switch.

Whitney's father will gather everyone's attention at a banquet and inform the crowd that though it usually takes associates 3 years to partner at his firm Christopher has done it in three days. Upon hearing this an associate of 8 years who graduated from the University of Michigan will break a glass in his hand and excuse himself. But the pleasant surprises don't end there. Christopher takes a knee and proposes to Whitney. She looks to her father for approval. He dangles the keys to a new boat with a smile.

The wedding will take two years to plan and will take place on a boat off the shores of France. This boat was a gift from Christopher's uncle, the vice president of a company that specializes in building foreign desert homes that are energy self sustaining seeing as they have their own oil rigs.

"Quite splendid," moans Whitney.
"Indeed," concurs Christopher as he rolls over and lights a cigarette in a Parisian hotel bed. "I love you."
She smiles. "I love you too," she replies looking right at the diamond planet on her ring finger.
He pulls some papers from under his pillow.
"Will you sign this prenup then?"
"Only if I get to keep the boat."
"Which one?"
They belly laugh for minutes straight. Not really at the joke, just about their lives in general. And then because the maid has lost her fake pearl earring in the mountain of cocaine beside their bed. Whitney rolls up a 500 euro bill.

"I'll find it!"

Friday, May 7, 2010

Chappstick Psychology

You can't just leave chapstick out. It has to go somewhere accessible and memorable cuz there's nothing worse than absolutely needing the stupid stuff and you can't find your damn stick. When you scratch an itch it goes away. When you lick your chapped lips its relief for literally 0.004 seconds after your tongue separates from the labia.

But you can't just leave it in plain sight either. Like just lying on your desk or something. Cuz now you go to grab your car keys, and you see it. Am I gonna need that? Well now you do. Cuz as soon as you even cop a glance at a stick of chapstick its like the winds of the Nairobi Desert cross the seas and come to bitch slap you in the face.

It's really a strange psycological phenomenon. Sure when you're watching TV and you see an ad for Burger King suddenly you feel a little hungry. But its not like your girlfriend has to run and make you a sandwich because suddenly she notices you're salivating as you look at her calves. Here's a BLT, babe. Please don't eat me.

The only other equivalent I can think of that would even pale in comparison to leaving out chapstick is if I left the following note on my dresser to wake up to: they do.


I should have wrote this(aka started thinking about chapstick) when I had access to chapstick. Now I'm in worlds of pain. I've been making out with a stapler for the past 20 minutes to try keep them moisturized. How come this doesn't work in reverse? why doesnt thinking about getting a back massage feel good. Why doesnt thinking about eating a huge meal make you less hungry? Why isn't this image of a fondue fountain pouring Vaseline on my lips while angels smear it around with golden spatulas helping at all? C'mon!

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

The Regulators

You ever wonder what every fast food place, chain, or any local restaurant does with their left over food at the end of the day? I'll tell ya. They put them into large black bags. Go out the back door. And then they throw them in a dumpster.

You ever wonder why they waste these literal tons of food instead of giving them to homeless people and other starving Americans? I'll tell ya. Red tape. Laws. The government. A place like Dunkin Donuts can't just throw all their bagels and sandwitches into a large bag and send them to a homeless shelter. Apparently food can leave the premise in one of three ways:

1. In the hands of a customer.
2. Thrown into a dumpster.
3. Packaged into boxes and shipped out.

So if DD wanted to give their food away they'd have to hire workers to package the food into additional packaging they would have to pay for just to give the food away for free.

And if they throw it into the dumpster out back laws protect DD. If a hobo dives into a dumpster and eats tablets of poison thrown out by Dunkin, for whatever ungodly reason, well that's just too effing bad. Natural selection. These laws don't protect them if they give their food to a homeless shelter. Even though they didn't pay they are still treated as customers. And Dunkin knows that some homeless guy who hasn't eaten in weeks is going to swallow a cream cheese bagel whole. And they know that a jury of dimwit fatties is going to side with this unfortunate vietnam veterans lawyer and decide that in fact Dunkin Donuts should have placed a sticker on their bagel with a warning: please chew before swallowing. Poop. There goes 15 million dollars.

