iTunes Randoblog

This could be the start of something big...

Here's the deal: I feel like writing something and I'm uninspirable, so I've thought of an idea that at least I find interesting. I'm calling it the iTunes Randoblog and here's how it works (and you can try it at home):

How to Play iTunes Randoblog:
1. If you don't have iTunes, get it and put your music on it.
2. Don't slack while labeling your music. If Guns N Roses is your favorite group, don't have an iTunes full of "GNR" "gunsandroses" "Guns_Roses" or "gunz&rozes." Take pride in your music or you don't get to whirl the iTunes Randoblog.
3. Roll a pair of dice. This does not mean a single die. This means two dice. I'm not sure why, but this is important for some reason.
4. Open your music library in iTunes, set it to "Shuffle." This is definitely the most important part.
5. Click "next song" a number of times equal to the sum of the numbers just rolled on the dice. If you roll a two and a three, hit "next song" five times.
6. Write a stream of consciousness while listening to the song that you have randomly selected. Say whatever the fuck you want about whatever the fuck you want for however [the fuck] long you want. For example, if you randomly select "The Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats and it makes you remember a time that you beat the shit out of your friends at a club because "If your friends don't dance and if they don't dance then they're no friends of [yours]," then write about that... assumedly from prison... if they give you access to dice, a computer with Internet access and relatively well-organized iTunes playlist in prison. Which they probably won't.

Without further ado, I'm going to start this off:

Currently, "Lullaby" by the Cure is playing, although it should make no difference what song you start on. I'm rolling two particularly small dice that are from a really cool five-in-one game board from Pier One that my mom gave me in a care package she once sent me while I was in college. By the way, if you don't have a set that allows you to play checkers, chess, cards, dominoes and backgammon, then you're fucking missing out.

I rolled an eleven. That's "yo" to all you craps players. I think they call it "yo" in craps because seven and eleven sound so much alike and they want to avoid confusion. Damn, I'm smart. After having written this, "Affirmation" by Savage Garden has come on my iTunes. Awesome; now I'm ready. Time to select the winning song; here we go.

And the winner is: "Way to Blue" by Nick Drake.

Nick Drake is one of those artists that I feel really smart and hip and cool for not only knowing but really liking. In fact, I mention Nick Drake, Elvis Costello and Savage Garden together in this very profile, which I assure you is a complete coincidence. Trust me, if I were to cheat at my own game, I would have picked something with more comic potential than Nick Drake.

So, as I was saying, Nick Drake is a singer/songwriter from a far away place called England and, much like the majority of excellent musicians, he died very young. This is where being a Nick Drake fan without actually being cool can get you in trouble because I don't know how he died and that's a pretty standard thing for you to know about a musician you like. Every real Beatles fan, for example, knows that John Lennon was shot outside of the Dakota apartment building in 1980 by Mark David Chapman who was carrying a copy of Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger at the scene of the execution. Every real Hendrix fan knows that Jimi died in 1970 at the age of 27 while partying his ass off in London. And, similarly, every real Elvis fan knows that the King is still alive and working at either a Denny's in Knoxville, Tennessee or an alligator farm in Tallahassee, Florida.

Unfortunately, I have no idea how Nick Drake died. I own the albums Five Leaves Left, Bryter Layter, Pink Moon and a bunch of demo recordings in a collection called Time Has Told Me that my supercool friend Wendy gave me (she's a musician). In fact, if you were placing odds on which artist I was going to end up writing about, Nick Drake--purely, by the numbers--wouldn't have been a bad bet. All this, and I'm not sure if I'm a real fan without knowing how the man expired.

Nick Drake was a brilliant, haunted, airy-voiced poet who kind of looked like what Jim Morrison might look like if he were more thoughtful or ate more sandwiches and ate fewer drugs. Unfortunately, Jim Morrison never did much thinking and he preferred drugs to sandwiches 90% of the time, so I've provided a picture of Nick Drake here. It's hard to describe a person that you only know from music and lore. Nick Drake was talented and tortured, whimsical and withdrawn. I like to think that if he were born in Los Angeles, Nick Drake would have probably been a surfer who wrote occasionally for a critically-acclaimed yet unpretentious television series, possibly on Showtime. If he were born in Nebraska, he would have been a taciturn farmhand that would have quietly developed a drinking problem out of sympathy for his boozehound friends. If Nick Drake were born from the fires of an atomic bomb, he would have probably been Godzilla, because--as far as I know--Godzilla is the only thing that has ever been created by an atomic bomb. Also, Godzilla was awesome.

I may not know how Nick Drake died, but he writes very good music that, if you haven't listened to it, you should download immediately. You'll recognize some of the music from your favorite pseudo-indy movies and one song from Seinfeld if you dig deep enough or are a big enough Seinfeld fan.

I don't really know why I focused this inaugural iTunes Randoblog on Nick Drake's death rather than his music. That's a lie. I'm reading a book about a guy who visits the spots of rock 'n' roll tragedies in America and this whole blog would have been totally different if I hadn't been reading said book. Still, it is strange that I feel guilty enough about not knowing how one of my favorite musicians died that I've written an entire blog about it and I'm now about to look it up.

Before I do, I'm going to guess: colossal train wreck.

The verdict: OD on antidepressants.

Man... nobody ever dies in colossal train wrecks anymore, especially musicians. It seems they always OD or crash in a plane. By the way, maybe if you're really good at playing guitar or singing or drumming you should stick to booze and avoid the heroine, pills and airplanes. Booze only makes rockers stronger. If you just drink enough to not have room for needles and pills and ride trains instead of planes, I think you've got a formula for rock immortality. That is, a formula for immortality that doesn't involve having to die to achieve it.

PiGGY: Professional Loser

I was a big Ziggy fan when I was a kid and I thought it would be funny--as an homage of course--to put compromising words into Ziggy's innocent mouth. Maybe it's a little juvenile or too easy, but it makes me laugh. Also, one of the comics is featured in Friday's edition of the Phat Phree.com!





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Fuck the Care Bears: A Manifesto by Brave Heart Lion

[Ed. Note: Read this entry at The Phat Phree.com]

I've had it up to my hairy yellow balls with the Care Bears.

All I ever hear about is how cute the Care Bears are. Oh, how they laugh and play and fuck around so merrily in Care-A-Lot, occasionally saving some pussy kid from having a bad day because he ate too many cookies or took a dump in his pants or something. Way to go heroes; why don't you make another straight-to-video ass pie for the kids?

