is that when I tell one of my jokes to my significant other and he looks at me like I'm a dingo talking word salad, I can then post my joke here and someone, somewhere on the internets will think it's funny.
The Admiral Akbar Bathroom Companion is an easy-to-install product guaranteed to provide endless entertainment. The device consists of a single unit that attaches beneath the lip of your toilet bowl. A sensor on the device detects and analyzes anything that enters the toilet. When poop is detected, Admiral Akbar's voice exclaims: "It's a crap!"
This is going to be huge. Seriously, every frat house in the country will buy one. Operators are standing by.
Thanks to a completely pointless magazine, I learned yesterday that Katy Perry recently caused a ruckus when she *gasp* showed cleavage on Sesame Street.
There are so many delightful angles from which to attack this idiocy. I'm positively bubbling.
The primary focal point of stupidity here is the fact that most of Sesame Street's audience still breast feeds. They see titties all the time. And when they see titties, they don't think "fun bags" or "dirty pillows," they think "food." So really the worst thing that might happen is Katy's cleavage might make the tots a bit peckish.
(Ok, to be fair, the absolute worst thing could be that the sight of her breasts might cause a feeding frenzy where all the 2-year-olds storm the television set, trying to reach her luscious rack, and begin licking the screen so vigorously that they cause a short circuit that cuts off all electric power in North America, at which point Iran and North Korea coordinate a perfectly timed attack against the United States and the world's last hope for freedom and justice is gone forever. Worst-case scenario.)
A secondary tidbit of stupid is the fact that, cleavage or no cleavage, Katy Perry is probably not the role model you want for your kids. Katy Perry shows her tits everywhere. Even if she wore a habit during her Sesame Street debut, if your kid ends up liking her and wants to see more of her, the first thing the kid's going to discover is that her breasts are *everywhere*. That, and they would also start singing "I Kissed a Girl" on car trips.
I'm not even bothering to address the underlying prudishness and fear of sex that is really behind all of this inanity, by the way. Never mind that your kid may *want* to grow up to be a sex-pot pop star. Never mind that it's perfectly normal and healthy for women and girls to want to be sexy. Never mind that the primary purpose of boobs is to give men something to look at while they listen to women talk about feelings.
Let's pretend that sex really is scary and wrong and children need to be shielded from it for as long as possible. Even so, no kid watching Sesame Street is going to associate Katy Perry's ta-tas with sex, because no kid watching Sesame Street even has an inkling of the concept of sex or sexuality. Not even the ones who masturbated as infants, or who walked in on Daddy donkey-punching Mommy the other night.
You know who will appreciate the tittalidge? The adults who are forced to sit through mind-numbing hours of Teletubbies and Barney every day. For them, watching a busty pop icon bust a move is a breast, er, breath of fresh air.
Children's shows have long had hidden messages for adults. Watching Looney Toons as an adult is like watching a completely different show. I recently saw a cartoon on the Disney Channel that referenced Joseph Conrad, for Christ's sake. It is not now, nor has it ever been, completely about the kids.
I think it's about time that we, as a culture, owned up to this fact and moved toward a better integration of children and adult entertainment. Forget having Katy Perry guest star, give her her own show: "Learning to Count with Katy Perry in a Bikini." Imagine if 26 Victoria's Secret models taught you your ABCs. I bet you'd learn right quick. And there's really no reason why you couldn't remake The Little Mermaid with Prince Eric shirtless the whole time.
I'm here today to advise everyone to stop throwing around the term "monster" so lightly.
"Monster" is not a catch-all term for evil creatures. Ted Bundy was evil, scary, and had strange teeth, but that is not enough to make him a "monster." To be a true monster, you need to have some super-natural skill at being evil and scary. It also helps to be blue, but that's really a secondary qualification.
I am adamant in this, because there really are monsters in this world. Monsters that become very, very angry when humans mistakenly identify non-monsters as monsters. It's a touchy subject for them, and who can blame them? Imagine if your boss were to consistently mistake you for a fern. You'd be offended too.
It always helps to have a list of concretes to solidify your understanding of a definition, so I've compiled a list of some real-life monsters for you to peruse.
