That's right, I didn't forget about all you noble readers who've spent the past month continuously clicking the refresh button just in case Scott Colby decided to get off his lazy ass and update his stupid blog. It's been almost a month since his last update, a long, lonely, heart wrenching month painfully devoid of Scott Colby's sweet prose. How empty your lives must've been!
But just like every crappy "superstar" on VH1 whom you thought you'd seen the last of twelve years ago, Scott Colby's back. And to you, his adoring public, he makes a solemn vow, one he will never break unless he doesn't particularly feel like doing it anymore or if he falls into a large sum of money and rides the pope mobile off into the sunset.
Every day, there will be new content on I Stole Your Lunch!
Unfortunately, Scott Colby cannot guarantee the quality of such content, because he is prone to writer's block and fits of fiery indifference. The only thing he can promise is that there will always be something in this space that wasn't there yesterday.
Consider yourself scolbified.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Saturday, August 13, 2005
One step for man, one giant waddle for fat asses
Few things are more American than the good old television dinner. What could better portray our way of life than a cornucopia of artificial food loaded with so many chemicals it could potentially retain its relative freshness for the entire duration of a fifty-year nuclear war? Every time you take a bite of Hungryman All White Meat Boneless Fried Chicken, you swallow a little of patriotism.
The dominant force in the world of television dinners is and always has been the dessert. Let's face it: the only way to get any normal person to eat beans or brocolli or anything that grows out of the dirt or on a tree is by promising something sweet afterwards. Corn doesn't sell television dinners, and neither do stupid looking mascots who claim to be extreme. Brownies sell television dinners.
Microwave brownie technology has come a long way since its inception in a secret Siberian lab in 1968. The communists were light years ahead when it came to frozen dinner technology, a fact which made the American government extremely nervous. Our own scientists, despite working day and night on the problem at Area 51, had yet to progress past cherry cobbler. With more and more of the world's population forsaking good, wholesome food to instead fill their pieholes with crap, whoever controlled the world's frozen food industry could potentially control the world. Cherry cobbler, unfortunately, did not stand a chance against brownies.
Luckily for the world's capitalist pigs, the commies decided against unleashing their new discovery right away. They feared a possible backlash against such a powerful technology, planning instead to gradually increase the quality of existing frozen dinner brownies. The team of scientists was put inside a giant microwave and nuked to death, and then the one remaining brownie was moved to another lab in North Vietnam.
Tricky Dick Nixon saw his opportunity, and he took it. The Vietnam war was nothing more than a front to steal the Russian technology, and steal it we did. This theft eventually lead to the dissolution of the Soviet Union as the public grew sick of eating cherry cobbler with their microwave meatloaf and overthrew the commie regime, paving the way for imported television dinners with real brownies.
Though a powerful technology, it's proven extremely difficult to harness. The first releases in the early 80's had a bad habit of going up in flames. This didn't dissuade the consumer, who was gladly willing to risk burning down his double wide if there was even a slight chance he could experience the delight which is a frozen dinner brownie. Gradually the mixture was diluted with a solution of water and mercury, changing from a solid to an amorphous glob. Success rates nearly doubled, and sales tripled.
And that's all I have to say about that.
The dominant force in the world of television dinners is and always has been the dessert. Let's face it: the only way to get any normal person to eat beans or brocolli or anything that grows out of the dirt or on a tree is by promising something sweet afterwards. Corn doesn't sell television dinners, and neither do stupid looking mascots who claim to be extreme. Brownies sell television dinners.
Microwave brownie technology has come a long way since its inception in a secret Siberian lab in 1968. The communists were light years ahead when it came to frozen dinner technology, a fact which made the American government extremely nervous. Our own scientists, despite working day and night on the problem at Area 51, had yet to progress past cherry cobbler. With more and more of the world's population forsaking good, wholesome food to instead fill their pieholes with crap, whoever controlled the world's frozen food industry could potentially control the world. Cherry cobbler, unfortunately, did not stand a chance against brownies.
