Goodbye Winter Wonderland, Hello 325 Degree Oven

A lot of things that people do and/or say bother me. For example, take this individual's turd of an editorial piece from the January 13 Washington Post:

"In the past three weeks alone, The Post has run no fewer than six articles about global warming, five of them on the front page [Dec. 20, 23 and 27 and Jan. 7 and 10] and a news story on Dec. 19, as well as an editorial [Jan. 7] and three Tom Toles editorial cartoons [Dec. 18 and 24 and Jan. 8].

I'm still waiting, however, for The Post to run just one article explaining why, despite all of this alarmism, we had no hurricanes above Category 3 during the 2006 Atlantic hurricane season and why none of any size hit the United States. If we are to believe Al Gore's claim in "An Inconvenient Truth" that hurricanes Rita and Katrina in 2005 were the products of global warming, how does he explain away the 2006 hurricane season?
I'm pretty sure that residents of Denver, having been hit by three blizzards in as many weeks, would welcome some global warming right about now.

The bigger issue, though, is this: Many of the same global-warming doomsayers of today were warning 30 years ago of forthcoming cataclysmic global cooling. Were they wrong then, or are they wrong now? And if they were wrong then, why should we believe them now?"
--Joseph Parisi
Annandale

Excuse me, sir, but are you completely out of your fucking gourd?!? Were you trying to incorporate every logical fallacy into your argument? In typical idiot American fashion, this ethnocentric asshole dismisses a worldwide (remember the 'global' in 'global warming'?) problem why? Oh yeah, because it's still snows in Denver, Colorado (gasp!), where people enjoy from time to time to ski. On snow. And, oh yeah, Rita's and Katrina's devastation are like, soooooooooo two years ago... like what have you done for me lately, cataclysmic hurricanes? Not enough for this douche bag apparently. If this waste of flesh knew what a tsunami was, or knew that other parts of the world had hurricanes too, I would probably mention that here.

"Alarmism"? The polar ice caps are melting into the ocean like a urinal mint in a puddle of piss. Wake Up!! Alarms should be going off! I love how he throws Al Gore's name (Straw Man!) in the mix like Al Gore just thought up global warming the morning after he invented the Internet.
Unlike yourself, people have actually researched this topic extensively.

To cap it all off, this shithead believes the biggest issue concerning global warming is that some dudes 30 years ago mentioned global cooling! The truth is, you don't believe in global warming because (a) you love NASCAR and all motor sports and don't want everyone to realize what a huge waste of gas it is and the mpg of your avg stock car (sorry 'necks, you've had your fun, but now we're gonna shut this fucking bullshit down), (b) walking to your mailbox instead of driving your H2 there is inconvenient, and (c) for Republicans, things you don't believe are invariably false.

And Tom Toles kicks ass.
















And I half-heartedly apologize to a small percentage of the rednecks that I intentionally offended.

When Myth Becomes Fact

At the very top of the list of things I don’t care about is anything concerning Halls of Fame. No matter the industry or sport, whether they’re commemorating old rock stars or even older sports legends, the various Halls of Fame littered throughout this country stand as backwards-looking monuments against modernity. That’s just my fancy-pants way of saying that they exist solely to exalt the “way things used to be”, to continue the American tradition of misremembering and romanticizing the past. However, despite my apathy towards these collections of old people clinging shamelessly to their previous lives, I feel compelled to write briefly about today’s events.

The Baseball Writers of America have elected, with a near-record 98.5 percent approval, Cal Ripken Jr., baseball’s bland hero of workman-like vigilance, into their Hall of Fame. What a fucking shock. He gets that staggering amount of approval—from a group of men who rarely agree on anything—basically because he stubbornly refused to take a day off from his position as Baltimore’s Patron Saint of the Pop-Fly Out.

From Dave Sheinin in the Washington Post, a writer who has never missed an opportunity to fellate the mighty Ripken in print:

“The 21-year playing career of former Baltimore Orioles legend Cal Ripken Jr., along with all its blue-collar symbolism and enduring resonance, was validated today as one of the most admired in baseball history...”

I’ve had to stomach this type of Ripken-slurping my entire life, and I have never been able to understand why. This man continued playing long after he was of any value to his ball club solely so he could earn an individual achievement. He was a detriment to his team, not allowing younger, more talented players to take his position or his slot in the batting line-up. Not counting his first five years, he contributed very little besides an endlessly embarrassing parade of awkward stances and poses that were supposed to snap him out of his seemingly constant slumps.