So Dunkin Donuts is faced with additional costs. Laws and regulations. Risks. And with these risks dire consequences. They decide fuck it, and they toss their food. In fact, the restrictions are so abundant and strict that non profit organizations that try to take this load off of Dunkin's and get free food to poor people all crash and go bankrupt. There's simply too much regulation to get past.


Goldman Sachs draws up a new convoluted derivative and prices it at whatever the fuck they feel like. As long as some chinese guy puts black-scholes and a taylor series in there somewhere then it must be legit. I mean if people are willing to buy it at said price then it must must be right. Invisible hand. Except you lie to all your investors about what they're buying, but again that's capitalism. If you lie to everyone the market will figure it out. It always does. It figures everything out ;=) Plus this is legal so there's nothing to worry about.

Then they send the underlying loans to Moody's with a note that says, "If this doesn't come back triple-A we're taking our business to S&P." In some circles of finance(the bitch ass sector) this is frowned upon. In the rest of the circles this is refereed to as standard operating procedure. Regardless its legal. Why would you regulate this?

So the triple-A stamp comes back and now GS has to back up 100 million in debt with $12 and fourteen cents(the contract said Lloyd Blankfein's change cup in his Bentley would be ample collateral for this loan). So now when one meth addict in Indiana defaults one mortgage payment the portfolio goes bust.

Dear investors,

We lost all your money, but don't worry too much about it cuz the economy is about to crash.

Couldn't care less,
Wall St.

To recap: You can take billions of other people's money and tell them you'll do smart low risk things with it. Then take that money to Las Vegas and bet the casino that the roulette ball will spin out of the wheel and land in that guys gin and tonic. That guy? No not that guy right next to the table. The one way over there. Across the room. The one in the hat? Yeah. That guy. 3 billion on that guy's gin and tonic. Hold on. I'll have to check with the government....Okay. They said that was fine.

To recap: You cannot take food that's getting thrown away anyway and put it into the mouths of people that may not make it through the week without a meal.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Siggi Explains the Universe, Part 1: Rich Girls Are Hotter

Fact. Rich girls are hotter. I'm not even gonna bother googling this to present you with some figures. Just open your high school yearbook. Log on to facebook. Watch any movie ever. Or just close your eyes for like 8 fucking seconds. See?

The fact became indisputable to me when I went to a Five Guys in a poorer town where trashy white kids hang out followed by a Five Guys a week later in a wealthy neighborhood that was popped collar central.

Of course rich girls can afford make up, or better makeup. They get $240 haircuts but this goes far beyond hiding flaws. It goes back to their upbringing. To when they were babies. And even generations back. If you trace Helen of Troy's lineage sooner or later you end up at that Five Guys in Wellesley. Money stays with the wealthy century after century. So does bonability. Here's the reasons why:

1. Genetics

If a woman was born before the women's rights movements not already into a family of wealth she essentially had a chance at becoming affluent in one of two ways(since intelligence, hard work, and talent were meaningless back then). One was to be born freakishly ugly. I'm talking lobster claws for hands or the underside of a horseshoe crab where your face should be ugly. Before there were movies there was the circus. Before Audrey Hepburne was a star you know who every man, woman, and child across America was talking about?...Gargoyle-grundell-for-a-face-woman. She was legendary. She was rich.

Option 2. Much preferred, is to be a smoke show. Pre 1950 the way this worked is a hottie walked into a party/ball/masquerade/orgy and showed a little ankle skin. Just a smiggen cuz she doesn't wanna look like a total slut and a Rockefeller/slave owner/infertile prince/bisexual Caesar would blow a load in his suit/tux/leotards/toga and demand her hand in marriage immediately.

Post 1950's the way this worked is a comely young gal would go to a job/college/loan interview and when the bald headed doink across the desk asked why you deserve this job/college/loan she would bat her eyelids. He would towel the condensation from his spectacles and...$$$.

