This is Not a Test of the Emergency Broadcast System

On Wednesday, November 9, at 2 pm, FEMA conducted its first test of the nation-wide Emergency Alert System (EAS).  There were a few bugs, but the thing mostly worked.  Including the Lady Gaga music it briefly played to a few lucky Americans.

"What?" you're surely gasping, mouth agape.  "Every reputable site on the Internet says that was a mistake!  Surely the government didn't intentionally serenade its citizens with Lady Gaga!"

That's where you're wrong.  As we all know, there are a number of things They don't want us to know about.  They don't care that we know there are things They don't want us to know about because they think it's funny.  But there are indeed a lot of things They don't want us to know about.  I'm about to give away one of Their biggest secrets, and They're collectively going to shit a brick.

You see, EAS is SUPPOSED to play music when it's fired up.  The song it plays is a special code used to alert the other Thems as to the true nature of the emergency, the cause They don't want us to know about. It gives Them a leg up on saving themselves while the rest of us are left to die.

For instance:

• Lady Gaga's "Paparazzi," as heard yesterday, tells Them that it's only a test and they should go back to playing CEO while flossing with fresh spider silk seated atop their golden toilets.
• A zombie apocalypse, of course, is heralded by "Thriller."
• "Secret Agent Man" alerts Them to be on the lookout for a Them-created supersoldier who's gone "off the reservation" and begun picking "Them" off one-by-one.
• Nelly's "Hot in Herre" is the signal to head for the spaceship life boats because OH FUCK GLOBAL WARMING!!!!!
• "Supermassive Blackhole" by Muse tells Them to don their gas masks so that they might survive the massive cloud of flatulence headed their way.
• The onset of a pandemic is signaled using "I Will Survive" by the Gloria Gaynor.  Cake's cover tells us it's a food-born illness.
• "Since You've Been Gone" means California just sank but Kelly Clarkson's ok with that because she's moving on.
• "I Think I'm Turning Japanese" by the vapors signals the approach of Godzilla or similar atomic monstrosities including but not limited to Mothra, Rodan, or Janice Dickinson.

In extreme cases, EAS utilizes mashups of the above.  Suppose you hear "Thriller" mixed with "Hot in Herre" and "Supermassive Blackhole."  Now you're dealing with a zombie flatulence aggravated by OH FUCK GLOBAL WARMING!!!

Many Bothans died to bring us this information.  Use it wisely.  You know They will.

Colby for Red Sox Manager

If this year's World Series taught us anything, it's that you don't need a competent manager to succeed in Major League Baseball.  It doesn't matter how badly you mismanage the bullpen, how often you intentionally walk slap-hitting utility infielders, or how many illogical bunts you instruct your guys to drop.  You don't need to be paying attention and you certainly don't need to know how to work the bullpen phone.  All you really need are three steady starters, a decent closer, a training staff steadily pumping your guys full of whatever borderline illegal wonder drug will keep them on the field, and a metric shit ton of luck.  And by luck, I mean you really just need to be facing a team with an even dumber manager than yours.

This is why I'm hereby entering my name for consideration for Boston's vacant manager position.  I figure I'm no more or less qualified than any of the other candidates.  My qualifications:

• I've lead the Pittsburgh Pirates to two consecutive National League Central Championships.  Video game managing is no different than managing in the minors, except in the minors when you charge the mound you don't collide with the television and hurt yourself.  That makes me at least as qualified as Ryne Sandberg.
• My Modesto Nuts finished with the best record in an extremely intense fantasy baseball league.  I won $20, which I put toward deodorant.  I will smell better than Dale Sveum and my name is a LOT easier to figure out how to say.
• Under my leadership, players drinking beer in the dugout shall be a thing of the past.  That's because I'm a big lush and I will steal and drink all of their beer.  I bet Pete Mackanin doesn't have the balls to lead by example like that.
• I shall hire Jose Canseco as my hitting coach.  I don't think it's any secret why Nick Punto, who swings a bat like your mother, set a career high in slugging this season under Mark McGwire's...er...tutelage.  That's the kind of bold, out-of-the-box thinking that would never occur to DeMarlo Hale.
• I all ready have my own hat.  You'll have to buy one for Mike Maddux.

There's more, but I am firmly opposed to resumes that take up more than one page.  Just call me, Cherington.  You won't regret it.  And if you don't, you should probably just save some money by putting John Lackey in charge.  He might as well do something to earn that eleventy bajillion dollars he's going to make not pitching next year.

I Will Survive, Episode 5

I have a confession to make: I am completely addicted to Survivor.  Have been on and off for quite a long time.  And you thought my taste in entertainment couldn't possibly get any worse.

Like the few other things I watch on TV, I am extremely opinionated about Survivor and I know I could do a better job than everyone involved.  Unfortunately I'm a lazy shit and I can't swim all that well.  Ok, at all.  But I sure as hell can pass judgment on the cast!  I'm also very good at copying other people, so I'm going to pull a Bill Simmons and separate the cast into tiers depending on their chances of ultimate victory.  Spoilers to follow.

No Chance.  No Chance In Hell.
Brandon - His strong alliance with Coach might keep in the game for a long time, but there is no way in hell a jury is giving this dude $1 million.  If Survivor were a drinking game, we'd be finishing our beers every time Lil Hantz breaks down in tears to tell us how much of a nice guy he really is deep down inside.  I just hope he makes it to the family challenge so I can see the "Oh fuck the Dragon Slayer just pooped himself" face Coach makes when Uncle Russell comes sauntering out of the jungle.

Keith and Whitney - These two dumb fucks made me yell at the TV.  There is no stupider move than not taking one of the two sides in a tribal split.  Now neither side wants you or trusts you, you dumb twatwaffles, and you just handed the tribe to that asshat Jim on a silver fucking platter.

Edna - Undoubtedly the next one out of Upolu.  That's a model tribe right there, with a clear pecking order and solid leadership.  Everything Savaii isn't.

Elise - No way she beats Christine on Redemption Island.  That'd be like the Red Sox losing the Wild Card to Tampa B--nevermind.

You Can't See Me
Rick - If it weren't for the mustache and the cowboy hat I would've completely forgotten this guy.  He says about one sentence per episode, which tells me the producers don't care because he doesn't get very far or do anything all that interesting.

It's All About the Game And How You Play It
Cochran - Yet more evidence that I need to try out.  If they'll take this fucker, they'll take me.


Mikayla - Next out after Edna, unless she can find a way to turn Lil Hantz's ridiculous hatred of her around on him.  Sadly I think she's more inclined to just cry about it than she is to try to use it to her advantage.  Possible swing vote if she makes it to the merge.

Ozzy - Watching him give Coach a big hug while flipping off the idiots in Savaii post-merge is going to be absolutely magnificent.  But he might be the next one out if his tribe loses again, and those flip-floppers tend to be the bottom of the list in their new alliances.

Christine - I wouldn't put running the Redemption Island table beyond Christine.  And if she makes it back, she's going to cause some problems for the other players in the individual challenges.

Jim - Classic overthinker.  He would've been smarter to keep Ozzy and Elyse around and happy; pissing Ozzy off now does nothing to actually help the tribe.

Albert and Sophie - Boooooooooooooooooooooooooring.   But that can go far.  Neither is dumb enough to fuck themselves over by betraying Coach, but neither is good enough to win the individual challenges.

I Came to Play
Dawn - Surprised?  Physically fit older women who aren't batshit insane always fly under the radar and reach the final four.  I could write a treatise on this phenomenon.  Keith and Whitney's fuck up catapulted Dawn up out of the "Cochran or the old broad?" discussion and into the threesome suddenly in control of Savaii.  Just watch.

Coach - The odds-on favorite.  He's got a tribe that hangs on his every word.  He's got an immunity idol in his back pocket and could add another if Ozzy swings post-merge.  He doesn't have a Jerri to hit on, so he no longer makes me want to throw up.  Brandon is the only crack in his armor right now.  If he gets rid of Lil Hantz too soon, he loses a strong hand in the challenges and could see a major pain in the ass coming back to bite him if the kid survives Redemption Island.  If he keeps him around too long, the others might start to think he's stupid.  My thought: Edna first, then Brandon if they lose again pre-merge.

Yes, I named all of my tiers using lyrics from wrestling entrance music.  Yes, that was a stupid fucking idea that has nothing to do with the subject matter.  No, I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.

Courtesy shouldn't be big news

Today the MBTA launched a new advertisement campaign urging its riders to be more courteous. The campaign makes use of fake newspaper headlines detailing nice things you can do to make everybody's T experience just a little less sucky. Examples include such gems as "Man gives up seat for pregnant woman -- Red Line passengers witness display of good manners" and "Passenger refrains from loud cell phone conversation! -- Others will not get to hear about dermatologist appointment."

This is a good start, but it doesn't go nearly far enough. Luckily I was once the Editor-in-Chief of a nationally renowned student newspaper. I am damn good at headlines. Here are a few I recommend the T add:

• Everybody showered today -- Blue Line smells less like shit 
• Popped collar wearing douche bag steps into train rather than grabbing the first pole he sees like it's bamboo and he's a panda -- Friendly nun fixes his collar, thanks him 
• Sketchy homeless man shares paper bagged Wild Turkey with anyone who asks -- The destination of this train is: Party! 
• Teenager refrains from swinging on bars like monkey having a seizure -- Might actually amount to something someday 
• Drunk assholes call a cab -- Red Line passengers pass hat to pay their tip 
• Scott Colby holds in fart until after disembarking -- "I'm so glad my crops were not dusted!" exults fellow passenger 
• Lard ass realizes he won't fit in that seat, remains standing -- Passengers grateful for lack of side blubber spilling into their laps 
• Woman discovers she can get back on the train after stepping off to let others through -- Nobel Peace Prize sure to follow

I Read Your Book: "Oryx and Crake" by Margaret Atwood

No, that's not the pair of exotic tropical diseases that did in Van Gogh.  That's the title of a book that reaffirms my faith in nerd literature.

