Dear Cleveland

I'm sorry things went down the way they did. I don't blame LeBron's desire to ditch you for the white sands, hot ladies, and warm weather of Miami, but I think we can all blame him for constantly referring to himself in the third person and for potentially starting a terrible new trend wherein douche bag free agent athletes announce their decisions with hour-long television specials. I for one cannot wait for this winter's Adrian Beltre: The Choice, wherein he announces which lucky team's outfield he's going to decimate next.

But it's ok. After all, you're still known for your steamers.

No no no, get back from that ledge! That was just a little humor. A little ha ha. You've still got a lot of people to look up to, Cleveland. Take this guy:

That handsome devil is the host of the Price is Frickin' Right, and he's from right there in Cleveland! He's also hosted a hilarious comedy show and starred in his own sitcom. Is it any wonder that the ABC network stopped being relevant about the time he stopped CARRYING their primetime network? Not at all my friends. Not at all.

You know the best part? Old people love the Price is Right. A lot of them end up there, like there's a bus to it or something, and where are a lot of those old people from? FLORIDA! No more Plinko or Hole in One for those old farts; it's nothing but Card Game and Safecracker for those LeBron loving bastards!

Wait, what's that? You say he's fat? You say it was actually the "will they or won't they" dynamic between Louis and Oswald that actually carried "The Drew Carey Show?" You liked Bob Barker better and wish he'd come back? The only thing you'll "Witness" with him is the complete and utter destruction of a ham sandwich?

Hey, get out of the bath tub and put the hair dryer down, IN THAT ORDER! Ok, maybe Mr. Carey can't quite replace the King. Maybe we should try another local sports hero.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Cleveland Indians designated hitter Travis Hafner! Part of the Tribe since 2003, Hafner hit over 100 home runs and tallied over 400 RBI in a four year stretch between '04 and '07. And he's got an awesome nickname: Pronk! It's because he's part PROject and part dONKey. No one embodies your city's working class whatever like the hard nosed Pronk!

Hmm? Nobody gives a crap about the Indians anymore? They've turned Jacobs Field into a homeless shelter? You say it's been three years since Pronk was any good, that counting stats are stupid and modern sabermetrics say he's kind of a bum? That you're actually a "Witness" in a lawsuit against that racist logo on his hat?

WHOA WHOA WHOA! Drop the razor blade! You're doing it wrong anyway. You want to go down the road, not across the street. Can't you Clevelanders get anything right?

Fine. Last try. And I guarantee there is no way you'll be able to refuse this next guy as your new savior.

Even though he (sadly) doesn't sparkle like that in real life, Mike "The Miz" Mizanin has made quite a name for himself in the entertainment world, first as a giant douche on "The Real World," then as a giant douche on several seasons of that Real World vs. Road Rules nonsense, and now as a giant douche as one of the WWE's top sports entertainers. In the past two years he's held the Unified Tag Team Championship and the United States Championship, both multiple times - so he's already won more titles than any other Cleveland-based athlete ever will. He's the Miz, and he's AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWESSSSOMMMEE! (It's on his shirt so it must be true.) (Seriously though, he's one of the only reasons to watch Monday Night Raw nowadays.)

I can tell by the blank stare on your face, Dear Cleveland, that I have won you over. As always, professional wrestling can solve all of life's problems.

Wait, why is there an empty bottle of Drain-O in your hand.........?

Mt. Rushsomemore

I Stole Your Lunch is bursting with patriotic spirit today. Let's add a few more faces to Mt. Rushmore to memorialize a few individuals who've been vital our nation's success:

Jack Bauer
There's a reason those terrorists everybody's so afraid of haven't been able pull off anything better than shoe bombs, underwear bombs, and other such clothing-related works of genius, and it's not because the Feds have limited the amount of toothpaste you can carry on a plane. It's because of these black ops types that we will never hear about. Who better to represent our shadowy, morally-ambiguous-but-well-meaning heroes than Mr. 24.

Ted Williams
Iconic ballplayer of the forties and fifties spent many of his prime years as a naval airman, flying 39 combat missions in Korea and occasionally serving as John Glenn's wingman. Often displayed the uniquely American trait of hating absolutely everybody. Conveniently his frozen, severed head will provide great reference for Rushmore's sculptors.

Tiger Woods
If there's one set of ideals the American Dream stands for above all others it's making money, getting famous, and collecting broads as if they're Pokemon and you gotta catch 'em all. Unluckily for Tiger he left his Pokedex where his wife could find it.

Hulk Hogan
He's got the red, white, and blue running through his veins. He successfully fended off both the Iron Sheik in the 80's and Sgt. Slaughter in the 90's when that no good maggot defected to Iraq and started burning Old Glory on live TV. When handed a microphone he is the modern day Abraham Lincoln. The Big Boot/Atomic Leg Drop combination has felled more evil foreigners than Teddy Roosevelt, the Patriot Missile, and the Predator drone combined. Get him up there.



Interesting aside: I Stole Your Lunch tried very, very hard to add a woman to this list. For a whole twenty minutes our crack brain trust suggested and then cast aside suggestions including Vanna White (discarded because most Americans can't afford a vowel anymore), Paula Deen (not enough stone in the Dakotas for giant, poofy hair), Janet Reno (leading candidate until intern reminded us that epic dance parties were actually led by Will Ferrell in disguise), Elin Woods (feisty but Swedish or something), and Sandra Bullock (being just so damn cute and likable are not traits for which the country is known). Tank Girl, Princess Leia, and Judge Judy also received various levels of support, but none of them seemed to fit. Are we here at ISYL just stupid? Are we missing someone? Is it Hollywood's fault because they'd rather have a big, strong man rescue Angelina Jolie when they should just hand her a pair of shotguns and tell her to shoot terrorists for 120 minutes while wearing nothing but an American flag? Is it the media's fault that our most influential female politician is known mainly for scaring her cheating husband so badly that he was willing to lie about his adultery in front of a grand jury? Is there something lacking in the X chromosome that prevents female songwriters from dreaming up ditties about how America is awesome and everyone else can go to hell? Are women merely less susceptible to jingoist baloney? Regardless of the answer, I Stole Your Lunch finds this problem quite troubling.

Hold on - I've just been handed something:

Serena Williams
Tennis is the only truly international sport that Americans care about on a regular basis rather than just every four years and then only for pretend because it's an excuse to drink and Serena's right at the tippy-top of it. Routinely beats the crap out of the perfect blonds the Russians keep cranking out in secret Siberian genetic labs. Athleticism not hindered in the least bit by badonkadonk unique to American women.

You're a placeholder for now, Serena. Consider us locked in eternal deuce until the Anti-Palin comes along and dropkicks the sexism out of the country or until Toby Keith gets that operation. Hopefully they will look kind of alike so we won't have to completely rework the monument...

Happy NSAAM!

Halter Top Day has come and gone and the temperatures here in Beantown have climbed up into the high 80's, taking an existing problem and amplifying it ten fold. In response, I Stole Your Lunch would like to remind everyone that July is National Swamp Ass Awareness Month. Originally conceived by the overly sensitive nose of one Benjamin Franklin, NSAAM seeks to educate us all about the dangers of body odor and the steps that can be taken to prevent it.

Dangers:

• Smelling like swamp.
• Smelling like ass.
• Smelling like all of the above.

