In Which I Pretend to Be Hardcore

 

• My physique's so hard, beating me in an arm wrestling match is a good indicator of whether or not you'll pass the LSAT.
  
• I'm so hard, people watch Memento as a warm-up to talking with me.
  
• I'm so hard you could use my entire body to fuck David Spade. You know, because he's a giant pussy.
  
• I'm so hard, spending the night with me qualifies as the first and second legs of a triathlon. The third is walking the next day.
  
• I'm so hard I can't legally wear long-sleeves shirts because then my arms would constitute concealed weapons.
  
• I'm so hard I idly whistle the opening riff of Van Halen's "Eruption."
  
• I'm so hard my ben wa balls are the collapsed cores of neutron stars.

Things I Want to Do At Comic Con

Things I Want to Do At Comic Con:

• See Nigga Moon.
  
• Tease Iron Man by dangling a martini in from of his face.
  
  
  
• Grind up on Man Faye
  
  
  
• Beat up on all the nerds weaker than me.
  
  
  Their women will thank me for it. If I have learned anything from old beach vacation Bazooka Joe comics, it's that hot women love a bully kicking sand in nerds' eyes.
  
   
  Stop lying to them, sweetheart. It's not fair to tease.

On NBC's "The Event"

I watched NBC's "The Event" last night. I had an idea of the first episode from Wiki, but a friend came over and we ended up watching the second half of the first episode and then the whole new, second episode.

Interpretation #1: "NBC Desperately Attempts to Maintain Hold on Former LOST Viewers"

This one's pretty straightforward. Stark, bold title cards and font, lots of mystery, non-linear story telling, strange populations of "others," no one ever explains themselves, sci-fi elements pop up unexpectedly and no one's sure if they're ripping off X-Men, V or The 4400. Also, there's a plane in the first episode. It'll be real important later, but for right now it's blown up 4,000 miles from where it should be. Buzzwords in the first two episodes include, "The plane," "You're the only one who can save her," "Tell me the truth," and "electromagnetic radiation."Theory #2: "Reality Bites Era Ethan Hawk Was So Cool We Should Have Made Him An Action Star. Like That Terminator Kid."


Seriously, I couldn't follow the plot. Not because it wasn't told chronologically, that was fine, and not because the story itself was a convoluted Gordian Knot of secrecy, cover-up, lies and intrigue, that too was incredibly easy to follow. In fairness, I have an English degree and I watch sci-fi like it's my job. I mean it will be my job, as soon as my book gets published, but that's off-point.

No, what I can't deal with is watching creepy-ass John Ritter's creepy-ass sketchball of a son being confused on camera in every scene, looking so much like 2001's Ethan Hawke that I keep waiting for Winona Ryder to pop out and hit Ben Stiller with her car. Never mind the fact that Kurt Cobain has been dead for 16 years and Hollywood is still biting his style.

"Is that a fucking bear?"

Theory #3: "It's the Same Show We've Been Watching For Eight Years"

The government lies to us. It is run by unscrupulous bureaucrats who cover up domestic disasters and human rights violations by removing them from the jurisdiction and eyes of regulatory powers, ever hiding behind the idea that they know what is best and what is damaging to the country they claim to serve, but rather administer.

Laymen save the universe. The universe being far grander than we ever imagined, except for all the other times we imagined semi-immortal humans from the future/past/outer space came and couldn't talk to us without poluting our time period/civilization so we imprison them. Except there's more of them than we knew, and they've interbred with our people, creating hybrid capable of wondrous things, one of whom just happens to be the protagonist. And everybody would just get along if they were willing to sit down and talk with each other, but the only one willing to do that is the naive, newly elected black president.

Guys, we have a black president. Black presidents aren't futuristic any more. They're not sci-fi. Morgan Freeman popularized that, and it ended with the black president on 24. Both of them. Apparently, now having black president means "hopeless idealism you will have to compromise in order to get anything done, because the government is actually administered by a bunch of war-hawking, paranoid conservative holdovers with a Cold War mentality.

Honestly, at this point I find it insulting. I'm tired of "thinky" shows that are nothing but the same material a thousand times over that only takes so long to pan out because no one uses specific verbs or nouns.

Take the first season of this show and splice it back into chronological order, then replace all the dialogue with useful information like, "We can't interfere with your civilization, but can you please let us live quietly in the Amazon somewhere? We promise to not be assholes about it."

Swear to God, it'd take like four episodes to finish.

On Batter Blasters

Hey, kids! What's the new culinary sensation that's sweeping the nation and sounds suspiciously like it was named after a porn star's junk?!

That's right! It's "Batter Blaster!"

Yup, that's the Cheeze-Whiz equivalent of pancakes, alright. However, it's also organic, so there's that, I guess.

I- No. You know what? This sounds hilarious. Hilarious and delicious. I want it. I want to eat this. I want to go to the supermarket trolling for Batter Blasters and I want to take it home when no one is around to see us, and I want to do it right in the kitchen and have batter blaster go into my mouth. I mean cook it first, obviously, but I want to taste blasted batter.