Geese are clearly monsters. They have a truly unmatched capacity for evil. They are especially dangerous to children, who tend to learn about ducks first. A child learns "Duck + Bread = New Best Friend" very quickly.
When a child sees a goose for the first time, they see a really big duck and they think "Big Duck + Lots of Bread = Super Best Friend."
The goose sees something more like this:
What follows can only be explained in slow motion:
I have witnessed a squirrel stealing a double cheese burger *out of a person's hand* through a combination of acrobatic skill, Special Forces stealth, and sheer ballsiness. I have seen a squirrel steal an entire pack of cigarettes from a purse, climb up a tree with them, and start eating them. And in Russia, *squirrels ate a dog* in less than a minute. I think this proves squirrels belong solidly in the monster category.
I think it bears repeating that this is the scariest thing in the known universe. Its existence requires an immediate and radical alteration to our survival strategy as a species.
I hope we are all better informed, now. Remember: there are monsters out there. Respect them, or they will kill you.
Today in the U.S., we honor our veterans by closing dry cleaners early. This is a great way to frustrate people who try to pick up their clothes at 3pm and discover that the cleaners closed at noon. All around the city today, there are people with their faces pressed against the glass of closed dry cleaners mouthing "Why?" into the dark store.
Then they try to go to the bank, only to find that closed as well. At least the bank has put up a friendly sign, saying "Closed for Veterans' Day." Now all these people know why they can't get anything accomplished today. And really, what makes people more appreciative of the heroic efforts of our country's veterans, the efforts that allow us to live in a (partially) free and (somewhat) functional society, than being inconvenienced?
Veterans' Day is a very empathetic holiday, in that way. Christmas is sympathetic. We give to the less fortunate on Christmas. But on Veterans' Day, we celebrate veterans by making sure people have no clean clothes and no money, so that we can all know what it's like to be a veteran. And really, who wouldn't prefer making others badly off to making themselves better off?
One great "sacrifice" deserves another, so today, be sure to show your appreciation for the Purple Hearts, the amputees, the medal-winners, and all the soldiers who left their homes and their families to risk life and limb on our behalf, by putting off your banking until Friday.
Few things make me feel better than being selected for market research focus groups.
You begin with the nerve-wracking preliminary questions to see if you qualify. It starts with the basics. How old are you? What's your sex? Which racial group do you identify with? I have many, many times been rejected at this point. Apparently a great many 18 to 24 year old white females have nothing better to do than answer online surveys. It hurts because these are things I have no control over, and people really should stop hating on white chicks. We're so oppressed.
Anyway, then they ask some questions that you are obviously supposed to say "no" too. Do you work in marketing? Are you close with anyone who works in marketing? Have you participated in market research in the last 3 months? Sometimes they will be trickier, like maybe they will ask what field you work in. Hopefully, if they ask this, you have some idea of what the wrong answer is from what the survey is about, i.e. if the survey is about cell phones, don't admit to working in telecom. But then sometimes it's a double-bluff and they actually *want* someone who works in telecom. This is pretty much a coin toss.
Then come the really weird questions. How many ducks do you own? Have you ever been to Switzerland? What is your favorite species of turtle? Do you know anyone who plays the banjo? Have you ever brought a frisbee with you on vacation, or jam? How many times have you purchased bearing grease in the past month? For these you gotta just answer honestly and hope for the best.
Then, at last, come the magic words "We'd like to invite you to participate in our study." At last: acceptance! Not only do you get money and possibly products out of this deal, you also get to know that someone out there wants to sell you things. You, personally. However weird you are, however unusual your tastes, someone in the world is eagerly designing a product with you in mind.
Sure, they only want you for what's in your pants (your wallet). Sure, you're basically a whore for the advertising industry. But it's worth it to know that you are not alone.
Well, I tried to go see Secretariat so I could write a review of yet another film with a one-word title that starts with "s," but I ended up being tricked into paying $10.25 to watch a 2 hour long Brooks Brothers' commercial. Anyway, have a good weekend.