Preventative Measures:

• Daily bathing. Not just your face and hands; everything.
  
• Washing your dirty undies. Turning them inside out and putting them back on will not do the trick.
  
• Deodorant.
  

Sounds simple, right? And yet so many people get it so wrong. Many err so badly that they leave in their wake a stinky trail not unlike a rainbow of rotten eggs tracing the way to a pot of sour milk. In the spirit of Arizona's new immigration laws, the following set of stereotypes will aid you in recognizing and avoiding those afflicted with swamp ass.

1. Fat Man in Jorts - Perhaps the easiest to spot. The bigger you are, the more you're going to sweat on a hot day. Science has proven that a thick layer of denim keeps any potentially cooling breeze while simultaneously amplifying stench. Especially rank when carrying lost cheese or bacon in unreachable fat folds.
   
2. Sketchy Old Dude Brown Bagging It On The Bus - Do not dismiss this character's random shouts and seemingly inane rants - this is actually a complex mechanism of ecolocation evolved to replace the subject's blurry, often spinning vision. Little known fact: his sweat glands are where flavored vodkas come from.
3. Hippie Girl On A Bicycle - Often attempts many of the preventative measures outline above, but decreased mental function due to frequent crashes and/or use of too much cheap hair dye has left her incapable of understanding that organic soap made out of cabbage does not clean a damn thing.
4. Cab Driver - Orson Welles got it all wrong in "The Time Machine." It won't be factory workers that devolve into Morlocks, it'll be these half-man, half-machine horrors. As a very wise man sings every Thursday night: Boston Cab/ what's the deal?/ Who put you/ Behind the wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel?/ Learn the language,/ Learn to drive,/ Take a shower, try to get me home alive!
5. Anyone Leaving An ATM - These things are veritable incubators of swamp ass. If you see the tell-tale worn blankets and pile of garbage that mark an ATM as being stinky enough to have spontaneously generated a toothless hobo, just put whatever it is on your credit card lest you be jumped from behind and forced to sing hobo songs.
6. Jersey Shore Looking Douche Bag - If you haven't learned by now to avoid those exhibiting popped collars, frosted, spiky hair, and the hypnotic orange shimmer of tan-in-a-can, I Stole Your Lunch has yet another reason: these beefy buffoons typically skip the deodorant and just dump a 16 oz. glass of cheap cologne over their heads. Congratulations, fool, now you smell like cologne-covered shit.

I Stole Your Lunch hopes you enjoyed this little Safari of Stink. If not, blame loyal blogonaut Candace; it was her idea. Happy NSAAM!

On HTML5

Standards bodies and web browser developers have had their collective knickers in a twist over the specifications of a new version of the basic language of the web, HTML5, for the last several months. This new standard promises a richer multimedia experience without the need for 18,000 ridiculous plug-ins. Lovely.

Except it's missing something. Something very important. Something that will change the web forever. Here's an example of its use:

{lil jon}"Yeah!"{/lil jon}

Note: I'm using { because Blogger discards tags with the proper doohickeys on either side. I can't eve put one of those doohickeys here. You know what I'm talking about. Do not threaten to revoke my geek card, or call my mama, or ice me. Just shut up and play along.

Bring the King of Crunk to your web page! It's like GeoCities sound effects except better, and unlike Adobe Flash it isn't for posers and thus it will work on your iDevice. Further examples include:

Please measure {lil jon}to the windoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow{/lil jon} and {lil jon}to the wall{/lil jon}.

I love shooting clay pigeons. {lil jon}Aw skeet skeet God damn.{/lil jon}

{lil jon}Pardon me, would you pass the Grey Poupon?{/lil jon}

Developers have been working night and day to add to the HTML5 spec, to the detriment of these other tags which we have been promised for HTML6:

• {autotune}I'm on a boat!{/autotune}
• {rmwaso}I'm on a boat!{/rmwaso} (Repetitive Meme We're All Sick Of)
• {jr}Stone Cold! Stone Cold! Stone Cold!{/jr}
• {sooooooooooooooooooookie}{/soooooooooooooooooooookie}

You spin me right round baby right round like a record baby

The recent transition of ESPN360 by 357 stupids to simply ESPN3 marks what hopefully will be the last gasp of one of the dumbest marketing trends in recent history: attaching the number of degrees in a circle to the names of various products that have little to do with circles. Those of us who prefer radians are finally vindicated.

What, really, was the point? Geometry is not edgy. Am I missing something by sitting still in my chair while playing with my XBox360? Does Anderson Cooper suddenly look like Pam Anderson if I spin around in a circle like some kind of cracked out hobo trying to catch his tail? Does Norton 360 protect me from up to 2 pi viruses? The hell.

Which brings us to a point near and dear to I Stole Your Lunch's cold, cold heart: marketing is quite possibly humanity's most ridonkulous invention. It's right up there in the dumbass pantheon with shoe bombs, MacGruber, and selling firearms to NBA players. If marketing were given human form, it would be the Situation.

Case in point: in an effort to attract the extremely important "normal" demographic, the Sci Fi channel recently spent millions of dollars to hire a consulting company and rename itself after a disease you get from being too friendly with the lovely ladies at On the Hill Tavern. Thus the SyFy channel was born, and geeks everywhere giggled as one. This may have been ok had they shifted their programming to include the secret adventures of Vincent Van Gogh, but the only thing they added was a wrestling show, thus successfully attracting the sci-fi dork/wrestling fan demographic. That would be me and two random hipsters in Oregon who think mixing lightsabers with side headlocks is somehow ironic and celebrate every episode of WWE on SyFy with a PBR toast and a bicycle high-five. To summarize: why would people start watching your channel if you aren't changing your programming? Oh, right, because your name is silly and they want to stare at the logo you spent way too much money on.

I've observed two predominant purchasing patterns in my time. One involves a cult-like brand loyalty. The other is the famous "cheap shit" philosophy, in which I Stole Your Lunch is a firm believer, where decisions between brands revolve completely around price and which coupons are available at the moment. Neither camp gives a crap about the color of your label or how many ladies your spokesperson had relations with.

Which brings me to my final point: marketing is a great profession. I'd give up being an Interweb celebrity in a heart beat to be a marketing consultant. I just sat down and actually watched a block of commercials, counting the ones I thought I could've come up with while drinking a bottle of Jameson on the toilet. The only one that didn't make my list was for Boch Honda; I would never cast Ernie Boch in anything.

So Capital One, I'm talking to you. LET ME WRITE ABOUT VIKINGS ATTACKING SILLY THINGS AND SMELLING FUNNY AND GENERALLY NOT HAVING ANYTHING TO DO WITH WHAT'S IN MY WALLET!!!!!!!

Why I'd rather go to a Nationals game

At a Red Sox game, you're trapped shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of drunk douche bags afraid of the letter R. At a Nationals game, you're shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of empty space and every letter in the alphabet gets equal respect.

At a Red Sox game, if you get in a fight with someone, the drunk douche bag probably deserved it. At a Nationals game, there's a chance that your opponent is a lobbyist, in which case serving him up a heaping helping of knuckle sandwich will help make the world a better place.

At a Red Sox game, you get classy, modest, polite young ladies in pink hats and Uggs who don't know what OBP stands for but know all the words to the Neil Diamond sing-a-longs. At a Nationals game, well...you don't.

