Awesome Idea #369

Puppy Armor.

No, not like the picture. Don't armor your puppy. That's just stupid. Unless you signed your dog up to star in a Japanese snuff film produced by Michael Vick, I seriously doubt your pup is going to need protective body armor any time soon.

No, I say give our human soldiers body armor made out of puppies. And kittens. Just lash 'em together and make a suit out of them. Not even the most heartless, godless, terrorist dickbag is going to hurt someone who's wearing a suit of live puppies and kittens.

Unless they were suicide bombing ferrets wrapped around children. Ferrets are dicks like that.

Defining Moments In A Young Girl's Life

This all stemmed from "Her First iPhone" which didn't even end up on the list. Went a completely other direction with the entry. On a side note: never do a Google Image search for "young girls [anything]." The results will not in any way be what you were looking for, unless of course you were looking for porn of questionable legality. Then, yeah, you'd get what you wanted.



Defining Moments In A Young Girl's Life:

• Her first slumber party
• Her first Party Dress
• Her first kiss
  
  
• Her first cell phone
• Her first cell phone with unlimited texting
  Her first SmartPhone
  
  
• Her first date
  
• Her first boyfriend
  
• Her first strapless dress
  
  
• Her first formal dance
• Her first time
• Her first time pretending it's her first time
  
• Her first time that doesn't suck
  
  
• Her first proposal
  
• The proposal she accepts
• The proposal she accepts which actually leads to her wedding
  
  
• Her first time imagining someone besides her husband during sex
• Her first time imagining that someone is Becky from the gym
• Her first time calling out Becky's name in bed
• Her first time being confused when her husband isn't upset with her calling out Becky's name in bed
• Her first threesome since college
• Her first book on cuckolding
  
  
• Her first roleplay
• Her first vinyl corset
• Her first riding crop
• Her first rope-and-pulley system
• Her first time with a large black dude she found on Craigslist while her husband is forced to watch
  
  
• Her first strap-on
• Her first piercing kit
• Her first time not hearing their safety word
• Her first time pretending she didn't hear their safety word
  
  
• Her first offense
• Her first deposition
• Her first cross-examination
• Her first manslaughter acquittal
• Her first negligent homicide conviction
  
  
• Her first time with a very different Becky
• Her first time snitching
• Her first time getting shanked
• Her first time shanking
  
  
• Her first parole
• Her first time seeing her kids in nine years
• Her first tell-all memoir
• Her first million
  

On Running II: The Runnenning

Well at least she's not fucking Kenyan.



Those of you who know me well know that I hate runners. Runners are terrible people. They think they are better than everyone else but they are not, and their smugness only makes their inevitable cardiopulmonary "event" that much more satisfying for the rest of us. I have sworn that I will never become a runner.

So yesterday I went running, guys.


Easily the worst decision I ever made. Worse than shower sexting, worse than building an entire playlist around two cross-genre covers of Miley Cyrus' "Party In the U.S.A." (actually a fantastic idea), worse than the time I tried to ollie a packet of duck sauce on the spine of a hardcover book onto my kitchen table without squishing it.

It started well enough. "It's just running for a while. I can run for a while," I thought. "I run all the time. I'll just be doing it without some other purpose. It'll be fine. I'll be great at it."

Man, I bought my first pair of basketball shorts since I was about twelve. I got powdered Gatorade mix to stick in my refillable water bottle. I found an old clip-on iPod case and my earbuds. I was going to head down to the high school track and be awesome. "I'll just run for the 30 minutes and figure out how far I went later."

Do you have any idea how awful an idea this was? Do you run? If yes, than you don't know. If you don't run, go out and try it. No, wait. Don't do that. It's a terrible idea.

It looked hopeful when I got their. Little 12 year olds on a skateboard and a couple of Razor scooters rode by me asking for high-fives. I figured I'd make their day and put some feeling into it, and for my trouble I was told that I was "cool" and asked to come talk to them and meet their wives. I believe by high-fiving them I completed some kind of "Sure, we'll marry you if you high five [x-number of] random strangers." The wives, for their part, told my my mustache was cool and looked good. (I do not need middle school skanks latching onto me. I look like enough of a pedophile as it is hanging around my old high school with a bachelor's degree and baggy shorts.)

I stretched, I loaded up my Party and Bullshit In the U.S.A. playlist and I set off.

