Pop Cesspool

UGLY DUDES SELLIN' STUFF: MR. T vs. BROCK LESNAR

Mr. T for World of Warcarft:

Brock Lesnar for Fusion ammo:

VERDICT: Lesnar is scary as fuck, and he's got a gun. Mr. T just has an imaginary hand grenade that makes your avatar look like his avatar. But here's the essential question: What kind of gigs will Lesnar get when he's pushin' 60 years old? He'll probably still be shootin' stuff. T, meanwhile, is setting himself up for anything: Webkins, fart apps, whatever.

SOUTHERN FOOTBALL = EXCRUCIATING CHARACTERS

At the risk of inadvertently choosing sides in the SEC's big Pepsi-v.-Coke conflagration (in the broader pigskin context, I guess Texas is RC Cola, natch), I'm gonna just lay it down plainly: Watching Nick Saban gives me a weird kind of heartburn, like the kind you get when you walk into church or school or court, and you just know that the dude at the front of the room is a total prick about certain things. (In all fairness, Tim Tebow skeeves me out in equal, but different, measures.) Saban's disposition has whiffs of '80s corporate raider, '90s TV preacherman and '00s prickly politico, and I can't hack any of it. He conjures teenage urges toward subversion of authority. Like, I wanna anonymously put a bag of burning dog doo on his doorstep. But I'm gonna be a man about it: I wish I had a good football team, so I could play Nick Saban's team, and watch him be boilin' mad.

Orig. photoz here & here.

LEARNING ABOUT MARINO FROST COULD EAT UP MOST OF YOUR DAY

1. Hat tip to Street Boners: Read this.

2. Watch this:

3. THEN GO HERE, BECAUSE YOU WILL THANK ME.

You're welcome.

THE DESTINY OF HOLLYWOOD, FOR REAL THIS TIME

Get Schnabel* on the phone, we got a WINNER here, people. From the Guardian:

Doctors presumed he was in a vegetative state following a near-fatal car crash in 1983. They believed he could feel nothing and hear nothing. For 23 years. Then a neurologist, Steven Laureys, who decided to take a radical look at the state of diagnosed coma patients, released him from his torture.

Let's call it The Diving Bell & The Butterfly II: Brussels Awakening, or even better yet, Le scaphandre et le papillon: Réveil à Bruxelles.

Holy shit, it's gonna be better than Avatar.

* Damn, yo, Artcyclopedia.com is ugly, for a Web site about art.

HI, I'M NINA GARCIA, AND I'M GONNA TARGET YOUR ASS

Oh, hey, this is a REAL GIRL, not some sort of MODEL, and they're NOT PAYING HER TO SAY THIS SHIT, and no, really, SHE GOES TO TARGET EVERY WEEKEND DRESSED LIKE A GRUNGE-ERA REFUGEE. To buy Pop Tarts and cigarettes, no doubt.

THANK YOU FASHION WHIPCRACKER NINA, NOW I CAN'T PUT MY ARMS DOWN:

WE ONLY PICKED YOU BECAUSE YOU WERE CUTE, TO HELL WITH ALL THAT 'BIOMEDICAL ENGINEERING' HOO-HA:

STEVE WYNN'S HAIR IS GIGANTIC

The thing that strikes me about this Dream Syndicate video is the utter lack of fashion-control, but then again, did anybody have fashion-control in the '80s? Or is it just because the show was in Spain? Anyway, yer Poppa is having a renaissance with this song. No, that's a lie. I didn't care about "Tell Me When It's Over," like, ever, until a couple of days ago. So it's an enlightenment, not a renaissance, technically. I guess I didn't hang with enough record-store geeks in the '90s. Or maybe this is just some subtle, grown-up rockershit, and Yer Poppa is gettin' soft in his middle age, and I wouldn't have cared, regardless, until now. Yeah, whatever, you judgmental pricks, I'm not soft, I'm AWESOME.

PURE ENTERTAINMENT

Animated retelling of Dock Ellis and the LSD no-hitter. If you don't like this, you're an asshole:

h/t to BoingBoing

BONUS: the boxscore

THE CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM HAD MY BEST INTERESTS IN MIND

Gucci Mane is going to prison, which is a gift from the godz, because it was getting to the point where I had to start asking myself, "do I want to put energy into giving a shit about this Gucci Mane guy?" And I suspected that I did not want to embrace him, because his name is fuckin' "Gucci Mane," and no matter how hard anybody might argue that he's actually a fantastic rapper and perhaps such a moniker is brilliantly simplistic, I can't shake the feeling that "Gucci Mane" is just, y'know, a banal manifestation of the man's fashion aspirations and his Southern accent. In short, no matter how you size that shit up, it's tacky like the white lady on "Real Housewives of Atlanta," which, incidentally, is the city that Gooch calls home. Well, not for the next 12 months he won't. And I will not be thinking about him during that year.

I'M HOPELESSLY STUCK WITH A FICTIONAL, PHILANDERING, FLAWED AD-MAN AS MY COMFORT

.	"Because I'm sick of being batted around like a ping-pong ball. Who the hell is in charge? A bunch of accountants trying to turn a dollar into $1.10? I want to work. I want to build something of my own. How can you not understand that?" *

* Photo does not conform with actual scene of quoted dialogue. I blame it on AMC.

THIS VIDEO WOULD'VE BEEN BETTER IF IT HAD ACTUAL JEWS IN IT

More specifically: Get a really famous Jewish comedian (I'm thinking Mel Brooks, Howard Stern, Sarah Silverman, Jerry Seinfeld, Joan Rivers, maybe?) to shout the "JEW!" part. Unintentionally hilarious, it's Benz and Jewman, "I Might," and they're both kinda sweaty:

YOUR STRATEGY FOR PURCHASING JUNG'S 'RED BOOK'

This is for your own good, trust me, Mr. Psych Major: C.G.'s shiz is down to like $115 on Amazon, but seriously, don't buy it now. Wait like six months until dudes start selling it to used bookstores so they can get money for weed.

YOU ARE READING AN ITEM ON A BLOG

HTC wants You to know that You are doing things ...

... and in a much more deliberate and '90s-spoken-word kind of way, Soul Coughing once wanted You to know that it was 5 a.m. and You were listening to Los Angeles, and that You you were going to Reseda to make love to a model from Ohio whose real name You didn't know:

Man, that video and that song have not aged well.