Finally, something interesting in Admin.
A group of death row inmates in Texas sued the FDA. Their claim was that the drugs that would be used in the lethal injections had not been approved by the FDA as "safe and effective" for human execution. Unless the FDA ruled that these drugs were suitable for execution, the inmates said, the death sentences could not be legally enforced.
They were all hanged.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
There Goes the Neighborhood
We often called most of the houses in Collegetown by the charming name of ghettos, slums, and projects. A lot of them looked like crack dens and halfway homes. But we never thought the police would take the names literally.
Yesterday, the SWAT team (!) raided a house up on sleepy ole' Linden.
Yesterday, the SWAT team (!) raided a house up on sleepy ole' Linden.
Witnessing the event, one college-aged student was heard saying, “I always knew that was a crack house.”The SWAT team would have received assistance from the police, but Ithaca's finest was too busy arresting kids for playing Guitar Hero.An officer quickly replied, “Not any more.”
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Hope Springs Eternal
It is gray outside. Thirty-something degrees. Jobs don't just not exist, they're also disappearing.
But I'm watching the Braves play in Florida on TV right now. They're losing. But it's spring training right now, so who cares.
Baseball is back. And that's effing wonderful.
But I'm watching the Braves play in Florida on TV right now. They're losing. But it's spring training right now, so who cares.
Baseball is back. And that's effing wonderful.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Quote of the Day XLV
"The government wants to ban pet chimps? I'm sorry, but you can have my chimp when you pry him from my cold, dead neighbor."
-- Marc
Hungry Like the Wolfe
Is it weird that I'm incredibly annoyed that our criminal procedure professor, in his slides and hand-outs, keeps misspelling the very important and famous (in crim pro, at least) Wolf v. Colorado as Wolfe? This would be like ESPN showing graphics that say "Willie Mayes."
Gar.
Gar.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Skullduggery
As Rob said, this is what happens "when shadies get too shady."
The fine folks over at Skull & Bones are being sued by the descendants of Geronimo.
Everyone knows that playing on an Indian burial ground is bad juju. Poltergeist, The Amityville Horror and other such documentaries have taught us this.
Nevertheless, the kids at Yale decided grave-robbing was a good use of their time and took to desecrating graves.
Apparently, they got the wrong one, although the complaint conveniently ignores that. It's just as well that this happened dozens of years ago. Bush the lesser would have probably thought that Geronimo was what someone shouted when you pushed them off a cliff.
There are also various reports that their Tomb also houses the skull of Pancho Villa. The most iconic Mexican of them all. And the Bonesmen have it.
(Ponders).
We should have that skull. We can totally get it. If law school has taught me anything, is that stealing something stolen is not stealing.
. . .
I have no chance of passing the bar.
In any case, I say to, um, our group (you know who you are) that we turn what should only be a shady-to-shady prank into an international incident.
Sure, they have former presidents. But some of us can do this:
Bring it, John Kerry. Bring it.
The fine folks over at Skull & Bones are being sued by the descendants of Geronimo.
Everyone knows that playing on an Indian burial ground is bad juju. Poltergeist, The Amityville Horror and other such documentaries have taught us this.
Nevertheless, the kids at Yale decided grave-robbing was a good use of their time and took to desecrating graves.
Apparently, they got the wrong one, although the complaint conveniently ignores that. It's just as well that this happened dozens of years ago. Bush the lesser would have probably thought that Geronimo was what someone shouted when you pushed them off a cliff.
There are also various reports that their Tomb also houses the skull of Pancho Villa. The most iconic Mexican of them all. And the Bonesmen have it.
(Ponders).
We should have that skull. We can totally get it. If law school has taught me anything, is that stealing something stolen is not stealing.
. . .
I have no chance of passing the bar.
In any case, I say to, um, our group (you know who you are) that we turn what should only be a shady-to-shady prank into an international incident.
Sure, they have former presidents. But some of us can do this:
Bring it, John Kerry. Bring it.
The Pancake Theory
I think this is my original theory. That said, it sounds like something Bill Simmons wrote, and I’m afraid of plagiarizing.
I have asked several friends and googled it, but can’t find any evidence that Simmons originated this. So I am going to assume that the theory is my own. Should I be wrong, as I often am, let me know.
In any case, today you can get free pancakes at iHop. This sounds like terrific news. But my theory says it isn’t
Ladies and gentlemen, the pancake theory:
When you first sit down at a diner, and order pancakes, you’re thinking, “Man, pancakes are awesome. I love pancakes! Why don’t we eat pancakes every day? I should effin shower in pancakes.” And so on.
But then, when you’re halfway done with the pancakes, your thinking is, “God, this is a lot of pancakes."
At about the 2/3 or 4/5 mark, you look kind of green, and are eating slowly, and are staring at the pancakes like they’re crying babies at the movies. Your thought: “I’m really getting kind of sick of pancakes.”
And, of course, when you’re done with the pancakes, you never want to have any again. You’re staggering and miserable and your thought is, “Pancakes really effin suck.”
Like all theories, this can apply to many things. Some that come immediately to mind are: Hours spent at a strip club. Pitchers of Guinness. Nights in Vegas. Weeks spent at home. Etc.
So, no, I’m not going to get free pancakes. Not sober, at least.
I have asked several friends and googled it, but can’t find any evidence that Simmons originated this. So I am going to assume that the theory is my own. Should I be wrong, as I often am, let me know.
In any case, today you can get free pancakes at iHop. This sounds like terrific news. But my theory says it isn’t
Ladies and gentlemen, the pancake theory:
When you first sit down at a diner, and order pancakes, you’re thinking, “Man, pancakes are awesome. I love pancakes! Why don’t we eat pancakes every day? I should effin shower in pancakes.” And so on.
But then, when you’re halfway done with the pancakes, your thinking is, “God, this is a lot of pancakes."
At about the 2/3 or 4/5 mark, you look kind of green, and are eating slowly, and are staring at the pancakes like they’re crying babies at the movies. Your thought: “I’m really getting kind of sick of pancakes.”
And, of course, when you’re done with the pancakes, you never want to have any again. You’re staggering and miserable and your thought is, “Pancakes really effin suck.”
Like all theories, this can apply to many things. Some that come immediately to mind are: Hours spent at a strip club. Pitchers of Guinness. Nights in Vegas. Weeks spent at home. Etc.
So, no, I’m not going to get free pancakes. Not sober, at least.
The Twitterati
A “twit” is someone who posts on twitter. A “twat” is the past tense of twittering. Never have two words described so much about so few.
Mardi Gras!
Happy Fat Tuesday!
In observance of this should-be-national holiday, I hereby pledge that, if I should be put on call today, I will whip off my shirt, scream "WOOOOOO!" and promptly pass out on the desk.
Now where's my beads?
In observance of this should-be-national holiday, I hereby pledge that, if I should be put on call today, I will whip off my shirt, scream "WOOOOOO!" and promptly pass out on the desk.
Now where's my beads?