And if it could leave out the back door so the neighbor's don't see, that'd be great too.

As Yet Even More Astrophysics Jokes!

(From AJ Classic, Even More…! and Still More…!)

• If I ever had a girlfriend claim, even facetiously, to be a time traveler, I'm pretty sure I would just bend her over a table and start furiously nailing her paradox-causing vagina at superluminal velocities right then and there.
  
• I'd bone a time traveler so hard that my tachyon penis would appear to be coming before it actually arrived.
  
• When I take a date to see Back to the Future, I rev my fux capacitor up to 88mph.
  
• Your mothers so fat her body's overcome tidal forces.
  
• My Big Bang is preceded by my inflationary period.
  

On Wikipedia II: Revenge of the Dark Wiki

So Wikipedia isn't the evil your college professors say it is.

However, like all great tools–be it the arrow, gunpowder or nuclear fission–mankind's own evil ways can turn even the greatest asset into a weapon of poor malice.

Case point: Tonight my friend Joanne convinced a young man in the U.K. that she too lived somewhere in England. He supplied his county location as Coventry.

From this I supplied Jo with the hometown of Allesley, higher education at not Conventry Uni but rather U. of Warwick, a concentration in Educational Studies and therefor a residency in Dunsmere Hall at the Westwood Campus.

And, a place to meet to show this kid around his own area: the corner of Charter Ave. and Gibbet Hill Rd. on the North end of campus. Perhaps they could get some food in the Cannon Park mall.

All this took about five clicks. Sometimes, it's not what facts you know but the processes of cheating.

Now when this kid gets stood up, it'll be from 4,000 miles away, and to Jo five hours in the future. Her bitchiness is going to time travel. It will be spoken of across continents.

On Misnomers

A friend of mine is dating a Middle Eastern guy. I'm not sure which country because it has frankly been a while since I learned this. I think he's Palestinian.

This is of absolutely no importance except when conjoined with the following fact: He is also deaf.

Apparently he and my friend communicate through sign language, but I was a tad confused. My friend does not speak American Sign Language (ASL). That's okay, though, because neither does her boyfriend.

She's picked up a bit of Arabic sign language and that's how they communicate, which is great because apparently this guy does not speak any language my friend would have learned in her Arabic studies classes, nor English, nor does he write or read any English.

I was then surprised to learn he cannot use even basic numbers here.

Wait. Hold up. They're called Arabic numerals. How are you going to tell me that and Arab guy can't use Arabic numerals. What the hell, Universe?

Well it turns out we just call them "Arabic" because they're descended from Hindu-Arabic. In fact, neither Hindus nor Arabs really use them anymore. They use Hindi or East Arabic. I'm calling bullshit.

We speak English not in England, using a Germanically-bastardized Roman alphabet and Arabic numbers which Arabs do not use.

Fuck this shit, I'm learning Portuguese.

On The Recurrent Theme of Zombies In My Dreams

The other night I went to sleep an hour earlier than usual. (3 a.m. Sue me; I don't keep to your "normie" diurnal sleep cycles.)

I laid awake, constantly rolling over and making notes on my phone for what I had to do the next day. I recalled that the zombie T.V. show I'd been following had just aired it's last episode and I needed to remember to watch it online, lest I forget for several more days.

Then a thought occurred to me: maybe I could watch it on my phone. My phone is smart. It does things. Perhaps I could watch T.V. on my phone and not have to boot my computer back up.

So I rolled over and grabbed my phone. Fifteen minutes later I had verified that my phone could not do this, would not be able to until a certain mobile browser gets released and I don't have to rely on forced, hap-hazard Flash compatibility, and then, yes, I ended up just watching the episode on my computer right then.

It only took about 22 minutes, but now I was riled up with zombies. And surely though I am not frightened of zombies, my brain would conjure up escalating horrific trials for myself were I to attempt sleep right then with undead on my brain. So I read a comic for a few minutes.

The comic on which that T.V. show is based.

Of course this is a Japanese comic, and like Europe and the rest of Asia, Japan is always horrified that Americans have such a problem with sexuality on television but no problem with graphic violence. So when they make a zombie show, they play up all the sexy parts in order to counterbalance taking out all the really gory bits. Soooo I just read something even more graphic. Great. Wonderful.

So I watched another Japanese cartoon, this time something cutesy and silly about little girls and schoolyard misunderstandings. I wasn't getting to sleep any earlier, but I was pretty sure I wouldn't be dreaming of zombies.

NOPE.

Dreamnt something was grabbing and clawing at my foot. Very unpleasant. As I fell to the ground (off a school desk, I think; at least the schoolgirls did some good), I awoke to find our new kitten attacking my foot at the end of the bed because it was between him and his big brother cat.

I fear no zombie. I fear my cats, because that's at least a rational terror.