Regardless. Whether it was a present day rich girls grandmother in 1955 slowly crossing her legs to get into an Ivy OR if it was her great-great-great-grandmother copping a glance of her talus bone to a monarch - the end result was the same. Hotness was introduced into the gene pool. And they had hot rich kids who had hot rich kids. Until one day they had the hot rich daughter who grew up and went to high school circa 2010. Now shes licking mustard from the side of her mouth at this Five Guys smiling at me amorously. She plays with her car keys as if to tell me "hey. I'm at least sixteen." Or perhaps to inform me that she will kindly drive me to the police station afterward. I decide I don't want to go to federal pound me in the ass prison just yet.

2. Fashion

Fact. Perry Ellis doesn't come in heifer. Or even normal or lanky. In fact, there's only two sizes: anorexia and crystal meth. Levis(rich girls across america: ewwwww) come in all sorts of sizes. So if you're a poor girl and you're going through some changes and you put on a few pounds its not the end of the world. But if you're a rich girl...the only piece of clothing from your Chanel wardrobe that fits you now is that poncho. OMG! I'm a size 6, <16 BMI, 97 pound tub of lard! Time to go on a diet.

3. Diet

Its really easy to eat healthy when your stay at home mom goes to whole foods daily and picks up fresh produce so her little angels can swing in the backyard hammock sucking on delicious concord grapes out on the haptons. When your family's fridge calendar looks like this:

Monday: pizza hut
Tuesday: taco night
Wednesday: dominoes
Thursday: left over tacos!
Friday: pizza tacos
Saturday: taco pizzas
Sunday: mexican-italian night

its a lot more difficult to eat right.

4. Sports

Okay. Pretty much anyone can do sports these days save the poorest of the poor. But rich girls differ in two ways. One, is the sports they do. Sports at your public high school are free but besides burning some calories they aren't cropping hotness. Girls tennis players just end up with asymmetrical arms. Field hockey players with sore backs. Girls lacrosse players just end up with this confused look across their face like "are we even playing lacrosse? Sometimes I wish I was a guy for a few hours a day."

But these are all games. Ho hum entertainment for the plebeians and serfs. Rich girls do "lady" activities. Like ballet, ice skating, and synchronized swimming.

You see where I'm going with this? Girls don't do these activities just to stay healthy but because we learned hundreds of years ago that they sculpted angelic bodies. Tone but womanly. So why don't not rich girls get on that bandwaggon? Simple. They don't have ballet at PE. Nor is there are a synchronized swimming high school team. You gotta pay comparatively big bucks to do these things. And you also have to start them early.

Which takes us to the second difference. Rich moms sign up their daughters for ballet when they are like 5. So while her little Amy is at ballet camp chiseling her calves/firming her buttocks without negatively impacting boob growth whatsoever, Billy Jean from across the tracks is chasing butterflies in a meadow and rolling around in mud. Sure that may sound like fun, but when she's 33 living with two cats shes gonna have wished her parents had enough money to get her into figure skating.

5. Image

Media and advertising's effect on young girl minds is always a hot topic of discussion. Its criticized for creating false images and lowering their self esteem. But what about, and I'm dead serious here, the good side? So what if we're encouraging girls to be thin? So what? But the bar is too high they say. I say that's the point. Rare is beauty. These people are appealing to us because so few can look like them. If everyone could be like them then they'd be...average. In a sense we know we can't look like them. Even most 13 year old girls understand that. So let them strive I say.

And getting back to our topic - rich girls will strive harder. Why? Take me. I can idealize Kobe Bryant all I want. I know deep down inside, though, that no matter how hard I practice I won't make it to the NBA. However, if I were 6 foot 8 it would be a totally different story. Then I'd have motivation.

Not rich girls see ScoJo on the cover of a magazine and they close their eyes and fantasize about being her, but that's the extent of it. They'd have to get in the best shape of their lives. Go to LA and be a starving artist with just a faint glimmer of hope that someone would discover them. They realize this and go on living their regular lives.