At a Red Sox game, you have to live down the fact that the Sox were one of the last franchises to dispatch with the racist bullshit. At a Nationals game, you have to live down the fact that the Nats were once the Montreal Expos. But at least you can laugh at that.

At a Red Sox game, you have to watch the shell of Big Papi and whatever ancient former slugger the other team is trotting out at DH strike out three times and/or hit right into a ridiculous shift even though the opposite side of the diamond is open wider than Paris Hilton's, um, hotel. At a Nationals game, you get the bunt and the double-switch, neither of which is a euphemism. Although double-switch might work.

The nail in the coffin: At a Sox game, you get Wally the Green Monster. Meanwhile the Nats trot out the biggest bad ass in all of American history: Teddy F'n Roosevelt. Deeeeeeeeeeeeeee-lighted!

Popapalooza

While we're on the subject of fixing things, let's talk about what I can do to help the Catholic Church out of their latest bugaboo. It turns out that the clergy's inability to keep its hands to itself was not exclusively an American problem; reports of abuse are pouring in from every corner of Europe, including the church-thingy where Pope Eggs Benedict was once in charge - while he was in charge of it. They've got a shit storm on their hands, and they're dealing with it in the typical Catholic manner: trying to pretend it never happened.

But there's a better way. The Church needs to make a radical change. It needs to replace the Pope. Just not with another scary old white guy. They need someone young and vibrant who looks like he might have a pulse, who's accepting of the modern world and understands the unique challenges faced by today's flock. Luckily, I Stole Your Lunch has the perfect candidate. He's even got a year of Poping experience under his belt.

So we're going to replace this guy, who may or may not fight back by shooting lightning from his fingertips:








With this guy:



Ladies and gentleman, loyal blogonauts everywhere, I present to you the new leader of the Catholic Church: "The Pope" D'Angelo Dinero. Replacing old Ratzy with the above professional wrestler is a great idea because:

• It rains money wherever he goes.
• Gives away his awesome sunglasses to one lucky kid in the crowd when he makes his entrance, potentially drawing the younger generation to Catholicism.
• Would have the best Popemobile ever, with 22-inch spinners, ground effects, and a gaggle of ho's I mean nuns to ghost ride that whip wherever it goes.
• Would have no trouble dispatching lunatics who jump the barrier to attack him.
• Effective, engaging public speaker who gets the crowd involved and delivers his message in a memorable way.
  
• This Pope is pimpin'.
• And Popetacular.
• And will not scare away small children with Uncle Festeresque grin.
• Imagine the drama when he's giving the Easter address to those gathered in the Vatican and all of a sudden Ric Flair's music hits and the Nature Boy comes out to start a rumble.
• No need to worry about little boys; comes with his own stable of ho's.
• Sells lots of t-shirts.
  

And those handsy priests? Put 'em in the ring and the Pope will pimp slap them into oblivion. Jesus couldn't ask for a better tag team partner.

As like anything in life, accepting Dinero as the church's savior does come with one difficulty: a potential increase in steel chair attacks upon clergy, likely from that bastard The Phenomenal AJ Styles.

Smells Like Teen Sparklies

The Interwebs were abuzz today with the news that Robert Pattinson of dumbass vampire movie fame is the leading candidate to play Nirvana front man Kurt Cobain in an upcoming biopic. Word is Courtney Love approves. People everywhere who are actually old enough to remember Nirvana emitted a collective "WhaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaat???" that gave Dick Cheney a mild stroke.

Needless to say, this pretty stupid, although I suppose any of us with a passing appreciation for the band should just thank our lucky stars they didn't pick Nic Cage. It's a classic case of Hollywood suits who think they can shove a square peg through a round hole to make a giant pile of money fall out the other side. Let's take a look at the qualifications an actor must possess to effectively play Mr. Cobain:

• Good at brooding.
• Can wear dirty sweaters.
• Ability to grow ratty facial hair.
• Angst.

"Doesn't sound too hard, does it?" say the dumbass Hollywood suits. "And who better to play a brooding, angsty character than one of the Twilight leads?"

Bullshit, I say. There is a big difference between Twilight pussy angst and Cobain's legit problems. It's Yankees-Nationals, Brady-JaMarcus, Hoops-New York, Stuart-Beck, Sookie-Bella.

And that last combination leads me to a grand resolution to this problem. The Hollywood suits obviously want to cash in on the vampire craze, hoping the use of one of said fad's main players will draw the youth crowd that would otherwise have no interest in the film. But Pattinson isn't the answer. If you need a vampire to play Cobain, there's really only one possibility:

Fuck yeah. Light my candles in a daze cuz I've found God.

Now back to Ms. Love. We should probably wait a few days for the meds to wear off and then ask her again if she still thinks this is a good idea. Supposedly she also thinks Scarlett Johansson should play her in the movie, an idea almost as laughable as sparkling Kurt Cobain. Really, there's only one Hollywood actress even remotely qualified to play Courtney Love:

I smell a blockbuster. Thank me later, Hollywood.

Reality Check

I've obviously been a bit low on material lately. The complete dearth of new "blank of/at/in Love" on VH1 isn't helping matters.

And so I turn to an old standby, Survivor, a show I once watched religiously and then completely forgot about. This year's All-Star Heroes vs. Villains has sunk its insidious claws right into yours truly like the stench of a Somerville skank into the skin of an unsuspecting Tufts frat boy. Except without the rash.

And now an analysis of the remaining players, in reverse order of their chance at winning the final vote:

Sandra (Villains) - Gone the next time the Villains go to Tribal Council. She's stood up to Russell far too often; she's done.

Courtney (Villains) - With Sandra, all that's left of Boston Rob's once strong looking alliance. To look at her you'd think she'd been on that island for for seven years rather than seven episodes; that girl needs a hamburger. Not a threat unless she and Sandra join with the Heroes following the merge. Which won't happen because, with Rob's departure, everybody on that island not named Russell is a moron.

Coach (Villains) - The Dragon Slayer isn't a threat to leave anytime soon...but if he makes it to the end, who in their right mind would vote for him over...well, anyone? Last week's vote for Courtney in the face of the majority puts him on the bottom rung of Russell's alliance.

Jerri (Villains) - Same boat as Coach. I have high hopes that their little puppy love will turn into a reality show of its own.

Amanda (Heroes) - With the Heroes on a newfound get-rid-of-the-weakest kick, she's next on their list despite her in-depth knowledge of banana etiquette.

Rupert (Heroes) - The best beard on TV this side of Mick Foley is just too damn nice of a guy. His broken toe might also bump him below Amanda in the Heroes' pecking order.

Danielle (Villains) - Not even remotely memorable. I had to look up her name. Equipped with her own flotation devices that may come in useful during water challenges.

Parvati (Villains) - She'll stick around, but she doesn't stand a chance at the final vote.

Colby (Heroes) - Around mostly due to luck, he redeemed himself with a strong performance last week. Big athletic advantage over the other men could see him win individual immunity the rest of the way after the merge unless Jerri cuts off his manhood.

Candice (Heroes) - The most athletic of the remaining women should be able to walk all over the other girls if she can learn when to keep her mouth shut.

J.T. (Heroes) - He'll have a giant target on his back at the merge, but if his team plays immunity smart he's the one that will win the final vote. Big athletic advantage over Russell and Coach and a lot more devious than he gets credit for.

