Click here.
The Recording Industry Association of America now says that ripping CDs that a person owns to his/her iPod is not fair use. How is that for customer service?
Think about it, you buy one of those 60 gig video iPods, like I just did. 60 gigs is a lot of mp3's, it's hundreds of CDs worth. Now, if ripping the music from your CD library to your iPod is made illegal what that essentially means is that in order to fill your iPod with music you have to pay for downloads. Do you know how much money it would cost to buy enough mp3s to fill a 60 gig iPod? At $0.99 per song at iTunes we could be talking about thousands and thousands of dollars all just to play by the RIAA's rules. Sure, you might already own many of those CDs, but it would be illegal to transfer them to your player.
That's bullshit.
I think that the RIAA is still bitter over the fact that they mishandled the emergence of mp3s from day one. They could have done some great things with the technology, but instead they chose to ignore it until it bit them in the ass and now they want to get their revenge on legitimate music buyers.
Bravo, asshats, bravo.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Joey Jo-Jo Come Back!
One of my favorite moments from The Simpsons occurred in the episode in which Homer was tempted to cheat on Marge with his new co-worker Mindy. In the episode Homer goes to Moe's to ask Moe for advice on the situation and asks him in the way that implies it's a friend of Homer's who is having the problems. Moe asks Homer what the name of his friend is and Homer ad libs the name Joey Jo-Jo Junior Shabbadoo. To which Moe replies,"Good god, that's the worst name I've ever heard." And at the other end of the bar a man bursts into tears before running out the door with Barney calling after him, "Joey Jo-Jo come back!"
Thinking about this moment from The Simpsons always makes me smile. Right now I need to keep smiling because I can't go to the Raving Poets show tonight due to illness. I have a bit of a head cold and it's pissing me off.
Anyway, for now that is all. I'll post something more substantial when my wits are back about me.
Thinking about this moment from The Simpsons always makes me smile. Right now I need to keep smiling because I can't go to the Raving Poets show tonight due to illness. I have a bit of a head cold and it's pissing me off.
Anyway, for now that is all. I'll post something more substantial when my wits are back about me.
Friday, February 10, 2006
The Lives Of The Plastic Ones
Click here.
Wow. Barbie and Ken might be getting back together after two years of being apart. No, seriously, folks, this is an actual news story. Alright, calm down. I think you're hyperventilating. Take slow breaths. I know that many of you can hardly contain youg excitement over this latest development from Mattel, but you should really calm the fuck down.
Barbie and Ken might be getting back together.
Holy shit! Saying it again like that just got to me and now I'm hyperventilating. Okay, calm down, old boy. Calm, blue ocean. Calm, blue ocean. Repeat after me. Calm, blue ocean. Calm, blue ocean. Okay, now just give me a second to change my pants. It seems in all that excitement over the made-up bullshit lives of some chunk of plastic and her on-again, off-again fuck-buddy piece of plastic I seem to have soiled myself.
Five minutes later...
Awwww fuck, I did it again. Be right back.
Five minutes later and a third pair of pants...
Ken, who appears to have spent time in the gym and at the stylist, returns wearing a beach-wear ensemble complete with board shorts and white T-shirt.
For her part, Barbie publicist Lauren Dougherty said Barbie "appreciates the new look Ken is sporting. He really looks great. But we'll have to stay tuned to see whether these two will get back together."
At a press conference unveiling Ken, Bloch said the company was going for a "worldly, European thing," and "definitely wanted to be looking hot."
Why the fuck does any of this matter? No, seriously. Who wakes up each day and wonders, 'I wonder if Ken and Barbie are back together yet.' There has to be people out there who do that. I mean you don't just have a press conference and start discussing the lives of pieces of fucking plastic unless somebody out there was actively expressing interest in that kind of shit.
Think about it. There is a significant number of people in this world who are moved enough by the love life of Barbie that they hired a fucking publicist for a doll and had a press conference to discuss it. And you can't just say it's one or two people out there who are affected by it. You don't schedule a press conference and get attention from the media unless the numbers are there.
So, then, with that in mind, knowing that there are a significant number of people who give a shit as to what goes on with Barbie and Ken, doesn't that make you the slightest bit uneasy? Sure, a few of them are probably grounded enough to realize that interest in this bullshit is sort of a lark, but you know that there are probably just as many of those people who are so out-of-touch with reality that they would split your skull open and eat the gooey insides if you try to suggest that none of this is actually real. Maybe some of those freaks are people whom you trust with your life. They could be doctors. They could be politicians. They could be members of the police force. Or firefighters. Or paramedics. You just don't know.
Sleep tight.
And seriously, a publicist? For a fucking doll? I bet that looks great on the old resume. Publicist for a doll. I don't know if I could ever be paid enough to not only pretend in public that my doll client is real, but also that her love life matters to the members of the public.
Monday, February 06, 2006
More Poetic News
The Raving Poets are set to return this week!
Wednesday nights at 8:00 p.m. starting February 8, 2006, the Raving Poets present "Rock The Kasbar," the latest and greatest poetry reading series to hit E-Town's own Yianni's Taverna's downstairs Kasbar Lounge (10444 - 82 Avenue, Edmonton).
This series will pick up with all the momentum built by the end of the all-too-brief previous series to take place at Yianni's and will add to it. By April and the end of the series we're going to be one sweaty, lumbering beast of a poetic community. Once again, each show will be a 20 reader open mic set with ambience and music provided by the Raving Poets Band.
Do check it out!
Wednesday nights at 8:00 p.m. starting February 8, 2006, the Raving Poets present "Rock The Kasbar," the latest and greatest poetry reading series to hit E-Town's own Yianni's Taverna's downstairs Kasbar Lounge (10444 - 82 Avenue, Edmonton).
This series will pick up with all the momentum built by the end of the all-too-brief previous series to take place at Yianni's and will add to it. By April and the end of the series we're going to be one sweaty, lumbering beast of a poetic community. Once again, each show will be a 20 reader open mic set with ambience and music provided by the Raving Poets Band.
Do check it out!
What's Love Got To Do With It?
Bring a lover, bring a friend and experience provocative poetry in a way you never heard it before, from some of Edmonton's most insightful and daring wordsmiths. Be seduced by urban poetry and the sensuality of East Indian tabla drumming in the ambiance of the Blue Chair Café.
Featuring poetry by Delvina Greig, Laurie MacFayden, Dawn Carter & Michael Appleby.
Music performed by Katrina Campos.
Blue Chair Cafe
9624 - 76 Avenue, Edmonton
7 pm, February 9, 2006
No cover
Featuring poetry by Delvina Greig, Laurie MacFayden, Dawn Carter & Michael Appleby.
Music performed by Katrina Campos.
Blue Chair Cafe
9624 - 76 Avenue, Edmonton
7 pm, February 9, 2006
No cover
Friday, February 03, 2006
Classic Michael Appleby
Longitudinals
Right now there is only one thing that I want to ask you
And the telephone is an atlas and an encyclopedia away.
And I don’t want to say this room reeks of loneliness because that would be too desperate.
And I want to tell you that all I smell right now is jasmine from the incense burning atop my bookshelves and when I shamble by them I am really burying myself deep in the mess of hair atop your head and looking for a suitable spot where I can sleep.
And I want to tell you that John Coltrane is playing “Blue Train” and it’s still upbeat and lively in here while his saxophone tumbles down notes that disappear, fall from their longitudinals, dropping out of sight
And it’s all so lovely because the bass strings your skin and I am the bass player and I’m thumping along, keeping up clumsily, dreaming I’m playing you, strumming you; find a rhythm and slither down in heat, beat, push pulses down to the tips of our toes.
Do you dance?
I want to ask.
And I’m tired of being maudlin, it’s one of the worst drug habits a junky like me can ever hope to find; prop your head up against a fire hydrant, drunk, throw out your love blithely and hope that some of it comes back to you.
And the operative wish right now is that I will find you in bed with me in the morning and it’s the operative wish because I know that when I wake up I won’t wish I was somewhere else and I won’t wish I hadn’t just finished making a mistake.
And I want to tell you that all I want is to find that right thing, the thing that feels right, the thing that doesn’t fill me with regret, the thing that just is because it was meant to be. That’s some thing.
And I don’t even know if you could listen to this music or read these words or smell this smell, walk these paces, trace this face, know my name and fall into it
And I want to get up to walk across the world in 276 pages, across the accumulated knowledge of species summed up tidily in 26 volumes I never have the patience to read.