But rich girls look at the same magazine cover, and think that could be me. Mom! Doesn't your sister in law work at a huge talent agency in NYC? She sure does. And your uncle is a producer out in LA. Guess who's motivated to be in the best shape of their lives, and always be glowing so that she can prep herself for when she inevitably(in her mind) walks down the carpet at the acedemy awards?

6. Stress

Stress is bad for health. Bad for looks. Especially at those critical ages when girls are just coming into their bodies.

What every girl stresses about: will steve notice me today?, zits, girls wearing the same outfit as them, will mark notice me today?, class, parents not letting them go out, will joe notice me today?

But then there's a huge difference between fretting about receiving the scholarship you have to get in order to go to college AND whether you should fly to rome for two weeks then venice or the other way around.


So if you're rich, you're probably gonna be hot when you grow up. If you're hot, sooner or later you'll be rich. Even if you sound like the chicks from the Hills. Life just isn't fair. But for all the poor people. I want to conclude by saying that there are great rewards for you as well; they come in different packages. Poor people really can appreciate the small things in life so much better. And to be discussed in our next entry coming soon...Siggi Explains the Universe, Part 2: Only Poor People Fall in Love.

Friday, April 23, 2010

College Supplement

I was clicking through my old My Documents folder the other day reading some of the papers I wrote back in the day of yesteryore. The ratio of "man I was a smart son of a bitch" to "when was I cured of my retardation without realizing it?" was about 1:3 I'd say. So I came up with this idea. I'm gonna take some of the papers that fit into that latter category(shit pile) and I'm gonna rewrite them now that I'm older, wiser, inexplicably more awesome.

First up is a college essay. Not the main one where you pretend like you actually had a relationship with your grandfather that passed, but one of the supplements. I'm sure you've seen it/remember it. "Pick the # words you think best describe you and give a brief explanation why." These are the words I picked senior year of high school: "critical/honest", "comical", "laid-back", "interested", and "ideological." And...

I should've added naive. Well, today, I know not to make the same mistakes. Colleges don't want honesty. They want a very distinct type of bullshit: self delusion. Here's what I would write today:

College Supplement 3
Siggi Asztalos

Dear admission officer. Let me preface my word choices with an explanation of what you are about to read. I know that you will be getting thousands of these where kids my age will throw every chivalrous word at you in the English language. Some multi cultural little prick is even going to get all "creative" and toss some fucking swahili on there. For everyone's sake, I hope you reject the shit out of that guy.

Anyone can flatter themselves just like anyone can masturbate. You can't ask a chef to evaluate his own cooking. A filmmaker to critique his own film. I'm sure that had you given this assignment to Stalin you would have gotten it back with words like "just", "humane", and "understanding of people's jealousy of my awesome mustache."

So I came up with some words to describe myself. But I'm not going to insult you by explaining their importance myself. Instead I've chosen a variety of quotes from close personal friends and acquaintances to drive my points home. Shall we get to it then?

1. Role Model

"Knowing that you will never ever be the best at something. That's a huge weight off my shoulders. Its also inspirational. One day I want to be as good as Siggi." - Michael Jordan

2. Giving

"It was obvious. Everyone knew it. There was no way I could be as good as he could have been. But he grabbed my arm, and he said 'Forget about me. You be the best damn Batman ever.'" - Christian Bale

3. Winner

"What can I say? He beat me at my game." - Bobby Fisher

4. Ethical

"We have a saying here in the smallest country in the world: what would Siggi do?" - Pope John Paul II

5. Sexy

"For Siggi...I'd make an exception." - Mother Theresa

6. Comforting

"He was the only one there for me when my brother died. He convinced me to go to the tournament and do it the right way." - Liu Kang

7. Unique

"Even oracles can be wrong sometimes. Siggi. Siggi is definitely the one." - Morpheus

