Thursday, January 30, 2003

Things I've found out about Birmingham, Alabama: So Birmingham has one point. I'm not really sure what that means or why I gave out points, but at least I look forward to eating steak in Alabama.

Wednesday, January 29, 2003

Fanfiction. It's proof that everyone on earth, deep down, believes they'd make a good writer. And that when they actually put pen to paper, find their muse, and let the words flow forth, they usually write about what someone else's cock looks like. The thing that seperates me from the average fan fiction writer is that I have never watched an episode of the X-Files and thought "I wonder what it would be like if Scully rubbed her shaved pussy on Skinner's bald head?"

Alright, that's a lie. I have. Dozens of times. Even when I'm watching something else. Or at a church picnic. What really seperates us is that I've never written that down. Until now. Alright, just ignore that fact and let's laugh at Fan Fiction writers together. I've scoured the net to bring you the very best in fan fiction. Here we go:

Long, Long Ago in a Galaxy Far, Far Away, a war was waged over sweet, supple man ass. Or at least that's the theory behind Elusive Lover, a Star Wars fan fiction site dedicated to writing stories about the misunderstood homosexual relationship between Han Solo and Luke Skywalker. I shudder to think what would happen if Chewbacca found out about this sordid love affair, but you can rest assured that his journal would be full of unhappy faces the night he learns about it. At least a dozen subjects have been written about the lust breeding beneath their skin tight space suits, but to spare you the glorious, glorious details, I've selected a little piece from a story called "Life While There's Hope" by Diana Williams (related to John perhaps?) Enjoy:

Luke was too tight and too nervous to allow Han to take him without a great deal of discomfort, and he'd promised not to hurt the boy. Perhaps later, when the kid had relaxed from a good orgasm -- hell, they were both young enough to be able to come at least once again that night.
Now, I have to take issue. This implies that Luke Skywalker is the virgin in this relationship. All I have to do is look at this little poof once to know that he spent the days after "Return of the Jedi" trying to convince ewoks to make their way into his colon. Han's anus may have been weathered by time and tragedy, but it remained untouched until a hairless blonde jedi taught him the true meaning of love.

I could write countless paragraphs on Sci-Fi fan fiction alone, as it makes up 75% of the non-porn internet. You wouldn't have to search too long to find a Sliders story involving the ghost of Professor Arturo and a Homosexual Quinn, or a site dedicated to exploring Mulder and Skinner's unrequited love, or Godzilla vs. The Transformers, or Highlander Cock, or Quantum Leap Man on Man Action or...or...okay, I have to stop, or I will write paragraphs on it. Okay, one more: GAY KNIGHT RIDER PORN!

Okay, I had to stop before I was sucked in beyond return. I went into this wanting to share with the world the most obscure, pathetic fan fiction I could find, something that transcends the mind of the horny nerd virgin. Something that is just truly sad. Let's try and get back on track:

Newsies Fan Fiction! You heard me right. Newsies. The movie starring the American Psycho himself with the turn of the century paperboys singing and doing backflips in defiant protest of the man. The original site above is written by a man calling himself "Buttons", and unfortunately the stories are now defunct, but what's this at the bottom of the page? A link to the Newsies Fan Fiction Webring! Yes, when Buttons saw a young street urchin doing a backflip on the silver screen and thought to himself "When this hullabaloo is all over, what will become of this little scamp?", he was not alone. There are 24 active sites dedicated solely to answering the unanswered questions found in the movie Newsies. Unfortunately, my search for Newsies porn turned up short, so I bring you this page, where a man writes the journal of the leader of the Newsies, if the Newsies went west on the Oregon Trail. I'm not kidding. From the page:

"Da Newsies Go West: Well, I was bored the other day and decided to play a game of Oregon Trail using Newsies characters, my sister, and myself. Race was our leader and this is...well...his journal.
On to Fanfics by Candlelight, a site dedicated to one woman's collection of Backstreet Boys fan fiction. Now, the site admits it was not always solely dedicated to Backstreet Boys fanfiction. It used to be dedicated to Backstreet Boys, WWF, and Transformers Beast Wars fan fiction. In order to give the Backstreet Boys the attention they deserved, she abandoned the other two(although they can still be found here and here). She's had quite a bit of trauma due to the seperation, as can be seen on her frequently asked questions page, who is asking her these questions is beyond me, though. Now, I was around for the New Kids on the Block cartoon show, and I remember that for their xmas special, Donnie took a young psychic girl under his wing and taught her about life, love, and the meaning of xmas. With incredible stories like that, I didn't think there could be any way that a measly Backstreet Boy fan fiction could live up to the precendent set by NKOTB. Boy, was I wrong.

This woman has written a Choose-Your-Own Adventure Story spanning Seventy Two Chapters which follows A.J. and Nick through a "wild saturday night". I'm not even going to read you an excerpt, I will only show the you picture that starts the story off:

The website urges the readers to "Vote for this story at the Take Time to Dream Awards!", but I checked the site and alas, it did not win any awards. However, the awards offer this frightening revelation: There's a lot more Backstreet Boys fan fiction on the internet than you could ever imagine. Oh, and Felicity fiction too.

