SRSLY KIDS, START THIS VIDEO, BUT TURN DOWN THE SOUND ...
THEN CLICK PLAY ON THIS:
POINTLESS BUT FUCKING AWESOME ALL THE SAME
SRSLY KIDS, START THIS VIDEO, BUT TURN DOWN THE SOUND ...
THEN CLICK PLAY ON THIS:
POINTLESS BUT FUCKING AWESOME ALL THE SAME
It's maps. Nerds love that shit. HBO obviously knew this, because the first thing you see when you watch the show isn't some hot nude costume-drama ladies or dudes gettin' their heads chopped off. It's a map. A map with details that grow while you look at it. A map that isn't quite the same from week to week. Wait, IS HBO MAKING FUN OF NERDS?
Yer Poppa ain't usually all zeitgeisty in his hate, but apparently I'm not the only MF who's nixing the bracketology this year despite being a sports fan in general. Dudes have their reasons. For me, it's about my ever-waning ties to the product. In my ever-contracting mind, college basketball has become a thing for:
• college kids
• dudes who still wish they were in college
• dudes who really really like basketball
• dudes and chicks who went to one of the colleges that give Dick Vitale super-stiff wood
• dudes and chicks who went to colleges that got really good at basketball only recently and now have a nationally viable brand name because of it (which, technically, is a subset of "colleges that give Dick Vitale super-stiff wood")
• people who will wager $5 on anything
Anyway, I'm not any of those things right now. So ... no bracket.
(Sorry about all the orange dicks. Kinda looks like some Keith Haring shit, though, which is nice.)
"We're going to animate you, Dwyane, for our new Team Xtreme video!"
"That's cool. Just make sure I kinda look like Blair Underwood, aight?"
Y'know that episode of "Spongebob" where the dude yells "CHOCOLATE!" except it comes out more like "CHOCKLATT!" and then Spongebob and Patrick go to one house where it's a really old lady and her REALLY RILLY REALLY old mom, and the mom looks like this?
Jamie Moyer is going to pitch until he looks like her.
Other than the Olympics, I've slacked on the hockey this year, even with a birthland team (Flyers) advancing far into the playoffs. But I made it a point to watch last night's NHL finals game from the opening faceoff. So dumb, even though the final score was far different than what it was (3-0? 4-1?) when I gave up and switched over to Kobe vs. The Whole Entire World.
Here's the bitch of it all: After last night, I'm 100 percent tired of this fucking Fratellis song, a.k.a. The Beer-Drool-Inducing Blackhawks Goal Song; I already was at about 98 percent before last night, simply because of that Amstel Light commercial, which I shall not reproduce here.
Seriously, even if you're a Blackhawks lover, you have to admit that this shit is colossally annoying. Like, "Justin Bieber" or "Miley Cyrus" or "Gary Glitter" annoying:
PRIMER: Ebert's review of the film.
DATA: "RHNY" Season 3 bios.
SUGGESTED ORDERING FOR HUMAN CENTIPEDE:THE HEAD: LUANN
THE NO 2: SONJA
AT THE FRONT OF THE MIDDLE: KELLY
NEXT: JILL, THEN BETHENNY, THEN RAMONA
THE TAIL: ALEX
And that thing is the PMRC. And what better way to recall those days than this Oprah episode: You've got Jello Biafra in a suit; Tipper looking all Tipper-y; Ice-T at the cusp of his second career as a guy with mass appeal; a babyfaced Juan Williams; Rabbi Abraham Cooper; and writer Nelson George. You can see Modern Cable News brewing in it. Part 1 of 5:
But it's actually chocolate sauce. Y'know, like Heidi Klum, as you see here.* Except you strap a stuffed shorebird to your crotch to hide your chucky, and you use little BP flowerbursts to cover your nipples. You can cover your ass with an object of your choosing (mud plug?). YOU'VE GOT SEVERAL MONTHS TO PERFECT IT, SO GET CRACKIN' NOW.
(NOTE: SHOREBIRD-ON-CHUCKY NOT SHOWN)
* Klum's choco-slathered pics were published before the Gulf Coast oil spill and therefore she has nothing to do with the idea for this Halloween costume.
