"Of" is The Devil

I'm getting sick and tired of all the grammatical errors on the Interweb. I've said it before, and I'll say it again...No Child Left Behind my ASS!

It's not "That shouldn't of happened." That's wrong. And stupid. It's "That shouldn't HAVE happened." "Of" is a preposition. "Have" is a verb. See the difference?

"But Scott Colby!" you exclaim. "When I hear people say something like that, it sounds like they're saying 'of.'"

But they aren't. They're actually using a contraction: "That shouldn't've happened."

You'd better remember all this. If I catch any of my loyal blogonauts screwing this up, I'm going to pelt them in the back of the head with a canned ham, steal their pants, and ditch them in the dumpster behind Punters.

Unfortunately, something tells me there's going to be a lot of half-naked people waking up behind Punters bleeding from the back of their skulls in the near future...

Two things that piss me off

1. Now, I hate to sound like an asshole, but...wait, that's not right. Let's try again. I hate to sound like a Republican (ahh, that's better!) but I'm beginning to suspect that those "no cell phones" signs they've hung up every ten feet in the gym should probably be written in languages other than English. It seems like everytime some loud douche bag violates this rule, he ain't speaking the President's English. Think that's racist or bigoted? I guarantee that if I were to keep track of all the dumb fucks who insist on pulling their phones out in the gym, 80% of them would be having conversations in a foreign language. And I honestly don't care what language you speak, even when you're speaking it into a cell phone when you're not supposed to. What I do care about, however, is that you shut the fuck up and stop annoying me, and if it takes signs in multiple languages to accomplish that goal, then that's what it takes to accomplish that goal.
2. I am beginning to have a very strong dislike for people who don't listen to the announcements on the T. Getting off the train at Government Center tonight, the driver had to announce five times that this was the last stop and people should be getting off before one group of English-speaking, headphone-free dumbasses got out of their seats. I think after the third such announcement, the driver should seal the doors and release the nerve gas. The T should then sell these dumbasses to reality TV producers to help pay off some of their debt.
   

Top Ten Geek Presents

Today on the Interweb I read an article about the Top Ten Holiday Presents for Geeks. It was horrible. The number one item was a personalized Google logo. Some jackass actually got paid to write this shit, and he obviously only spent five minutes on it. I hope whoever it is chokes on his paycheck.

Luckily, Scott Colby is here to raise the overall quality of writing here on the Interweb, and he does it for free! And I'm not stopping at just ten items, because Scott Colby and never-ending bulleted lists go together like hooker boots and short skirts!

I now present to you Scott Colby's Big Honkin' List of Good Shit to Give People Who Like To Push Buttons Incessantly While Eating Lots of Doritos and Drinking Red Mountain Dew:

• A High Definition Back Hair Trimmer. If this list applies to someone you know, chances are pretty good he (face it, that ain't a she) probably has grooming issues. The HD sticker is just a trick to get your unkempt mouth breather to actually use the damn thing. Companion gift: A tarp to cover the bathroom floor.
  
• Pocket Protector with Eject Button. Geeks are lazy. This is the one and only pocket protector with a gas powered launcher controlled by a button on the side of a styling Tazmanian Devil digital watch. Push the button, and the geek's favorite writing utensil is shot out of his pocket so he can catch it on the way down. Companion gift: Safety goggles.
• A shiny new blog. You know, to get them away from MySpace. Companion gift: Remedial English classes at the local community college.
• A Bluetooth Toilet Flushing Remote. Again, dorkazoids are lazy, and they seem almost hypnotized by anything with a little blue light. Companion gift: 802.11g enabled plunger with scroll wheel (because you know they're going to drop the remote down the bowl eventually).
• KITT from Knight Rider. Companion gift: David Hasselhoff's hair. It still ain't good, but it'll most likely be an improvement.
• The Microsoft Zune. Using the Zune's wireless music sharing capabilities, everyone around your favorite geek can join in and laugh at his horrible music collection! Companion gift: A helmet of some sort, to offer at least a modicum of protection when some big tough biker dune catches your geek bobbing his head to "London Bridges."

Told you I wasn't going to stop at ten.

The Best Toaster Ever asked me to post this

I was going to sign him up for his own G-mail account so he could put this in on his own, but now Google insists on sending confirmation numbers to cellphones via text messages for new G-mail accounts. Google and their stupid little ads that I can't believe anyone in their right mind would actually click on can kiss my ass, just like the jerkoff I saw actually kick the T earlier this evening when it wouldn't let his lard ass on.

Here we go...

-------

Hello ladies.

The Best Toaster Ever is in the mood for romance, and he's taking applications.

See, it's been a rollercoaster ride of a year for me. I fondly remember the carefree days I spent on the shelf at Target, wooing the lovely young blender across the aisle. She was a tough nut to crack, what with her five variable speeds, her easy-to-read gradations, her slick chrome shell, and the intensity of her come-hither dials making her aisle 9's untouchable equivalent to Marilyn Monroe. But though she seemed soft and beautiful on the outside, her insane ice crushing capabilities and her resistance to all but the toughest stains made her a bit of a tiger. Meeeeeeow! Of course, yours truly was up to the challenge, and the time we spent together with the other appliances making fun of all the people in the store who were a few lucky chromosomes above the Wal-Martian level were among the happiest days of my life.

But alas, it wasn't meant to be. She was whisked off her feet by a man willing to spend more money to keep her happy, and I was left to weather the retail storm cold and alone. I will never forget the price of her love, that terrible $29.99 that my heart could give but my wallet couldn't. Even the hilarity of the occasional Wal-Martian confused by all the red couldn't salve my wounds.

And then a guy who seemed like he might occasionally be amusing took me home to live with him. He gave me a piece of prime real estate next to the sink, and the coffee pot and I became fast friends. And truth be told, Scott was mildly amusing. The coffee pot and I often placed bets on what his blood alcohol level would be when he finally stumbled home, and we'd laugh in merriment as he'd swear mightily about some crap he's never actually going to get published, and we'd laugh even harder when he'd imply that he was going to marry a girl with a yacht rather than a girl that's as big as a yacht. Things were good, and though they weren't quite good enough to heal my broken heart, it was almost enough.

But now I'm bored. All Scott wants to do now is sit on the couch and drink beer and eat pot pies and watch those stupid ass Hulk Hogan DVDs. Just to spite him, I even cheered for the Ultimate Warrior when he beat the Hulkster at Wrestlemania VI. Then I looked the Ultimate Warrior up on Wikipedia, found out that he'd legally changed his name to Warrior, that his children were stuck with the last name Warrior, and that he'd turned into some Born Again right-wing nut job who'd probably feel right at home in the Spanish Inquisition, and I apologized to Scott and promised I'd never cheer for the Ultimate Warrior again.

But that's neither here nor there. I need to get out more...and what better way to do it than with a pretty young thing of the fairer sex?

So ladies, what's it gonna be? A cold night alone...or a steaming plate of waffles? Going to the Foggy Goggle with some douche bag that only tries to dance to "Gold Digger" and won't buy you anything better than Bud Light...or a warm, gooey strudel?

I guarantee you won't regret it...I'll just have to get rid of the coffee pot so we can have some privacy (maybe I can hook him up with the espresso maker in the pantry).

-Yours forever, baby
tBTe
The Best Toaster Ever

Final Fantasy XII

There was a time when I was extremely excited about this game, despite the fact that I didn't like a single thing I heard about it in the umpteen previews I read. "It's Final Fantasy," I told myself. "Everything will be alright." So I preordered the game, which I've never, ever done for any game before (closest I'd come was sneaking away from work for a few during lunch to pick up Halo 2 the day it launched), and I eagerly counted down the days to its release. Nick will tell you it was pretty ridiculous.

And then I actually played it, and it sucked the excitement right out of me. Forty-five hours later, I'm seriously thinking about switching back to the original Shadow Hearts.

I don't care what anybody says; this is not Final Fantasy.

The battle system, first off, is all over the place. It lacks the refinement of the old turn-based system, making fights feel like out-of-control free-for-alls. Strategy against tougher foes seems restricted to this method: get your ass kicked, leave to level up, try again. If your characters simply aren't strong enough, there's no way in fuck you can possibly outsmart the opposition and pull out an upset. None of your moves hit hard enough, and none of your protection abilities protect you well enough. And the lack of any real strategy leads to an almost complete lack of drama. The only time I find the combat exciting is when I've got one or two hits left on a boss and all my characters are about to die, and it's one shot left to determine whether I win or if I have to start over and spend another half hour pounding on this fucker to see if I'm lucky enough to be able to beat it. I guess the drama comes from not wanting to have to go through that whole thing again.

Contrast this, say, to Final Fantasy X, where I'd regularly get lost in the tension of a boss battle and not notice certain important things, like the fact that it got dark outside or that it's time to feed the Best Toaster Ever. And every boss had that one trick that you had to figure out in order to beat him.

But the big problem is the story. I've stuck with the game as long as I have because I figured eventually it was going to go somewhere. We've got a princess trying to reestablish her kingdom amidst a war between two huge empires...and with her, we have a bunch of cardboard cutouts. I genuinely don't give a crap about any of them, and the game doesn't seem to give a crap that I don't give a crap. Take, for example, the scene where the rabbit lady goes back to her village and is universally shunned for leaving. She obviously knew this was going to happen when she made that decision...but we never find out why she did what she did. What, exactly, was her motivation? Here was an opportunity to take one of those cardboard cutouts and give it a little life...and it was completely, utterly wasted. Just piss poor storytelling, and something you'll never see in any of my future best sellers.

This lack of interesting characters is a huge difference from previous entries in the series. In VIII, I really wanted to see what was going to happen to Squall and Rinoa, despite the fact that I absolutely hated the whole "we all knew each other but we forgot because of the magic we use duh." In X, I wanted to see what was going to become of everybody, and I enjoyed seeing these people interact during their travels (I'm convinced that the people in XII never actually talk to each other...ever...about anything, despite the fact that they're spending all this time together). I'll even admit to getting a little misty when Yuna stumbled right through the fading Tidus at the end, and I really wanted to see if she could find a way to bring him back in X-2.