On Being Bi-Curious

I mentioned earlier that it took me a long time to admit to myself my own inner Pirate-ness. In fact I've long been toying with a long, anime-scale television series focusing on a ninja who becomes stranded on a desert island and must pose as a pirate to secure passage to his home port. It would have been initially funny and later more serious and heartfelt. It would be titled "Bi-Curious: The Life and Times of A Ninja Pirate."

The one thing that always kept me from believing I was not on Team Ninja was my grace and stealth. Frankly, I have a habbit of sneaking up on people. I don't mean to. I mean, sometimes I completely mean to, but I frequently sneak when I have no intention of sneaking.

Apparently I walk softly. My footfalls come light and quiet, trained through years of living with other people who for some reason to not keep to a predominantly nocturnal schedule. I'm good at keeping quiet as I walk over squeaky stairs and creaky floorboards. I know where to step and the ancient ninja methods of landing the foot flat with its weight dispersed.

Unfortunately, I only weigh about 133 pounds, so when I tread lightly I really go full-on stealth. I just end up arriving in people's blind spots. Eventually they turn around and I've been the asshole who freaks them out for the hell of it. I don't enjoy that. It completely changes the direction of a conversation that I have very likely been waiting several minutes to carefully worm my way into.

Do you know what it's like to wear giant boots and still have to purposefully make clunky walking noises to keep other people comfortable?

It's a good thing Han Solo made space pirates cool, cowboy-lookin' dudes. Otherwise I'd just be completely confused about myself.

Who isn't a little stereotype-curious for Han Solo?

On Writing A Book

Ostensibly, this blog is something to get me writing each day as a warm-up to writing the bulk of my book.

Instead, I've taken to updating immediately before I go to bed in the wee a.m. of the day for that date, thereby eliminating the possibility of getting work done after. Additionally, after the first eight months or so I completely ran out of jokes.

I mean all of them. I told all my jokes. I had to start making new jokes on a daily basis. It was hard. Especially when I stopped doing things each day. Some days, just nothing funny happens. That's life. (That's also when you end up seeing a reaction to BBC news stories or a list that's maybe 3 or 4 points long. I do try to keep to longer entries for you. It's always for youuuuuu….)

Anyway, when I actually manage to get some work done on the book I feel good. Then I leave it alone for a few weeks until I feel so guilty I have to start again because I've literally cleaned everything I can around my work area without actually working.

However, this ast week I found something while cleaning. I was reorganizing the office supply nooks on the hutch on my desk in the corner where I keep the desktop I haven't used in over a year and only rarely sit. And inside that tiny cubby I found a tiny notepad with some folded fliers wedged inside, and I said, "I can throw this away, right?"

No. I looked at what it was and it was the notepad I haven't used since I went to the concert which I did not write up for a local newspaper and jumpstart a rock music critic career. Instead, it became a college essay a year later, a second essay a year after that, and then the first, titular chapter of the book I'm writing.

And it validates a joke everyone complains about.

I talk about how tiny the venue was, and how lame it was, and then I say that Slayer was performing soon. No one believes Slayer played this place. Really? It's Slayer. What the shit else are they doing? Still, no one believes Slayer would play in Poughkeepsie, N.Y.

WELL SUCK IT BITCHES I FOUND THE FLIER.


Yeah, okay, it was a MONTH later instead of next week, and it was actually at a much larger, nearby location, but it was totally booked by the company that owned the tinier venues, run by the same people and listed on the handout explaining who was playing at that venue in the ensuing weeks.

You just got Hoardered.

That joke is legit, yo. And I got the records to prove it. This book goes gold or platinum or Pulitzer or whatever color it is books about hipster dickweeds go, I got evidence to prove to the Comedy IRS that I'm not just making shit up.

I mean I make shit up constantly, but that stuff's reserved for dickweeds like you guys.

In the Pirish Spirit

I didn't celebrate it with you all since I was out, busy having a life with people and events and things (a change of pace for me), but yesterday, September 19^th, was International Talk Like A Pirate Day.

Sadly, I was in denial about my own Pirishness for many years, thinking and hoping that I was more a ninja type. Eventually my cavalier attitude and preference for samurai and that I look a damned good deal better in leather and pistols than black pajamas simply forced me to admit that I was not the ninja I had hoped deep down. Much like the child who grows up to accept that he he is not adopted, that his "real" parents are not the monarchs of some far away kingdom set to come for him in the dead of night, but are instead Don and Donna, the accountant and her husband from billing, I accepted that I was a pirate.

Of course I'm about as Pirish as I am Jewish. (There were actualy a great number of Jewish "privateers" back in the heyday of swashbuckling. Many were Sephardic Jews kicked out of Spain during the Inquisition, seeking either a better life of just straight revenge theft. Several even went on to become successful, legitimate merchants, which just goes to show you something horribly stereotypical.)

Anyway, I haven't been in a synagogue since my brothers were bar-mitzvahed. My own before that. I've been in more churches. Similarly, I tweeted in Pirish once today. I used the word "garr…." Last year I set my Facebook account's language setting to "English (Pirate)."

