US Headline: "Escaped Beaver Damages Local Trees"
Equivalent UK Headline: "Dam Lonely! Igor the Runaway Beaver Leaves Trail of Destruction in Bid to Build a Love Nest"
Now, I've never really thought of a few gnawed-down trees as being a "trail of destruction," but I really can't argue with a headline like that. It's got sex, it's got violence, it's got everything you need.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Squeaky Clean
Have you been left unsatisfied by ordinary bar soap? Ever get the feeling that your humdrum shower would be vastly improved by the addition of soap shaped like a major political figure?
Well, worry no more! The solution has arrived in the form of BARACK OBAMA SOAP! And it's one of the most horrifying things I've ever seen, if I do say so myself. Take a good, long gander:
If the thought of lathering up with that doesn't make you queasy, then you've got a much stronger stomach than I have.
Well, worry no more! The solution has arrived in the form of BARACK OBAMA SOAP! And it's one of the most horrifying things I've ever seen, if I do say so myself. Take a good, long gander:
If the thought of lathering up with that doesn't make you queasy, then you've got a much stronger stomach than I have.
Monday, December 22, 2008
It's Not Just a Good Idea...It's the Law
Uh-oh...looks like I'll have to stay out of Brighton, Michigan, from now on.
The Brilliant--Nay, the God-like--Tom Coughlin
New York Magazine offers a very timely question: "How Did Tom Coughlin Become the Toast of the NFL," when, just two years ago, he might as well have been wearing a nametag saying "Hi, My Name is Toast?"
New York does some pondering, and comes to the very reasonable conclusion that NFL coaches--and coaches in general--don't actually DO much. Sure, some coaches are "better" than others. If I were a football player, I'd much rather be coached by Tom Coughlin then, oh, I don't know, Rod "0-16, Coming Right Up!" Marinelli.
But as the article points out, "the difference between the best coach and the fifth best is so thin as to not exist." The best coach is whoever the sports media says is the best coach. Right now, Jeff Fisher is THE BEST COACH IN THE NFL. Doc Rivers is A GENIUS AMONG NBA COACHES. Urban Meyer is THE GREATEST THING TO HAPPEN TO COLLEGE FOOTBALL SINCE THE FORWARD PASS.
And next year that's all going to change. For all we know, next year Doc Rivers might be begging for change in front of TD Banknorth Garden with a sign saying "Will coach for money and/or hard drugs." In sports, 90% of success and failure comes from the players. People like Tom Coughlin should be happy to be along for the ride.
As always, my opinions are 100% grounded in fact, and are in no way complete crap that I made up just now.
Link, by the way, comes from the wonderful blog of Dr. Craig Newmark.
New York does some pondering, and comes to the very reasonable conclusion that NFL coaches--and coaches in general--don't actually DO much. Sure, some coaches are "better" than others. If I were a football player, I'd much rather be coached by Tom Coughlin then, oh, I don't know, Rod "0-16, Coming Right Up!" Marinelli.
But as the article points out, "the difference between the best coach and the fifth best is so thin as to not exist." The best coach is whoever the sports media says is the best coach. Right now, Jeff Fisher is THE BEST COACH IN THE NFL. Doc Rivers is A GENIUS AMONG NBA COACHES. Urban Meyer is THE GREATEST THING TO HAPPEN TO COLLEGE FOOTBALL SINCE THE FORWARD PASS.
And next year that's all going to change. For all we know, next year Doc Rivers might be begging for change in front of TD Banknorth Garden with a sign saying "Will coach for money and/or hard drugs." In sports, 90% of success and failure comes from the players. People like Tom Coughlin should be happy to be along for the ride.
As always, my opinions are 100% grounded in fact, and are in no way complete crap that I made up just now.
Link, by the way, comes from the wonderful blog of Dr. Craig Newmark.
Can He...Beat It?
"Michael Jackson 'left half blind and in need of a lung transplant by genetic disease," claims biographer."
Hmmm. Not to make light of this situation, but I'm going to make light of it. I have several reactions:
1. Can you perform a cross-species lung transplant? Jacko might need it, as right now I'd estimate he's only 33% human.
2. Or...perhaps he could get a lung from Bubbles? On a related note, is Bubbles still alive? On another related note, did Bubbles ever exist, or was he just a bizarre feature of that bizarre Michael Jackson video game I played as a kid?
3. Jackson has been forced to auction off his glittery glove for cash. My question: how does the buyer know that it's THE glove? What's to stop Jacko from buying two dozen gloves, a bag of sequins, some glue, and selling that same glove again and again?
4. Boy, I really put too much work into a post about Michael Jackson.
Hmmm. Not to make light of this situation, but I'm going to make light of it. I have several reactions:
1. Can you perform a cross-species lung transplant? Jacko might need it, as right now I'd estimate he's only 33% human.
2. Or...perhaps he could get a lung from Bubbles? On a related note, is Bubbles still alive? On another related note, did Bubbles ever exist, or was he just a bizarre feature of that bizarre Michael Jackson video game I played as a kid?
3. Jackson has been forced to auction off his glittery glove for cash. My question: how does the buyer know that it's THE glove? What's to stop Jacko from buying two dozen gloves, a bag of sequins, some glue, and selling that same glove again and again?