Russell (Villains) - I didn't think the little troll had it in him, but he's got to be the odds on favorite to win the whole thing. No one is smart enough to out-maneuver him; the only thing that might kill him would be pissing off the jury. If he's careful, the victory is his to lose.

@IStoleYourLunch Now on the Twatter

Twelve-year-olds and marketing douche bags everywhere, rejoice! |: I Stole Your Lunch is now on the Twatter, bringing even more quality content to the Interwebs and stimulating your dulled neurons in ways you never thought possible. Imagine the in depth, up-to-the-minute analysis I can now provide. From now on, you'll know all about...

• ...whether my socks match.
• ...how many donuts I've eaten on a given day.
• ...how many idiots on whom I've dropped the atomic leg for trying to eat my last donut.
• ...how many buffalo chicks I've tried to pass off upon whomever I'm at the bar with.
• ...various violent bowel movements and what caused them.
• ...the number of times I've popped it and locked it and dropped it in the past hour.
• ...updates to and new applications of the Hollywood Starlet Equivalent Index.
• ...which celebrities I think are worth listening to (so far: Ochocinco, the Iron Sheik, and someone pretending to be Flava Flav, who appears to be harassing Miley Cyrus...).
• ...who annoyed me on public transportation enough to piss me off but not enough to warrant a full blog entry.
• ...whatever random thought involving various perfectly natural bodily functions is making me giggle like a schoolgirl.
• ...the number of times I dropped it, hit it, dumped it, split it, don't stop, get it, get it since my last donut.
• ...which homeless people you can safely risk eye contact with.
• ...whether or not I managed to remember the username and password I drunkenly created tonight.

All told, the aggregate IQ of the Interwebs just jumped five points. Although I'm still not sure I understand exactly what the Twatter is doing. Back in my day...

• ...we had to walk five miles, up hill, in the snow, without shoes or comfortable undies to ask our best friend for his screen name.
• ...we could warn and ban our friends just for the fun of it.
• ...we had no clue that Flava Flav was fucking with Miley Cyrus unless it was reported on TMZ.
• ...our phones only got text messages, and then only if we had enough data left on our plans and if we were being followed around by that creepy Verizon dude and his cult.
• ...tweeting was exclusive to parakeets and little birdies circling the brows of those with recent head trauma.
• ...nobody knew how to spell, but they couldn't use the Interwebs as an excuse.

You little shits don't know how good you've got it. Now get off my lawn and get a damn job or I swear I'll close up my robe, hide this bottle of Old English in a paper bag under my rocking chair, and come down off this porch to tan your prissy little hide like we used to do on MySpace.

I Stole Your Black Bean and Rice Surprise

1. Discover heretofore forgotten can of black beans in back of pantry. Examine thoroughly for signs of rodent infestation.
2. Locate black bean and rice recipe printed on side of can. Decide that said recipe sounds like a good idea.
3. Allow shoulders to slump in epic sadness upon realization that required vegetables and Adobobobodobo seasonings are nowhere to be found.
4. Realize that lack of onions and peppers are not a problem due to possession of carrots, celery, and green onions that are just going to go bad in a few days anyway.
5. Chop replacement vegetables and saute in canola oil whilst humming chorus of new Ludacris single (DO NOT MISS THIS STEP).
6. Add beans, 3/4 cup of water, too much garlic powder, quite a bit of Tony Chachere's Creole Seasoning, and some oregano. Mix and bring to a boil.
7. Laugh at the can's suggestion to reduce to a simmer, knowing that said simmer will not properly thicken developing sauce. Reinforce status as culinary genius by adding a dash of chili powder and boiling for ten minutes, or until liquid is half gone.
8. Poor into 2 cups instant white rice. Mix thoroughly while humming chorus of new Lil Wayne single.
9. Have both girlfriend and roommate test.
10. ]Let cool for five to ten minutes to see if girlfriend and/or roommate tosses their cookies, rushes to bathroom with explosive diarrhea, or erupts in hives.[
11. Eat, laughing once again at your own culinary genius.
12. Post stupid blog.

Let's get punctuative!

Now that baseball's out of the way, let's move onto something more important: punctuation.

http://02d9656.netsoljsp.com/SarcMark/modules/user/commonfiles/loadhome.do

For the low-low-Billy-Mayes-RIP-low price of $1.99, you too can own the rights to the SarcMark, a piece of punctuation developed by a Michigan company as a means of designating the intended sarcasm of a sentence.

I Stole Your Lunch calls bullshit.

Sarcasm, by its very definition, is meant to be an ironic expression of derision. Putting a big old punctuation mark on it brings it completely out in the open, ruining one of the most fun parts of sarcasm: that your idiot friends don't always realize you're being sarcastic.

That said, I Stole Your Lunch supports the implementation of other radical new forms of punctuation including:

The Dumbassacus. Used to declare sentences of a particularly stupid nature so that those of us who might have an aneurysm can safely skip them. Examples:

• ]Is our children learning?[
• ]The Boston Red Sox would like to announce the signing of JD Drew.[
• ]I can see Russia from my house.[

The Markolon. Used to designate instances of marketing speak that don't actually mean anything so that those of us who might have an aneurysm can safely skip them. Examples:

• |: Expanding your lifestyle by e-enabling sexy initiatives.
• |: Expedite scalable interfaces to deploy visionary action-items.
• |: Don't ask why, try Bud Dry.

The Craptation Mark. Easily confused with the use of the dumbassacus, this is used when the obnoxious stupidity spewing forth from your pen or keyboard is something you learned from the Internet. This time, the proposed new punctuation lets those of us who might have an aneurysm know we should punch you in the face if we ever meet you on the street.

• '{Epic fail!}'
• '{Can I haz...}'
• '{This time, the proposed new punctuation lets those of us who might have an aneurysm know we should punch you in the face if we ever meet you on the street.}'

All that said, none of you are allowed to even think about using any of these until you learn how to use a comma, you big jackasses.

Mad props to J$ for alerting I Stole Your Lunch to the insidious SarcMark.

2010 MLB Preview - The Postseason

Ahh, October (and lately, November). Every baseball fan's favorite time of year. The field has been whittled down to the best and the brightest, the shitty teams have auctioned off their few passable stars to the highest bidders, and Joe Buck and Tim McCarver are making asses of themselves every night while Orsillo, RemDog, Eck, and TC sit at home placing bets on who's going to win Celebrity Jeopardy.

Wild Card Round
New York over Minnesota in four - This is like handing the little engine that could a squirt gun and telling it to go bring down the Death Star. Their only chance is to hope A-Rod freezes to death during one of the games played in Minnesota.

Texas over Boston in five - Unless the Red Sox trade for Adrian Gonzalez. Which they won't.

Philadelphia over Los Angeles in four - Unless the Phillies bullpen implodes. Which it won't, since they're going to make a trade that nets them a viable backup for what's left of Brad Lidge.

Colorado over The Lou in five - Should be the best series of the first round, if you're willing to stay up all night to watch it.

League Championship Series(es)
New York over Texas in six - Though the Rangers can outhit and out-inspirational-story the Yanks, they can't outpitch them. Rich Harden's arm finally explodes in Game 5.

Philadelphia over Colorado in seven - Keira Knightley vs. Scarlett Johansson in a giant vat of chocolate pudding with Bill Cosby on commentary while hundred dollar bills rain down from the ceiling and free High Life is served in golden chalices. Everybody wins! They should just move everybody to the National League.