I say, fuck the Care Bears! What about the Care Bear Cousins? Why are we relegated to Scrappy Doo status just because we came second? We were fresh, original players to the game that got bent over by the network bigwigs when they started packaging us with the Care Bears. I'm a lion, how am I going to be some bear's cousin? Look, maybe I didn't finish junior college, but I know enough about science to know that this "Cousins" thing is a sham. A lion is a lion and a bear is a bear and if a lion and a bear get busy, you don't get a Care Bear Cousin. That's ridiculous. You get an abortion, that's what you get.

But I digress. My point is that the Care Bears were hacks. They were just rehashed Smurfs and nobody said dick about it. Don't believe me? Think about it:

Champ Bear was just Hefty Smurf without the alcoholism.

Funshine Bear was clearly just the gayer version of Vanity Smurf, and yes, Funshine was really a dude. Actually, I've got to give some credit to Funshine because Vanity was already gayer than a three-dollar bill and Funshine made him look like Wilt-fucking-Chamberlain.

Bedtime Bear was actually taken to court by Sleepy Smurf in '87. Sleepy contended that there was only room for one adorable, blue narcoleptic on children's programming and that Bedtime was liable for hundreds of thousands of dollars in royalties. Sadly, Bedtime Bear was murdered by his Ludes dealer before the trial got underway which is really crazy because, really, who does Ludes?

Then there was Grumpy Bear. You have to realize that Grumpy Smurf had been around since '81 and that Grumpy Bear had the rocks to actually steal his name four years later. That's a whole new kind of bullshit if you ask me, but no one does.

Then, you had us: the Care Bear Cousins. We were fucking rad and nobody gave a day-old dog shit about us. The Care Bears were thieves; we were heroes. The Care Bears were all about feeling happy and prancing around like Snuggles after a jaunt in the spin cycle. We stood for bravery and loyalty and nobility and all that other crap that's supposed to get you laid. You think we got laid? I'm a lion with a fucking heart on my big, fat stomach. The Battle Beast White Lion had a heat-activated flame on his chest and a bitchin' sword. I, on the other hand, was a joke to the lionesses. I couldn't get laid with an eight ball of catnip in my jockeys and a dead gazelle riding shotgun in my H2.

I don't have an H2...

The Care Bears had H2s. They were spoiled jerks who lived in an awesome castle in Care-A-Lot. They had sidewalks and street sweeping and a very respectable school district. You know where we lived? In a fucking jungle, that's where. The Forrest of Feelings was no West Beverly. We didn't even have sewage, bro; we pooed on the ground. You never saw the Care Bears pooing on the ground. Hell, you never even saw the Care Bears coming down to the ghetto to visit us, either.

Wish Bear and I used to be boys. We played high school football together. Now he's always like, "Yeah, Brave Heart Lion, I'd love to play squash, but why don't you come up here instead? The Bentley's making this weird clunking noise and, well, you know..."

Yeah, I know. It means my poor ass is taking the bus if I want to score a free meal at the country club I'm not allowed to join. Typical.

The absolute worst thing about the Care Bears, though, was their arrogant-ass Care Bear Countdown. They loved that stupid Countdown. To make matters worse, we had to do a Care Bear Cousin Countdown that was basically the same thing except that we didn't look like homos when we did it; we looked like unoriginal homos. After doing the Care Bear Cousin Countdown ten or eleven times, I just stopped caring and started drinking and running with a pretty tough pride…

I’d rather not talk about that part of my life.

Fast-forward to 1995. I sold my name and my story to Mel Gibson when he decided to do a movie about my life and times as a Care Bear Cousin. He told me he really wanted to use the power of cinema to convey my side of the story: the trials and tribulations of living life in the Care Bears’ shadow. I jumped at the opportunity.

As it turned out, “Braveheart” had nothing to do with me! It was all about some smelly Irish dude that hated the English and combing his hair. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the only thing I hate more than the Care Bears are the Goddamn Irish. Regardless, I made enough money in residuals from the movie to be able to afford a tight little condo in the suburbs with Gobo from Fraggle Rock.

I like Gobo because we see eye-to-eye on most things like hating the Care Bears, the Muppets and pretty much everyone involved with Eureka’s Castle. Gobo and I have been talking about putting a reality show together about us and the wacky things that happen in our everyday lives. I swear, sometimes when we’re just hanging out, we come up with the funniest shit. Like, this one time, we were fixing a cabinet in the kitchen and I said, "Hey, could you grab those knobs for me?" and Gobo was like, "That’s what she said!" Classic!

You put a camera on us and you’ve got television gold.

Please, put a camera on us…

Hey Japan, Quit Freaking Me Out

I’m twenty-two years old and I’m not Amare Stoudemire. Thus, the best place I could afford to live while avoiding the shame of living with my parents was in the basement of my buddy’s townhouse. It’s big enough for my bed, desk, armoire and pile of clothes on the floor that I use instead of my armoire. It’s got carpet. Frankly, it’s a pretty decent room for what I pay except for three things:

1. There are no windows, so it’s pitch black at night.
2. The water heater is in a recess in my closet and it makes creepy noises all the time.
3. Japanese people won’t quit making pants-poopingly scary movies that make every night in my room a journey into a dark void of unfathomable terror.

Alright, Japan. We get it. You’re fucking scary. I don’t know what’s going on over there when the sun goes down, but if it’s anything like the shit that went down in The Ring, The Grudge or The Ring 2, then I’m staying the hell out of Japan. Don’t even get me started on The Audition… By the way, if you haven’t seen The Audition yet, don’t ask me about it because I haven’t seen it either. I only saw a clip and that was enough to make me throw out the “J” from my 1996 Encyclopaedia Britannica set.

“J” for Japan…

My bed is parallel to and a foot away from my closet, which, in the dark, looks amazingly like the closet in which they found that girl in The Ring. That means that I go to sleep looking right at a mirrored sliding door with a water heater groaning away behind it every single night. I have a sheet, a blanket and a comforter with a flannel duvet cover to hide under, but guess what? Ghosts don’t give a shit! “Oh what’s this? A 200 thread count blanket? I’d better get going…” Psyche! That never happens! Plus, I can’t afford 200 thread count, so even if it could happen, I’d still be ghost food.

That’s not even the worst of it; my closet also happens to have a deep recess reaching upward, much like the closet in The Grudge. So, the worst thing about sleeping in my room isn’t guessing if I’m going to die, it’s guessing which popular Japanese demon is going to do the deed. Thanks a lot Japan; you’ve ruined sleep, my second favorite thing in the world. What’s your encore? A monster made out of chili fries? You guys want to take away my chili fries? Grow a soul!

Enough already; you win. Maybe America rules at making homing missiles, heavy metal music, dogs that aren’t gay-looking and episode after unbelievable episode of The OC, but we’ll concede on scary movies. But that’s not enough for Japan, is it, you big dick? You’re not going to be satisfied until I have to sack up and move into a real apartment with real windows and natural light and closets without water heaters looming behind sliding doors making scary noises that force me to keep the TV on as I go to sleep, are you?