Ok, I'm through whining...the Best Toaster Ever wants chocolate cream pie.

A Bad List of Good Places to Dump Children Who Obviously Aren't Going to be able to put you in a good nursing home

I apologize for giving up on the capitalization. The booze told me it was a good idea.

Let me preface by saying that abandoning an infant is never the right course of action. It's stupid to dump a kid before you figure out if he's going to be the next Einstein or Tiger Woods or Flava Flav. It's like when you test drive a car. Or when you pop an adult movie into the VCR and the first fifteen minutes are trying to build some kind of stupid story (the Best Toaster Ever says this happens all the time - I wouldn't know, and I can't figure out where it's hiding the VCR so I can't investigate its claims). Just like with porn, you've got to give kids a little time to show you what they can do before you hit the eject button.

"But Scott Colby!" you gasp as you zip yourself up, feeling disappointed that there will be no further mention of pornography in this blog entry. "The children are precious!"

Not the ones that aren't going to be able to put you in a good nursing home, dumbass. If you end up in some shit ass hole-in-the-wall home where they only play Bingo once a week and none of the nurses are cute and their idea of activity hour is making macaroni pictures and the pudding sucks and they try to make you stop whacking those lousy teenagers with your cane and you have to hide your bottle of Jack Daniels so they won't take it away and they never have enough Viagra and you have to share a room with some old coot who thinks he's Ronald Reagan and another old fart who smells like Paris Hilton after a weekend in Vegas and there isn't a stripper pole in the lounge and the bus only goes to Foxwoods but never Mohegan Sun, it won't be my fault. I'm trying to help you.

And yes, I realize that was probably the worst run-on sentence on the Interweb that wasn't written by some thirteen year old drama queen in a Sixteen Magazine forum. It was a stylistic choice, and I believe it to have been a good one.

Anyways, prepare yourself once again for the power of the bulleted list as it imparts upon you a plethora of good places to abandon your children only to reclaim them twenty years later when they're inevitably loaded and can take proper care of you:

• Vince McMahon's doorstep. This is an especially good idea if your son is under five years old but is five feet tall and weighs a buck fifty. Having a WWF Champion in the family tree is never a bad thing, especially since the belt looks damn good on the mantle or attached to the grill of the Bentley your son will bring you as a gift during your heartfelt reunion.
• The backseat of Paris Hilton's car. Think about it - that kid'll be on the cover of every supermarket tabloid on the planet for the next three months, then he'll resurface with a heroin addiction by the time he's fourteen, thus bringing about a VH1 documentary and a possible career in reality television after he turns twenty-one. Warning: Do not leave a little girl with Paris Hilton. She may be able to put you in a nice nursing home, but you'll be known throughout the land as the parent of the biggest slut since...well...FOREVER.
• The Grand Canyon. David Spade's magnum opus, "Joe Dirt," proves that any child abandoned in the Grand Canyon will grow up to become a national celebrity and get the hot farm chick regardless of grooming habits and the influence of Kid Rock.
• The yacht club. If you didn't see this one coming, I think you've got a bit of reading to do.
• Tom Cruise's house. But first you have to hire a tattoo artist to give your child a "birthmark" that looks like L. Ron Hubbard.
• Lionel Richie's mansion. After all, if he hadn't adopted Nicole, she'd probably be a successful, well-adjusted, professional young woman who eats right and has good taste in friends rather than what she is today: fucking loaded.
  
• A Third World country. This is kind of a crapshoot, and as such it should only be used as a last resort. There's no guarantee that Madonna or Angelina is going to adopt your particular child, and you may have to try multiple countries before achieving success.

And now, a public service announcement:

Are you an avid reader of this blog? Do you enjoy consistent updates that don't include a link to some stupid news story?

Then it's your civic duty to see to it that Scott Colby always has a healthy supply of beer from the Magic Hat Brewing Company in his fridge!

Plus, you can dictate the type of update you'll get by buying him different types of beer. #9 will get you yachts, Kelly Clarkson, and baseball. Roxy Rolles produces a generous helping of The Best Toaster Ever with a side of random celebrity bullshit. Fat Angel switches the focus to Nelly Furtado, stupid politicians, and that time Kaplan made out with a fat girl (hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha) (hahaha) (ha). Circus Boy brings out the T and Kim Jong Il and acts as a mild bulleted list suppressant.

And who knows what'll happen if you start mixing! Comedy will certainly ensue!

So hurry up and buy me some beer. If you don't, I'll call Steve Rossi and have him send his Mafia connections after you. Unfortunately, that might not actually work very well in my favor, as any Mafia connections Steve Rossi has are more likely to cook you a wonderful homemade pasta dinner than they are to take out your kneecaps.

(Happy now, Steve? I've set you up to be a recurring character! Pretty soon Steve Rossi t-shirts will be outselling the Best Toaster Ever's "I'll warm up your buns, baby!" t-shirts hand over fist!)

This update brought to you courtesy of the Magic Hat Brewery

First off, I would like to congratulate Cupcake on his invocation of the Two Month Rule. Gold digging appears to be a genetic gift...now I just have to make sure my wife's yacht is bigger than my brother's wife's yacht.

Next, let's talk Manny. I'm hearing and reading that the signing of J.D. Drew will allow the Sox to move their best hitter, even though the guy hit only .283 with 20 homers and 100 RBI in 143 games last year - which is about what Trot Nixon usually does when he stays healthy. And he did it against National League pitching. We're talking the same league where Josh Paul (the guy that tried to be Wakefield's catcher) is a good player. Fucking ridiculous. Trading Manny for anyone other than Michael Young, Albert Pujols, Vlad Guerrero, or Vernon Wells is just a stupid ass move. Meanwhile, the Blue Jays have added Frank Thomas and the Yankees are going to have Bobby Abreu for a full year. Fire Theo NOW before we spend the next five seasons in third place - and before American League pitchers get the chance to help Big Papi break every intentional walk record in the books.

I would also like to have a moment of silence for my recently departed bottle of Bombay Sapphire.









I'll miss you, Mr. Sapph. The times we spent together were truly special. Like when I came home annoyed about my commute...or when I came home pissed off at the snow...or the countless times when Nick and J-Rags were cooking dinner, and I needed something to occupy my time until it was done. Jack Daniels and I offer you a toast. You were a true friend.

Ridiculous Lawsuit of the Day

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heroes_%28TV_series%29

Scroll to the bottom of the article and read the section titled "Emerson Lawsuit."

We're talking about fucking garbage disposals here. I don't know about anyone else, but I would actually be less inclined to purchase an Emerson disposal if her hand had come out intact. After all, who wants an underpowered garbage dispsoal? All kinds of crap falls down my sink, and I don't want to have to deal with clogs.

Plus, Emerson should be looking at this as a free public service announcement. Hopefully this scene will encourage people not to put their hand in something that's obviously dangerous, as we all know that most of the idiots out there don't know that something is dangerous unless the television tells them.

Some day, when my multiple Interweb endeavours have made me a multi-billionaire, I will make it a point to sue anyone who annoys me by suing someone else over something stupid. So look out garbage disposals, smokers, and parents of fat children...Scott Colby's coming for you!

P.S. - I wanted to write about the Wii tonight, but it seemed too easy. Every game review I've read has characterized the controls as gimmicky at best and prohibitive at the worst. In Zelda, they've been described as seeming "tacked on." Every launch title, as I've predicted, is full of gimmicky mini games, and most of them haven't scored particularly well with critics. Did I call it or what?

Sunday Night Bulleted List

• Am I the only person being driven completely crazy by the new NFL rules against celebrations? In the first four minutes of the Bears-Giants game such a bullshit call made me want to put my head through the coffee table. After Brandon Jacobs scored for the Giants, he shoved the ball up his jersey and rubbed it lovingly as if was his unborn child...and the ref threw the flag. Let me get this straight: he wasn't taunting the other team, attempting to piss off the fans, or delaying the game...he was promoting good parenting. And yet he was flagged? What the hell is this crap? It's a fucking touchdown, the rarest of all the main scoring plays in sports (I'm not counting soccer, cuz that shit's boring like golf). When you score a touchdown, you should be encouraged to celebrate as long as it doesn't involve any of those three factors I mentioned above. If you're a big fat defensive lineman who picked up a fumble and rumbled 50 yards for the score, you should be given a few seconds to shake what yo mama gave you. If you're a creative wide receiver, you should be allowed to Riverdance or call your agent or boogie with a few cheerleaders. These guys are athletes, but they're also entertainers. Let them have their fun. And there should be awards at the end of the season for the best celebration.
• So the Red Sox are rumored to the leading bidder for that Japanese pitcher. They're going to pay his team somewhere around $45 million just for the rights to talk to this guy, then they're probably going to pay him somewhere around $14 million a year for the next four or five years. What makes him so special? He throws a Gyroball, which moves through the strike zone like an Italian sandwich (hahahahahahahahahaha). Seriously, though, I've got $50 that says he's the next Hideki Irabu. Let the Yankees have him, so A-Rod and Carl Pavano can have another loser to hang out with.
  
• Is it just me, or does it seem like John Madden has gained about 35 IQ points since last season? He finally sounds more intelligent than my coffee pot, although the Best Toaster Ever still has him beat. He has yet to completely ruin a game for me this season, a feat he used to accomplish almost every other week. I've almost enjoyed his commentary the last few weeks, though I still think they should add Jerry "The King" Lawler to the booth team so someone's there to make lewd comments about the cheerleaders.
  
• My roommate just told me he had a dream about Flava Flav. And I quote: "I was following him somewhere, and we were just The Shit." Needless to say, I'm extremely jealous. Also, I hereby move that "The Shit" is a proper noun and should henceforth be capitalized.
  