Luckily for the world's capitalist pigs, the commies decided against unleashing their new discovery right away. They feared a possible backlash against such a powerful technology, planning instead to gradually increase the quality of existing frozen dinner brownies. The team of scientists was put inside a giant microwave and nuked to death, and then the one remaining brownie was moved to another lab in North Vietnam.
Tricky Dick Nixon saw his opportunity, and he took it. The Vietnam war was nothing more than a front to steal the Russian technology, and steal it we did. This theft eventually lead to the dissolution of the Soviet Union as the public grew sick of eating cherry cobbler with their microwave meatloaf and overthrew the commie regime, paving the way for imported television dinners with real brownies.
Though a powerful technology, it's proven extremely difficult to harness. The first releases in the early 80's had a bad habit of going up in flames. This didn't dissuade the consumer, who was gladly willing to risk burning down his double wide if there was even a slight chance he could experience the delight which is a frozen dinner brownie. Gradually the mixture was diluted with a solution of water and mercury, changing from a solid to an amorphous glob. Success rates nearly doubled, and sales tripled.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Urgent Breaking News Flash!!!!!!!!
Sox honor favorite Yankee with renaming of recent real estate purchase
Boston, MA – In an historic move of good faith, the Boston Red Sox have offered an olive branch of brotherhood to their hated rivals, the New York Yankees, in the form of a popular local hot spot.
In last week's blockbuster mega deal, the team acquired the Fenway area property home to the Ramrod, a favorite destination of men wearing assless chaps. It has been speculated that the ownership group led by John Henry would knock down the building and build a hot dog stand in its place, but today's press conference with chief Henry bootlicker Larry Lucchino revealed a different set of plans.
"The Boston Red Sox have no plans to close the Ramrod," Lucchino announced. "Instead, we're going to use it as a peace offering to end the hostility between Red Sox Nation and the Evil Empire."
The club will be renamed the A-Rod, in honor of everybody's favorite ball slapping Yankees third baseman. "We couldn't think of a single symbol to better represent one of the Bronx Bombers than this particular venue," Lucchino explained. "It was Theo's idea, and Henry and I just loved it."
The Sox GM could be seen snickering in the corner of the press room during Lucchino's announcement, but he declined all requests for interviews.
Reaction amongst the locals, known to be opinionated assholes, has been mixed.
"A-Rod sucks!" exclaimed Ben Affleck, whom many might remember as an out-of-work actor turned professional bandwagon jumper who latched on to the team just in time for their World Series run, similar to how he latched on to Jennifers Lopez and Garner at the beginning of their mainstream popularity.
However, a survey of men shopping in Banana Republic found that the majority of that demographic approves. 85% of those polled favored the name change, many citing the need to further modify and trendify the club while also removing the stigma that could only befall a place named Ramrod.
It remains to be seen how the Bombers will react to this peace offering. A-Rod himself could not be reached for comment, but Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter answered his teammate's phone.
"Jethuth Chritht," Mr. Jeter exclaimed before hanging up.
------
This has been an urgent breaking news flash. You may now remove the tinfoil helmet you thought would keep me from stealing your thoughts.
Boston, MA – In an historic move of good faith, the Boston Red Sox have offered an olive branch of brotherhood to their hated rivals, the New York Yankees, in the form of a popular local hot spot.
In last week's blockbuster mega deal, the team acquired the Fenway area property home to the Ramrod, a favorite destination of men wearing assless chaps. It has been speculated that the ownership group led by John Henry would knock down the building and build a hot dog stand in its place, but today's press conference with chief Henry bootlicker Larry Lucchino revealed a different set of plans.
"The Boston Red Sox have no plans to close the Ramrod," Lucchino announced. "Instead, we're going to use it as a peace offering to end the hostility between Red Sox Nation and the Evil Empire."
The club will be renamed the A-Rod, in honor of everybody's favorite ball slapping Yankees third baseman. "We couldn't think of a single symbol to better represent one of the Bronx Bombers than this particular venue," Lucchino explained. "It was Theo's idea, and Henry and I just loved it."
The Sox GM could be seen snickering in the corner of the press room during Lucchino's announcement, but he declined all requests for interviews.
Reaction amongst the locals, known to be opinionated assholes, has been mixed.