Plot: "Oryx and Crake" tells the story of a man who might be the last human on earth following the spread of a deadly plague.  The narrative switches easily and effortlessly between Snowman's journey to the ruins of civilization for fresh supplies and flashbacks to his youth and relationship with the titular Oryx and Crake.  All things considered, it's all a bit anticlimactic; Atwood is more concerned about how the characters get to the big turning points in their lives than she is about making those moments overly dramatic.  She doesn't beat the reader over the head with explanation or ruin the flow with any big "Why?  I'll tell you..." speeches. There's no big twist, no misdirection, and no bullshit. It works, and it works well.  Score:9

Setting:  Local and national governments have collapsed, replaced by giant corporations that provide a police force and manipulate every bit of people's lives for their own gain.  Most of these corporations deal in radical biotech: treatments to change the way you look, highly specialized animals built to maximize food production or grow organs for transplant, custom microbes with which to destroy your enemies.  It's science fiction, but it never, ever seems far-fetched.Score:10

Characters: There's growth here, but it's subtle.  Snowman's kind of a washout in his early days; he'd be nothing without Crake, but he's grown up since the plague and become a strong father figure to Crake's new race of pseudo-humans.  His name may not be part of the title, but he's the star of this book.  Score: 8

Ending: Remember what I wrote above about the plot being a bit anticlimactic?  Yeah.  The finale kind of works given the tone and structure of the book, but I can't help wishing it provided a bit more closure.  Score: 5

That's an 8.  I'm not sure it's fair to let the ending hold it back like that, so let's call it a high 8, an 8.999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999.

Bests: Atwood doesn't beat you over the head with plot developments and character growth - you have to pay attention; the setting.
"Bests:" At one point, a group of tree hugging eco-terrorists "free" a bunch of chickens genetically modified to produce a metric ton of meat but no legs or eyes.
Worsts: Closure?  Please?  And I never got a good feel for what made Oryx tick.

Is it better than Scott Colby's forthcoming novel, "Shotgun?" Yes, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

I Read Your Book: "The Measure of Magic: Legends of Shannara" by Terry Brooks

Yup, I read shit with titles like that.  I'm so cool.

Plot: "Measure of Magic" tells the story of a young boy, Panterra Qu, forced to take up the black staff and become the new last Knight of the Word, making him the last, best, and only defense humanity has against a world ravaged by a demonic apocalypse.  It falls to Panterra and his motley crew of pals to protect the last vestige of civilization is under siege by an army of ferocious trolls and demon set on destroying the bearer of the black staff.  Oh man I can hear the women lining up to talk to me.

If you've read Brooks before, you know what's coming: rescues by the King of the Silver River, missing elf stones, and magic that isn't much fun because its use always comes with a price.  Things progress in a slow, orderly fashion; cuts between perspective are surprisingly rare and well-timed given the number of characters involved.  But it all feels rather anti-climactic; nothing about the situation in the valley changes.  The demon goes through the trouble of killing a shit ton of people to attract Panterra into an ambush...but Panterra was all ready kind of heading that direction anyway, so what was the point?  The subplot involving the treacherous elven queen was cleaned up a little too easily.  Score: 6

Characters: It's not even worth listing them.  You want static characters with almost zero back story?  You got 'em.  No one in this story grows or changes.  Most of the protagonists are indecipherable from each other; they're all cut out of the same cloth.  They're plucky and courageous and they do what they have to do when they have to do it.  What could've been an interesting love triangle between Panterra and the two main heroines never comes to fruition.  The death of one character seems completely unnecessary.

The only saving grace here is the demon.  The large chunk of the story told from his evil, obsessive perspective is the one place where Brooks really shines.  Score: 5

Setting: If there's another book in the series, this is what will make me grudgingly decide to read it.  The last bits of humanity and elven(ity?) have been sequestered in a magically protected valley for 500 years as the rest of the world degenerated into a wasteland ravaged both by demons and nuclear and chemical weapons.  The wards have come down, and now it's time to reenter the world at large.  Or what's left of it.  I would've liked to have seen more.  Score: 8

Ending: Blah.  I didn't care enough about any of the characters to feel anything about the end, and things progressed pretty much the way I thought they would.  Bleh.  Score: 5

Add 'em all up, bust out some division, and we get a 6.  That pains me; Brooks is an old favorite.  I had high hopes for this one because I really enjoyed the previous trilogy.  The great setting gives the series a chance for a big comeback...but maybe it's time for Brooks to try something new.

Bests: The demon; the setting.
"Bests:" Leading a dragon around with a magic beam of light like it's a cat chasing a laser pointer.
Worsts: Who the fuck are these people and why the fuck should I care; don't even bother trying to read this if you haven't read the others.

Is it better than Scott Colby's forthcoming novel, "Shotgun?"  No way.  Brooks's elves are getting a bit boring and long in the tooth; mine are ridiculous assholes.  I win.

Things for Which I Would Trade John Lackey and Carl Crawford

• $20 and a urinal cake to be named later.
• Beach buckets and shovels.  Everybody loves building a sand castle.
• Manny Ramirez.
• Pedro Martinez.
• Pedro's midget friend (RIP).
• Trot Nixon.
• Ozzie Guillen.
• Skeeball tickets from Good Times.  Despite the fact that the Emporium is naught but a gaping crater, these irredeemable tickets somehow seem like they'd be more useful than Lackey and Crawford.
• Carlos Zambrano.  Don't tell me the Cubs wouldn't do it.
• Frank McCourt.
• A bucket of extra tasty crispy.
• Hell, I'd settle for original recipe.
• A thirty rack of Narragansett and two bags of Pop Chips.
• A better place to sit in Diesel Cafe.
• A ski mask and a shotgun.  No, I'm not planning anything.  What makes you say that?
• Oceanfront property in Oklahoma.
• A submarine with a screen door.
• A toilet that somehow thwarts the Coriolis effect and always flushes in the opposite direction in which it should be flushing.
• Brady Quinn and Matt Leinart.
• T tokens.
• A trip around Africa aboard a Somali pirate ship.
• An autographed Lindsay Lohan ankle tracking bracelet.
• Someone larger than the big guido playing backgammon in the corner to tell said big guido to button his Hawaiian shirt the fuck up.
• Paper towels and toilet paper.  You can never have enough of either.
• Some actual blogging skills so I can write something more intelligent than a random ass bulleted list.
• Whatever the hell the Angels, Nats, Mets, or Orioles are willing to give up.  At least one of them has to be interested.

I Watched Your Movie: "Drive"

Author's Note: I've found that the more I write, regardless of what it is, the better my writing seems to be. Reviewing the various pieces of media I consume is a cheap, easy way to keep myself stretched out and limber.

All scores out of 10.

Plot: "Drive" is a slightly formulaic action thriller following an unnamed protagonist who winds up on the wrong side of the local crime lords.  There are few surprises here; things proceed in an orderly, predictable fashion, with no leaps in logic or suspension of disbelief required.  That's not to say it isn't interesting and engaging; our hero and those he cares about are royally fucked, and the brutality and body count leave you unsure of their ultimate fates until the conclusion.  This is not the feel good Hollywood action movie the trailers lead me, and seemingly the rest of the theater, to expect.  It is vicious and sudden and blunt in its delivery.  Score: 7.

Cast: Ryan Gosling is extremely effective as the Driver.  He cares even less about smalltalk than yours truly, but beneath that awkward exterior is a man with both a kind heart and a wicked mean streak.  When it's time to bring the pain, he does so efficiently and remorselessly.  He's obviously done so before.  I can't decide if his demeanor and ease with violence were due to innate mental problems or if they were the result of a troubled past.  I suspect the latter, but the movie doesn't tell.

Carey Mulligan is excellent as Irene, the object of the Driver's affections.  She is the rarest of all modern female leads: the attractive woman who is never, ever objectified by the director.  The one instance of physicality between Irene and the Driver is not there to titillate but to progress the development of the characters, to show the Driver's acceptance of his likely fate and his desire to do something he will probably never get another chance to do.  That's right, I'm more than just poop jokes.

Bryan Cranston, as always, plays the down-on-his-luck, in-over-his-midlife-crisising-head role to a T.  Ron Perlman almost steals the show as a vicious mob boss.  I was surprised at Christina Hendricks's relatively small role, given her name recognition and "It Girl" status.  Score: 9.

Cinematography: Director Nicolas Winding Refn presents his story slowly and deliberately, making us give a crap about the Driver and especially Irene before the shit hits the fan.  The New Wave-y soundtrack is jarring; in theory the movie's main theme, College's "A Real Hero," should not work in a movie like this.  It's something you'd hear at the end of an 80's prom.  I kept wondering when the Driver was going to find Molly Ringwald crying on the side of the road in a poofy pink dress.  But the more I heard it the more I felt it fit.  It's catchy as shit, and I've been listening to it nearly nonstop at work since buying it Monday morning.  There were a few too many awkward, brooding, lingering glances for my taste, especially from Irene.  Score: 8.

Ending: The final fight feels a little quick and anti-climactic, but it makes sense within the scope of the film.  I was surprised at how relatively well things turned out for our heroes given the overall brutality of the plot.  Score: 8.

Add 'em all up, divide by 4, and we get an 8.  That sounds appropriate.  "Drive" is a very good movie, but it's not one I want to sit through again anytime soon.  Think the new "True Grit" or "The Wrestler."

Bests: Irene; the Driver's awesome jacket; absolutely everything about the elevator scene; the soundtrack.
"Bests:" No matter how much blood gets on the Driver's jacket, he never bothers to wash it.
Worst: If the characters would stop staring at each other and fucking say something you could knock at least twenty minutes off the movie's running time; realizing I'm a pussy when I couldn't watch someone get forked in the eye; I'm not sure why the Driver bothered to disguise himself at one point.
Go see this movie if: You made the mistake of going to "Cowboys & Aliens" and/or "Conan" and need something to reaffirm your faith in the modern action movie.
Don't bother if: You're expecting something fun; you can't deal with realistic violence.

