This is one of those sentences that you read, and then you read it again, and you're like, "uh, so what are you really saying here?" And I don't mean the Jacques Lacan reference:
The experience of watching "Funny Games" is not unlike watching
snuff-porn clips late at night in your bedroom, only to have your
mother or Jacques Lacan switch the light on periodically without the
The sentence comes from John Wray's NYT mag article about Michael Haneke, director of "Caché." I dunno about you, but I'm going to assume that Wray actually watches a lot of snuff-porn clips in his bedroom, and that he hates to be interrupted while doing so.
Me? I'd be like, "come on in, Jacques, this evil, totally illegal and unequivocally immoral flick is like, totally awesome, and everybody should experience it, so when they read a bad metaphor or simile that uses the phrase 'snuff porn,' they'll know exactly what the writer is talking about."
Unless Wray means, y'know, fake snuff porn. But I'm not about to Google for some of that.
I'll be farting, as much as I can, for 15 minutes straight. Because I can't think of a better moment for full-on flatulence than the The National Wave, during which all Americans will be encouraged to wave an official Uniting Towel. Without a doubt, this quarter-hour of manufactured patriotism will be accompanied, in many municipalities, by the sounds of marches and/or country-and-western hits. Thus, the noise of my farting will be concealed. And here's the genius part: The air currents created by all that towel-waving will quickly dissipate any foul odors created by my ass.
"But Poppa Cesspool," you might ask, "why are you so quickly dismissing this event, which obviously has the potential to unite our fractured nation?" And I might reply, "You could not be more wrong, my child. I am not dismissing the event. I am celebrating its core values. My farts, if you really think about it, are directly linked to the meat-guzzling prosperity of this great land. They are the Joyful Noise and Blessed Odor of Capitalism and All That Is Righteously Righteous, and they must be wafted throughout the countryside by the magic breezes created by the Uniting Towel."
And besides, Hulk Hogan probably farts like a hellion.
The nerd won this morning. I was at the gym, on a bicycle, eyeballing two soundless TVs -- one playing "Today" and the other playing MTV. Behold, there's Avril Lavigne, slightly gothed-up, bleating* what was obviously a ballad, because the video had a plot. And I'm watching her, and she's emotional, and my only thought is, "I want to make a parody of this video, one where loud, cartoony laser-blasts bounce off her top row of teeth."
That girl has some choppers, and they're on full display here.** I definitely want to shoot lasers at them.***
* I can only assume she was bleating and not, y'know, singing.
** I'm not actually going to watch it again.
*** Please don't attempt a Freudian analysis of this. The nerd defeated the dirty old man; let the nerd enjoy the victory.
As the Cesspoolian household's "Wire"-watching continues -- now well into season 3 -- I find myself randomly taking on the verbal inflections of gangsta/businessman Stringer Bell ... y'know, sort of mumbly-mouthed, but colossally manly, too. The "shit"-to-"fuck" ratio is roughly two-to-one. Hypothetical samples:
I'm gonna wash this fruit and shit like that so nobody can step into this kitchen and not be fed.
What, a muhfucker can't sit on the couch and watch football without bein' confronted about his hygiene?
If you think them cold feet of yours are pleasant to the touch, you best get them shits to the other side of the bed, and then re-examine why you here in the first place.
See, if shit builds up in the lint screen, the next time you use this muhfucker, your clothes can't properly dry out.
I know my farts stink, shorty. That comes with bein' a man and shit.
This latest issue of EW has been on my coffee table for a few days now, and I've decided that it skeeves me out, in a way that few EW covers do, including this one. Does anybody really care about Kate Walsh, or do they feel obligated to care about her, because she was on a lame hospital show that treated the female viewing public like a giant pavlovian dog, and everybody with a vagina then slobbered accordingly, but now nobody wants to admit that the show actually blows, and so therefore they must paradoxically embrace the spinoff because rejecting it would possibly be a backhanded admission that "Gray's Anatomy" was some cheesy ol' TV bullshit?
I want to ignore her so badly, but there she is, lookin' kinda manly, with a vacant stare that says, "I'm so buying a new house with this dough."
My initial VMA thoughts are over here. I should've added this:
11. I have fully accepted Maroon 5 singer Adam Levine as Quintessential White Male Pop Star of Our Current Very Lame Era, even moreso than Timberlake, because Timberlake seems eternally caught up in the fact that he's not actually, y'know, black. I'm no Timberlake-hater, but Levine just seems to sing and get lots of ass -- no fuss, no muss. And he emits just enough self-awareness to remain tolerable, as long as you don't think too hard about it.
The good times have gone to anybody who is playing Michigan. It's halftime up in Ann Arbor right now, and I'm so excited to see another half of dudes in tribal armband tattoos and Oakley shades literally sobbing in the student section.
... that when my casket is being lowered into the ground -- or my ashes are being shot into some unnamed wilderness -- I want Van Halen's version of "Where Have All The Good Times Gone" playing VERY LOUDLY. Dear Cesspoolians, do not let clergymen or masters of decorum deter you from this sacred mission: I want the sweet dumb irony of knowing that my remains/cremains were being spread with a dose of stoopidity. Because, really, where have all the good times gone? If you're not asking yourself this question every day of your life, one of two things is possible:
1. You're having a fuckin' good time right now. 2. You're not having a fuckin' good time right now.
So, y'know, if you're one of the 0.0001 percent of people who is actually having a good time right now -- and I mean, actually right now, and not because this blog post is so fuckin' hilarious -- then continue to rock that good time. Everybody else ... you should be asking that essential Kinks-originated, Halen-refined question: Where the fuck have all the good times gone? If you can't answer the question, or if you know the good times are entirely in the past tense, then you probably need:
1. A better relationship with your drug dealer. 2. A sexual partner with a limited conscience. 3. A relatively uncomplicated tweak to your scene.
Thus, my estimate of 0.0001 percent of the population actually having a good time right now. The beauty is that most of us only need number 3. And the kicker is the fact that David Lee Roth is probably shitting into a surgically implanted tube at this very second.
It would be easy to excoriate you ... y'know, blast you with the ol' what have you really done to deserve all the attention line of reasoning. But I'll stick with something less abstract. So I say, Reg, if you're gonna do this ...
... you should be acknowledging -- in every interview, at every personal appearance, during every meditative moment on the shitter, and in your prayers at night -- that one more of these ...
... could mean that you'll be selling used cars somewhere in the very near future.
What I'm glad about today: No matter what happens between Penn State and Notre Dame on Saturday, I find a wee bit of solace in knowing that I won't have to think too much afterward about Charlie Weis. If the experts are right, the Irish will be lucky to finish better than .500 for the season. The allegedly big-brained Weis -- with that tired, self-superior look -- will be largely absent from the college football consciousness.
Wait, what the fuck am I thinking ... even if Notre Dame goes 0-12 this year, ESPN will still be running regular segments about the Irish, their games will still be clogging up NBC's schedule, and the BCS will be looking for ways to bend the rules to get the team into a bowl game. Shoot me now.