This is all your fault, J$

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

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

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

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

The Same

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

Different

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

Stay tuned...

The Seven Wonders of the World

An online poll recently determined the new Seven Wonders of the World. The denizens of the Interweb picked a wall, a statue of Jesus, and several piles of rocks. Scott Colby is quite disappointed with these results, as he can see all these things if he peeks into his neighbor's yard.

Of course, Scott Colby must step forward and right this most heinous of wrongs. Here are his REAL Seven Wonders of the World:

• New York's Mother - Sister Patterson is three times holier than any Jesus statue and made of even harder stone. If she called for fire and brimstone to fall from the heavens, I'd dive under the nearest table, mostly because there's a pretty good chance her terrible bellow would bring the ceiling crashing down upon my head. Sister Patterson holds two distinctions not likely to be matched anytime soon: she's the only man on record as having given birth, and she's the only human being who can take a crowbar to the face without blinking. I suspect she's Chuck Norris's evil twin sister.
• The Woot-Off - A website that sells one product until that product is sold out? When will the current piece of crap go away? What's coming next? How many times is this damn website going to try to convince me I want a Leak Frog or $5000 projector? Hours of fun at work, school, and/or funerals.
• The Milky Way Lounge - 80's night, karaoke, $2 Brubakers, bowling, pool, and cracked out Jamaica Plain people. Hot damn.
• J-Rags in a suave hat - Check out Justin's new Facebook picture in the top right of this post. The entire city of Boston demands that he wear that fedora everywhere he goes, and that he tuck three Cuban cigars into his chest pocket as an added accent. The perfect look for ghost riding the whip or screaming at the migrant workers to pick oranges faster. Also, Al Gore would be extremely proud of Justin, as he's not drinking wine straight from the bottle just to be a trashy wine-o, but rather to save the water it would take to wash a glass.
  
• Scott Colby's alien blasting abilities - Seriously, those fuckers don't stand a chance. And when planet earth is finally invaded for real, one man will stand alone and send those bastard E.T.'s packing back to Uranus.
• The Worcester Palladium - Built from the bones of several million homeless culled from the streets of the The Woo, the Palladium is a true marvel of modern engineering. Paint based on slime collected from the city streets amplifies the acoustics of the main theater to generate perfect sound. Many fine community college graduates have been conceived in these hallowed halls.
  
• Yuppies - Recently confirmed to produce asexually, yuppies nonetheless travel in packs typically consisting of up to five slightly paunchy men in striped button down shirts and up to four conservatively dressed women who appear attractive after five drinks but are too annoying to actually converse with until you've had seven or eight. Yuppies are known to enjoy Volkswagons and GAP commercials and can often be found nesting under piles of IKEA furniture. By day, these creatures frequent Starbucks and snooty cafes. Their animalistic side comes out at night when they travel to overpriced tourist bars to dine on Bud Light, Cosmopolitans, and the occasional Kamikaze shot. Beware the popped collar, as it is a sure sign that a yuppie is about to spontaneously give birth, a process which releases a noxious gas known to drive typically sane individuals to shop in J. Crew and Pink. In their larval stage, yuppies often serve as hall monitors and student council representatives, while the more adventurous among them join the theater club. From what vile pit of hell did these creatures first spawn? Are they really as better than you as their disdainful stares imply? Will science ever find a means of translating their imperious language into something you and I can listen to without wanting to bash our skulls in with the nearest blunt object? Will Josh Moody and his ragtag band of freedom fighters ever free us from the secret society of Yuppie overlords that secretly controls the planet? There are some mysteries the human race just may not be intended to unravel.

Impeachment, etc

Two thoughts before my main body of work:

1. It's been two weeks since Vince McMahon's limo exploded. Not to disrespect Sensational Sherry and definitely not to disrespect Chris Benoit, who's always been one of my favorites and was by all accounts a genuinely good person, but isn't it ironic that two WWE personalities have been found dead since Vince's fake death? Vince, if you have a heart, please come out of hiding and tell us it was all a joke before karma takes away Doink the Clown and the Miz.