Back to School, Back to School

We professional barflies don't need a calendar to know what time of year it is.  Like Native Americans reading the sun to tell time, we can use the environment to deduce the current month.  This weekend was obviously back-to-college weekend.  Here are the signs:

• Skanks on the train.  If I were a lady, I would avoid wearing skirts that barely cover my ass whilst taking public transportation to lessen the chance of catching a disease from the nasty ass seats.  Sunday certainly set a sales record for the morning after pill.
• Everybody gets carded.  During the summer, I can stroll right into most bars with naught but a nod in the bouncer's direction.  This time of year?  No dice.  I do not appreciate having to wait an extra thirty seconds to get a beer.
• Long ass lines to get into dumb places.  The Burren.  The Phoenix Landing.  Whatever the hell was next to the Miracle of Science.  These young shitheads don't know any better, and I'm not going to teach them.  Thankfully they seem to be afraid of Sligo Pub.
• Shitty seasonal brews.  Pumpkins belong on your front porch, not in my beer. 

Let's Rank Wrestlers, September 2011

Because nobody cared about my August version, here's the September edition.

Five Guys Who Make Me Look Up From My Laptop
 5. AJ Lee
Ok, so she's not a guy.  She's also not your typical boring, siliconed up Diva.  This girl can go.  She's quick, her moves are crisp, and she sells better than any other woman on the roster.  More AJ on my TV, please.

4. Ricardo Rodriguez
You are damn right I enjoy the work of Alberto Del Rio's personal ring announcer more than I enjoy the work of ADR himself.  Ricardo is a creepy looking fuck who's probably the long lost cousin of Gomez Adams.  And he's got a better dropkick than most of the full time wrestlers and every Diva not named AJ.

3.The Formerly Dashing Cody Rhodes
Brilliant as always.  His matches with Randy Orton feel like a tryout for a bigger stage. Orton busted him open big time during their match on Smackdown - I haven't seen anybody bleed like that since the last time I watched a Ric Flair match.

2. Zack Ryder
The Long Island Iced Z is probably the feel-good story of the year.  Relegated to jobber duty on Superstars, Ryder built his own following with his highly successful (and very funny) Z: True Long Island Story series on YouTube.  Random "We want Ryder!" chants have been springing up during boring matches for months, and his victory over US Champion Dolph Ziggler implies that he might be in line for a push.  Woo, woo, woo, you know it!

1. Mark Henry
The big man did it - he beat Randy Orton to win the first World Championship of his 15 year career.  More importantly, he did relatively cleanly.  No shenanigans.  No run-ins.  No unconscious referees.  This is typically the time of year WWE tries out new champions.  Hopefully they'll give Henry a little run and then have Sheamus finally beat him.

Five Guys That Make Me Bury My Face in the Interwebs
5. Sin Cara
4. Sin Cara
Evil impostor story lines never work.  Especially when the hero doesn't speak English.

3. Kelly Kelly
I'll watch her entrance.  I won't watch her matches.  The women's division is one place TNA has a definite advantage.  I miss you, Velvet Sky.

2. Triple H
Nobody fires the Miz and avoids my wrath.  John Laurenaitis obviously summoned Kevin Nash into the ring via text message, and yet Hunter doesn't confront him?  At all?  C'mon, WWE, you can do better than that.  At least do me a solid and reform the nWo with the Miz at its head.

1. Jack Swagger
He can't talk and he's missing something in the ring.  He hasn't hit that running Vaderbomb in six years.  Get him away from my boy Dolph.

Quote of the Month
Sheamus, the WWE's first ever Irish-born World Champion, after tasting the potato with which Christian tried to bribe him: "This isn't from Ireland!  This is from Idaho!"  Later in the show he got his revenge by tossing Christian to Mark Henry for a World's Strongest Slam.  Do not fuck with an Irishman's potatoes.

Istoleyourlunchanomics

I am not an economist.  I just play one on the Interwebs.  And sometimes in video games.  That said, I have an opinion on all this talk of increasing taxes on the rich.  Like anyone else with such an opinion, I just can't keep it to myself.  MSNBC hasn't returned my calls, so I'll lay it out for you here.

On one side of the argument, we've got a bunch of stuffy rich white people screaming to the high heavens "Do not tax me, brother!" accompanied by the politicians and talking heads they've bought and paid for.  On the other side, we've got poor people who don't think Scrooge McDuck needs another money bin accompanied by the politicians and talking heads who are trying to curry their favor.  Despite the negative effect raising taxes on the rich will have on my plans to marry some rich old broad and move into her giant yacht, I've aligned myself with the latter.

The main argument against such a change is straight out of Ronald Reagan's playbook: taxing the rich, the people who own the companies that give us jobs, will mean fewer jobs because they won't have as much money to invest in said companies.  Trickle-down economics at its finest.  And its most short-sighted.  Reagonomics is to economic theory what Starter jackets are to fashion, what MySpace is to social networking, what single-ply is to personal hygiene, what excelling at the Macarena is to picking up women: it's just not relevant anymore.  In an economy based on manufacturing, where the only way to make more money is to make more and better shit faster and cheaper, Reagonomics makes sense.  You need people to make the shit, and the more people you have the more shit you can make.  Ours is not a manufacturing based economy.  It's built on shit that doesn't really exist, on intellectual property and patent portfolios and suing the shit out of people and stock options no one understands.  You don't need a huge workforce for any of those things.

It's that last item, specifically capital gains, that lawmakers who pretend to like poor people are targeting.  You see, capital gains are taxed at a rate of 15%.  Joe Blow Middle Class's income is taxed at a rate closer to 30%, depending on his state of residency.  No one will ever convince me that INVESTING (you should read that word in a ridiculous high pitched voice with your pinky out, because that's the way I'm saying it in my head every time I write it) is any better than heading on down to Mohegan Sun and dropping $20 on red.  If my number comes up, I owe the Man 30% of it.  If I screw over a bunch of poor people by INVESTING in a bunch of shit ass mortgage-backed securities and then selling them at a profit to some dumb schmuck, the man gets 15%.  The idea here is that the rich fuck who made that money INVESTING is going to turn around and INVEST it elsewhere, greasing the wheels of commerce and creating jobs.  This is asinine.

Creating more ridiculous stock options does not create jobs.  Buying politicians does not create jobs.  Ending up a joke on a reality show does not create jobs.  And, despite my previous post, neither does buying a giant yacht and staffing it with bikini models and a private army.  INVESTING in manufacturing would, but whereas all the manufacturing is done in countries where they can pay their workers in hugs and compliments, this does little to help us.

You know who creates jobs in this kind of economy?  The guy buying shit at Wal-Mart.  The family paying a contractor to work on their home.  The people who trade their money for real live shit, and not a bunch of theoretically bull pucky.  And they'll have more money for real live shit if taxing rich twats leads to improvement in schools, health care, and public infrastructure.

Rich people have every right to protest taxes levied against them.  It's a democracy, folks, and everyone gets a voice.  Even the selfish idiots like Bill O'Reilly and that asshat Republican from Louisiana who claims he can't feed his family on $400,000 a year.  All I ask is that they're honest with their protests; don't hide behind a bunch of bullshit about creating jobs when you're just a greedy shit.  Just say you're a greedy shit and you need a new golden toilet.  That's the American Dream, after all.

Tweet This

Lately it seems like we can't go fifteen minutes without some athlete/celebrity/hasbeen/neverwas logging into Twitter and pissing everybody off in 140 characters or less.  Fifteen minutes later a bunch of talking heads go off and demand an apology.  An hour after the original post we get a half-assed apology.  I feel like I could set my watch by this shit.

The prevailing "wisdom" is that these people need to think more before they put their thoughts out in the public eye.  How dare they give an opinion that hasn't been emasculated by a Public Relations Department so that it says absolutely nothing!  They should be ashamed!  Think of the children!  And the old people who don't fucking get it!

You know who's really in the wrong here?  Not the Tweeters.  The assholes who manage to take 83 characters, five or six misspellings, and two hash tags and turn it into Hiroshima.  I am so sick and tired of their shit and I demand an apology.

Let's look at a recent case, a tweet from Chad Ochocinco in regard to how impressed he was with the Patriots' offense.  And I quote:

"Just waking up after a late arrival,I've never seen a machine operate like that n person,to see video game numbers put up n person was WOW"

To which all-time great Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi opined:

"Drop the awe factor, OK, Ocho, Chad,  drop the awe factor. You're not a fan, all right? You're not someone who's on another team or watching TV. You're not an analyst. You're a part of it. They want you to be a part of it. So get with the program because obviously you're not getting it and you're tweeting because you're saying, 'It's amazing to see'? It's amazing to see because you don't understand it! You still don't understand it and it's amazing to you because you can't get it."

Tedy, I love you.  You are pretty much my most favoritest Patriot ever.  I would take a bullet for you.  But you need to shut the fuck up.  Ocho didn't say anything negative.  He didn't say anything stupid.  He didn't lie.  He didn't brag.  You would be completely in the right had you criticized his punctuation, but you completely missed that part.  All Ocho did was heap praise on his teammates.  That's it.  Get over it.

And then we have the case of Arian Foster, who whipped up a shitstorm of epic proportions by tweeting the MRI of his injured hamstring.  How could he do such a thing?  Wasn't he thinking?  OH GOD THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!!  That's almost as bad as tweeting a picture of genitalia!

Someday we'll all be able to look at things objectively and stop making mountains out of mole hills. Ok, probably not.  I was trying to give this a happy ending.  But let's be honest: this bullshit generates advertising dollars for gossip sites and 24/7 news agencies looking to make a quick buck, so it isn't going away anytime soon.  That off-the-grid cabin in the woods is looking better and better every day.

My X Step Plan That Will Work To Make America Work Again

Everybody and their brother seems to have a plan to reduce our unemployment numbers to an acceptable level.  Most of those plans are bullshit.  Mine isn't.  Here's my X Step Plan That Will Work to Make America Work Again.  X represents the number of steps this eventually ends up being.  It's a placeholder that I will change when I'm done.  Unless I forget.  Or unless my sense of humor has degraded to the point that I think joking about plugging a number into a variable is funny and that joking about forgetting to do that is even funnier, in which case you should just find me and punch me in the face.

And yes, this list needs numbers.  Bullets won't do it.  If any of these steps are done out of this exact order, the whole thing will fall apart worse than Manny Ramirez.  Somebody needs to get that dude some 'roids for his brain.