Monday, February 23, 2009
You're So Money
Like all good times, the experience in Vegas is less a linear storyline and more of a scattershot collection of images where you can only tell what happened before what because of the shirt you're wearing. And sometimes not even then. So in the spirit of that, and because I couldn't present a coherent narrative of these if my life depended on it, here's a collection of thoughts about the Vegas weekend:
1. Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.
2. Every time I saw a single mother, I thought of Marc.
3. Anything more than three days in Vegas is just stupid. Just three days and I feel like one of those geese that flew into the engines of the plane that landed in the Hudson. I'm still limping even though I suffered no physical injuries.
4. Food comas can become fatal. And meatsweats could drown a small child.
5. Why on Earth would you bring your kids to Vegas? That's like bringing your wife to the strip club.
6. All of us, at some point, failed to remember our room number. One of us, in fact, spent a good hour looking for our room in the wrong hotel.
7. Having too many people to a room sometimes results in trouble when trying to figure out who gets what bed and which couch and when. In Vegas, however, that is not a problem, since you can sleep in shifts.
8. Gambling story number one. Six people sitting at a blackjack table. Dealer hands out first cards. Every single one of us -- all of us -- has an ace. We all woop and holler. And then, in the biggest disappointment since seeing Catherin Zeta-Jones naked in a movie, dealer hands out the second cards and every single person gets a five or six. So now a table full of aces is all sitting on soft 15s and 16s. Then dealer turns over a six. What can you do? Only thing you can do. We all double down. Dealer hands out every single card face down. Then he turns over his own second card. A two. So he's at 8. Eff me. Then he draws a third card. A three to make it 11. THE HORROR. Then he draws, God bless America, a four. Joy. Then a ten. Bust. Jubilation. The scenic route, but it works. Hugs, High Fives and general merriment. Then he turns over our face-down third cards. And wouldn't you know it. Five tens and one nine. Such is Vegas.
9. The bathtub in our room could have easily fit three people. Not two. Three.
10. The food in Vegas is spectacular.
11. Sign of the depression: There were tables at the Wynn for ten dollars. That's like finding out Michael Jordan actually wears Hanes undershirts. Seriously. Last time I was in Vegas a year-and-a-half ago, their cheapest table was fifty. This depressed the hell out of me. In good news, however, I now know what a Wynn chip looks like. They're incredibly simple and elegant and are made from the bones of fromerly distressed gamblers.
12. Gambling story number two. Sitting at Bellagio, just three of us at a 10 dollar table, doing very well. In comes in cougar lady and sits at sixth seat. She pulls out five hundreds and lays them all on the table. Dealer starts counting out chips and she stops him and says one. One chip?? we all ask, flabbergasted. She nods. Dealer gives her five hundy chip. She puts it down. And wouldn't you know it. Ace. Ten. $750 profit and she just smiles. Such is Vegas.
13. There's nothing sadder than yakking up a hundred-dollar dinner. (This was not me). But, in his words, "It was so good, I had to taste it twice."
14. A Kobe beef burger is probably the first thing they give you in heaven. As an appetizer before the prime rib. You can handle this because this is heaven and you can't get fat or have (another) heart attack.
15. There should be a special circle of hell reserved for the guy at the blackjack table who, every time he gets something that is not a face card, sighs heavily, or says "of course," or "makes sense" or some other totally useless, woe-is-me, karma-killing comment. And, in that circle of hell, he always gets 16.
16. I'm convinced that every eighth drink they bring you is just coke. They can tell.
17. Pete Rose's new day job is to sign autographs for 50 dollars at the forum shops at Caesar's. It's the most depressing thing in the world. I've been going to Vegas for three years and he's always -- always -- there in the same stupid little white baseball cap, signing autographs, glancing at his watch a lot, enduring the "Hall-of-Famer!" heckles of drunk frat boys. I wouldn't wish that fate on A-Rod. . . OK. That's kind of a lie.
18. Saying, "Vegas, Baby! Vegas!" never gets old.
19. Cougars are endlessly amusing.
20. I don't think I've ever been this exhausted in my life. In fact, I don't know if I'll ever be not exhausted again. Yet I'd go back tomorrow if I could.
21. Let's just say chanting "Let's Go Red!" never felt better or yielded better results.
1. Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.
2. Every time I saw a single mother, I thought of Marc.
3. Anything more than three days in Vegas is just stupid. Just three days and I feel like one of those geese that flew into the engines of the plane that landed in the Hudson. I'm still limping even though I suffered no physical injuries.
4. Food comas can become fatal. And meatsweats could drown a small child.
5. Why on Earth would you bring your kids to Vegas? That's like bringing your wife to the strip club.
6. All of us, at some point, failed to remember our room number. One of us, in fact, spent a good hour looking for our room in the wrong hotel.
7. Having too many people to a room sometimes results in trouble when trying to figure out who gets what bed and which couch and when. In Vegas, however, that is not a problem, since you can sleep in shifts.
8. Gambling story number one. Six people sitting at a blackjack table. Dealer hands out first cards. Every single one of us -- all of us -- has an ace. We all woop and holler. And then, in the biggest disappointment since seeing Catherin Zeta-Jones naked in a movie, dealer hands out the second cards and every single person gets a five or six. So now a table full of aces is all sitting on soft 15s and 16s. Then dealer turns over a six. What can you do? Only thing you can do. We all double down. Dealer hands out every single card face down. Then he turns over his own second card. A two. So he's at 8. Eff me. Then he draws a third card. A three to make it 11. THE HORROR. Then he draws, God bless America, a four. Joy. Then a ten. Bust. Jubilation. The scenic route, but it works. Hugs, High Fives and general merriment. Then he turns over our face-down third cards. And wouldn't you know it. Five tens and one nine. Such is Vegas.
9. The bathtub in our room could have easily fit three people. Not two. Three.
10. The food in Vegas is spectacular.
11. Sign of the depression: There were tables at the Wynn for ten dollars. That's like finding out Michael Jordan actually wears Hanes undershirts. Seriously. Last time I was in Vegas a year-and-a-half ago, their cheapest table was fifty. This depressed the hell out of me. In good news, however, I now know what a Wynn chip looks like. They're incredibly simple and elegant and are made from the bones of fromerly distressed gamblers.
12. Gambling story number two. Sitting at Bellagio, just three of us at a 10 dollar table, doing very well. In comes in cougar lady and sits at sixth seat. She pulls out five hundreds and lays them all on the table. Dealer starts counting out chips and she stops him and says one. One chip?? we all ask, flabbergasted. She nods. Dealer gives her five hundy chip. She puts it down. And wouldn't you know it. Ace. Ten. $750 profit and she just smiles. Such is Vegas.
13. There's nothing sadder than yakking up a hundred-dollar dinner. (This was not me). But, in his words, "It was so good, I had to taste it twice."
14. A Kobe beef burger is probably the first thing they give you in heaven. As an appetizer before the prime rib. You can handle this because this is heaven and you can't get fat or have (another) heart attack.
15. There should be a special circle of hell reserved for the guy at the blackjack table who, every time he gets something that is not a face card, sighs heavily, or says "of course," or "makes sense" or some other totally useless, woe-is-me, karma-killing comment. And, in that circle of hell, he always gets 16.