The Real Housewives of New York can eat the dicks at the bottom of the bag of dicks; I find those ladies utterly exhausting, and they also make me sad in the same way the gorilla house at the zoo makes me sad. The Jersey chicks, though? Now that's some fake-realness that calls to me. It says: "We are a hugely cartoony bosomy exaggeration of the suburban life that wraps America like a fleece blanket. You knew us once. Perhaps we sat next to you in religion class."
I mean, yeah, I usually cannot make it through an entire hour of their horseshit. But I almost get there. The RHNJ/RHNY show-to-show minute-watching-capability proportion looks something like this:
45/NJ = 15/NY
And within last night's 45, there was Teresa's epidural. She was having a baby. The baby turned out to be beautiful. Blah blah blah. It was rich Jersey people making a rich Jersey kid. But I *loved* watching that needle go in. Not in some sort of sadistic way. Nor was schadenfreude a factor. And yes, it was gross, but it also was reality-show peril at its most poetic: Give the flesh-and-blood woman a hardcore anesthetic because she exists and therefore has a nervous system and is not a guido robot.
In that infinitesimal moment, as she was slathered in iodine, I did not want her to be hurt. THIS IS WHAT MAKES AMERICA GREAT.
PREVIOUSLY: PROSTITUTION WHORE
I considered spiders, scorpions, beetles and ants. But the wasp? Oh so nice. Quote: "And that is a very important stage in the development of the social life. In fact, it's the very basis on which all the great insect societies are built. This species of wasp, however, is still at the stage of working alone."
Take a close look.
Yeah, sure, the combination of the granny glasses, the soul patch and the quasi-shag haircut make him look like the aging crate-digger that he's supposed to be. But it's still Steve Zahn. Minnesota guy. Perpetually tweaked out. I know dudes who are crusty indie-radio types, and they're never as wound up as Zahn is when he's actually trying to act mellow.
Love you, Steve. Love the character. Love the fact that WWOZ is a character in the show, too. But you gotta go to Heroin Factor 9 for this role, and right now you're at like Factor 3.
ADDENDUM: Forgot to mention that I did think the ass-shot was bold, yo.
recognizes the influx of micronutrients, and within minutes my bowels
relinquish a fine display of fecal prowess. It is approximately 5:30
p.m., not within my normal dook-realm.
Anthony Bourdain, if you're reading this, I say: This is your next
frontier. Don't riff on the meat or how good it tastes. Tell me if your
body was so pleased that you had to un-cage a glorious king snake
Make it be so.
Stumbled across Kay Kay today while trolling for hip-hop flotsam. SHE TALKS ALL NICELY AND MAKES BEATS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES. IT COULD BE A TV SHOW. YOU WOULD WATCH IT THE SAME WAY YOU WATCH THOSE FOOD NETWORK LADIES. That's right, you and your girl, cuddled up on the couch, watchin' BEATS all day Saturday instead of FOOD. And your girl would be just as interested as you are. And maybe your girl would START MAKING BEATS FOR YOU. Yeah, that would be fantastic.
Kay Kay, to her credit, always tells you where she stops talkin' and starts slappin' on the drum machine. NOW THAT'S A LADY. Here it drops at 1:23. <--- METAPHOR, YO.
We've definitely had our knickers in a pleasant twist about Locke at times, but after last night's Lost, we realize now that we really/actually/distinctly love Terry O'Quinn as a vessel for everything that the Lost writers want to put into it/him. He's not a vessel as in, "ooh yeah, lil' ho, take it," he's a vessel as in, "that frickin' handmade ancient urn is AWESOME." The medium is the message, maybe? Fuck, maybe they should've called the character McLuhan instead. Or Marshall, just for the sake of subtlety. Then they would've had to find a different name for Locke's "Jeremy Bentham" identity, and I don't know enough about semiotics/semantics/linguistics to think of a perfect swap-out. "Noam Chomsky," maybe? No, that's awful. Fuck, shit ... shows you how much I know.
