La Vida [Redacted Due to Poor Taste]

Wait, Ricky Martin is what? WHAT?

Oh God. I… I can’t believe it. I haven’t been this surprised by a performer’s coming out since Clay Aiken.

I just refuse to believe that this paragon of masculinity…

…is not at all interested in members of the opposite sex.

I can’t believe it. This man has just opened himself up to countless easy jokes. Say what you will about Ricky Martin (not particularly talented, had two “good” songs his whole career provided if by “good” you mean momentarily popular in the 90’s, not really socially relevant anymore so why do we care, etc.) but he’s a brave man.

Man, my gaydar must be broken. Next you’re going to tell me that Mr. Sulu is gay.

Wait, WHAT?!

You just blew… my mind.

(And yes, that was a deliberate use of ellipses meant to invoke the specter of a sexual joke.)

Invention of the Nat Topping Seal of Approval

On the Roboblog.

Friday: Americans Hate Underdog, Technology, Fast Food, Liberty

If it's sunny and beautiful out, then why is it approximately 30 degrees out? I'll tell you why. Because it's March in Chicago and nobody knows what the hell to expect. It's like magical upside down world out there, where sunny skies means cold, and cloud cover means tolerable.

Do they do comedy in Hawaii?

They do everything in Hawaii.  And I mean Everything.

Why do I live here again?

Something about wanting to live in the Big City.

Ugh.  Let's get this over with.  I want to spend the rest of my day trolling GoogleEarth looking for exotic locales.  What do we have?

College Basketball proves America hates underdogs:  We The People have always had a soft spot for the underdog ever since our birth as a nation of people taking potshots at redcoats from the trees.  If Jay Bilas is to be believed, that has since changed vis-a-vis the current NCAA tournament which has been wildly entertaining due to the constant upsets, double overtime buzzer beaters, etc. etc.  Some team called St. Mary's is in the Sweet Sixteen.  Kansas, the consensus #1 everything ever, is gone.

Apparently, though, this parity is considered "a down year," because there are not enough behemoth teams comprised of NBA bound superfrosh wunderkind glued together by the forces of evil.  The only one that springs to mind is Kentucky and John Calipari.

I humbly disagree.  I have watched more college basketball this year than ever, despite the lack of a rooting interest.

That's because you foolishly filled out a bracket, you degenerate gambler you.

I can't help it.  I've been hooked ever since the Indiana Jones themed slots.  BIG MONEY.  Don't judge me.

::This is me, silently judging you::

Next up?

Ebert Hates Technology: at least, 3D Technology.  According to his twitter: "3-D is a distracting, annoying, anti-realistic, juvenile abomination to us as an excuse for higher prices."  Yes, Ebert.  But so are movies in general.

ZING.

Can I get a "How droll?"

No.  Next Question: Junk Food Tax: Against it.  Mostly because I like junk food and I hate tax.  There's been a recent surge in public interest in food.  The result of this new found obsession is that you get more interesting websites and blogs about cooking, nutrition related discussions, and the general joys of food.

The downside is you get people running around promoting "fat taxes" and other such abominations meant to dissuade people from living their lives the way they want.  People defend this idea by saying things like, "It's okay, we do it for cigarettes and alcohol" which is like saying "It's okay, those guys already jumped off the bridge, we might as well too." 

The hope is that the government can use the additonal tax money to spend on bureaucratic waste.  You know, like they do with the cigarette and alcohol money.

You're just grumpy because you like junk food.

And booze too.  I like pizza.  Sue me.

Careful what you wish for.

Ponder This

Just when I thought I would have nothing to blog about today, Geoff Crump comes to the rescue.

Please consider:



Think about that.

Blame Your Brain

And, of course, by "Clever Title" I mean the ability to rhyme "Brain" with "Blame."

I found this article from CNN to be interesting. It’s by Dr. Louann Brizendine, who is a professor of psychiatry at UC San Francisco and has written books called “The Female Brain” and “The Male Brain.”