No way, not a chance. You’re just getting warmed up. For lo! what was the first trailer I saw last night as I was innocently trying to watch Ice Cube get loco on some fools in XXX: State of the Union? Coming soon, to a theater dangerously near me, from the author of The Ring, Academy Award winner Jennifer Connelly stars in… Dark Water.” Five bucks says I leave the theater with a fear of water, the dark, dark water, normal-to-light water in the dark, and Jennifer Connelly. Actually, I’ve feared Jennifer Connely ever since she did The Hulk. Plus, she’s like 6’6” which gives me the heebie-jeebies anyway. But I digress. The point here is that I already can’t open closets, turn on the TV, watch video tapes, sleep on the floor, wash my hair, pet cats, answer the phone, hang out in wells or make out passionately with Sarah Michelle Geller without crapping myself thanks to these movies; now, I’m going to be afraid of water which makes up approximately 65% of my own body. Sweet.

I also heard that they’ve got a The Grudge 2 in production for 2006. Wow, thanks again, Japan. More pale bitches jumping out of closets to kill people; more paralyzing clickity-clack throat sounds; more of me closing my eyes and screaming like a woman in front of my date who will now say no to sex way before she even finds out that I live in a basement.

Fuck you, Japan.

You know what, fuck sushi too. That shit’s always cold.

Rock the Rock, Rock

If you're going to rock, you might as well rock as hard as you possibly can. So, if you rock, you might as well rock the rock because the rock is the rockin'est thing around. If you happened to be The Rock and someone said, "Hey, rock the rock, Rock," then complying with such a request would involve a truckload of rocking out!

Plus, you'd be strong; you know, because you're The Rock. So... you could move stuff easier.

Nobody is The Paper. Nobody "papers" anything like a verb. Even if you were to "paper" something, you certainly wouldn't "paper the paper" because paper sucks! Paper, furthermore, has no personality. In fact, you have to invent the personality of a piece of paper by drawing or writing on it. Paper can't determine any part of its own destiny.

Still, the truth is undeniable: paper beats rock.

Here's the tough one, though: would scissors still beat paper if you drew a rock on the paper? Think about it, if someone showed you a piece of paper with a drawing of a rock on it and said, "What's this?" you'd undoubtedly respond, "That's a rock, dickshell."

Well, maybe you wouldn't call the guy a "dickshell," but you would certainly call the drawing a "rock" rather than a "paper." This is why I love ro sham bo, or rock paper scissors or whatever you call it: the complex strategy; the intangible elements; the potential for inventive meddling; the three elements battling perfectly against one another in splendid harmony. Just like Battle Beasts.

Battle Beasts, if you're too young to remember or sucked as a kid in the 1980s, were these little animal dudes with guns and knives and weapons and stuff that you could use to beat the hell out your friends and your friends' Battle Beasts. The second best part, though, was that they each came with a heat-em-up decal on their chest that had an icon of either water, fire or wood. Water drowns fire; fire burns wood; wood... um... floats all the fuck over water. So you could have a Battle Beast Penguin against a Battle Beast Lion and, if the Penguin had a better icon than the Lion, it didn't even matter that he was a worthless penguin; he would still win! That kicked ass!

"So, Mike," you are probably wondering to yourself, possibly with a finger jammed way, way up your nose or butthole, "what was the best thing?" The best thing about Battle Beasts, my probing friend, is that after about a week, the decal would totally fall off and you could revert to the rules of the jungle or total chaos. I preferred the latter. In fact, I liked to throw the Battle Beasts at one another and see which one knocked the other furhter back after the mid-air collision. There's your fuckin' winner right there!

Nobody, though, was ever as big of a winner as Steve Perry, lead singer of Journey. God dammit... what a winner. That guy was so cool. He had the coolest voice, the coolest hair and the coolest fucking face of any dude around. "Don't Stop Believing," "Any Way You Want It," "Wheel in the Sky"... those songs rocked! They rocked so hard that they rocked the rock. Back in the day, I'll bet The Rock rocked the rock to the rock that Steve Perry rocked out.

So, if you think about it, rock beats scissors, scissors beat paper, paper beats rock, water beats fire, fire beats wood and wood beats water (somehow). If I remember correclty from his films, The Rock beats scissors, water and wood but not fire and, of course, not paper. Steve Perry, however, beats everything.

If you're going to rock, you might as well rock as hard as you possibly can. But, if you're not going to throw rock, you should throw Steve Perry because you'll never lose and you'll totally piss off the chump who throws stupid paper.

Rock on!

The Most Pervasive Phenomenon of Our Time

There are many aspects of culture that can be seen as more pervasive than other phenomena. Pervasive phenomena can affect our everyday lives in myriad ways from the clothes that become trendy to the type of food that we eat. If Mischa Barton (with whom I am in love, let the record show) were to kill a monkey on the OC and wear its limp body as a scarf, we would probably see dozens of monkeys heading for the high ground on Friday. Why? Because the OC isn’t just a show; it’s a phenomenon. If Paris Hilton (with whom I am not in love but with whom I would enjoy intercourse, let the record show) were to describe the S & P 500 Index as “Hot” then my stock portfolio would probably look a lot better than it does right now. Why? Because I stupidly invested in the S & P 500. But also, because Paris Hilton isn’t just a celebrity; she’s a phenomenon.

However, neither the OC nor Paris Hilton is the most pervasive phenomenon today. They might affect the purchase of clothes and (according to my theory) stocks, but what they don’t affect is other celebrities. To date, only Super Mario Bros., the greatest video game franchise of all time, is so pervasive that many of today’s celebrities are seemingly going for the “Super Mario Chic” look. Don’t believe me? Read on…

Is it just me or are Tom Selleck and Mario the two handsomest men of all time to sport such thick mustaches? I would argue that this is no coincidence. Yes, Tom Selleck was born before Mario made a big splash on the scene, but the tie is undeniably: Tom Selleck was the prototype for Mario. He was a Super Mario Beta version, if you will. This picture shows undeniable evidence of the connection. You might be thinking, “Wait a minute, your very explanation suggests that Tom Selleck is the pervasive phenomenon and that Mario Bros. is merely the affected agent.” To that, I would say, “Shut the fuck up; you’re ruining my theory.” Then I’d give you a quick rabbit punch to dome-piece to show you I mean business.