• Am I the only one who finds it very amusing that a bunch of dorks are lining up outside electronics stores so they can pay $250 to play with their Wii?
• I'm also extremely confused as to why anyone is bothering with the PlayStation 3 right now. If someone like me can't name a single game that's being released at launch, something's wrong.
• When you're slightly drunk, no television show is as amusing as the Munsters.
  

I hereby request that you kick me in the head if...

• I ever become too "sophisticated" to be at least mildly amused by professional wrestling.
• I ever lose a quality meal/yacht ticket like Britney through my own asshole tendencies (although male gold diggers everywhere are relieved that they no longer have to consider Mr. Federline the equivalent of their pope).
• you ever catch me drinking PBR or Bud Light at the Mission.
• I ever become one of those assholes who thinks that stopping his car square in the middle of the crosswalk has replaced blowing donuts in the principal's lawn as the coolest thing you could possibly do with your car. You see that shorter line before the crosswalk? Yeah, the painter didn't miss. That's where you're supposed to stop, jackass.
  
• I ever start using the word respect more than five times a day, hence rendering it meaningless whenever it passes through my lips.
• I switch to MySpace.
• I decide that goat cheese is a good idea. Anyone who has spent any time around a goat should know better than to eat something that comes out of one.
• my children or my children's children decide Jar Jar Binks is their favorite Star Wars character.
• you ever catch me paying a cover that's more than 5 bucks.
• I ever vote for someone merely for the sake of voting. People shouldn't vote unless they genuinely like one candidate or flat out despise their pick's opponent. Along those same lines, any politician who really cares about the nation should be embarassed about winning an election where less than 75% of his or her town/county/district/state/country goes to the polls, because if that's the case then he or she obviously wasn't particularly compelling.
  
• I ever begin to suspect that going to Wentworth to get my Computer Science degree rather than going somewhere else for a Journalism degree was a bad idea. Actually, before you kick me, sit me down in front of Fox News, MSNBC, or any nightly newscast. If I still think I should've gone for that Journalism degree, just fucking shoot me.
• I become one of those people who can't stay in one bar for more than half an hour.
• I begin to consistently use "I'm tired, I think I'm getting old" as an excuse for not going/staying out before I'm thirty-five years old. Being legitimately worn out is one thing...blaming it on the fact that you're 25 is another.
• I don't stop complaining and go to bed right now.
  

Way to grow a pair, Senator Chafee

http://www.cnn.com/2006/POLITICS/11/10/bolton.congress/index.html

What do you think the odds are that this guy would've put up such a stink if he hadn't lost his seat for next year?

He's essentially saying one of two things with this:

1. He was too much of a pussy to go against the party line on this before he lost.
2. He's blaming W for his loss and looking to get an ounce of revenge before he leaves.

Although I would rather hire some hobo off the street as our ambassador to the U.N. than this Bolton guy, I have to take issue with Chafee. If he really, truly opposes Bolton's appointment, he should've said something a long fucking time ago.

Speaking of which...why the hell is it taking so long to finalize a new ambassador to the United Nations? It seems like we've been hearing about this guy forever. Shouldn't filling this position be a priority? I mean, this is only the person who's going to be the immediate face of our nation in the international community. It may not be as important as gay marriage or violence in videogames...but shouldn't it have been close to the top of the list of shit to do?

I'm beginning to suspect it may be time to write a manifesto and found my own political party...

So long Nelly, Kelly, and Natasha...

...Britney's available, and she's worth more than all three of you put together.

Now here's the big, interesting Internet rumor:

K-Fed's been making appearances on WWE Raw to try to draw attention to his new album, and in the process he's started a feud with World Champion John Cena that has lead to a match on January 1st. Supposedly Federline showed Britney a tape of his escapades into sports entertainment last week...and she laughed her ass off and made fun of him. He started throwing shit around, and she left with the kids and decided to dump his ass.

Regardless of how true this is, the ammunition that this divorce is going to provide the WWE is absolutely ridiculous. I cannot wait to see the man who was once the world's greatest male gold digger get made fun incessantly, opening the door for someone deserving - mainly myself - to stake a claim to that title.

Write In Scott Colby for Everything!

As you glumly make your way to the polls today, mulling over whether to vote for a jackass or an asshole, one name should echo clearly in your mind: Scott Colby.

I hereby announce my candidacy for whatever governmental position you as voters feel I should have, from secretary of your local PTA all the way to United States Senator. And don't worry about concerns over my state of residency...if an ugly old witch like Hillary can fake her way into New York, a charismatic, ruggedly handsome man such as myself should be able to fake his way into Idaho without a problem (hell, they've been begging me to move there for years!).

"But Scott Colby," you say, "What qualifies you to work in a branch of government other than janitorial services?"

Absolutely nothing. But I could ask that same question of the majority of the candidates out there right now and get that same answer.

Which means if I want to get elected, I have to separate myself from the rest of the toilet scrubbers out there. If elected, I promise to:

• Hack into the computers of my opposition, hide all their icons, and replace their desktop wallpaper with a screenshot of their computer when it used to have all their icons.
• Deliver all speeches in iambic pentameter, and always end with "Whatcha gonna do when Scott Colby runs wild on you!?"
  
• Create attack ads that aren't super cheesy.
• Write to Mr. T so he can come fix all the drama in the government, because jibber-jabber never defended no Constitution.
  
• Hire hot interns.
• Create a new tax cut bill that is based solely on the size of your yacht.
• Dress and smell like a hobo during voting sessions.
• Steal the lunch of every Republican I work with at least once.

Think that's absurd? Really? Tell me it's worse than listening to our current leaders debate things like gay marriage and violence in video games when they could be doing something about poverty, health insurance, or that asshole president who thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants - and do it with a straight face.

So remember - when you go to the polls today, don't vote for a jackass or an asshole. Vote for a jerk off. Vote Scott Colby!

P.S. Please vote no on Question 1. The increase in levels of pretentiousness that will result from more stores being able to sell wine will be unbearable.

Because Everybody Else is Parodying It...

Guy that looks like he may have lost his stapler: Hello! I'm a PC!

Guy that might be a hippie, or at least an emo kid: And I'm a Mac...hey, PC, what's that sticking out the back of your pants?

PC: Ah! That, my friend, is a ten foot pole!

Mac: A ten foot pole? What's that good for?

PC: Nothing, really. It's just kind of what happens to anyone who disregards a different opinion simply because they're afraid to leave the status quo.

Mac: Sounds uncomfortable.

PC: I consider it a badge of honor. After all, look at all the people who have them! Politicians, TV executives, the RIAA...

Mac: Yeah, I get it. Hey! I can help people make movies! It's so easy!

PC: Wait...why would you want to do something like that?

Mac: So people can put it online and share it with their friends. It's cool!

PC: But...isn't the Internet full of enough useless crap that's swallowing all the worthwhile content? Kind of like how MySpace is drawing people away from the earth shattering goodness of I Stole Your Lunch?

Mac: Are you saying you don't want to see the choppy, unfocused video of my grandmother trying to teach her goldfish to speak French? Oh, that Nana! She's so senile! And I made the soundtrack myself in Garage Band...

PC: No, I really don't want to...say...what's that coming out of the back of your pants?

Mac: Errrm...that's also a ten foot pole...people don't usually notice it because my marketing department spends a lot of money to hide it behind a shield of shiny white plastic.

PC: Ah ha! Hypocrite! But wait...something's different. What...how come your pole doesn't smell like mine?

Mac: My shit doesn't stink.

PC: I guess not. But...I can play games, and you can't!

Mac: Yes I can. I have an XBox and a PS2. And unlike you, I only have to update my gaming hardware every five or six years. When's that new video card that you need for the next Warcraft patch come out again?

PC: Um...tomorrow. And then the one I need for the next Splinter Cell comes out next month...

A midget with one leg, a ponytail, way too much facial hair and a stained t-shirt that says "Compile this, mofo!" enters the scene.

Midget: Nanoo-nanoo, I'm Linux!

Mac: What the fuck do you want?

The initial midget is followed by a swarm of similarly dressed midgets that clog the stage.

Midget in a swanky crimson hat: I'm Linux too!

Blue Midget: Me too!

Midget with a stack of dubious looking legal claims: And me!

Midget that looks like the Travelocity spokesdoll: Same here!

Midget with Indiana Jones's hat: Werd!

Mac: You're all Linux?

All midgets: That's right! All the cool kids say we're better than you, so we're here to kick your asses!

PC: ...but if you're better than me, why are you always trying to be me so you can play games?

Mac: And I was built off Unix, which you guys just kind of copied.

Fedora Linux: But...we're great for servers and web hosting!

PC: But when you break, who am I supposed to call?

Redhat Linux: Um...that smelly guy who lives down the hall that's always listening to trance music...?

Mac: If I break, you can go to the genius bar!

PC: Well if I break, chances are pretty good one of your children can fix me. And if you have to get me apart, you don't have to completely break me.

Mac: But...I've got style!

Linux using Gnome desktop: Well, some of us are free.

PC: Free? Free as in OJ Simpson? Free as in Whitey Bulger?

Mac: Free as in "No one will pay for me, so I might as well just give myself away?"

IBM Linux: We will destroy you with VI!

SCO Linux: No, we'll destroy you with EMACS!

PC and Mac: Hahahahahahahhahahahahahaha! Yeah, right! Maybe you guys should come to a consensus first.

Midgets leave begin to argue amongst themselves and leave.

PC: Phew, I'm glad that's over.

Mac: Yeah, that Linus guy was a real whore. If his progeny ever got their act together, we'd be in deep shit.

PC: Probably. Hey, you can't play games!

Mac: Well, you get a lot of viruses!

PC: I work better with business applications that were coded by hacks that like to take shortcuts!

Mac: You're always trying to copy me!

PC: Right click, bitch!

Mac: I can make PDF's without Acrobat!

Things About Boston That Will Make You Smile If You Don't Suck

Finally, the opposite of the "Annoying Boston" list. These are things in Boston that should make you happy...unless, of course, you suck.