16. I'm convinced that every eighth drink they bring you is just coke. They can tell.
17. Pete Rose's new day job is to sign autographs for 50 dollars at the forum shops at Caesar's. It's the most depressing thing in the world. I've been going to Vegas for three years and he's always -- always -- there in the same stupid little white baseball cap, signing autographs, glancing at his watch a lot, enduring the "Hall-of-Famer!" heckles of drunk frat boys. I wouldn't wish that fate on A-Rod. . . OK. That's kind of a lie.
18. Saying, "Vegas, Baby! Vegas!" never gets old.
19. Cougars are endlessly amusing.
20. I don't think I've ever been this exhausted in my life. In fact, I don't know if I'll ever be not exhausted again. Yet I'd go back tomorrow if I could.
21. Let's just say chanting "Let's Go Red!" never felt better or yielded better results.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Vegas, Baby. Vegas!
When you read this, the author of this here weblog will be well on his way to Vegas to stay at the Mandalay Bay with some degenerates. They will recreate the following scene:
They will also try to avoid recreating the following scene:
The author of this here weblog is scheduled to return to Boston at dawn on Monday. Should this not happen, he implores you to refer him to a good criminal lawyer in Clark County, Nevada. If allowed visitors, the author of this weblog asks that you bring cake. The authorities will search for a file and ruin the cake. That's OK. It's still cake. Also, he suggests that it is a bad idea to put a file in the cake. This will only add years to what will likely already be a very long sentence.
Should he not return, the author kindly reminds you not to look in the closet, behind the suits. He also asks that you avenge him.
They will also try to avoid recreating the following scene:
The author of this here weblog is scheduled to return to Boston at dawn on Monday. Should this not happen, he implores you to refer him to a good criminal lawyer in Clark County, Nevada. If allowed visitors, the author of this weblog asks that you bring cake. The authorities will search for a file and ruin the cake. That's OK. It's still cake. Also, he suggests that it is a bad idea to put a file in the cake. This will only add years to what will likely already be a very long sentence.
Should he not return, the author kindly reminds you not to look in the closet, behind the suits. He also asks that you avenge him.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The WTF Party
Somehow, a conversation with Caitlin about prom themes turned into a conversation about lingerie parties. Then that turned into this.
Caitlin: like a tupperware party? Me: yeah Caitlin: so Me: order tupperware? Caitlin: yeah Me: what? Me: wait, so do they have food in them? Liquor?
Caitlin: I doubt it? Me: you just show tupperwares to each other? Caitlin: I have no idea it's kind of a joke Me: this tupperware thing might be the dumbest thing i've ever heard Caitlin: it is Me: like
I literally can't. I've spent an hour trying to think of a dumber thing. And I can't. There's even guides to them. Women get together and a saleswoman comes in and shows them tupperware containers and they buy them and they call it a party.
I never thought I'd say this, but I think I'd rather go to a baby shower. Yeesh.
Me: I went to a lingerie party once. It sucked.
Me: A what?
Caitlin: do you know what tupperware is?
Caitlin: do you know what tupperware is?
women get together
and order it
and have a party
like, the plastic containers you put leftovers in?
for real
i cant think of a dumber thing
I never thought I'd say this, but I think I'd rather go to a baby shower. Yeesh.
Random Video of the Day LIV
"Bob Vance. Fired Roy. And a kidnapped pizza boy.' Ladies and gentlemen, "Ryan Started the Fire!"
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Braves Got No Game
The Braves used to be the varsity quarterback of the MLB. We could get anyone we wanted. Maddux spurned more money and more years from the Yankees to come pitch for us. We could routinely underpay players to get them to pay for us, just because we were awesome. This would be the equivalent of not even having to buy the girl a drink and still she'd come home with you.
But now? Things have changed.
After an offseason of hell, where we were rejected, in order, by Jake Peavy, AJ Burnett, Rafael Furcal, John Smoltz (gah!), and now, Ken Griffey, Jr. Every single one of these players was reportedly within "a crossing of the t's and a dotting of the i's" of coming to Atlanta. And not a single one did.
The Braves are no longer the stud. Sure, the rich kid in the corner with the pinstripes keeps throwing money at all the skanks. But us? Now we're the guy who can't close. We have no game. We couldn't get laid if the girl was drunk, wearing five-inch heels, and had just come home from a full semester at her all-girls boarding school.
(Sighs)
Happy Spring Training.
But now? Things have changed.
After an offseason of hell, where we were rejected, in order, by Jake Peavy, AJ Burnett, Rafael Furcal, John Smoltz (gah!), and now, Ken Griffey, Jr. Every single one of these players was reportedly within "a crossing of the t's and a dotting of the i's" of coming to Atlanta. And not a single one did.
The Braves are no longer the stud. Sure, the rich kid in the corner with the pinstripes keeps throwing money at all the skanks. But us? Now we're the guy who can't close. We have no game. We couldn't get laid if the girl was drunk, wearing five-inch heels, and had just come home from a full semester at her all-girls boarding school.
(Sighs)
Happy Spring Training.
That's What She Said! II
About going to the gym
Caroline: Ok, gotta go work out the chubbies.
Me: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Caroline: Ok, gotta go work out the chubbies.
Me: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Speaking of Baffling Law Prom Themes
Our Law Prom theme is the Kentucky Derby? Really? Was Westminster Dog Show taken? Is that what they're doing up at B.C.?
In any case, I hear the Derby is actually a shitshow. But so is the Daytona 500. And that shouldn't be a prom theme.
But meh. Themes are largely unimportant. I didn't know there was a theme to our last prom until six months after the fact.
Also, the Kentucky Derby features horses. Back in high school, we had a kid who we nicknamed "The Carousel." This was because every time we'd go out, he'd start walking around the club, making laps, walking in a perpetual circle, vainly looking for somebody to mount.
So, only tangentially related, but I guess it bodes well for the event's purposes.
The most surprising thing is that it's at the Park Plaza again, which strikes me as odd. I thought we were banned from that hotel since we got kicked out last year because some girl, um, missed the toilet. Ladies and gentlemen, your future lawyers of America!
But hey, the recession has already been compromising our principles for six months now, so what the hey. Let's not get kicked out this time. Please.
In any case, I hear the Derby is actually a shitshow. But so is the Daytona 500. And that shouldn't be a prom theme.
But meh. Themes are largely unimportant. I didn't know there was a theme to our last prom until six months after the fact.
Also, the Kentucky Derby features horses. Back in high school, we had a kid who we nicknamed "The Carousel." This was because every time we'd go out, he'd start walking around the club, making laps, walking in a perpetual circle, vainly looking for somebody to mount.
So, only tangentially related, but I guess it bodes well for the event's purposes.
The most surprising thing is that it's at the Park Plaza again, which strikes me as odd. I thought we were banned from that hotel since we got kicked out last year because some girl, um, missed the toilet. Ladies and gentlemen, your future lawyers of America!
But hey, the recession has already been compromising our principles for six months now, so what the hey. Let's not get kicked out this time. Please.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Scarlet Letter (Featuring Darth Vader)
How are the main characters in Napoleon Dynamite and Pride and Prejudice alike?