Horrible idea. I have no idea how to run, but I guarantee you I did it wrong. Sure, I can sprint in a game. I do well. But I have no stamina. Zero. In the time it's taken my to write these last two paragraphs I could have started running, gotten tired and quit already. And running around a track is just worse. There is absolutely nothing to do but think about how lousy of an idea running is. Every single step imbues me with nothing more than the fervent desire to stop running. My only thought was of not feeling like this anymore.

So I backed off. I figured I did pretty well for a first lap. I did a whole circuit pretty fast. I past the walker mom and even the track kid already sweating his balls off. I should take walk to ease back and then start again a little slower. I took a half-lap walk, set my drink down in a shady, out of the way spot and resumed a brisker pace, intending to cycle through full-lap runs and half-lap walks. Get a nice little stagger pattern going.

I'm a fucking idiot. I kept telling myself. How can people do this? Why do people do this? This is the worst feeling ever. I want nothing more than to end this feeling immediately. So desperately. Maybe this is a wall? There's a wall these people break through and then it's good. Then you get the endorphins? Dolphins? Milhouse was the real dauphin. But he'll never be a meme … holy Christ I am about to pass out or throw up I need to get hidden in case that actually happens stop running you fucking lunatic.

So yeah, that happened. I got a whole half-lap in of my second heat before I was hit with shin splints, side cramps, chest pains, throat knives and all the good fun that comes with completely over exerting yourself without any proper prep or training. I tried to very calmly walk back to my drink, and then out the back gate of the track so that the little kids and their child brides wouldn't see my skulking away in shame and defeat. I rounded the front of the school and got cruised by some seventeen year old assholes in a busted-up El Camino who might have thought I was someone else. That or they just like idling next to shamed runners.

Moral of the story: running is a horrible, horrible thing and the only people who can actually do it are the kind of people to stupid to listen to their body saying, "Ow this fucking hurts stop it stop it now there has got to be a better way you are hurting me ow!"

For reference, I came home feeling light-headed, nauseated, and in terrible pain throughout my whole chestal region. Also my left shin for some reason. How far did I actually go? Well one lap plus two half-laps makes it a grand total of half a mile. In eight minutes. Give me a pool or a goddam bike any day of the week, brother.

Do you know what I did afterward to make myself feel better/punish the fuck out of running as a general concept? I ordered a large pizza. Half pepperoni, half cold mozzarella on top. With three pickles and a glass of milk. I ate five of them in the first hour. I'm going to eat the last three out of spite.

Running is for chumps.

On 'Dancing With the Stars'

So a simple Wiki search tells me that in the past five years Dancing With the Stars has had ten seasons. That's ridiculous, but let's try to keep some measure of scale going in this discussion. Saying two seasons a year for five years is ridiculous when you refer to a show with contestants like Kate Gosselin, T.O. and Donny Osmond is like saying solar systems are really pretty big things.

Jump ahead.

The two most talked-about possible contestants for Season 11? Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino and political right-to-life disaster Bristol Palin.

Now as for The Sitch, that seems par for the tap-dancing course. He's hot right now, he's in shape and, frankly, he's Italian so his mother very likely demanded he learn how to dance in some way that isn't reminiscent of fucking his partner or beating the roof/floor of the club he's in to a bloody pulp with a clenched fist. Mike is clearly the most prolific 'character' to come out of The Jersey Shore. He's supposedly getting booked to the shows third season (for which the original casting agency was seeking new housemates), has a tongue-in-cheek guide to G-T-L ready to be published, and is on track to make $5M both this year and next. Truthfully, he's a great person to cast on a show only watched by the absolute dregs of mainstream pop-society.

But Bristol? Really? Yes, let's take a teen mother who is also the daughter of the most brain dead and incompetent political figurehead since Dan Quail and stick her on a show where three washed-up media clowns judge you by your ability to learn complex dance maneuvers in a short period of time despite no practical training.

On the other hand, let's look at this from a ratings perspective. I have no idea how Dancing With the Stars works. The only times I've seen it were in the background during the less-than thirty minutes or so between the ending of a good show on another channel and the start of whatever used to follow DWTS. Castle, I think. I know the idea is one celebrity and one classically trained dancer, but I think they do some exhibition stuff too, but I might just be hoping that because I really, really want to see The Situation get all "Dirty Dancing" with Bristol Palin. She's small. He can throw her around. And I feel like it could solve most of the social problems around the girl if The Sitch would just creep on her for like a month straight. Of course this would likely throw her mother back into the spotlight, but hopefully frothing at the mouth about knuckle-dragging Italians will finally kill her career and drive her back into whatever naked mole-rat hole she lives in nine months out of the Alaskan year.