There are all of these super famous songs that no one actually knows. You might know one line of it, which is usually just the title sung to some vague melody that you aren't too sure about. You only ever hear snippets of these songs, like in the background of a movie. I don't think those songs are real songs. I think someone just wrote those snippets and that's it, and now everyone thinks they are parts of actual songs. They keep putting them in movies and people keep thinking they are real, but it's all a big lie. Songs like:
1. "That's Amore" - No way is this a real song; it was clearly invented to have something to play in Italian restaurants in films.
2. The Canadian National Anthem - I'm pretty sure there's nothing after "Oh, Canada!"
3. "I Left My Heart in San Francisco" - Can anyone tell me any words to this song other than the title? Yeah, that's what I thought.
4. "Zat You, Santa Claus?" - This song is clearly just a bunch of generic brass instruments playing to provide background music for family-friendly Christmas movies, then the one line is sung very loudly to mark the end of the holiday shopping/decorating/ice skating montage.
I think it would be genius to have a karaoke bar where the entire playlist consists only of songs like this.
This is unrelated, but I also wanted to point out that it's really gross to bring your dog into the grocery store. Why do people do this? Anything that pees to mark its territory should not be brought around human food items.
Few things rank higher on the stupidity index than religion. Rob Schneider movies, Vibrams, and that’s about it. Oh, also heirloom tomatoes. Why you would pay more for your fruit to be uglier, I do not know.
Anyway, under the silly heading of “religions” are some that are even sillier than average. The more popular, first-world religions tend to be fairly even-keeled. Yes, they technically preach the same total nonsense, but most followers don’t take it *that* seriously, nor does it really affect their lives. The third-world and fringe religions, on the other hand, produce all kinds of crazy every day.
One of the craziest and most despicable religions, to my mind, is whatever religion has the Dalai Lama in it. I really only know that one thing about it, but that one thing is enough to make the harshest of judgments in this case.
The idea is that this Dalai Lama person is a spiritual leader who is reincarnated all the time. When the old Lama dies, a new one is born. The priests or monks or whatever have a bunch of Nostradamean nonsense to interpret that will help them find the new Lama. So the priest-monk-people wander around Tibet, with the help of friendly Tibetan government officials, until they find a kid who fits their prophecy.
Sometimes, when they see the kid, one of the monks sees a flame or other sign to let them know it’s him. They then test the child. For instance the current Lama supposedly picked out the crackpipe that belonged to the old Lama from amongst assorted other crackpipes. Also, when he was 2, he told his parents they should give him extra sweets because he was the Dalai Lama. Very convincing, objective evidence, that. Q.E.D.
And yes, I realize that there are multiple Lamas so it isn’t accurate to just call him the Lama, but since this whole thing is a bunch of nonsense, I don’t care. Moving on.
So this kid is “discovered” around age 4, possibly younger, by creepy bald men wearing orange and is taken away from his family and kept hidden from the world until age 14, when he emerges and starts telling global leaders what to do based on stuff he read in fortune cookies.
That’s it. That’s the Dalai Lama. That’s this “great spiritual leader” everyone sprays their shorts over.
In the West, we have a word for it when a child is taken from his parents and kept locked up with a bunch of old men: child abuse (what, did you think I was going to say something else?). And yet countless people in the West, when they learn of this religion and its vile disregard for the rights of a helpless child and his parents, think this culture is “interesting,” in the way that some quaint village tradition is “interesting.”
My boss, who I’ve mentioned before, decorates his house with hideous masks he buys while visiting obscure parts of the world. He goes around the world observing “native people” in their “natural habitat” and comes home with these trophies to hang on his wall. He travels around and looks a savages living in mud huts and admires the art they produce, art that reflects the twisted horror of their lives, and he considers this “interesting.”
I simply do not know what to make of people who do this, people who view other people as though they were wild animals in cages. When a centipede eats a bat, it’s interesting. But when a man stretches his neck out to over 18 inches for no reason whatsoever, or when a child grows up in an Amazonian tribe that can’t count past 5, or when a man can buy wives with cattle regardless of her consent, it’s not “interesting,” it’s nauseating. It’s not some curious habit of another culture; it’s a systematically brutish and disgusting practice that no human should ever be a part of.
