The clip show continues! If you missed part 1 of this epic stroll down memory lane with a dash of new content tossed in for good measure, click here. Shall we move on? Let’s.
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Wednesday January 14: the day I quit my New Year’s resolutions. “You’re a quitter,” I hear you say. First of all, rude, second, duh, I used the word ‘quit’ right there when describing what I did with my resolutions. You don’t know the whole story though. Let’s say I went through with them, which I no doubt would’ve done because I am a man of perseverance; a man who does not walk away from something because it’s difficult; a man who gets the job done. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same (just promise you won’t ask any family or friends of mine or anyone who knows me or knows of me. Nothing but filthy liars every last one). Once completed, I would be quite nearly perfect (I only use the qualifier ‘nearly’ as a means of false modesty. In a cruelly ironic twist, giving up false modesty was one of my resolutions). That wouldn’t be fair to anyone. Men would rend their garments and hate me for representing all that they could never be, women would wail inconsolably fearing that I was unattainable, and children would be directionless because I’d set a standard to which they could never aspire. Humanity would grind to a halt. Besides, one perfect man has already walked the earth among us mere mortals. Perhaps you’ve heard of him: long, flowing hair, well-kempt beard, and spoke often and poetically about love. I’m talking of course about Barry Gibb. He’s already done perfection and he’s still alive much as he prophesied in song. Not unlike Highlanders, there can be only one perfect man strutting around the earth at any given time.
What I’m trying to say is that I love you all too much to improve upon my many, many failings. Maybe next year…if Barry allows it.
Perfection personified. Glory unto his name.
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Shit I think about: are there any modern mad scientists? If so, are they “mad” in the traditional sense meaning “crazy as fuckall?” Or is it more like, “He’s a mad scientist, yo. All he does all day long is science the shit out of stuff.” In other words, is having “mad science” the same as having “mad skillz?”
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Stuff Facebook thinks about me based on the targeted ads in my feed:
-I’m gay, yet also super into mature women. So I guess I’m bi, but only for ladies over the age of 60. It’s so oddly specific and very confusing. Yesterday, I didn’t even know I was into guys. Today, I’m apparently a bisexual ageist. Crazynuts.
-There is a veritable fuck-ton of singles in my general proximity, both male and female, who are just dying to de-pants in front of me if only I’d acknowledge their existence by joining several, shady as fuck dating sites. They are so eager to sex me and they all live in my zip code!! What are the odds? Plus, they all look like models. I don’t know where these people are hiding because a solid 98% of the people in my neighborhood are trolls. Not like internet trolls, but mythical, hideous trolls. They should be living under bridges among the bones of goats unfortunate enough to trip-trap across their paths.
-I have herpes. Like mad herpes. Full body herpes. Just so much herpes. More herpes than you can shake a stick at. You could try, but you’d be standing there holding a non-shaking stick looking like a fool. That’s how much herpes Facebook thinks I have. All the herpes. Considering Facebook thinks I’m living a swinging, bisexual, ageist lifestyle, I guess that was inevitable. Ladies?
-I am incredibly litigious and interested in joining any number of class-action lawsuits even though I have no basis for doing so. Shit, I gotta get paid, right?
So thanks for the laughs, weird Facebook advertising algorithm. Care to try again?
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My new horror film premise. Read on…if you dare.
Haunted by his father’s death in a tragic cardigan accident, a rogue entomologist creates a race of massive, basketball-sized MOTHS. When unleashed upon the world, they simply will not stop until they’ve destroyed the entirety of humanity…’s sweaters. Only one man can stop them – REX KILLBUGGINTON. Rex was laughed out of the Lepidopterist Society for his theories on the potential for moth huge-ification. Proven right, Rex has to race against time to construct the world’s biggest mothball or, failing that, like a really big cedar chest. Will he succeed or is mankind doomed to suffer a slight chill on those brisk autumn days…?
“NO SWEATER IS SAFE.”
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Fuck you, ninjas!!
The year: 1985. The film: Gymkata. I’m baffled as to why this film didn’t destroy Back to the Future at the box office and launch star Kurt Thomas into the stratosphere. It is easily the finest film about gymnastics as a martial art ever committed to celluloid. Haven’t seen it? Look at the poster. LOOK AT IT. That’s a dude kicking two ninjas’ faces right the fuck off with the power of gymnastics. Ninjas: the embodiment of stealth and badassery getting their skulls caved in by a gymnast. By the Gymkata. And that’s just the poster! Imagine what glory awaits you, novice viewer, if you possess both a VCR and $2 American (the going rate for a used VHS copy on eBay). I envy you, I truly do, for I can never watch Gymkata again for the first time. That is a pleasure to be enjoyed but once. Savor it. And when you come down from that Gymkata high, come visit me so we can high-five each other and talk about how inane our lives were before.
…before the Gymkata.
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Why I’m a moron reason number 6,283
Yesterday, I had an issue with my work laptop and contacted IT for assistance. In order to help me, the IT guy told me he needed to know my computer’s name. I replied, “Kevin.” Understand, I wasn’t trying to make a joke, I really named my work laptop Kevin (Aside — I named my personal laptop, Robopal, because he is a robot and also my pal). He just got this look on his face — the kind of look I imagine all IT people get when, for the briefest second, they think maybe they’re dealing with a person who doesn’t spend his days seeing how hard he can hit himself in the head with a heavy wooden mallet before losing consciousness…and then immediately realize that, no, they’re yet again dealing with Lenny from Of Mice and Men. When he told me he actually needed the net name of my computer, I felt like an idiot. I think that’s because I am in fact an idiot.
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Tonight I realized that my full name is an anagram of Rich Mr. Banana Pickle, ENT. This obviously made me very happy…and made me long to be a wealthy, phallically named ear, nose & throat specialist. Someday…
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It’s been a long cold winter, ladies and gentlemen, but it’s finally here: jort weather. Jorts are not born, they’re made. So grab your favorite pair of jeans and cut the legs off! Oh, you went too far and now they’re too short? Let me tell you a little secret: JORTS ARE NEVER TOO FUCKING SHORT. No, but they’re, like really short and people can see your pockets? THAT JUST MEANS YOU DID IT RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER. Bare those pockets for all to see. Luxuriate in the freedom, the gentle caress of shredded denim cradling your loins. From this day forward, you will wonder how you ever lived without it.
¡Viva la jort Revolución!
You should be wearing these or nothing at all.
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I tried to watch Return of the Jedi for probably the 87th time last night (I have a bit of a Star Wars problem), but something happened. For the first time, I questioned something that I never even thought of before and it broke my brain. The 20th Century Fox fanfare barely ends when we get the John Williams theme and the famous crawl that includes this line:
“Little does Luke know that the GALACTIC EMPIRE has secretly begun construction on a new armored space station even more powerful than the first dreaded Death Star.”
More powerful than the first dreaded Death Star? Was not the first dreaded Death Star in possession of a laser capable of, you know, destroying an entire MOTHERFUCKING planet at the mere pull of a couple levers? What does the new Death Star do that’s more powerful than that? Does its planet-destroying laser blast planets into more satisfyingly small chunks? Is its planet-destroying laser slightly thicker or ribbed for her pleasure or something? Can its planet-destroying laser slap two planets out of existence at once like an angry Moe simultaneously bitch-slapping Larry and Curly*? Does its planet-destroying laser make espresso? If it does anything better than the original, we certainly never see it. From a layman’s perspective, my home planet being destroyed is my home planet being destroyed. I don’t care if it’s with a slightly more powerful weapon than you had before or not and neither should anyone else – we’re all extinct either way. I can’t help but wonder if the whole “more powerful” thing is tantamount to iOS updates: sure you gain a couple of minor bump ups to your planet-destroying laser, but it takes up a ton of memory space and suddenly you can’t get a wifi signal anymore and your GPS is telling you some random volcano on a lava planet in Bantha-fuck Tatooine is a rebel base. I don’t know, man, it just doesn’t seem worth it. And now I’ve ruined Return of the Jedi for myself. Don’t even get me started on Ewoks.
*Author’s Note: This post was written a few months before The Force Awakens gave us a planet-sized Death Star that did, in fact, bitch slap not two, but THREE planets out of existence at once. I’m beginning to think Star Wars needs to let the whole planet-destroying laser go for a while. Maybe try a planet destroying slingshot? Call me, Disney. I have ideas.
Rants & Anecdotes 