I have a friend who will actually be forced to write about all this for his job. He is a pop-culture blogger type person. He says he can't believe this, but neither could he believe Kate Gosselin participating in the show. Honestly, I get that a lot quicker than I get Bristol Palin. She's only got one celebrity baby. Gosselin had eight. DWTS was probably the first time she got paid to be out of the house and away from the kids since Jon tried to bribe her out of taking sole custody. Eight weeks of aerobics class for $30,000 and daycare? Hell yeah.

On Tampons

Kotex has a commercial out where an attractive woman asks men off the street to go into a store and buy her tampons while she watches her bike. The men, understandably, try to worm out of this task.



I say "understandably" because the premise of the commercial is faulty. Ostensibly, the point is 'Men will not buy tampons, even for a pretty lady.' However, this neglects the convention that men only do that sparingly, for women they love greatly or by whom they have been utterly soul-crushed.

Additionally, this ignores the very simple fact that most of the men are probably wondering, "Hey, why is this hot chick asking me to buy things for her vagina? More importantly, why isn't she asking me to just watch her bike? Is it worth more than tampons? Are tampons expensive? More than a bike? Why can't she just buy a bike chain? Are those expensive?"

Meanwhile, at least half the men probably think they're on camera, and at least one in four has realized that if she's telling the truth about needing tampons then they are not going to get to sleep with her and there is little sense in doing her any favors. I mean I guess maybe you'll get a handy or something out of it, but this is a menstruating woman. Don't you want to just keep her happy until you can run away?

Now if she was like, "Hey, can you do me a favor and buy tampons for my ugly, autistic cousin while I watch her. I'm infertile, by the way, and you're really cute," then maybe we'd have a true test of wills here.

North Dakota Is Full of Cocks

What's your problem, North Dakota?

Seriously, you're the only fuggin' United State not to visit my blog. I thought we were United, North Dakota. I thought we were cool.

Just because you have a big mountain we carved up to look like some important dead white men you think you're better than the rest of us? Is that what you think? Well, I've got news for you, North Dakota: you ain't shit.

South Dakota's gotten in on this. North Carolina's got in on this. Hell, even West Virginia is all over my shit, so don't go acting like this is a regional thing. West side, East side, Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings, everybody's all over this so don't go acting like you can't because someone else got beef. Where's the beef? There ain't no beef here. I mean, Jesus! Even D.C. is in on this. D.C.'s been dick riding my junk since Day 1. D.C. dick riding so hard my shit's got friction burn. Shit's bent, son.

You really want to get into it? Really? Well, look at this shit: Singapore, 12 hits; France, 12 hits; Serbia, 4 hits; Sri Lanka, 4 hits. Sri Lanka, North Dakota. Vietnam, Slovenia, Slovakia, Iran, The United Arab Emirates, Ethiopia.

Jesus Christ, North Dakota, Ethiopia visits my site more than you do. You know what's in Ethiopia? Nothing. They have flies and famine and starving people and Angelina Jolie holding malnourished brown babies. I don't even think they have computers in Ethiopia. Do you know what that means? That means that Angelina Jolie handed some starving Cambodian an iPad so she could hold their kid and adopt it, and while she was doing that they looked at my web site. For like a minute and a half.

Jesus Christ, North Dakota, get your shit together.

On Expanding Your Horizons

I am a finicky eater; I will make no qualms about that. However, as a child I was somewhat more horrible in this regard. (To be fair, I've learned my throat hole was more than likely obstructed by unreasonably oversized tonsils, but this is somewhat beside the point.)

When my mother cooked me peas and carrots, she would have to pick out the "undesirables," peas which were wrinkly and not perfectly spherical, carrots not perfectly cubed. Were I to find one vegetable bit not to my liking, I would gingerly, between thumb and forefinger like deceased rodent, remove the offending party to the opposite side of my plate. I apologize to my mother wholeheartedly.

Some time around my third birthday I think, my mother finally gave up. It dawned on her that I did not enjoy her elaborately prepared meals, nor did she enjoy in any way cooking them. Or cooking in general. My mom does not like cooking. Which is fine. She's not great at it. (Again, I apologize wholeheartedly.)

I now have a few simple rules for what I will not willingly consume:

• no seafood other than canned tuna smothered in mayonnaise
  
• no peppers, onions or mushrooms
• nothing that still looks like it did when it was alive

Also no gross crap like bull testicles or tripe, but that rarely comes up in everyday meal planning.