In 1991, he hit over .300 and had over 30 homeruns and got the MVP for a team that finished as the worst in baseball. During the mid-90s when the Orioles stood as the obstacle for the New York Yankees in back to back years of playoff rivalry, Ripken, already a past-his-prime joke, was absent in terms of baseball production, but there he was, still in the line-up, grounding into double plays and popping out to the catcher.

He stands, in my mind anyway, as the epitome of hubris and selfishness, as a man more preoccupied with how others perceived him than with being an actual human being. The legend surrounding him tells us that every night after games, he stayed until all autographs were signed and all the fans had a chance to stand in his luminescence. This is, of course, bullshit. As is the notion that anyone who’s hitting .212 shouldn’t be shelved for a week or two.

Leading up to his mid-summer induction we will be constantly reminded that Ripken played the game “the way it was supposed to be played.” And Ripken himself will do interview after interview with that same self-satisfied smirk of a snake oil peddler he’s had plastered to his face since he broke Lou Gherig’s consecutive games played streak.

He’ll give his speech and talk of his dad teaching him the game, and of loving the game, and of respecting the game. But what he won’t do is conjure images of greatness in the minds of the millions of baseball fans across this country. He won’t inspire millions with his eloquence or his courage to stand up for something he believes in. All he’ll do is confirm this basic truth: If you stick around long enough, people will begin to think that you were great.

As the old saying goes, when the myth becomes fact, print the myth.

Gold Nugget Vs. Piece of Trash Vol. 3

Alright, this gold nugget is a little lengthy (ok, a lot lengthy, particularly for teeny tiny attention spans), but I promise it is well worth the read. It's not like you have anything better to do. You probably ought to illegally download--er, I mean, rush to your local record store and buy this for the full effect.

Gold:

"Television, all hail grand pixelated god of fantasy, murder scape, bed perspective/
fuck a sore channel-change digit/
I sit with a nasty network intravenous plan with a stable diet of my cable pirate/
yo, the doctor is in, the doctor is on/
born the bastard son of static radiance cloned to welcome in every home/
let a blue screen, bruised dream canopy/
victim of the cursed nurse Technicolor drunk support team/
I love all advertisements/
though accused by robot newscasters who capture and pollute
spoon fed hazardous fog to joy luck catholic squad/
please take me, please calm me, please make me a zombie/
please I want to donate my brain to the monstrous Panasonic profit/
Now, twenty first century plague dispersed to wide eyed glamour addict patients
telecast patrons/
blue be the propaganda banners, well, sure I'll be a Marine/
with a clean sword and a blue uniform, it only takes a dollar and a dream/
and I abide great idiot box power supply, fuzz vapor, black out in New York/
hey honey, get the generator/
I'm in a doom, doom generation, pacin', ancient electric secret
never sleep in to miss the AM oasis/
my name is a wired heart, sloppy obligation/
turn my stilt into my guilt
and have a chatter box blame frame adjacent station/
make reality scramble and suck the life out of a hidden vandal/
and loving every minute of the gimmick, change the channel/

Plug it in, turn it on, prop me up against the couch/
lights out/
I ain't ever gonna have to leave my house/
satellite dish kit up on my wish list, turn me to a tyrant/
let my clean spirit dissolve through the appliance/
plug it in, turn it on, be my mother when she's gone/
Great! Wipe the spittle off my chinny-chin during the breaks
if I gotta go blind I'mma do it for the love of all television kind/
and that's fine, and that's fine...

Make me a star, I wanna touch gold/
hold me suspended in a dream, merely inches from the screen/
deleted passions sacrificed to one electron monster/
crucify my little future to the monitor/
damn it feels good, turn on, tune in
zoom in to hug the bug up in your family function/
but the children seem to love it
yeah smother me in wild discovery and herd the static flock to where I sleep
by the glow of that magic box speaker
stereo mastered often kill the freak seekers (?)
eyes spiraling, tangled in the star spangled wiring/
I can turn from toxicated visuals and all the kings horses abort the loyalty to royalty
fuck the fortress
riddle me with glee, hoist the end all teleprompter above my sleeping head
I'll be dead by morning anyway
color my values with mundane humor in thirty minute tickets
to feel the magnetic seal
picket censorship
I want commercials twenty four-seven
I wanna shop from my bed and set an example for all my overworked, underpaid brethren
I bond with a six string (?) correspondence and lurking circuitry circus/
with allegiance pledged beyond the glass surface/
adamant students within the fine school of possessed graduate catalysts/
channel zero addict, immaculate/
it goes big screen, little screen, any screen'll do/
just let me hold the controller and I won't have to murder you/