Well, within five minutes, the average viewer wants them both dead.
And, until that day when the Alien decides to break through Napoleon Dynamite’s skinny, whiny, oh-my-god-please-lift-something-heavier-than-your-mouse chest, we’ll have to settle with this.
Elton John (!) is helping produce a piece where Pride and Prejudice will be performed as scheduled, except with the casting addition of the Predator, a monster most famous for his second-degree murder of Carl Weathers.
Not content with just throwing zombies into the mix, Elton John and co. will happily have a Predator run around, blowing up Mr. Darcy and generally wreaking havoc on poor Georgian England. No word yet on whether he’ll be called the Predator or the actual devil incarnate in these buttoned-up, religious times.
A few years ago, someone unearthed a vampire story – screenplay, actually — that was written by William Faulkner. I penned a pretty fun column that has now been lost in the black hole that is The Sun’s internet archives. So I can’t link to it. Alas.
In it, however, I imagined what would happen if zombies overran West Egg and the estate of Jay Gatsby (“I can positively see his brains, old sport!”), Chucky stalked around with Satan in Paradise Lost, and, most pertinent to today’s news, Jason Voorhees was trolling around in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
In my version, Tom and Becky want to go off in their raft, and they ask Jason to push their raft out into the water. He does, but not before setting it (and them) on fire. Jason then smiles silently behind his mask.
My Point? I came up with the idea to drop monsters and serial killers into old literature classics of the English Language. Therefore, I will be asking for royalties. I expect my check any day now, Elton.
Well, within five minutes, the average viewer wants them both dead.
And, until that day when the Alien decides to break through Napoleon Dynamite’s skinny, whiny, oh-my-god-please-lift-something-heavier-than-your-mouse chest, we’ll have to settle with this.Elton John (!) is helping produce a piece where Pride and Prejudice will be performed as scheduled, except with the casting addition of the Predator, a monster most famous for his second-degree murder of Carl Weathers.
Not content with just throwing zombies into the mix, Elton John and co. will happily have a Predator run around, blowing up Mr. Darcy and generally wreaking havoc on poor Georgian England. No word yet on whether he’ll be called the Predator or the actual devil incarnate in these buttoned-up, religious times.
A few years ago, someone unearthed a vampire story – screenplay, actually — that was written by William Faulkner. I penned a pretty fun column that has now been lost in the black hole that is The Sun’s internet archives. So I can’t link to it. Alas.
In it, however, I imagined what would happen if zombies overran West Egg and the estate of Jay Gatsby (“I can positively see his brains, old sport!”), Chucky stalked around with Satan in Paradise Lost, and, most pertinent to today’s news, Jason Voorhees was trolling around in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
In my version, Tom and Becky want to go off in their raft, and they ask Jason to push their raft out into the water. He does, but not before setting it (and them) on fire. Jason then smiles silently behind his mask.
My Point? I came up with the idea to drop monsters and serial killers into old literature classics of the English Language. Therefore, I will be asking for royalties. I expect my check any day now, Elton.
Things Fall Apart
Hey, Cornellians! Remember the awesome hydraulics lab/Morlock hideout in the gorge next to the North Campus Bridge?
Well, now it's gone.
You maniacs! You blew it up! Goshdarn you! Goshdarn you all to heck!
Well, now it's gone.
You maniacs! You blew it up! Goshdarn you! Goshdarn you all to heck!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Oh Those Crazy Jacksons
I guess even our generation's Nostradamus (seriously, the only thing left for this guy to predict is the date Manny will be Manny again) didn't see this one coming.
We all know the Jackson Five manager gave each member his or her own share of crazy, lavishing extra generous portions on Michael. What we didn't realize is that the up-until-now-less-memorable Marlon saved all his crazy until now.
Michael Jackson's brother Marlon is putting the finishing touches on a deal in Nigeria that will create the first hybrid Jackson Five Gift Shop/Slavery Theme Park.
Yes, a theme park. Like Disneyland. Except the theme isn't a mouse with red pants. The theme is slavery. Fun for the whole family!
Every time I try to imagine what a ride at this theme park might be like, I feel incredibly racist. The theme park will reportedly feature "a theme park with a slave ship replica, along with casinos, shops, a golf course and condominiums ... [as well as] memorabilia from the glory years of the Jackson Five." Oh, and hologram images and concert footage. The press release does not specify which one of those two is dedicated to slavery and which one to Tito Jackson.
There is no possible way this can go wrong. The Holocaust Water Park and Tito Puente Museum is living proof of this, enjoying its tenth year of popularity and profitability in Areyoueffincrazyville.
Before getting their pills from Nurse Ratched, the investment group behind the plan claimed that this development will help the growth of tourism in Nigeria. Now I really want to have kids so I can take them there. And we can make that our second stop, right after we visit that deposed Nigerian Queen whose husband owes me money.
I mean, honestly, Papa Jackson. WTF?
We all know the Jackson Five manager gave each member his or her own share of crazy, lavishing extra generous portions on Michael. What we didn't realize is that the up-until-now-less-memorable Marlon saved all his crazy until now.
Michael Jackson's brother Marlon is putting the finishing touches on a deal in Nigeria that will create the first hybrid Jackson Five Gift Shop/Slavery Theme Park.
Yes, a theme park. Like Disneyland. Except the theme isn't a mouse with red pants. The theme is slavery. Fun for the whole family!
Every time I try to imagine what a ride at this theme park might be like, I feel incredibly racist. The theme park will reportedly feature "a theme park with a slave ship replica, along with casinos, shops, a golf course and condominiums ... [as well as] memorabilia from the glory years of the Jackson Five." Oh, and hologram images and concert footage. The press release does not specify which one of those two is dedicated to slavery and which one to Tito Jackson.
There is no possible way this can go wrong. The Holocaust Water Park and Tito Puente Museum is living proof of this, enjoying its tenth year of popularity and profitability in Areyoueffincrazyville.
Before getting their pills from Nurse Ratched, the investment group behind the plan claimed that this development will help the growth of tourism in Nigeria. Now I really want to have kids so I can take them there. And we can make that our second stop, right after we visit that deposed Nigerian Queen whose husband owes me money.
I mean, honestly, Papa Jackson. WTF?
Random Video of the Day LI
Anyone else's childhood die a little yesterday? In its 20th year, The Simpsons has a "new and improved" opening credits scene. Was there really any need to tweak it? In it, Marge actually runs over Homer. This would be like the cop beating the crap out of Will Smith after he catches him spray-painting the wall in the "Fresh Prince" intro. Ugh.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Fatherly Advice
So I get an email from my dad today. And it's a link to this newspaper article about a 16 year-old kid who died after drinking 45 shots of tequila.
And the subject line of the email is: "BE CAREFUL."
I don't quite know what to make of that.
And the subject line of the email is: "BE CAREFUL."
I don't quite know what to make of that.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Day The Muzak Died
A couple of days ago, muzak officially met its maker.
