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.