Plug it in, turn it on, let my little eyes glaze/
twenty screens lined up along the borders of the maze/
I wanna see the five day forecast fourteen days in advance/
so I can give my two weeks notice every time the sun dance/
plug it in, turn it on, silent fix better than nothing/
let a once divine soul feel the functions of the hypnotist/
the viciousness, ridiculous, peaking a dummy's interest/
touch the power button meet your maker, ain't that something?/
plug it in, turn it on, say goodbye to Sunday afternoon/
fix the antenna, sit back and let disaster bloom/
it's a beautiful sight, with a most ugly intention
but I taste it everyday and bathe inside the consequences
plug it in, turn it on, never once have you talked back to me
your majesty, I love you, I despise you
my everyday is sitcom, soaps, news, bad dramatization/
come along with me, my friend for the most glorious sensation/"
--Aesop Rock "Basic Cable"

Trash:

"Shady
Konvict
Upfront
Akon
Slim Shady
I see the one, because she be that lady! Hey!
I feel you creeping, I can see you from my shadow
Wanna jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo
Maybe go to my place and just kick it like tae-bo
and possibly bend you over look back and watch me

Smack that all on the floor
Smack that give me some more
Smack that 'till you get sore
Smack that oh-oooh!

Upfront style ready to attack now
pull in the parking lot slow with the 'lac down
Konvicts got the whole thing packed now
Step in the club now and wardobe intact now!
I feel it down and cracked now (ooh)
I see it dull and backed now
I'm gonna call her, then I pull the mack down
Money no problem, pocket full of that now!"
--Akon "Smack That"

Ugh. I can't even get through this whole song. As it is, it's gonna take like 15 showers to wash this shit off. Way to relate to the average American with the Lamborghini reference. Those things are everywhere! Also, congrats on limiting nearly every word in this song to two syllables or less. Respect!

We Don't Eat Dogs In My Country!

Ok, so I have a funny story for y'all. I have a new student from Indonesia. He is muslim and speaks limited English. Everyday when I take the lunch order, I have to tell him which lunch contains pork. On this particular day, lunch options were hot dogs or burgers. I told him that hot dogs are made from pork and so I asked him if burgers were ok. He said "Burgers! Burgers! We don't eat dogs in my country! What kind of dogs do Americans eat?" All the while, he kept pointing at the picture of my dog that I keep on my desk. Now . . . that is some funny shit. What was even funnier was my horrible attempt at explaining that hot dogs weren't actually made from dogs. Why are they called hot "dogs" anyway?????

Out With '06, In With More Trash, Please

Well, if you survived this holiday season of extended families and rampant turbo-capitalism without winding up in a prison, psych ward, rehab clinic, gutter, strip club, coffin, or worse... Congratulations! You are a normal, well-adjusted member of society. If not, better luck next year. Now back to work, swine!

Bastardize, Smastardize..

As the release dates for "The Simpsons" and "Transformers" movies draw ever closer, I find myself overwhelmed by a crippling sense of anxiety. These are, after all, two television shows that I hold near and dear to my heart and would hate to have their legacies tarnished by shallow, gaudy, 90-120 minute con jobs packaged as "summer blockbusters" (see "X-Files: The Movie"). Hollywood does has a notoriety for bastadizing all which is good and right in this world.

"The Simpsons" (in my estimation, without being superlative) is without a doubt the funniest show, animated or otherwise, in the history of television. No other comedy show has been able to put together a string of hilarious years like "The Simpsons" did from about season 3 until season 12 (or is it 13?). Granted, it is not nearly as funny anymore, and I can't honestly say I've watched a new episode in over a year... Makes me wonder if this movie is The Simpsons' swan song?

What is it about seeing the word "Transformers" adjacent to the name "Michael Bay" that makes me involuntarily shudder? Hmm... hold on a sec... let me pull up Mr. Bay's resume here... ... ...oh shit ... of all the self-indulgent tripe.... Perhaps I'm hallucinating and can't recall kick-ass cartoons from the 80s, but did Transformers look like crosses between the aliens from "Starship Troopers" and the Terminator in the T.V. show? Was Bumblebee a fucking Camaro?


Don't get me wrong. I'm going to see these movies. The trailers have me cautiously excited (a ways to go before wet-my-pants status). I'm not planning any boycotts yet. I'm approaching these movies the same way I approached Michael Jordan playing for the Washington Wizards: worth seeing once and then quickly forgotten about.