And I want to get up.
And I want to get up
And get to that phone and dial your number and even if it’s really late and I have to wake you up for art.
And even if it’s really late and I have to wake you up for art I still want to ask you for a dance because the drum rolls through “Locomotion” and it’s calling me and I’d like to believe it’s calling you.
And I’m still in my house-slippers and it’s okay. I’m still in a bathrobe and that’s just fine. I’m still waking up as an antithesis to the rest of the sane little world.
And the atlas makes the world seem like a great big place. 276 pages big.
And the encyclopedia is huge, it’s everything that we know.
And if I could just get up right now I know I could walk past it all to call you and ask:
Do you dance?
And there are cabbies who are practically bedding down in their taxis tonight; it’s getting late.
And somewhere far off I can imagine the midnight janitors mopping away wolf whistles, black sky in copier toner; picking up the pages of the written words tossed confetti down the linoleum hallways of our workaday world.
And the incense is burning down to thin stick; the ashes are accumulating.
And I wish that tomorrow wasn’t a part of the financial scheme.
And I wish that “Lazy Bird” drifted along ad infinitum.
And it was you and me and these dying snare drum hits that roil against death, sound out.
And it was you and me and the tumbling and the ease and I want to ask you, if you please:
Do you dance?
Right now there is only one thing that I want to ask you
And the telephone is an atlas and an encyclopedia away.
And I don’t want to say this room reeks of loneliness because that would be too desperate.
And I want to tell you that all I smell right now is jasmine from the incense burning atop my bookshelves and when I shamble by them I am really burying myself deep in the mess of hair atop your head and looking for a suitable spot where I can sleep.
And I want to tell you that John Coltrane is playing “Blue Train” and it’s still upbeat and lively in here while his saxophone tumbles down notes that disappear, fall from their longitudinals, dropping out of sight
And it’s all so lovely because the bass strings your skin and I am the bass player and I’m thumping along, keeping up clumsily, dreaming I’m playing you, strumming you; find a rhythm and slither down in heat, beat, push pulses down to the tips of our toes.
Do you dance?
I want to ask.
And I’m tired of being maudlin, it’s one of the worst drug habits a junky like me can ever hope to find; prop your head up against a fire hydrant, drunk, throw out your love blithely and hope that some of it comes back to you.
And the operative wish right now is that I will find you in bed with me in the morning and it’s the operative wish because I know that when I wake up I won’t wish I was somewhere else and I won’t wish I hadn’t just finished making a mistake.
And I want to tell you that all I want is to find that right thing, the thing that feels right, the thing that doesn’t fill me with regret, the thing that just is because it was meant to be. That’s some thing.
And I don’t even know if you could listen to this music or read these words or smell this smell, walk these paces, trace this face, know my name and fall into it
And I want to get up to walk across the world in 276 pages, across the accumulated knowledge of species summed up tidily in 26 volumes I never have the patience to read.
And I want to get up.
And I want to get up
And get to that phone and dial your number and even if it’s really late and I have to wake you up for art.
And even if it’s really late and I have to wake you up for art I still want to ask you for a dance because the drum rolls through “Locomotion” and it’s calling me and I’d like to believe it’s calling you.
And I’m still in my house-slippers and it’s okay. I’m still in a bathrobe and that’s just fine. I’m still waking up as an antithesis to the rest of the sane little world.
And the atlas makes the world seem like a great big place. 276 pages big.
And the encyclopedia is huge, it’s everything that we know.
And if I could just get up right now I know I could walk past it all to call you and ask:
Do you dance?
And there are cabbies who are practically bedding down in their taxis tonight; it’s getting late.
And somewhere far off I can imagine the midnight janitors mopping away wolf whistles, black sky in copier toner; picking up the pages of the written words tossed confetti down the linoleum hallways of our workaday world.
And the incense is burning down to thin stick; the ashes are accumulating.
And I wish that tomorrow wasn’t a part of the financial scheme.
And I wish that “Lazy Bird” drifted along ad infinitum.
And it was you and me and these dying snare drum hits that roil against death, sound out.
And it was you and me and the tumbling and the ease and I want to ask you, if you please:
Do you dance?
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Four Things
Since it would appear that I've been tagged by Adam in a recent post to his blog I guess that means I'm it...
Four Jobs I've Had
1. Labourer in a soft drink bottling plant. We bottled mostly store brand soft drinks. Mostly I ran machines that either prepped bottles and cans for filling or machines that packaged full bottles and cans for shipping.
2. Labourer in a juice bottling plant. It was the same company that owned the soft drink plant. In this factory, though, I had a chance to run every machine on their assembly lines at least once. Most of the time, though, I worked as a filler operator. That's the machine that actually puts the juice into the bottles.
3. Sales associate at Mark's Work Wearhouse. Retail is a thankless environment in which to work.
4. Manager in a small-time casino. Probably one of the most colorful jobs a person can have. Long hours and lots of interesting stories.
Four Movies I Can Watch Over And Over
1. Fight Club
2. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
3. 40-Year-Old Virgin
4. Garden State
Four Places Where I Have Lived
1. New Sarepta, Alberta
2. Edmonton, Alberta
3. Right Here
4. Right Here
Four TV Shows I Love To Watch
1. Trailer Park Boys
2. The Daily Show
3. The Simpsons
4. The Family Guy
Four Places I Have Been On Vacation
1. Vernon, B.C.
2. Banff, Alberta
3. Toronto, Ontario
4. Calgary, Alberta
Four Of My Favorite Dishes
1. A well-done steak with garlic mashed potatoes
2. Chicken and mushroom fettuccine with baked mozzarella on top
3. A hamburger and french fries
4. Spaghetti and meatballs
Four Websites I Visit Daily
1. Fark
2. Something Awful
3. The Raving Poets Forums
4. Tool Army
Four Books I Wouldn't Be The Same Person Without
1. Fight Club
2. House Of Leaves
3. The Age Of Spiritual Machines
4. The 52nd Poem
Four Places Where I Would Rather Be Right Now
1. In bed
2. In the Rutherford Library
3. Somewhere in the Rockies
4. Toronto
Four Songs I'm Currently Digging Right Now
1. "Heard 'em Say" by: Kanye West featuring Adam Levine
2. "Wake Up" by: The Arcade Fire
3. "Question" by: System of a Down
4. "Helena" by: My Chemical Romance
Four Jobs I've Had
1. Labourer in a soft drink bottling plant. We bottled mostly store brand soft drinks. Mostly I ran machines that either prepped bottles and cans for filling or machines that packaged full bottles and cans for shipping.
2. Labourer in a juice bottling plant. It was the same company that owned the soft drink plant. In this factory, though, I had a chance to run every machine on their assembly lines at least once. Most of the time, though, I worked as a filler operator. That's the machine that actually puts the juice into the bottles.
3. Sales associate at Mark's Work Wearhouse. Retail is a thankless environment in which to work.
4. Manager in a small-time casino. Probably one of the most colorful jobs a person can have. Long hours and lots of interesting stories.
Four Movies I Can Watch Over And Over
1. Fight Club
2. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
3. 40-Year-Old Virgin
4. Garden State
Four Places Where I Have Lived
1. New Sarepta, Alberta
2. Edmonton, Alberta
3. Right Here
4. Right Here
Four TV Shows I Love To Watch
1. Trailer Park Boys
2. The Daily Show
3. The Simpsons
4. The Family Guy
Four Places I Have Been On Vacation
1. Vernon, B.C.
2. Banff, Alberta
3. Toronto, Ontario
4. Calgary, Alberta
Four Of My Favorite Dishes
1. A well-done steak with garlic mashed potatoes
2. Chicken and mushroom fettuccine with baked mozzarella on top
3. A hamburger and french fries
4. Spaghetti and meatballs
Four Websites I Visit Daily
1. Fark
2. Something Awful
3. The Raving Poets Forums
4. Tool Army
Four Books I Wouldn't Be The Same Person Without
1. Fight Club
2. House Of Leaves
3. The Age Of Spiritual Machines
4. The 52nd Poem
Four Places Where I Would Rather Be Right Now
1. In bed
2. In the Rutherford Library
3. Somewhere in the Rockies
4. Toronto
Four Songs I'm Currently Digging Right Now
1. "Heard 'em Say" by: Kanye West featuring Adam Levine
2. "Wake Up" by: The Arcade Fire
3. "Question" by: System of a Down
4. "Helena" by: My Chemical Romance
There's A Black Market For Everything
Just too weird.