1. President Obama loans me $1 million.  Don't scoff, he's totally going to do it.  This is a fart in the wind compared to the national debt.  What's another million bucks compared to the eleventy kabillion dollar deficit we're running?  Pocket change, that's what.
2. Briefcase full of Benjamins in hand, I turn my attention to a massive open wound inflicted upon the American Dream by a vile foreign interest.  That's right, you dirty fucking Swedes, I'm bringing back the Good Times Emporium.  The eagle shall not be grounded beneath the weight of square furniture and lingonberries!  But it's not going back in its original Somerville location.  Oh, no.  I'm buying the hole in the ground that used to be the Filene's building in Downtown Crossing and putting this bitch right in the heart of the city, and I'm going to use the two walls that are still standing to do it.  Four floors of booze and decadence and debauchery and Dance Dance Revolution.  I estimate that this venture will require 15 fry cooks, 37 bartenders, 15 bar backs, 50 burly security dudes, 5 guys to maintain the wrestling ring and optional steel cage, 50 cocktail waitresses, 10 guys to manage the carnival rides, and 30 assorted office support staff.  I just created 212 jobs and brought a smile to the face of every wannabe guido and disgusting skank in the greater Boston area (not to mention the barflies who have nothing better to do than to watch the magic).
3. It doesn't end there.  My tremendous Good Times profits cannot be left to rot in the bank!  For the good of America, it must be reinvested!  What's the one thing absolutely everyone on the planet needs?  A place to take a dump, of course!  That's why I'm going to create Cozy Commodes, the first ever line of luxury port-a-crappers.  With my in depth knowledge of the Boston bar scene, I will be able to strategically position my Cozy Commodes outside every pub in which no one wants to touch the seat.  Would you pay $5 to drop a deuce in a spacious, granite-lined privy well-stocked with quilted two-ply and attended by a friendly man servant who offers you a hot towel and compliments your hair when you're done?  If the alternative were catching the syph in An Tain or Sligo, of course you would!  I estimate that this venture will require 60 friendly man servants, 30 truck drivers, 25 of the nation's best scientists for Research and Development (I bet we can recover the corn and sell it to the ethanol manufacturers!), and 50 assorted office support staff.  That's another 165 jobs, for a grand total of 377!  What's that I hear?  Why, it's Fergie working a new verse about me into the Star Spangled Banner!
4. But I'm not done yet!  As my business ventures spread their sticky fingers into Worcester, Springfield, Providence, and Hartford, it'll be time for me to kick back and reap the fruit of my labors.  One 200 foot mega-yacht, please.  I estimate that my new toy will require 5 chefs, 20 crew, 2 housekeepers, 1 bikini model to make sure I'm always well sunscreened, another to rub my feet, another to tell me how nice my hair looks today, a fifteen man security force to fend off pirate attacks, and 5 bartenders, one for every floor.  But no captains.  Because I'm the fucking captain.  That's 50 more positions to fill, for a grand total of 427 positions!  I'm creating more positions than the guy who wrote the Kama Sutra!  But his jokes were probably better.

427 jobs.  Wow!  And that doesn't even count my Good Times and Cozy Commode franchises that will surely spring up throughout New England!  Best $1 million the nation has ever spent!  I'm a better patriot than Hulk Hogan, Hacksaw Jim Duggan, and Sargent Slaughter COMBINED.

Why the High Life Man Could and Should Beat Up Keith Stone

This is my essay about why Miller High Life's High Life Man could and should beat up Keystone Light's Keith Stone.  The High Life Man could and should beat up Keith Stone because the High Life Man is better than Keith Stone in every way imaginable and some that aren't.  The High Life Man is a modern day Robin Hood.  He takes the Champagne of Beers from rich snobs who don't deserve it and gives it to cool people like you and me because that is a good honest beer for good honest folk.  He would not give any to Keith Stone.

Keith Stone is a socialist and probably a Canadian.  His only powers are rollerskating and summoning birds with fish.  Rollerskating hasn't been cool since they invented a little thing called rollerblading and birds crap everywhere.  Call me when you can summon a fish that carries a bird, Keith Stone.  His powers come from his stupid mustache and his dumb hat, both of which are easily disposed of via fire.  The High Life Man, however, once stumbled upon a moody, ethereal clearing in the middle of the forest one midnight on the Winter Solstice during a full moon the day after an eclipse.  There he met that most gorgeous of all ladies, the High Life Witch, who's buxom figure adorns every bottle and can of the Champagne.  She blessed him with the power to set the world right and made him the only mere mortal that can drive the High Life truck..  That is not something you can burn like a hat or facial hair.  That is forever.

This is how the High Life Man should beat up Keith Stone.  The next time Keith Stone asks someone to hold his stones, the High Life Man should volunteer and then kick Keith right in his stones.  No not the beer his junk.  That way Keith can't make any little pebbles and his line dies out like the Stark line probably will.  Then the High Life Man should marry Keith Stone's eldest daughter so he can straight up usurp Keith Stone's Winterfells.  Then he should back over Keith Stone with his High Life truck and everybody can toast with the Champagne of Beers.

The End.

Not really.  Now I need to explain.  A fan requested that I write a blog about the High Life Man beating up Keith Stone after I posted on Facebook that I wanted to see the High Life Man beat up Keith Stone.  I decided to stretch the wings of my writing by writing this update as if I were an 8 year old in fourth grade submitting an essay to his teacher.  This shows that I am a true arteeeeest and that I my writing has range, bitches.  I am like Chuck Klosterman but better.  I have no idea who the fuck that even is but I see his name in a lot of ladies' OKCupid profiles so I figure if I can spread word that I am better than Chuck Klosterman than more ladies will like me more and one of them will have a yacht and a deathly allergy to pre-nuptual agreements.

What the hell is wrong with me?

2011 NFC Preview

East
1. Philadelphia Eagles - They're loaded. Unfortunately there's a better chance of me waking up on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean surrounded by Brazilian supermodels fighting over which of them gets to apply my sunscreen than of Michael Vick playing 16 regular season games. I feel like they've got the depth to survive losing him for 2 or 3 games. More than that, and things get dicey.

2. Dallas Cowboys - Unfortunately for America's Team, the year they finally play up to their potential is also the year they have to deal with having the fucking Juggernaut in their division. Even without Tony Romo, I liked what I saw out of the 'boys under Jason Garrett last season.

3. New York Giants - There's just too much talent in the division for Elisha's crew to make the playoffs. They'll be the best team on the outside looking in.

4. Washington Redskins - Oh, that Rex Grossman! The playoffs? Really? Maybe if you were in the West...and even then it'd be a close race.

North
1. Green Bay Packers - Keep in mind that Green Bay won the Superbowl with approximately 163 starters on the disabled list last season. A deep run toward a perfect season is not out of the question.

2. Detroit Lions - This is the year they finally make it back to the playoffs. They're building this team the right way: along both lines, and then with a stud quarterback. Why any suck ass team spends any money on any other positions is beyond me.

3. Chicago Bears - The new kick off rules will lead to a significant increase in touchbacks, in turn sending Jay Cutler's TAINT total to never before seen heights. I can't wait.

4. Minnesota Vikings - I'm sorry, McNabb. I really am.

South
1. Atlanta Falcons - Solid everywhere, but kind of blah. Twelve wins, little fanfare.

2. New Orleans Saints - Sean Payton is arguably the best coach in the entire league. No one adjusts at halftime like the Saints. The defense is falling apart a little bit, but don't count them out with a healthy Pierre Thomas complemented by Mark Ingram.

3. Tampa Bay Buccaneers - Love this squad, but not more than I love the Saints and the Durrrty Birds. Freeman and Blount will lead the Buccos to the post-season for years to come-starting next year.

4. Carolina Panthers - HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

West
1. St. Louis Rams - Love the way they're building this team. In any other division they'd still be a year away, but the West sucks. The Toronto Blue Jays could win this shit show.

2. Arizona Cardinals - Sketchy on both lines. No running game or defense to speak of. Good luck, Kevin Kolb.

3. Seattle Seahawks - Pete Carroll, you deserve Tarvaris Jackson.

4. San Francisco 49ers - Just blow it up, get what you can for Patrick Willis, and start over all ready.

Byes: Philadelphia, Green Bay

Playoffs: Atlanta, The Lou, Dallas, Detroit

First Round: Atlanta over Detroit; Dallas over the Lou

Second Round: Philadelphia over Dallas; Green Bay over Atlanta

Championship: Philadelphia over Green Bay

---

Super Bowl: New England over Philadelphia
I can picture it now: the Pats are up by 3 with 1:30 to play, and the Eagles are driving...and then they stall out because Andy Reid blew all his timeouts on stupid challenges. Next season, Philly introduces the world's first Clock Management Coordinator.

2011 AFC Preview

East

1. New England Patriots - Who else? They've improved across the board, except perhaps on the offensive line and the secondary. It looks like they'll actually be able to generate a pass rush with that new 4-3. They might have one of the most underrated stables of running backs in the league with Lawfirm, Woody, and rookie Stevan Ridley. The key for the Pats is whether they've learned to make halftime adjustments. Last year, they didn't even bother.

2. New York Jets - I'd love this team if they played in any other city under any other name, save for one glaring weakness: the Sanchize. Gang Green needs a new quarterback worse than Facebook needs a baby filter. He's a game manager at best. Like babies, game managers all look the same, often have a completely befuddled look on their drooling faces, and tend to stink the joint up at inopportune times.

3. Buffalo Bills - My AFC sleeper if one of the above stumbles. They've got a decent quarterback and an improving defense. Playing a few home games in Toronto under Canadian rules will give them a huge advantage when they get to put twelve guys on the field.

4. Miami Dolphins - Talk about a black hole of suck. Coach Sparano's gone by midseason.

North

1. Pittsburgh Steelers - The absolute cream of the crop in the AFC. I want to hang out with Coach Tomlin.

2. Baltimore Ravens - Not there yet. Ray Lewis needs to wear more Old Spice if he wants to get his club past the Steel Curtain.

3. Cleveland Browns - I can see 7 wins. Maybe 8. Maybe I'm way too high on Colt McCoy and Peyton Hillis. Trusting a couple of goofy looking white guys to carry your team is never a good call.