I've actually found I have a bit of a knack for cooking. Oddly, I also enjoy it. I'm willing to experiment more with flavors and processes. This has carried over into my eating habits out in the wild. The trouble remains, I am not inclined to try something new at any time I am ravenously hungry or at a location where I have an established favorite dish. I become unwilling to risk a new delight on the possibility it may turn out to be awful and I have wasted money and remain hungry.

But, man, on special occasions I'll stuff pretty much anything down my gullet. A couple weeks ago some producer dude from L.A. bought us all appetizers to use as props (no one actually eats on television) and I chomped a fried chicken finger in between takes. It was not chicken. Upon close examination, it was a fried shrimp. A very flat shrimp.

I was quite disturbed. This violated not one, but two of my no-go food rules, seafood and technically the "still looks alive" thing, as shrimp–minus the breading–are this rule's greatest offenders one side of a suckling pig.

Good thing freeze-dried fried shrimp come so bland and tasteless I didn't have an opportunity to freak out. Just chew, swallow and switch back to a more reasonable food. Like a fried pickle.

This is my default cooking image. You'd not be surprised how many more hits it gets me.

On Addiction

The BBC reported today that British scientists have agreed it is mean spirited and "humiliating" to call heroine users "junkies" or "addicts."

Somehow, this is bad for them. The article goes on to state that being an addict now is like being gay or developmentally challenged 30 years ago.

Bullshit. They don't think addiction is the problem of the addicted? Of course it is. They were retarded enough to try something insanely stupid and instantly addictive. How is that not their fault? That'd be like saying it's not my fault I'm an astronaut, I just joined the air force, signed up for astronaut training, passed and beat out 98% of the competition so now I'm fucking stuck in low Earth orbit. But, guys, it's totally not my fault!

Here's a better idea: instead of calling them "addicts" or "junkies," how about we start calling heroine users "Fucking Assholes?" That way, every time someone asks for money to buy heroin, someone else can yell at them, "WHAT ARE YOU, A FUCKING ASSHOLE!?" I feel like that might just give heroin addicts the little jump start they need to put their lives in order. An "addict" can pity himself, but no one ever wants to be called a fucking asshole.

Failed Chuck Norris Facts

• Chuck Norris was born in Ryan, Oklahoma.
  
  
• Chuck Norris was in the U.S. air force.
  
  
• Chuck Norris halks bibles and exercise equipment on late night television because he loves Jesus and physical fitness.
  
  
• Bruce Lee killed a young Chuck Norris in Way of the Dragon.
  
  
• Chuck Norris does not believe in evolution.
  
  
• Chuck Norris' wife Gina is a lovely woman.
  
  
• If you have six apples and Chuck Norris has seven apples, and you take three of Chuck's apples, Chuck Norris will fucking kill you.

Of Zagat's Domain

Live mariachi band every Friday night!


There's a little Tex-Mex place around the corner from my apartment. Years ago it was called something else, then I think "Tres Amigos" for many years. More recently it came under the moniker "Hacienda Sauza." Clearly, somebody–likely named Sauza–bought and refurbished the place, adding a bit more class and a heavier emphasis on the "Mex" side of the cooking. Despite living within walking distance of this restaurant for more than a decade, I had never eaten there before today.

I was always a finicky eater until a few years ago, and even now I have my trepidations and a few absolute moratoriums: no seafood, no mushrooms, no peppers, no onions, nothing that looks like it did when it was still alive. Barring the first and last, those rules typically do a pretty decent job of keeping me away from Tex-Mex. I don't even remotely like hot/spicy dishes, but I'm improving, giving old foes a chance. After all, the taste buds I have now are completely different fleshy bits than the ones I had as a kid. Tastes really do change.

So I gave them a shot. I had a friend up from Long Island and we went out to this place and it was a quiet, wonderful meal of good, authentic food served by good, authentic Mexicans. (Not the "MexiCans" who run every fast food place around here, mind you; they're mostly Ecuadorian. No, these guys were Mexican. At least the owner Mr. Sauza was.) My friend got roast pork tamales and I had a trio of cheese, beef and spiced chicken enchiladas with rice and smothered in mole sauce which, for the uninitiated, is spicy chocolate sauce. We split a strawberry margarita and some flan for dessert, and I can honestly say I have never had better flan. Honestly, aside from a lousy turn exiting the place, it was the best restaurant I've been to in a while. Why the hell was I ever so averse to going there?

Oh, right, the huge bill. Jesu, that place is expensive. Holy hell, man. I'm broke. I can't be affording that crap on a regular basis. From now on this place is strictly a First Date establishment only.