World Series
Philadelphia over New York in six - Unimaginative? Perhaps. But these two really are the class of their respective leagues, and Halladay and Polanco are just that much better than Lee and Feliz. Without Matsui, the Yankees are screwed.

2010 MLB Preview - National League West

Finally we've reached my favoritest division in all the land. Each of these five clubs is fascinating for its own particular reason, unlike the AL Central or the cast of Jersey Shore. Any thought of the NL West, no matter how inconsequential, typically requires a change of pants.

1. Colorado Rockies
These guys are like the anti-Mets: they continually refresh their roster with quality home-grown talent, and they always find a way to make one hell of a charge the last few months.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Scarlett Johanson. God damn.

2. Los Angeles Dodgers (Wildcard)
A questionable rotation and a shaky infield keep them from taking the top spot, but they may have the best pen in the majors. Too bad Mrs. McCourt is going to get half of it.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Rhianna. Always solid, though the hair's kind of funny at times. Matt Kemp could be the Jeter of the West.

3. San Fransisco Giants
Aubrey Huff + Mark DeRosa does not a threatening lineup make.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Megan Fox. Everybody's favorite, but completely lacking substance and stuck married to that funny looking dude from 90210.

4. Arizona Diamondbacks
They won't be as far out of the race as this fourth place finish might suggest. Haren, Webb, and Jackson are arguably the top 1-2-3 in the Senior Circuit, but their homegrown lineup strikes out more than I used to in the Foggy Goggle.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Jessica Alba. Great in theory, but they'll never be able to carry a feature on their own.

5. San Diego Padres
Their owner's 2008 divorce left this team ravaged. This is what the Dodgers could look like in a few years if they aren't careful.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Whitney Houston. Stay away from the crack, Rhianna, or this could be you. At least she's already escaped the vile clutches of a man named Brown.

2010 MLB Preview - National League Central

The Central is always one of the most entertaining divisions in the bigs and this season should be no different. I admit it: I just flat out love the National League.

1. St. Louis Cardinals

This team flat out knows how to get things done, consistently plugging holes with guys pulled off the scrap heap, given a tune up, and unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. Matt Holliday's big deal meant there was no money for the suddenly revitalized Joel Pineiro, but life goes on in the Lou.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Sandra Bullock. Consistent, and you can never completely count them out.

2. Cincinnati Reds

Dusty's boys will be this year's big surprise. There's a lot more talent here than most people think. They won't be close to the Cardinals, but they will contend for the Wild Card and squeak past the Cubbies for second.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Lady Gaga. Coming out of nowhere to great fanfare, but not quite awards material yet despite several nominations.

3. Chicago Cubs

You know you've got problems when your biggest offseason move is trading a malcontent board game magnate for a lard ass with a career ERA bigger than my shoe size. Could be the year Lou Piniella finally kills somebody on the field.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Katie Holmes. An attractive pick until you remember they're batshit insane.

4. Milwaukee Brewers

It pains me to say this about my adopted NL team...but it's time to blow it up and rebuild. They've got Ryan Braun and Prince Fielder and not much else, mainly because Prince eats just about everybody they sign, which is why they can only employ pitchers that are way past their expiration dates.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Joan Rivers. Tough and stringy.

5. Houston Astros

I totally had to Google "National League Central teams" because I couldn't remember these guys were even in the division. Even that stupid hill they put against the centerfield fence wasn't enough to keep them in my mind. At least they're not the Pirates.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Betty White. Definitely not getting any younger, but still hilarious.

6. Pittsburgh Pirates

Ugh. At this point, their only hope is to sell the team to Mark Cuban.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Kate Gosselin. They just keep pumping out losers.

2010 MLB Preview - National League East

One can't-miss contender followed by a semi-competitive rival, a dark horse, and two complete jokes. The NL East is basically a VH1 dating show.

1. Philadelphia Phillies

I love me some Roy Halladay, but this year's biggest trade is going to kill the Phillies down the road. Their extension of Joe Blanton's contract leads me to believe they probably could've gotten a deal done with Cliff Lee. Still, they're the team to beat in the Senior Circuit. Nigh untouchable.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Keira Knightley. The best.

2. Atlanta Braves

Should be a big season for star prospects Hansen, Medlen, and Heyward. They've positioned themselves well to take the division back from Philly in a year or two. For now, just not enough offense.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Lindsay Lohan. Fell apart temporarily, but poised for a comeback.

3. Florida Marlins

Just spunky enough to be intriguing. Just young enough that it won't happen for a year or two yet.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Miley Cyrus. Jailbait.

4. Washington Nationals

Another team on its way up, but only because there wasn't much farther to fall. Beyond Zimmerman, Strasburg, Dunn, and the Racing Presidents, everyone on the roster seems more like a nice complementary player than a franchise building block. Sad that they can't fill that gorgeous stadium.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: A Kardashian. No one cares, but the house is nice.

5. New York Mets

Wow.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Deputy Trudy Weigel, Reno Sheriff's Department. General Manager Omar Minaya is going to be talking to his cats and making conjugal visits to serial killers by the time he's done here.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for an emergency broadcast

http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/b165366_did_pete_wentz_have_fall_out_boy_fallout.html

Fallout Boy NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There hasn't been such an awesomely melodramatic group of skinny jeans-clad emos since they started Panicking in the Disco. I'd cut myself, but I can't get through the scars their music has left on my wrists with anything short of a chainsaw.

So what happened? It sounds like no one's really sure. Here are the top theories:

• Ashlee "Yoko" Simpson insisted they rename the band something stupid, like "Manhattan Ballou."
• They didn't have a scene, they had an arms race. And someone brought a minigun.
• Lead singer Pete Wentz is doing his best Axl Rose impersonation. "Colombian Capitalism" to be released in seventeen years when no one cares.
• Drummer ran out of available skin for red-and-black star tattoos.
• They're falling apart to half time.
• My Chemical Romance stole the bassist.

But really, there is no way in hell this is not Ashlee's fault. That ho needs to keep her ginormous nose out of things. They aren't even going down swingin', for cripes sakes.

2010 MLB Preview - American League West

It finally gets interesting. There isn't a single team in this division that isn't entertaining–and I mean entertaining in a good, "let's see what Dexter's up to this week" way rather than in a bad, "oh my God Bret Michaels on a bus with fifteen gold digging strippers" way. This one's going to be tight.

1. Texas Rangers

A lot depends on their young pitching staff. I think they've got just enough that their offense won't have to carry them every night, making them the most complete team in the division–a status they should enjoy for years to come, especially now that they've got a new owner and will be able to make a deadline move or two.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent - Taylor Swift. This is the team everybody's going to be talking about, and with good reason.

2. Anaheim Angels

A lot of people look at this team and focus on what they've lost: Lackey, Figgins, Vladdy. I see a team that has always known when to cut the cord on their older stars (Salmon, Anderson, Glaus, Washburn) and probably hasn't missed the mark here. If Pineiro's new stuff translates to the American League and Kendry keeps mashing, they're going to contend for both the West and the Wild Card.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent - Jennifer Aniston. Just when you think they're down and out, they come back looking even younger than before but just as spectacular. Never count them out.