In remembrance, I will now hum "Dust in the Wind" in a quiet, atonal manner that is imperceptible until someone points it out to you. Most of you, in fact, won't even recognize the song, and will spend a good twenty seconds listening to it before you nod and go, "yeah, I guess that's it."
In remembrance, I will now hum "Dust in the Wind" in a quiet, atonal manner that is imperceptible until someone points it out to you. Most of you, in fact, won't even recognize the song, and will spend a good twenty seconds listening to it before you nod and go, "yeah, I guess that's it."
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
War
Someday, when I run for president of the United States, I'm going to run into an insurmountable obstacle that effectively torpedoes my campaign. It won't be the fact that you kind of need to be born here to be president. Arnold is going to take care of that. And it won't be my sordid past and run-ins with the law. As we have seen, you can say the word Jesus and blah blah blah and everyone will call you a mensch for overcoming adversity and your terrible past will become an asset.
No, the problem will come when Mexico plays the United States in soccer and some asshole reporter asks me who I'm rooting for.
The Americans are going to hate the answer. But they won't hate it anywhere near as much as I hate the American soccer team.
We're not just talking a little hate here. We're talking full-blown, irrational, quasi-religious hate. We're talking full scale loathing on a level most people would find frightening.
I don't know why. It has nothing to do with Texas, NAFTA, or the implicit "improvement" that New Mexico connotes.
You all know I love America, almost to the point of infatuation. But when America puts on soccer shoes and tries to kick a ball into a net, I lose all semblance of reason and turn into a hooligan. I rant, rage and exert physical violence upon anything within reach. If I ever see Landon Donovan (or, as he is affectionally known in Mejico, "that little bitch") walking down the street, I would assault him. I am not making this up. I'm not proud of this. It is not a pretty sight.
This is only exacerbated by the fact that, lately, we (Mexico) always effing lose. Always. And it kills me. It's like losing a chugging contest to a girl, or a beer pong game to an engineer. Imagine what Hillary would have felt if Palin had become the first woman president.
Tonight, Mexico faces the United States. I have locked the door and hidden my keys in such a way that I will only be able to retrieve them once the RAGE BLACKOUT subsides. I really hope Mexico wins. I really don't need that third strike.
By tomorrow morning, I'll have returned to my inordinate love for America. Until then, guerra!
No, the problem will come when Mexico plays the United States in soccer and some asshole reporter asks me who I'm rooting for.
The Americans are going to hate the answer. But they won't hate it anywhere near as much as I hate the American soccer team.
We're not just talking a little hate here. We're talking full-blown, irrational, quasi-religious hate. We're talking full scale loathing on a level most people would find frightening.
I don't know why. It has nothing to do with Texas, NAFTA, or the implicit "improvement" that New Mexico connotes.
You all know I love America, almost to the point of infatuation. But when America puts on soccer shoes and tries to kick a ball into a net, I lose all semblance of reason and turn into a hooligan. I rant, rage and exert physical violence upon anything within reach. If I ever see Landon Donovan (or, as he is affectionally known in Mejico, "that little bitch") walking down the street, I would assault him. I am not making this up. I'm not proud of this. It is not a pretty sight.
This is only exacerbated by the fact that, lately, we (Mexico) always effing lose. Always. And it kills me. It's like losing a chugging contest to a girl, or a beer pong game to an engineer. Imagine what Hillary would have felt if Palin had become the first woman president.
Tonight, Mexico faces the United States. I have locked the door and hidden my keys in such a way that I will only be able to retrieve them once the RAGE BLACKOUT subsides. I really hope Mexico wins. I really don't need that third strike.
By tomorrow morning, I'll have returned to my inordinate love for America. Until then, guerra!
The Great Melting
I love 50 degree days in February.
If you see someone outside dancing around a pile of snow, screaming, "Melt! Melt!" and laughing maniacally, it's probably me.
Please don't call the loony bin.
If you see someone outside dancing around a pile of snow, screaming, "Melt! Melt!" and laughing maniacally, it's probably me.
Please don't call the loony bin.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Coldest Day Ever. Ever!
Remember how last month we had that ski trip in Maine? And I complained and complained about how incredibly, nonsensically cold it was? And everyone was like, no, man, you be frontin', there is no way it was that cold.
Yes it was that cold. Science says so! And science never lies!
The coldest day ever in New England. I guess I should be proud that we lived through it.
In retrospect, we were all insane.
Yes it was that cold. Science says so! And science never lies!
The coldest day ever in New England. I guess I should be proud that we lived through it.
In retrospect, we were all insane.
There Are No Stupid Questions, Only Stupid People
Yesterday, a reporter asked Obama about A-Rod in the middle of a press conference about how effed the economy is. He's a good sport and answers it, but the exasperated sigh -- which means, are you actually asking this question now? -- was the exact same sigh we got from Congressman Heath Shuler when Josh asked him about Darfur while the man was back home to open a theme park.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Let Them Eat Caviar
I don't know if anyone caught this article in the NYT the other day, but it is just about the scariest damn thing I've seen in months. And that includes this.
Yeah, that graph is bad. We're the green line. And as those in Boston know, the green line is the worst. thing. ever.
But what's worstest is this article in the NYT explaining to the proletariat how $500,000 per year in Manhattan is no way for a decent person to live. At least, not with dignity.
After helpfully explaining that taxes will leave you with the paltry sum of $270,000 to spend, the newspaper goes on in detail about expenses that, let's face it, are absolutely necessary.
You have to account, of course, for the more-expensive-than-Harvard private schools, setting tuition at over $32,000 a year. You must hire a nanny who makes more than lawyers in middle America. Gowns for the wife that cost more than most people's cars. And there are those two $16,000 vacations one must take every year, or else you risk looking like one of those poor animals who don't know the difference between a mast step and a pulpit.
And they haven't even begun to account for other expenses. Cocaine alone runs you several thousand dollars a month. A worthwhile hooker has to cost more than $5,000 per hour, because, honestly, are you going to slum it at a cheaper price? What are you, the governor? And most essential of all are your accessories. To some, it may be a square piece of cloth. But to others, a $90 pocket square is the difference between you and a peasant.
What do the folks in Washington expect us to do in these big, awesome northeast cities? I mean, this ain't Houston. This ain't Louisville, Cleveland, or even Denver. We are civilized, honest people, and if having that civilization means paying $4.50 for a bagel with cream cheese, then so be it. $500,000 per year? What do they expect people to do? Take cabs? I'd rather stick my head in a bag full of Indian food and take a big whiff.
They're right, though. If the socialists get their way and executive pay gets capped at half million a year, sacrifices must be made.
I'd turn to a life of crime, but let's face it, that happened a long time ago.
So I guess all there is to do is start selling the kids. I'm done spending $32K a year to send them to school. For that money, I can buy a spring wardrobe and fly to Ibiza for the weekend.
Plus, if the kid is as awesome as his nannies tell me via their monthly written reports, he's sure to fetch a pretty penny on the open market. If I sell both kids, I can get enough to get those yacht sails made out of koala pelt. Spare no expense.
Yeah, that graph is bad. We're the green line. And as those in Boston know, the green line is the worst. thing. ever.