4. Boy, I really put too much work into a post about Michael Jackson.
Milkweed
Britain truly is a special country, and I mean that in a flattering sense. One of the things that makes it great is the way it stubbornly clings to ye olde quaint traditions that have died out everywhere else.
Take the milkman, for instance. In every other civilized country, if you want milk you gotta head down to the local supermarket and pick out a carton of your choice of milk--skim, whole, chocolate, 2%, 3%, 4%, 83$, whatever tickles your milk bone.
Not so in Great Britain! They still hold tight to the tradition of the milkman, that friendly bloke who comes 'round every morning to deliver your daily helping of marijuana. Wait, what?
Take the milkman, for instance. In every other civilized country, if you want milk you gotta head down to the local supermarket and pick out a carton of your choice of milk--skim, whole, chocolate, 2%, 3%, 4%, 83$, whatever tickles your milk bone.
Not so in Great Britain! They still hold tight to the tradition of the milkman, that friendly bloke who comes 'round every morning to deliver your daily helping of marijuana. Wait, what?
Living the High LIfe
Now here's a problem you don't run into every day, unless you live a very peculiar lifestyle. The Italian government seized 88 pounds of caviar from Polish caviar smugglers (those bastards!). The question: what do you do with 88 pounds of caviar?
The answer: feed it to the poor of Milan! It's a win-win, unless you're a poor person who doesn't like caviar. But seriously, how many of those are there in the world?
Other interesting note: according to the story, "Tests showed the caviar to be edible." What sort of tests were those? I'm hoping they weren't along the lines of, "Hey, Giuseppe, try this caviar I brought from home. How's it taste? Not poisonous or anything? No, no, I was just wondering."
The answer: feed it to the poor of Milan! It's a win-win, unless you're a poor person who doesn't like caviar. But seriously, how many of those are there in the world?
Other interesting note: according to the story, "Tests showed the caviar to be edible." What sort of tests were those? I'm hoping they weren't along the lines of, "Hey, Giuseppe, try this caviar I brought from home. How's it taste? Not poisonous or anything? No, no, I was just wondering."
For the Busy Traveler
This time of year, many of us will be forced to deal with the unpleasant experience known as airport security. To make your trip easier, here's a helpful list of DOs and DON'Ts for getting through unscathed.
DO:
Have your boarding pass out and ready for inspection
Empty your pockets and remove your shoes
Try to appear as non-terroristic as possible
DON'T
Give a card naming yourself as a member of the Criminal Insane Department when asked to provide credentials
DO:
Have your boarding pass out and ready for inspection
Empty your pockets and remove your shoes
Try to appear as non-terroristic as possible
DON'T
Give a card naming yourself as a member of the Criminal Insane Department when asked to provide credentials
Apologies to Ogden Nash
I never saw a purple squirrel
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you, anyhow
I'd rather see than--HOLY CRAP THERE'S ONE RIGHT THERE!
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you, anyhow
I'd rather see than--HOLY CRAP THERE'S ONE RIGHT THERE!
MONSTER TRUCK MADNESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Slowly but surely, Japan's master plan to re-fight World War II is succeeding. A few more stunts like this, and they'll have wiped out all of America's victories up until the Battle of Guadalcanal.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Not-So-Mini Review: It
Somewhere in Steven King’s desk, there must be a small, well-thumbed thesaurus in which all the synonyms for “bled” are highlighted. And what, pray tell, do I mean by that? Only this: after reading King’s “It,” I am in awe of how many different ways King can say “so-and-so bled.” Blood flows, it spurts, it spatters, it splashes and gushes and bubbles and bursts forth from an uncountable number of severed limbs.
“It,” as you can guess, is an awfully gory book. King’s thousand-pages-plus epic is more than gory, though; it’s huge, sloppy, incredibly entertaining and compulsively readable. It’s the literary equivalent of a fat sandwich: not good for you, not even good, necessarily, but packed with so much stuff that it’s impossible to resist. Like most King books, “It” also has some highbrow pretensions. There’s some muddled cosmology involving a “macroverse” and “the Turtle,” but in the end, what we’re here for is the dismemberment.
“It” doesn’t disappoint in that regard. For those of you who don’t know, “It” is the story of a group of friends from the small Maine town of Derry. Derry, they discover, is haunted. It’s not your garden-variety haunting; we’re talking serious evil here, personified by a homicidal clown named Pennywise. The friends team up to fight Pennywise—known to his good friends as “It”—as kids in 1958, and as adults a couple decades down the road.
Before they can fight Pennywise, they’ve got to run away from him. A lot. Of those thousand pages, I’d estimate a good eight hundred involved 1) One of the main characters wandering into a dark, deserted locale 2) Said character running into Pennywise 3) Said character getting the hell out of there. These are interspersed with incidents in which minor characters meet Pennywise. Needless to say, they’re a lot less lucky. They die in a number of creatively gruesome ways, including:
1) Getting their head ripped off
2) Getting their face ripped off
3) Getting their arm ripped off
4) Getting their legs ripped off
OK, admittedly Pennywise’s M.O. is pretty straightforward. That’s not for lack of trying, though. Mr. Wise shows up in a whole host of disguises, including a giant bird, a werewolf, a mummy, and—my personal favorite—flying leeches. Not ordinary leeches. Flying leeches.