So to alleviate my Jewrate rum-guilt and cease paying lip service to Jean Lefitte, I am going to tell you my Pirate Joke. This is my favorite joke to tell because it is short but sweet, just a little off color and the only joke I can remember when I'm put on the stop that doesn't take ten minutes to tell.

Ahemm.


A pirate walks into a bar with the captain's wheel of a ship hanging from his belt buckle. He hobbles difficultly up to the bar and orders some rum.

The bartender gets him his drink and, as the pirate drinks, the bartender says to him, "Hey, um, I don't usually pry into people's lives like this, but are you aware of the very large wheel hanging off your zipper?"

"Yarr…" the pirate says.

"Well, doesn't it hurt?" asks the baternder, to which the pirate looks up at him from his drink and says, "Garr … it's driving me nuts!"


Garr….

On Capitalism

I thought this was only fair, as I covered Socialism on Friday.

Capitalistic Names For My Genitals:

• "Enron" - Because I lie about how big it's actually been growing.
  
  
• "Goldman Sachs" - Because it collapses at the worst possible time.
  
  
• "The Free Market" - Because no one should put any restrictions on where it can go or what it can do.
  
  
• "eBay.com" - Because I've certainly gotten a lot of use out of it myself, but someone else might want to play with it for a change.
  
  
• "The Bear Market" - Because my family is quite furry.
  
  
• "The Sock Exchange" - Because I'm packing?
  
  
• "The Nikkei" - Because my numbers seem much larger in Japanese.
  
  
• "E pluribus unum" - Because "out of many, one" certainly applies to sperm cells.
  
  
• "John Maynard Keynes" - Because of "trickle down" economics.
  

Lazy Saturday

Reasons Wearing Tank Tops Is Awesome:

• It's great to warm up your torso but still feel the breeze on your arms.
  
  
• It's exactly as douchey as going shirtless in public but no one can deny you service in a restaurant.
  
  
• You look badass.
  
  
• It feels like a soft, all-day hug.
  

On My Continued Stardom

Today, through achieving excellence in hilarity, I was retweeted on the Twitters by Matt Boyd, the writer behind one of my favorite now-defunct webcomics, "Mac Hall." (Along with the same artist, Ian McConville, the two now do the awesomely styled "Three Panel Soul.")

How did I achieve this terrific feat?

I responded to his tweet, "'The Means of Production' is the only socialistic name I can think of for my penis."

Socialist names I came up with for my penis:

• "Opiate of the masses"
• "To Every Woman According to Her Need"
• "The Superstructure"

I'm particularly proud of that last one, though Matt seems to have liked "Opiate of the Masses."

So far the running Twitter Tally also includes Dave Willis, Danielle Corsetto, Ingrid Michaelson, and–apparently–the entire Asperger's Community. Now I just need Nathan Fillion and The Situation.

Wait, strike that last one. I already got the Asperger's thing.

On Trigonometry

I was having dinner at my father's last night and ended up helping my little brother with his homework. He's 17. Not that little. Also, I'm pretty sure it was AP (state approved college credit) level physics.

He was tasked with figuring out the resultant direction and magnitude of force when two distinct farces are applied to the same object at an angle to each other. Think to oxen side-by-side pulling the same cart. Like "Oregon Trail." (Even if you don't get physics or weird analogies, everybody gets Oregon Trail.)

It's comforting to know that I'm still capable of this level trigonometry after six years out of the math game. I was always good at math. The irony of my school career was enjoying being good at everything short of gym class. I could have done anything. Teachers always wanted me to go into their field. I liked trig.

Then we hit pre-calc and there were curves. Fucking curves, man. What the shit are curves doing? All curvy? Let me say this about calculus: Trigonometry has existed for 3500 years. Calculus has existed for 350. Judging by how hard it was for unmitigated geniuses to get calculus up and working, I'm going to go ahead and say that it is at least TEN TIMES harder than trigonometry.

Anyway, I aced pre-calc, but that's not the point.

The point is, I dare say, that high school physics homework and calculus are perhaps the greatest offenders of a phenomenon that plagues every branch of the sciences: "scientists can't write words for shit."

Seriously, I think it's gotten worse since I was in school. The word problems are completely incomprehensible, utilize situational models that no rational human being would ever encounter, and are generally tasks that never require a numeric answer.

"How much energy would a single rope require to move the car out of the ditch and in what direction relative to the bisection of the two-rope example?" The answer is "However fucking much it takes to get my car out of this goddam hole."

Worse still, something has caused people to demand the use of directions formed as "North of West." Apparently "Northwest" is wrong. I assume because Northwest is a legitimate direction while many answers would be "generally Northwest-ish." Stupid.

Once again I'm convinced that my high school career was marred by my own terrible ability to test well. Apparently, no one ever expects you to read English, decipher dumb-speak and actually figure out what you're supposed to be doing.

I take it back. Nothing about high school has changed whatsoever.