I don’t know how much of this is fitting brain function to fit preconceived notions of the socially established functions of the two sexes, but it’s still interesting to read. The basic thrust is: ‘Hey, a bunch of that stuff that men do that anger women? That’s all because our brains are wired that way.’ So, the part about men hiding their emotions, the part about protecting territory, or staring at breasts and all that, is supposedly beyond our control. I don’t know if there’s a part of the brain that accounts for leaving the toilet seat up or for admiring your own genitalia with a hand mirror, but I imagine that’s somewhere in the book.

I had two immediate reactions upon reading this.

Reaction the first: great. Next time I’m in trouble for doing something ridiculously stupid in front of my lady friend, I can just claim that it’s my brain’s fault and that I had nothing to do with it.

But then, reaction the second: somewhere there is a god, and he hates us. Or he has a sick sense of humor. If it’s true that the male brain is hardwired to stare and large breasts “the way we (women) look at pretty butterflies,” and it is true that the female brain is hardwired to understand this and to get jealous due to a need to “seek security and reliability,” then we are hardwired to fight. Constantly.

Somewhere, someone thought it would a great idea to make it so that people spend long hours agonizing over why they can’t understand the person that they want to have sex with.

Man, brains make me so angry. I wish I could punch brains.

RvD Monday: AXE COP

Axe Cop.

Friday: Polishing Brass Door Knobs

Breaking News!! Famous people’s marriages in jeopardy because of sex! Person A apologizes! Will Person B take Person A back? What about the kids!!

 

What’s your reaction?

1. Argh! Famous people! I am outraged by their lives!
2. Argh! Quit talking about famous people!
3. I haven’t had a job in a year and a half.

Rinse and repeat.

 

Ah the glorious little patterns of daily life’s tedium.

 

Blah blah blah. Get on with it. I have college basketball to watch.

 

Where have you been, by the way?

 

Drinking whiskey with Jesse Miller.

 

That figures.

 

You know, that band isn’t half bad. Black Jake and the Carnies. Ypsilanti’s original kings of crabgrass.

 

Would you please stop shamelessly plugging other people’s stuff?

 

Eat me. HEY, SPEAKING OF Rinse and Repeat: I can understand why old people hate technology, especially when this happens. An elderly couple’s Brooklyn home has been mistakenly raided fifty times, apparently due to some “computer glitch.”

 

You would think after raid number 48 turned up no murderers, drug pushers, rapists, thieves or politicians (ZING says I!) that one of the many police officers who have visited over the years would have said, “You know, maybe this is a waste of time…” and looked in to it.

 

Of course, it’s possible that Rose and Walter Martin could just be extremely good criminals.

 

Geriatric geniuses? Genii? How would you write that?

 

You wouldn’t.  It’s a stupid joke.  SPEAKING OF stupid… do you like these transitions?

 

Keep up the good work.

 

SPEAKING OF stupid, how about a dip into the mailbag? Usually junk mail is just that – junk. They are sometimes fun to read. My favorite today is entitled “Ent he polished the brass door knob on the front door.”

 

“T reminds me of Atlantic City,” said Uncle Lucky. “Let’s drive do”

 

And that’s it. That’s all there is. This is maybe the first time that I’ve ever wanted more from a junk message. Who is Uncle Lucky? What reminds him of Atlantic City? What does “Let’s drive do” mean?

 

I need answers!!!

 

WHY, JESSE JAMES?! WHY?!

 

“I don’t know. Do I look like the type of guy who would sleep around with a tattoo artist behind my Oscar winning actress’ back?”

 

Yeah, Jesse, I guess you do.

Need Comfort?

An Apology for St. Patrick’s Day by Way of a Half Assed History of Corned Beef

Corned beef is delicious. It combines three of the things I love most in food: meat, fat and salt. And it’s a staple of Irish America’s culinary heritage, along with cabbage, potatoes and soda bread, and I’m part Irish and love to eat food, so I say ‘Hooray for Corned Beef.’