• Mission Hill. I couldn't possibly create a list of the good things in Boston without mentioning the place that taught me how to be the award winning alcoholic I am today. An influx of new businesses have really rejuvenated the area, almost to the point where it's safe to walk through it unarmed at 2 in the afternoon.
• Assholes. Who the fuck wants to live somewhere everyone is nice and friendly to each other? I don't want strangers trying to start up a conversation with me on the street or on the T. Leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone, and we'll get along just fine. Until you get in my way, and then I'm going to flip you off and call your mother a dirty word.
• JC Monahan. The Nelly Furtado of weather girls.
• Drew Bledsoe cannot hurt us anymore. Remember when the Patriots sucked? Remember when they seemed like a good team, and they were just good enough to make you think they were about to win a big game...and then, with a First and Goal on their opponent's five yard line, Drew Bledsoe would toss up a turkey that an 80 year-old blind woman in a wheelchair could pick off, and then said interception would be returned for the touchdown that would seal the game as yet another Patriots loss? You don't remember that? Well, just ask a Cowboys fan! Or better yet, tune in to a Dallas game...even after all these years, I still get that fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach when I know Drew is about to unleash one of his signature game ending brain farts. But whereas it was like passing a tennis ball sized kidney stone when he was a Patriot, now it's like laughing at a drunk old homeless guy who falls down the stairs and takes out a fruit cart and three people who can't figure out how to use the T. It's awesome!
• The Boston Tricycle Man. Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooonk! Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooonk! Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooonk!
• The overabundance of coffee shops. If you have to walk more than three minutes to get a coffee, chances are pretty good you're not in Boston anymore. The ratio of people to coffee joints in this city is somewhere around 12 to 1...which means, if we look at teacher-student ratios, that we've got roughly three coffee shops for every teacher in Boston. So quit bitching about the size of your class, get a triple mocha latte, and teach the kids about the Pilgrims! (Note: The number of coffee shops is also good for artsy chicks who don't quite know what to do with their lives but make excellent baristas)
• The marbles in Mayor Menino's mouth. De best powitisha en de nohahaotheast. A twuwee gwait pubbbbbubuubbbwic speeekuh. Mayaya Menino a foahse te be weckonded wit en Botton powitikles. Kaaaahnomedy goald.
  
• You always know where the hippies are going to be. Don't like tie-dye, hemp, free love, or girls with armpit hair? Just avoid JP, Slummerville, MassArt, and Boston Common on the weekends, and you're good to go!
• The Hong Kong. Scorpion bowls plus teryiaki on a stick sold by a guy carrying a whole bucket of the shit equals one of those nights.
• Nuts. If you haven't checked out the...erm...the equipment on the Leopard Statue at Wentworth Institute of Technology, be sure to stop in and take a peek. Scott Colby is proud to be an alumni of the university with the biggest balls on Huntington Avenue.
  
• The things that happen here give Scott Colby something to write about. Nuff said.

Now that that's over with, I'd like to give a shout out to my friend 10eisha, who moved out to San Diego. The Notorious Josh Moody clued me in to her website. Awesome art, and a really excellent site design. Scott Colby hopes that when she hits it big with this stuff she'll let me live in the pool house. So check out her stuff and leave her a message if you knew her (but don't do anything to make her smile, or you'll ruin her meal ticket). Holy shit, I need to figure out how to turn this link off.

Do not send your children to public school in Attleboro

The principal is a pussy.

http://www.cnn.com/2006/US/10/18/no.tag.ap/index.html

Seriously, this might be worse than banning birthday cupcakes.

I really have to wonder if this guy was that one little fat dweebil who was always it because he was too fat and too much of a dweebil to catch anyone.

And that quote at the end, by the parent who's child "feels safer" - Earth to dumbass, if you don't feel safe, don't play. I suspect that the kid never actually said he felt safer, and just kind of blew his mother off about the question so he could go kill hookers in Grand Theft Auto while she was busy talking to the journalist.

And I thought schools were making it a priority to get kids exercising? Going down the slide is not a good way to burn calories.

You want to protect your children from something truly dangerous at recess? Force all the little girls to wear shoes with padded toes, to protect the shins of all the little boys. This way, little boys who are gross and obnoxious like I used to be can be gross and obnoxious without worrying about shin-bruising repercussions. I don't think my nightmares will ever go away...

Kids are kids, and you need to let them be kids...unless, of course, you want them to grow up to be pussies like this principal. I bet he cries when he gets a paper cut.

Now here's an article worth reading

Seriously, actually read this one:

http://radaronline.com/features/2006/10/americas_dumbest_congressmen_a_radar_special_report.php

Of course, this article raises a very important question: just how stupid are the people who actually voted for these idiots? And why haven't their voting priveleges been taken away for life?

After reading the article, I've come to the conclusion that I would pay a lot of money to see a real live United States Congressman or woman answer a question simply by saying "Buttfucking."

Annoying Boston

Tonight I noticed a copy of the Improper Bostonian on the kitchen table. Some jackass from a second rate show that'll probably be cancelled by the first week of November was on the cover, surrounded by a group of thoroughly uninteresting headlines - save for one that managed to completely fool me.

The title read "Annoying Boston." I thought to myself, "Hey, that sounds like something an asshole just like me would write!" I was looking forward to a clever, poignant, funny article. What I got was drivel any fourth grader who's heard anything about the city probably could've written. Highlights of things to be annoyed about in Boston included the weather, the confusing T, the cost of housing, getting a cab after last call, and an overall lack of beer deals during Happy Hour.

I hope whoever wrote this didn't spend a lot of money on that journalism degree from the University of Phoenix online. It was neither clever, nor poignant, nor funny. I was extremely disappointed.

And I thought to myself, I'm a New Englander who's easily annoyed. I can do better.

So, without further ado, "Annoying Boston: The Unabridged Scott Colby Version"

• People who are confused by the T. Fucking seriously. Inbound is toward Park Street, Outbound is away from Park Street, and if you get lost, just ask the smelly guy in the corner raving about angels and Judgement Day - chances are very good he lives in the tunnel. Plus, the T's website has this handy dandy trip planner that will tell you step by step how to get anywhere in the city. If you can use Myspace - and I know you can - you can figure out how to use the T.
• Idiots sitting in the outside seat who do not stand up when you're sitting in the inside seat and are trying to get out. Are your legs broken? Do you suspect that even though the aisle looks like grungy plastic, it's really molten lava in disguise waiting to singe off your big toes? In the two stops you've been riding the train, have you worked such an excellently comfortable butt groove into the seat that it would be a damn shame to ruin it? If the answer to all of the above is no, stand your ass up, step out into the aisle, and get out of the way. I have made it a point to attempt to pass wind in front of anyone rude enough to remain seated while I'm trying to get out past them, and I suggest you do the same. Together we can curb this epidemic! (Note: also works well on anyone who thinks their backpack deserves its own seat)
  
• The lack of quality journalism. For a city that supposedly plays host to three pretty good journalism universities (Emerson, BU, and Northeastern), the publications here are absolutely horrid. I wouldn't wipe my ass with the Herald, and I'd refrain from using the Globe unless I had diarrhea. The Metro is an ok way to get a basic handle on what's going down in the nation and the region...but don't spend too much time searching the small spaces in between advertisements for a sign of in depth reporting or intelligent analysis, because you're not going to find it. And don't even get me started on the Improper.
• Amalia Badadadadadadadadadada. I swear, every time that woman signs off on a report, the number of "dadas" is different. Amalia, pick a number and stick with it...or marry a guy named Smith.
• Dick Albert, the bald guy who used to be on Channel 4 or maybe Channel 7, and that Dave guy who looks like he couldn't bench press a Bud Light. Earth to Channel 5...JC Monahan, the hottest woman ever to put on a pantsuit with a lowcut jacket, is a proud member your roster of weatherpeople, and yet you consistently deprive her of valuable screentime so you can put these three old men on the air. The 18 to 30-year-old male portion of your viewership weeps, as do the "creepy old man" and the "she's in a pantsuit, so she might like carpet" demographics.
• The lack of decent places to take a leak. If there was one thing this city could do to improve itself, it would be to build a slew of public toilets. Currently, if you have to take care of bidness, you have two options - find an alley, or use a restaraunt bathroom. Most alleys are generally occupied, and although Itchy Earl will give you good lavatory conversation, you don't want him telling you how he's got a rash that looks just like that one above your thigh. And restaraunt bathrooms...good luck. You've either got to drop $50 on a cheeseburger so the classy joints will give you the keys to their clean stalls, or you have to make a mental note to burn your shoes when you get home if you use any place that doesn't guard the door to the john. So Boston, I implore you...either build some public restrooms, or clear the homeless out of the alleys and install tp holders on the side of every dumpster. And don't worry, it'll all just wash into the Charles.
  
• That time of year where every conversation involves at least one participant bitching about the price of heat. This one really gets my goat. These people act so surprised...like they didn't know it was going to be five fucking degrees out in December. "But Scott Colby, next year it might be 70!" Shut the fuck up. You know the entire city's about to do its best impersonation of a witch's you-know-what. And you know why it's putting a hit in your wallet? Because in June, when you had the extra money that you could've saved to help pay for heat, you instead chose to spend it on Punky Brewster Commemorative Plates or a bikini wax for your poodle you stupid shit.
• The pilgrims. Granted, I went to school in South Central Worcester County (represent!), but I have to assume things are the same out here. Every damn year in elementary school, we'd spend the last half of October and all of November learning about the fucking pilgrims. "But Scott Colby, local history is important!" Well, so is teaching kids something new every year, asshat. Maybe this is why your little nose goblin can't pass the MCAS. Thanks to all that time spent learning about Plymouth, I can now make a Pilgrim hat out of construction paper blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back, while a dyslexic MassArt chick who's been tripping on E for the past few days tries to tattoo the word "Mom" on my ass. Seriously, test me.
• Commercials starring Ernie Boch, Jr. Hang it up, dude. Your "C'mon down!" doesn't hold a candle to your father's. Somewhere, Ernie Sr's turning in his grave and trying to figure out how his son grew up to look like David Hasselhoff without the acting ability.
• Radio personalities. It really doesn't matter what who the duo du jour happens to be. Opie and Anthony. Toucher and Rich. Douchebag and The World's Smallest Lumberjack. They all sound exactly the same. They all do stupid shit involving sex, retards, and bodily functions, and then they sit there and laugh repeatedly at said stupid shit, even when said stupid shit isn't funny. I'm waiting for one of these stations to just replace their morning guys with a three hour long recording of fart noises. No, seriously, I'd be mildly amused by that.
• White dudes who only attempt to dance to "Gold Digger." This very well may happen everywhere, but it needs to be addressed. Next time you hear Jamie Foxx's vocals announce the coming of Kanye, step aside and just look at the bar. You'll see a sea of uncoordinated white dudes bouncing up and down out of time to the beat, like if all the kids on the short bus tried to do the wave. This needs to stop. First off, no gold digger worth her hooker boots would ever mistake you for a mark. Second, either actually try to dance, or clear the dance floor so Scott Colby can do the Lawnmower, the Sprinkler, or (ladies beware) the Microwave.