This is all good fun. King’s a great storyteller, especially when the limbs are flying and the blood’s spurting. So what if things get repetitive? Whether it’s an innocent kid being decapitated by the Creature from the Black Lagoon, or an unsuspecting prison guard getting ripped limb-from-limb by a doberman-human hybrid, King always makes it readable. And very, very bloody.
The only problem is that King tries to divide our attention equally between 1958 and 1985. And while the kid-versions of our protagonists are pretty likeable, as adults they become…boring. I guess that’s the whole idea: the magic of childhood gives way to the ennui of adulthood, so-on-and-so-forth. But they’re still boring.
Speaking of boring, King also insists on splitting time between the six main characters. Again, not all the protagonists are created equal. For every page we spend with an interesting character, we have to spend a corresponding page getting to know one of the dull ones. Take Ben Hanscom, for instance…please. He’s supposed to be noble, but like most noble characters his defining trait is stoicism that borders on blandness.
As a kid, Ben’s two defining traits are 1) He’s fat and 2) He’s good at building things. That’s not enough ingredients to make a decent soup, let alone an engaging character. Even worse, Adult Ben isn’t even fat. So he’s down to ONE defining trait. Why do we have to spend hundreds of pages in his company, when we could be getting acquainted with Richie Tozier or Bill Denbrough or one of the fun characters?
I realize I’ve rambled on for quite a while. But given the length of the book in question, I feel that’s highly appropriate. In short: “It” is a good, good book, well worth reading if you’ve got a few weeks to spare.
Oh, one more thing. “It,” like most King novels, is set in Maine. I ask you: given the way King goes to town on innocent Mainers, what with the slaughter and the hauntings and the murders, how is there anyone left alive in King’s fictional version of the Pine Tree State? More importantly, why don’t they all just get the hell out of there?
“It,” as you can guess, is an awfully gory book. King’s thousand-pages-plus epic is more than gory, though; it’s huge, sloppy, incredibly entertaining and compulsively readable. It’s the literary equivalent of a fat sandwich: not good for you, not even good, necessarily, but packed with so much stuff that it’s impossible to resist. Like most King books, “It” also has some highbrow pretensions. There’s some muddled cosmology involving a “macroverse” and “the Turtle,” but in the end, what we’re here for is the dismemberment.
“It” doesn’t disappoint in that regard. For those of you who don’t know, “It” is the story of a group of friends from the small Maine town of Derry. Derry, they discover, is haunted. It’s not your garden-variety haunting; we’re talking serious evil here, personified by a homicidal clown named Pennywise. The friends team up to fight Pennywise—known to his good friends as “It”—as kids in 1958, and as adults a couple decades down the road.
Before they can fight Pennywise, they’ve got to run away from him. A lot. Of those thousand pages, I’d estimate a good eight hundred involved 1) One of the main characters wandering into a dark, deserted locale 2) Said character running into Pennywise 3) Said character getting the hell out of there. These are interspersed with incidents in which minor characters meet Pennywise. Needless to say, they’re a lot less lucky. They die in a number of creatively gruesome ways, including:
1) Getting their head ripped off
2) Getting their face ripped off
3) Getting their arm ripped off
4) Getting their legs ripped off
OK, admittedly Pennywise’s M.O. is pretty straightforward. That’s not for lack of trying, though. Mr. Wise shows up in a whole host of disguises, including a giant bird, a werewolf, a mummy, and—my personal favorite—flying leeches. Not ordinary leeches. Flying leeches.
This is all good fun. King’s a great storyteller, especially when the limbs are flying and the blood’s spurting. So what if things get repetitive? Whether it’s an innocent kid being decapitated by the Creature from the Black Lagoon, or an unsuspecting prison guard getting ripped limb-from-limb by a doberman-human hybrid, King always makes it readable. And very, very bloody.
The only problem is that King tries to divide our attention equally between 1958 and 1985. And while the kid-versions of our protagonists are pretty likeable, as adults they become…boring. I guess that’s the whole idea: the magic of childhood gives way to the ennui of adulthood, so-on-and-so-forth. But they’re still boring.
Speaking of boring, King also insists on splitting time between the six main characters. Again, not all the protagonists are created equal. For every page we spend with an interesting character, we have to spend a corresponding page getting to know one of the dull ones. Take Ben Hanscom, for instance…please. He’s supposed to be noble, but like most noble characters his defining trait is stoicism that borders on blandness.
As a kid, Ben’s two defining traits are 1) He’s fat and 2) He’s good at building things. That’s not enough ingredients to make a decent soup, let alone an engaging character. Even worse, Adult Ben isn’t even fat. So he’s down to ONE defining trait. Why do we have to spend hundreds of pages in his company, when we could be getting acquainted with Richie Tozier or Bill Denbrough or one of the fun characters?
I realize I’ve rambled on for quite a while. But given the length of the book in question, I feel that’s highly appropriate. In short: “It” is a good, good book, well worth reading if you’ve got a few weeks to spare.
Oh, one more thing. “It,” like most King novels, is set in Maine. I ask you: given the way King goes to town on innocent Mainers, what with the slaughter and the hauntings and the murders, how is there anyone left alive in King’s fictional version of the Pine Tree State? More importantly, why don’t they all just get the hell out of there?