Clicking the link above will reveal a story about a recent cheese bust in rural California. No, that isn't a typo. They were producing cheese illegally on said ranch and they got busted. What's more is that it was bathtub cheese and after production it appears that the plan was to sell it.
I know. I know. What the fuck is wrong with the world when a man can't make a batch of bathtub cheese legally?
But seriously, are there really people who go shopping for this shit?
Hmmmmm...let's see. There's a nice gouda, but nah. I'm just not in the mood. I need something that's going to go well with this Merlot. Brie? I don't think so. Limburger? Closer, but not quite. Hey wait, I know. Say Doug, do you have any of that cheese you made in your bathtub illegally last night? I know that it sounds weird being made in some bathtub where your naked hairy ass parks itself in tepid bathwater most nights and all, but goddamned if that doesn't sound delish right now!
Obviously, somebody has to be buying it. You don't just decide to start making bathtub cheese on a crazy whim. There had to be a demand for it, a black market, if you will, since apparently bathtub cheese is illegal. What I want to know is who the fuck are these people?
Think about it. Cheese isn't exactly some kind of luxury that only the rich can afford. Average people buy cheese all the time. So it's not like these people buy the bathtub cheese because they don't have enough money for non-hairy-ass-in-tepid-bathwater cheese. These are people who are probably buying it knowing full well that somebody washed testicles in the same vessel the cheese was prepared in. Somebody probably masturbated into a damp washcloth. But damned if that cheese doesn't taste like a million bucks.
Also, with regards to the busting of the perpetrators behind this most heinous crime, how much of the police resources were expended on this case? The people who were making the cheese are monsters of the highest calibre, obviously, so I hope that the police were able to gather enough evidence and dig up enough dirt to throw the book at these people. I can almost picture it now. All these undercover cops staking out the ranch round the clock, watching, waiting, ready to spring into action as soon as that first wheel of pungent bath-ass cheese is being loaded onto a delivery truck.
All this, of course, while another delivery truck is carrying tons of uncut cocaine on its way to Los Angeles stops to refuel at the gas station behind them.
But fear not, innocent public, we'll get those cheese-mongers.
I'm not saying that it was a gigantic waste of time to harass peddlers of illegal cheese. I'm not saying that the resources spent on busting the culprits could have been used for loftier goals. I'm not even saying, "Why the fuck is it illegal to make cheese in the first place."
What I am saying, though, is that the people who are going to buy cheese on the black market should be smart enough to know that the cheese they're buying probably isn't being manufactured using the same standards as the places that make perfectly legal cheese. If you're stupid enough to buy black market cheese you should be prepared to accept the consequences. I mean, how much fucking money could you possibly be saving buying cheese from a bathtub anyway?
So then maybe I am saying that that police could have spent their time doing something else. Those people buying the cheese probably knew what they could be getting themselves into.
But damned if that cheese doesn't sound delish.
Clicking the link above will reveal a story about a recent cheese bust in rural California. No, that isn't a typo. They were producing cheese illegally on said ranch and they got busted. What's more is that it was bathtub cheese and after production it appears that the plan was to sell it.
I know. I know. What the fuck is wrong with the world when a man can't make a batch of bathtub cheese legally?
But seriously, are there really people who go shopping for this shit?
Hmmmmm...let's see. There's a nice gouda, but nah. I'm just not in the mood. I need something that's going to go well with this Merlot. Brie? I don't think so. Limburger? Closer, but not quite. Hey wait, I know. Say Doug, do you have any of that cheese you made in your bathtub illegally last night? I know that it sounds weird being made in some bathtub where your naked hairy ass parks itself in tepid bathwater most nights and all, but goddamned if that doesn't sound delish right now!
Obviously, somebody has to be buying it. You don't just decide to start making bathtub cheese on a crazy whim. There had to be a demand for it, a black market, if you will, since apparently bathtub cheese is illegal. What I want to know is who the fuck are these people?
Think about it. Cheese isn't exactly some kind of luxury that only the rich can afford. Average people buy cheese all the time. So it's not like these people buy the bathtub cheese because they don't have enough money for non-hairy-ass-in-tepid-bathwater cheese. These are people who are probably buying it knowing full well that somebody washed testicles in the same vessel the cheese was prepared in. Somebody probably masturbated into a damp washcloth. But damned if that cheese doesn't taste like a million bucks.
Also, with regards to the busting of the perpetrators behind this most heinous crime, how much of the police resources were expended on this case? The people who were making the cheese are monsters of the highest calibre, obviously, so I hope that the police were able to gather enough evidence and dig up enough dirt to throw the book at these people. I can almost picture it now. All these undercover cops staking out the ranch round the clock, watching, waiting, ready to spring into action as soon as that first wheel of pungent bath-ass cheese is being loaded onto a delivery truck.
All this, of course, while another delivery truck is carrying tons of uncut cocaine on its way to Los Angeles stops to refuel at the gas station behind them.
But fear not, innocent public, we'll get those cheese-mongers.
I'm not saying that it was a gigantic waste of time to harass peddlers of illegal cheese. I'm not saying that the resources spent on busting the culprits could have been used for loftier goals. I'm not even saying, "Why the fuck is it illegal to make cheese in the first place."
What I am saying, though, is that the people who are going to buy cheese on the black market should be smart enough to know that the cheese they're buying probably isn't being manufactured using the same standards as the places that make perfectly legal cheese. If you're stupid enough to buy black market cheese you should be prepared to accept the consequences. I mean, how much fucking money could you possibly be saving buying cheese from a bathtub anyway?
So then maybe I am saying that that police could have spent their time doing something else. Those people buying the cheese probably knew what they could be getting themselves into.
But damned if that cheese doesn't sound delish.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Birthday Wishes
Happy belated birthday to Jeff. He just turned 29 on January 31. No matter how old I get he'll always be just that little bit older.
How Much I Hate Air Bud Movies
Let me start this off by stating for the record that I hate the "Air Bud" series of movies. I really, really hate them.
See what this is here? Michael is discussing Air Bud so that he'll get more google hits from a younger demographic. It's a brilliant strategy to widen his audience. I wonder when he'll teach the youngsters out there about donkey punching.
Bah, fuck you. That's not what I'm doing here.
Just the other day I was about the leave the house and I happened to notice that the Air Bud movie about the dog playing baseball was on. I should also clarify myself a little bit by saying that I've never watched an entire Air Bud movie, not once.
So anyway, I watched a few minutes of it and it seemed harmless enough. Dog plays baseball, plays first base, wins the World Series. I can suspend my disbelief enough to accept the fact that some coach or general manager out there said, "Well, out the vast pool of talent from which I can draw players for my team, clearly, this golden retriever outperforms all of them. I need him for my team!" Okay, maybe the coach or general manager just took a bad batch of LSD and thinks that a fucking dog can understand the game of baseball enough to play first base. Maybe the coach or G.M. was smoking some dope and forgot the physical impossibility of a dog being able to successfully throw a baseball to a target more than a foot or two away. I can suspend my disbelief enough for all of that.
So what's the big fucking deal, hot shot? Why can't you just let the fucking dog play baseball?
I had to think about it for a while. Quite a while actually. Something wasn't sitting right with me. After an hour or so of careful consideration I figured out what was bothering me about the notion of a dog playing baseball for a little league team.
Imagine, if you will, you're a parent of a youngster who has designs on being the next Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, or Alex Rodriguez. Like all kids who want to play sports he has to try out for the team. He looks so adorable putting on his little baseball outfit and you see that glint of determination and hope in his eyes as he steps out onto the field for the first time.
And then...
You hear it. The coach pulls your son aside to inform him that he didn't make the cut. He's off the team. Look at your son, tears in his eyes, a heavy head, that slow walk of defeat that just about every athlete has had to go through at least once in his/her life. And it breaks your heart to see it.
Why did he get cut? Because a fucking dog tried out for the team? What in the living fuck? You're cutting my son, who can throw a ball more than 4 feet and probably hit a ball farther than some stupid simp dog clutching the bat in his big, stupid mouth. My son, cut, while some dog gets drool all over the baseball and keeps pausing to lick his own balls between batters? Fuck you very much. Wait right here, I'm going home to get my machete, coach. Then we'll see who gets cut next.