4. Cincinnati Bengals - HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

South

1. Houston Texans - Nope, they're not the Colts.

2. Jacksonville Jaguars - Not the Colts either.

3. Tennessee Titans - Still no Oreos.

4. Indianapolis Colts - That's right, I said it. This is the year they implode. Two words: Kerry Collins. What do they really have other than Manning? Reggie Wayne, Dallas Clark, and a coach that doesn't blink.

West

1. Oakland Raiders - Despite all the comedy, this is a tough team. Tough teams with good runners and solid defenses win 9 games and occasionally a division.

2. Kansas City Chiefs - Meh. Not sold.

3. San Diego Chargers - Good riddance, Norv. I expect awesome faces from Phillip Rivers this year.

4. Denver Broncos - Just a mess. Too many quarterbacks, not enough of anything else.

Byes: Pittsburgh, New England

Playoffs: Houston, Oakland, New York, Baltimore

Round 1: Houston over Baltimore; New York over Oakland

Round 2: Pittsburgh over New York; New England over Houston

Championship: New England over Pittsburgh

Let's Rank Wrestlers, August 2011 Edition

I've decided I'm going to do this on the last weekend of every month. I don't care if you don't care. Go read www.dpaddbags.com if you don't like it. IT'S MY BLOG AND I'LL DO WHATEVER I WANT.

The Five Wrestlers Who've Entertained Me the Most This Month

5. Alberto Del Rio
Although I wasn't a fan of Del Rio stealing the belt from CM Punk, he's grown on me in the last few weeks. No one is better at smarmy than this guy. His entire act is just one great big exclamation of "Look at me! Look at how great I am! I did this thing today and look how proud of it I am!" and it works ridiculously well. His ring work's solid, and I love how seemingly everything he does is to help set up his Cross Arm Breaker finish. Logic is something we need to see more of in the wrestling ring.

4. R-Truth
I never, ever thought I'd have anything nice to say about this dude. For the longest time he was just blah. Now he's crazy, and it's one of the highlights of my Monday nights. Lil Jimmy! Conspiracies! Spiders! Somebody's gonna git got! His new alliance with the Miz could be a thing of absolute beauty.

3. The Formerly Dashing Cody Rhodes
Cody's on the opposite end of the insane spectrum from R-Truth. He's not funny, he's just psychotic. No one comes close to selling his character the way Cody does. Every mannerism is perfect, from his attempts to hide his "hideous" face to the way he walks to the stunted way he's started to talk. My favorite part of Smackdown is watching this guy lay someone out and then put a paper bag over his head.

2. Mark Henry
It seems like every main event heel of the last five years has been a whiny, cowardly, cheating little snake who can't stop saying bad things about the fans. And that's why Henry's latest heel run is so effective and entertaining; he's doing it the old fashioned way, by beating the hell out of the good guys and being one scary mother. He deserves a run with the belt.

1. CM Punk
Who else? Punk's the best promo going, and he's damn good in the ring when they give him time.

Wrestlers That Make Me Want To Change the Channel
5. The Miz
It pains me to do this to you, Miz. I still love you. But you and I need to have a talk. The Skull Crushing Finale? It needs to go. It just doesn't look like a finisher. It looks bad. Especially when you don't lock your hands behind the guy's neck. I'd recommend a switch to that vicious opponent-on-his-knees DDT you've been rocking my world with lately.

4. Dolph Ziggler
It pains me to do this, too. Dolph's a hell of a wrestler, but it just seems like the writers don't know what to do with him. They tried to make him change his awesome hair. It was back in two weeks. Then they changed his awesome music. Why the fuck did they change his awesome music? Hopefully it'll come back as quickly as his awesome hair did.

Tangent: Lately, whoever's in charge of new entrance themes is doing a shit all job. What happened? It's like they put some shit ass teenage garage band in charge.

3. Kevin Nash
You know what I think when I hear Nash cut a promo? TNA. That makes me sad. You can do better than this, Big Sexy. Punk is running laps around you.

2. Sin Cara
Just...ugh.

1. Randy Orton
Good guy Randy Orton and I do not get along. He's supposed to be a vicious sociopath, but he's walking around with a big smile and (I shit you not) posing for photo ops with Barney the Purple Dinosaur. It just doesn't work. You know what works? That evil son of a bitch that hand cuffed HHH to the ropes then DDT'ed his wife, Stephanie McMahon, and then planted a kiss on her lips right in front of him. Bring him back. Randy's the one they should've turned heel, not Christian.

Quote of the Month
Alberto Del Rio: "What do you want to do today, Alberto Del Rio? I want to beat up Rey Mysterio!"

I do too, Alberto. I do too.

HURRICANE PREPAREDNESS SHOPPING LIST

• Thirty rack of the 'gansett.
• Box of Wheat Thins. Original flavor, normal size.
• Toilet paper, two-ply.

If I need anything else I'll grab the baseball bat and head for Tufts. In the meantime I'll be on the porch drinking cheap booze and chowing down on America's favorite cracker. No, not Ryan Seacrest.

Go Choke on an Oreo

The sport-o-sphere has been all a-flutter the last two days over recent comments Eli Manning made. When asked if he thought he belonged in the elite class of NFL quarterbacks, he said yes, and then, in a move that surely threw his older brother into a fit of the giggles, proceeded to add that he's in Tom Brady's class.

Eli, the only class you belong in is remedial everything.

Quarterbacks? Let's rank 'em. I apologize for my lack of giant touchscreen board everybody else is using for such things nowadays.

1. Aaron Rodgers, Green Bay
You were expecting someone else? Me too. But the more I thought about it, the harder it became to justify putting anyone ahead of this dude. He won the Superbowl with about half his offensive support on the disabled list. Rodgers is the man.

2. Tom Brady, New England
I don't care that he can't dance. I don't care about his taste in footwear or bathing apparel or what his hair looks like (probably awesome). If I'm down by four to Green Bay with 2 minutes to play, I want Brady.

3. Peyton Manning, Indianapolis
Yawn. Fucking Mannings. The Colts are not the team they once were, and I kind of wonder if their decline is due in part to Coach Caldwell's inability to keep Peyton in line. Every time I watched a Colts game last season the commentators told stories about how Peyton basically ran the practices. If you watched his receivers, especially Pierre Garcon, they always went in the tank whenever Peyton chewed them out. The skills and knowledge are there...but I wonder about the leadership.

4. Drew Brees, New Orleans
Speaking of leadership, that's what Breesus Christ does best. He doesn't put the team on his back so much as he inspires them all to raise their game and carry each other. The Falcons are strong and the Bucs are improving, but don't forget about the Saints.

5. Michael Vick, Philadelphia
One of the league's truly special players. He's like Jordan in his prime, or McGwire when he was chasing Maris - if you love the game, and this guy's on the TV, you're watching him. I'd be tempted to put him at number 2 or 3 if I could convince myself that he'd be healthy all season.

6. Jimmy Claussen, Carolina
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLED YOU!

6. Philip Rivers, San Diego
Few things are more entertaining than watching Rivers jaw at the opposite sideline whenever his defense is on the field. One of those things is watching the Chargers pull a Norv and flame out every year.

7. Ben Rothlisberger, Pittsburgh
It'll be interesting to see if the "Keep The Flags In Your Pants For The Ladies" officiating trend that allowed defenders to tee off on Big Ben last year continues.

8. Joe Flacco, Baltimore
I don't trust him in pressure situations just yet, but Flacco's got all the tools. Including a white panel van to go with his creepy serial killer aura.

9. Matty Ice, Atlanta
10. Matt Schaub, Houston
11. Josh Freeman, Tampa Bay
I'm lumping these guys together because I don't have particularly strong feelings about any of them. They won't kill you, but they probably won't win you a playoff game single-handedly, either. Although Freeman's spunky and could easily vault the other two.

Hey, we're through the top third of the league! Where's Elisha? Oh no!

12. Tony Romo, Dallas
I've always enjoyed his work, but I want to see him win a few playoff games. With Wade Phillips finally out of the picture that might actually happen this year.

13. Carson Palmer, retiredHow frickin' stupid do you have to be NOT to try to get whatever you can for a valuable asset at the hardest-to-fill position in the league when said asset very publicly declares that he'll never play for you again? Stupid enough to own the Bengals, apparently.

14. Eli Manning, New YorkAww, there he is! Can you win with Eli under center? Sure! Is he an above-average NFL quarterback? Definitely! He's no Tom Brady, but he's certainly no Tarvaris Jackson.

15. Sam Bradford, The Lou
I like the way this kid plays. I like that he's in a crummy division. I like that the Rams keep improving the team around him. I will probably take him way too early in a fantasy draft.

16. Matt Cassell, Kansas City
17. Kevin Kolb, Arizona
18. Donovan McNabb, Minnesota
19. Matt Stafford, Detroit
20. Colt McCoy, Cleveland
21. David Garrard, Jacksonville
And here we close the segment of the show where the quarterback in question won't kill your team. I'm probably overvaluing McNabb...but no one should ever be judged based on what they did in one season in Washington.

22. Kyle Orton/Tim Tebow, Denver
These guys are on the bubble. Orton could easily take a strong team to the playoffs. Tebow might be able to Jesus a below-average team to 8 or 9 wins and a six-seed. Neither is good enough to get the Broncos anywhere.

23. Ryan Fitzpatrick, Buffalo
Deep, deep, deep sleeper. Maybe.
24. Jay Cutler, Chicago
Is there a passer in the league more reliable at killing his team's hopes with an interception?

25. The Sanchize, New York
Pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft.

26. Alex Smith, San Francisco
Really?

27. Whoever the fuck is quarterbacking Miami, Oakland, Tennessee, Carolina, and Washington.Can you say Touchdown After Interception? Because the acronym TAINT is so much more appropriate than the ridiculous "Pick-Six." Why won't the damn bold go away no matter how many times I click the button?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

20,689 Tavaris Jackson, Seattle
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Taking Stock of the Market

The stock market's unreliable and sometimes it loses value? Who'd a-thunk it? That reminds me of how sometimes it rains and sometimes it's sunny. WILD.