8. Comical

"It was the usual banter at the end of a shitty day. I said I just wish those fucking Mongolians couldn't raid our god damn villages. The next day when I woke up there was a 500 mile long wall he stayed up all night to make. You can imagine the smile on my face. I almost died laughing." - Qin Shi Huang

9. Activist

"Things were better than ever. Siggi must have went to every high school in the state to speak to the students. And he put mirrors all over the beaches with a sign that said 'This is you.' It was working. Guido self awareness was up 88%. Then that stupid show came out and ruined all his hard work." - Chris Christie

10. Interesting

"How can you not? I follow him around. I stare at him all day. At least when the sun is up." - Siggi's shadow

11. Foresight

"He knew it before anyone, but no one listened. Or maybe they heard and chose to ignore. Either way...if there was a nobel prize for 'I told you so' he would have one." - Paul Krugman

12. Popular

"Under my uniform I wore a t-shirt with Siggi's face. Always. Never left camp without it." - Che Guevara

13. Legendary

"So I did it before him. And I'm a woman. Big deal. I had a plane. He did it in a speedo....and his time was faster." - Amelia Earhart

14. Paternal

"I'm proud to call him my father." - The Renaissance

15. Patient

"I told him not to tell anyone about me. Now he comes by and we chat on every leap year." - The Lochness Monster

16. Talented

"When I asked the obvious question, he said he had stage fright. So he taught me everything I know and, well, the rest is history." - Michael Jackson

17. Awesome

"Bringing him into this world was the proudest moment of my life." - God

18. Thankful

"When we accept students to our institution we don't expect anything. Every now and again someone surprises us with a thank you note. Once in the history of the school we got a bouquet of flowers. Needless to say I was surprised when I opened my apartment door to see Helen of Troy incarnate with the words 'Thanks - Your Pal, Siggi' written on her belly in whipped cream. My heart almost stopped when she informed me that she was a virgin." - Anonymous admissions officer

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Don't Tell Me That! Come On

People have a tenancy to do what I'm about to describe. Its comedic so it finds its way into sitcom plots all the time, and of course is why it has become a topic of a post here.

I'm walking back to the office from lunch. This lady is walking her dog toward me when suddenly she jets to the side, squeezes the dog's head tightly between her legs, and forceful muzzles its mouth shut with both her hands. She clenches the leash harder than Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt held on when a twister swept over them in the climax. As I pass by she manages to stop trembling long enough to tell me the following: "He won't bite. He just wants to play."

Lets press the ol rewind button here. Had this lady just walked past me with her dog all most I would have thought: "Cool dog." At most. I probably would not have even noticed. I mean to tell you the truth I was very distracted by my debate with self to establish the five best N'Sync songs. I Promise You or Bye,Bye,Bye to advance from final four into the semi finals? Tough call. I mean Bye,Bye,Bye has a great chorus but the verses on...wait. See what I mean? What dog? I've totally forgotten about it.

Back to present. I see this lady put her dog into a cross between the Figure Four Leg Lock and the Walls of Jericho. God Must Have Spent A Little More Time On You fleets from my frontal lobe faster than Lance Bass's decent to obscurity. There's only one thing on my mind now as I creep toward this offsetting scene: How many babies must this dog have eaten in the past few weeks to warrant such preventative measures? "He just wants to play," she says. With what? My jugular? My heart was beating 200 beats a minute but it sounded slow because as our paths crossed time slowed down. One hand on my jugular, the other on my testicles. The rest of my body is as unprotected as the infant flesh this dog was snacking on before this walk. I close my eyes and imagine a pile of dog poop with a bright red pacifier resting on top of it like a cherry on a chocolate sundae. When I open my eyes they're gone...probably because what I thought was 4 seconds was actually 45 minutes.

And like I said, people do this all the time. I stopped crying from thunderstorms at 14 months. In fact, for four summers when I was a lifeguard there was no sound more pleasing than the loud clap of the lord's work. Well...Except maybe the sound of Elizabeth Monkey bawling after I tell her its 25 cents for a popsicle not 24 cents and one rusty piece of copper that she clearly has insufficient evidence to prove is a penny. Don't judge me until you meet this spawn of Satan. If anything I was doing her lard ass a favor; not to mention the countless sidewalks she tramples on daily. Do you like taxes? Earthquakes? I didn't think so.