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Proposed Rescue Plans for the Big Three
-Slash employee health benefits; workers can only pick three diseases for which they are covered, and one of them has to be Ebola
-Search for alternative fuels like wind, solar power, and pushing
-Get rid of the giant pit in GM headquarters into which GM execs would hurl billions of dollars every financial quarter
-Package every car with a free ticket to a Detroit Lions game
-Cupholders...just gotta add more cupholders
-Cut the number of wheels per car back to three
-Ask for $50 billion from the government and use that money to buy Nissan, Toyota, Honda, et al.
-Search for alternative fuels like wind, solar power, and pushing
-Get rid of the giant pit in GM headquarters into which GM execs would hurl billions of dollars every financial quarter
-Package every car with a free ticket to a Detroit Lions game
-Cupholders...just gotta add more cupholders
-Cut the number of wheels per car back to three
-Ask for $50 billion from the government and use that money to buy Nissan, Toyota, Honda, et al.
Proof Positive...
...That China may be the most god-damned boring nation on God's green earth. Or, in China's case, God's brown and pollution-ravaged earth. Xinhua, the Chinese new agency, provides a list of the "Top Ten Catch Phrases in China Since 1978 Reform."
I start reading the list expecting to find some American-style catch phrases, perhaps with a hilarious Sinese twist. Something like, I dunno, "Don't have a panda, man!" What do I get? What passes for catchphrases in China?
"Surfing the internet"--Oh, those hip Chinese! In America, we just say "using a series of interconnected web pages to search for content we may find useful, informative, or time-wasting, depending on the circumstances."
"Be laid off and get re-employed"--I wonder what hit Chinese TV show that catchphrase originated on.
And those are the best catchphrases. What kind of nation is this?
I start reading the list expecting to find some American-style catch phrases, perhaps with a hilarious Sinese twist. Something like, I dunno, "Don't have a panda, man!" What do I get? What passes for catchphrases in China?
"Surfing the internet"--Oh, those hip Chinese! In America, we just say "using a series of interconnected web pages to search for content we may find useful, informative, or time-wasting, depending on the circumstances."
"Be laid off and get re-employed"--I wonder what hit Chinese TV show that catchphrase originated on.
And those are the best catchphrases. What kind of nation is this?
A Quick Follow-Up to That Last Post
What if you can't find anything for your friend in Dave Barry's gift guide? As impossible as that might seem, it has happened on occasions. In that case, this website should have you covered. Assuming your friend is a bear.
Yes, I know that's a rather big assumption. Shut up. Who's the one running this blog, you or me? Yeah, that's right. It's me.
Yes, I know that's a rather big assumption. Shut up. Who's the one running this blog, you or me? Yeah, that's right. It's me.
Tis the Season To Give Away Overpriced Useless Crap!
For those of you running dry of ideas in the gift department: the late, great Dave Barry's Gift Guide! Guaranteed to solve all your gift-giving needs!
It's really, really useful. Take this example: you have a friend who enjoys fried eggs. But they also enjoy firearms. Normally, you'd be facing a serious dilemma. Should you get them something gun-related, or something egg-related? Either way, they're going to be disappointed.
But after a few seconds browsing the gift guide, lo and behold! Your problems are solved!
It's really, really useful. Take this example: you have a friend who enjoys fried eggs. But they also enjoy firearms. Normally, you'd be facing a serious dilemma. Should you get them something gun-related, or something egg-related? Either way, they're going to be disappointed.
But after a few seconds browsing the gift guide, lo and behold! Your problems are solved!
My Sweet Lard
What better way to honor the Divine and Enlightened Buddha then by carving a statue of him out of pure lard? Hmm. I can actually think of a few better ways. Actually, make that a whole lot of better ways. None of which involve lard.
The Satanic Nursery Rhymes
Every religion has its prophets. Christianity has a whole slew of 'em--Isaiah, Ezekiel, John the Baptist, right on down to the present day. Mormonism had Joseph Smith. Buddhism was spread by Buddha, unsurprisingly.
Islam, as you might know, reveres Mohammed as the Last Prophet. No more shall come after him. Well, looks like they were a little off. Meet the newest Muslim prophet: Little Mommy Cuddle N' Coo!
Islam, as you might know, reveres Mohammed as the Last Prophet. No more shall come after him. Well, looks like they were a little off. Meet the newest Muslim prophet: Little Mommy Cuddle N' Coo!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
They Saved Thog's Brain
British scientists have discovered the world's oldest brain. This has allowed them to determine the rough date when the brain was invented, somewhere around 5,000,000 BC. Before then, everyone just stood around slack-jawed and staring into space.
We Three Kings of Chicago Are...
From the Fifth Chapter of the Book of Cliff, the Least Known Apostle:
And lo, a star did shine in the east. Or possibly it did shine in the west. But lo, there was a star, and it was shining, probably in the east with a slight chance of being in the west. Or perhaps it did shine in the north, but that makes not a difference to my story.
As I was sayingeth, the star was shining, and LO! One man looked up and beheld it. And he beheldeth it in all its beholdethness, and as he beholded the beholdable, the very beholdability of the star did strike him to the quick. I mean, did striketh him to the quick. The quicketh.
And so he and his wife did travel east, or west, or possibly south. And they came upon a babe lying in a manger. And when I sayeth "babe" I implore ye not to make any cheap cracks about babes. When I sayeth babe, I mean a baby.
He looked upon the babe, and thus did he declare: "Hi, my name's Barack Obama and I'm running for president. I need your vote this Christmas season so that we can finally bring change to the Middle East."