On Pitty

Pity and dignity look very similar for some reason.



No disrespect intended: I have a friend whose girlfriend goes to school on the other side of the country. Everyone says, "I feel bad for him."

Why?

Why do we feel bad for him? He has a girlfriend. They talk all the time! She'll be back for Christmas for chrissake. Vacations. The only thing that's really changed is he doesn't get to have sex for a while.

I'm not having sex, how about we all start feeling bad for me, then?

Nedroid is weird.

The Only Response to the 2010 VMAs I Will Ever Post

The only thing gayer than Ellen Degeneres's wardrobe at the VMAs this year was Justin Bieber … you know, because he's secretly a 28 year old lesbian.

Lady Gaga's dress had a train so long I'm surprised they were able to move her to the stage without hitting the breaks a quarter mile down the tracks and flashing the lights on those big yellow "RR Xing" signs. *Ba-dum TSSS* I actually saw a promo with her standing next to Kermit the Frog on the red carpet. Kermit was looking very classy, wearing a tux and tie, hanging out the window of his limousine. Gaga looked like a fucking Muppet.

Jane Lynch introduced "Kay$ha." Thank you, Jane, for pointing out how ridiculous and unimportant all these people are.

Drake looks like a love baby had by President Obama and Tiger Wood's ill-fated tryst during the last Masters tournament.

Florence and the Machine is like a team of completely incomprehensible, rocking Pixie-Smurfs.


As a special note, I would like to question what little logic there is to be found in actively endorsing a continuation of the Kanye-Taylor Swift feud.

I say "endorsing" because every introduction openly referenced the events of last year, when Kanye interrupted Swift's acceptance speech for-

No. Fuck that. You know what happened. It was a dick move and it should have ended with Kanye pulling his white gator's from his mouth and crawling to Swift's high school on his hands and knees in penance for being such a terrible example of a good person.

This year? Swift shows footage of that exact moment of assitry as she premiers her brand new song, "Innocent," which in no short terms tells Kanye he's a dick and has a lot of growing up to do. Also, it's pretty fucking good. I guess somebody just needed to get fucked over by someone other than Joe Jonas to start utilizing minor chords seriously.

Kanye? He got the last performance of the night. (I think. Honestly, I stopped watching because there wasn't anything interesting to hear and I started talking to a friend about cats or food or something.) His new song? Again, in no small terms, he glorifies his dickish behavior. Considering he already apologized for his actions last year, this is the cheapest thing I can really imagine.

Actually, the cheapest thing I could have imagined would have been an exploitative duet between the two with Kanye as headliner. Interestingly, the best case scenario it seems other people also hoped for was the two doing a duet, I assume with Swift on top billing to show Kanye's humility.

This did not happen.

Aziz Ansari introduced Kanye as a jackass, he sang about being a jackass, and he and Taylor Swift both come out looking like jackasses. Swift more for continuing the image of the barefoot, damaged virgin, Kanye more for just reveling in being a dick more than the assembled cast of Jersey Shore. (Who did a decent job of mocking themselves and not being complete ass hats.)

Once again, Swift comes out on top because her song is decent and doesn't make listeners feel like assholes for liking it.

Seriously, what the fuck does Kanye do all year other than find ways to fuck himself over?

"I'm a spaAaAaAace nigga!"
(Here the capitalization represents autotuning.)
(Here, as elsewhere, autotuning represents shitty music.)

On Dreams, Pt. VII - Return To Dream Lake

So I awoke this morning from a dream in which I was forced to take an precautionary drug course at some college. This is what I remember, narration included:

"Ridiculous," his mother had told him, back when he was still a little girl, "You're a freshman and every freshman has to take this class."

"I'm twenty-three."

"Nonsense. Now," she continued, "You are going to be offered drugs and dope so…." Holding her pre-written anti-drug propaganda pamphlet splayed open in her left hand, she trailed off as I mused at the poorly photoshopped image of a girl with three front teeth on the scantron they had given us with absurdly wide bubbles and a little section to review the the new form layout. I recalled what had led me here.

It wasn't weed or anything, it was crack. I'm not going to touch the fucking stuff, I just wanted to watch him make it. A college buddy of mine had asked me if I wanted to split a dub. I declined, walked away musing over the slang and various drug use philosophies until I realized I hadn't actually said anything and had just done the walking away part.

I followed my friend into a basement laundry room and apologized for my train of thought causing my to be socially discourteous. I told him I did not want to partake, but would be interested in watching the process.

*Now, I know that "a dub" is generally reserved for pot sales, but in my dream I must have recalled that it's technically $20 worth of anything, and since this was a dream I was aware that my friend intended to convey the substance was some kind of cocaine.*

My friend began cooking cocaine into crack right there on top of the washing machine, for some reason in a tiny sepulcher. I watched the white blacken and bubble up neon lime green as he mixed in baking soda (not the right color) and then flip the boiling, volatile concoction into a Coca Cola can. It was at this point that a tiny bit spilled out onto the dryer, so my friend contained what he could as the rest spontaneously combusted.