On the upside, it's been twenty minutes and a whole teeth brushing, and my mouth still burns pleasantly from delicious leftover enchilada. Well played, Mexican food. You are as delicious as agave nectar and as crafty as tequila, the way it sneaks back up on you after you thought you'd done the right thing and said you'd had enough.

This is a different "El Mariachi." He does not make a live appearance every Friday Night.

On Legal Contracts

So I can't reveal the details due to part of the confidentiality clause, but yesterday I signed a contract allowing a certain music television corporation certain rights to use my person, likeness, voice, quotes and anything else in a television pilot.

Actual Permissions Granted In the Contract I Signed:

• "… in all forms in perpetuity throughout the universe." - Really?? Do we really include this is appearance waivers? I thought that was only in movies but, no, there it is on page one, line two. Jebus, I feel like 'in any form forever' should suffice. Are we actually getting to the point where we're anticipating a legal battle over whether or not they have the right to show their own T.V. program on Alpha Centauri? That's 4.37 light years away! They haven't even gotten The Hills yet!
  
  
• "[grant the right to] misrepresent, mislead or lie to [you to further the theme of the show]." - Well, it is reality T.V. after all.
  
  
• to "exploit" the contestant. - I'm not even making this up; it legitimately says they can "exploit" you. Wonderful.

On the up side, they bought us fried pickle chips, and Snooki ate those on the Season 2 premier of The Jersey Shore and loved them. So there's that.

On Gentlemen's Agreements

[Sorry this one was a little late. I fell asleep watching The Land Before Time last night.]











I realized yesterday that it'd be a he'll of a lot easier to spot cops on the highway if everyone else just agreed to atop buying white cars.

On Becoming A Media Tour de Force

A bit of rescheduling this week:

I had intended to spend my week in idle study of popular culture, crafting my ever-present, mysterious Book. This would then end in a weekend spent in Long Island where I am likely to be interviewed as background information for a friend's appearance in a reality show pilot. However, the production company is fickle and since my schedule is rather fluid this week, I am now spending today in Long Island (though I write this in advance), and shall be home for fun and shenanigans this weekend.

And yet it occurs to me: despite a distinct lack of monetary success or even wide recognition, I am accumulating all the trappings of a New-Media power player.

• I have a (hopefully) funny daily blog with a unified theme, often based on current pop-culture and/or utilizing a diary-like format.
  
  
• I write my Twitter as if I had 300 times the number of followers I actually have, maximizing hilarity and minimizing the inconsequential.
  
  
• I have had work appear in or on third-party websites, blogs, podcasts, newsprint, traditional radio, small literary magazines, a large poetry collection, music on YouTube, my own webcomic and soon I may get airtime on cable television.
  
  
• And as a special announcement: Sound A Doggy Makes will be covering the 2010 NY Comic Con this year, interviewing fans and anyone else who feels like it for opinions on big announcements and the whole shebang. Also, I may be dressed like Tony Stark.

Frankly, I see all of this as resúmé building. When I become rich and famous, all of this will suddenly become a bigger deal and I'll have plenty of old material for people to go back and look at, and they'll realize I've been around for a while already.

Still, I'd trade most of it to get the hell out of my mother's basement.

On Justin Bieber

Justin Bieber, in addition to a 3D concert movie, is starring in a bio-pic of himself. He is also "writing" a memoir.

Honestly, at 14 or whatever, what do you really have to put into a biography?

On the other hand, you're 14 or whatever, and you've become a millionaire after people discovered your "good" singing on YouTube and you became famous. That's pretty much every American teen's dream.

But maybe I shouldn't say shit. I mean I'm not famous, after all. Oh yeah, and the last guy to talk shit about Bieber's friend had to shut down his mobile account after Beiger tweeted "Call me" followed by the kid's phone number, resulting in 26,000 texts.

Which, incidentally, violates Twitter's Terms of Service and is sparking a "Suspend Bieber" hashtag movement. Excellent.

On Thomas Malthus

Walking into the Renaissance festival the other day I made a comment about sterilizing stupid people. I don't think I actually suggested it; just seeing all the people in costume led to someone commenting on population control, to which I mentioned "Malthusian belts."

"What?"
"No? Thomas Malthus? Brave New World? Nothing?"
"Who?"
"He was this guy who advocated sterilizing the disabled and mentally handicapped. He was kind of a dick."
"Is- Is this a real thing?"
"The belt? No, it was just a contraceptive device used in the book."