And lo, a star did shine in the east. Or possibly it did shine in the west. But lo, there was a star, and it was shining, probably in the east with a slight chance of being in the west. Or perhaps it did shine in the north, but that makes not a difference to my story.
As I was sayingeth, the star was shining, and LO! One man looked up and beheld it. And he beheldeth it in all its beholdethness, and as he beholded the beholdable, the very beholdability of the star did strike him to the quick. I mean, did striketh him to the quick. The quicketh.
And so he and his wife did travel east, or west, or possibly south. And they came upon a babe lying in a manger. And when I sayeth "babe" I implore ye not to make any cheap cracks about babes. When I sayeth babe, I mean a baby.
He looked upon the babe, and thus did he declare: "Hi, my name's Barack Obama and I'm running for president. I need your vote this Christmas season so that we can finally bring change to the Middle East."
Choose Your Own Canadian Adventure
You are a Canadian software engineer. You are 33 years old, single, and live with your parents. One day you find you have the irresistible biological urge to find a mate.
If you choose to go out to a local bar and try to find a woman there, PLEASE TURN TO PAGE 33
If you choose to sign up for an online dating serving and look for a woman who shares your interests, PLEASE TURN TO PAGE 106
If you choose to drink the gnome's magic potion, PLEASE TURN TO PAGE 8
If you choose to build your own robotic girlfriend, PLEASE BEG GOD TO HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOUL
If you choose to go out to a local bar and try to find a woman there, PLEASE TURN TO PAGE 33
If you choose to sign up for an online dating serving and look for a woman who shares your interests, PLEASE TURN TO PAGE 106
If you choose to drink the gnome's magic potion, PLEASE TURN TO PAGE 8
If you choose to build your own robotic girlfriend, PLEASE BEG GOD TO HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOUL
Seriously, 'Ten Hoodies Hollering"?
Looking for a bit of gloom to darken your eggnog this season? Well, here's a story for you. A British vicar (side note: do British vicars do anything aside from stirring up controversy) has re-written "The Twelve Days of Christmas" to make it more soul-crushing depressing. Er, pardon me, more socially conscious. The lyrics in full:
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Twelve soldiers serving
Eleven lottery losers
Ten hoodies hollering
Nine single mothers
Eight AIDS victims
Seven shoppers struggling
Six carers caring
Five repossessings
Four calling canmen
Three starving children
Two addicts shaking
And a poor homeless refugee
A few reactions from me:
1) Being a soldier is as bad as having AIDS, apparently.
2) What's a canmen? And why is it bad when they call you?
3) If a carer didn't care, what would you call them?
4) Most importantly, what kind of sick bastard is your true love anyway?
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Twelve soldiers serving
Eleven lottery losers
Ten hoodies hollering
Nine single mothers
Eight AIDS victims
Seven shoppers struggling
Six carers caring
Five repossessings
Four calling canmen
Three starving children
Two addicts shaking
And a poor homeless refugee
A few reactions from me:
1) Being a soldier is as bad as having AIDS, apparently.
2) What's a canmen? And why is it bad when they call you?
3) If a carer didn't care, what would you call them?
4) Most importantly, what kind of sick bastard is your true love anyway?
Monday, December 8, 2008
You Sly Dog
Next time you assure your dog that's he's a good boy, oh yes he is, oh yes he is--make sure your other dog is out of earshot. He might not take it so well.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Where's New Coke?
The NY Post takes on the rather lofty goal of cataloging "History's 10 Biggest Disappointments." Now that's a toughie. As a history major, I feel confident in telling you that history is one disappointment after another. And then you die--painfully, usually skewered on something.
I can't really quibble with the Post's picks--the Segway, Star War: The Phantom Menace, William Henry Harrison--both because they seem pretty reasonable and because I hate the word quibble. If "quibble" were a person, I'd do my best to beat the ever-loving hell out of him.
I can add a few of my own:
Ryan Leaf--And sadly, he's the best thing to come out of Washington State University.
Smell-O-Vision--You know what I wish? I wish Smell-O-Vision had lasted a little longer, so that it could be used in shows like "Bones" and "CSI." Or, best of all, "Cold Case." Nothing quite like the smell of somebody who's been crammed inside a crawlspace since the Fillmore administration!
The Vietnam War--Sure, everybody said it was going to be World War III, but it turned out to be not much more than Korea II.
King Kong--I've made claymation movies in my backyard that were better than this bloat-a-thon. And I don't call it a bloat-a-thon because Peter Jackson and Jack Black were prominently involved (zing!) I never thought I'd say this, but "My God! How many dinosaurs can one giant gorilla fight?"
Slinky--Yeah, it was pretty succesful. But it could have been more succesful.
I can't really quibble with the Post's picks--the Segway, Star War: The Phantom Menace, William Henry Harrison--both because they seem pretty reasonable and because I hate the word quibble. If "quibble" were a person, I'd do my best to beat the ever-loving hell out of him.
I can add a few of my own:
Ryan Leaf--And sadly, he's the best thing to come out of Washington State University.
Smell-O-Vision--You know what I wish? I wish Smell-O-Vision had lasted a little longer, so that it could be used in shows like "Bones" and "CSI." Or, best of all, "Cold Case." Nothing quite like the smell of somebody who's been crammed inside a crawlspace since the Fillmore administration!