Take a moment to really contemplate the irony of the Dalai Lama, a man who hopes to be reincarnated as an insect because that would be the best service he could provide to the world, riding on a jumbo jet, courtesy of Western non-idiocy, to visit the leaders of countries that have outlawed stealing children. Yeah, it’s insects who do a lot for the world.
Then again, we actually would be better off if he, and all people like him, were turned into bugs. In that one respect, I hope this crazy religion is true.
Here’s another review of a one-word, starts with an “s” film for your enjoyment.
Splice, written and directed by so and so and starring Adrian Brody and some chick, is pretty much the best movie of all time. If by “best” you mean “absolute worst”, and by “movie” you mean “piece of crap”, and by “of all time” you mean “of all time.”
As the director states, Splice confronts important issues raised by the blooming science of genetic engineering. Questions like: what would happen if you mixed a bunch of genes together to make a slug, then added human DNA to make a monster, then kept that monster as a pet in a creepy lab basement and a scary abandoned farmhouse and played Scrabble with it? What if it turned out your wife had used her own DNA to create the monster? Would you then have sex with it? Then what if that monster died, then came back to life, changed sex and raped your wife? Then what if she got pregnant from the tranny-zombie-incest-monster rape? Would you keep the baby just to see what would happen, for the sake of science?
Splice’s answer to these questions is something like “Wait, what? Why are they doing that? That makes no sense. Wait, they aren’t going to…oh my god, is he really going to…? Oh god, NO! Ew, what the fuck?”
Not a thing in the entire film makes an ounce of sense. Not a micro-nano-milli-ounce even. Forget the sketchy science, which I am willing to write off as a basic hazard of sci fi writing. This goes beyond nonsensical statements like “It’s evolving!” or the “double helix” high five. The real insanity is in the actions of the characters. Everything they do is mind-bogglingly illogical. Here, I’ll show you:
So this scientist couple wants to see if they can splice human DNA into this hybrid of 7 other species that they created. The company funding them shuts the project down, so they go ahead and do the splice anyway. Fine, I’m with you so far. Then the chick decides to grow a creature from this DNA in one of the artificial wombs in the lab. This, about 5 minutes into the film, is where things start to get fucked.
The scientists know nothing about this new species, like whether or not it will gestate properly in this device. Of course it doesn’t, so the woman sticks her hand blindly into the creature and ends up being stung by a poisonous stinger, even though none of the spliced critters have poison stingers. Then instead of killing what is obviously a monster, the woman insists on keeping it and feeding it Tic Tacs without doing anything at all about this deadly poisonous stinger thing.
Soon the baby monster cannot be kept hidden in the lab, so they move it to the scary basement, and then to the farm where the woman scientist grew up with her abusive mother, where it is always midnight and everything is creaky and terrifying. All this time, she claims to be “studying it,” but all she actually does is put makeup on it. Because she never adequately dealt with her mommy issues, the scientist alternates between treating the creature like a beloved daughter and a hated animal, which of course causes the creature, who clearly possesses human or near-human levels of intelligence, to act out, like any teenager would. Except this is a teenager with amphibious lungs, prehensile tail, wings, and a poisonous stinger.
Anyway, more completely crazy and disturbing shit happens. Never, during any of it, does anyone stop to ask questions like “Is this creature human? What does it mean to be human? Does it have free will or a rational faculty? Does it form concepts and, if so, what are the implications of that ability? Can it use language? Does it have rights?” No, all they do is an MRI, after which they point to a bunch of organs and say “What is that? Oh well, we’ll worry about that later. Let’s go play Scrabble!”
All this is to say that you absolutely must watch this film. Seriously, it is the funniest thing ever made. It’s like Rocky Horror if Rocky Horror weren’t a joke. Watch it, then wonder what on earth an Oscar-winning actor did that movie for. Watch it, then watch the director’s pompous, totally serious commentary about “unconventional sex,” etc. It’s absolutely mind-blowing. For anyone who, like I, enjoys gawking at the unbelievable stupidity humans are capable of, this film is a treasure trove.