You see? Sure, the notion of a dog playing a team game sounds cute and all, but nobody who watches it ever stops to think about the poor kid who just had his dreams of athletic glory shattered at an all-too-young age for the sake of cuteness. That stupid fucking mutt.
Okay, so the dog plays so well, he goes on to a lucrative career in the big leagues and he even helps his team win the World fucking Series. Big fucking deal. Think of the children.
Won't somebody, please, think of the children?
Fucking dogs anyway.
See what this is here? Michael is discussing Air Bud so that he'll get more google hits from a younger demographic. It's a brilliant strategy to widen his audience. I wonder when he'll teach the youngsters out there about donkey punching.
Bah, fuck you. That's not what I'm doing here.
Just the other day I was about the leave the house and I happened to notice that the Air Bud movie about the dog playing baseball was on. I should also clarify myself a little bit by saying that I've never watched an entire Air Bud movie, not once.
So anyway, I watched a few minutes of it and it seemed harmless enough. Dog plays baseball, plays first base, wins the World Series. I can suspend my disbelief enough to accept the fact that some coach or general manager out there said, "Well, out the vast pool of talent from which I can draw players for my team, clearly, this golden retriever outperforms all of them. I need him for my team!" Okay, maybe the coach or general manager just took a bad batch of LSD and thinks that a fucking dog can understand the game of baseball enough to play first base. Maybe the coach or G.M. was smoking some dope and forgot the physical impossibility of a dog being able to successfully throw a baseball to a target more than a foot or two away. I can suspend my disbelief enough for all of that.
So what's the big fucking deal, hot shot? Why can't you just let the fucking dog play baseball?
I had to think about it for a while. Quite a while actually. Something wasn't sitting right with me. After an hour or so of careful consideration I figured out what was bothering me about the notion of a dog playing baseball for a little league team.
Imagine, if you will, you're a parent of a youngster who has designs on being the next Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, or Alex Rodriguez. Like all kids who want to play sports he has to try out for the team. He looks so adorable putting on his little baseball outfit and you see that glint of determination and hope in his eyes as he steps out onto the field for the first time.
And then...
You hear it. The coach pulls your son aside to inform him that he didn't make the cut. He's off the team. Look at your son, tears in his eyes, a heavy head, that slow walk of defeat that just about every athlete has had to go through at least once in his/her life. And it breaks your heart to see it.
Why did he get cut? Because a fucking dog tried out for the team? What in the living fuck? You're cutting my son, who can throw a ball more than 4 feet and probably hit a ball farther than some stupid simp dog clutching the bat in his big, stupid mouth. My son, cut, while some dog gets drool all over the baseball and keeps pausing to lick his own balls between batters? Fuck you very much. Wait right here, I'm going home to get my machete, coach. Then we'll see who gets cut next.
You see? Sure, the notion of a dog playing a team game sounds cute and all, but nobody who watches it ever stops to think about the poor kid who just had his dreams of athletic glory shattered at an all-too-young age for the sake of cuteness. That stupid fucking mutt.
Okay, so the dog plays so well, he goes on to a lucrative career in the big leagues and he even helps his team win the World fucking Series. Big fucking deal. Think of the children.
Won't somebody, please, think of the children?
Fucking dogs anyway.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Half-Mast Bullshit
Okay, recently while driving past the local firehall I couldn't help but notice that the Canadian flag was only flying at half-mast. For simps who have no fucking clue what flying a flag at half-mast means it is usually done to honor the recent passing of somebody significant. A prominent politician dies? The flag goes to half-mast. A national civil rights hero dies? The flag goes to half-mast. I guess you could say that it signifies mourning.
But I digress. Back to the point of this whole little rant of mine.
So there I was, noticing, albeit briefly, that the flag was flying at half-mast. And you know what? I had no fucking clue whose life was being honored. Not a single clue. There were no huge news stories recently about a celebrity or sports legend dying. There had been no recent genocides, regicides, uxoricides, or fraticides. So what the fuck?
For a second I thought that maybe the flagpole outside the firehall was defective and, had I been so inclined, I would have parked my car, marched right into the establishment, and complain to the firefighters therein to get their fucking shit together with the whole flagpole situation. Then I decided that a flagpole is a pretty simple object. That is to say it's pretty difficult to wind up with a defective flagpole or a malfunctioning flagpole as there are remarkably few moving parts on the fucking things. I'm no flagpole mechanic, but I'm pretty sure it's mostly a pole, some string or chain, a pulley, some other shit, and something to fasten the flag to. Then people stand around and sing national anthems and salute it. So, giving the firefighters the benefit of the doubt I decided that, indeed, somebody must have died who had been of significance somewhere, maybe only to the firefighters in the hall. But it was somebody who mattered.
And then the thought hit me. I pondered for a bit and decided that most days, if not all of them, somebody, somewhere dies. There are 6 billion people in the world and chances are that somebody in the world dies every day. The chances of a day passing in which nobody dies are slim to none. Now, not all of those people are the kind of people who go out and try to cure cancer or win dwarf tossing competitions, but there are people who do some pretty cool shit once in a while and are probably significant to somebody, somewhere. People like that die all the time.
Knowing that, then, why the fuck do we even raise our flags to full-mast? It stops making sense. Just keep the fuckers at half-mast because somebody just died. I guarantee it. Yeah, sure, many of the people who are dying any given moment could be a bunch of shitheads, assholes, and serial rapists, but maybe one or two them made blueberry pancakes for Fred Astaire one morning long ago. Maybe one of them served tea to JFK. Besides that, with all the fucking dying going on all over the place why even expend the effort it takes to raise the flag to full-mast if you're only going to have to lower it to half-mast again as soon as somebody else dies?
But Michael, couldn't you say that about Christmas trees too? Why bother even taking them down in June if you're only going to have to put them up again in November?
Exactly. That's why the entire year is the holiday season around my house. It's not because I'm some sort of gung-ho Christian guy. I'm just a pragmatist when it comes to the effort it's going to take me to disassemble and reassemble a Christmas tree each year. Happy fucking holidays!
So, everybody, I beseech you, just leave the fucking flags down. Like I said there's somebody dying somewhere right now and you should honor them the way you would honor anybody else.
Or, better yet, flagpole manufacturers of the world, why not just make your poles only half as tall? That way even when the flags are flying at full-mast, they can still kind of be half-mast and everybody on either side of this age-old argument wins.
But I digress. Back to the point of this whole little rant of mine.
So there I was, noticing, albeit briefly, that the flag was flying at half-mast. And you know what? I had no fucking clue whose life was being honored. Not a single clue. There were no huge news stories recently about a celebrity or sports legend dying. There had been no recent genocides, regicides, uxoricides, or fraticides. So what the fuck?
For a second I thought that maybe the flagpole outside the firehall was defective and, had I been so inclined, I would have parked my car, marched right into the establishment, and complain to the firefighters therein to get their fucking shit together with the whole flagpole situation. Then I decided that a flagpole is a pretty simple object. That is to say it's pretty difficult to wind up with a defective flagpole or a malfunctioning flagpole as there are remarkably few moving parts on the fucking things. I'm no flagpole mechanic, but I'm pretty sure it's mostly a pole, some string or chain, a pulley, some other shit, and something to fasten the flag to. Then people stand around and sing national anthems and salute it. So, giving the firefighters the benefit of the doubt I decided that, indeed, somebody must have died who had been of significance somewhere, maybe only to the firefighters in the hall. But it was somebody who mattered.
And then the thought hit me. I pondered for a bit and decided that most days, if not all of them, somebody, somewhere dies. There are 6 billion people in the world and chances are that somebody in the world dies every day. The chances of a day passing in which nobody dies are slim to none. Now, not all of those people are the kind of people who go out and try to cure cancer or win dwarf tossing competitions, but there are people who do some pretty cool shit once in a while and are probably significant to somebody, somewhere. People like that die all the time.
Knowing that, then, why the fuck do we even raise our flags to full-mast? It stops making sense. Just keep the fuckers at half-mast because somebody just died. I guarantee it. Yeah, sure, many of the people who are dying any given moment could be a bunch of shitheads, assholes, and serial rapists, but maybe one or two them made blueberry pancakes for Fred Astaire one morning long ago. Maybe one of them served tea to JFK. Besides that, with all the fucking dying going on all over the place why even expend the effort it takes to raise the flag to full-mast if you're only going to have to lower it to half-mast again as soon as somebody else dies?