2. The red line is an amazing vehicle. On my way home today I wound up sitting next to a tourist who spoke exactly like Arnold Schwarzennegger, and his accent amused me for the entire ride. The crowning moment came when he uttered the phrase "I really fancied that corn muffin, but I had to catch the train" and then proceeded to do his best imitation of a five-year-old girl running after the ice cream truck. Seriously, say "I really fancied that corn muffin" in your best impersonation of the governator and tell me it doesn't make you laugh.

On to the main event! Our title for the evening:

Proof that the Democratic Party Has No Balls

Now that the Democrats control the legislature, they've got a chance to do something about W's transgressions by impeaching him. They've got many reasons to act, including:

• Wiretapping American citizens without a warrant.
• Abusing the Patriot Act by using the office of Homeland Security to track down a group of Democratic state legislators in the midst of a mobile filibuster and intimidating them to approve the rezoning law they were seeking to stop which wound up giving several seats to the Republican party.
• Most of the people George hires end up resigning amidst controversy and/or legal action. If he had any other job, he'd probably be shitcanned just for this.
  
• Negligence in preventing the 9/11 tragedy when both the CIA and the FBI attempted to warn him, and gross negligence in accepting a forged document as indisputable proof that Saddam possessed weapons of mass destruction aimed at your children.

And yet, no impeachment vote, despite the fact that the state legislatures of Massachusetts, Vermont, and California have passed referendums calling for one.

To put things into perspective, let's examine our country's previous impeachment of a president.

While the Republican party was in power, they impeached Bill Clinton for the following transgressions:

• He lied to a grand jury under oath so that his crazy wife wouldn't find out he was diddling an intern and chew his testicles off.

I may have to vote for Bloomberg.

Gwen Stefani is pregant!?!?!?!?! Holy cracked out baby names!!!!!!!!

Few bits of news as old as Ms. Stefani's baby bulge deserve so much punctuation.

I for one will be waiting with baited breath to learn what gem of a moniker that poor kid's going to get stuck with. If she takes the common sense route and names it after her deceased brother, I just might cry.

A few possibilities:

- Lemon Crumpet.
- Fergie (it is a little known fact that Fergie is in fact Gwen Stefani's daughter come back from the future in an attempt to save her mother from death on the London Bridge).
- Boris Andrew Nathan Alexander Newton Aaron (with his last name involved, B.A.N.A.N.A.S.)
- Joshua Moody (in honor of the only man who ever comments on this blog).
- Hoggle.
- Comet.
- !.
- Saaphyri.

Vince is my hero

Say what you will about Vince McMahon and his product - but before you do that, name one Chairman of another company who takes as active a role in manufacturing his product as Vince. The man deserves his due.

That said, this week's episode of Monday Night Raw was Vince McMahon Appreciation Night. During the course of this night, superstars past and present gave their thoughts on the boss - and, of course, nobody had anything nice to say.

Fast forward to the end of the program. An obviously disturbed Vince walked past the entire WWE roster without saying so much as a single word to anyone, even the individuals who'd most slandered his name. He climbed into his limousine and closed the door...and the entire thing exploded.

And three million viewers simultaneously said "What the fuck?"

I'm ashamed to admit it, but I read a bit of wrestling analysis on the good old Interweb. Most of this analysis is just random garbage by a bunch of hacks who don't understand proper punctuation and can't stick to one tense. If they're qualified to write about wrestling, so am I.

And I'm going to start by telling each and every one of them that they're wrong about their analysis of Vince's "death."

Every column I've read is examining this storyline as a "murder," but that's incorrect. It was a "suicide."

Look at the timing of the event. The explosion occured at the end of Vince McMahon Appreciation Night, after everyone and their brother had gotten through ripping Vince a new one when they were supposed to be reminiscing about his good qualities.

The point of this, of course, is that Vince is an evil, manipulative bastard. It would fit his character completely to have him fake his own suicide in an attempt to make the entire WWE roster feel like absolute shit about the way they just treated him.

And then he'll show up to laugh in everyone's face, and it will amuse me greatly. Dastardly Vince is good TV.