But what's worstest is this article in the NYT explaining to the proletariat how $500,000 per year in Manhattan is no way for a decent person to live. At least, not with dignity.
After helpfully explaining that taxes will leave you with the paltry sum of $270,000 to spend, the newspaper goes on in detail about expenses that, let's face it, are absolutely necessary.
You have to account, of course, for the more-expensive-than-Harvard private schools, setting tuition at over $32,000 a year. You must hire a nanny who makes more than lawyers in middle America. Gowns for the wife that cost more than most people's cars. And there are those two $16,000 vacations one must take every year, or else you risk looking like one of those poor animals who don't know the difference between a mast step and a pulpit.
And they haven't even begun to account for other expenses. Cocaine alone runs you several thousand dollars a month. A worthwhile hooker has to cost more than $5,000 per hour, because, honestly, are you going to slum it at a cheaper price? What are you, the governor? And most essential of all are your accessories. To some, it may be a square piece of cloth. But to others, a $90 pocket square is the difference between you and a peasant.
What do the folks in Washington expect us to do in these big, awesome northeast cities? I mean, this ain't Houston. This ain't Louisville, Cleveland, or even Denver. We are civilized, honest people, and if having that civilization means paying $4.50 for a bagel with cream cheese, then so be it. $500,000 per year? What do they expect people to do? Take cabs? I'd rather stick my head in a bag full of Indian food and take a big whiff.
They're right, though. If the socialists get their way and executive pay gets capped at half million a year, sacrifices must be made.
I'd turn to a life of crime, but let's face it, that happened a long time ago.
So I guess all there is to do is start selling the kids. I'm done spending $32K a year to send them to school. For that money, I can buy a spring wardrobe and fly to Ibiza for the weekend.
Plus, if the kid is as awesome as his nannies tell me via their monthly written reports, he's sure to fetch a pretty penny on the open market. If I sell both kids, I can get enough to get those yacht sails made out of koala pelt. Spare no expense.
Just When You Thought It Could Not Be Worse
Sunday, February 8, 2009
A-Roid
This is the week heroes fell.
First, that big, dopey douchebag who won all those medals ruined everything -- including Christmas -- forever. Watching people swim in the Olympics will never be the same. Michael Phelps was my hero. My hero. Why did he do that? You come out with stink like that. Poop. You poopmouth, with poop out of your mouth.
(Runs away crying)
And then Christian Bale. He seemed like such a nice boy, especially when I first saw him in American Psycho. The fact that the guy who plays Batman would have a RAGE BLACKOUT is shocking to me, and I don't know if I'll ever want to be Batman when I grow up again.
Most shocking, saddening, and goddamned devastating of all is the fact that A-Rod, the most beloved figure in baseball, was cutting gym and hanging out with Canseco, McGwire, and the rest of those meatheads in the parking lot.
Ok, let's get real here. Most, if not all, baseball fans regard A-Rod much like prisoners regard the warden-- a smarmy ass, out-of-touch and insufferable, who is probably necessary, and yeah I guess it's good that he's there, but don't you just want to punch him in the mouth? Just one good smack, right through the front teeth. Wouldn't that feel awesome? God!
So yes, there's some degree of schadenfreude. I mean, we all hate A-Rod (remember this?). Especially -- and tragically -- Yankee fans. And now he's gone and joined that list of people who won't ever get into the hall of fame. The fact that he was the one who was supposed to erase Bonds and make everything right again while we all cheered half-heartedly and pretended to be happy only adds to the story, with Jayson Stark weeping, "All we needed was a hero and look! We have nothing!" while wearing sackcloth and ashes.
But people need to make their peace with this. Paul Byrd did steroids. John Rocker too. And Clemens and Pettite and Bonds and your mom all did steroids. Half the people in baseball did steroids. Eventually, more names will come out, and they will break your heart. One day steroids will be linked to someone we actually like -- a Maddux or a Pujols or a Rich Garces -- and we'll have to deal with that.
Steroids are like an STD. They're there, they happened, and there's not a damned thing you or me or anyone can do about it. I'm not saying pretend it never happened, because that's just stupid. The outbreak's right there, and you have to deal with it. And you can rend your garments and weep and wonder what might have been, but it won't change a thing. It's there and it's forever and you better buy some lotion and make your peace with it, 'cause sucker's only going to get worse.
All you can do is, next time, make sure to wear a rubber.
First, that big, dopey douchebag who won all those medals ruined everything -- including Christmas -- forever. Watching people swim in the Olympics will never be the same. Michael Phelps was my hero. My hero. Why did he do that? You come out with stink like that. Poop. You poopmouth, with poop out of your mouth.
(Runs away crying)
And then Christian Bale. He seemed like such a nice boy, especially when I first saw him in American Psycho. The fact that the guy who plays Batman would have a RAGE BLACKOUT is shocking to me, and I don't know if I'll ever want to be Batman when I grow up again.
Most shocking, saddening, and goddamned devastating of all is the fact that A-Rod, the most beloved figure in baseball, was cutting gym and hanging out with Canseco, McGwire, and the rest of those meatheads in the parking lot.
Ok, let's get real here. Most, if not all, baseball fans regard A-Rod much like prisoners regard the warden-- a smarmy ass, out-of-touch and insufferable, who is probably necessary, and yeah I guess it's good that he's there, but don't you just want to punch him in the mouth? Just one good smack, right through the front teeth. Wouldn't that feel awesome? God!
So yes, there's some degree of schadenfreude. I mean, we all hate A-Rod (remember this?). Especially -- and tragically -- Yankee fans. And now he's gone and joined that list of people who won't ever get into the hall of fame. The fact that he was the one who was supposed to erase Bonds and make everything right again while we all cheered half-heartedly and pretended to be happy only adds to the story, with Jayson Stark weeping, "All we needed was a hero and look! We have nothing!" while wearing sackcloth and ashes.
But people need to make their peace with this. Paul Byrd did steroids. John Rocker too. And Clemens and Pettite and Bonds and your mom all did steroids. Half the people in baseball did steroids. Eventually, more names will come out, and they will break your heart. One day steroids will be linked to someone we actually like -- a Maddux or a Pujols or a Rich Garces -- and we'll have to deal with that.
Steroids are like an STD. They're there, they happened, and there's not a damned thing you or me or anyone can do about it. I'm not saying pretend it never happened, because that's just stupid. The outbreak's right there, and you have to deal with it. And you can rend your garments and weep and wonder what might have been, but it won't change a thing. It's there and it's forever and you better buy some lotion and make your peace with it, 'cause sucker's only going to get worse.
All you can do is, next time, make sure to wear a rubber.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Paranoia the Destroyah
Within six months, the following conversation will take place:
Me: Yo, where's [redacted, but rhymes with Sputnik]?
Adam: I dunno. Check your magic phone.
Me: (Checks Magic Phone) It says here he's at 1260 Boylston. What's he doing there?
Adam: That's where the liquor store is.
Me: But today's a holiday and liquor stores are closed in Massachusetts on a holiday.