Now, I'm not for sterilizing anyone, but I would still totally be for a basic parenting licensing exam. We put 17 year olds behind the wheel of a car after some minor practice and a five-hour. Would it really be so horrible to demand hopeful parents to attend a cheap/free basic course to ensure they're not horrible, abusive assholes?

Consider this: foster parents have to go through an intense screaning process to ensure that they are physically, financially, and emotionally fit enough to take care of someone else's kid. Meanwhile, a crackhead can produce that same child for about five minutes of "grunt work."

And my family keeps asking when I'm gonna settle down and start having kids. Pfft.

Everything I Need to Know About Life I Learned From The Renaissance Festival

• Corsets are simultaneously the greatest device ever and the worst false advertising in history.
• A balanced meal consists of a whole turkey leg, funnel cake, and chocolate-covered cheesecake-on-a-stick.
  
• If you wear a situation-appropriate costume, you can pretty much go anywhere, do anything and charge people money to stand next to you while you do it.
• Bare midriffs should not appear on any woman so fat as to have skin flaps forming a belly button in the small of her back.
• Men in tights are significantly more likely to associate exclusively with other men in tights.
• 30 year old men who dress like 13th century samurai are definitely still virgins.
  
• If it looks like a bondage enthusiast, sounds like a bondage enthusiast and walks like a bondage enthusiast, it's probably still a huge nerd.
  
• Sometimes it's just best to play along with the people who refuse to leave you alone.
• Save the Kissing Bridge for late in the date, but before the blooming onion.
• Camels smell awful.

On "Undercovers"

I saw Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World tonight. It was awesome. I don't think my brain was capable of handling the rapid translations between romantic comedy and sweet action flick, so it just slapped a stupid grim on my face and made me feel a bottomless well of sadness that caused me to curse my blink reflex.

Anyway, that's not what I came to talk to you about. I want to talk to you about NBC's upcoming show "Undercovers." Or "The Undercovers," I wasn't too clear on that after the five minute trailer they slapped as a time waster in front of the regular trailers and in between Coke Zero ads.



Imagine if Mr. & Mrs. Smith had worked together from the beginning instead of trying to kill eachother. Better yet, imagine a T.V. remake of the movie Undercover Blues, accept it doesn't have Dennis Quaid or a baby or even young Dave Chapel. Now make the couple of reactivated former CIA agents black.

Essentially, it's Tyler Perry's Casino Royal.

On A Certain Point of View

Obi-Wan said it best; it's all dependent on your point of view.

Driving around last night I wound up behind a truck with little blue letters made out of tape stuck along it's rear.

To one side,
"JUST,"

To the other,

"DIVORCED."
We all honked and cheered for this man. At least somebody can laugh at himself.

The photo was shit. I've highlighted the relevant portions for you.

Things Which Can Grow Inside A Person

Things Which Can Grow Inside A Person:

I recently read from the BBC a story in which a man in Massachusetts went into the hospital expecting a cancer diagnosis after suffering from emphysema for an extended period. It was not a tumor growing inside him, but rather

• A pea:
  
  
  
• A watermelon seed:
  
  
  
• Worms:
  
  
  
• Bamboo:
  
  
  
• Syphilis.
  

On Skinny Jeans

I don't understand skinny jeans; I'm just going to put that out there.

It doesn't make a lot of sense, really. I'm an ectomorph. That's fitness nerd talk for "skinny bitch." If you can find a pair of pants made for a living, breathing adult, I can squeeze into them without looking horrible. I mean I'll look like an asshole, but I'll look like a sexy and stylish asshole.

(Totally not me here)

I still don't get the appeal, though. Let's face it, I look damned good in pretty much anything that flaunts my inability to become as obese as the rest of America. I stand a better chance of hooking up with European girls who are more used to skinny pale men with face/body hair. (You know, the post-pubescent look that hasn't been in vogue around here recently.)

I guess it's peacocking, a form of mating display likely developed by people shaped like me who wanted to show off that they were not overweight bastards. Half the time your junk is on display anyway.

However, this is an incredibly stupid trend. Like foot binding or neck elongation in women of the Far East and Africa, respectively, it deforms the body. Yes, let's starve ourselves and then cut off blood flow to our lower extremities and reproductive organs.

Oh yes, let's not forget the reproductive organs just yet. How they're always on display? Yeah, not such a great idea unless you've got some serious genitalia or a third sock lying around. No point in showing off an under-ripened plantain, especially when you've effectively ended it's usefulness. Don't peacock and petite cock, dudes. Bad form.