But Michael, couldn't you say that about Christmas trees too? Why bother even taking them down in June if you're only going to have to put them up again in November?
Exactly. That's why the entire year is the holiday season around my house. It's not because I'm some sort of gung-ho Christian guy. I'm just a pragmatist when it comes to the effort it's going to take me to disassemble and reassemble a Christmas tree each year. Happy fucking holidays!
So, everybody, I beseech you, just leave the fucking flags down. Like I said there's somebody dying somewhere right now and you should honor them the way you would honor anybody else.
Or, better yet, flagpole manufacturers of the world, why not just make your poles only half as tall? That way even when the flags are flying at full-mast, they can still kind of be half-mast and everybody on either side of this age-old argument wins.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
The Bottom Ten, January 2006
10.) Super Bowl Ad Hooplah- Why the fuck does anybody get excited about seeing the new commercials that get aired during the Super Bowl telecast? You're lying to yourself if you think that all the excitement surrounding the Super Bowl has to do with football. I'm not the biggest fan of football, but I do watch it on occasion and I would be personally insulted if I watched a news broadcast after the biggest game of my life only to see the fucking anchors toting out highlights of the best Super Bowl commercials. And they love to do that on the news for some reason. On tonight's news: See the best that this year's Super Bowl telecast had to offer when it comes to corporate propaganda and...if we have time, you know...maybe we'll show some of the highlights of the football game...maybe a piece on that toxic cleaner spill into the city's drinking water. Fucking liberal media, my ass!
9.) Laughter Therapy- Click here. Pentagon officials have decided that one way to help military families cope with the tough times of war and bloodshed is to teach them how to laugh. Laughter therapy is pretty much a practice of laughing for no reason at all. Why no reason? Because the soldiers are off at war and getting injured and killed. But you folks, you go on ahead and laugh because that's one way that the Pentagon feels will help you cope. Hey Pentagon, laughing for no reason whatsoever is all well and good, but did you ever stop to think that what might work even better would be to bring your troops back home and end the bloodshed? I hate to be Captain Obvious on this one, but something has to be said. Plus, it's kind of creepy seeing people laughing at nothing. So much so that it puts me just inches away from calling the men in the white coats to come and take such people away where there will be plenty of meds to help them cope even better.
8.) Irony Being Such A Bitch- Click here. "A political party, in order to be viable, is one that professes peace, in my judgment, in order that it will keep the peace." -George W. Bush regarding Hamas.
7.) My Humps- When you hear stories about songs that get played to torture political prisoners and prisoners of war, do you ever wonder if "My Humps" by The Black Eyed Peas gets a lot of play? I think it's a safe bet that it does. Imagine that song on repeat for two or three hours. If you don't know the information that your captors want you better make some shit up fast! They say 20 minutes of that song is enough to cause massive brain trauma.
6.) The Planned Buttafuoco, Amy Fisher Television Reunion- It's happening. Remember when the public still gave a shit about this saga? Neither do I.
5.) Parents Just Discovering That MySpace.com Could Be Used By Sexual Predators To Meet Young, Unsuspecting Victims- Last time I checked it was still called the fucking internet and sexual predators have been using it all along to meet young, unsuspecting victims. How the fuck does one website in particular suddenly change the rules you should be governing yourselves by, as parents in the information age? Take your heads out of your asses and be involved with what your children do on the internet. Fuck! The emergence of MySpace isn't suddenly like the technology just became available for predators to prey on the innocent. It was there all along. So instead of demonizing the MySpace service why not just do your fucking jobs as parents?
4.) A New Season Of American Idol- Sure, the audition shows are mildly amusing to watch for the sheer ruthlessness of Simon, but you just know that when the season finally wraps up you're going to be left with yet another pop star that you won't give two shits about a week after the last episode airs. Why not just make a show about Simon insulting the fuck out of delusional people for an hour and skip this pop star bullshit?
3.) The Alberta Advantage- A $400.00 cheque is coming in the mail for each and every one of Alberta's citizens as part of surplus that the provincial government found itself. So instead of, say, putting more money into education, or health, or social assistance, just to name a few areas that could always use more money, we all get $400.00 to spend on lapdances and champagne enemas. It's great to be Albertan!
2.) Great Concerts That Sell Out Even Before You Knew They Were Happening- Why, oh why, couldn't The Arcade Fire play a bigger venue? My one regret for the year 2005 was missing seeing that band play live.
1.) Magazine Subscription Forms- One of those fucking things per issue should suffice, publishing world. If I wipe my ass with one of them I'm probably just going to wipe my ass with the other three fucking dozen of them you cram into each magazine. How many fucking subscriptions does one reader need to buy each month?
9.) Laughter Therapy- Click here. Pentagon officials have decided that one way to help military families cope with the tough times of war and bloodshed is to teach them how to laugh. Laughter therapy is pretty much a practice of laughing for no reason at all. Why no reason? Because the soldiers are off at war and getting injured and killed. But you folks, you go on ahead and laugh because that's one way that the Pentagon feels will help you cope. Hey Pentagon, laughing for no reason whatsoever is all well and good, but did you ever stop to think that what might work even better would be to bring your troops back home and end the bloodshed? I hate to be Captain Obvious on this one, but something has to be said. Plus, it's kind of creepy seeing people laughing at nothing. So much so that it puts me just inches away from calling the men in the white coats to come and take such people away where there will be plenty of meds to help them cope even better.
8.) Irony Being Such A Bitch- Click here. "A political party, in order to be viable, is one that professes peace, in my judgment, in order that it will keep the peace." -George W. Bush regarding Hamas.
7.) My Humps- When you hear stories about songs that get played to torture political prisoners and prisoners of war, do you ever wonder if "My Humps" by The Black Eyed Peas gets a lot of play? I think it's a safe bet that it does. Imagine that song on repeat for two or three hours. If you don't know the information that your captors want you better make some shit up fast! They say 20 minutes of that song is enough to cause massive brain trauma.
6.) The Planned Buttafuoco, Amy Fisher Television Reunion- It's happening. Remember when the public still gave a shit about this saga? Neither do I.
5.) Parents Just Discovering That MySpace.com Could Be Used By Sexual Predators To Meet Young, Unsuspecting Victims- Last time I checked it was still called the fucking internet and sexual predators have been using it all along to meet young, unsuspecting victims. How the fuck does one website in particular suddenly change the rules you should be governing yourselves by, as parents in the information age? Take your heads out of your asses and be involved with what your children do on the internet. Fuck! The emergence of MySpace isn't suddenly like the technology just became available for predators to prey on the innocent. It was there all along. So instead of demonizing the MySpace service why not just do your fucking jobs as parents?
4.) A New Season Of American Idol- Sure, the audition shows are mildly amusing to watch for the sheer ruthlessness of Simon, but you just know that when the season finally wraps up you're going to be left with yet another pop star that you won't give two shits about a week after the last episode airs. Why not just make a show about Simon insulting the fuck out of delusional people for an hour and skip this pop star bullshit?
3.) The Alberta Advantage- A $400.00 cheque is coming in the mail for each and every one of Alberta's citizens as part of surplus that the provincial government found itself. So instead of, say, putting more money into education, or health, or social assistance, just to name a few areas that could always use more money, we all get $400.00 to spend on lapdances and champagne enemas. It's great to be Albertan!
2.) Great Concerts That Sell Out Even Before You Knew They Were Happening- Why, oh why, couldn't The Arcade Fire play a bigger venue? My one regret for the year 2005 was missing seeing that band play live.
1.) Magazine Subscription Forms- One of those fucking things per issue should suffice, publishing world. If I wipe my ass with one of them I'm probably just going to wipe my ass with the other three fucking dozen of them you cram into each magazine. How many fucking subscriptions does one reader need to buy each month?
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Shamelessness
Click here.
You have to click the above link this time around. You have to. Why? Because it's a link to a video clip of Kevin Federline (aka Cletus, aka Mr. Britney, aka El Numero Uno Douchebago) rocking out to his musical debut "Popozao" which I believe is a trailer park word for a delicacy made from raccoon entrails.
And the reason why I ask you to watch this is so that you get a good idea of what not to do when you are a creative person who wants the world to take you and your craft seriously.
You see, Kevin Federline, in this video clip, basically introduces the track inside a recording studio and as the track begins to play he proceeds to "rock out" to it. Seriously, watch the idiot go. I swear he practically jizzes his pants listening to his own song.