This next one is obvious: Rachel Dratch isn’t just affected by Mario Bros., she’s simply a Koopa Troopa that made it big. What’s really funny—to me, at least—is that we went to the same college. I’m pretty sure that Rachel Dratch was the first Koopa Troopa to graduate from Dartmouth College. She knocked down all kinds of walls for video game characters in the Ivy League. I’m pretty sure Donkey Kong, Jr. went to Cornell…



Returning, for a moment, to Paris Hilton, you might think that she’s been going for the Princess Toadstool look. Well, you’d be wrong. She may be America’s biggest idiot, but she has brilliant publicists. They knew that Toadstool was out and that Paris should go bigger! She should try to resemble perhaps the most important yet overlooked actor in the Mario Bros. games: the magic beanstalk. I could go on and on with bad puns and sex jokes that relate Paris Hilton to a magic beanstalk (such as "Paris makes my beanstalk feel magic," "Mario loved riding the beanstalk and everyone loves riding Paris," or "the beanstalk took you to a bonus round and Paris is all about the ‘bone-us’ round"), but I won’t. I don’t have to; the evidence is incontrovertible in this picture.



Is it just me or does Brigitte Nielson, co-star of VH1’s “Strange Love” with Flava Flav, look exactly like a Goomba from the Super Mario Bros. movie? I feel like this one is even more obvious than the Rachel Dratch/Koopa Troopa thing. The question isn’t so much “How?” but “Why?” in this particular instance. Why would anyone want to resemble the worst character of the Mario franchise? The movie Goomba was an atrocity and a disgrace to the Mario name; the veritable Tito Jackson of the group. First she did Red Sonja, then she convinced Flava Flav to stop fighting The Power and now this. Now she’s the kind of ugly where a bell should be tied around her neck to warn people to hide their eyes as she draws nigh. Regardless, her choice has clearly been made and it's giving me the heebie-jeebies something fierce.



Super Mario Bros. has been the most pervasive phenomenon in the history of modern American society. Not since the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863 has an institution had such a great effect on the United States and its culture. It has redefined the role of video games, influenced movies, cartoons and comics, brought mushrooms, mustaches and overalls back into style and even changed the way that celebrities reinvent themselves. There's only one thing left to say about the most pervasive phenomenon of our time...

Zooples and Orel

(Note: This post was obviously originally a Myspace blog. Get over it.)

This is a post posted under the heavy influence of alcohol. I warn anyone who may usually find my blogs delightfully sober and chaste to please hit your "back" button to avoid tarnishing the otherwise unblemished image of me in your mind.

If there is one thing that I love, it's nearly inexplicable generalizations and unfounded bias. Thusly, I propose the following: Myspace is full of two basic types of guys: emo-guys and jocks. If you aren't shocked by my pithy observation, save your comments until you've read the full context of my musings.

So, we have emos and the jocks. Myspace is chock-full of the both of them. It seems that every guy on this network is either pitifully--though entertainingly--trying to seduce an image (and I emphasize the word image) of a really hot girl with generic compliments and kudos or posting sexually charged, less-than-subtle innuendoes juxtaposed with shirtless photos on the "hot" girl's profile. To me, this begs only one question: why can't we have zoos full of people?

Before you jump to a conclusion about my character, hear me out. Zoos full of people--or Zooples as I will refer to them henceforth--could be an amazing alleviation to many of mankind's problems. Not convinced? Just listen to our paid spokespersonality, 1988 World Series MVP, former Los Angeles Dodgers Pitcher and generally unattractive man... Orel Hershiser!

Orel: Zooples... Sounds like a crazy idea right? Wrong. I once pitched 59 straight scoreless innings, so I know a good pitch when I hear one. Also, my name is Orel, so I know what it feels like to be made fun of. You don't think I went through tons of bullshit when I was a kid? My fuckin' name's Orel! "Hey Oreleo!" they'd say. "Where's your cream filling?" Over and over they would chant. You think the handsome dudes get nicknamed "Bulldog"?! Well, do you? Do you?!

Whoa, Orel. Slow it down champ. We're talking about Zooples here.

The general idea is to put people into one of two types of specially designed enclosures:

Enclosure 1 will include a computer with a DSL connection, a bed with aesthetically uninspired bedding, one unframed Husker Du or Built to Spill poster (but let's face it, is there really a difference?), and a generally unkempt yet not untidy appearance.

Enclosure 2 wil include a computer with a Cable connection, a bed with aesthetically repellant bedding, one unframed LeBron James or Michael Vick poster (but let's face it, is there really a difference?), and a generally shipshape though unorganized appearance.

Here's the plan: throw an emo kid into enclosure 1 and a jock into enclosure 2. Then, serve the emo kid grilled cheese and Smiths albums and the jock kid Hamburger Helper and Linkin Park and simply sell tickets for $20.00 a pop ($18.00 with valid student ID) to watch them navigate Myspace for hours and hours.

Emo kids hitting feebly on professional models with entrepreneurial websites; jocks shooting impotent come-ons toward the semi-attractive... isn't this what's missing from this crazy website? The ability to watch the crazies going about their crazy way doing crazy things? Is there a better recipe for a night of fun at someone else's expense?

If this isn't at the very least a moneymaking idea, then I don't know what is. And I've seen every infomercial ever.

Who wouldn't rather send their hard earned dollars electronically over to that asexual "Tom" guy rather than put up with the ridiculously omnipresent advertisements from neighborhoodies.com, the all-new Tag body spray fragrance or True.com (actually, I kind of dig the boobs on those chicks from the True.com ads, so never mind that one)?

The simple answer is nobody. Or, rather, everybody. No, no, nobody. Nobody would rather deal with non-booby related ads. Speaking of which, all this talk about boobies is reminding me of tonight's most excellent episode of "The OC" wherein we all almost caught Marissa naked twice. God bless that show...

Well crap, I'm sorry. Now I'm too busy trying to remember the four times that Marissa bent over suggestively during tonight's episode (aptly entitled "Risky Business") to continue on my point regarding Zooples. Looks like this train is derailing earlier than initial projections would have suggested.

Blame wine; blame apathy; blame Mischa Barton. Blame whomever; I'm fucking tired. As always, thanks for your indulgence despite my incoherence; I owe everyone something of quality for next time.

By the way, don't be surprised if this runt-of-the-litter-styled post is culled from the herd on the morrow. If'n it ain't, then I've surprised us both and we should all drink to that (and, of course, my unscrupulous overuse of modifiers, qualifiers and italics. Zing!)!

Note Regarding Blogs

I haven't blogged in a good long time. It sucks, I know, especially because I'm so ridiculously hilarious. One time, I was so funny that this dude's hair caught on fire for no reason! That's besides the point, though.

Anyway, I used to have time at work to sneek in a 20 minute blog session. That's not the case anymore. We're really busy and I'm constantly pulling 10-11 hour days. Maybe I'll try to get a couple more blogs up since people have been so nice in their comments on the already existing blogs, but it's not as easy as it once was.