That's it, I'm done. Hopefully something in there at least made you giggle once or twice, which is a lot more than the article in the Improper will make you do.

And you know what, since all that was slightly negative...I think the next entry will focus on the good things about Boston - unless, of course, you'd prefer an update to the List of Bad Things to Give Trick-or-Treaters...

Finally, something happening in Texas that I agree with

http://www.cnn.com/2006/EDUCATION/10/13/defending.the.classroom.ap/index.html

For those of you too lazy to read the article (you know who you are, and so do I), a high school in Texas is teaching its students that if some asshole walks into the classroom with a gun, you chuck stuff at him and then you bum rush him and kick his ass.

Think about it. You make it a lot harder for him to shoot you if shit's flying in his face and you're moving around. Lying down under the desk is a great way to get a bullet in the back of the head. If I had children in a school system teaching this, I'd be damn proud. As far as I'm concerned, it's always better to take things into your own hands than to wait it out and hope nothing bad happens.

And you know what? One or two children will most likely get winged in the process. But how many died in Columbine? How many have died in the outbreak we've had the past few weeks? With class sizes jumping up over 30, one or two gunshot victims could save over two dozen other lives.

"Oh, Scott Colby, what if one of your kids was shot rushing a gunman? Wouldn't you feel bad?" Yeah, for a little while, I would. But then I'd realize he was a hero, and I'd feel damn proud of him.

One of the people quoted in the article says that this school system is training kids to do things that professional tactical officers would do, and there's no way they can be prepared. Hello, haven't violent video games had been teaching our kids to be cold-blooded killers for years? The first time students successfully fight back, and one of the kids is quoted as saying "Yeah, we went all Masterchief on his ass," Hillary and Jack Thompson are going to look really, really stupid.

The Official Scott Colby Blood Alcohol Content Conversion Chart

It's useful to know Scott Colby's current Blood Alcohol Content, but carrying around a breathalyzer isn't always convenient. Below is a handy dandy chart you can print out and carry in your wallet so you will always be able to judge Scott Colby's level of inebriation based upon whatever he's doing at the time.

• 0.00% - Goes to the gym; plays videogames; becomes only mildly annoyed at people who say Windows is better; excellent speller; thinks that the night is going to be more interesting than it actually turns out to be.
• 0.01% - Swears about commas every five minutes or so; rants about (insert Republican here) being an idiot; has spent about half an hour on the porch.
• 0.02% - Begins to espouse the value of the semicolon; suspects that Big Foot may indeed be in the backyard; sounds as if he may actually know something about politics; has successfully burned three hot dog and/or hamburger buns.
• 0.03% - Attempts to get other people onto the dance floor; suspects he may have a career as a weather man; excellent speller; begins to formulate next stupid blog idea.
• 0.04% - Snarls at people who say Windows is better; has spent an hour on the porch; becomes ok at beer pong; begins to think that wrestling might be real after all.
• 0.05% - Dancing begins to seem like an ok idea; possibly at Ain Tain; when confronted with a situation where a decision must be made, asks himself "What would Bill Clinton do?"
• 0.06% - Thinks that a trip to Punters won't actually suck this time, even though it hasn't been fun in two years; believes that Pat Buchanon is an alien; attempts to rescue Kaplan from the fat chick.
• 0.07% - Drifts toward dance floor; wants to go to the Foggy Goggle; excellent speller; gives up trying to rescue Kaplan from the fat chick.
• 0.08% - Shakes non-existent hips in vague time with every third beat; plays country music on the jukebox; has been on the porch for two hours.
• 0.09% - Actually inside of the Foggy Goggle; sings along with the Notorious B.I.G.; vehemently denies that Windows is better.
• 0.10% - Dances horribly; buys lots of Vitamin Water; pushes Republicans down the stairs; can't talk straight, but still able to keep in time with Biggie.
• 0.11% or higher - Swears at anyone who says Windows is better and tells them they should be using a typewriter if that's what they think.
• 0.15% or higher - Loses ability to spell.
  

The Bomb

So North Korea's first nuclear test didn't go quite as planned. Apparently the blast wasn't as big as it was supposed to be. I Stole Your Lunch has the scoop.

Mere moments after defeating 27 consecutive opponents in chess while simultaneously schooling an entire bus of children at Uno, Fearless Leader retired to his luxury box to watch what was to be a glorious occasion - his nation's first nuclear weapons test. All was ready to go as planned, until, thanks to his hawk-like eyesight, Fearless Leader spotted a lone, lost, shivering puppy that had strayed onto the test site.

Fearless Leader burst through the window of his luxury box with a dropkick Chuck Norris could only dream of, executed a perfect series of three front flips that even the Russian judges would've given a perfect ten, and landed perfectly on a waiting skateboard. As he raced across the testing grounds at speeds Tony Hawk, Bam Margera, and Marty McFly could never reach, he realized that although he was going to reach the poor, cold puppy in time, there was no way he could escape the blast zone before the bomb was triggered.

Fearless leader came to a screeching halt in front of the puppy mere moments before the majestic mushroom cloud marked North Korea's entry into the nuclear world. As the wall of fire and energy tore toward him and the puppy, Fearless Leader realized there was only one thing he could do: inhale.

His indestructable lungs absorbed three quarters of the blast and metabolized it into a harmless little fart, which he later passed at dinner to a round of thunderous applause. The little puppy was safe, but North Korea's first nuclear test appeared to be a dud. Korean scientists could not determine why the blast was smaller than expected...and since Fearless Leader is a humble man, he has yet to come forward to the media with the tale of his heroism.

In all seriousness, though, this whole thing with North Korea and nuclear weapons is ridiculous. As long as we have nukes of our own, we have no right telling other people they can't have them. And besides, name one country out there that's going to say, "OK, we don't need the atomic bomb. We'll grow pretty flowers instead!" As long as one country has the bomb, they're all going to want it, just in case they some day have to retaliate. And besides, debates about gay marriage and violent video games make better TV.

Sunday Musings

I've had a bunch of blog ideas rolling around in my head for the past week that never actually made it to the Interweb. I need to get them down before I forget, which is why today's update may appear to be a random coagulation of stupidity. Kind of like MySpace.

ON THE RED SOX
Boston fans around the country are rejoicing that the BoSox have finally missed the playoffs, thus allowing them to return to their natural state of bitchy misery. Hooray!

As is common for anything involving the Sox, this latest implosion has been repeatedly dissected from every possible angle. It's Beckett's fault for sucking in his first year in a new league. It's Theo's fault for not trading the entire farm system for Bobby Abreu. It's Wily Mo's fault for not being Bronson Arroyo. It's Manny's fault for eating all the cupcakes in the clubhouse and then dropping a massive deuce in the Green Monster. Oddly enough, none of the so-called experts have mentioned the real reason for the team's collapse. Remember, for the first half of the season or so, they were rolling right along, looking like they might finally knock the injury depleted Yankees off the AL East throne...and then the Sox hired Allard Baird as an advisor to Theo.

For those who don't know, Mr. Baird was General Manager of the Kansas City Royals for several years before finally getting shitcanned in May of this year. During his tenure as GM, the Royals went 5-9999999, getting swept five times by the Tampa Bay Devil Rays and once by an MTV Rock and Jock softball team. He also signed Jose Lima, a pitcher who would be very similar to Pedro Martinez if Pedro had a career ERA of 7.83 and was responsible for all 17 of Alex Gonzalez's career home runs.

This guy's got "Future Wendy's Employee of the Month" written all over him, and yet the Sox still gave him a job. The reasoning at the time apparently was to silence all the critics claiming that Boston's front office was too young and inexperienced. Since all Theo and Co. knew how to do was win, they decided to bring in a guy who's a master at losing. The plan seems to have worked out even better than the Sox brass hoped, especially since Baird appears to have forgotten to scrape off the years of congealed suck before leaving Kansas City.

ON THE PATS
I liked the two tight end offense in the preseason, but now something doesn't look right. Forget all the talk about his body language; Tom Brady has developed a serious case of the Derek Lowe Face. If it becomes permanent, we're about to have a repeat of the Bledsoe years, or...gasp...perhaps even the Hugh Millen/Scott Zolak years.

I can understand the reasoning that wide receivers become slightly less important when you've got two of the league's best pass catching tight ends, and I can definitely understand the team's decision not to deal with selfish assholes who think they're worth more than they actually are. What concerns me most isn't the offense; it's the defense.

Can't we get some corners who don't get hurt? What the hell?

And where's the depth at linebacker? Bruschi, Seau, Vrabel, and Colvin are an excellent starting four... but other than Colvin, they're OLD. They're going to get hurt. And when they do, there isn't going to be anyone worthwhile to stick in there.

And the play calling...