That's not to say that the investment world doesn't deserve a solid lampooning. I'd argue that more often than not it deserves a roundhouse kick to the face. And this is why I haven't been contributing to my company's 403B--the thought of those snakes getting their greasy mitts on my money makes me want to bitch and moan to a faceless Internet audience.

Now that I've been at said company for a year, said company is automatically contributing an amount equal to 5% of my salary to said 403B. I tried to get the HR lady to just leave the 5% under my desk in unmarked bills, but she wasn't having any of that. Which is sad, because I had big plans for that money, all of which were guaranteed to make more than investing in a random string of numbers and letters:

• I was going to bury it all in coffee cans in the backyard in the hope that more money would spontaneously generate in said cans due to the combined influence of geologic pressure and quantum rays.
• I was going to spend it all on stock in underwear companies. People always need underwear, and they often need to replace it. Accidents happen.
• I was going to use it to buy the food needed for a giant barbecue. Whenever I barbecue, the money I spend on food is always paid back to me double in the value of the booze my guests leave behind. This is just sound business.
• I was going to buy the gold '66 Cadillac Pimp Mobile up the street and rent it out to Don Magic Juan.
• I was going to use it as start up capitol for my own pyramid scheme.
• I was going to take it to Good Times and win enough Skee-Ball tickets to get a speedboat. OH WAIT I CAN'T BECAUSE OF THOSE DAMN SWEDES.

I'm done. Let's be real: I was going to take it to the Kowloon, by myself a pu-pu platter and a half dozen mai-tais, and play Keno until I got kicked out.

Tonight's Trashy Entertainment Sucked

I was really looking forward to tonight. Or technically last night, I guess. True Blood! Summerslam! Now I'm so annoyed I can't sleep.

Can we start with how completely frickin' disgusting Eric and Sookie are? They're so disgusting I wish she was back with Vampire Bill. Seriously. Can we just hurry up to the inevitable part when Eric gets his memory back but pretends he still doesn't have it so he can keep banging Sook because for some reason she likes him better as a ridiculous manchild? Because that part's going to be brilliant. Remember how awesome he was when he was an evil bastard? Now take that evil bastard and make him try to hide inside of a grown man with the morals and world view of a five-year-old. Skarsgaard's performance is going to be worthy of an EGOT even though there probably won't be any singing.

And then we have Summerslam. First Christian loses his belt to boring ass Randy Orton, then CM Punk beats Cena in a match with an absolutely terrible finish. Every other the-referee-missed-the-foot-on-the-rope-and-counted-three-anyway match in the last five years has been overturned by some sort of authority figure who saw it in the back and came running out to restart the match and save the day. Why didn't that happen with this one? And what is up with this new hit-a-move-get-a-nearfall-lie-around-on-the-ground-for-five-minutes-lather-rinse-repeat crap clogging our Pay-Per-Views nowadays? And then Kevin Nash lays out Punk so Alberto Del Rio can cash in his title shot. Don't get me wrong, it's always good to see Big Sexy, but Del Rio? After the summer Punk has had? I love Del Rio's entrance, what with the personal ring announcer and the smarmy look-at-how-great-I-am mannerisms, but no. Just no. Punk's Jesus faces beat that any day of the week, and he's the only guy other than Cena that gets any sort of reaction from the live crowd. YOU-CAN-TELL-I'M-PISSED-BECAUSE-OF-MY-EGREGIOUS-USE-OF-HYPHENS!

Where's my gold '66 Cadillac Pimp Mobile when I need to take a drive to clear my head? My life is so hard...

Who wants to give me $3500 so I can buy the '66 Cadillac Pimp Mobile for sale up the street?

Its distinctive 60's gold is like a beacon in a sea of marketing-survey approved blues, reds, and silvers. It's got fins. Why the fuck don't more cars have fins? It's a shame that went out of style. It takes up approximately two-and-a-half parking spots and probably gets about 3 miles to the gallon, but I don't care about the planet nearly as much as I care about how frickin' sexy I would look behind the wheel of this baby.

No, I don't have a license. If I had a ride this fly, I'd go get one. Why waste my time taking tests and dealing with the RMV unless there's a pimp mobile at the end of the rainbow?

I can picture it now: I cruise into Davis Square, pop it into neutral, and crank the stereo to THUMPIN'. Hoochies come running from all corners of Somerville to dance around my vehicle. This whip was made for ghost ridin', ladies and gentlemen, and I'm just the man to fulfill its destiny.

What does your $3500 get you?

• Automatic shotgun privileges for life.
• First crack at the ghost ridin' hoochies.
• Free autographed 8 x 12 of me lying across the hood in a matching gold Speedo.
• Title of Associate Vice President of Pimpin'.
• Monthly ride to Target.
• Warm, fuzzy feeling you can only get from helping your fellow man achieve something historic.

Plus it's tax deductible. Probably.

OCHOCINCO COME LIVE WITH ME!!!!!!

(Explanation: http://sports.yahoo.com/nfl/blog/shutdown_corner/post/Seeking-a-roommate-in-New-England-How-about-Cha?urn=nfl-wp4842)(Thanks Dan)

None of my roommates are moving out but that's ok. We can get bunk beds. I'm sure they make a double-decker attachment for my Bob-O-Pedic. If not I'll sleep on the floor. We can tell each other stories and have pillow fights and make fun of Rex Ryan. Did you know he likes feet? Like, a lot? A lot a lot? Like so much that it's wicked funny and it'll never, ever get old?

I've got an awesome porch. We can go to Target and buy another mini rocking chair so you and I have matching seats.

I know my way around Boston, especially the bars. Give me the name of a bar and I will be able to tell you many things about it, including:

• Relative price range.
• Dress code.
• What's likely on tap.
• Whether you want to eat there.
• What kind of hot mamas be frontin' in the specified establishment.
• Whether it's safe to take a dump.

And I've got XBox! And TiVo! We can watch Monday Night Raw and then play Smackdown vs. Raw and it will be a hoot! I made myself in the game. I spent two days perfecting my entrance and figuring out how to load in a Yellowcard song as my music! We can do that for you, too. And then we can be a tag team and beat the hell out of all the other wrestlers. Except Edge. I don't let Video Game Edge lose since Real Life Edge had to retire.

And we can grill! And go to Diesel! A lot of the people in there will remind you of the Cincinnati Bengals. It'll be great! I'll even change my last name to a number so it's like we're in a club. I'll be Scott Soixante-Neuf. It's classy because it's French! Why am I using so many exclamation points? Oh, right, because I'm excited and this is the best idea ever!

Let's Talk Debt

Because my terrible blog is where you come for all of your political analysis.

When I first heard that Moody's S&P had downgraded US debt from a AAA to a AA+, I couldn't help wondering what the fuck took so long. Is there a semi-literate, semi-informed adult on the planet that thinks we'll ever actually pay off what we owe? Put your hand down, you're making my readership look dumber than it actually is.

Then it dawned on me that this was the same ratings agency that put high grades on the ridiculous mortgage-backed securities that tanked our economy a few years ago. That was basically the economic equivalent of pulling into port with a Faneuil Hall tugboat just because you liked her eyeliner. It's no wonder it took them so long to realize what's been clear to the rest of us for the last few years.

If they can't agree on which taxes to raise and which programs to cut (that's right, children, you have to do both, not just one or the other), then I demand they find some new ways to generate revenue. Here are a few suggestions:

• Implement a "I banged an intern/page/campaign staffer" jar. Like a swear jar but better and more likely to make a lot of money given the tendencies of those involved. Twenty five cents per banging.
• Have a monthly bake sale.
• Start a Kickstarter project promising to change the pronunciation of John Boehner's name to more accurately reflect the way everyone reads it. There is no way in hell that's not boner.
• Finally release that "Lovely Ladies of the Senate" calendar we red-blooded American males have been pining for since puberty. OH MAN, PANTSUITS! GIVE ME THOSE PANTSUITS!
• Give Scott Brown all the Social Security money and send him to play poker with A-Rod.

Or maybe they should just declare bankruptcy. It worked for Trump. Twice.

Overanalyzing "Swamp People"

I was out a little late last night. You know, at the library, reading Melville and Bukowski and engaging in pleasant conversation with other learned individuals. We drank milk and ate cookies.

After all that intellectual stimulation, I was in the mood for some trashy television when I finally made it home. Boy, did I find it, in A&E's "Swamp People." This show follows the exploits of several of Louisiana's most upstanding citizens as they hunt gators. Many of these people require subtitles and their fashion sense is off the charts.

How does one hunt gators, you ask? First you lose a few of your teeth so as not to scare the reptiles away. They can smell good dental hygiene coming from a mile away. Next you buy a shit ass boat, grab your grandpappy's ancient rifle, and head to the Piggly Wiggly to get some chicken. Then you hang the chicken from a tree upon a giant hook so its just out of the water. When the gator's hooked, one redneck pulls him up to the surface so the other redneck can blast it in the head. Then you toss it in the bottom of the boat until you can get it to the back of your pickup truck and take it to whoever the fuck buys dead alligators.

I have issues with this.

• Firstly, why the hell are they all packing rifles when the thing they're shooting at is only a few feet away? One asshole had a rifle with a giant scope. I couldn't tell if he was just showing off or if he's such a terrible shot that he would need a telescope to hit his own foot. I kept hoping one of them was somehow going to miss and blow a hole in the boat.
• Why bother with a gun? Seems like a waste of ammo when the thing is right there up against the boat. How about a spear, or a trident, or just a really big rock? Then you don't have to worry about your ammo getting wet, as happened to one particularly eloquent crew.
• My favorite gator hunter, the big guy in the American flag bandana and the overalls and nothing else, was completely convinced that there was a giant gator out there eating all the smaller gators caught on his lines. He even named it The Assassin. His plan for catching The Assassin? Put a hunk of beef on the hook beside the hunk of chicken, then wrap it all in gator meat. Using hot dogs would seem to have been more efficient.
• Another team blew the strategy of all the others away. They ran out of chicken, so they soaked a few rags in chicken juice (freshly squeezed) and Shake N Bake and used those to bait the hooks. And it fucking worked. Which leads me to wonder why any of them bother with wasting money on meat when they can just use old dish towels.