Thanks for being so nice. Here's a funny picture for your troubles.



Remember, in real life, monsters are full of candy.

Rebel Without a Shape

Thank God for processed meat. If it weren't for processed meat, we'd have to eat meat in chunks, strips and other naturally occurring shapes. That's crap! If I want to shape meat, then I'd better be given the opportunity because I work hard and I deserve it. I had a turkey burger today and it ruled all over the place. If it weren't for the processing that that turkey meat went through, it totally wouldn't have fit right on the bun. That's garbage.

I'm tired of people always putting down processed foods. If regular food was so great, then why is everybody processing it? Riddle me that! Processing food means grinding shit up, adding shit to it and putting it into a way cooler shape than it used to be. I think my favorite shape is amorphous.

Amorphousness kicks ass. Not only is it fun to say, but it's a shape with some style. It's a shape that is defined by not being a definite shape. That's way more rebellious than weak-ass James Dean ever was. So you drove your car off a mountain, wow. Meanwhile, amorphousness is breaking the rules of logic! Amorphousness: 1; James Dean: 0.

James Dean was a way bigger loser than people give him credit for. If James Dean is so cool, how come he's dead? The guy's an American icon and he's not even smart enough to be alive to appreciate it. James Dean only did one cool thing in his life: I'm pretty sure he invented the leather jacket.

Leather jackets keep going in and out of style. It seems like whenever people aren't dancing around in a white room wearing cow skin in a Gap ad, leather is very five minutes ago. However, it seems that whenever cows get uppity, leather is cool again. Wearing leather is instant image. The greatest thing about it is that you have no idea what image it's going to portray and it's going to be one of two: tough or gay.

That's not true. You could also look tough and gay. I don't know why gay people are thought of as "not tough." It's a bogus stereotype. The prisons are literally packed with really tough gay dudes.

Prisons are super, by the way. They make for great movies. "The Shawshank Redemption," "Attica," "Escape from Alcatraz," "The Rock," "No Escape," "Ernest Goes to Jail," I could go on. Movies about prison are awesome because you're inevitably going to get a minimum of two really bad ass guys doing bad ass things. You know what's really bad ass? Eating prison food. I'll bet it sucks.

What's weird is that it's mostly just processed food, which is great. The difference is that processed food only tastes good when you get a hot plate of freedom of the side. Processed freedom.

Get Your Peanuts!

Everybody who ever got born--which is most people--wanted to be a peanut salesman at one point or another. That much is certain. They just whip those nuts at people all day long with the precision of a mohel, and it's rad. Yes, I said, "whip those nuts." No snack is better when you're hungry and can't get real food than peanuts due to the gratification of working through the tough shell in order to get to the nutmeat. Nut meat. I remember thinking to myself as a young lad, "Peanuts are totally great! I'll bet peanut salesmen make like a billion dollars every day."

Yeah, they don't.

As it turns out, peanut salesmen make just enough money to exceed the poverty level. I assume, though, that they get unlimited peanuts which is worth its weight in platinum. Many people don't know this, but platinum is a metal. You can use it for all kinds of stuff, but its best use is for making yourself look like a robot by putting it on your teeth.

I hope that doesn't go away. My favorite thing about the hip hop industry had to be their robot impersonation. I feel like that's the idea for most hip hoppers: be as much like a robot as possible. That's why they have platinum caps and gold chains and stuff; they are trying to cover their bodies in metal, just like robots! Why do you think they wear their hats backward? Think about it. Robots aren't people so they would have no idea how to wear a hat. But hey, I back it; robots rule!

Now, attributing the dance, "the robot" to hip hop would be obvious, so why do it, right? Wrong. "The robot" was invented by robots and hip hop stole it. The robots got pissed about it and filed a lawsuit against DefJam in 1989. They settled out of court and nobody has ever done "the robot" since then.

Suing people rules. Actually, the only thing that rules is being in an environment in which you can yell, "I object!" and actually get another dude to yell, “Overruled!" at you. Usually, when you yell, "I object!" in a regular situation, you get totally shot down and you're left hanging like a squirrel that slipped on a clothesline. Try walking into a restaurant like El Pollo Loco and yelling "I object!" and then add, "He's badgering the witness!" or something else that sounds intimidating and legalish. You'll probably just get asked to leave without even getting any chicken.

So, now you're hungry and there's only one question to ask: "Anybody got any peanuts?" Dammit, I hope so.

Forever Your Girl

For years I have argued that Paula Abdul was the greatest female songstress of the late 80s and early 90s. Yesterday, I was hyperventilating on the treadmill (because my elliptical was broken) and "Blowin' Kisses in the Wind" came on my iPod. For those brief minutes, I wasn't an out of shape sweaty dude on a moving walkway; I was a brilliant striding demigod ambling through an ethereal garden of ecstasy.

Paula can do that to you. She does it to me every time.

I would argue that Paula Abdul was the biggest star over a period of a couple of years that music saw in the 90s. When she was hot, she burned like herpes. Did you know that she had six number one singles IN A ROW! That's ridiculous. Not even Thor could do that, and he has a huge hammer! And we all know that there is very little that a big enough dude with a big enough hammer can't do.

Take John Henry. Didn't he eat a train or something? Either way, he was another example of a big dude with a big hammer doing a great thing: eating a train. Big dudes with big hammers are always doing cool shit like eating trains and busting stuff up and wearing people out over anything. Or nothing, they don't even care.

I wonder sometimes, as I lie in bed, looking out at the stars, if there were people on that train that John Henry ate. Just kidding; I live in the basement, I can't see any stars.

When you live in a house with three other 20-something-year-old dudes and you live in the basement, you can get away with sleeping in until like 4:30 on any given Saturday or Sunday. You can do this because no one's going to wake you up and you can't tell midnight from noon in a room with no real windows. With this kind of darkness, though, it makes the potential to be eaten by ghosts very high. Because ghosts eat people and they live in the dark.

I've come to terms with the fact that I'll probably get eaten by ghosts. It doesn't bother me that much anymore. I've probably eaten dozens of ghosts in my life, but mostly in marshmallow form around Halloween. A good analogous situation of a person eating ghosts their whole life and then, eventually, getting eaten by a ghost is Pacman. He munched on ghosts all day, supplemented his diet with cherries and yellow dots and did fine for himself... until he got eaten by Inky, Pinky, Blinky or Sue, I don't remember which.

Pacman was cool. He had life figured out. Eating, running around, making "momp momp" sounds... he was a visionary. He was one of the most amazing dudes without a hammer that I can think of. He was probably the biggest deal of the 80s until Paula Abdul came out with "Straight Up."