Adam: Well, the only other things there are a Domino's, a porn store, and a gay bar. And it's too early for the Domino's to be open.
Me: Oh, [redacted].
Google already knows everything. Now it also knows where you are and will gladly let other people know that too.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Google Latitude!
Stalkers everywhere are celebrating. And a celebration like this hasn't been seen since porn titans found out about the internet. Champagne and trenchcoat sales just boomed.
Sure, there are privacy controls. Sure, you can choose whether to share this information or keep it private. You can choose who you want to see where you are. You have every means of control available at your disposal.
But of course the internets neeeeeeever get hacked. Of course your location is neeeeeever compromised. Of course your girlfriend will neeeeeever demand that you turn this on when you go to Vegas with your buddies just to make sure you're back at your hotel (off-strip of course) before midnight. Of course people will neeeeeeeever notice that you seem to spend all your time at that sketchy place in the corner with the painted windows.
And just how the hell are you supposed to "accidentally" give the annoying kid everyone hates the wrong bar name? Watch the "doctor's appointment" excuse cease to be. And can't you picture INS agents somewhere going, "Hmm, Charlie seems to be wandering perilously close to El Paso, don't you think?"
You thought the paranoid were paranoid before? You ain't seen nothing yet. Watch this:
And she would!
Pray for him. Pray for us.
Me: Yo, where's [redacted, but rhymes with Sputnik]?
Adam: I dunno. Check your magic phone.
Me: (Checks Magic Phone) It says here he's at 1260 Boylston. What's he doing there?
Adam: That's where the liquor store is.
Me: But today's a holiday and liquor stores are closed in Massachusetts on a holiday.
Adam: Well, the only other things there are a Domino's, a porn store, and a gay bar. And it's too early for the Domino's to be open.
Me: Oh, [redacted].
Google already knows everything. Now it also knows where you are and will gladly let other people know that too.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Google Latitude!
Stalkers everywhere are celebrating. And a celebration like this hasn't been seen since porn titans found out about the internet. Champagne and trenchcoat sales just boomed.
Sure, there are privacy controls. Sure, you can choose whether to share this information or keep it private. You can choose who you want to see where you are. You have every means of control available at your disposal.
But of course the internets neeeeeeever get hacked. Of course your location is neeeeeever compromised. Of course your girlfriend will neeeeeever demand that you turn this on when you go to Vegas with your buddies just to make sure you're back at your hotel (off-strip of course) before midnight. Of course people will neeeeeeeever notice that you seem to spend all your time at that sketchy place in the corner with the painted windows.
And just how the hell are you supposed to "accidentally" give the annoying kid everyone hates the wrong bar name? Watch the "doctor's appointment" excuse cease to be. And can't you picture INS agents somewhere going, "Hmm, Charlie seems to be wandering perilously close to El Paso, don't you think?"
You thought the paranoid were paranoid before? You ain't seen nothing yet. Watch this:
And she would!
Pray for him. Pray for us.
That's What She Said! I
In Mejico, everything is a double entendre. It is safe to say at least 95 percent of Mexican comedy is based on this form of humor. (The latter 5 percent, of course, is based on middle-aged men dressed as animals).
Imagine my joy -- nay, elation -- at realizing that The Office had popularized the "That's What She Said!" to the point where it is acceptable to use in class.
Since law school is a minefield for this stuff, I will periodically post the best "That's What She Said!" quotes that I, or anyone else for that matter, happens to overhear. I'm inclusive that way.
Yes, Cooper is doing it too. But I can do it better.
Behold, the first submission. I should note these came unprompted from girls:
After coming in from a downpour:
"I'm so wet. I'm completely soaked through."
Girl using the locker next to mine, meaning I can't use my own:
"But we never come at the same time anymore!"
About the crowded elevators:
"It was tight, but I just shoved myself in there."
And the show has reached a new low.
Imagine my joy -- nay, elation -- at realizing that The Office had popularized the "That's What She Said!" to the point where it is acceptable to use in class.
Since law school is a minefield for this stuff, I will periodically post the best "That's What She Said!" quotes that I, or anyone else for that matter, happens to overhear. I'm inclusive that way.
Yes, Cooper is doing it too. But I can do it better.
Behold, the first submission. I should note these came unprompted from girls:
After coming in from a downpour:
"I'm so wet. I'm completely soaked through."
Girl using the locker next to mine, meaning I can't use my own:
"But we never come at the same time anymore!"
About the crowded elevators:
"It was tight, but I just shoved myself in there."
And the show has reached a new low.
Random Video of the Day XLVIII
"Is this real life? ... Why is this happening? ... Is this going to be forever?" This is the deepest kid I've ever seen. Thanks, Caitlin.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Twenty Five Things About Me
1. I would gladly stab the person sitting next to me for a slice of cake.
2. My dad and I both agree that you cannot trust a man who does not drink.
3. I aim to be the second foreign-born president, after Arnold. I will probably also be the last.
4. Prison food is surprisingly tasty.
5. Marriage is simultaneously my greatest fear and my most pressing necessity.
6. Never EVER look in my closet, behind the suits.
7. Everything I drink, I chug. This has proven a problem with hot chocolate.
8. I had nothing to do with the fire at the Monte Carlo.
9. You can't undo the harm done by a bullet. If you immediately regret the decision, all you can do is hope you missed.
10. If it ain't broke, I stay away from it.
11. A man should face his own death in a suit.
12. The drug trade ain't what it used to be.
13. I regard Cornell as one would an amazing girlfriend who died. You miss her like hell and remember all the good times, but you can never have her back. All you can do is go to the graveyard and ponder.
14. My iPhone background features a steak. It's a prime rib, medium rare, and weighs as much as a new-born baby.
15. The best place to hide a knife is on the side of your shin. Alternately, if you're planning to get caught, place a smaller knife in the back of your jacket collar, facing down.
16. My favorite city in America is Las Vegas. Therefore, I can never live there.
17. My kids will be named Jack and Daniel. My hope is my wife doesn't notice until it is too late.
18. The Mexican mafia is quite underrated.
19. I make a mean whiskey and coke. The trick? Half and half.
20. At a certain point, I cut the middleman and drink straight out of the pitcher.
21. I'm going to give my kids to my mother to raise until they're 12 or 14 years old and can play baseball and drink.
22. I think heaven is one huge muffin. And when you die, you get baked into the muffin. But you don't die. You just eat muffin for eternity.
23. My body probably really hates me.
24. That policeman fired first.
25. I'd say a good half of these are true. Probably more.
2. My dad and I both agree that you cannot trust a man who does not drink.
3. I aim to be the second foreign-born president, after Arnold. I will probably also be the last.
4. Prison food is surprisingly tasty.
5. Marriage is simultaneously my greatest fear and my most pressing necessity.
6. Never EVER look in my closet, behind the suits.
7. Everything I drink, I chug. This has proven a problem with hot chocolate.
8. I had nothing to do with the fire at the Monte Carlo.
9. You can't undo the harm done by a bullet. If you immediately regret the decision, all you can do is hope you missed.
10. If it ain't broke, I stay away from it.
11. A man should face his own death in a suit.
12. The drug trade ain't what it used to be.
13. I regard Cornell as one would an amazing girlfriend who died. You miss her like hell and remember all the good times, but you can never have her back. All you can do is go to the graveyard and ponder.