And one word to describe the song? Forgettable.
You never saw Salvador Dali pause in front of his own works and say, "Oh my fucking god, I'm so fucking cool! Look at this, motherfuckers! I'm a fucking artistic genius!" You never saw John Coltrane pause mid-song and exclaim, "Holy shit, I'm fucking light years ahead of the rest of you motherfuckers. You should be lining up to blow me I'm so fucking great."
Do you know why? Because they let the creative works do the talking for them. They weren't trying to sell themselves as being cool, they let the work convince the world that they were cool. If you have to sell it to the world, it probably isn't worth shit!
Anyway, I just thought I would pass the link along to you. Who knows how long it will be up, but enjoy it while it lasts. Watching it myself it really makes me appreciate the creative folks who I am privileged enough to call my peers because they produce kick-ass work and they're humble about what they do. It also really makes me wish I could punch Cletus in the throat.
You have to click the above link this time around. You have to. Why? Because it's a link to a video clip of Kevin Federline (aka Cletus, aka Mr. Britney, aka El Numero Uno Douchebago) rocking out to his musical debut "Popozao" which I believe is a trailer park word for a delicacy made from raccoon entrails.
And the reason why I ask you to watch this is so that you get a good idea of what not to do when you are a creative person who wants the world to take you and your craft seriously.
You see, Kevin Federline, in this video clip, basically introduces the track inside a recording studio and as the track begins to play he proceeds to "rock out" to it. Seriously, watch the idiot go. I swear he practically jizzes his pants listening to his own song.
And one word to describe the song? Forgettable.
You never saw Salvador Dali pause in front of his own works and say, "Oh my fucking god, I'm so fucking cool! Look at this, motherfuckers! I'm a fucking artistic genius!" You never saw John Coltrane pause mid-song and exclaim, "Holy shit, I'm fucking light years ahead of the rest of you motherfuckers. You should be lining up to blow me I'm so fucking great."
Do you know why? Because they let the creative works do the talking for them. They weren't trying to sell themselves as being cool, they let the work convince the world that they were cool. If you have to sell it to the world, it probably isn't worth shit!
Anyway, I just thought I would pass the link along to you. Who knows how long it will be up, but enjoy it while it lasts. Watching it myself it really makes me appreciate the creative folks who I am privileged enough to call my peers because they produce kick-ass work and they're humble about what they do. It also really makes me wish I could punch Cletus in the throat.
Friday, January 20, 2006
What Exactly Is Wrong With Looking Like A Crazy Prick?
Click here.
Jelena Dokic's father is a pretty cool guy. I mean he has a top-ranked tennis player for a daughter, he smokes a pipe, he has a beard, and he wants to drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney, Australia.
Wait! What!?!?!?!
Michael, I didn't know that you followed the happenings of the tennis world too.
I don't, but for me to write about this one little thing suddenly adds more depth to my character, giving me this false sheen of being omnipotent. But anyway, that's an aside.
No wait! He didn't say that, did he? There seems to be a controversy, albeit a minor one, over whether or not Captain Beard-o actually said that he wanted to drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney.
Okay, I mean motherfucking "Wow!" on this one. After reading the article I have decided that Damir Dokic is a kooky kind of cat, in a homicidal nut kind of way. He wants to kidnap his own daughter? He wants revenge on Australia because his daughter lost at the Australian Open? He thinks hot sausages before a tennis match in sweltering heat is bad? He thinks the Vatican and Croatia are in cahoots in convincing his daughter to leave Serbia to move to Australia?
He is clearly a man with a lot on his mind.
But then he denies ever having said that he wanted to drop the nuke on Sydney?
Okay, here's the deal with soccer mom style rants, Damir, or may I call you Captain Beard-o because that is not just a beard, it's a fucking adventure? Okay, then, Captain Beard-o, the deal with soccer mom style rants is that the zanier they get the more memorable they become. Nobody remembers the simple, "The ref made a bad call at yesterday's game," rant. Why? Because those rants are boring.
I mean you are so close to having a crazy rant for the ages from the sound of it. Being pissed off with Australia in general? Check. Accusing the Vatican and Croatia of shit they probably don't even give a fuck about? Check and check. Meeting with high ranking Serbian politicians to plan a kidnapping of his daughter to return her home land? Check. Hot sausages? Oh hell, motherfucking, yeah!
So Captain Beard-o, why even deny making statements to the effect that you want to nuke Australia? You're so close to some sort of soccer mom hall-of-fame rant here and that may just be the ticket to put you over the top.
Besides, who hasn't thought about dropping a nuclear bomb on Sydney? The world's leading psychologists all agree that the thought of dropping a nuclear bomb on Sydney crosses the average person's mind at least twice a day. And we don't even have tennis star daughters who were lured away from us to go live there.
Jelena Dokic's father is a pretty cool guy. I mean he has a top-ranked tennis player for a daughter, he smokes a pipe, he has a beard, and he wants to drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney, Australia.
Wait! What!?!?!?!
Michael, I didn't know that you followed the happenings of the tennis world too.
I don't, but for me to write about this one little thing suddenly adds more depth to my character, giving me this false sheen of being omnipotent. But anyway, that's an aside.
No wait! He didn't say that, did he? There seems to be a controversy, albeit a minor one, over whether or not Captain Beard-o actually said that he wanted to drop a nuclear bomb on Sydney.
Okay, I mean motherfucking "Wow!" on this one. After reading the article I have decided that Damir Dokic is a kooky kind of cat, in a homicidal nut kind of way. He wants to kidnap his own daughter? He wants revenge on Australia because his daughter lost at the Australian Open? He thinks hot sausages before a tennis match in sweltering heat is bad? He thinks the Vatican and Croatia are in cahoots in convincing his daughter to leave Serbia to move to Australia?
He is clearly a man with a lot on his mind.
But then he denies ever having said that he wanted to drop the nuke on Sydney?
Okay, here's the deal with soccer mom style rants, Damir, or may I call you Captain Beard-o because that is not just a beard, it's a fucking adventure? Okay, then, Captain Beard-o, the deal with soccer mom style rants is that the zanier they get the more memorable they become. Nobody remembers the simple, "The ref made a bad call at yesterday's game," rant. Why? Because those rants are boring.
I mean you are so close to having a crazy rant for the ages from the sound of it. Being pissed off with Australia in general? Check. Accusing the Vatican and Croatia of shit they probably don't even give a fuck about? Check and check. Meeting with high ranking Serbian politicians to plan a kidnapping of his daughter to return her home land? Check. Hot sausages? Oh hell, motherfucking, yeah!
So Captain Beard-o, why even deny making statements to the effect that you want to nuke Australia? You're so close to some sort of soccer mom hall-of-fame rant here and that may just be the ticket to put you over the top.
Besides, who hasn't thought about dropping a nuclear bomb on Sydney? The world's leading psychologists all agree that the thought of dropping a nuclear bomb on Sydney crosses the average person's mind at least twice a day. And we don't even have tennis star daughters who were lured away from us to go live there.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Damn You, George Clooney! Damn You To Hell!
George W. Bush is quite possibly the scariest man on the face of the Earth. Now, now, don't just stop reading right here because you think this is some sort of partisan politics bullshit rant where I go on and on about all the wrong that Dubya has been responsible for over the past five years. Fuck, there are enough rants out there like that. If I'm going to pick on the douchebag I'm going to pick my targets wisely and stick to them. But really, though, there's no denying the fact that George W. Bush is the scariest man on the face of the Earth.
I mean, here you have a man who has access to the largest army in the world and questionable morals to boot. He has clearly exhibited a propensity to go to war and, thus, become indirectly, or directly maybe, responsible for the deaths of thousands and thousands of people.
But George W. Bush is a man of integrity. He stands for family values and is building a better future whether you like to admit it or not, Mr. Appleby. True, he was the president who went to war, but there were WMD's out there and are probably still out there, waiting to be found. He has done nothing that is morally reprehensible in the slightest and my only regret is that American presidents can't serve more than two terms because his is the greatest presidency ever!
Shut the fuck up! Go ahead and believe whatever you want about the guy. He's still fucking scary.
I want to go back to 2004. That was the election year if you'll recall. I remember all year long paying rather close attention to the unfolding of the election campaign for months leading up to November. I would wake up each morning thinking, Oh God, they have to vote somebody else in there. Somebody, anybody. This evil, evil capitalist can't keep ruining the world, can he? Somebody, please, save us!