3. Seattle Mariners

Where's the offense? And if you say "Milton Bradley," I'll give him your address and tell him how much you like the Cubs.

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent - That super skinny Fatimah chick I saw on America's Next Top Model the other day. Somebody get these boys a hamburger with a side of human growth hormone.

4. Oakland Athletics

Poor Billy Beane. Now that everyone else has discovered the magic of on-base percentage, what's a small market team to do? Answer: sign one big name per year and then trade his ass for a shit ton of prospects at the deadline. Call it Taking a Holliday, or maybe Tucking in the Sheets. Might I suggest he just switch to Hollywood Starlet Equivalent instead?

Hollywood Starlet Equivalent - Tyra Banks. Getting by on reputation alone until everybody realizes they're just nuts.

2010 MLB Preview - American League Central

There are few things that I hate more than the American League Central. Maybe fat people who walk side-by-side on the sidewalk so you have to run the damn Statue of Liberty play to get around them. Fat people who plop down beside you on the bus and spill their flab all over you, probably. Fat people who beget fat children? Definitely.

1. Minnesota Twins
Somebody's got to get destroyed by the Yankees in the first round, and Minnesota's just the team to do it! Although their new outdoor stadium would be absolute death to dome or warm weather teams come playoff time, they won't finish well enough to win home field.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Janice Dickinson. Frigid bitch.

2. Detroit Tigers
Their pitching staff is young and moderately interesting, and their almost-above-average lineup is just elderly and arthritic enough to fall apart down the stretch. Manager Jim Leyland will single-handedly rescue the tobacco industry by smoking an entire pack every inning.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Paula Abdul. Makes a lot of noise, but old enough that nobody really cares.

3. Chicago White Sox
At least they've got Ozzie.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Fergie. Flat out busted, but not bad if you were to put a paper bag over their head and staple it shut.

4. Cleveland Indians
In three years they've gone from a JD Drew fluke home run away from the World Series to also ran that's lucky they've got the Royals in the division. They've traded away their big names, and not one of their Next Big Things has panned out yet. They canned manager Eric Wedge, but how does GM Mark Shapiro still have a job?
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Brigitte Nielsen. Went from Sly Stallone and "Red Sonja" to Flava Flav to that French dude. What the hell happened?

5. Kansas City Royals
Ladies and gentlemen, the place where replacement level players go to die. Like an elephant graveyard. Or watching lemmings fall off a cliff. Rick Ankiel followed Jason Kendall followed Juan Cruz followed Rowdy Kyle Farsnworth followed Jose Guillen right over those pretty waterfalls in the outfield. Note that the Red Sox have not won a World Series since they hired former Royals GM Allard Baird, who lay the foundation for this vortex of suck, as a consultant.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Tara Reid. Just a complete trainwreck.

2010 MLB Preview - American League East

Just because everybody else is doing it. As a means of better communicating my rankings with those who aren't as baseball savvy I've created a brand new metric: Hollywood Starlet Equivalent, which aims to simplify a club's ranking by equating it to a well-known female celebrity. Baseball Prospectus has already offered me millions for the rights to this revolutionary new system.

American League East
The best division in the league is also arguably the least interesting. The top two teams are obvious; the rest should petition Bud for a transfer to the National League, where they could all potentially contend for the Wild Card.

1. New York Yankees
Defensive upgrades in left and center should mostly offset the losses of Johnny Damon and Hideki Matsui. I Stole Your Lunch would like to thank Hideki for getting the hell out of the division.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Whoever Derek Jeter is banging this week. Unless they suck, in which case they're A-Rod's blowup doll (no, not Kate Hudson).

2. Boston Red Sox (Wild Card)
Mike Cameron? Marco Scutaro? Adrian Beltre? Really? Why not just clone JD Drew and have him play every position on the field? I'm having flashbacks to the Duquette era. At least that pending midseason trade for Adrian Gonzalez will save them, giving them the Wild Card by the skin of their teeth.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Claudia Black. I will always love you, no matter how many shows/movies/miniseries the SyFy channel shoehorns you into.

3. Tampa Bay Rays
No team has a bigger distance between its potential floor and its potential ceiling. They could rack up 100 victories and walk off with the division; they could revert to their devilish ways and drop 100. The combined ages of every pitcher on their staff is lower than my bowling score, and their offense seems a bit overrated.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Ellen Paige. Those "in the know" love them, but I'm not completely convinced. But they're ok; they're watchable and somewhat interesting, and you can see how good it could get. Maybe someday...

4. Baltimore Orioles
Put the O's in any other division and they'd be the new "It" team that would make all the sportswriters mess their pantaloons. If their next pack of prospects comes through, look out.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Mila Kunis. Been trying to steal the show for years, and they're almost there.

5. Toronto Blue Jays
Did they get enough for Halladay? That depends. It's the baseball equivalent of Yoda giving up to hide in the swamp and wait for Luke and Leia to grow up. Had they given it one more good try with what they had, they might've been able to beat the Evil Empire. Their offense was coming around, and they've got a ton of good young arms. But Kyle Drabek and Brett Wallace have the potential to carry this team for years to come. Just not this year.
Hollywood Starlet Equivalent: Linda Hogan, ex-wife of The Immortal Hulk Hogan. Dumped the aging superstar for some punk half her age, tried to steal the Hulk's favorite toilet seat but had to give it back.

What a crummy Woot Off!

It's like they're just throwing up the slightly-techie crap they found behind the counter at CVS. It's also possible that they're selling off the last remaining scraps of Circuit City. I realize today's harsh economic climate has hit everyone hard, but Woot! has always been a beacon of hope in a sea of douchebaggery, a pusher of moderately useful or at least somewhat amusing merchandise. For fuck's sake, I spent three hours today refreshing the page just have the same stupid MP3 players with Mickey Mouse ears tearing apart another little piece of my soul every time. All that's left is a mushy little chunk that looks vaguely like Tara Reid's last movie.

But I still have hope. As yet there has been no sign of either Bag 'o Crap or the Screaming Woot! monkey; hence we may only be in the second leg of the fabled three-day Woot Off! C'mon, baby, daddy needs Star Wars undies that double as a node in a wireless mesh network...

(Author's note added fifteen minutes later: catastrophe averted. Just bought an electric stick mixer with whisk and chopper attachments. Now I just need a blonde dye job and I can finally take Alton Brown's place.)

Artsy Fartsy

I spend a lot of time in trendy Somerville coffee shops, the kind where everybody's glasses are square and they charge you extra if you don't have a tattoo or some sort of brown cardigan. I was unable to fool the clever waitress with a set of temporary red-and-black stars on my neck, but they can't argue with the brown cardigan I found in the dumpster out back even though it smells like overcooked hobo in melted cheddar cheese with a side of An Tain.

Said coffee shops tend to feature paintings from local artists. Some of these are nice, normal, pretty things, like houses or seascapes or ponies. Most look like someone shoved a few different colors of paint up their rear end and farted in the general direction of a canvas. Many of them are on sale - for six hundred dollars.

Originally, this was going to be a rant about how no one in Somerville would pay six hundred dollars for a piece of fartwork by some dude no one's ever heard of. But then I realized that's not true; my time on Winter Hill has blinded me to Somerville's seething subculture of hippies, yuppies, hipsters, yippies, huppies, puppies, and whatever else they call themselves these days that percolates beneath Somerville's working class majority like a steaming miasma of irony and PBR. They would pay their entire barista/bike mechanic paycheck for an inkblot on a canvas. They'd also pay six hundred dollars for:

• Square things
  
• Organic fish chow
• Particle board furniture from Scandinavia
  
• Swoopy haircuts
• Used bicycles
  
• Tattoos: aforementioned red and black stars, random crap from the fifties, talking chair from Pee Wee's Playhouse, string of cool looking Japanese characters advertised as an ancient proverb that actually translates roughly to "mama soap swine licker"
  
• Ganja

Meanwhile, the list of things on which the locals, the Real Somervillains, would be willing to spend six hundred smackers is quite a bit different:

• Used Honda
• Thumpin' sound system for used Honda
• Ground effect lights for used Honda
• Bail
• Tattoos, male: tribal triangles, flames, used Honda, Pat the Patriot
• Tatoos, female: fairy wings, "Princess," unintelligible tramp stamp with some sort of heart
  
• Tab at On the Hill Tavern to impress that one girl that's uglier and skinnier and has more teeth than all her friends and is in good standing with her parole officer
• Operation performed behind On the Hill Tavern by One Eyed Dr. Sully and his trusty coat hanger
• If unable to convince above girl that One Eyed Dr. Sully is a legit medical professional, game-worn Patriots jersey to wear at shotgun wedding
• Ganja

This concludes today's examination of the geosociopoliticaleconomic climate of Somerville.

Also, my campaign Dream Team has imploded. Chief Political Strategist Levi Johnson and his hockey stick dueled with Special Enforcer Jose Offerman and his baseball bat over a supposedly stolen bottle of tequila. Both are in intensive care. Economic Advisor Bernie Madoff took off with the ten bucks I loaned him. And the girl at the bus stop hasn't been at the bus stop for a few days. Things are looking grim for my Supreme Court Challenge.

I Demand a Recount

Coakley may have given her consolation speech, but the Colby campaign has yet to throw in the towel. Recount, now.

I don't blame people for not voting for her. Holy crap, what an unlikeable shrew. I do, however, blame people for voting for Scott Brown (previously known as That Yuppie Looking Dude). If I could put it into words, I would...but I can't. Just know that a vote for Brown was a vote for dumb, a vote for the status quo, a vote for being tricked and exploited. If the Republicans were actually the party of being smart about spending, I'd vote for them; but just like the Dems, and perhaps more so, they're just the party of selling out Real Americans like you and I and Hulk Hogan and Chuck Norris. Look at Rush Limbaugh; by the Force, look at Sarah Palin. What a bunch of terds.

Unfortunately, Chuck Norris can't do it on his own, and the Hulkster's had a few too many hip surgeries to help out. Until we wake up, we're going to continue to get screwed over by the same douche bags again and again. For all those who forgot, the current economic mess was caused by the lax policies of a Republican regime; hence, because a Democratic majority was unable to fix it in a year, the answer is obviously more Republicans. (end sarcasm)

I Stole Your Lunch will continue to withhold its vote until the day it does not have to choose between the herp and the syph. Someday, a man will burst through the curtain to a booming rock anthem and a terrific display of pyrotechnics to save us all...

...AND THAT MAN WILL BE SCOTT COLBY, and you will all do the chants and the hand signs and love every minute of it.

J-E-T-S SUCK SUCK SUCK

Sunday's epic confrontation between the Bolts and Gang Green set offensive football back a good twenty-five years. New York's entire game plan can be described as thus:

RUN-RUN-INCOMPLETE PASS-PUNT-HOPE FOR INTERCEPTION IN OPPONENT'S TERRITORY-RUN-RUN-REX RYAN EATS THREE BACON AND LARD PIES-INCOMPLETE PASS-FIELD GOAL-REPEAT

The Chargers, conversely, thought they could win simply by having head coach Norv Turner make constipated faces on the sideline. Somehow, that failed.

Which leads us to this coming Sunday's AFC Championship game between the Jets and the Colts. Normally, I'd pretend that this match up between my two least favorite teams simply didn't exist. But in this case...

...deep breath...

But in this case, I'm going to pull for...

...deep breath...

In this case, I'm going to pull for the Jets. The Colts DESERVE to lose. They're the reason this abortion of a team is in the playoffs in the first place. They completely rolled over at home against New York in Week 16, keeping the Jets' playoff hopes alive. This is their fault, and the Force will see to it that they get what they deserve.

I Stole Your Lunch maintains that going undefeated and winning the Super Bowl is more important than just winning the Super Bowl. Somebody wins the Super Bowl every year; that somebody is then forgotten within a few seasons. But go perfect, and everybody remembers who you were and when you did it. Who won the Super Bowl in 1971? Nobody gives a crap! But everybody knows the Miami Dolphins were perfect in '72.

This will be the only time I will root for the Jets unless they somehow end up playing a team entirely comprised of Mannings. Also, if the Saints fail to beat the Vikings, I'm going to pretend the Super Bowl was cancelled this year due to the field collapsing into a giant singularity of Favrian suck.

Vote Awesome; Vote Colby!

Few elections have cried out for a viable third candidate like this Tuesday's showdown between Martha Coakley and That Yuppie Dude for dearly departed Ted Kennedy's seat in the Senate. The Facepage and the Twatter have been abuzz lately with people who can't decide between the two. It's like picking between JD Drew and Jeremy Hermida; somebody's got to play right field, but neither option is particularly attractive, and both are apt to hit into a double play while sitting in the dugout. Part of that, I suspect, is the overall air of complete fakery surrounding each candidate. They couldn't be more contrived and manufactured if they were Backstreet Boys.

I'm kind of strange, so I like to pretend that both were injected with magic truth-and-candor dust and forced to film new commercials:

"Hi, I'm Martha Coakley. I'm that maybe-once-was-kind-of-attractive-if-it-was-dark-and-you-were-loaded woman running for State Senate. I enjoy pantsuits and getting my hair did and watching reruns of Golden Girls. I took my husband's manhood, but sometimes I give it back to him for an hour or two on the weekends. Even though I'm an overbearing shrew and I've crushed his spirit, when we're in public we love each other so very very much oh yes we do. I think my opponent is a moron for going out in the terrible cold to shake hands with the disgusting rabble. I'm a Democrat, so I'm directionless and out of touch with real Americans."

"Hi, I'm That Yuppie Guy. I work hard to be non-threatening in every possible way. I keep a touch of gray in my hair to leave my age ambiguous; I could be a wise, experienced old man, or I could be a rebellious free spirit whose slightly aged coiffure belies his youth and vigor. My fake smile was grown in a vat in California. Sometimes my wife gives me my manhood back on the weekend for an hour or two. I'm so white that even my dookies are pasty. I'm from Wrentham, but I don't shop there because I'm too good to wear the same sweater vests as the rest of the rabble. I'm a Republican, so I'm batshit insane and out of touch with real Americans."

Bleh. You know the drill. There's got to be a factory somewhere that churns out these cookie cutter politicians (they all fall apart at some point in their careers, so they must be made in China). They're all the same, and none of them is ever going to accomplish anything of consequence, and we vote for them because it's easier than looking for an alternative.

So instead of allowing you to sit on your butt and not look for an alternative, I'm going to hurl one at your face through the magic of the Interwebs. On Tuesday, vote awesome; vote Colby!

This wouldn't be possible if I were working alone. I've assembled the greatest campaign team known to man:

• Head Political Strategist Levi Johnston, who brings a wealth of campaign experience to the team.
• Chief Economist Bernie Madoff
  
• Military Advisor Sergeant Slaughter
• Director of Being Female So My Campaign Is Not Called Sexist the girl who's at the bus stop sometimes
  
• Special Enforcer Jose Offerman
  

As a United States Senator, I promise to...

• Finally wrest the Congressional Beer Pong Championship from John McCain.
• Commit a hilarious practical joke on my fellow legislators by shoving a bunch of pulled pork inside the pages of a bill.
• Prevent further economic chicanery on the part of the financial sector by implementing Bitchslap a Banker Day.
  
• Build a giant fence on the Somerville border.
  
• Only screw around with good looking interns.
• Refrain from use of tobacco products when screwing around with interns to avoid giving impressionable children the wrong idea.
• Take money from lobbyists, not vote the way they want me to, then laugh in their faces.
• Implement EVERYBODY FLIES NAKED plan to secure our skies (see previous post for details.
• Give tax breaks to people who take their money out of the banks and out of the stock market and bury it in a coffee can in the backyard.

In short, my platform can be summed up in two words: High Life.

"But you're not qualified to represent my beloved commonwealth in the Senate!" I hear some of you moaning. "We need someone who really understands the plight of the average Massachusettsian." Luckily, I was prepared for you peons.

Scott Colby's Qualifications to Represent the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the Senate

• Can consistently name all members of the Red Sox starting rotation.
• Knows all the words to several Dropkick Murphys songs, including "Shipping Up to Boston."
• Enjoys grinders and frappes.
• Went to Revere Beach once. Survived.
• Supports the local economy by choosing Dunkin' Donuts over Starbucks.
• Watched that "Schoolhouse Rock" show about "I'm Just a Bill" once, maybe twice.
  
• Probably won't do a worse job than the posers already there.
  

I think that about says it all. You can tell I'm serious about this because I used three seperate bulleted lists. Vote awesome; vote Colby!

And if you don't, the last words you'll hear as you exit the voting booth will be "Jose, bateador arriba..."

Undie Bomber

I know the topic's a bit passe (stupid Blogger won't let me put an accent over the e), but few things gave me more joy during the holiday season than this idiot. Like any sane person, I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter when I first heard the news. I laughed even harder at the ensuing brouhaha about security and it all being Obama's fault and such. I mean, really, people: Al Qaeda's master plan was to stick a bunch of firecrackers in some moron's underwear and try to blow up a plane heading for Detroit. Really? You're concerned by this? This is "the greatest threat currently facing our nation?"

I've always been of the opinion that the best way to eliminate unwanted behavior is to ridicule it. After all, it was ridicule that ended my love of jean shorts and will hopefully some day curtail my my music-fueled transformation into a black clad emo girl with two tramp stamps and a pierced left butt cheek. I firmly believe that if Obama sent Bin Laden a letter telling him how much of a dumb ass he is every time Al Qaeda pulls one of these ridiculous stunts he'd shave, take a shower, put on some respectable looking clothes, and get a real job, potentially replacing the dearly departed Billy Mayes as the king of infomercials.

But instead, everybody's in a giant tizzy about this reject and his tighty whities. Earth to America: this is essentially the plot to a terrible SyFy channel movie called "Fruit-of-the-Booms: Terror in the Skies" featuring Lou Diamond Phillips, but with worse special effects. It wouldn't fluster LDP. It shouldn't fluster you.

So now we get to have a "national conversation" about how to improve airline security in response to this new threat. Seems to me the existing "If you see a Middle Eastern looking dude holding a match and laughing maniacally, punch him in the face" rule worked pretty well. Which leads me to an extremely important question that no one in what passes for the media elite bothered to ask: why did this genius try to light his thong-th-thong-thong-bomb in the cabin instead of in the privacy of the bathroom? Idiot.

But if the powers that be insist on taking this crap seriously, there's only one real option: EVERYBODY FLIES NAKED. Do not allow any clothing within a one mile radius of any airport. This will stop known threats like shoe bombs and C4-strings as well as theoretical threats like manssiere machine guns, adult diaper land mines, and laser-equipped chastity belts. It's the only way we can be truly safe when we fly, although I suspect it will lead to a greatly increased use of barf bags.

Time for football. Saints-Cardinals looks like it should be a great game, but it's been made even better by a reported wager between Kurt Warner and Reggie Bush. If the Cardinals win, Tony Siragusa eats Kim Kardashian; if the Saints win, the Goose eats Mrs. Warner and whatever crazy hairdo she's sporting this year. Family fun for all.

This is all your fault, J$

I know what you're thinking. "Oh, not this again. I was hoping we'd get to skip the Forty-Sixth Annual Relaunch of I Stole Your Lunch this year. This is a worse tease than my hot neighbor who always remembers to close the shades AFTER she's undone a few buttons. How is this time going to be different?"

It probably won't be. There's a good chance I'll keep up with this for a few weeks then completely forget about it; there's an even better chance that this will be the only update you get for the next year and a half. There's a possibility that the Interwebs, already stacked to the gills with retarded crap, will finally reach the point where it can't possibly contain another word of bullshit and regurgitate I Stole Your Lunch all over your keyboard. There's a possibility that I'll finally drink enough to actually lobotomize myself and wind up posting an update that consists of "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaajlkjflkajsflkfjalksfjlakjsfldkjaoieja crowofoiwhfuwehauhtoqhoqhohvoahvohauhvdnvwqnvcgwbe Keira Knightley." Whatever happens, I promise one thing: something's going to happen, and it's going to be about as pretty as that thing you took home from Ai Tain after your seventeeth dollar Miller Lite.

But potential carnage be damned, my legions of loyal blogonauts (on the Interwebs, three now constitutes legions) have spoken. They miss me, and they've cried themselves to sleep every night since last I posted, often huddled together in a tangled mass of vaguely cheese-scented manhood as they attempt to soothe each other's pain. At least bringing that to an end will accomplish something positive.

A lot has changed; a lot has stayed the same. And the only way to properly examine both a lots is with a pair of bulleted lists.

The Same

• I Stole Your Lunch maintains that the MBTA could get itself out of debt in two weeks if it charged by the pound.
• Lard asses need to learn how to walk.
• My grammar and spelling are both better than yours and I will judge you harshly because of it.
• The yacht of any potential betrothal must measure at least 90 feet from bow to stern and feature a bowling alley, a helipad, and a towering mast on which epic duels with pirate captains can be fought.
• You buy the booze, I'll write the blog.

Different

• The Foggy Goggle has been vanquished not by fire nor by exorcism but by an Irish-themed punk band with one big hit. Henceforth, the Official Slimy, Disgusting Watering Hole of I Stole Your Lunch is the Hong Kong in Harvard Square. The Golden Temple in Washington Square was a close second, but it's hard to beat three whole floors of skanktastic good times.
• I Stole Your Lunch Headquarters has relocated to a lovely Winter Hill. Rest assured that the local townies, intelligent and sophisticated as they are, will provide ample blog fodder.
• I'm not paying for hosting anymore. Blogger is good enough.
• Google Ads, which base themselves on the content of a given site, will soon provide hours of additional entertainment to my loyal blogonauts.

Stay tuned...