The Vietnam War--Sure, everybody said it was going to be World War III, but it turned out to be not much more than Korea II.
King Kong--I've made claymation movies in my backyard that were better than this bloat-a-thon. And I don't call it a bloat-a-thon because Peter Jackson and Jack Black were prominently involved (zing!) I never thought I'd say this, but "My God! How many dinosaurs can one giant gorilla fight?"
Slinky--Yeah, it was pretty succesful. But it could have been more succesful.
Panic in Detroit
"Why banks get bailouts and automakers get stern lectures." Please explain, Mr. Mark Gimeln.
Who's really at fault, however, doesn't matter all that much, because for both laissez-faire Republicans and liberal Democrats, the financial crisis presents a rare opportunity to rebuild the most iconic exemplars of American industry in the way they hoped for all along. For the free marketeers of the right, it's a chance to extol the benefits of the strong medicine of bankruptcy. For the newly empowered liberals of the Democratic Party, it's a chance to put environmental consciousness in the center of industrial policy.
Again, I think it's an issue of opacity. The average person--and the average congressperson--doesn't know exactly what the banks do. Citigroup's in trouble? Toss them a couple billion and they'll shut up. AIG needs a bailout? Here, take them this check, and they can go back to doing...that thing they do.
Pity the poor automobile companies. Everyone knows exactly what they do. They build cars. Everyone knows what a car is. And everybody has their own ideas on how to build one. Politicians who kept their mouths shut during the Wall Street bailout, worried their ignorance would show, have suddenly become experts in the field of car manufacturing.
So Detroit takes a beating, while Wall Street execs take their billions, tip their hats, and head home to do...whatever they do. Detroit is going to have to twist in the wind a bit more while the politicians argue about how to make the perfect hybrid.
Who's really at fault, however, doesn't matter all that much, because for both laissez-faire Republicans and liberal Democrats, the financial crisis presents a rare opportunity to rebuild the most iconic exemplars of American industry in the way they hoped for all along. For the free marketeers of the right, it's a chance to extol the benefits of the strong medicine of bankruptcy. For the newly empowered liberals of the Democratic Party, it's a chance to put environmental consciousness in the center of industrial policy.
Again, I think it's an issue of opacity. The average person--and the average congressperson--doesn't know exactly what the banks do. Citigroup's in trouble? Toss them a couple billion and they'll shut up. AIG needs a bailout? Here, take them this check, and they can go back to doing...that thing they do.
Pity the poor automobile companies. Everyone knows exactly what they do. They build cars. Everyone knows what a car is. And everybody has their own ideas on how to build one. Politicians who kept their mouths shut during the Wall Street bailout, worried their ignorance would show, have suddenly become experts in the field of car manufacturing.
So Detroit takes a beating, while Wall Street execs take their billions, tip their hats, and head home to do...whatever they do. Detroit is going to have to twist in the wind a bit more while the politicians argue about how to make the perfect hybrid.
The A-Word
Did abortion doom John McCain and the GOP in 2008? No, says Ross Douthat, and he's got the facts--or at least, the theory--to prove it. Despite what Kathleen Parker might say, the pro-life, "oogedy-boogedy" faction of the GOP isn't what's holding the party back.
Unfortunately, Douthat's solution to the current impasse on abortion is about as feasible as a ski resort in the Sahara. Writes Douthat:
No such compromise is possible so long as Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey remain on the books. These decisions are monuments to pro-choice absolutism, and for pro-lifers to accept them means accepting that no serious legal restrictions on abortion will ever be possible — no matter what the polls say, and no matter how many hearts and minds pro-lifers change.
But that's not going to happen. The pro-choice movement has transmogrified Roe from an ordinary case into a "super-duper precedent." Overturning Roe has become the liberal boogeyman; it's just a plot by those nasty, slimy social conservatives to keep women barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen.
That doesn't mean the pro-life movement shouldn't try. I'm just saying it's not going to be easy. In fact, it's damn near impossible. And I leave you with that cheery thought.
Unfortunately, Douthat's solution to the current impasse on abortion is about as feasible as a ski resort in the Sahara. Writes Douthat:
No such compromise is possible so long as Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey remain on the books. These decisions are monuments to pro-choice absolutism, and for pro-lifers to accept them means accepting that no serious legal restrictions on abortion will ever be possible — no matter what the polls say, and no matter how many hearts and minds pro-lifers change.
But that's not going to happen. The pro-choice movement has transmogrified Roe from an ordinary case into a "super-duper precedent." Overturning Roe has become the liberal boogeyman; it's just a plot by those nasty, slimy social conservatives to keep women barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen.
That doesn't mean the pro-life movement shouldn't try. I'm just saying it's not going to be easy. In fact, it's damn near impossible. And I leave you with that cheery thought.
Do the Time Warp
Hi, everyone, and welcome to the 1930s! Obama might as well take up smoking, start wearing a top hat, and call himself FDR. I'm especially looking forward to the return of the CCC and the WPA, not to mention the TVA.
But it's a smart move on Obama's part. It gives some tangibility to all this talk about multi-billion dollar stimulus packages. People can't see lower interest rates or increased deficiet spending. They have to take the government's word that it's doing something to help.
But rebuilding schools? Improving hospitals? That's something everybody can understand, something that's easy to see. It bolsters people's faith in the government. Obama wants to take the stigma away from the line, "I'm from the government, and I'm here to help."