I mean look at this stuff.  It's great.  I would eat that entire brisket right now, juices and fat running down my face, globs of meat getting stuck in my beard, and I wouldn't even bat and eye.  I would just eat and eat.

“But Nat,” you say, you anti-Irish grinchy bastard, “In Ireland they don’t actually eat corned beef. It’s an Americanized bullshit thing, like spaghetti and meatballs. Therefore, it is stupid for people to celebrate St. Patrick’s day by eating corned beef.”

“But…” I say, before you cut me off.

“Furthermore, St. Patrick’s day wasn’t really celebrated in Ireland until the Irish realized they could make a quick buck off of rich Americans looking for a place to party it up. So, really, St. Patrick’s day is nothing more than a bunch of bullshit used as an excuse to drink and make an ass out of themselves.”

“Would you shut up for a second and let me talk?!” I interject.

“Fine, what?”

“First of all, would you please watch your language? You’ve already used bullshit twice, and three is the limit per post here. Second, I never claimed corned beef, or even St. Patrick’s day, is a part of the authentic Irish experience. It’s really a holiday for Irish Americans.

“I read up a little bit about corned beef, and here’s what I think I remember: corned beef has been made in Ireland for hundreds of years. BUT, it was mostly exported because beef was a highly prized commodity so the landowners (English people, mostly) corned it and shipped it off around the world for a pretty penny. The actual Irish, though, were too poor to afford the wonderfully salty pinkish-red delicacy so they mostly ate potatoes and various other roots and maybe the occasional goat.

“BUT, when the famines started hitting Ireland because all the good land was being used for beef that was just exported, Irish people started emigrating and one of the places they landed was in America where, ironically, one of the only meets that they could really afford was corned beef sold in Jewish delis in New York.

“They left Ireland unable to afford corned beef, and arrived in New York where the only meat they could afford was corned beef.

“So, in a way, corned beef is the perfect meal for St. Patrick’s day - a day where, yes, Irish American people celebrate their Irish heritage with the weird dancing and the music that most non-Irish people hate and the Lucky Charms, but it's more than that. Corned beef is a symbol of the good fortune for the Irish here in America, a land that celebrates the immigrants who helped build this wonderful country of ours. Well, the white immigrants are normally the ones celebrated. Everyone seems to hate the Mexicans, but I don’t know why. Although people used to hate the Irish when they showed up too. Have you seen Gangs of New York?”

“No,” you reply.

“Well, it wasn’t a great movie. But it wasn’t bad either. What’s his name, the guy from ‘There Will Be Blood’ was really good in it.”

“What is that guys name?”

“I can’t remember right now.  Really famous actor.  I saw him in that shitty movie about the Italian film director,” I say. “I must be getting old. I could IMDB it but, meh. What were we talking about? Oh yeah. Racism sucks. The end.”

“So that corned beef stuff,” you continue, “was any of that true or was it all bullsh…”

“Watch it…” I warn.

“Was it all some yarn that you made up to justify getting blasted tonight and waking up tomorrow morning cuddled up next to a brisket?”

“Here, have a shot of Jamison and shut up.”

Weekend Irony Excercise Follow Up

Sorry about the lack of bloggery and postage yesterday. The day got away from me there.

So, I want to revisit this because (a) I’m an attention whore and want to post video of myself as much as possible, (b) I’m a comedy nerd, and (c) I don’t know, it’s just interesting to me. It’s my blog so I’ll do what I want; is that a problem for you?

So, if you don't want to read me talking about myself, might I recommend looking at pictures of kittens?

Last Fall, I wrote and performed a song in Mrs Gruber’s Ding Dong called “It’s Possible, Not Probable,” which we did for Sketchfest and was video taped and put on YouTube by some guy I don’t even know. My mother, being the proud mother that she is, sent it to a bunch of people. One of those people is the principal of the grade school I used to attend. She asked me to come back and perform that for their 25th Anniversary gala in front of a bunch of parents and teachers.