14. My iPhone background features a steak. It's a prime rib, medium rare, and weighs as much as a new-born baby.
15. The best place to hide a knife is on the side of your shin. Alternately, if you're planning to get caught, place a smaller knife in the back of your jacket collar, facing down.
16. My favorite city in America is Las Vegas. Therefore, I can never live there.
17. My kids will be named Jack and Daniel. My hope is my wife doesn't notice until it is too late.
18. The Mexican mafia is quite underrated.
19. I make a mean whiskey and coke. The trick? Half and half.
20. At a certain point, I cut the middleman and drink straight out of the pitcher.
21. I'm going to give my kids to my mother to raise until they're 12 or 14 years old and can play baseball and drink.
22. I think heaven is one huge muffin. And when you die, you get baked into the muffin. But you don't die. You just eat muffin for eternity.
23. My body probably really hates me.
24. That policeman fired first.
25. I'd say a good half of these are true. Probably more.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Slide Heard Around the World
The Super Bowl was terrific last night. But first, let's say hello to Bruce.
Hi Bruce! Thanks!
The halftime show was terrific, and the episode of The Office that followed was brilliant. ("The fire is shooting at us!") I really wish Jack Black and Jessica Alba (Did she even get one line?) had been on the actual show as opposed to some really odd granny-loving movie. Can you imagine if they were part of the Utica branch of Dunder Mifflin? I'd put in for a transfer there in a second.
The commercials were pretty terrible, for the most part. They were saved by the casual violence of the Doritos ad where the man takes a snow globe to the crotch. As a wise critic once said, "The ball! His groin! It works on so many levels!" And the best line of the night was the flowers telling that poor woman, "No one wants to see you naked!" The rest were merely meh, although I did feel like I was going insane during the "3D" Sobe lizards dancing abortion of a commercial.
I'm not much for football analysis, so I'll let that word go to the fine folks over at the worldwide leader. I'm happy to say I was wrong and the game was frickin' terrific and it sucks that we now enter the two month netherworld of the worst sports period of the year. And I'll refrain from reviewing the (amazing) halftime show because this here weblog has honestly been nothing but a blogasm concerning Springsteen for quite some time now. Parts 1 and 2 are here for your viewing pleasure.
Oh. And phuck you Punxsutawney Phil. Phuck you very much.
Hi Bruce! Thanks!
The halftime show was terrific, and the episode of The Office that followed was brilliant. ("The fire is shooting at us!") I really wish Jack Black and Jessica Alba (Did she even get one line?) had been on the actual show as opposed to some really odd granny-loving movie. Can you imagine if they were part of the Utica branch of Dunder Mifflin? I'd put in for a transfer there in a second.
The commercials were pretty terrible, for the most part. They were saved by the casual violence of the Doritos ad where the man takes a snow globe to the crotch. As a wise critic once said, "The ball! His groin! It works on so many levels!" And the best line of the night was the flowers telling that poor woman, "No one wants to see you naked!" The rest were merely meh, although I did feel like I was going insane during the "3D" Sobe lizards dancing abortion of a commercial.
I'm not much for football analysis, so I'll let that word go to the fine folks over at the worldwide leader. I'm happy to say I was wrong and the game was frickin' terrific and it sucks that we now enter the two month netherworld of the worst sports period of the year. And I'll refrain from reviewing the (amazing) halftime show because this here weblog has honestly been nothing but a blogasm concerning Springsteen for quite some time now. Parts 1 and 2 are here for your viewing pleasure.
Oh. And phuck you Punxsutawney Phil. Phuck you very much.
Random Video of the Day XLVII
This was even better than Dwight birthing a watermelon. I'll never get tired of Oscar falling through the roof. Never. "Stay F%&*ing calm!"
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Super Bruce Sunday
The game itself will likely be a snooze. The first half is going to end up 10, maybe 14 for Pittsburgh, nothing for the Cardinals. Then it will conclude at something like 20-7, and it won't be a blowout, but it's never going to be close or interesting. I hope I'm wrong.
But let's get to the brass tacks. Even though I'm a huge football fan, today is dominated by the fact that Bruce Springsteen is going to bring a musical Baptism to hundred of millions around the globe.
It's usually very difficult to compress a legend into a 12-minute show. That's why acts like McCartney, Tom Petty, and the Rolling Stones were good but slightly underwhelming, like a slice of cold pizza in the morning.
But then you get stuff like Prince, Britney Spears' outfit, and this masterpiece by U2 in 2002:
Yeah, Bono is in love with himself, but damn if they're not good.
And today Springsteen gets to show everyone why he's the best in the land.
How they're going to constrain him to 12 minutes is beyond me. I saw this article the other day about Springsteen going rogue. It turns out the article is about him taking the stage and making a political statement, which I completely disagree with.
But when I first saw the headline, I thought it was about Springsteen saying, "Screw it," and just keep on playing. Bill Simmons is absolutely right that Bruce isn't going to go away without telling at least one story, but I think it's going to go beyond that.
He's going to play three songs and then he's going to go, "Ah screw it! One two three four!" and go into Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out. And what's the NFL going to do? Tackle him? Bring in Terry Tate? They've created a monster, and they won't be able to stop it.
My wish? "Kitty's Back," "Sandy," and "Jungleland." But that'd probably take over forty minutes, so let's be realistic here.
So my actual Set List prediction is: "Born to Run," "My Lucky Day," and "Glory Days." And a show that matches or exceeds U2's.
But let's get to the brass tacks. Even though I'm a huge football fan, today is dominated by the fact that Bruce Springsteen is going to bring a musical Baptism to hundred of millions around the globe.
It's usually very difficult to compress a legend into a 12-minute show. That's why acts like McCartney, Tom Petty, and the Rolling Stones were good but slightly underwhelming, like a slice of cold pizza in the morning.
But then you get stuff like Prince, Britney Spears' outfit, and this masterpiece by U2 in 2002:
Yeah, Bono is in love with himself, but damn if they're not good.
And today Springsteen gets to show everyone why he's the best in the land.
How they're going to constrain him to 12 minutes is beyond me. I saw this article the other day about Springsteen going rogue. It turns out the article is about him taking the stage and making a political statement, which I completely disagree with.
But when I first saw the headline, I thought it was about Springsteen saying, "Screw it," and just keep on playing. Bill Simmons is absolutely right that Bruce isn't going to go away without telling at least one story, but I think it's going to go beyond that.
He's going to play three songs and then he's going to go, "Ah screw it! One two three four!" and go into Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out. And what's the NFL going to do? Tackle him? Bring in Terry Tate? They've created a monster, and they won't be able to stop it.
My wish? "Kitty's Back," "Sandy," and "Jungleland." But that'd probably take over forty minutes, so let's be realistic here.
So my actual Set List prediction is: "Born to Run," "My Lucky Day," and "Glory Days." And a show that matches or exceeds U2's.
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