Some of these moms are kinda hot:
OR, PERHAPS: Maybe I'm looking for some sort of an emotional-sexual refuge, after watching Sidney Crosby score that goal.
OH CANADA: You think you're one of a special breed/You think that you're his pet Pekinese ...
Yeah you, the "Real World" guy. You may be a virgin and a shit-talker, but I can assure you that at your age, Poppa Cesspool was more of a virgin and more of a shit-talker than you could ever hope to be. So let me break it down: The key to self-actualizing, Andrew, is to *almost* get in some fistfights. Skeeving people out with petty lies and sexual non-sequiturs is boring. Confusing them to the point of near-violence, however, is art. If you're truly a genius, you'll be so gross that you're hot, so full of shit that dudes will find you dangerous. Oh yeah, I forgot one thing: LEARN FROM THE RAPPERS: It doesn't hurt to surround yourself with a posse of freaks. This delightful-loner stuff is a dead-end street. You'll actually get punched one day, because the perpetrators will not fear retribution. And getting punched is not art.
It's possible that all of this advice will be moot because of some plot-twist that turns you into a poet/fuckmachine, but I'm willing to that risk.
"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.
(Photo from Flickr user 66Baseball)
Yer Poppa complained loudly about the fact that many of the Phils' first-round playoff games were on the boobtube at inconvenient times -- like, uh, 2:30 p.m. on a Wednesday, when even Your Friendly Office Bourbon Fiend might have a hard time saying "I gotta get LUNCH" with a plausibly straight face. Now I'm wondering if all this prime-time October baseball action is only a mirage of convenience. Because on Monday night, I fell asleep well before Jimmy Rollins hit that double, and I awoke only to the sound of TBS announcers pulling their tongues out of their tracheas. Dude, I'm an old man, and an 8:07 start time only guarantees that I gotta guzzle some PG Tips or a Mt. Doo-Doo to stay awake for all 9 innings.
Sometimes you just gotta do the muh-fuckin' Chilly Willy. This snippet has a Great Recession theme. I think Chillz gets to keep the booster seat, however. It's a metaphor of some sort:
NOTE: Chillz is slightly more verbal than Curious George.
There are many, many possible reactions to this ad: Disbelief that Imus still has a show; laughter at the fact that a business news channel hired him; general pity; complete indifference; and so on. Behold:
But here's what I'm thinking: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU, GENIUS FOX NETWORK PEOPLE, FOR NOT MAKING ME LOOK AT AN ACTUAL PICTURE OF THAT NASTY OLD FART. The hat is skeevy enough, but I guess they had to put some sort of signature image.
THANK U LIFETIME NETWORK FOR THIS AWESOME FILM. IT IS OBVIOUSLY DIRECTED AT ME, BECAUSE A HOMICIDAL MANIAC COMES ALONG AND SLASHES ALL THESE PEOPLE, RIGHT? THE TRAILER MAKES IT SEEM THAT WAY, EXCEPT YOU NEVER SEE THE HOMICIDAL MANIAC. OH WELL.
Today I got a bee in my bonnet about Lil' Boosie, but he'll have to wait, because while scratching that itch, I came across this number from block1100. It's not directed at me (duh), it's not 100 percent smooth (what's up with that kid in the back?), and I'm not sure I could define the *exact* audience for it (Waco dudes?), but anybody who dreams of being the next great motherfuckin' video blogger should take note of his dash-mounted cinematography and his authoritative driver's-seat swag:
NOTE: The reason I was pondering Boosie: "Sportscenter" in HD was creeping me the fuck out because all the anchors have nasty orange skin. Thus: MTV Jams.
This twister was in Canada, but whatever. They're weird, too.
The rise of the pocket video camera means that every single fucking tornado that comes into contact with civilization is now probably preserved in pixels. I'm actually OK with this, because of all the shit that happens on a regular basis in the sky, tornadoes are the closest thing -- in disposition, if not constitution -- to angry extraterrestrial life forms descending on the landscape. In fact, I have a hypothesis that goes something like this: Give a Flip camera to every knucklehead in tornadoland, and large swaths of our nation's rich UFO-conspiracy heritage would start to dissolve. Because, really, look at that huge fucking tornado. Holy shit.