His solution to the fire and noxious fumes was to lay down a couple lines of coke on the far side of the spill and inhale them along with the precious drug fumes emanating from the fire. Catching a small contact high off this and not wanting to get instantly addicted to dream-crack, I left.

As I walked the long corridor out of the basement I saw danger ahead. I quickly turned back and asked everyone still near the drug room, loudly to catch an ear, "Have any of you guys seen my keys?"

Quietly, I added, "Yo, the mother from Everybody Loves Raymond is headed this way with laundry. Watch out," then turned again, plotting my escape. Above ground, I found myself in a college office center, thinking only "I already have a degree…" and suddenly I was in a classroom taking a shitty drug course.


The other night I just dreamed of zombies clawing at me and woke up to a cat attacking my foot. Some dreams are just easier to explain than others.

On Sheer Idiocy

So there are miners trapped underground in Chile. It's going to be months to get them out.

Today, officials told them they could have cigarettes.


Wat?

You're trapped underground in a dank confined space. Do you really think it's a good idea to smoke up? Really?

No, not really. Actually some "science people" (I don't want to call them "scientists" just yet) said they had cleared the air vents enough and gotten enough air pumped in from above-ground to allow the miners to have cigarettes.

Still. This is just stupid. I'm sure no canary survived the massive cave-in. Sparking your Zippo would be a real fast way to test for gas leaks down there.

Well, on the other hand, if there is a gas leak, it's not like they can go anywhere to avoid it. And frankly, if I were trapped underground for weeks with escape a distant possibility, I'd probably be dying for a smoke too. So what are we taking, like a pack-a-smoker, here?

Two packs for 33 people.

Seriously? Jesus, now that you've determined it's safe to smoke and I've agreed they could use it, you're giving them a smoke a day with some loosies to fight over? That's cold, brah.

But I guess it's better than nothing. They've been getting sent gum and nicotine patches for the last couple weeks. I don't wanna see what a nicotine fit looks like a half-mile underground trapped in the dark.

Well, I wouldn't see it, but the noises would be terrifying.

On The Ghost Crab

My friend Jay has a story about a crab.

The ghost crab is this little, light colored crustacean, not very big across, nor very threatening, but the ghost crab has a certain trait of interest.

You see the male ghost crab has one little claw, which he uses to constantly funnel food particles into his mouth. His other claw is quite large, compared to the rest of him, and is otherwise useless, save for swelling with each meal and getting waved about in the air to attract mates.

As Jay puts it, the males ghost crab's entire live can be summed up as, "Gobble gobble gobble, bitches! Gobble gobble, bitches?"

What a life for such a little crab.

On Wikipedia

Wikipedia generally gets a bad rap. People seem to doubt that just because anybody can edit it to say whatever they want it isn't a reliable source. Well, that's certainly the case at times. However, the Wiki company has hundreds if not thousands of volunteer moderators constantly combing the site for spurious edits and foolishness, and of course articles of controversy and unfolding events are frequently locked to avoid so nonsense.

Still, it's every few weeks somebody tries to convince the world that Justin Bieber is a twenty year-old lesbian or that Kel Mitchel died back in 1998.

Of course Wikipedia isn't a reliable source. Anybody can edit it. Jesus. I've seen students cite Wikipedia on term papers. Holy hell, people. "I read that [surprising but factual statement]." "Really, where?" "Uh … I forget." Sure. Fine. It's okay to say you read something on Wikipedia. It's a great place to get a simple explanation for many longer topics you would typically have to go to scientific journals or history books for. Fine.

But, holy crap, don't cite Wikipedia as your source in official documents. You know what you cite? Those long-winded scientific journals and history books that Wikipedia cited itself. Come on, kids, this isn't too hard. You've got a card catalog/encyclopedia/search engine that will not only explain to you everything you didn't read yourself, but do it simply and tell you what you should be citing right at the bottom of the page.

Many's the nights I've whiled away catching up on the most obscure and complex theories of astro- quantum and unified physics, or the books True Blood was based on, but in the end I can never forget the Wikipedia is only as reliable as the books it's based on and the willingness of nerds to compile it in a single place. Sometimes, you just have to bail on traditional Wiki and head over to some genre-specific knowledge dumps like Wookiepedia, the Buffy Wikia, Memory Alpha, or LOSTpedia. (Seriously, those are CRAZY nerds. The arguments there, mother of god.)

Tonight I spent at least two hours searching for an obscure name from a comic series that spun off of a Neil Gaiman series which was itself a spin-off of an Alan Moore series that spun out tangentially from Moore's old Swamp Thing stories. Frankly, that damned thing wasn't on Wikipedia, because nerds of that caliber just aren't on Main Wiki.

Then I remembered I had an issue of that comic myself, and it took me all of a few minutes to flip to a page where the exact thing I needed was prominently displayed.

Sometimes, you really just have to let go of Wikipedia and embrace source material. For your own mental health.