For the majority of the Denver game, New England showed the same basic 3-4 scheme. Obviously, it didn't work, and they didn't make any modifications to the game plan. Against Jake "The Mistake" Plummer, you'd think you'd want to show as many different looks as possible. Maybe mix in a bit more 4-3, or that crazy 1 down lineman 5 linebacker thing. Apparently, however, one defense is good enough.

ON MY BOY SLICK WILLY
Get ready, Billy my boy. More attacks like the one from that douche bag from that stupid news channel are on their way.

But here's the thing. The conservative attack machine isn't actually interested in you. They're interested in Hillary.

Whether it's fair or not, Slick Willy is the single biggest piece of political baggage Hillary's got. He's a bullseye for all of her potential opponents in the upcoming presidential race. Need to make her look bad? Attack her through her husband.

And the best part of that tactic is that she can't distance herself from him. Doing so would hurt her more than anything her opponents could possibly say about Hillary or her husband. If she does anything to separate herself from Bill, she instantly becomes a bad wife who lacks the values and morals to stand by her man - and there are far too many voters out there who think that kind of shit actually matters.

Basically, she's fucked.

Idiots

**Note: This was actually written last week, but Blogger wouldn't publish it so it sat in draft purgatory until I remembered to try it again.



Two idiots obviously going to watch the Red Sox get spanked got on the train yesterday. They looked around stupidly for a few minutes before zeroing in on the T map above the door.

"This is an E train," came the voice over the loudspeaker. "Change at Government Center to get to Kenmore for the ballgame."

Not five seconds later, one of the idiots asked the other, "Does this train go to Kenmore?"

"I don't think so," replied his friend. "I think we change at Copley."

It was at about that point in time that I leapt from my seat and beat the hell out of them with my trusty tire iron. Or at least, that's what happened in my head.

The two morons then proceeded to discuss going out on a boat with a pair of nurses this coming weekend. What. The. Fuck.

The only thing that could make me feel good about this situation is a good ocean squall and a lack of life preservers.

Hugo Chavez

I think I kind of like this guy, if only because he consistently makes our own politicians look like absolute assholes.

Take, for example, the fact that Venezuela was the first foreign country to offer aid to those who suffered through Hurrican Katrina. President Monkey Face essentially told him "We don't need your help," although something tells me that if this guy had shown up in New Orleans with a few boatloads of food and water, none of the people there would've objected. Just a feeling.

He's also providing low price heating oil to several Northeastern states and (reportedly) remote Alaskan towns. Meanwhile, President Monkey Face is giving his rich buddies tax cuts and going on vacation.

Since Chavez became president, Venezuela's GDP and literacy rates are up, inflation and infant mortality are down. Meanwhile, our National Debt is soaring, and the Republicans seem to prefer a society that can't read.

In a recent speech in front of the UN, Chavez quoted a book by noted linguist and political writer Noam Chomsky. The last piece of literature President Monkey Face quoted was the drive up menu at Wendy's.

In that same speech, Chavez called W "the devil" and mentioned that the podium still smelled like sulfur from Monkey Face's speech there the day before. He then made the sign of the cross to protect himself. Despite the rousing round of applause Chavez received at the conclusion of his speech, American politicians and news outlets, even those critical of W's policies, condemned his remarks as having gone too far. Personally, I don't think he went far enough. He should've had a priest sprinkle holy water on the podium, then delivered his speech while wearing a string of garlic around his neck and handling a thick collection of rosary beads.

Hugo's also got his own weekly television show. Can you imagine the comedy and drinking games that would ensue if President Monkey Face had his own show? "He said terror again...that's another shot!" The alcohol industry would be forever grateful, as would the black market liver unions.

Of course, this guy's not perfect. He's clamped down a bit oh the Venezuelan media, and he's been absolutely ruthless when it comes to defeating his opposition. It's also rumored that he may go against the constitution he helped create and seek a third term as president.

Unfortunately, this guy's going to get himself shot, which is a damn shame. The world needs more leaders who are more than just talking heads, who aren't afraid to tell it like it is and let it ride. He came into office saying he'd help the little people, and although some of his programs have failed, he's at least tried. Meanwhile, Washington's arguing about gay marriage, abortion, violence in video games, evolution, and a shit storm of things that no other government on the planet would spend this much time dealing with at the expense of those who genuinely could use a little help from those in power.

Now, before you call me a commy pinko liberal traitor, let's look at the facts. Venezuela is a better place than it was before Chavez took power. Can you honestly say that about the United States and George W? And looking ahead, do you really think we'll be able to say that about any of the politicians who could potentially become President in our next election? I thought not.

I apologize for the political interruption, and I promise that the next update will return to this blog's typical low brow humor.

A Message to Fat Smelly Sweat Pants Man in Government Center

You do not have to wave the train into the station. It is not going to turn around and drive away without you, regardless of how much the conductor wants to or how hilarious the rest of us on the platform think that would be.

Also, you may want to restrict your intake of 7-11 taquitos. Your sweatpants are only three sizes too big. I reckon if you keep inhaling a bag of those fuckers a day, your sweatpants will be too small in a matter of six months. This is bad for you, because you'll have to buy a pair of XXXXXXXL, but it will also be horrible for the rest of the shoppers in Sears that day.

To all those complaining about the new Facebook functionality

For those out of the Facebook loop: the popular social networking site has recently implemented a sort of news feed functionality. When someone within your network makes a change to his or her profile, that change is posted on a news page displayed when you first log in. The developers saw this as a convenience. Previously, users would only get notifications about which of their friends had updated their profiles, with no information whatsoever about what part of the profile had actually been updated. This has caused a massive uproar about invasion of privacy. Every tech news site I've been to in the past few days has had something to say about it.

Now, onto the point I would like to make to all the people bitching and moaning about this functionality constituting an invasion of privacy:

Shut. The hell. Up.

Guess what? Facebook didn't put your personal information on its website. You did.

Trying to hide the fact that you TiVo Celebrity Fit Club? Don't want people to know about your unhealthy attachment to your toaster? Then don't put it on the fucking Interweb, dumbass!

We've seen this time and time again. School kids get called into the Principal's office for saying horrible things about teachers on their MySpace profiles. Idiots get fired for something they wrote in their blog, or can't even get an interview because every other sentence on their personal web site mentions the fact that they hate working. Thanksgivings across the country are made extremely awkward because Mom found a link in your AIM profile to your user page on IDreamOfRainbowBrightInABadWay.com. You'd think people would learn, but apparently that's not the case.

The Internet is more or less a gigantic billboard. It's not just a place for you to store information - it's also the mechanism for retrieving that information. And believe it or not, more people pay attention to it than you might think, as evidenced by the ten or so people who usually read this blog - and you thought you were the only one!

It's no different than being out in public. Every individual acts a certain way around other people, both to project that individual's desired image and to protect the parts of him/herself that he/she doesn't want others to know about. Any Internet persona is perpetually public, and thus anyone using the Internet needs to take that into account. You wouldn't plant a sign in front of your house saying "I grow pot in my basement!" now would you? So don't put it on the net.

And now, to light the mood a bit, a bulleted list:

• Don't want people to know which way you swing? Don't put it on the Interweb.
• Don't want mom to see that picture of you shotgunning a PBR naked while riding a llama at a frat party? Don't put it on the Interweb.
• Don't want people to know you think Scott Colby is totally hot and you want to give him your yacht? Don't put it on the Interweb (no one would blame you at all for wanting to hide that little tidbit).

In closing, let's use this blog as an example. It's full of my half-assed opinions on everything from kitchen appliances to pop stars to public transportation to stupid social networking websites. None of these are things I'm ashamed of, and none of these are things I want to hide. The shit I don't want you to know about stays locked safely in my own head, where I'm guaranteed to completely forget it in a day or two, thus saving the planet from a massive aneurysm. And I don't write about anything involving work because Interweb history has shown that writing about your job is one of the dumbest things you could possibly do, regardless of whether you're intending to say something good or bad. This is called "responsibility." Fucking get some already.

Semi-coherent ramblings that took about three hours to write

I hear bulleted lists are good for a hang over, so here we go:

• If there exists a square mile slimier than Government Center on a Saturday night, I need to take a vacation there. If earth is devoid of such an Eden, I'll create my own - except with more sausage carts, all manned by good looking girls dressed as Medieval wenches. Being able to stand on the corner and yell "Sausage Wench, bring me a bratwurst!" in your most regal voice seems like the kind of thing the tourists would love.
  
• New York is coming to Flavor of Love tonight, so get your TiVo set. This has the potential to be the single greatest hour in the history of television...or at least the history of VH1. Official over/under on the number of girls who spit on her: 4. Odds are 3/1 that Like Dat will crush New York's head between her thighs, 5/1 that New York will bitch slap the fake ghetto out of Buckwild, and 9/1 that KFC will be prominently involved in either episode.
  
• As many of you know, Scott Colby has implemented a two month rule to streamline his relations with the opposite sex. Any girl that isn't in possession of a yacht can only date him for two months. Today I bring you the first modification to the Two Month Rule - which I suppose makes it the First Amendment. Any girl with a genuine Irish brogue gets an extra two weeks.
  

Fourth Place

According to a report on Forbes.com, Boston is the fourth drunkest city in America. Number three was Columbus, Ohio, and the top two were cities in Wisconsin.

Am I disappointed? Not particularly. There's a damn good reason those three cities beat us: the people in Wisconsin and Columbus are so ugly that it takes a six pack and a half to make anyone who lives there look even remotely attractive.

"But Scott Colby!" you protest, as if you've actually got something worthwhile to say. "Following that logic, doesn't that mean that Boston is home to the fourth ugliest female population in the nation?"

Hell no! We don't drink because our women are ugly. We have more complicated reasons for our alcoholism:

• Like the latest stinker from those fucking Red Sox.
  
• Or in celebration of the Patriots' latest victory.
• Because it's a Wednesday afternoon.
• Because the people passing by on the street filled my cup with change.
• Because it's nice out and you have a porch.
• Because in the process of sitting next to you on the T, some fat bitch more or less sat on top of you. And when you scooched away from her into the inch of free space between you and the wall, her ass expanded to follow you.
• Because the Best Toaster Ever said it was a good idea.
• Because you're searching for something, anything, to erase the memory of all those horrible bulleted lists.

Coming soon: the worst MySpace profile EVER.

Not sure irony is the proper term

http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/business/sixel/4137785.html

Or, for the lazy who just want the specifics:

"As for the least likely lunch bandits, Buffini said, it's managers because of the scrutiny they're under from all sides, as well as "hero" departments like information technology, which come to your aid when you're down."

By no means does this article mean your Lunchables are safe. You forget that I am really an English teacher who just plays an IT guy at work.

While we're on the topic of idiocy...

On a recent repeat of the Colbert Report, my idol Mr. Colbert interviewed the author of a book claiming that our children are being pushed too hard in school. A combination of standardized testing and pressure to compete with other students, she said, was ruining their educations.

I sat there quite flabbergasted. "Horseshit," I told the TV. "That's not the reason those little bastards can't order a Big Mac without making Ahmed want to move back to India. It's because they're focusing on the wrong subjects." The television didn't seem to care, so now we're fighting. WHY DOES IT NEVER LISTEN TO ME?!?!?!?!

Neither standardized testing nor competition amongst students is an inherently bad thing. What's wrong with the current system isn't the fact that it's difficult - it's that it's focusing on the wrong areas.

See, here's the thing all these so-called education experts are forgetting: the basis for all learning is communication. If you can't read, write, or speak, the amount of information you can absorb is severely limited. And I'm not just talking the kind of book learning you get in school...I'm talking everything, from how to ride the train to *gasp* how to order a cheesy bacony delight. That's right - if you can communicate properly, you'll find it much easier to reach your goal of becoming a quarter-ton, bed-ridden slob who's had three quadruple bipasses by the time he's twenty-five. Hooray!

Seriously, though, there's a reason why our students are falling behind the rest of the world in math and the sciences, and it has nothing to do with the way those subjects are being taught. It's because their piss poor communication skills restrict the amount of information they can absorb. To put this in terms everyone can understand, it's like Flavor of Love. Taking a dump on Flav's floor reduces your chances of staying until the end so you can get a modeling contract and dump him a few months later.

So I say keep the standardized tests and the competition - but make them focus on reading, writing, and speaking. Focus on these subjects at the younger ages, even if it means reducing the amount of time spent on other subjects, especially history. What, you've taught these kids about the damn Pilgrims three years in a row, and some of them still think Christopher Columbus was the captain of the ship that brought them to New Jersey? Gee, maybe that's because they can't fucking read! Get the kids up to snuff on their communication skills early, and every other subject will be that much easier later on.

But guess what - this task can't simply be left up to the school system. Here's a list of things that you can do as a parent to ensure that your precious little bastard doesn't piss off Scott Colby in the line at Quizno's:

• Monitor your child's online activity for incorrect language. Install an instant messaging client that will not send any messages that contain grammatical errors. And if you catch your son or daughter on MySpace, no dessert for week.
• Do not allow your children to read any gaming magazines or websites. Those people are fucking stupid.
• Got children under three years of age? Do not, under any circumstances, leave them to watch one of those cracked out shows where the LSD-inspired characters just sit there making stupid noises for half an hour. This is more or less the equivalent of performing your first home lobotomy on your son or daughter. Instead, Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers, or the Daily Show will suffice (I threw that last one in there so they don't grow up to be Republicans). MacGyver will also work in a pinch.

This paragraph should be the conclusion to another entry in perpetually growing list of ridiculous tirades, but I can't think of anything worthwhile to put here. I'll attribute this to the fact that I spent five years learning about Old Sturbridge Fucking Village when my teachers could've been teaching me how to write a proper conclusion.

"No Child Left Behind" my ass

Despite President Monkey Face's best efforts, our children are being left behind...when it comes to being able to order at fast food restaraunts.

This weekend I had the pleasure of dining in both Burger King and Quizno's. I was privy to ordering disasters at both fine establishments. The idiots in the line in front of me and the people working behind the register just could not understand each other.

Now, I'm sure all you Republicans and Southerners out there are thinking "That's probably because there was an immigrant behind the counter." This is true - in both Quizno's and the BK Lounge, it was quite obvious that english was not the first language of any of the employees.

But here's the thing - the mix ups, the confusion, and the delays were not their fault. And I'm willing to bet that 95% of all fast food ordering catastrophes are the fault of the customer.

See, when the idiots in front of you walk up to the counter and say "Yo, I'll have one of those with the bacon and the cheese," and there happen to be multiple artery cloggers on the menu that involve those two ingredients, something annoying is bound to occur. However, when I stepped up to the plate and asked for a number 9 with a diet coke, or an italian sandwich with everything on white bread, there were no problems. The people behind the counter understood, which is all that matters, regardless of how much of the language they speak.

"But if the people behind the register aren't sure what I want, they should ask me to clarify," is what you'd be asking me if you were Rush Limbaugh. To which I would reply, "They do, and they did, and the customers couldn't and generally can't." "I want one of those" is not a helpful answer. And after a few answers like that, the employees realize you're a dumbass and decide they don't want to deal with you anymore...so they ring up the first cheesy bacony delight they can think of and hope you'll go away...just like any red-blooded American employee would do at his or her job.

So next time you start thinking about the things you'd like to say or do to the slow, confused cashier if only you had a little bit more nerve and a rucksack full of squirrels, stop and think about the situation. Chances are the problem is with the asshole on your side of the counter...and if you're eating in one of these joints, there will definitely be a problem with the asshole on this side of the counter later on, if you know what I mean.

How life can learn from video games

They say that in life, it's the little things that count. Here are a few little things from video games that would make real life that much cooler.

• Treasure chests. How righteous would it be if you were walking down the street, minding your own business, and all of a sudden you see a treasure chest hiding under a fire escape? Open it up and you're a few bucks richer just because you happened to get to the treasure chest first.
• Exploding barrels. Is some ignorant frat boy macking on yo baby's mama? Shove his ass into an exploding barrel!
• Fatalities. The first fight on the new season of Flavor of Love would've been so much better if the fat girl had torn the skinny girl's spine out and used it to decapitate her. Then the announcer would've said "You win," the word "Fatality" would appear on the screen written in blood, and some funny looking dude would've popped up in the corner and yelled "Toasty!" Then the drunk girl of that name would've stumbled in and threw up all over the fat bitch. Now that's good TV!
• Being able to steal shit without repercussions. Just wander into someone's house (nobody's door would ever be locked, and if it was, just look for the treasure chest with the key in it) and steal all their stuff while they're staring right at you. And they don't give a flying fuck.
• Pause. Oh shit, did Kelly Clarkson just get drenched at the VMA's again? Hit pause and enjoy the moment for as long as you want.
• Turtles that don't squish when you jump on them. For those of us who love stomping on turtles, but hate scraping the mess off your shoes. On second thought, cross that one out. PETA doesn't need something else to bitch about.
• Drinking potions from strangers that give you full health. In video games, no matter how sketchy that guy standing at the bus stop looks, if he gives you something, it's something that's going to help you out in some way. In real life, if you drink the funny colored liquid you got from the shady guy on the corner, chances are real good that you'll wake up in the gutter the next morning with a burning sensation between your legs and a sneaky suspicion that something bad may have happened to you.
  

Slick Willy, I have a favor to ask of you

Hillary has gone batshit crazy with this whole anti-videogame crusade of hers, and it's time for it to stop.

What does that have to do with you, you say? Don't play innocent with me. Everybody knows why your wife's pulling this shit. But you only play for five hours a day? Billy, my man, seriously - turn off the Playstation and give the woman some lovin'.

She caught you playing Final Fantasy X-2, didn't she? She wants to know what that Yuna's got that she doesn't. If it makes it easier, if you're into this sort of thing (and of course you are, you're Slick Willy), dress her up in a pair of hot pants and a tight white shirt-ish thing and give her a set of pistols. Just make sure they're not loaded, because she'll probably cap any intern who smiles at you.

That's not it? You say she caught you playing the Hot Coffee mod, and wandered away muttering something about how you never rock the bed that hard in real life? That explains a lot...

But I digress. For those of us who enjoy videogames, and for those who hate them and wish they weren't on the evening news, please quit. At least for the upcoming election year. I beg you.

This one will go down in infamy

In a bulleted list, for no particular reason other than tradition:

• Sweet fucking Jesus, the girl sitting on the stool next to me at the Squeeling Pig was huge. I take that back: she wasn't sitting on the stool so much as she was clenching it as tightly as she could with her ass cheeks so it wouldn't slide up her huge asshole, like she was fighting off a suppository.
  
• For the first two hours I sat there, I seriously thought she was a guy. Then I realized she was a manatee.
• She should invest in three Stairmasters...one for each leg, and a third to keep the motivational cheeseburger moving and out of reach.
  
• The Squeeling Pig is the name of the bar, not the clientele they're attempting to attract.
• Think you found a spelling mistake? Don't get excited. That's the way the bar spells its name.
  
• I'm still not entirely sure how she got in. Pete the Door Guy may have had to airlift her through the skylight.
• Why the fuck do the guys on the second floor always play that one annoying techno song? It would be better if they had multiple annoying techno songs, so I couldn't memorize the beat.
• I digress - back to the Pig. I haven't seen that many fugly looking people since the last time I looked in the Women's Center at Wentworth.
• So to my left was Shamu...and to my right was some mouth-breathing geekazoid. You like Unix, huh? Great, but there's no need to put it on a t-shirt. You should know by now that hot chicks don't dig Linus or the shit he copied.
• And the ponytail! What. The. Fuck. Granted, it was cleaner looking than most of the long hair cuts I saw at Wentworth...but this isn't a god damn tractor pull.

A Message From the T

Heidy ho there, the T here. This blog has been looking a bit sparse and crappy lately, so I figured I'd take advantage of my standing invitation to speak my piece.

On that note, I'd like to announce that Operation Isaac Newton has been a complete success. While some of my advisors were a bit skeptical about the possibility of those in charge of the Big Dig actually thinking that hanging big ass concrete tiles from the ceiling by thin strips of metal would be a good idea, it turns out that I was right and they were wrong. Ridership has skyrocketed since the accident, just as I planned. Now, if my agents can just convince the tunnel contractors that candles are just as good as flourescent bulbs, I'll have it made! That's right, automotive industry; public transportation just left yo ass for a white girl!

I'm also quite pleased to announce that the number of confused tourists has nearly quadrupled since my semi-introduction of the Charlie Card. Soon, these idiots will learn that reading up about the subway system on my website is actually a good idea. Then I will make bazillions with my Google ads. Click fraud that, biatch!

All the Massholes out there in Interweb land will also be happy to know I've finally devised a fool proof way to get the handicapable onto and off of the train. All new cars will be equipped with a large robotic arm. I call it: the Cripple Crane! The Cripple Crane will hoist the disabled onto the roof where a set of super powerful magnets will take firm hold of their scooter, wheel chair, or "magic shoes." After all, we can't have cripples falling off our train! They're liable to cause more damage than a plummeting concrete panel! The ACLU has fully signed off on our plan despite the fact that the new system has proven ineffective for assisting peg-legged pirates. It turns out that peg-legged pirates have their own special interest group, and they routinely kick the ACLU's ass at beer pong.

Anyways, that's about it for me. This is your friendly neighborhood T, signing off!

Um, no

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20060705/ap_on_re_us/simpl_wurdz_1


Seriously. Do we want to be known as the nation that writes formal business communications and what we have that passes for literature as if we were chatting on instant messenger? Granted, we may be heading that way naturally, but these people are batshit crazy. Earth to douchebags: if you spent as much time helping your kids with their homework as you spend protesting spelling bees, maybe your illiterate offspring would be able to correctly scribble the word "vasectomy." If they intend to grow up to be like you, I highly suggest they invest in one at an early age - say twelve.

Just what are these dumbasses thinking? Look at it this way: "leekuj" doesn't have the same visceral charm as "leakage." "Hell" ("hel"), "fuck" ("fuk"), and "damn" ("dam") can no longer be considered four-letter words. These idiots are screwing with things that were never intended to be screwed with (like Brigitte Nielsen).

Next thing you know, they'll want to hose the comma because people don't know where to put it. They'll want to take the semicolon out behind the shed and shoot it because they can't understand why there isn't a period there. The colon will be relegated to eye duty in emoticons, and then they'll argue for those stupid things to become an accepted grammar construct. This way their kids will never miss a joke, a threat, or an instance of sexual harassment, as there'll be a little face there to emphasize the intent behind the sentence.

This is bullshit, and it needs to be stopped. Please join I Stole Your Lunch in spelling things correctly and using proper punctuation. It'll be our little "fuk u" to assholes who think the language is too difficult.

P.S. It would be extremely funny if someone pointed out a spelling mistake in this update. If you notice one, please do not hesitate to comment.

P.P.S. If you happen to be a funny looking MassArt guy, please refrain from making out with your fat, ugly girlfriend while on public transportation. The rest of us do not appreciate it. Thank you.

Customer Disservice

We've all experienced piss poor customer service at some time in our lives. Several examples of such travesties of capitalism have been finding their way to the web in recent days, including a recording of a customer's attempt to escape the clutches of his AOL subscription and a video of a Comcast employee sleeping on another customer's couch. Look out, Susan Wornick; the Interweb is taking your job!

First off, I would like to assure you that you'll never experience such shitty service from I Stole Your Lunch. Sure, you may occasionally find one of our representatives passed out in your living room, but that's the kind of thing you have to deal with when you employ hobos and pay them in bathtub gin. Just give Boxcar Willie a good shake and a glass of water and he'll be on his way with a thank you and a smile. And if you're real lucky, he'll bust out the harmonica and serenade you with a classic rail ridin' hobo ditty before he goes.

To prove just how well we here at I Stole Your Lunch serve our customers, here's a transcript of a conversation between a customer and one of our phone representatives:


Representative: This is Boxcar Willie. What the fuck do you want?

Caller: Uh, hi...I was calling to cancel my account.

Boxcar Willie: Well, I would like the name and address of that asshole conductor who tossed me off the train in Boise last week, but we don't all get want we want, now does we?

Caller: No, but...I would think something as simple as cancelling my account...

Boxcar Willie: Simple? Simple? Everytime an ISYL account is cancelled, an old woman shits herself.

Caller: Um...

Boxcar Willie: So why would you want to cause that? It could be your own mother, you insensitive clod!

Caller: I just want to cancel my account...

Boxcar Willie: Tell me something. You got a girl?

Caller: ...I'm married, yeah, but that's none of your -

Boxcar Willie: She put out?

Caller: We are quite happy together, thank you very much!

Boxcar Willie: Then you might want to keep your subscription. Ninety percent of men who cancel a subscription to I Stole Your Lunch never again feel the touch of a woman.

Caller: So you mean people have actually been able to cancel? How many?

Boxcar Willie: Four.

Caller: Wait...ninety percent of four isn't a whole number. How can ninety percent of four men...

Boxcar Willie: One guy sold his kidney. It wound up in a porn star.

Caller: Awesome. Now just cancel the account.

Boxcar Willie: Why?

Caller: I don't use it anymore.

Boxcar Willie: Why?

Caller: Because I don't.

Boxcar Willie: Why?

Caller: Because I...I switched to MySpace.

Boxcar Willie: You poor, pathetic wretch.

Caller: I...I know...I'm ashamed...but all my friends are on it.

Boxcar Willie: That's no excuse, and you know it.

Caller: Yeah...

Boxcar Willie: All the cool kids have blogs.

Caller: But...it's so tempting...

Boxcar Willie: Here's what I'm going to do...I'm going to leave your I Stole Your Lunch account active...and if you delete your MySpace account within 24 hours, I'll kidnap your mother-in-law and ditch the body in a dumpster outside the station in Des Moines.

Caller: You will...that's...wow, what a deal! Thanks Boxcar Willie! I'm sorry I thought about leaving I Stole Your Lunch!

Boxcar Willie: Damn straight. Now your mother-in-law...will she fit in a Hefty bag, or do I have to go to Home Depot and get a tarp?


Wow! Now that's service! I Stole Your Lunch solemnly promises not to let you make the mistake of joining MySpace. Talk about a company who cares!

Beyond Juicy

We've all seen those tiny shorts that say things on the butt section. Girls who shouldn't be wearing something that small and tight really love them, and colleges around the nation have turned the fashion into a legitimate form of advertising.

But you know what? They're kind of boring. I don't need a pair of shorts to tell me you go to Northeastern - I can tell just by looking at you that you're a dumb frat girl. Nor do I need a pair of shorts to tell me you go to Wentworth - that big name construction company didn't hire you because of your construction management skills, they hired you to replace one of their bulldozers. And juicy? Sounds a bit like leakage, which would be a personal problem.

To rectify this fashion faux pas, I Stole Your Lunch is releasing its own line of booty shorts, featuring such clever and interesting lines as:

• Poopdeck.
• If there's more than an eighth of an inch of space between these letters, I'm too fat to be wearing these.
• Future Student of New England Tractor Trailer Training School.
• No Prenup Required.
• My daddy has a yacht - and his will says it's mine.
• 5-time Jeopardy Champion.
• All my lists are bulleted.
• I'm a High Life kind of girl.
• State Beer Pong Champion.
• Down the basement..LOCK...THE...CELLAR..DOOR...and baaaaby...talk dirty to me.
• Proud employee of Wal-Mart incorporated.
• $50 an hour, cash only.
  
• If there's grass on the field...
• Let's drink on my porch.

Coming soon to fine retailers near you, like TJ Maxx and Big K-Mart.

First Post From the Porch - Kelly vs. Natasha

Maybe it's the cool June breeze. Maybe it's the scent of freshly cut grass wafting from the neighbor's yard. Maybe it's the something in the crud growing on the decking. Whatever it is, I feel the need to finally put to rest the Clarkson/Bedingfield feud, thus choosing one and only one pop star to begin a monogamous relationship with. It shall be one for the ages, a classic duel fought with timeless weapons - bulleted lists.

Kelly Clarkson - Pros

• Spunky.
• Looks really, really ridiculously awesome when wet (see last year's VMA's).
• Very first American Idol, and none of her successors are worthy of scraping gum off the bottom of her shoes.
• Mischievous glint in eyes betrays inner wild child and possible desire to be spanked.
  
• Has released two best-selling albums, thus avoiding one-hit-wonder status.

Kelly Clarkson - Cons

• Could possibly weigh 300 pounds by the time she's 35.
• Just listen to "Since You've Been Gone" and "Walk Away"...obviously damaged goods.
• If I ever have to dump her in accordance with the Two Month Rule, she would probably break into my apartment and delete all the saved games on my XBox (see music video for "Since You've Been Gone").
• Keeping her in pristine condition (soaked) could prove expensive and laborious.
• America voted for her to win American Idol - and America is stupid (see George Bush).
  

Natasha Bedingfield - Pros

• Army of walking stereos for protection.
• Firmly attached to a single hair color.
• Has seen success both in the US and in her native Britain.
• Completely content to ride in elevators all day (which means she's a cheap date).
• Glamorous smile betrays her inner diva.

Natasha Bedingfield - Cons

• Last name sounds a lot like Brookfield.
• Babysitters to watch walking stereos could be costly.
• British. Hence, there's no way in hell those are her real teeth.
  
• Has so far produced only one best-selling album, potentially making her the next Natalie Imbruglia.
• Greets everyone who enters elevator with slightly creepy stare.

So what has this in depth analysis meant to me? It seems there is only one possible conclusion I or anyone else can come to: it's time to dump these two losers and aim for Nelly Furtado.