So whenever I'm home and a thunderstorm breaks out at most I'll think: "Fucking rain." At most. More than likely I'm convincing someone that Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely is the Backstreet Boys indisputable pinnacle. That is, of course, until someone says something like, "Damn that was close. Don't use the metal faucets. I heard of this one guy whose eye balls melted inside his head." What's the medical phrase for when you imagine something so convincingly that it tricks your nervous system? Wait. I remember now: heart failure.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Don't Sign The Healthcare Bill!!!!

The word 'femenist' has an unfair negative connotation. Gender pride. Equality. These are good things. So we need a new word to describe this modern flux of harpies. I'm talking about the women that have miserable lives and blame it on society's mistreatment of their entire sex.

These chicks are convinced that when a professor smiles at them that means "come over after class and S my D or I'll give you an F." In reality you got a D- on your paper because you handed in a 22 page manifesto on why males should be enslaved and farmed for their seed when the topic of the assignment was to discuss the impact of the mongolian empire on the far east.

Chauvinism by itself means MALE chauvinism(but you don't see me whining about equality). So what do we call irrational fem based arrangements? How about wenchism? The following article is by a wenchist then:

ARE U SERIOUS(click me)?!?!?!


Obama: Alright gentlemen. Bipartisanship seems to be an entity of the past. Single-payer may remain a communist taboo in this country forever. For now even the public option and universal healthcare will have to wait. But our two year plight was not futile. 35 million more will be covered. The deficit will be reduced, and those that needed reform the most...those paying for healthcare out of their pocket or those that can't afford it will be handed some well needed slack. Its not perfect, but its better than nothing. Now for my John Hanckock to-
Presidential Aid: Sir wait!
Obama: What is it?
Presidential Aid: I have a letter here from Natasha Chart. She's pointed out something our experts seem to have overlooked.
Obama: What is it?
Presidential Aid: Well you see, she seems to be in abusive relationship. The partner from as far as I can tell is illegally withholding funds from her. He plans to shackle her for life by inseminating her with his demon seed and spawning some sort of hell child. Apparently this bill will make the abortion Natasha is destined to need even more expensive...and like I said this guy steals all her money.
Obama: I see....Why doesn't she seek legal consult or just dump this guy?
Presidential Aid: Based on her obsession with asking rhetorical questions and then answering them with short melodramatic blurbs like "no" and "never!" I'd wager a guess and say that it's because she's mentally challenged. I got an assistant looking into a history of special education as we speak.
Obama: Is her account nothing but an anecdote or are other women going to be in a similar situation?
Presidential Aid: Well most of her account is just wrist cutting and tear licking, but she does make a completely non sourced claim that 1 in 3 women will need an abortion in their lifetimes.
Obama: One in three?!?!
Presidential Aid: I know right! Is that the femenist utopia? Where if you get pregnant a pop-up appears on your iPod asking you if you feel like having this baby right now?
Obama: Nonetheless. I think she's right. We need to reaccess.
Presidential Aid: Excuse me?
Obama: Tear up the bill.
Presidential Aid: Say what?
Obama: These 35 million impoverished people suffering from sarcoidosis and diabetes will have to wait! No matter how cheap we make abortions she still won't be able to afford one because her abusive partner somehow manages to take every cent she earns. So we shall wait until Natasha's uterus is so ransacked from aborting this-is-not-your-fault-but-fuck-you-anyway fetuses that she is no longer fertile. Then we will fight another 2 grueling years against the worst party divide Washington has ever seen to get reform pushed through again, but this time with free abortions for everyone! Cuz what's healthcare reform without free abortions?....Fascism, my friends. Fascism.
Presidential Aid: Wait...are you serious?
Obama: Fuck naw nigga. Where's my pen so I can sign this shit?