Add gator hunting to the list of things I am an expert on thanks to TV, along with toddler beauty pageants, managing a house full of gold digging hoes, and not being as crazy as Dustin Diamond. I am a legit renaissance man.

RECTANGLES!!!!!! Part Deux

I encountered another soap conundrum yesterday. This time my choice was between flowers, SpongeBob, and a new competitor: Dora the Explorer. I decided to change it up, so I whispered an apology to Mr. Squarepants and grabbed the Dora bottle.

That's when I noticed the price. Dora was 20 cents more than SpongeBob. I put the bottle back and investigated further: same brand, same kind of soap, same amount of soap. Did Dora hold out for more money to support a secret crack habit? Does the magic backpack get a cut? Does she have a domineering father reminiscent of Tiger's or Venus and Serena's who takes a bit right off the top? Does she live in an area with a higher income tax than the bottom of the sea? Or are we witnessing a simple example of demand driving price, with Dora soap able to carry a higher price point due to better sales? Am I just an idiot?

We may never know.

Dear Dunkin

Calm the fuck down with the terrible new menu options. Tuna salad? Really? Who in their right mind is going to eat tuna salad at Dunkin' Donuts? To rehash an earlier Facebook mini-rant, anyone who eats seafood at their neighborhood Dunkin is either really brave or really fucking stupid. If I could build a poll on this blog to determine which, I would. Five people will surely be enough to scientifically prove the answer to this burning question.

You've gone off the rails, Dunkin, since Fred the Baker died. If he were still around this shit would NOT be happening, although I think he would certainly approve of the Big N Toasty. Although it should be called the Medium N Toasty, that thing is the modern day ambrosia. You can tell when you feel your blood flow start to slow. That's not a clot, it's the warm embrace of the gods telling them how much they love you.

But I digress. As always, I'm here to help. Take this update to your next big planning meeting and show it to all the out-of-touch pencil necks in the board room. Here's a handy-dandy list of things no one wants to buy in a Dunkin Donuts:

• Dunkin Steak Tartar on a croissant.
• Dunkin Salad with choice of "salad dressing" that's really just coffee flavors mixed with vinegar and oil.
• Dunkin Sushi. Yes, even if it's glazed and shoved between two pieces of Texas Toast.
• Dunkin Brazilian Wax. No, I don't want to be as smooth as Fred.
• Dunkin Pomegranate. Just because everybody else is putting pomegranate in fucking everything doesn't mean you have to jump on the bandwagon too.
• Dunkin Vodka. Any liquor sold in a plastic bottle is a no-no.
• Dunkin Spaghetti and Meatballs. You're not fooling anyone; I see the Chef Boyardee can in the garbage.

Oh, to hell with this. Let's make this simpler: if it isn't obviously for breakfast, don't fucking sell it. There's nothing wrong with being the breakfast people. When I want breakfast, I go to a breakfast place; when I want lunch I go to a lunch place. Don't encroach on lunch's territory. You will fail. Lunch is a territorial bitch that will cut your balls off and mail them back to you in the bottom of a Coolatta. Just stick to breakfast and caffeine and everything will be ok.

You Know What I Never Want to Talk About Again?

The fucking weather. I can't think of a more banal topic. I don't care if you think it's too hot. I don't care that you think it's too cold. I don't care that you're tired of the rain, that you spent two hours shoveling out your car, or that you can't get over how nice it is. WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU GET OVER HOW NICE IT IS? That makes no sense. Are you slow or something? You've seen nice days before. I know you have, because you couldn't get over the last nice day, either. It's a nice day, not a shellshocked Vietnam flashback, damn it.

But I digress. You know what would might make the weather easier for you to bare? If you stopped bitching about it to everyone in sight. No, that same concept does not apply to the things I bitch about here on the Interwebs. It just doesn't. Shut up.

Here. This a handy list of things I'd rather hear you talk about. Print it out and keep it in your wallet so you can refer to it when conversing with me:

• That CRAZY thing your child did that isn't all that CRAZY because every child that's ever existed has done it too but somehow it's CRAZY because your child did it. Especially if your five-year-old dropped a deuce the exact size, shape, and density as Abraham Lincoln.
• That CRAZY thing your pet did that isn't all that CRAZY because it's a relatively dumb animal and not a person and hence doesn't know any better. Especially if Fluffy chased his tail so fast he slammed a bunch of atoms together and discovered the Higgs boson.
• The differences between men and women. Oh, those are so CRAZY!

Intermission: the girl seated at the table behind me just loudly exclaimed into her phone "I've been operating under the assumption it was an STD." I have been doubled over the table trying not to cry for the last five minutes. This is why I write in places that aren't my apartment. When I can't make something up, one of the Somervillains will hand me material on a silver platter.

• The clothes you bought this weekend. Especially if you found a bedazzled shirt with the Miz's face on it for $5.
• Your car. Especially if it turns into a robot that battles evil.
• Derek Jeter's run to 3000 hits (thanks Travis). Especially if it's over, and number 3000 somehow came off Mark Teixeira's giant chin.

You know what? This is depressing me. I'm writing really hard, but I've got this nagging doubt in the back of my mind that you're all missing the subtle suggestion that I don't want to hear you talk about any of these things either, except for the parts that begin with "especially." So I'm going to give up and go see if I can get the girl sitting at the table behind me to give me her number. I know a few people who deserve a good bout of the syph.

Yet Another Rant Against Motion Controls

You all know I've made little effort to hide my disdain of motion controls. Why the hell do I want to control a video game by looking like I'm having some kind of spasm? Why do I need a fucking fishing minigame tacked onto every new motion-controlled release? And for the love of the Force, where the hell are the legitimately innovative uses of this crap? I'd play a turn-based RPG fueled by the power of dance, but nooooooooooooooo...it's time for more fucking bowling and pet...petting.

The E3 offerings from the big three console makers pissed me the hell off. Recent rumors that the Playstation 4 would be built around a Kinect-like interface pushed me over the edge–but not the angry, I'm going-to-get-drunk-and-write-a-blogful-of-obscenities-about-it edge my loyal blogonauts have come to expect and admire. No, this time I've plummeted into a crevasse of sorrow where Fallout Boy is on infinite loop and my hair won't ever unswoop. Will no one step up to save us from a mind-numbing future where, thanks to Nintendo, everyone can spin their wrists completely around and kids who've never held a real bowling ball think they're as good as Big Ern? Major bonus points to those of you who get that reference.

Sega, I'm looking at you.

Stop laughing at me.

No, seriously, that wasn't a joke.

Fucking stop it.

Fine. I'll continue along and you can rejoin me when you're ready. If ever there was a time for Sega to make a triumphant return, this would be it. If someone came out with a beast of a machine with a normal controller, robust online support, and an all-digital distribution model where the games could be a fair amount cheaper than the ones you buy from Zitface Lardass the Third at Gameplop, they'd clean the hell up. And Sega's just the company to do it.

Allow me to silence to your objections:

• "But that machine has no gimmick!" Exactly. Sega pioneered stupid ass add-ons with the Sega CD and the 32x. The Dreamcast was the first machine with a screen in its controller, and you could also buy a really kick-ass fishing reel. They've learned their lesson and they know better than to try shit like that again.
• "But what about the casual demographic!" To hell with it. You want to play that awesome new Sega game? Learn to push the buttons, shithead. At some point in your life you learned how to drive, how to operate a computer, and how to open child proof containers. Well, you probably suck at all of those things, but my point is that none of them are exactly "natural," and yet you caught on and you can do it. Kind of. On one of your good days.
• "But Sonic the Hedgehog sucks!" Yes, Sega has spent the last dozen years crapping all over our childhoods by sticking Sonic in suck ass games where he's surrounded by an asinine collection of obnoxious woodland creatures that I suspect might actually be a support group for victims of fetal alcohol syndrome. But it doesn't have to be this way. Put Sonic in a game by himself where all he does is run and jump and spin and kick Dr. Robotnik's ass. Gordon Freeman doesn't have to speak to sell games; neither should Sonic.

Help us, Sega. You're our only hope.

RECTANGLES!!!!!!

I bought one of the special star-shaped donuts at Dunkin this morning, one with pink frosting and sprinkles. I should've known better. Not because Dunkin Donuts are half-assed shells of their former glory, but because I'm not good at eating stuff that looks like things. Chocolate rabbits? No thanks. Fake Oreos in the shape of elves? Can't do it.

I took one look at this thing and my heart sank. I couldn't eat Patrick T. Starfish. He should be frolicking under the sea with his friend who lives in a pineapple, looking all stoned and talking nonsense. I briefly debated plucking off an arm to see if it would grow back, but I couldn't bring myself to do that either. So I found a flat rock and put him under it where he belongs.

No I didn't. I threw him out. Don't tell the Greenpeace beggar bitch I avoided on my way to Diesel.

Yes, I just wasted your time by telling you all about how much a donut looked like a cartoon character. And the title of this abortion is indeed a quote from said cartoon character that made me laugh like an idiot. I'm stuck on my serious epic and needed to stretch out. Now I'm good and limber.

Home Run Derby

Major League Baseball has introduced a new wrinkle to its yearly display of tater-popping power. American League Captain David Ortiz and National League Captain Prince Fielder each get to pick four players from their respective leagues as part of the first team-based Home Run Derby. Big Papi will surely pick Manny Ramirez, Johnny Damon, Kevin Millar, and Mark Bellhorn, leaving Prince to pick a bunch of other vegetarians while his father, Cecil, watches sadly from the front row, bat in hand, looking for all the world like the fat kid who never gets to play.

BOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG. I hereby throw down the gauntlet to Sr. Ortiz and Mr. Fielder. I'm bringing my own team to the Home Run Derby to kick ass and take names and hopefully woo Alyssa Milano, who goes through baseball players like I go through six packs. Hell, if she'll go out with Brad Penny, surely she'd trade up to an Interweb Celebrity who comes out of nowhere to brazenly steal the Home Run Derby.