Then November rolled around and...What the fuck! The tyrant got re-elected! Fuck! Fuck!
And you know what? The Democrats really didn't deserve to win the election. For the longest time I thought it was because John Kerry wasn't a strong enough opponent for an evil tyrant. Today, though, I found out the real reason why the Democrats lost the election.
George fucking Clooney.
That's right.
George fucking Clooney.
You see, apparently during the campaign trail John Kerry was inviting numerous actors onto his election train. I mean, natrually, actors have a lot of pull with the American electorate and George Clooney, being the King of Actors, probably has the most pull in all of America. If George Clooney gets behind you come election time you might ass well get your ass in shape for sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office because Mister, you're fucking elected! That's the nature of George Clooney. People look up to him. He can't help it.
So anyway, back to the train...
John Kerry invited all these actors to ride on the John Kerry Cross-Country Election Express, destination: Washington fucking D fucking C, bitches! I mean, it was a veritable who's who of the silver screen. There was Carrot Top and Rosie O'Donnell and, oh my God, look over there! It's Jane Seymour!
But where the fuck was George Clooney?
He turned down the invitation to get on board the train?!?!?!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
And that's how George W. Bush beat John Kerry in 2004. Oh sure, you might have thought it had something to do with party platforms, partisanship, maybe even candidate personality. But no, you'd be fucking wrong, dummy! It was all because George Clooney turned down a train ride.
Either American voters are really, really, really fickle.
What?! George Clooney ain't on the train?! Fuck John Kerry! Cletus, I'm voting for Bush! Yee-haw!
Or maybe some celebrities should really stop to consider that maybe a presidential candidate is fully capable of losing a damn election on his own. It's noble you want to be the whipping boy for the whole election debacle, but you're premise is just a shade too far-fetched.
I mean, here you have a man who has access to the largest army in the world and questionable morals to boot. He has clearly exhibited a propensity to go to war and, thus, become indirectly, or directly maybe, responsible for the deaths of thousands and thousands of people.
But George W. Bush is a man of integrity. He stands for family values and is building a better future whether you like to admit it or not, Mr. Appleby. True, he was the president who went to war, but there were WMD's out there and are probably still out there, waiting to be found. He has done nothing that is morally reprehensible in the slightest and my only regret is that American presidents can't serve more than two terms because his is the greatest presidency ever!
Shut the fuck up! Go ahead and believe whatever you want about the guy. He's still fucking scary.
I want to go back to 2004. That was the election year if you'll recall. I remember all year long paying rather close attention to the unfolding of the election campaign for months leading up to November. I would wake up each morning thinking, Oh God, they have to vote somebody else in there. Somebody, anybody. This evil, evil capitalist can't keep ruining the world, can he? Somebody, please, save us!
Then November rolled around and...What the fuck! The tyrant got re-elected! Fuck! Fuck!
And you know what? The Democrats really didn't deserve to win the election. For the longest time I thought it was because John Kerry wasn't a strong enough opponent for an evil tyrant. Today, though, I found out the real reason why the Democrats lost the election.
George fucking Clooney.
That's right.
George fucking Clooney.
You see, apparently during the campaign trail John Kerry was inviting numerous actors onto his election train. I mean, natrually, actors have a lot of pull with the American electorate and George Clooney, being the King of Actors, probably has the most pull in all of America. If George Clooney gets behind you come election time you might ass well get your ass in shape for sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office because Mister, you're fucking elected! That's the nature of George Clooney. People look up to him. He can't help it.
So anyway, back to the train...
John Kerry invited all these actors to ride on the John Kerry Cross-Country Election Express, destination: Washington fucking D fucking C, bitches! I mean, it was a veritable who's who of the silver screen. There was Carrot Top and Rosie O'Donnell and, oh my God, look over there! It's Jane Seymour!
But where the fuck was George Clooney?
He turned down the invitation to get on board the train?!?!?!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
And that's how George W. Bush beat John Kerry in 2004. Oh sure, you might have thought it had something to do with party platforms, partisanship, maybe even candidate personality. But no, you'd be fucking wrong, dummy! It was all because George Clooney turned down a train ride.
Either American voters are really, really, really fickle.
What?! George Clooney ain't on the train?! Fuck John Kerry! Cletus, I'm voting for Bush! Yee-haw!
Or maybe some celebrities should really stop to consider that maybe a presidential candidate is fully capable of losing a damn election on his own. It's noble you want to be the whipping boy for the whole election debacle, but you're premise is just a shade too far-fetched.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Clean Of You
Clean Of You
Going to bed clean
of you
for the first time in
a long time.
Learning the differ
ences between heart
and brain are more
than spatial and
function
al.
Heart arhythms
for your nakedness claw
ing its way up under
neath the bed
sheets and smother
ing mine the way it used
to.
Brain knows, “Good
for me. I’m bet
ter off alone.”
In every connotat
ion there could possibly
be.
Going to bed clean
of you
for the first time in
a long time.
Dreaming of sex, hold
ing your hand, and
every other bad thing
that I could ever
do.
Monday, January 09, 2006
A Literary Dilemma
I work with a lot of people who read. It's not difficult in this world to find people who read. A lot of the world is comprised of literate people. The people I work with are also big fans of Oprah.
Now when it comes to the literary world it's really no surprise that the biggest, most powerful book club around is the Oprah Book Club. Oprah Winfrey has a seeming Midas touch when it comes to driving her favorite books to the top of the bestsellers lists. Why? Because Oprah is a powerful, powerful force to be reckoned with.
That being said, I'll admit that I bought James Frey's A Million Little Pieces and have been reading it because a large number of the people I work with have either read it or are in the midst of reading it. They all seem to be amazed by the book and Frey's tale of redemption. For those of you not in-the-know about A Million Little Pieces, it's a recount of Frey's six-week stay in rehab after years of drug abuse. It's an uplifting tale of going to the edge and managing to turn one's self around before it's ultimately too late. Mind you, I haven't finished reading it (I'm creeping up on page 120 or so).
I was very leary of buying any book with the Oprah Book Club sticker on it partly because she tend to choose very "safe" literature for her club and partly because I really don't want to contribute to Oprah's seemingly ever-ballooning ego. But now that I've had the book for a few weeks now timing is proving to sometimes be a funny thing.
Click here.
As part of my regular internet rituals I was visiting fark.com and came across a link to a Smoking Gun article about A Million Little Pieces. The article, which is the link I provided with the "Click here" goes into detail about how Frey's book, while being touted as a brutally honest, gripping piece of nonfiction, is, in fact, fictionalized in a number of areas at the very least. Accounts of court cases and arrests that happened involved Frey could not be found by the people at The Smoking Gun. What they also found odd was how many of the real life characters who helped Frey on his road to recovery were either all dead or could not be found.
Which leads me to the whole dilemma of the matter.
Since it appears as though this could in fact be an elaborate ruse for money on Frey's part should I stop reading the book?
What's odd is that if the book had been marketed as a piece of fiction I would probably say that it's a pretty decent piece of fiction so far. It's writing is pretty gritty and he does some pretty cool things with the language like eliminating quotation marks and not breaking the dialogue up with too many "he said" or "she said" type insertions.
It's just unfortunate that the whole marketing ploy behind the book is that it's 100% real. It's all about its credibility, which would seem to be a veneer now that I've read the TSG piece on it.
There are other books I could start reading right now instead of A Million Little Pieces. The question is, should I?
Now when it comes to the literary world it's really no surprise that the biggest, most powerful book club around is the Oprah Book Club. Oprah Winfrey has a seeming Midas touch when it comes to driving her favorite books to the top of the bestsellers lists. Why? Because Oprah is a powerful, powerful force to be reckoned with.
That being said, I'll admit that I bought James Frey's A Million Little Pieces and have been reading it because a large number of the people I work with have either read it or are in the midst of reading it. They all seem to be amazed by the book and Frey's tale of redemption. For those of you not in-the-know about A Million Little Pieces, it's a recount of Frey's six-week stay in rehab after years of drug abuse. It's an uplifting tale of going to the edge and managing to turn one's self around before it's ultimately too late. Mind you, I haven't finished reading it (I'm creeping up on page 120 or so).
I was very leary of buying any book with the Oprah Book Club sticker on it partly because she tend to choose very "safe" literature for her club and partly because I really don't want to contribute to Oprah's seemingly ever-ballooning ego. But now that I've had the book for a few weeks now timing is proving to sometimes be a funny thing.
Click here.
As part of my regular internet rituals I was visiting fark.com and came across a link to a Smoking Gun article about A Million Little Pieces. The article, which is the link I provided with the "Click here" goes into detail about how Frey's book, while being touted as a brutally honest, gripping piece of nonfiction, is, in fact, fictionalized in a number of areas at the very least. Accounts of court cases and arrests that happened involved Frey could not be found by the people at The Smoking Gun. What they also found odd was how many of the real life characters who helped Frey on his road to recovery were either all dead or could not be found.
Which leads me to the whole dilemma of the matter.
Since it appears as though this could in fact be an elaborate ruse for money on Frey's part should I stop reading the book?
What's odd is that if the book had been marketed as a piece of fiction I would probably say that it's a pretty decent piece of fiction so far. It's writing is pretty gritty and he does some pretty cool things with the language like eliminating quotation marks and not breaking the dialogue up with too many "he said" or "she said" type insertions.
It's just unfortunate that the whole marketing ploy behind the book is that it's 100% real. It's all about its credibility, which would seem to be a veneer now that I've read the TSG piece on it.
There are other books I could start reading right now instead of A Million Little Pieces. The question is, should I?
Friday, January 06, 2006
Won't Somebody, Please, Think Of The Hoodies?!?!
Okay, first off, let me start this off by saying that violence isn't cool. I know that the "cool" people's propaganda machine has made it out to seem that boot-fucking a fellow human's skull is somehow "hip" or "righteous," but try to think of it from the perspective of the person being boot-fucked. Now does it seem so cool?
Speaking from experience I can remember many instances from my youth in which I faced a lot of peer pressure to commit acts of violence.
"Come on, Michael. Let's go club that old lady with these 4 month old baguettes!"
or:
"Gee, Michael, wouldn't it be swell if we tried to take on that whole playschool class walking down the sidewalk in a battle royale to the death? Come on, I'll go get my ass-whomping boots!"
Certainly, there were other instances, but I'm just naming some of them off the top of my head. I mean, they were some nice "ass-whomping boots," but that doesn't justify pummeling a couple dozen playschool kids.
Okay, Michael, where the fuck are you going with all this? You're rambling is making me want to go pull my ass-whomping boots out and whomp your ass! Wow me for fuck's sake.
Okay, okay, Mr. Impatient. Here it is.
Click Here.
Oh, those wacky Britons! Anti-crime crusaders have lambasted this French company for producing a hoody that can zip it's hood all the way over and convert into (gasp!) a ski mask. Why? Because “It might look good on a ski slope and keep you warm, but it would look terrifying in any British street late at night.”
But this is where I really need you to click that link. The images contained in the article are copyright to the Sun and I certainly don't need the Britons lambasting me next for reproducing their images. Doesn't the guy wearing the hoody look like a Luchador? His professional wrestling name could be El Camo Pinto! And his finishing move could be a sort of half-swaton-bomb, half-fall-off-the-top-rope-because-the-mask-has-poor-visibility-and-scream-oh-fucking-blimey-I've-soiled-me-luchador-knickers! That would be quite the move, trust me people who aren't familiar with pro wrestling or its moves. It's a move that I just made up off the top of my head and I have it copyrighted in case you were interested in starting a lucrative career in the field of pro wrestling and needed a finishing move.
But now I'm rambling again. Back to the task at hand...
Seriously, though, what the fuck? You're upset because when the hood is zipped up all the way it can be used to conceal the identity of an attacker? Seriously, that's what the fucking problem is?
Newflash: there's a lot of shit out there that can be used to conceal the identity of an attacker! Lots of shit! If an attacker wants to conceal his/her identity that badly there is always a way. It doesn't take a fucking hoodie to suddenly turn somebody into Mr. Incognito, Rapist-At-Large! It's like you think that the gene that makes people evil somehow also makes them fucking stupid.
Well golly gee-whiz, I could never go on that massive murder spree that I've always wanted to go on because nobody made a hoody that not only kept me warm, but concealed my identity as a mass murderer. Now with this hoody I the puzzle is complete and people can die! Thank you French company who makes these hoodies!
Does that really happen? Come on, really? I hate getting all rhetorical on your ass, but sometimes it's necessary to prove a point.
Tonight that point is this. It's not the clothes that make the man or woman or whatever a criminal. It's the fucking crime that makes the criminal! If you're so concerned about stopping crime stop fucking around with French hoody manufacturers and start focusing your attention on criminals!
Besides, and I hate to really mention this because I'm not what you could call a fashion expert, that hoody is pretty fucking silly looking. I don't think this is going to be the next big thing in fashion. I doubt that there will really be that many people who wake up and say, "Holy shit! I want to look like I'm into the whole bondage culture, but I really don't want to have to contend with the chaffing of tight vinyl." That being said, pointing a criminal out who accosted you wearing such a silly-looking thing should be pretty easy. Just look for the big fucking zipper running up the middle of his face!
Speaking from experience I can remember many instances from my youth in which I faced a lot of peer pressure to commit acts of violence.
"Come on, Michael. Let's go club that old lady with these 4 month old baguettes!"
or:
"Gee, Michael, wouldn't it be swell if we tried to take on that whole playschool class walking down the sidewalk in a battle royale to the death? Come on, I'll go get my ass-whomping boots!"
Certainly, there were other instances, but I'm just naming some of them off the top of my head. I mean, they were some nice "ass-whomping boots," but that doesn't justify pummeling a couple dozen playschool kids.
Okay, Michael, where the fuck are you going with all this? You're rambling is making me want to go pull my ass-whomping boots out and whomp your ass! Wow me for fuck's sake.
Okay, okay, Mr. Impatient. Here it is.
Click Here.
Oh, those wacky Britons! Anti-crime crusaders have lambasted this French company for producing a hoody that can zip it's hood all the way over and convert into (gasp!) a ski mask. Why? Because “It might look good on a ski slope and keep you warm, but it would look terrifying in any British street late at night.”
But this is where I really need you to click that link. The images contained in the article are copyright to the Sun and I certainly don't need the Britons lambasting me next for reproducing their images. Doesn't the guy wearing the hoody look like a Luchador? His professional wrestling name could be El Camo Pinto! And his finishing move could be a sort of half-swaton-bomb, half-fall-off-the-top-rope-because-the-mask-has-poor-visibility-and-scream-oh-fucking-blimey-I've-soiled-me-luchador-knickers! That would be quite the move, trust me people who aren't familiar with pro wrestling or its moves. It's a move that I just made up off the top of my head and I have it copyrighted in case you were interested in starting a lucrative career in the field of pro wrestling and needed a finishing move.
But now I'm rambling again. Back to the task at hand...
Seriously, though, what the fuck? You're upset because when the hood is zipped up all the way it can be used to conceal the identity of an attacker? Seriously, that's what the fucking problem is?
Newflash: there's a lot of shit out there that can be used to conceal the identity of an attacker! Lots of shit! If an attacker wants to conceal his/her identity that badly there is always a way. It doesn't take a fucking hoodie to suddenly turn somebody into Mr. Incognito, Rapist-At-Large! It's like you think that the gene that makes people evil somehow also makes them fucking stupid.
Well golly gee-whiz, I could never go on that massive murder spree that I've always wanted to go on because nobody made a hoody that not only kept me warm, but concealed my identity as a mass murderer. Now with this hoody I the puzzle is complete and people can die! Thank you French company who makes these hoodies!
Does that really happen? Come on, really? I hate getting all rhetorical on your ass, but sometimes it's necessary to prove a point.
Tonight that point is this. It's not the clothes that make the man or woman or whatever a criminal. It's the fucking crime that makes the criminal! If you're so concerned about stopping crime stop fucking around with French hoody manufacturers and start focusing your attention on criminals!
Besides, and I hate to really mention this because I'm not what you could call a fashion expert, that hoody is pretty fucking silly looking. I don't think this is going to be the next big thing in fashion. I doubt that there will really be that many people who wake up and say, "Holy shit! I want to look like I'm into the whole bondage culture, but I really don't want to have to contend with the chaffing of tight vinyl." That being said, pointing a criminal out who accosted you wearing such a silly-looking thing should be pretty easy. Just look for the big fucking zipper running up the middle of his face!
Thursday, January 05, 2006
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