The enormity of the task I've undertaken has convinced me that this is a topic I must revisit at a future date, but I would be selfish if I didn't share these final two links:

Talespin Fan Fiction. In case you felt that sexual tension between Baloo and Rebecca, too. Or Baloo and Kit Cloudkicker. Or Baloo and Louie. Or Kit and Don Carnage. The beat goes on.

Mario Kart Fan Fiction. Yes, Mario Kart was a thrilling story with unforseen plot twists and a denoument that left many questions unanswered. For those looking for more, this is the place to come.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Boong-ga Boong-ga. Now you can finally stick your finger up the asshole of a child molestor.

Also, feel free to read the rest of Seanbaby's "Top 10 Naughtiest Video Games", as Seanbaby is quite hilarious when it comes to the ins and outs of the Nintendo world.

I may or may not be venturing out to Birmingham, Alabama for a seminar for my girlfriend's job at the end of the coming month. I know only one thing about the place: in Birmingham, they love the governor. Ooh, ooh, ooh. I'll have a lot of free time on my hands while she's in class, so any suggestions as to what to do while I'm there would be much appreciated.
I may, I'm not sure, but I may be turning into Spiderman

I was in the shower yesterday (probably singing Gloria Estefan's Conga) when a spider made its way down the wall beside me. Being the manly man that I am, I freaked and ran out of the shower. Fortunately, I work my best under extreme circumstances, and within seconds I was able to devise a plan involving a dixie cup and the toilet.

With the precision of a surgeon, I maneuvered the spider into the dixie cup, at which point I lunged for the toilet and shook the cup upside down. No spider fell out. Now, any sane person knows that in a situation like this, the last thing you do is look into the cup, because that's when the spider lunges at your face and lays its eggs in your tear ducts. So I did the only thing I could do: Throw the cup in the toilet.

As the cup floated, the spider made its way on top of the cup to shake its many legs angrily at me. When I made the decision to throw the cup in the toilet, I didn't consider the fact that it couldn't be flushed, but I hoped for the best since the cup seemed fairly bouyant at the moment and with any luck the spider was overweight. It did have a little paunch, now that I think about it.

The dixie cup, in an act of defiance so bold it could only come from a dixie cup, promptly lodged itself in the toilet hole (does it have a name?), leaving the spider behind to skim the now rapidly rising surface of the water. Thankfully, the water level didn't rise to the point where the toilet overflowed, but it did give the spider the opportunity to make its way to the edge of the bowl and crawl out to enact its unspeakable vengeance upon me. With only precious seconds before my fate was sealed, I had to improvise.

My mind racing, I took someone's toothbrush from the toothbrush holder and plunged it into the depths of the toilet. This was a risky maneuver, for the spider could easily have made its way up the toothbrush to lodge itself under my skin while I was concentrating on crushing the cup into a flushable size with the Oral-B. As the Predator-like laughter of the spider filled the bathroom, I pried the cup free and the spider was flushed to a murky grave. I still double flush, just in case it's making its way back.

With the proud sense of victory about me, and the not-so-proud toilet water covering my hand, I returned to finish my shower. After I got out and was drying off, it became apparent that my big toe was bleeding profusely. Somehow, I had gashed it open in the epic battle of man vs. beast, though for the life of me I could not figure out how. Later that same day, I began to itch all over. It was then that I realized I hadn't cut my toe at all, but the spider had gotten to me before I even knew he was there. He must have been making his way back up the wall after visciously mangling my toe in some horrible spider-gang initiation when I engaged him in combat.

I've come to the only logical conclusion after going through this all: I now have mutant spider DNA coursing through my veins. In the coming weeks, I will update you on any changes, superhuman or otherwise. Luckily, I've been training all my life shooting webs, but up until now it's only been into socks, boxers, and the occasional hobo rectum.

Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Update: I'm not the only one who hates the Matrix.

Reason #28 to hate the Matrix: "Why's this happening to me? I can't do this!" I enjoy the subtle manner in which the characters reveal what they're feeling.

#36:Ya think you could throw the Alice in Wonderland metaphor in our face one more time? Please?

#43. Looks like it's time for some reflection effects to impress the simpletons!

#56. OK, so the machines didn't even bother to perfect cloning and grow humans that way, they instead decided to go to the trouble of creating artificial wombs, thus preserving diversity and increasing the chance of genetic flaws? Solid thinking here.

67. Hey, who turned on Reboot? (HA!!!)

Also, they offer a Transcript of Neo's Dialogue. Some examples:

  • Shit!
  • I can't do this!
  • Yeah. Wow, that sounds like a really good deal.
  • But I think I got a better one. How about I give you the finger, and you give me my phone call.
  • You can't scare me with this Gestapo crap. I know my rights. I want my phone call.
  • MMMmmmmMMmmPpphhHHhpHPHhpphphH!!!!!!!!!!
  • Oh God.
  • What are you talking about? What- what is happening to me?
  • Yes.
  • What the hell is this?
  • From what?
  • What?
  • Fine.

But you go on believing the Matrix is incredible. I mean, look at the way she runs on that wall!

It's really a sad statement about your life that you can't wait to see the commercials during the Superbowl. I admit, I've done it most every year. But I did miss a lot, for instance:

The Trailer for The Incredible Hulk

Contrary to a story on TechTV earlier that week, the actual Hulk was shown. A lot. And he's just as lumpy as you'd expect. I'm sure untold millions were made in making this movie as crappy as possible, but I think they could've saved a lot of money by just giving the role of the Hulk to Howie Long. He deserves a second chance after Firestorm. Man, he threw an Axe at that guy from on a motorcycle...AN AXE!

The IMDB's trivia section on Firestorm, which can be reached by using the link on the side, or if you're mildly retarded, the pageflicker, says that a stuntman actually died while making Firestorm. My heart goes out to his family. Not because he's dead, but because he died while making Howie Long's Firestorm

Also on display was the sequel to the overly shitty movie "The Matrix", which I honestly thought would not be made out of respect for Aaliyah, the girl who died in the plane crash everyone cared until 9/11. But I guess if they released Queen of the Damned, no one gives a damn about respecting Aaliyah. Oh well. The trailer can be viewed here. In a stunning turn of originality, the Matrix has added a love interest to the story, who I'm sure will be fiercely independant but by the end of the movie either A) submissive or B)Dead but Avenged. Oh, did I say originality? I meant same old crap. The trailer also shows that Agent Elrond has been cloned more times than Michael Keaton, which I guess means that the brilliant god computers have decided that, since he didn't get the job done the first time, instead of starting from scratch, just make more of him to fail.

There looks to be plenty of explosions and wire fighting for all of you too fat to go out and experience life on your own. Instead, enjoy the fact that he can dodge EVEN MORE computer animated bullets. AMAZING.

Rounding out the shitty movie lineup is Daredevil, which showed us that weren't already in the know that he must be blind, for if he could see there'd be no way he'd choose to look so incredibly faggy. He looks like a bloody condom.

Sadly, I'll probably still pay my 10 bucks to see the Hulk and Daredevil. Fuck the Matrix.

Monday, January 27, 2003

Things You Should Do:
  • Read Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk.
  • Watch Charade with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn
  • Eat something. You're too damn thin. Just kidding. You're on the internet. I know you're a big fat fatty.

I also saw Monkeybone over the weekend, and I thought it was a pretty decent movie. I understand that it was supposed to be much darker, and I understand that it could've been incredible with complicated Stop Motion Animation from the man who brought us The Nightmare Before Christmas. Down fanboys, down. For what it was, it was alright, though I think I can trace the problem to its source: Whoopi Goldberg.

Let's face it, Whoopi Goldberg destroys everything she touches. In this movie, Whoopi plays Death, a role that was originally to be played by the incredible Christoper Walken. Now, that's setting the bar high, but how the fuck do you go from Walken to Whoopi?

Let's take a look at some highlights from Whoopi Goldberg's career:

1985: The Making of Captain Eo. She hosted this documentary about the Michael Jackson-based ride at Epcot Center. I barely remember seeing Captain Eo as a kid, and the only thing I remember about it was that it may or may not have been 3D and even back then there was something eerie about Michael Jackson's crotch being 5 stories tall.

1990: Chalk one up for Whoopi. She was the voice of Gaia on Captain Planet. If you're unfamiliar with Captian Planet, allow me to explain. Captain Planet, he's a hero. Going to take pollution down to zero. He's our powers, magnified, and he's fighting on the planet's side. The show featured a representative from every culture, which boiled down to a redheaded streetsmart kid from New York, a leggy blonde from Russia, a little asian number from one of those asian countries, a black guy from France. Oh wait, no, I'm sorry. Africa. And a little Indian kid from India. Everyone got a kick ass ring that controlled one of the four elements. The fact that there were five kids was solved by giving the indian midget the "heart" ring, which enabled him to talk to animals. So while they were shooting flames and causing earthquakes, he was convincing penguins to blow him. Anyway, Gaia was the useless bitch who gave them the rings. So go Whoopi.

1991: She makes an uncredited appearance in House Party 2. When a movie stars Kid, Play, and a guy named Bowlegged Lou, and you can't get credited, you should quit show business.

1992: Whoopi hits it big with Sister Act, the movie that brought us Kathy Najimy, who was Hollywood's darling ugly fat chick until Cameron Manheim came along.

1992: Sarafina! Enough said.

1993: National Lampoon's Loaded Weapon and Sister Act 2. Enough said.

1994: The Pagemaster. Enough said.

1996: Eddie and Bordello of Blood. This keeps getting more painful as I go on. But I press forward in the face of adversity.

1997: Cinderella. Starring Moesha. No, I'm not kidding. Moesha.

2000: The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Admit it, you had incredibly high hopes for this movie. Then you saw Whoopi as the judge in the commercial. That's when you heard the death knoll.

What does the future have in store for Whoopi? Why Baby Geniuses 2 of course. I give up, I didn't know it would be so hard sticking it to Whoopi. I'm going to go cry now. Cry hard.

Oh yeah, one more thing. Flooze. She heralded the downfall of the Dotcom empire.

I saw Confessions of a Dangerous Mind with my girlfriend Lisa over the weekend, and I must say I was very happy with my moviegoing experience. I did, however, think the movie could have used a little more of Chuck Barris dancing. I think it was curtailed out of respect for Gene Gene, The Dancing Machine, who apparently recently had his legs chopped off due to diabetes. If only we had more advanced cyborg technology, then we could make Gene TRULY a dancing machine.

The fact that I don't have a lot to say about the movie itself warrants explanation. You must understand that as we walked out of the movie theater, it became apparent that it was the last movie to let out, as there were maybe 10 cars in the whole parking lot. On the way to the car, we heard some loud pops, and thought there must be someone with a pack of Snaps, those little things that are basically gunpowder wrapped in toilet paper, and when you throw them at the ground, they make a little bang. Now, I'm sure you're like me, and think that anyone who brings Snaps brings the party, so I looked around for Mr. Party All The Time and boy was I wrong. No one had Snaps. However, there was a guy at the back of the parking lot with a whip.

Now, normally I wouldn't be phased by a man with a whip. We've all pretended to be Indiana Jones, some for longer, more unhealthy periods than others. Using a whip is intoxicating, at least until you find out it's not really effective at wrapping itself around branches, allowing you to swing over danger. In fact, more often than not, you'd hurt yourself and cry and never pick up the whip again. Even so, it wouldn't be so odd to have seen the guy with the whip in New York City. But we were in South Plainfield, New Jersey. At half past midnight. In the parking lot of a small movie theater. It's not like the guy with the whip was scoping for pussy, or converts to his whip-based religion, or even victims, because a) this movie theater wasn't close to humanity, it was next to a closed Pathmark, and b) he didn't approach anyone. He just stood at the back of the parking lot, whipping at nothing, every so often accenting a whip snap with a little hop on his part. I feel I must add that he was dressed in a black bellboy costume.

If you are reading this Mr. Guy With Whip Outside South Plainfield Movie Theater At 12:30 AM On Friday Night/Saturday Morning, please explain yourself. If you're looking for friends, then invest in some Snaps. They bring the party.

[Note: While finding a decent picture of Snaps, I found Patriotic Fireworks. Unbenownst to me, I was not fulfilling my duty as an American Citizen by neglecting to purchase enough fireworks. If you don't purchase a "Gallactic Rainbow 8 Ball" Roman Candle from this site, then the terrorists win.]

Friday, January 24, 2003

There is still hope for the United States.

Yesterday, the senate voted to ban funding for the Total Information Awareness program. If this program had gone into effect, at any moment, the government could set fire to your hair via satellite. Or something like that.

Oh well, to prevent yourself from living in an Orwellian Wonderland, do yourself a favor and join the Electronic Freedom Foundation and write some letters to your government representatives. You'll thank yourself as you watch Tivo naked. And if you don't own a Tivo, you haven't lived.

The Swedish are responsible for every shitty pop song ever. I think we've found a country that no one would have a problem with us destroying. At least Saddam Hussein didn't cowrite Bon Jovi's "It's My Life", the anthem for drunk graduating teens whose parents just don't understand. That's a war crime, my friend.

[Link via Metafilter]

Thursday, January 23, 2003

Ladies and Gentleman, I give you Tard Blog. [Link via Metafilter]
What seperates Man from Beast?

Some say that it's language. Anyone that's been through the drive-through safari at Six Flags Great Adventure knows that monkeys have an extensive language used to coordinate themselves into finding the best way to lessen the resale value of your car.

Others say that it's reason. Have you ever seen a lemur absolutely convinced that the stripper that just gave him a lapdance really loves him? An emu that's embraced Scientology? A marmoset that protests the cancellation of a wacky afternoon radio show? If anything, it's readily apparent that humans are far less reasonable than your average animal...after all, we made the legal age for marriage 18 years old and the legal age for drinking 21. What the fuck are you supposed to do for those three years to withstand the endless gray corridor your life has become?

Still others say it's the fact god created us in his image. This is just ridiculous, not for the whole god thing, but if that's even true, how do you explain women? Does god bleed from a hole in his crotch once a month? Does he have completely inane arguments with you over things no sane human being would ever fight about (i.e. Hypothetical situations that would never, ever happen unless Mr. Mxyzptlk or the Great Gazoo was involved)? And over on the male side, does god really have man boobs? Is his bung that hairy? I know his beard is pretty unkempt, but you really don't think of god as having any other body hair. Maybe god really created elves in his image. But I digress.

In fact, nothing sets man apart from beast. Except, that is, for bathrobes. Clothing in general doesn't separate us from animals, because we know dolphins, one the smartest mammals on earth, don't wear pants, but they wish they did, that's how smart they are. But no animal has ever once thought they'd benefit from a bathrobe. Most animals don't even bathe, and if they do it usually involves a lot of anus licking. Humans, however, generally shower every day (except in parts of Europe and the Middle East, where I guess they're in permanent drought conditions), and when they're too lazy to actually get dressed, they throw on the bathrobe and voila, instant decency.

I had a problem. I enjoyed walking around the house in a tshirt and boxers, truly the outfit of kings, but there was a problem of the boxer flap. Unless I was standing perfectly still, the flap tended to open wide and expose my magnificent genitals to all, which is wonderful for most of the world, but not so wonderful for those related to me (with the exception of some second cousins). So I'd taken to wearing my boxers backwards, thus negating the flap factor. This posed unique problems of its own: not designed to be worn backwards, the flap end of the boxers tended to tear easier when picking something up, and I now tended to expose my supple anus, taint, and the back of my scrotum to the world at inappropriate times (sorry grandma). What was a delicious young prince to do?

Get himself a bathrobe, that's what. I've had it since xmas, and I haven't taken it off except to wash it (since I went through a period where I thought Axe was a deoderant since it clearly states on the can "deodorant body spray", but what that essentially means is grocery store cologne, and it does nothing other than blend with newly created BO) and my genitals and bunghole have been exposed to none but those wishing to view their glory. I've even been able to forego the tshirt, thanks to the handy belt, which closes the robe on all but a little v-neck, which is enough to still disgust my brother, but I care not for his opinion. So do yourself a favor and buy yourself a bathrobe. Then hunt animals for sport and superiority. Eat a steak in your bathrobe. Slowly flood an antfarm in your bathrobe. Play that game with your dog where you pretend to throw the ball but really don't, but the dog runs after it anyway, then eventually returns to you defeated, and yell at the dog...in your bathrobe. You rule all you survey.

I finally saw Run Ronnie Run tonight, and I must say I was disappointed. I know, I'd been warned, but I sincerely doubted that the silver screen debut of Mr. Show would be devoid of laughter. It wasn't, but it wasn't exactly overflowing with it it either. It certainly had its moments, and I'd pay good money for a Three Times One Minus One cd, but it wasn't what I had hoped it to be. It left me with the same feeling as Kids in the Hall's Brain Candy...it could've been a whole lot more than what it was.

Oh, and sweet jesus...a Survivor parody? Come on, you're not the Wayans brothers. You're Bob and David. Get it together men!

I also took advantage of the free time to see Metropolis. Not that one from the 20's, the anime movie released a few years ago. It features, surprise surprise, a future dystopia and robots galore, which, and I'm fairly sure about this, is groundbreaking when it comes to anime. Actually, anime loosely translates to "cartoons about robots in a dystopian future (and no one has private parts)". While the story wasn't too deep, it was engrossing nonetheless, and the visuals were nothing short of stunning. Plus the DVD gave my new home theater system a workout like no DVD before this, so the movie could have been Fried Green Tomatoes and I'd be satisfied provided I heard at least one helicopter fly out from behind my head

The point of this rambling mess? Go rent Metropolis. Pass on Run Ronnie Ron, and do yourself a favor and buy the DVD set of Mr. Show. Your genitals will thank you.

Tuesday, January 21, 2003

I was concerned with my friend Melissa's seemingly daily panic attacks, but I think I've come up with a solution: Turn her panic attacks into freeform breakdancing.

In her day to day life, she can carry around a little square of cardboard, and if she starts feeling that nervousness come on, throw it down and start doing the worm. It'll pass in no time. Life will be easier, she'll be happier, and we'll all be better off by her busting of moves.

Desmond even came up with a way to make her some money on the deal. Throw out a little hat before she starts breaking it down. People will throw money in like crazy for the worm girl. As a finale I suggest she take the money hat, put it on, do a headspin, then pop the hat back off and a dove flies out. She'll be famous and wealthy in no time.

Your Judicial System at Work: X-Men legally declared Non-Human Creatures.

A legal battle of the humanity of the X-Men that had been raging since 1996 finally ended when Judge Judith Barzilay decided on January 3rd, 2003 that the X-Men were not humans, but non-human creatures. Highlights from the case:

  1. The judge reviewed over 60 different action figures in order to make her decision. No word on whether or not she considered Cyclops "Light-Up Visor" instead of projectile lasers "gay"
  2. The US Government, arguing that the X-Men were humans (so they could collect more money per toy sold) claimed that Wolverine "was simply a man with prosthetic hands".
  3. Fanboys are up in arms. One virgin who runs an X-Men fansite cried: "Marvel's super heroes are supposed to be as human as you or I. They live in New York. They have families and go to work. And now they're no longer human?"

If they all live in NY, you'd think they'd do a better job in keeping that World Trade Center safe. Oh well, the ramifications of this judgement are immediately apparent in a press release from NYC's Mayor Bloomberg: "Sentinels are being dispatched immediately and all mutants will be rounded up in internment camps. Why? Well, we really haven't developed that plot point other than it's supposed to reflect real-world racism, but go with it anyway, 'cause you'll get to see a kick ass fight on the Statue of Liberty. Trust me, it's bitchin'."

All X-Men declined comment except for Gambit, who said, "What the fuck? Dude, it's hard enough being the gay guy who throws exploding playing cards, but now I have to be the gay non-human creature who throws exploding playing cards? Fuck that shit. Look at Beast, that fucking muppet is non-human. I'm going to my room."

[Link Via Boing Boing]

This marks the second time in two days that I have went to pee and there has been diarrhetic turd left in the toilet. Now, I'm not one to complain about surprises left in the toilet, in fact, most of the time I look at it as a fun diversion. I doubt a single man can come here and tell me that he hasn't played "Sink the Battleship" with a cigarette butt in the toilet. But upon finding the brown sludge, I'm forced to ask myself: How did they wipe?

I guess I'll have to look for the person with a little more glide in their step than usual.

Monday, January 20, 2003

I've found the answer to the question that was on everyone's mind: What happened to the Hamburger Helper Glove?

He fell out of popularity with mainstream America for agreeing to appear on the cover of Spinal Tap's "Smell the Glove". He was last seen stalking culinary beauty Sara Lee. His current whereabouts are unknown. God speed, little glove.

Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, a movie that tickles the taint of my inner nerd, is #4 at the box office this week. With such a spectacular movie of such a grandiose scale, one that unites both moviegoers and critics alike, one would think that the movies that dethroned it would have to be of equal, if not greater quality. Well, the moviegoing public would like you to know you're retarded, and not just mildly retarded, the kind of retarded that gets a medal for just showing up at the Special Olympics, because you might hurt someone if you actually participated.

The #1 movie at the box office this week is Kangaroo Jack. The plot of this movie is as follows:

Two childhood friends, a New York hairstylist and a would-be musician, get caught up with the mob and are forced to deliver $100,000 to Australia, but things go haywire when the money is lost to a wild kangaroo.

Now, one would think with a New York Hairstylist and a Would-Be Musician getting caught up with the mob, you'd have a movie right there. I mean, only those imagineers over there in Hollywood could dream up such a funtastic situation! But throw a Kangaroo in the mix, and a wild one at that (as demonstrated by his red jumper and sunglasses) and you've got a movie that's one hell of a ride! I hope there's a boxing match against the kangaroo where Jerry O'Connell severely underestimates its boxing prowess! When that happens, you can be sure my knee will be thoroughly slapped.

The movie stars the fabulous Jerry O'Connell, who you may know from his appearances in "Ollie Hopnoodle's Haven of Bliss". Since "Kangaroo Jack" raked in a whopping 17.6 million this weekend, Jer's openly laughing at John Rhys-Davies for being the inferior Slider at the box office. No word on Rembrandt Brown's triumphant return to the big screen.

Coming in at #2 at the box office is a movie I've never even heard of, let alone seen advertised, "National Security". The movie stars Martin Lawrence, who is currently in contract negotiations to bring his stellar "Sheneneh Jenkins" to the silver screen, and promises to be the sequel to Bad Boys before the actual sequel to Bad Boys is released. I don't know much about this movie, other than it made 15.7 million over the weekend and stars the guy from Big Momma's House (German Release Title: Big Momma's Haus) which grossed 117 million by the end of its theatrical run. Thank God for the fat suit.

The final movie to beat out LOTR: TT this weekend is Just Married. My disgust at this knows no bounds, so I'll let the reviews over at Rotten Tomatoes speak for me:

"Yes, it's as bad as it looks."--Desson Howe, Washington Post

"The gags fall into four categories: (a) stale, (b) dumb, (c) vaguely tasteless or (d) all of the above."-- Jay Boyar, ORLANDO SENTINEL

"A colossal, time-wasting flop that is offensive to every fiber of my very being."-- Jon Popick, PLANET SICK-BOY

"You made the baby jesus cry. Shame on you."-- The Virgin Mary Mendelbaum-God, Heaven Gazette

If only Aragorn was a wise cracking New York Hairstylist Ex-Security Guard recently married to Arwen and off on a hijinks-filled honeymoon when the wild kangaroo Frodo Baggins interrupts...and hilarity ensues. Then it might have made more money this weekend. [NOTE: That filthy Desmond Pfeiffer had the same idea I did, a day earlier. So this post is dedicated to him and TheNJScene.com]

UPDATE: Humans are Kosher. According to this, it's forbidden only if the blood and flesh is first removed from the body and served, but this isn't the case with a jewish zombie, who would more than likely just rip the flesh from the bone.

So what does this mean for the Jewish Monster Community? The floodgates are open for Jewish Zombies, Jewish Vampires, and yes, even Jewish Werewolves. Jewish Mummies are a longshot, and really, mummies are not all that threatening to begin with. Even Master Shake knows that.

Saturday, January 18, 2003

As mentioned in the previous post, I ventured out to a reservation casino, Mohegan Sun, and to my surprise and utter disappointment, not a single goddamned redskin working there. Just legions of palefaces, all working under the iron fist of the Mohegan tribe, who light their peace pipes with $100 bills these days.

Maybe they had the right idea when they took those beads for Manhattan considering they're raking in $62 million dollars on slots alone. That's a return investment my friend. As the Manhattan tribe watched us come ashore, their chief, Joseph "High Roller" Proudfoot, leaned over to his warriors and whispered "Pretend the ones on horses are gods, see if they think we're retarded. If it works, we'll be making a fortune off these mooks in no time." Word spread like wildfire across the injun world and this tactic was employed near universally. Then we slaughtered most of them (as we tend to do with anything we consider dumber than us) and it took until the late 90s for them to get back on their feet, put a decent buffet together, and buy a couple slots.

So nowadays High Roller's descendants stroke their hardons as they look through the eye in the sky and see some asian businessman blow $10k on a hand of Pai Gow Poker. And boy, are there a LOT of asian businessmen. If I'd emptied out just one out of the gazillion casino rooms in Mohegan Sun, I'd have the Transcontinental Railroad built within a week. Even then, they're in stark competition with the paleface, who come in two varieties: Horrendously Fat and Impossibly Old. Sometimes you'll see some bastard child of the two, and you'll use their magnificent presence as a sign your luck has changed for the better. After all, how often do you see a guy pushing 90 that weighs a quarter ton. The uniting factor that they both have, that would aid them if the red and yellowskins ever decided to rise up and just shake the money out of them, is their unashamed use of Little Rascal scooters. Both fat and old alike putter around the casino in their invalid-movers, having decided that they're going to forego actually participating in life and active society and just spend the rest of their days as the world's most useless cyborgs.

Why bother telling you all this? You, the youthful white man, master of the internet, are blissfully unaware of the world being pulled out from underneath you. As we speak, the injuns are sharpening their tomahawks, and the elderly fat people are slowly becoming Robocop. They may one day unite against you. After all, they share a common rallying cry: "Hey You! Get off of my lawn!"

Keep on enjoying Bang Bus, Chubbs Mackenzie, the revolution will not be televised.

On the way to Mohegan Sun yesterday, we passed a Jewish cemetary. While searching frantically for the undesirables section, I pondered the question:

Are there jewish zombies? Are they still kosher?

If they are, in fact, Kosher, are there zombie rabbis that follow around blessing the brains of zombie victims? That'd seem like an impediment, since zombies are painfully slow, having to wait in the wings while a rabbi blesses some poor sap's brains just gives all the victims a better chance of escaping (although more times than not, a woman will fall down on her attempt at escape and we all know that's easy pickins). I think this should be addressed by rabbinical scholars and adjusted in the Torah accordingly.

Thursday, January 16, 2003

Penguins begin their bizarre ritual to hail the mother ship.

Spurred on by six alien abductee penguins from Ohio, penguins at the San Fransisco Zoo have begun swimming in circles in unison, obviously to signal their alien brethren to return to earth for the final conquest. Detained for questioning, the lead penguin was asked what the extraterrestrial penguin race wants from us. It responded "We want you...to die."

[Note: Thanks to Mr. Fancy Ketchup for helping me correct my spelling. Without his help, I may be dead today.]

I was wrong. Pussy farts are a good thing.

However, my theory that the vagina is actually a parasite living on a woman's body that detaches itself at night and feeds off infants and the blood of goats (much like the Chupacabra) still stands strong. After all, the pussy monster has to digest those infants some time, and we already know it leaks out excess goatblood once a month.

[Thanks to Desmond Pffeifer]

Forget the 30-odd Missing Viles of the Bubonic Plague, the Terrorists have stolen something far more insidious from right beneath our noses....our Bananas.
French scientists, previously known for their efforts to improve wine yeast and not helping to cure cancer, have announced that the banana is dying, and in ten years we may no longer have a banana at all. Apparently, two fungal diseases, Panama disease (named for the stylish hat) and black Sigatoka (maybe my grandfather was right about those black Sigatokas ruining the neighborhoods) are raping wilding their way through our banana crops and the damage is near irreperable. Why? Bananas are sterile, seedless, probably due to an emasculating relationship with the kiwi (harpie queen of the fruit world) and thus the chances of naturally breeding any fungus-free variety are nonexistent (even with the assitance of the dulcet, juice-inducing tones of Barry White).

What will we do without bananas? Its loss will mean the closing of countless comedy clubs, at least one nightmarish children's show, and a handful of sketch comedy groups full of rich children with no other discernable talent. What will be the motivation for the next generation of Dunstons to check in? The future Eds to teach Matt LeBlanc the meaning of laughter, love and the perfect baseball pitch? How will Ronald Reagan ever get that wily Bonzo ready for bedtime? And I won't even mention that Clint Eastwood will find out that it's now Every Which Way INCLUDING Loose. Without the means to make monkeys dance and throw pies at fat women, where will the laughter go? What selfrespecting monkey would be swayed into swinging on a chandelier by a honeydew? No monkey, and without monkeyshines to distract them, it's only a matter of time before they take over the world and subject us to monkey anal. You heard me right. MONKEY ANAL. And they don't use no lube.

It's not too far fetched to say that a world without bananas is a world without laughter. A world without love. And Crispin Glover would be among the first to die at the hands of the monkey overlords. Could you live in a world like that? I know I couldn't.

And neither can Honduran scientists, known for recently bringing Honduras the alphabet (it took them a while as their main research tool was Alphabits, and the Gs kept breaking into Cs), who have started research into creating a genetically modified (GM) banana. However, this fungal-resistant banana will almost certainly look and taste different. Current experiments have produced a successful fungal resistant banana, but its look and taste are not quite pleasing to the pallette:


So please donate your time, money and alphabits into aiding these Honduran scientists, lest Eddie Murphy and Judge Reinhold have nothing left to stick in ne'erdowells' tailpipes.

Wednesday, January 15, 2003

The Page of Irony

I have always held the opinion that Avril Levigne is the antichrist. She got famous because she wrote a song called "Sk8r Boi" which is a rallying cry to all the 14 year old boys who haven't gotten laid yet. "It's okay that Suzie wouldn't let me touch her titty after class today...", they say through clenched braces, "I'll show her when I'm rockin' on the MTV.", then they hop on their skateboard and try to do a Triple McBoogie with a Mango Guava Twist or some other utterly fagtastic name they've given to some skateboard trick that looks exactly like every other skateboard trick.

Avril Levine guaranteed her success by including "MTV" in her song, a marketing move most effectively used by the brilliant Dire Straits in their song "Money for Nothing". The similarity ends there. The Dire Straits were a ragtag bunch of multitalented musicians headed by Mark Knopfler, and the video for the song combined state of the art computer animation with Day Glo Miami Vice outfits. Avril Levigne and her band, picked straight from the crowd of Romper Room, mainly go about their video playing instruments like the Fisher Price "My First Fender Stratocaster" and then skateboarding their way down stairs. Where's the day glo? Where are the microwave ovens? The color TVs?

So what this all boils down to is: If we need someone to lead us to a new land, why not Mark Knopfler? After all, he'd be easy to follow at night, see:

Note: This post is dedicated to my friend Jon, who recently admitted that he bought Avril Levigne's CD. His two favorite bands are Creed and Bon Jovi. Upon learning this, I asked my Magic 8 Ball if Jon was gay,and it showed me a picture of a puckering asshole. Keep reaching for that rainbow, Jon.
We all know that China despises us. After all, we have all experienced the shock and humiliation upon learning that a chinaman has put peepee in our coke. Up until now, they have settled for minor shenanigans in their quest to disassemble American society, but they've taken it to the next level. They've decided to turn our children into killing machines.
But just in case you were under the impression that 2003 was the year of the global village, where we don't see color (except traffic lights and when playing Twister) and everyone just loves hugs, the victims of this vicious attack, the Skelton Family of Vancouver, Washington, offer us hope in the face of it all:
"You know China is not friends with us. They're trying to get back at us. What's the best way? Teach kids when they're young to hate. It's scary."
Scary indeed, my friends, scary indeed. [Link via the wonderful BoingBoing]
I learned last night that my life, up until then, was a lie.
I had always been of the opinion that the pinnacle of rap achievement had been "Rapper's Delight", by The Sugarhill Gang. I mean, how much better could you get than lyrics like:

everybody go, hotel motel holiday inn say if your girl starts actin up, then you take her friend

Which implied that, in case you were ever at the point in your life where you were dating a girl and needed to fuck her in a classy joint like the Holiday Inn, if she was ever to start bitching about the fine establishment in which you were going to violate her, you could always take her loose friend with lower standards. My hats off to you, Big Bank Hank, for you are truly a leader of men.
It never really got better than "Rapper's Delight". I mean, the closest anyone had came lyrically was DMX, and really, "I just love when a nigga brings his whole crew, it's just a bigger piece of cake for me to chew a hole through" was just good because it was the only effective use of the word "cake" in song since "If I Knew You Were Coming I'd Have Baked A Cake".
But according to this website, The Sugarhill Gang were stunningly unoriginal, their Rhyme Style was considered wack at the time of the song's release ("wack" was around back then? Jesus, white people are slow to catch on), and Big Bank Hank, whose wise ol' dad told him back in '66 "ya never let a mc steal your rhyme " outright stole lyrics from some guy called Grandmaster Caz. Imagine my surprise on finding that Big Bank Hank, WonderMike and MasterGee were not pillars in their community, leading us all to a brave new world. It's unthinkable.
So I won't think about it. This website is full of lies. "Rapper's Delight" is the greatest rap song ever (with a close second being the DK Rap from Donkey Kong 64) and Grandmaster Caz can suck my balls. I am a little ashamed of Hank, but I was always a bigger WonderMike fan anyway.
Say, Wondermike, do what you like.
I just saw Wayne Brady in a commercial on TechTV. He might as well have been sucking a cock and crying. Sorry that variety show didn't work out for ya, Wayne. You're inoffensive enough that you could become the next Will Smith, though I'd be worried about ending up more like DJ Jazzy Jeff.

Tuesday, January 14, 2003

This is the first post into what will eventually be a stunningly unoriginal weblog. Let's start this motherfucker off right.
During a routine discussion about Back to the Future, I posed the following question:
If you went back in time and forced your past self to service you sexually, would you then be gay?
I submit that it is not, in fact, if you went back in time and didn't have sex with your past self, you would then be gay.
Let me explain: Masturbating doesn't make you gay, does it? Well, if servicing yourself is masturbating, then technically sex with yourself in the past is masturbation too. Plus you can put that curiosity about butt sex to bed once and for all.
In fact, I strongly believe that it should be mandatory for all future time travelers to have sex with their past selves, as they would then have the horrible memory of being raped by their future selves always in the back of their minds, and thus have a more clear understanding of the ramifications of changing history. So next time someone goes back in time to assassinate Hitler, as we all have at one point or another, their anus would clench up and they'd curl up into a ball.
I know, I know, the prevailing theory is that you couldn't go back in time any further than when the first time machine is built, but mark my words, as soon as it is, my anus is going to start bleeding like Carrie in the shower.