• Brady Anderson. Mostly because Rafael Palmeiro is too busy popping Viagra and Sammy Sosa is starting to look like the second coming of Michael Jackson. Somebody's got to bring the greenies.
• Ugueth Urbina. His main job will be to glower angrily at opposing batters.
• Ugueth Urbina's machete. The machete will aid Sr. Urbina in his attempts to scare the hell out of people.
• Katniss Everdeen. I need someone with the experience to thwart the life-and-death competition that is the Derby. I warn you now, Bud Selig: do not fuck with the Mockingjay.

I'm sorry, this post sucks. I'm out of practice. I didn't have much of a plan outside of the joke about Big Papi putting the 2004 Red Sox back together. And with my luck Alyssa Milano would probably go home with Ugueth Urbina's machete.

I'm not Gold Digging, I Swear!!!!!!

Dear Mila Kunis,

While you are filming your new movie, "Ted," in the Greater Boston area, you really should look me up. I am so much better for you than your current boy toy, Macauley Culkin. Let me count the ways:

• Four out of five dermatologists agree that I am 28.74 percent less pale than Macauley Culkin. Think of the money you'll save when you only have to buy SPF 500 rather than SPF whatever-is-28.7-percent-more-than-that. My calculator app is all the way down in my dock. Do the math yourself.
• I have about a dozen loyal blogonauts. You'd be picking me up before I was cool. In today's world, that means a lot.
• You don't really believe nothing happened between him and Michael Jackson, do you? You'll save money on psychiatry bills with me over the long run.
• I can grow a beard. The closest he can get to a beard is when he does that thing with his hands on his face.
• I'm like a cross between Hyde, Fez, and Kelso, all of whom your character banged on That 70's Show. Macauley Culkin is just an albino, anorexic version of Eric Foreman.
• I would look a lot more dashing behind the wheel of your magnificent yacht. I've spent most of my life training to become a charismatic sea captain. I've already got the beard, and with your resources I'm sure we can find an appropriate hat and pipe.
• I recently completed my first novel. There will be a movie version. You'd be perfect for the role of the Witch. Think about what Black Swan did for your career; now imagine how much further a starring role in my direct-to-Youtube masterpiece will take you.
• In case of a home invasion, I will be much more efficient when it comes to protecting you. One guy gets a baseball bat to the knee caps; the other gets a fork in the eye. And then we get away and live happily ever after. Do you really want to be kidnapped because your protector is too busy trying to tie a paint can to a length of rope and setting it to swing downward at someone who steps on the third tread in your front stairs? I didn't think so.

Five People You'll See at the Bruins' Parade

• Sandwichboard Jesuspants. You know who I'm talking about. The scrawny dude with the turkey neck who hangs out at pretty much every sporting event, holiday gathering, or political rally, adorned in plywood decreeing the coming of the end times, silently distributing poorly aligned literature to the drunk and those who don't know enough to avoid him. Sandwichboard Jesuspants wouldn't miss this one for the rapture itself.
• Hockey whores. Also known as puck sluts or, at a certain tech school that shall not be named, interior design majors, these women have slept with the entire team. That bear claw painted on her cheek over three layers of hooker makeup decrees to all that she let the fourth line and the backup goalie run train on her in the bathroom at Sully's after every game. God bless her. She'll be at the Squire later on, so be sure to make it rain.
• Whalers fans. You know who's never going to go extinct? Fans of the Hartford Whalers. These people are nothing if not persistent. Their team died a decade ago and yet they still wear the colors proudly. The Mighty Whale is going to outlast the cockroaches, the Jews, Dick Clark, Ted Williams's frozen head, Twinkies, and everything else modern science tells us can never completely die. They'll be there at the parade with smiles on their faces, but Brass Bonanza will be echoing through their heads. Their loyalty to a departed team is one of the most impressive things I've ever seen. Wait–did I just say something nice about someone here? I must be bombed. Oh, I can still spell? Shit, then I'm just going soft.
• At least one Twittered schlong. You just can't beat the odds on this one. It's going to happen.
• Me. I'll be the guy with one arm over a skank in a cut-off Whalers jersey and the other over Sandwichboard Jesuspants, trying vainly to take a picture of my junk with my iPhone.

Wait, that last one's bullshit. You couldn't pay me to spend my day in a sea of stupid tourists who think it's funny that they're drunk at noon. Amateurs.

Hmm, this was my 200th post on this piece of crap. That's 200 moments you'll never get back, you big dummy. I think that means I win and now I'm immortal or something because I've ingested many pieces of your soul. Yeah, that's it.

You. Me. Serious Discussion. Now.

I can't put this off any longer. There's a problem of the utmost importance that I need to address before it becomes a full-fledged conflagration that ruins my life and the lives of those around me. Bare with me, folks. This won't be pretty.

Recently many people have questioned my taste in bathroom hand soap. Tonight, I squelch all future questions about my preference in pumpable sanitary foam.

Whilst perusing the hand soap aisle at Johnny's Foodmaster last Saturday afternoon (tangent: If Johnny himself isn't the Foodmaster, as the possessive implies, then who is? And why does he allow himself to be indentured to Johnny? Didn't Abraham Lincoln put a stop to this kind of arrangement?), I realized I was faced with a life-altering decision, one that we all have to make at some point in our lives but which even the best of us is never completely prepared to face: did I want pretty flowers, or did I want Spongebob Squarepants? I chose Spongebob. Before you get your Judgy McJudgeypants in a twist, allow me to explain why I took the path I took.

Spongebob Squarepants lives in a pineapple under the sea. Flowers live in fucking dirt. Said dirt is often fortified with warm, stinky manure. There's nothing clean about that.

Spongebob Squarepants is friends with Patrick the starfish. Flowers have no friends. Old ladies decapitate flowers and put them in their hats. Rabbits and cows and horsies and other animals little girls claim are cute eat flowers and then shit out their remains. Obviously, flowers are not the choice of anyone who cares about his public image.

Spongebob Squarepants makes hamburgers. Crabby Patties, to be exact. When's the last time you saw a flower in the kitchen? Oh, that's right, when it was sitting in a tiny little pot on the window sill, watching you while you did all the work.

Absorbent and yellow and porous is he! Flowers eat all the sunlight. Leave some sunlight for the rest of us, assholes.

Spongebob Squarepants has a pet snail that meows like a cat. Flowers have bees that sting you and make you express your discomfort with language your mother would not be proud of.

Spongebob Squarepants tries really hard to be friends with Squidward. Flowers wait for you to make the first move, and even then your relationship is strictly a one-way street. You water them. You put them in the sun. You kill the weeds around them. Then they spit pollen everywhere and try to have babies in your eyes and you itch like a motherfucker.

I could go on for days, but I do believe I have proven my point. Spongebob Squarepants wasn't just the correct choice, he was the only choice. Anything less would be uncivilized.

No, I can't believe I wasted 450 words on this either.

Atlas Stole Your Lunch

It took me a month and a damn half but I've finally finished reading Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged." I used to think the only people who liked Rand's work were batshit crazy libertarians and douche bags who think they shouldn't have to pay taxes. Although those two demographics are definitely her core audience, there's a lot of good stuff in this book that's very relevant to today's world. I probably missed some of it because I started skipping entire paragraphs toward the end just to get the damn thing over with, but whatever, we Interweb journalists are held to much lower standards than our print brethren so it doesn't matter. Given some of the words you'll find later in this entry you really should be amazed that I was able to read and comprehend that book.

One of the lesser things Rand's protagonists rail against is people who either can't or won't get to the damn point during a discussion or when answering a question. They dance around obvious answers with half-truths and responses that have absolutely fucking nothing to do with the topic at hand. It's a testament to the quality of Rand's writing, specifically her dialogue, that I legitimately wanted to drop the Five Knuckle Shuffle on those people and then lock in the STF to make them tap out. In my own dealings with people, this used to annoy the shit out of me. Now that a well-regarded author has expressed an opinion backing me up, it flat out pisses me off to the point that my inner monologue replies to these shitheads with "Fuck you, Jim Taggart." Granted, this is a small point in the book that's really just a symptom of the larger overall problem, but it's the one that really stuck with me for some reason.

So now, because I'm tired of taking the effort to write coherent paragraphs, I present to you a list of people who need to be less like the weaselly, perpetually evasive Jim Taggart and more like the dashing, to-the-point John Galt:

• Professional athletes. Is there anything more useless than the postgame press conference? Why do the reporters even bother asking questions when they can safely pick one of the usual canned responses and attribute it to a professional athlete on any given day without any worry whatsoever of being sued for libel. "We played hard, but they played harder." "We've just got to take care of our own business." "No, I shouldn't have taken my gun to the night club."
  
• Mr. Weiner. Really, you claimed that you weren't sure if that was yours? There isn't a man on the planet that doesn't recognize his own bulge. Fucking stop it. On a side note: Twitter, is it too much to ask that you add a penis filter? Facial recognition technology has come a long way recently. Surely that science can be applied to the trouser snake.
  
• Mitt Romney. You championed the Massachusetts health care reform. Don't pretend you didn't. If you feel differently about it now, just say so. But don't pretend like you had nothing to do with it. Your perfect hair isn't fooling anyone.
• People who bought the Wii. Just admit that it spends most of its time holding up your XBox 360 games. And don't delude yourself about the Wii U being any better.
• The NFL's owners. We've been over this one before, but I reiterate: if you need to adjust the distribution of revenue because you're losing money, FUCKING PROVE IT. The NBA's owners recently did just that, and it kind of makes me want to try watching basketball again.
  
• Michele Bachmann. Between claiming that there are Nobel Laureates who champion intelligent design (I refuse to capitalize that), calling for a McCarthy-style witch hunt to track down "anti-Americans," and forfeiting a debate on the Constitution against a child, Michele Bachmann could easily be the inspiration for a villain in the book's sequel, "Atlas Queefed." She is a gust of feminine flatulence. No, I don't know how a man like Atlas is going to queef. It's fiction. Suspend your disbelief already.
  

There's also stuff in there about consuming without producing, living your life based on feeling rather than logic, and being dumb enough to think that your enemies are going to speak on your behalf on the radio. It's all interesting stuff, but none of it would've made a good blog entry. Or even a half-assed blog entry like this one that I'm ending because I'm bored and I know no joke I write will ever top "Atlas Queefed."