On Teen Celebrity

I heard recently that at any given moment Justin Bieber takes up 3% of Twitter. And you know what? I don't even care anymore.

I'm making a new rule: I refuse to feel threatened, titillated, or otherwise acknowledge in any way a cultural significance conveyed by any person whose voice hasn't dropped yet.

Selena Gomez talking about the environment? Nope. No credibility. Miley Cyrus? Sorry. 'Nother few months before you matter, kid. Bieber? let's see if you still sing as pretty when your balls grow out and you no longer sound like a Roman castrate.

Granted, Bieber could totally turn out like that Zach Efron kid and get a six-pack, a movie with Mathew Perry and Vanessa Hudgens. Though, somehow I see Bieber more as the Mormon schoolgirl type. Not to date, I mean I just see him as a Mormon schoolgirl.

On Jersey Shore and Body Image

Seriously, this addiction to the train wreck that is Jersey Shore is starting to get to me.

I haven't felt this bad about the way my body looks since mid-nineties superheroes.

On The Truth About Cats & Dogs II: "Cat You Later"

My friend Carolyn has a puppy who runs during REM sleep. She also has a fully grown Labrador who also runs and twitches as she dreams.

She also has a cat.

I've had plenty of cats and I can assure you: no cat has ever ran in its sleep. Why? What is up with cats that they don't do this? Do they not experience REM sleep? Is there dignity and self-control so powerful that even whilst they slumber cats will not permit their baser instincts to make them look the fool? (Considering the positions the often sleep in and their confounded reaction to laser pointers, I refuse to believe this possibility.) My theory?

Cat's don't have hopes or dreams.

They merely have a list of demands, and only remain with us so long as we meet those daily.

On Language Recall

I went out today to look for signs that someone nearby has lost the kitten which recently showed up, literally, on our doorstep. I found none. So she's ours now. Awesome.

But what I did find was a family of deer grazing on somebody's backyard shrubbery in the middle of the day. Also, a generic Latino family having a barbecue. I thought about asking them if they'd misplaced a kitten, but they were all busy having a good time. The closest guy was on the phone, turned away from me, in fact.

But I wondered, if it came to it, could I ask them in Spanish? My Spanish is terrible. I mean truly, frighteningly bad. If it is of any importance, if it would not be completely useless, I cannot say it. Ask for holy water to put out a cow fire in my pants? Sure. Not a problem. But something simple? Screwed. Royally. "Tan que el rey." Pretty sure that meant, "As the king." You get the idea.

But I thought to myself. Quickly, so as not to over think it. "¿Te buscando para un gato pequeño? ¿Todo negro, pero con blanca aquí?"

Holy crap, that wasn't terrible. Granted, that was a grammatical nightmare, but it could have been far worse. The last time a Spanish guy asked if I could speak Spanish, not only did I forget the word for "a little," but I forgot the word for "no."

I'll give you a hint. It's "no."

So I can talk about cats, still. At least if I ever get stuck in Spain I'll always be able to order Chinese food.

On State Farm Insurance

So State Farm Insurance has this commercial series where they claim their jingle "magically" pops an insurance agent to your location to help you out. However, they also intimate that amending any other wish to the jingle, at least until the end of the sentence, will also cause this addition to appear.

In one it's a hot tub and the cute girl from the apartment down the hall. In this one it's a series of interchangeable "hot guy" types:



Is it bad that my first thought here is, "I want to bang that strung out violent coke whore" best friend?

I mean I guess "I want to bang [that one on the right]" is the first thought, while, "Wow, look at that banged-out coke whore dressed for the Cristal Room at 3 in the afternoon walkin' around with her hippie friend and the normal girl, I bet she has daddy issues," are thoughts two and then quickly three, in order. Four would probably be, "Well, that's not healthy, is it?"

Now, the question becomes "why do I care?" I don't think I do. If anything, I'm for any possible world in which I can have completely chauvinistic, sweaty sex with some broad who looks like a strung out Eliza Dushku. I consider myself, at least 'literarily,' a feminist and I'm not even ashamed at that. Eliza Dushku is so far out of my league we're not even playing the same sport. It's not even like I'm playing pro-ball in Japan. She's like Olympic class biathlon. Completely different creatures, here.

Putting aside for a moment my own neurotic tastes for the emotionally unstable hot girls, I'm really just wondering if a casting agent looked at the girl they picked for The Customer and said, "Alright, gimme, like, some vegan hippie-chique chick to one side and, like, a really slutted-up cokehead to the other. Like someone who would never be friends with the other two. I mean really whored-out. I want her to look like her breath still smells of Friday night semen at Sunday brunch. I want to see brunette Ke$ha-level skankiness on this one, alright, people?"

But on the up-side, every time I see this commercial I get to look forward to thinking all of this, which inevitably leads back to a solid five minutes where I nerd out in my head and start pitting Dushku's Dollhouse persona against Jessica Alba's Dark Angel. Now there's a slash-fic I can get behind. Nerd out.