But it's a smart move on Obama's part. It gives some tangibility to all this talk about multi-billion dollar stimulus packages. People can't see lower interest rates or increased deficiet spending. They have to take the government's word that it's doing something to help.
But rebuilding schools? Improving hospitals? That's something everybody can understand, something that's easy to see. It bolsters people's faith in the government. Obama wants to take the stigma away from the line, "I'm from the government, and I'm here to help."
Madness Madness Madness
Fittingly, this crazy election season was capped by the most ludicrous result of all: a Vietnamese-American Republican businessman defeats a Democratic incumbent (!) in New Orleans (!!) in a majority black district (!!!!!!!!) If you had predicted that just a few weeks ago, I have some friends in Las Vegas who are very interesting in talking to you.
Is this the start of a new trend? Are the Democrats losing their control over minority-majority districts? Are African-Americans starting to move towards the GOP?
Uh, no. Bill Jefferson lost because 1) he was massively corrupt and 2) the turnout was unbelievably low. While I don't want to rain on Joseph Cao's victory parade, I advise him to enjoy his incredible victory while he can. He is the very definition of a one-termer.
If Cao is re-elected in 2010, I will go out, buy the nicest hat I can find, and eat it. You can hold me to that.
Is this the start of a new trend? Are the Democrats losing their control over minority-majority districts? Are African-Americans starting to move towards the GOP?
Uh, no. Bill Jefferson lost because 1) he was massively corrupt and 2) the turnout was unbelievably low. While I don't want to rain on Joseph Cao's victory parade, I advise him to enjoy his incredible victory while he can. He is the very definition of a one-termer.
If Cao is re-elected in 2010, I will go out, buy the nicest hat I can find, and eat it. You can hold me to that.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Fat of the Land
Man, everybody is knocking morbid obesity nowadays. They make a few good points, sure. Yes, morbid obesity does lead to heart disease, multiple organ failure, and occasional cases of premature dying. But consider the pluses:
1. If you're ever frozen to the sidewalk, your layers of blubber will allow you to survive the frigid Wisconsin night
2. Uhhhh...
OK, I need to think a little bit more. But seriously. There has to be some kind of advantage to be had from being morbidly obese. Why else would there be so many fat, fat, fat people out there?
1. If you're ever frozen to the sidewalk, your layers of blubber will allow you to survive the frigid Wisconsin night
2. Uhhhh...
OK, I need to think a little bit more. But seriously. There has to be some kind of advantage to be had from being morbidly obese. Why else would there be so many fat, fat, fat people out there?
One Hell of a Housewarming Party
Hey, just my luck. For the past couple weeks I've been searching for a place to stay next semester. And now I learn there's a place available for cheap--a steal, practically.
It's got everything you could want in a house. A couple bathrooms, plenty of floor space, central heating, and an observation deck on the 86th floor. It sure beats the ol' dorm room!
It's got everything you could want in a house. A couple bathrooms, plenty of floor space, central heating, and an observation deck on the 86th floor. It sure beats the ol' dorm room!
Mac the Knifed
Reason 3,502 never to visit a karaoke bar. And no, it's not because someone might sing 'Total Eclipse of the Heart."
Sing Out!
It's always good to see that I'm not the world's only list fetishist. The staff of Rolling Stone magazine, having apparently given up on the modern music scene, turned their journalistic energies towards making a list of the 100 greatest singers OF ALL TIME.
I always get a little leery when something is billed as a list of the ALL TIME GREATS. What if there was some Neanderthal who could've sung the pants off of Freddie Mercury? Or a 15th century Florentine who made Elvis sound like Mark E. Smith?
But I digress. Take a look at the list, and be prepared to scoff at some of their choices. For instance: Kurt Cobain as the 45th greatest singer OF ALL TIME? Scoff! Scoff! He had emotion, true. He also sounded like he gargled with Drano.
And Lou Reed at 62? Hey, I respect Lou Reed. He was a brilliant songwriter, a charismatic frontman, and a visionary musician. Note that nowhere did I say "a good singer." Or "a decent singer." Or even "a singer who didn't sound like he was about to nod off and clonk his head on the microphone."
On the flip side: poor Joe Cocker gets pushed back to 97? Sure, Cocker sang like he was choking on a hot dog. But it was a melodic choking, damn it!
Anyway, read and form your own opinions. And feel secure that your opinions are almost certainly better than those of Rolling Stone magazine.
I always get a little leery when something is billed as a list of the ALL TIME GREATS. What if there was some Neanderthal who could've sung the pants off of Freddie Mercury? Or a 15th century Florentine who made Elvis sound like Mark E. Smith?
But I digress. Take a look at the list, and be prepared to scoff at some of their choices. For instance: Kurt Cobain as the 45th greatest singer OF ALL TIME? Scoff! Scoff! He had emotion, true. He also sounded like he gargled with Drano.
And Lou Reed at 62? Hey, I respect Lou Reed. He was a brilliant songwriter, a charismatic frontman, and a visionary musician. Note that nowhere did I say "a good singer." Or "a decent singer." Or even "a singer who didn't sound like he was about to nod off and clonk his head on the microphone."
On the flip side: poor Joe Cocker gets pushed back to 97? Sure, Cocker sang like he was choking on a hot dog. But it was a melodic choking, damn it!