"A-Rod sucks!" exclaimed Ben Affleck, whom many might remember as an out-of-work actor turned professional bandwagon jumper who latched on to the team just in time for their World Series run, similar to how he latched on to Jennifers Lopez and Garner at the beginning of their mainstream popularity.
However, a survey of men shopping in Banana Republic found that the majority of that demographic approves. 85% of those polled favored the name change, many citing the need to further modify and trendify the club while also removing the stigma that could only befall a place named Ramrod.
It remains to be seen how the Bombers will react to this peace offering. A-Rod himself could not be reached for comment, but Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter answered his teammate's phone.
"Jethuth Chritht," Mr. Jeter exclaimed before hanging up.
------
This has been an urgent breaking news flash. You may now remove the tinfoil helmet you thought would keep me from stealing your thoughts.
Friday, May 27, 2005
There's a Bigfuckinhole in the Parking Lot
It looks like fun. I got out my little pink plastic shovel and asked the fat man in the hard hat if I could help dig. He passed wind in my general direction and told me to get my little pansy ass back to Mass Art.
Heart broken, I returned to my dorm room and cried myself to sleep on my SpongeBob bedsheet. I did not go to class the next morning. I hear I missed a riveting lecture in Science Fiction class on why dogs like to roll in smelly shit. Instead I grabbed the telescope I usually use to spy on semi-hot (ok, maybe a step or two above ugly) girls in Baker Hall and aimed it at the bigfuckinhole. Even from that distance, it still looked like fun. I thought I could hear my little pink plastic shovel crying.
I thought to myself, "What would Chuck Norris do?"
But drop kicking the backhoe seemed like a bad idea. So I thought, "What would Scott Colby do?"
And that was the answer. I travelled the depths of 610 to the lair of the buffalo women, where I traded a keg of Twinkie filling for two dozen free passes to the Foggy Goggle. I then distributed those passes to the construction workers. I win.
This is probably the dumbest thing I've ever written. But for half a second there, it kept me entertained.
Heart broken, I returned to my dorm room and cried myself to sleep on my SpongeBob bedsheet. I did not go to class the next morning. I hear I missed a riveting lecture in Science Fiction class on why dogs like to roll in smelly shit. Instead I grabbed the telescope I usually use to spy on semi-hot (ok, maybe a step or two above ugly) girls in Baker Hall and aimed it at the bigfuckinhole. Even from that distance, it still looked like fun. I thought I could hear my little pink plastic shovel crying.
I thought to myself, "What would Chuck Norris do?"
But drop kicking the backhoe seemed like a bad idea. So I thought, "What would Scott Colby do?"
And that was the answer. I travelled the depths of 610 to the lair of the buffalo women, where I traded a keg of Twinkie filling for two dozen free passes to the Foggy Goggle. I then distributed those passes to the construction workers. I win.
This is probably the dumbest thing I've ever written. But for half a second there, it kept me entertained.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
The New Season of I Stole Your Lunch Begins with a Bang!
Hey hey hey! I Stole Your Lunch is stuck in an endless loop of reruns no longer! Untie that noose, put away the sleeping pills, and pull the ten gauge out of your ass...the world is a happy place once more!
Kind of.
I've been in good old West Brookfield for the past week and a half, so I've spent A LOT of time staring at the television. And when I say A LOT, I mean A LOT. I've worked a permanent butt groove into the couch, and I can't quite seem to seperate the remote control from my hand. Makes it a bit difficult to type, but at least I'll never lose the buttons again. To make matters worse, in all that time I haven't seen a single episode of Strange Love. I do believe I'm going through a Flava Flav withdrawal. Instead, they've been showing that stupid, stupid movie where that ugly girl from Saved by the Bell gets naked and sticks out her huge teeth so she looks like a blond donkey suffering from extraordinarily painful hemorhoids. Why, VH1? Why?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
But I digress. In my hours upon hours upon hours upon hours of staring at the boob tube (which is a total misnomer, because there's not enough boob and waaaaaaay too much tube), I've noticed a much more annoying phenomenon.
Every other commercial has something to do with Star Wars.