"Straight up now tell me is it gonna be you and me together? Oh oh oh. Or are you just having fun?"

Always, Paula. I'm always having fun when you're involved.

The Day the Music Un-Died

On February 3, 1959, the music died. Three legends were lost in a horrific and devastating plane crash leaving the world aghast. However, from the wreckage and debris, the sorrow and anguish, came inspiration for a generation of musicians. The day known as the "Day the Music Died," encapsulated so bittersweetly in Don McLean's allegorical masterpiece, "American Pie," it could be argued, was the very same day on which the music born anew.

Thirty-five years later, Music lies in her deathbed, a sick, tired shadow of her former self. Her vital signs blip sporadically at uneven intervals; the pallor in her eyes hints only vaguely at glory days gone by; her sickly musk of abandon and prostitution evokes both pity and ire. Music, after an extensive and costly heart-and-soul-ectomy, seemed on the cusp of rejoining Buddy, Richie and the Bopper.

In September of 2004, the music died once again. Ashlee Simpson did something that no woman had ever done before: she went triple-platinum on her debut release. One month later, Ashlee was caught lip syncing on one of television's most coveted live forums for over a quarter of a century: Saturday Night Live. One month later, Ashlee was slated to sing at the biggest college football game of the year: the Orange Bowl.

As Ashlee accepted her award certifying that over 3,000,000 people found her talented enough to warrant purchasing her album, music flat lined. The following developments regarding SNL and the Orange Bowl were a metaphorical equivalent to kicking the corpse in the ribs and pissing on its grave.

But music, like a phoenix or a really gross zombie, always seems to rise from its tomb.

On January 4, 2005, in Miami, Florida, Ashlee Simpson delivered one of the worst live television performances of all time, singing her new single, "La La," in front of 72,000 drunken college students and alumni. Her voice could be compared to a rusty door hinge being wrenched back and forth, a cat violently disemboweling itself, or a fat man slowly twisting a family of squirrels into one giant, hairy slinky.

This single instance of vocal atrocity, though, was not what brought music back from the dead. Music's pulse jumped back into a steady rhythmic beat as a stadium of 72,000 and a television audience of millions stood and booed Billboard's 2004 "Best New Female Artist" right out of the stadium.

As America truly opened its eyes for the first time, it saw not a beautiful, iconic artist on the 50 yard line. It saw a spoiled, untalented 20-year-old millionaire with no idea how bad she sucks. If there's one thing America knows, it's how to deal with a spoiled, untalented 20-year-old millionaire with no idea how bad she sucks... you boo the shit out of her.

As the boos echoed from sea to shining sea, Music slowly crawled her way out of her wretched grave and back into the night. Unfortunately, years of bloodsucking from corporate vampires have left Music not so much alive as undead. Very likely, garbage will continue to spew out of the corporate music factories in the form of young, blonde songstresses backed by computerized sounds and 40-year-old expert studio musicians. But maybe--just maybe--there will be some benchmark for talent. Music is no longer dead but while zombie walk with open eyes, they are a groggy and defenseless bunch in general. They are easily tricked and led astray. But, at the very least, open eyes are better than closed eyes.

I'll take nine million Christina Aguileras and Britney Spearses for every one Ashlee Simpson.

Is Ashlee Simpson done for? No. Her album may even go quadruple platinum or, God forbid, diamond. But, at least her secret is out. Band error, acid reflux and microphone malfunctions can't explain how bad she sucked on Tuesday. Only sheer, unadulterated inaptitude can account for that, and she's got that in spades.

So, God bless you, America. God bless your ability to recognize trash when put in front of your and passed off as music. The music may have died, but you, America, made it un-die.

Buddy, Richie and the Bopper may not be proud of music today, but they would have been proud to take a big bite of American Pie on January 4, 2005: the Day the Music Un-Died.

The Tao of Burritos

Mexican food is like a really wild multi-vitamin. Clearly, it's really good for you and healthy to eat on a daily basis, much like a multi-vitamin, and so the initial comparison is a no brainer. But, also like a multi-vitamin, it can mess you up something fierce.

Have you ever woken up in the morning and taken a vitamin on a completely empty stomach? If you haven't, give it a try. It's the worst feeling in the world, especially if it's a good, hearty vitamin. I'm not talking about Flintstones Kids vitamins; I'm talking Centrum or One-A-Day, bare minimum. First you feel weak and clammy. Within 30 seconds you start feeling nautious and may begin dry heaving. The whole process lasts about three minutes, and once it's over you feel fine, but those three minutes are awful.

Mexican food can be similar. I hadn't eaten anything since like 5:00pm yesterday and just loaded up at a little known (but delicious) El Segundo Mexican eatery called Chile Verde.

Long story short, downing two chicken enchiladas, rice, beans and some nachos on an empty stomach has pretty much the same effect as the vitamin scenario. So, Mexican food, much like vitamins, is both good as well as evil.

The double-edged sword that metaphorically represents chicken enchiladas is yet another reminder of the duality of life by its very nature. The idea that Mexican food is inspired by Taoism, though, is hardly new. For generations, Mexican cuisine has imparted the teachings of the East through various combinations of rice, beans, cheese, corn and meat.

The wu wei, or "going with the natural flow of things" as modern translations would put it, is the central tenet Taoism, as well as burritos. Just as the reed bends in the current of the river, so does the tortilla fold gently over the warm, spicy innards of a burrito.

Just as Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa said, "It is better to die on your feet, than to live a lifetime on your knees," Lao Tse, the father of the Tao, was famous for having said, "Dude, I could fully go for a burrito right now... fully."

In fact, I've acquired a rare depiction of Lao Tse on one of his nightly bull trips to Taco Bell after getting hammered at the local saloon. You may think that the idea of Lao Tse getting sloshed with his buddy Pancho Villa is absurd both because Lao Tse was known for moderation and because Pancho Villa lived literally thousands of years after his Chinese drinking buddy.

You'd be wrong though. As Ron Burgundy said, "It's science."

Anyway, after a tough night of drinking rice wine, eating killer tostadas and discussing the merits of Eastern spiritual philosophy and Mexican culinary philosophy, Lao-dog and Panch (as they called one another) would often wake up with gnarly hangovers.

Realizing how depleted his system was, Lao once had the bright idea of taking a multi-vitamin when he woke up. Pancho was frying up some breakfast burritos in the kitchen when he heard someone fall in the next room over.

Lao, doubled over in agony from the vitamin-induced fits was kneeling over the toilet gagging. It was then that Pancho said, "Lao Tse, my friend, it is better to die on your feet, than to live a lifetime on your knees. That's why you never pop a Centrum first thing in the morning." Then he extended his great frying pan and said, "Here, grab one of these guys."