You might remember (read: "won't") Angela Sarafyan from her small role in the seventh season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where her boyfriend owned a family heirloom letterman jacket that magically made every woman love him. Clearly, Angela stole it and made it into a halter top, because she had a pretty good following on The Good Guys.

*Edit: So … what did you type into Google that led you here? This page is getting extra hits and I'm just wondering if someone's passing it around the advertising department or something. Like what happened with the astrophysics jokes.

Edit 12.12.2010: This is kind of awesome. A very nice commenter mentioned Google Images as the way so many people find this. For the life of me I couldn't figure out what keywords got people looking for this chick from "The Good Guys" to my blog. Turns out if you do an Image search I'm in the first row of hits. This is fairly incredible. Thank you for reading, and for your help, commenters!

On Chinese Food

So I ordered Chinese food tonight and a white guy answered the phone.

I don't know he's white, but I mean I'm pretty sure. Dude kept asking the girl who normally answers the phone if I could get whatever I asked for. And he kept saying "they" instead of "we."

"They're really busy right now, so it's gonna be, like, 25 minutes."

I really hope that was the suburban white kid they pay to deliver for them, otherwise that was just some white dude who happened to be standing next to the phone when it rang. "YOU GET PHONE." "What?" "YOU GET PHONE!" "I'm sorry, I don't-" "YOU GET HONE NOW!" "OH JESUS FUCK ALRIGHT I GET PHONE!…Hello? Hunan House?"

At least he didn't have the worst job in the restaurant….

On the Discovery Channel

As many of you probably don't know, the man to the left here is James J. Lee, the man who, yesterday, took three hostages at the Discovery Channel Headquarters in Silver Spring, MD.

He was demanding two Shark Weeks a year.



No, in fairness he wasn't. But I guarantee you that's the funniest joke anyone's getting out of this. Jimmy Fallon is going to stumble over a shittier version of that joke some time this week, late at night when everyone else is watching better shows.

Here's the thing: this James Lee guy wasn't your typical deranged sociopath. He had not been personally wronged by he Discovery Channel, nor was he a crazy recluse with advanced degrees and a written manifesto.

Oh, there was a manifesto, alright, but it wasn't exactly the dark but insightful treatise The Unabomber penned. In Lee's online … I can only call it a ranting list of demands, Lee characterizes himself the way others had, as a "Darwinist-Malthusian."

You remember our talk about Thomas Malthus and sterilizing the disabled, don't you? Well James Lee was probably the reason I had so many hits that day. This guy loved Malthusian theory, and he seemed to think it was the Discovery Channel's responsibility, everyone's responsibility to fix the world, chiefly by not having any more "dirty human babies."

He demands the Discovery Channel single handedly find ends to global warming and "human economies," and that it replace every show about birthing babies with shows touting the "truth" of sterilization and living without making more humans "until people get it!"

Essentially, James Lee was the worst type of domestic terrorist. He wasn't charming or a tragedy of ideals wherein the only way he could reconcile his strong beliefs in not-entirely untrue ideas was to give up teaching, live in a shack off-grid and mail letterbombs to people.

No, James Lee was just an insane man with a fixation and some explosives, and all anyone will ever remember him for is trying to get more Shark Week out of his network.

KITTEN SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

IMPORTANT BULLETIN!

LOST KITTEN DISCOVERED NEAR NEW CHALET APARTMENTS!!

• Small (~6-7lbs) possibly female kitten
  
• All black except for white tuft on chest
• yellow eyes
• NOT declawed
• a little wary but very sociable/loving around new people.

This is clearly somebody's pet and has been outside for at least two of three days. She is very nice as long as you move slow and was very hungry and thirsty when we took her in, but she has been friendly and playful except around our older, male cat.

If anyone has any knowledge of this cat's owners please contact me at the following number or email address:

914.450.3301
dzucker1@gmail.com

I wouldn't normally use my blog as a soapbox for anything serious, but this cat is definitely missed, so we need to find her home. Again, if anyone hears anything, please let us know. Thanks.


Oh, a joke: Um, this cat is adorable, tiny, and answers to no name at all because it's a cat and it doesn't give a crap about what you think.

On Knowing Your Limitations

I think when I finally get my own place without any family or roommates, I'm going to conveniently forget to hook up my cable for a few weeks.

It'd just be really convenient for finishing the six-year backlog of unread novels sitting by my bed.


On a separate note, these are the types of plans I make. In some distant, nebulous future time, I own my own house in which I forget to turn on the cable, hang pop art in the hallways and keep an old motorcycle in the garage under a blue tarp.

How I get this house? I think someone eventually pays me for typing this stuff. That's never really been more a concern than interior decoration.

This is the exact couch I've always imagined myself owning if I get an apartment, except in scratchy fabric, not upholstery. It's a basic Ikea model, incredibly uncomfortable and pretty much what they had on The Daily Show for the first ten years of interviews. I think they auctioned that one off for charity.