I'm not talking about commercials that are actually for Revenge of the Sith, and in no way am I hatin on the movie yo. If I wasn't excited to see it, they'd kick me out of computer science. Hmmm, maybe I should start hatin on the movie yo...
The commercials that are bothering me are the endless tie ins, most of which involve Darth Vader. A note to the hardworking (yeah, right) men and women in the advertising community: evil bastards like Darth Vader generally do not make good pitch men. We're not talking about your average evil bastard, either. We're talking about Space Hitler. Darth Vader is not a nice person, and eating anything he tells you to buy should sound like a really, really good way to make that one way trip to the emergency ward you've always dreamed about. If James Earl Jones were dead, he'd be rolling in his grave every time Darth Vader popped on television to sell a slurpy. As it is, my sources tell me he's been a bit gassy lately, and that commercial is probably why (and not because he's been drinking too many slurpies, dumb ass).
And then I made the mistake of flipping the channel to MTV the other day. Good Charlotte was performing what was probably the worst song ever on a Star Wars themed stage set up on the perfectly manicured grounds of George Lucas's Skywalker Ranch. Darth Vader stood behind the retarded drummer, raising his hands whenever the song reached a crescendo, or the closest thing to a crescendo that particular song could've reached. I've never hated television so much in my life, except whenever I see a John Basedow commercial or Pimp My Ride.
You've got to hand it to Lucas's marketing boys, though. Everybody on the planet knows Revenge of the Sith is about to hit theatres. Hell, if Helen Keller were alive, she'd probably be standing in line for tickets, albeit facing the wrong way. Yeah, I'm an ass.
Kind of.
I've been in good old West Brookfield for the past week and a half, so I've spent A LOT of time staring at the television. And when I say A LOT, I mean A LOT. I've worked a permanent butt groove into the couch, and I can't quite seem to seperate the remote control from my hand. Makes it a bit difficult to type, but at least I'll never lose the buttons again. To make matters worse, in all that time I haven't seen a single episode of Strange Love. I do believe I'm going through a Flava Flav withdrawal. Instead, they've been showing that stupid, stupid movie where that ugly girl from Saved by the Bell gets naked and sticks out her huge teeth so she looks like a blond donkey suffering from extraordinarily painful hemorhoids. Why, VH1? Why?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
But I digress. In my hours upon hours upon hours upon hours of staring at the boob tube (which is a total misnomer, because there's not enough boob and waaaaaaay too much tube), I've noticed a much more annoying phenomenon.
Every other commercial has something to do with Star Wars.
I'm not talking about commercials that are actually for Revenge of the Sith, and in no way am I hatin on the movie yo. If I wasn't excited to see it, they'd kick me out of computer science. Hmmm, maybe I should start hatin on the movie yo...
The commercials that are bothering me are the endless tie ins, most of which involve Darth Vader. A note to the hardworking (yeah, right) men and women in the advertising community: evil bastards like Darth Vader generally do not make good pitch men. We're not talking about your average evil bastard, either. We're talking about Space Hitler. Darth Vader is not a nice person, and eating anything he tells you to buy should sound like a really, really good way to make that one way trip to the emergency ward you've always dreamed about. If James Earl Jones were dead, he'd be rolling in his grave every time Darth Vader popped on television to sell a slurpy. As it is, my sources tell me he's been a bit gassy lately, and that commercial is probably why (and not because he's been drinking too many slurpies, dumb ass).
And then I made the mistake of flipping the channel to MTV the other day. Good Charlotte was performing what was probably the worst song ever on a Star Wars themed stage set up on the perfectly manicured grounds of George Lucas's Skywalker Ranch. Darth Vader stood behind the retarded drummer, raising his hands whenever the song reached a crescendo, or the closest thing to a crescendo that particular song could've reached. I've never hated television so much in my life, except whenever I see a John Basedow commercial or Pimp My Ride.
You've got to hand it to Lucas's marketing boys, though. Everybody on the planet knows Revenge of the Sith is about to hit theatres. Hell, if Helen Keller were alive, she'd probably be standing in line for tickets, albeit facing the wrong way. Yeah, I'm an ass.
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