Anyway, read and form your own opinions. And feel secure that your opinions are almost certainly better than those of Rolling Stone magazine.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Brat Brigade
Looks like the fabled Teutonic war machine is getting a little...flabby, shall we say? Yes, we shall say that.
I'm disappointed that the Germans have chosen to egregiously violate accepted racial stereotypes. Guys, you're supposed to be frighteningly fit. It's the Italians who are supposed to be lazy.
I'm disappointed that the Germans have chosen to egregiously violate accepted racial stereotypes. Guys, you're supposed to be frighteningly fit. It's the Italians who are supposed to be lazy.
Golden Numskulls
Stewart Mandel wonders why Notre Dame has decided to give football coach and Frank Caliendo impersonation-to-be Charlie Weis another year. His answer? The Fighting Irish have decided to lower their standards. A lot. A whoooooole lot.
Let me take off my "blogger hat" for a moment and put on my "pompous football pundit who knows next to nothing about the sport." Retaining Charlie Weis isn't a case of standards being lowered. It's a case of standards being bound, gagged, dragged out behind the prison, and shot point-blank in the back of the head.
Let me offer you a peep inside the Charlie Weis playbook.
OFFENSE
Default Play: Brady Quinn long pass to Jeff what's-his-face
IF Jeff what's-his-face is covered--
1) Get sacked
2) Throw interception
3) Get sacked after throwing an interception
IF Brady Quinn has graduated--
1) Lose game
2) Sorry, no other options available
DEFENSE
Are we playing USC?
IF Yes--
1) Forget it. Just forget it.
IF No--
1) Yeah, I'm still not feeling it.
SPECIAL TEAMS
Default Play: Screw up any way you possibly can.
You see? How can the Irish expect to win any more than a quarter of a game every season with this guy? As somebody who roots for the Irish--out of religious compulsion, I should add--I'm extremely disappointed. Touchdown Jesus is crying right now.
Let me take off my "blogger hat" for a moment and put on my "pompous football pundit who knows next to nothing about the sport." Retaining Charlie Weis isn't a case of standards being lowered. It's a case of standards being bound, gagged, dragged out behind the prison, and shot point-blank in the back of the head.
Let me offer you a peep inside the Charlie Weis playbook.
OFFENSE
Default Play: Brady Quinn long pass to Jeff what's-his-face
IF Jeff what's-his-face is covered--
1) Get sacked
2) Throw interception
3) Get sacked after throwing an interception
IF Brady Quinn has graduated--
1) Lose game
2) Sorry, no other options available
DEFENSE
Are we playing USC?
IF Yes--
1) Forget it. Just forget it.
IF No--
1) Yeah, I'm still not feeling it.
SPECIAL TEAMS
Default Play: Screw up any way you possibly can.
You see? How can the Irish expect to win any more than a quarter of a game every season with this guy? As somebody who roots for the Irish--out of religious compulsion, I should add--I'm extremely disappointed. Touchdown Jesus is crying right now.
The Continuing War of Man vs. Nature
It's a small victory, but every little bit counts: we have managed to exterminate Canada's white lemuroid possum. True, the white lemuroid possum never did anything to us. But he had the bad luck to get caught in the crossfire just as the war was heating up.
To paraphrase Winston Churchill, "This isn't the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. It is not even the end of the beginning. It is not even the end of the beginning of the end of the beginning. But, perhaps, it is an end to the beginning of what ended when we began the beginning of an end to the beginning end of the end of the beginning."
To paraphrase Winston Churchill, "This isn't the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. It is not even the end of the beginning. It is not even the end of the beginning of the end of the beginning. But, perhaps, it is an end to the beginning of what ended when we began the beginning of an end to the beginning end of the end of the beginning."
Zat You, Santa Claus?
All together now!
Up on the housetop reindeer fall
Out flops poor old Santa Claus
He's in pain, it's clear to see
Because he's now an amputee
In a similar vein:
You'd better not scream, you'd better not cry
You'd better not sob when he rolls on by
Santa Claus is rolling to town!
Santa Claus is rolling to town!
Santa Claus is rolling...to town!
Could I have made this post any more tasteless? I think not. Not even your worst dead-baby joke could make it more cringe-worthy.
Up on the housetop reindeer fall
Out flops poor old Santa Claus
He's in pain, it's clear to see
Because he's now an amputee
In a similar vein:
You'd better not scream, you'd better not cry
You'd better not sob when he rolls on by
Santa Claus is rolling to town!
Santa Claus is rolling to town!
Santa Claus is rolling...to town!
Could I have made this post any more tasteless? I think not. Not even your worst dead-baby joke could make it more cringe-worthy.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Drunky McDrunkerson, Part Deux
"Well, officer, I might have been swerving all over the road, running red lights, and driving the wrong way down a one-way street...on the sidewalk. But I'm not drunk, I swear! I haven't touched a drop all...well, maybe that's a poor choice of words."
Side note: apparently "drink driving" is the British equivalent of "drunk driving." Does that apply to all other forms of the word "drunk," then? And does it work in reverse? Does a Cockney go out for a quick drunk and get drink?
Side note: apparently "drink driving" is the British equivalent of "drunk driving." Does that apply to all other forms of the word "drunk," then? And does it work in reverse? Does a Cockney go out for a quick drunk and get drink?
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