Lao Tse, starting to feel a little bit better smiled and said to his lifelong compadre, "Dude, I could fully go for a burrito right now... fully." Unfortunately for Lao, he proceeded to eat too many burritos and fell to the same fate of feeling like total ass.

Pancho, on the other hand, went on to lead the Chinese revolutionaries in a successful revolt against the powerful Chinese Public Broadcasting System that had been secretly taking $0.75 of every $1.00 pledged during telethon-style fundraisers for over 4 years.

So let us all learn from this anachronistic tale of gibberish and historical blasphemy. I know I didn't. That's why I ate way too much Mexican food earlier today and am doomed to Lao Tse's terrible fate.

My stomach hurts.

Numchuck Skills

Did you know that you aren't allowed to brink nunchakus on a tour of the White House. You might be thinking, "Well, of course not. A turtle or guy like Michelangelo (the turtle, not the guy) could do some serious damage with nunchakus!"

You'd be right, and that's why the rule is in place. And this isn't weird. What's weird is that there is actaully a sign with a silhouette of nunchakus with a red line through it, specifying for the literate and illiterate alike that you aren't allowed to bring your Japanese fighting sticks along while visiting the State Dining Room.

Nunchakus are really amazing. They were the weapon of choice of the coolest ninja turtle, they received shout-outs in the best movie of 2004, "Napolean Dynamite" and they provide countless hilarious instances of dudes crushing their nads on film. Truly, they are Japan's finest export. That, I guess, and Sega Genesis.

I say Sega Genesis because my parents never bought me a Super Nintendo and I never bought myself a Playstation or X-Box. I know those other new fangled contraptions are better, but they didn't have "Altered Beast."

"Altered Beast" was the signature game for Sega before "Sonic the Hedgehog" came along. It was the story of a guy (or two guys, if you played in two player mode) that walked around killing zombies and blobs and stuff and eating magic floating eggs in a quest to save his (or "their" in two player mode) girlfriend. Every time he ate an egg he got way stronger. On the third egg, the guy would turn into the beast du jour and you'd pretty much be invincible and you'd win the game if you got that far.

The altered beasts were, in this order: wolf, dragon, bear, tiger, golden wolf. The weird thing was, the dragon was by far the best. It could fly, had a really cool shield and could breath some sort of lightning/stick out of its mouth. By the end of level two, the game was pretty much all downhill. In fact, you went from the super-cool dragon to the worst character in the game, the boring-ass bear. I wonder, sometimes, who the ad-wizards were who came up with the idea to put the dragon second and the bear third. Why not just flash a message after level two saying, "Hey bro, the fun part's over. Go play outside or make yourself a sando or something"?

You know, the bear blew bubbles that turned things into ice. How stupid is that?

Don't get me wrong, though. Bears are still cool. My favorite bear of all time was Teddy Ruxpin. He was a magic half-bear, half-walkman that told you about all of his adventures with his giant caterpillar friend, Grubby.

On second thought, Teddy Ruxpin was a dick.

He apparently went on like a hundred awesome quests and stuff before he was caught by Playskool and put in that box. When I was a kid, my biggest quest was crapping my pants and trying to fix it before my mom found out. Teddy just sat there all day, telling you how much better his life was compared to yours. All day... preaching.

But he wasn't so great. He didn't even have nunchakus. Michelangelo had nunchakus, plus he lived in the real world and had adventures that I could relate to.

Here's what's bullshit: Teddy Ruxpin is way more likely to be able to meet the president than Michelangelo. Even though we all agree that what Mike has done for New York was way more valuable to US domestic security than Teddy's prancing around the land of Grundo, there is no way Michelangelo is getting in that White House with those nunchakus.

...and I wouldn't want to be the guy to ask a giant ninja turtle to please observe the "no nunchakus" sign.

Dog Fight

Who reigns supreme in the world of lovable canine corporate mascots? This question has haunted me for years.

Now, you may be thinking, McGruff, the crime dog, would obviously be the answer. After all, he carries a gun and is assumedly trained to use it. You'd be wrong though, because I said "lovable" and McGruff is about as loveable as Stacey Corosi from Saved By the Bell, the Malibu Sands Years.

The battle comes down to two great candidates: the Slush Puppie and the Hush Puppy. Everyone know that both are extremely lovable but, more importantly, their names rhyme. When you can make the title of a fight rhyme, it goes down in history (e.g. the Ali vs. Foreman '74, a.k.a. "The Rumble in the Jungle" and Ali vs. Frazier '75, a.k.a. "The Thrilla in Manila").

This battle would be epic. It would finally quench that eternally burning fire--the fire that glows brighter every time someone realizes the intense cuteness of both the Puppie and the Puppy. Which corporate whore dog is most unabashedly adorable?

Well, let's find out.

In the left corner, weighing in at 34 Lbs. 3 oz., hailing from the Slush Puppie Frozen Drink Division of the Dr. Pepper/Seven Up Corporation of Plano, Texas; he's been known as the "Stone Cold Canine" and the "Texan Chilly Dog;" the cuddliest varmit this side of the Pacos...

SLUSH PUPPIE!!!

In the right corner, weighing in at 62 Lbs. 5 oz., hailing from the Hush Puppy Footwear Division of the Wolverine World Wide Corporation of Rockford Michigan; they call him the "Casual Wear Cuddle Bear" and the "Slip-On Slobberpuss;" the dog the puts the "oof" in "woof"...

HUSH PUPPY!!!

So, who would win the fight? Let's weigh the different attributes of the contenders. Clearly, as a basset hound, the Hush Puppy has the weight advantage, but the speed advantage goes to the sparky mutt from Texas. Likewise, the toughness advantage lies with Slush Puppie whose heart pumps not warm blood but a delicious icy fluid that keeps his core body temperature close to freezing. Hush Puppy, though, has been the more successful corporate mascot, winning the recognizability contest and success in the marketplace contest.

The fight would indeed be a close one. Both contenders would get into the ring and duke it out in a violent display of cuddly lovability. Unfortunately, what they didn't expect was the blast from the past, the greatest puppy-dog corporate mascot and dog-related children's toy of all time, the Pound Puppy!

Pound Puppies hail from the Tonka Division of Hasbro, Inc. Straight out of Corporate HQ in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, the Pound Puppies play for keeps. You thought they stopped making them in 1988, but, in fact, they've been around up through 1996 and are in development for a come-back.

Pound Puppies stick together and, as pack animals, can triple and quadruple the cuteness of a single mascot without even coming out from behind that big heart. They were born on the streets and grew up in cruel pounds; they're as tough as nails and as soft and huggable as Koosh balls.