Am I just biased? I mean, back in the seventies was when this whole tight pants thing started. Are my beliefs just colored by a long history of early-to-mid-nineties baggy fashion? No. No, that's not the case. You know why? Because baggy, concealing clothes stopped being sexy in like 1868. Baggy clothes do not contribute to the hypersexualization of our children like the Junior Miss department inside The Deb.

Oh, wait, that only hypersexualizes our little girls. Clearly skinny fit toddler boy denim is the more heinous crime, here.

(Yeah, I know those are all girls. I think those are all girls. But trust me, there were boy's skinny jeans too.)

On Hypocrisy

I'm thinking of marketing a line of purity cock rings to fundamentalist Christian leaders.

What I'd do is melt down a bunch of used silver purity rings from pregnant teenagers and recycle them. Might make my thirty pieces. Also, it'd protect you from having unprotected sex with hot vampire ladies.

Things I Have Learned From True Blood

"Is that an umlaut in your name or are you just happy to see me?"


Things I Have Learned From True Blood:

• If you can't name the last time you saw boobies using only the days of the week, you are doing something terribly, terribly wrong with your life.
  
  
• Every relationship is comprised of one codependent dreamer and one fuckhead. Look critically to determine which of you is the fuckhead.

  If you watch True Blood, you will be very sad to learn you are not the fuckhead.

• Hypothetically, go down to the hardware store and then hypothetically rent a chainsaw. It's cheap and by-the-hour.
  
  
• The only types of fucking are break-up-sex, revenge-sex, hate-sex, reunion-sex, make-up-sex and terror-sex. No one on Earth has ever actually "made love."

  It's not good sex until someone bleeds. Or both of you. But make a habit of it and things will quickly grow stale. Also, cold and clammy. Which leads us back to the chainsaw.

• There are no ugly strippers in Louisiana.
  

On Death and W.C. Fields

We held my grandfather's funeral today. It was all very tasteful, small, but one glaring irregularity struck me.

The rabbi on hand sounded exactly like Jay Leno doing his W.C. Fields impersonation.

At first I couldn't place it, likely due to the fact that he was speaking Hebrew, but in my own defense I couldn't understand anything he said by rote in English immediately after. So it took a while. When I tried to place the sound-alike I got this:

That would be Mayor Manx from Swat Kats, a show about renegade fighter pilots being deputized into law enforcement for their heroic efforts in building a fighter jet and flying it through the city without clearance shooting at mystical, biological, and technological monstrosities. Oh, also, they're all anthropomorphic cats.

It wasn't exactly smooth sailing trying to Google search who Manx's voice was based on while driving in a funeral procession. Eventually Fields' name popped up in some creative Googling and I forewent the traditional Facepalm of Obviousness for not crashing my car into the hearse or anyone else in front of me.

This rabbi, though? Not nearly as interesting as W.C. Fields. You know what Field's own tombstone reads?

"All things considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

A Further Thought On Twilight

"Well, I hear the books are better than the movies?"
"Yeah, but crap that's better than shit is still crap, y'know?"


I think I've come up with another reason why Twilight is awful. (For those counting, this would be reason number umpteen-million and three.)

Consider this: I have heard no stories of young children being abducted by pedophiles who have used Twilight to lure them away.

Star Wars? Sure. Harry Potter? Disney's anything? Barney, even? All of those have gotten many a pedophile some jail time. Twilight? I haven't heard a peep about it. I've heard more from furries empowered by are then vamps and were-people than I have from pedophiles.

And really, that's frightening. It's a story about young girls falling in love with considerably older, pale, skinny men who are antagonized by buff jock-types and oppressive laws. This should be fodder for pedos. They should be buying body glitter by the palette. Instead, nothing. Not even a spike in lip gloss sales.


Twilight is so awful even pedophiles won't read it. Shit.

Will & Shakespeare Make A Porno

Man, fetish-wear just keeps getting weirder and weirder.


Parody Shakespearean Porn Titles:

• A Midsummer Night's Cream
• The Caning of the Shrew
• Romeo & Juliet & Brenda & Julie
• Titus Androgynous
  
• The Sex Merchant of Venice Beach
• As You Like It (That one's alright on its own.)
• Much Ado About My Thing
• O-Face Thello
• Henry's Part 4

Surprisingly, it's pretty hard to force a "porking" joke into Hamlet. Good thing I always carry lube.

Words My Yiddish Grandfather Never Managed to Say Correctly

Early this morning my grandfather passed away peacefully in his sleep. He was 83, and up until Alzheimer's slowly shut him down over the last five years or so, he was one of the most ridiculus characters I have ever encountered outside a Michael Chabon novel.