This is ironic, because watch the video:

Here is a song about crushing the hopes and dreams of children with the reality of their likely mediocre futures, and I’m supposed to play the song for people with children or people whose job it is to teach children. You know all this already - I wrote about it two posts ago.

So I went home this last weekend, Saturday came around and, after the requisite preshow worrying – particularly about whether or not the song would get laughs or get awkward stares, I sang the song and it went over pretty well.

I had a bunch of parents coming up to me afterwards saying things like, “boy, I wish I could show that song to my kids,” which reminded me an incidence during the full run at the Gorilla Tango with a father and his son sitting in the audience. I remember looking out at him while I was singing and the father was laughing and laughing.

I always kind of assumed that the song hits well because the character of this singer is expressing his bitter disappointment with his own life through a song which, given the context of a kids show, is inappropriate. But parents particularly seem to really like the song, and I think it’s because the song says stuff that they must really want to tell their kids or their students but can’t because it’s “too awful.”

So my question is: is the song funny for character driven reasons or for the clash of sweet children’s song conventions with a bitter point of view, or for being a release for inappropriate impulses in the audience?

It’s probably a little bit of everything, but it’s interesting to think about.

Blah blah blah.

Friday: Knock knock, who's BAM CHUCK NORRIS THAT'S WHO

All right, Friday. What do you have for us today?


I’ll Tell You What: CHUCK FREAKING NORRIS: For those of you LIVING UNDER A GODDAMNED ROCK, this past Wednesday marked the 70th anniversary of the day Chuck Norris shot out of his mother’s womb and began choking rattler snakes, fighting evil and wearing cowboy hats.

Chuck Norris has been the occasional subject of bloggage here at Clever Title, stemming from this post about his hypothetical Presidency of Texas. In honor of his birthday, there have been Chuck Norris facts walloping this Twitter thing (and in many languages, I might add). My personal favorite? “Chuck Norris has already been to Mars. That’s why there are no signs of life there.” Winner of the Most Tasteless Award? “People seem shocked by Corey Haim’s death on Chuck Norris’ birthday. But Chuck Norris doesn’t gain years; he takes them. More to be found here.

Ride on, Chuck Norris, and godspeed.

While We’re On the Subject of Patriotism: (note, Chuck Norris = Patriotism) here’s a blog post by a sports blogger from my home state about how the Chicago Blackhawks’ National Anthem tradition must die. I’ve never been to a Blackhawks game, but I’ve heard that the National Anthem is kind of a cool thing – they have an Opera singer sing it, and the crowd gets into it and starts cheering and hollering and so on. According to this blogger, Rob Otto, this kind of enjoyment is disrespectful to the armed forces.

Far be it from me to defend a Chicago sports institution, but give me a break. Heaven forbid people actually express their pride in being American. Have you ever been to a sports event where everyone just stands around with their hand over the heart, shifting their weight back and forth, moving their lips like they’re singing but actually just wishing the game would start? Of course you have; that’s 99% of all sporting events.

People tend to equate quiet with respect. I don’t know. I’d rather people sing poorly, hoot and holler and enjoy themselves. This is America, goddamn it.

End digression. What else have we got?

Well, we’re out of Patriotism stuff. How about food?

I like food. What do you got?

Have you heard how New York is trying to Outlaw Salt? Oh great! While we’re at it, can we ban raw onions? And capers? Capers weird me out. I don’t know why. How about just getting rid of taste altogether?

I guess the next front in the continuing quest to outlaw fun, Felix Ortiz of Brooklyn has proposed legislation to outlaw “…salt in any form in the preparation of any food for consumption by customers…blah blah blah.” As anyone who has ever cooked anything would say “Are you freaking nuts?”  Banning salt not only affects how salty your food tastes, but also makes the chemistry of baking impossible, as well as cheese.  So, that asiago cheese bagel you had this morning, Mr. Ortiz?  Doesn't exist.

How about we outlaw knives too, because they are sharp? And heat too, because sometimes food gets too hot and it burns your mouth?

Hey, want to avoid eating too much salt in your food? Don’t eat salty foods.

And Finally: “Sushi chef, restaurant charged with serving endangered whale.” I didn’t know endangered whales even ate sushi, much less went to restaurants. Wait, what? Oh. They served endangered whale to people. I see. Well, that’s not funny.

Not funny at all.

Exercises in Irony

This weekend, I'll be travelling back to Michigan to perform the song I sang from Mrs. Gruber's Ding Dong school at my former Grade School, Cedar Crest Academy.

Cedar Crest is a tiny school out on the fringes of the Metro Detroit area.  This year marks their 25th Anniversary and, to celebrate, they are having a Gala and they have invited alumni back to perform.  They saw the Youtube video of the song at Sketchfest and asked me to come back.

Why anyone would be willing to claim me as an alum is beyond me, but I'm grateful nonetheless.

This is pretty ironic, though, because Cedar Crest is a cradle for the hopes and dreams of young children.  My song is about how those hopes and dreams will probably not come true and how the proverbial children in the audience will more than likely end up living mediocre lives, which unless things have drastically changed over the last fourteen years is almost certainly not the school's message.

Of course the song is tongue-in-cheek, and I'm happy to head back and to help out.  It was a pretty good school and as I remember it a good time.

It's just funny, I guess.

Anyway, that's where I'll be this weekend.

Dear Andrew Lloyd Webber: Ugh

I’m not a huge fan of musicals. I like musical numbers in shows, but there’s something about the format and structure and plot conventions that usually drive me up the wall. Don’t really know why. That’s just the way it is. Rent? Seriously? Get the hell off my blogging lawn.

One of the few exceptions to this has been Andrew Lloyd Webber’s classic, the Phantom of the Opera, which I saw in my younger, more vulnerable years . Something about the chandelier actually falling and scaring the hell out of everyone sitting right underneath. It’s always kind of offered that glimmer of hope, “I don’t like most musicals but then there was Phantom and that was all right so sure, I’ll go see whatever musical you want to see this weekend, honey.”

Well, apparently “They” won’t even let me have that, because there’s a sequel now. And it’s got most of the same characters but set in Coney Island, New York, so everything is ruined now.

The Phantom is based on the classic novel “Le Fantome de l’Opera” by Gaston Leroux. The sequel, “Phantom: Love Never Dies” is based on… nothing. Although, judging by the title, it could be a “Love actually” or a James Bond remount.

Come on, guys. I mean, the show itself might (might) be okay, but the idea of this - sequelizing a classic musical set in Paris, France by moving it to Coney Island, New York?! - ranks up there with “musical versions of classic movies” and “putting a goddamn exclamation mark at the end of a single word title” in the top ten list of signs your art form is rapidly deteriorating. What’s next, musicals based on video games?

Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Mario Bros. the Musical. Hmmm…

If there’s one silver lining to this whole travesty, it’s the British critics, who take particular delight in skillfully eviscerating new shows with their skillfully British diction. Some zingers courtesy of Yahoo News and something called Newser:

"Where's the menace, the horror, the psychological darkness? For that I recommend a trip to Her Majesty's, not the Adelphi." – Benedict Nightingale, The Times.

"...A death scene so long that it may only re-ignite the euthanasia debate." – Quentin Letts, The Daily Mail

“Phantom of the Opera? More like Bantam of the Opera! You know, that ghastly American publishing house responsible for such dreck as those awful Danielle Steel novels! Ah ha-ha!” – Reginald Cummerbund, The Goat

Okay, so I made the last one up. But my point has been made, which is... I don’t like musicals very much? And thusly, I have wasted your time with this blog post. Hooray for me.

Le sigh.

Now, who wants to help with Mario Bros. the Musical?

Sandy Powel Points Out Hypocrisy, Accepts Little Gold Statue

I watched the Oscars last night.  I blog about it briefly at the Robo-blog.

Two quick things to add:

Item the first: I thought Sandy Powel's acceptance speech for Best Costume Design was great.  She starts it out "Well, I already have two of these things," dedicates the awards to those poor bastards who don't costume design for ridiculous period pieces, and then finishes with "this is for you, but I'm keeping the trophy."

The speech was great in it's mixture of awkwardly unintentional egotripping and it's very valid point, which is that if you want to win an Oscar you need to work on certain types of movies.

Item the second: basically reinforced Sandy Powel's poorly articulated point when the Academy ran a "Hey, horror movies are good too.  Also, they will never win an Oscar," retrospective.

Hope that's consolation for all you dumb bastards working on horror movies.  We still love you.  Now get off our lawn.

Friday: Tro Lo Lo

Spring is Springing: and this makes me happy.

How happy, you ask?

So happy that my happiness can only be expressed thusly:

Questions regarding the above:

• What the hell was that?
• How does he do that without ever closing his mouth?
• ...
• What the hell WAS that?

Yes, I realize this little piece of what I assume is Soviet era entertainment can be potential fodder for the 'not scary but more deeply disturbing' kind of nightmare, but it's just too fascinating to pass up.

Be Warned, Trees May Contain Evil Spirits: so don't get too excited about Spring.  And there's only one was to deal with trees possessed by evil spirits: hammering nails into the branches and painting the tree trunks.  This, according to a French lunatic caught doing exactly that in the vicinity of the Eiffel Tower.

Wow, this week really has had a Xenophobic bent, huh?  Canada, China, Greece, Germany, now France.  NO COUNTRY IS SAFE!

Speaking of Safety: Security cameras are not only annoying but also useless.  This according to one Bruce Schneier.  So be thankful your tax money is going towards capturing yourself making a right turn in a no turn on red zone so that you can be sent a traffic ticket, thereby costing you more money.  Feel safer yet?

Don't worry.  Trololo guy is here to make it all better.

Anyone Want to Share a Greek Island?

As I'm sure all of you are aware, since this blog tends to attract the type of reader who is terribly interested in the economic welfare of various member states of the European Union (eyes roll back into head), Greece is in an economic pickle.

Basically, they has no monies.  Which is bad because they can't, like, pay people to work.

Enter Germany, a nation well known for offering practical solutions to world-wide problems - excepting of course a period in time lasting roughly from 1920 to 1950 where their definitions of "problem" and "solution" didn't quite jive with sanity.

German MP (which stands for Member of Parliament, as it turns out - you learn something new every day) Frank Schaffler recommended that Greece sell off some of it's islands.

I'm absolutely certain this suggestion was not at all related to the time-honored German penchant for nude bathing and the need for uninhabited islands where they can bathe nudely in peace.

All told, though, it's not a bad idea.

Dear Greece: how much do you want for Lesbos?  That much, eh?  How much to just watch for like fifteen minutes?

I have to say, though, if they do go through with this: how sweet would it be to own a Greek island?  As a matter of fact, I have this dream - crazy, I know - of buying my own island and then opening a theme park that has real live dinosaurs genetically recreated from DNA found in a mosquito preserved in amber.  This would be a great money-making venture and not at all a potentially horrible idea with tragic consequences for Sam Neill (those tragic consequences?  Sequels.)

<- Yeah, like this.  But with dinosaurs.

I would then write a best selling book about my real life experiences.

Who wants in?

Anyone?

Anyone?

A Letter to a Moron: Concerning Coffee (Part II, How to Make Coffee)

Hi Moron,


Yes, I know that coffee seems like a magical substance. It wakes you up in the morning, and if you load it up with enough cream and sugar it doesn’t taste "icky." But realize that it’s not actually a magical substance and that any idiot can make it without destroying the office kitchen.

I know.  This is a surprise to you, Moron. Pick your moronic slackjaw up off the floor for a second, wipe up some of that drool before a person of actual value to the company slips on the physical manifestation of your incompetence, and we’ll continue.

Grunt when you're ready.

Making coffee is especially easy in this office, because our coffee machine was made so that a brain damaged freaking poodle can make a pot of coffee. Are you dumber than a brain damaged freaking poodle, Moron? Do you know what a poodle looks like? It’s the dog with the marshmallow poofs.

Here are the steps to making coffee. The following list assumes that you know the proper order of numbers, Moron, meaning that ‘1’ comes before ‘2’ and so on. If this is not the case, please let me know:

STEP 1: Make sure the coffee pot you’re using is empty. As you learned last time, if there’s still liquid in there then the new liquid will overflow onto the counter top and floor. While this principle is governed by physics, you don’t have to be a physicist (or a “physician,” as you call them, moron) to realize this.

STEP 2: Add a coffee filter to the coffee filter holder. These needs to be in there, so that when…

STEP 3: Put coffee grounds into filter… happens, the grounds don’t end up draining off into the coffee pot, thus making really really awful coffee. This step is particularly easy because the grounds come in a prepackaged bags. No measuring!

Once you have done STEPS 1, 2 and 3, you then PUSH BREW and WAIT FOR IT TO BREW.

It will actually say "Ready" when it's done brewing.  That, and liquid will stop pouring into the coffee pot.  That's two - count them TWO - clues for when you can start drinking coffee.

You don’t even have to add water, Moron! It does it for you! Isn’t that great?! It’s like we’re living in the Jetsons cartoon!

You don’t need to add water. You don’t need to measure the grounds. You don’t need to grind the beans. You don’t need to roast the beans. You don’t need to harvest the beans, or plant the coffee plants.

ALL YOU HAVE TO DO, MORON, IS COMPLETE FOUR SIMPLE FUCKING STEPS, and then POOF! Like magic, brown water appears in the pot without destroying the entire world. Follow these simple steps, and you too can be a contributing member of this little office society and not an asshole, which is what you are right now.

Sincerely,

Nat Topping

P.S. Fuck you.

Like the Odd Couple but with Knives. And in China.

What can I say. First Canada and now China. I’m on a xenophobic kick I guess…


China is known for being the world’s most populous country. They are known for producing and exporting a host of lead laden products. They are known for their weird combination of Communist totalitarianism and stolen capitalist principles. And food.

They’re maybe not known so much for their patience and tolerance.

Case in point: college student Guo Liwei recently confessed to stabbing his roommate to death for… snoring.

Quoth Guo Liwei: “I told Zhao about it and he became angry. He verbally abused me several times, prompting me to kill him.”

Yes, this is a perfectly logical line of reasoning providing that the next step in your personal escalation ladder above “verbal abuse” is “STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB!!!”

"I forgot my custom made anti-snoring mouth guard for Pandas!  Please don't shoot!"

Might I recommend nasal strips or earplugs next time before you reach for your cutlery?

If all of my past roommates had acted like that every time I did something annoying, I would have been dead hundreds of times over. My girlfriend would probably be up in Genghis Khan territory.

Suffice it to say, I do a lot of irritating things. But I digress.

What are we talking about again?

Oh yes: Pandas are adorable.

The end.

POST #501

Today's post marks my 501st post on this little blog o' mine.  It's kind of hard to believe.  I hate to admit it but I kind of half expected to stop writing about three months into the process, before I got boring.  Obviously I've been able to live with my boringness and so here I am today: boring my way into the hearts of... what, five people maybe?

I am now obliged, due to this arbitrary number and the arbitrary significance I've placed on it, to pause and think about this accomplishment.

Pausing.

Thinking.

And... done.  Moving on.

Past Milestone Posts: include such wastes of time as...

• POST #69, in which I make an infantile sex joke
• One Whole Year's Worth of Blog, in which I admit to polluting the interwebs, and...
• Friday: Happy Blogivervary, in which I mispell the word "Blogiversary" in the title of the post, which is a word I myself invented.

RvD Monday: Care about hockey?  No?  Well, I write about it anyway on this Monday's post at the Robo-Blog.

Minor Thing That You May or May Not Have Noticed: the URL for this page has changed.  Take a look.  Nifty, huh?