The element of surprise would overwhelm the Slush Puppie and Hush Puppy. The sheer number of Pound Puppies would do them in. After the dust had settled, the Pound Puppies would walk away victorious, trailing bloody paw prints behind.

Then, inevitably, someone in the crowd would say, "What the hell just happened? I paid $29.95 for this?" Everyone woud leave in a huff, totally confused as to why they bought tickets to such an obsure event. At least, they would carry some piece of mind, knowing, kind of, who the cutest corporate puppy mascot truly was.



Wait... what the hell was that about?

Ryan Cabrera: Rock Superstar

I thought that Ryan Cabrera was a one-trick pony after his mega-hit, "On the Way Down." Boy howdy, was I wrong.

After seeing the video for his newest hit, "True," I realized that this guy had a whole lot more to offer. His artistic merit is so transcending that it resonates in the very titles of his songs. Here's a list of my favs from his album, "Take It All Away":

"Shame on Me"
"Take It All Away"
"Let's Take Our Time"
"Exit to Exit"
"I Know What It Feels Like"

...and my all-time favorite, "40 Kinds of Sadness."

Song titles like these tickle me in a way that I don't get tickled enough.

First of all, the depth of emotion required to feel forty different types of sadness is amazing. I've got like three: lonely-sad, pain-sad, and hungry-sad. Right now, I'm hugnry-sad. Assuming that Ryan is still without his lady (yeah, right!) he is over 13 times sadder than I am when I'm sitting alone on a Friday night with a broken arm and an empty fridge. That's about as sad as I ever get, and this dude is still way, way sadder.

I guess that's why he's the superstar.

Speaking of reasons why Ryan Cabrera is a rock 'n' Roll legend in the making, check out these lyrics from the song in question:

"I feel 40 kinds of sadness when you're gone
I feel the same thing always happens when you're gone"

Did you catch that? He rhymes "gone" with "gone." Not only that, he establishes--TWICE!--that he feels forty kinds of sadness every single time that this girl leaves. Oh Jesus, I pray that he is talking about Ashlee Simpson because I too feel as sad as can be when any song but "Pieces of Me" is playing.

Fun factoid: Ryan Cabrera has a song called "Take It All Away" and Ashlee Simpson has a song called, "Giving It All Away." I'll let you figure out what "It" really is.

Speaking of "It" in a different context, "It" is what Ryan Cabrera has. It's what he's got. He's got IT. It's that extra something that makes a shiny Ferrari shine shinier than a shiny Buick. It's that lil' something-something that makes a rainbow look like a rain-I-don't-think-so. Compared to Ryan, natural phenomena look pallid and tawdry.

If Ryan Cabrera is a one-trick pony, then that "trick" is being the most versatile and salient superstar or our age, all ages heretofore and yet to come, as well as all the other ages of other people that I can't even handle thinking about.

Think about that... if you can.

Blog of the Lost Blog

I'm dedicating this blog to the memory of another blog.

Did you ever start doing something online and then you got an IM from someone that had a link to someone's really stupid personal homepage and when you clicked on that link, you lost all the stuff you were doing? And then maybe you thought it happened for a reason like because you were laughing at someone? And then you realized that God is probably laughing at you right now for losing all the stuff you were doing so you figured laughing at people is okay?

Anyway, that happened to me today and the real victims are my loyal readers (hi Wendy and Rylee) that are going to miss out on a funny blog based mostly on bean bag chairs.

Damn that was a good blog.

So, the new blog is this blog and it's a very good replacement blog. Why? Because it's about something that's been bothering me of late. By late I mean like five minutes ago.

Why does mistrust "breed?" Did you ever notice how a bad relationship breeds mistrust or it breeds suspicion or it breeds disaster? A good relationship doesn't breed contrary sentiments. This, I find bothersome because negativity seems to have an oligopoly on breeding with animal husbandry. Right? I figure hate breeds and dogs breed; everything else is standing still with their belts on.

Dog shows, by the way, are the new poker tournaments. Mark my words, people are going to going crazy for dog shows the way they are going crazy for late night poker, celebrity poker, world series of poker and all that other garbage. The reason is simple: poking stuff rules and dog shows are full of old dudes poking at dogs of all stripes.

Poking is our most primal instinct that isn't directly tied into our survival. Think about it; we eat, sleep, drink and mate. These are our basest instincts without which we would die. Poking comes next in the heirarchy. If you see something you're not familiar with, you poke it with your finger. If you see something that's really suspect, you poke it with a stick. To get someone's attention, to piss someone off, to share in a laugh and to alert someone to something of interest, what's the proper course of action?

You guessed it. Poking stuff makes the world go 'round. Not love, not breeding, not music. Poking. And bean bag chairs, too. But I guess the ship has sailed on my chance to develop that one.

But dammit, they're comfy.

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Doubt!

I've noticed a trend in my short time on myspace. That trend is this: lots of dudes post shirtless pictures of themselves. That's a great idea and I totally back it. There might be no better way to identify someone as a screaming douche than the shirtless photo.

Another good one is the black and white shirtless picture. It's better than a picture of a guy with a sign around his neck that says, "I suck as a person." It's honest, you know. There are no surprises when interacting with a shirtless picture dude; it's going to be heinous and you know that going in. But with the black and white shirtless picture dude, there's a subtext of being not just heinous, but introspectively heinous. Shirtless dude lifts weights all the time; black and white shirtless dude lifts weights, but he does it while listening to Lao Tse on tape or something. He may or may not

Now, I don't want to be judgemental, but I am, so we're at an impasse if you disagree. But if you do, you probably aren't wearing a shirt right now.

I guess people do it to get chicks. That makes sense, I suppose. But are hot babes really surfing myspace all the time, comparing the abs of dude upon dude, searching for that Ryan Reynolds in the rough? Probably. At least, that's got to be the hope, right?

By the way, Ryan Reynolds is commonly known as the "Van Wilder" guy and very seldom as the "Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place" guy , and that's a shame. TGGPP--as I like to call it--was a heck of a show. I don't remember any of the specifics except that I thought the Girl was almost as hot as Ryan Reynolds and that I always finished watching the show with a twinkle in my eye and song in my heart.

So now Ryan is in Blade Trinity (which is pretty much what you expect) and he's getting married to Alanis Morisette. I think he forgot how psycho she was in "You Oughta Know." Do you remember that? She was all pissed because some dude took her necklace or something and he's all, "I don't have it" and she's all "Cause the love that you gave that we made wasn't able to make it enough for you to be open wide..." and he's like, "Whoa, girl! Here's your necklace."

I think men look silly in jewelry. That is, unless you're wearing some sweet bling bling in a shirtless black and white photo on myspace. Then you look rad.