That said, in tribute her is a list of

Words My Yiddish Grandfather Never Managed to Say Correctly:

• 
  "Ninjer"
  
  
  
• 
  "Robutt"
  
  
• 
  "FaJeeta?"
  

Things Dumber Than Prop 8 Californians Have Allowed

I decided "Leaving a giant collapsed sign half-repaired because you're lazy" wasn't actually very dumb. Just really, really lazy.

Things Dumber Than Prop 8 Californians Have Allowed:

• The election of Arnold Schwarzenegger to the office of governor
• For that matter, the election of multiple-monkey movies actor Ronald Regan to the office of governor.
• "Limited" use of medicinal marijuana
• Naming tar pits a natural preserve
• The Matrix sequels
• The Hills
• Jews owning studios
• The Hills again, because it's that terrible
  

On Zedonks

Christ Wire, sadly not a religiously-themed anti-terrorism television series, has decided that the recent birth of a donkey-zebra hybrid in Georgia is part of a Godless agenda pushing the lie that is evolution.









Problems I Have With This:

• Zedonks and Zonkeys have existed for years. Why wait until now to tear down the lies?
• Zonkeys occur naturally wherever zebras and donkeys exist in close proximity. Clearly, the Devil has been undermining the Word of the Bible himself, utilizing the false truth called 'natural' selection.
• Christ Wire claims this will inevitably lead to demands for the legalization of interspecies marriage and mating, as well as other "perverted" unions. Corret me if I'm wrong, but I thought it was those "other" unions that led to interspecies marriage with dogs and ducks. If we're ever going to tear down the secular humanists, we're going to have to put up a united front, at least until everyone we disagree with has been thoroughly eradicated.
• The Word of God is fact because the Bible says so. Some people don't understand this, and we'll burn convert them with time, but until them we should at least pretend to use their own logic to tear them down. We shouldn't have to condescend to their level, but you can't reason reasonably with the unreasonable.
• This particular abomination is so adorable it must be especially evil.
  

On Bambi

"They sent me home from school because I keep sticking my hand down there!"



Back before the age of GPS and MapQuest, my mother had a simple rule for giving a driver directions: "Right" exclusively means the opposite of "left;" use "correct" or "yes" for an affirmative.

"So I make a left up here?"
"Right."
"Right?"
"Right, left."
"Right, then left?"
"No, just left."
"That's what I said!"
"Right."

I learned a new trick, recently. Apparently, when you see a deer in the road you're not supposed to yell out, "Deer," because some people will just think you love them and are trying to start a conversation by calling them "dear." What fools.

How should you inform your driver that there is a large, impala in the middle of the road (the quadrupedal kind, not the Chevy)?

You say, "Bambi."

Then they'll just think there's an aging stripper in their headlights.

The Drunk Bowl

War writ small, the manliest sport ever. NOW JAZZ HANDS!


I had an idea the other day.

It's one of those ideas that sounds terrible, but if done on the grandest of scales would be undeniably watchable.

I think as a run-up to, or season's end after the Super Bowl or the Rose Bowl or Pro Bowl or whatever other bowls the NFL has to offer, their should be a Drunk Bowl.

Now, hear me out. This wouldn't be a game of motley hobos playing like a slowed-down version of the XFL. Nor would it be some annoying drunk olympics, though we have enough of those each year that we might as well televise one and set some basic events. No, what I want to see is is two teams of talented, professional football players engaging in a competitive game in which every player is legally drunk.

Forget Gatorade, I want to see both sidelines stocked with multiple kegs. I want cheerleaders playing Flip Cup. I want the halftime show to include all the players eating chicken wings and watching a different football game on the Jumbo-Tron.

I doubt any current players would sign off on such a hazardous and potentially career-ending event as drunken pro ball, but I'm sure there are enough washed-up third-stringers and sad retirees willingly to destroy their knees for one last chance at the kind of fat paycheck Rogain and "Tough Actin'" Tanactin just can't offer them.

Of Scale and Strata

I've been trying to figure out the crazy, rock-paper-scissors-like rules for who beats who when it comes to internet networking.

Clearly the Twitterverse encompasses the most area, being comprised of every opinion everyone has all the time, plus what they had for lunch.

Beneath that lies the Blogosphere, full of satellite sites and other rants that are longer and far less interesting.

Then there's YouTube, because it's just you, and Facebook because it doesn't even have limbs or a torso to work with.

I was trying to place print media somewhere in there, but the only mental image I could conjure up was a coffin buried beneath YouTube's feet.