Lately I've stopped watching each episode about 10 minutes before the winner is announced. I just kinda drift away or conk out. But I don't care that I miss the resolution of the drama. The fun -- if it can be called that -- is in the mental appropriation-of-concoction, not the vicarious triumph. Maybe I'm secretly a hippie. Last night I stopped watching the Middle-Aged White Guys Championship after the food was delivered to the feasting zombies. Who won that shit? I dunno. And Ep. 1 of The Tattoos, Sideburns, Piercings and Annoying Siblings Collective? Some chick made meat out of wheat gluten, right?
As far as catch phrases go, this one has legs as long as a 5'11" stripper. Thank you Teresa, real housewife of New Jersey, for saying it. And thank you Danielle, real skank of New Jersey, for prompting Teresa to say it. The applications are endless. Use it on your housewives, your momz, your boyfriends, your kids, your bosses. Doesn't matter what the situation is. Burned your toast? "Prostitution whore." Windows Vista is acting up? "Prostitution whore." Somebody is watching a Bravo reality show while an important sporting event is on? "Prostitution whore." Don't let go, people. It's a keeper, and the world is full of prostitution whores.
Creeping toward middle age has increased my tolerance for things that originally had succumbed to my penchant for stereotyping. E.L.O.? I used to think they existed solely for the mustachioed cokeheads and partytime alcoholics that constituted the nation of "rock fans" in the late '70s. Now I'm down with Jeff Lynne. I mean, I'm not breaking out "Don't Bring Me Down" on a regular basis, but I totally get where the fuck it was comin' from.
10cc? Not so much. "The Things We Do For Love" came on the '70s channel this morning (on Music Choice, natch), and for a second, I was prepared to devote some revisionism to it. "Fuck, maybe this song is a stone classic of popcraft, and I should detatch myself from my long-held notions of it," I said to myself. Wrong. That shit is bugged-out and busy, and I found myself numbed by the process of analyzing its structure. If I had barbituates, I would have taken them.
I'm not sure how long this has been out there, but when I watch it, I get sad, because I see dozens of people doing a distracting dance with baggy pants on, and as far as I can tell, none of them are shoplifting anything.
I would've at least left with a pair of boxers or socks or something like that.
QUOTE: "I took an American Red Cross CPR class so that I’d be prepared to respond to cardiac emergencies. On the runway and off, at work or hanging out with my kids, I want to be ready to help if something happened." -- from Heid Klum, via the American Red Cross, about June being National CPR/AED Awareness Week.
TRANSLATION: "Those underfed, brittle-boned, meth'ed-up, dehydrated, chain-smokin' runway bitches keel over at the most inopportune times."
1. In the end, it's Abrams' statement about how popcorny franchise movies should be made, not about what "Star Trek" should be. If you'd given him "Buck Rogers" or "The Black Hole" or "Moonraker" or "Flash Gordon," it would've come out the same way. And I would've paid to see it.
2. I'm totally down with this dude:
3. Is Glondor a Romulan? Or is Eric Bana actually Glondor?
4. ENUFF WITH THE TIME-TRAVEL PLOTS, J.J. ... DO ANOTHER ONE, AND I WILL PUT A BURNING BAG OF DOO-DOO ON YOUR DOORSTEP.
Eminem on German television. Thank God for the curse words:
I noted earlier today that just when you think ESPN has found a new love (Mark Sanchez, A-Rod, etc.), old fart Brett Favre decides to float the idea that he might be coming out of retirement. All-a-sudden, you can almost hear the squeals of delight emanating from Connecticut: GRANDPAPPY QB IS BACK! PREPARE THE METAPHORICAL HARD-ONS!
Anyway, I could give a shit about Brett Favre. As the day rolled on, though, I began to think more and more about the image of Rachel Nichols standing in front of a viking boat. Sure, it's just a cheesy, NFL-ized replica. And I rarely find myself thinking about Rachel Nichols at all. So I'm a little disappointed in myself for being so easily titillated by such a juxtaposition. But still, it's squishy-weird up in here. Let's just leave it at that. Pic: