Kim Jong Il: Dead

Kim Jong Il “was believed to be 69.” His son, Kim Jong Un, is in his twenties. You know you’re a paranoid country when you won’t even tell people your birth year.


Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’re not hearing it here first – I hope you frequent more legitimate websites that have actual information on them instead of, you know, this shit – but Kim Jong Il is dead.

The diminutive, fabulously coiffed, nattily dressed despot of your favorite insane little corner of Asia has passed away. According to the much lauded North Korean state media, he died of “overwork” and suffered “great mental and physical strain.”

When I first read these symptoms, I was worried I too might have Kim Jong Il disease. Then I read the “overwork after dedicating his life to the people” part and knew that I was probably safe. Also, I guess he had a heart attack too. But be warned kids: ‘dedicating your life to the people’ and ‘heart attack’ makes a brutal recipe for dead dictator.

I’ll always remember him as he appears in this picture:

Hello Grandma!  (Source)

Like an elderly woman with a hilarious dye job waving goodbye to her uncaring grown children from the balcony of her nursing home, her disdain for them evident in her steely gaze.

Kim Jong Il, you will be missed. Not because you were a good leader, or because you helped better the lives of your people of the economic and social conditions of your country, or because you were a valuable member of the region, or because you shunned privilege yourself to be an equal among your own populace, or because you shunned your nuclear program so that you could concentrate on feeding your own people, or because you were dedicated to the advancement of peace, or because you were open and trusting and kept your word to the international community. No, you did none of these things.

Instead you will be missed because… you… er....

I take it back. You likely won’t be missed.
But hey, this was a good time, wasn’t it?

Clearly not amused by puppet sex.  (Source)

Friday: Hurling Obscenities...

...towards one Rick 'Fucktard' Perry.

Since last we spoke, I was headed off to my holiday party. I would like to give you an account of what all took place. Really, I would. Unfortunately, I can’t remember much of it. Funny thing about Manhattans, that.


So, in lieu of the recounting of drunken exploits, I humbly offer outrage and the outrageous in this week’s Friday Jaunt Around The Internet, which I have entitled:

Outrage, Frustration, Outstration

They can’t all be gems, people. Sometimes it’s just a rock, but you throw it anyway because you have to throw something.

MY PERRY POLEMIC

It’s official: Rick Perry, go fuck yourself.

I’m not going to embed the video here, because I don’t want that shit on my blog, but here’s the link. Go listen, and then come back. I’ll still be here.

Waiting…

Welcome back. Did you listen to that shit? I mean, what the fuck, Rick?

“You know something’s wrong when we allow sodomites to risk their lives in the service of our country to protect the freedoms and liberties we hold dear, while kids are not forced to pray in school because of one of the founding principles of our country (SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE) which I’m conveniently forgetting about right now. I should add, though, that we’re all still allowed to freely celebrate what has become a multi-million dollar industry in this country on our own time, while those same sodomites are marginalized by jackholes like me.”

War on religion? Show me one piece of legislation Obama has recommended to Congress or one executive order that has had a meaningful, impactful effect on freedom of religion in this country. You can’t do that, Rick, and you know why? Because you can’t even remember key parts of your own platform, like what State Departments you would get rid of, you dumb piece of shit.

And the worst part about this? Rick may or may not even give a damn about prayer in school or gays in the military. But he’s counting on you, the voting public of America, to be so fucking dumb and pigheaded and ignorant that you’ll think ‘gays’ and ‘public displays of prayer’ and ‘ignorance’ are important enough issues to be worth a vote. Because he’s cynical, and is willing to play on evil shit so that he can hopefully weasel his way into a position of sucking personal gain out of the most important and powerful job in the country.

If there's any justice in this world, Perry has pretty much written himself out of ever occupying the Oval.  Unfortunately, as anyone who's lived on this rock for a while can tell you, the world can be pretty unjust.

When I pray (and I do; I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a Christian, albeit a poor one who seldom practices), I pray God that my God is not the same God to which Rick Perry prays.

For what it's worth, I’m pretty sure they’re different.

YOUR MITTEN IS HAND-ICAPPED!!

Many, many years ago, Michigan went to war with Ohio over the rights to Toledo. Yes, at one point in time, Toledo was considered something of a prized jewel worth fighting over, instead of being, like, Toledo.

Granted, the combatants were likely drunken lumberjack types with little else to do when not jacking lumber, but still. Sometimes you have to stand up for your state. And no, Toledo is not part of Michigan now. But as a reward for making a big deal out of it, Michigan was given the entire Upper Peninsula to largely marginalize and ignore, until such time as copper and iron was discovered. And thus, the Mitten came out on top for their troubles.

But now apparently the very Mittenness of the Mitt is being questioned. By Wisconsin, of all states. That cheese eating, sausage loving, fish frying, beer swilling (note: none of these are insults; I love all of those things) bunch of Green Bay Packer fans dare question the supreme handiness of Michigan?

Can't you just let us have our anthropomorphisms, Wisconsin?!

Yes, Wisconsin, your state does look like a mitten. Provided that mitten accommodates a grossly deformed pinky the size and shape of a cauliflower. However, for those of us without fingers that bulge off at weird angles from the rest of our hand, it’s Michigan. I mean, let’s take the arbitrary state lines out of the equation here and just look at the geographic facts, dudes:

The proof is in the part where it says "PROOF!"

The gigantic red swaths of land that miraculously spell out what’s what with arrows and letters are something of a geologic miracle.

At the end of the day, and in the spirit of our forefathers, I would be willing to concede Mittenhood provided we are promised the entirety of Canada or a gigantic load of free sausage. Your move, Wisconsin.

NEW MEMES!!

And oh God how I love new memes (talking about my God, not Rick’s; Rick’s God probably has a sense of humor limited to farts and patronizing ethnic jokes). The newest meme comes courtesy of meme-master Casey, who is like my technologically savvy nephew. Except he’s my age. I guess what I’m saying is, he’s good at the internet and I’m already an old man. Regardless, here’s this:

Other brilliant pieces of photoshopped wit reside here, including one for the Corpse Bride that I don’t want to ruin for you.

Friday: Prepares to Get Christmassed…

…meaning of course to drink a ton in front of coworkers, likely make an ass out of myself, possible get in a fight, and then spend the rest of the weekend aching and smelling like death.


You know. Like baby Jesus would have wanted.

Now that Thanksgiving is out of the way, it’s time to get into the Christmas spirit. Sure, it would be easy to get jaded about the rampant commercialism and the fact that December 24th is just an arbitrarily assigned date, that Jesus was likely born in November, that we’ll probably be forced to see a bunch of people we don’t like, that we’re expected to get the perfect gift, that the quest for the perfect gift will likely end in disappointment, that it will all end in a pile of discarded wrapping paper and stuff that will all eventually fall apart anyway, but… what was I saying?

Oh yeah! Fahoo fores: it’s Christmas, y’all!

It's okay.  In this instance, fear should be your natural reaction.

Don’t worry. The closer we get to the date and the further we get from Thanksgiving, the less bitter I become and the more likely I am to be in the Spirit. Hopefully, the Spirits at the company Holiday Party will help me get there a little quicker.

Now that we’re done with that, let’s take another quick Friday Jaunt Around The Internet, which I hereby dub:

Help Doing Everyday Things… Righteously

GET THAT PROGRAM A TALK SHOW ON AM RADIO GALDARNIT!

You know, from the first moment I heard about Siri I knew there was gonna be trouble. I mean, the last thing I need is the device I carry around in my pocket telling me what to think. I already have one of those.*

Well now apparently Apple has taken it upon itself to pass judgment on young women and the various mistakes they may or may not have made involving Chad at the office function the other night. Probably wasn’t the best idea ever, but now here’s Siri telling us all we should go see an anti-abortion counselor instead of a Planned Parenthood clinic? I mean, Siri, have you met Chad? Do you have any idea how much of a mistake it would be to carry that kid to term?

HOW CAN WE BE EXPECTED TO LET TECHNOLOGY RULE OUR LIVES IF TECHNOLOGY WON’T TELL US WHAT WE WANT TO HEAR?!

I jest, of course, but there are legitimate questions here: Should we let a program pass judgment on a user’s life choices? Should we be relying on a stupid program in the first place to answer simple questions for us? Can’t we use the phone book? Or Google? Do we really need to dumb everything down so much that we need something to ‘help (us) do the things (we) do everyday?” Can’t we just do them, like back before we had smart phones? Are we all so sensitive and dumb that we actually make a big feckin’ deal out of this? Seriously?

I believe we have the answers to those questions.

DETROITERS: GO TO DETROIT

Interesting post at Huffington on, like, actually spending time in the city you’re supposed to be from.

I’ve actually found this sentiment in Chicago, too, though it’s certainly more prevalent in Detroit, which is this: the city is to be avoided at all costs. In Chicago, you are allowed to take the Metra down for a Cubs game, some culture, and maybe the occasional restaurant. Otherwise, why bother? There’s just as many Giordano’s in the suburbs as there are in the city!

I don’t know if it’s our obsession with safety or what – we do, after all, practically beg people to grope us now before entering an airport, even though one day we’re still all going to die, but whatever I digress – but ‘the city’ still has a pretty bad rep. That goes double, possibly triple, for the D.

I was driving home about two weeks ago with a friend of mine to the Mitt to go see what turned out to be a glorious football game. It was about midnight and as we were passing Ann Arbor he asked if we could go downtown and have a look at it. Detroit has this reputation for being a wasteland of urban decay and coney dogs (which I love anyway), and he wanted to witness it first hand, so we drove our asses down Woodward at one in the morning and surprisingly were not shot. In fact, there were even people out at the bars. There were lights on. There were structures in Campus Martius that were not shacks for vagrants but rather appeared as though they were meant to be there.

There’s actual stuff down there! Detroit: you want righteous? St. Andrew’s Hall, Electric 6 are playing the Friday before crissimass. Be there.

DEBBIE FROM ACCOUNTING

This is the article from whence the creepy cult-like lead photo originated. It’s a wholly unremarkable post about how to handle yourself at an office party (AMATEURS I SAY!), and under normal circumstances I would ignore this completely except I find the use of Debbie from Accounting as the paragon of poor office behavior and sluttery to be quite funny. Obviously, the writer has never met the accountants here.

HOUSE CLEANER CLEANS HOUSE

Next Wednesday, 8:00 PM at the Underground Lounge, Geoff and I will be doing our thang as Crassus with the folks at Old West Family Photo. Address: 925 W Newport, at Clark. We will be performing ‘Bag of dicks,’ for which I am very excited.

Also, SKETCHFEST! Robot vs Dinosaur makes their glorious and long awaited (by me, at least) return to the stage on January 7th at 7:00. More pluggery to follow, I’m sure.

I’m also working on putting together some fun for next year too: a full RvD show, a full Crassus show, some Reality Fairy goodness, and possibly another special project.

Aright, I’m off to buy a ludicrously large bottle of Gatorade and some comically gigantic pain killers. I have plans, people, and they involve hangovers.

*This is a not-so-veiled reference to my penis.

Happy Thanksgiving: To The Ear on the Other Soup Can

The annual Thanksgiving Post.  Enjoy:

In my day-to-day life as a working drone, I spend an exorbitant amount of my time talking to India.  This is what happens when companies outsource everything to another country.  I talk into one soup can, which is attached to a string that runs all the way across the country, through a tube under the ocean, past Hawaii, past Indonesia, through more ocean, back onto land, and over to Bangalore or Mumbai or Calcutta, and it attaches to another soup can.  Next to that soup can is a strange and foreign ear listening to me blather, an ear that under normal circumstances would never concern me in the least.  And likewise I'm sure.

Such is the marvel of the global economy.  This can be a good or a bad thing.  Obviously, there's the potential language barrier.  There's the residual 'they're stealing our jobs' angst hammered into me from a lifetime of Buy American.  And of course there's the general xenophobic distrust of foreigners.

But sometimes it makes for an interesting conversation.  Sometimes you get the tech who has a semi-confident grip on the language and he starts asking you questions:  'Do you know Pat?  I worked with Pat over there once.  How is Pat?'  As though Pat were some long lost friend from his youth.  Stolen from the cradle, tossed into a wicker basket and left afloat only for Pat to one day wash ashore in middle America.

The question I received this afternoon was 'What is this Thanksgiving Day you have?'

I was taken aback for a moment.  Sometimes you ask them to repeat their question because of the call quality or the accent (which can vary widely), so I did and he repeated himself.

‘This holiday you have tomorrow, what is this?  Thanksgiving Day.’ A slight pause and then, offered as explanation, ‘I’m in India.’

I’m not accustomed to explaining the significance of holidays.  Mostly I take them for granted.  Sometimes, I’m not even sure what the point even is of a particular holiday.  Flag day, for instance.  It’s a day to express appreciation for flags?  To celebrate the feast of St. Flag, and his innumerable contributions to the wellbeing of flagkind everywhere?

So I started, awkwardly:  ‘It’s like a harvest festival.’  They have harvests in India, right?

‘What does one do to celebrate Thanksgiving?’

‘Well, mostly eat.  Turkey.  And watch football.’

I imagined his thoughts:  This is what they celebrate?  A chance to eat even more than they already do and watch sports?  This constitutes a holiday in America?  And how does one eat an entire country?  So I explained further.

‘I mean, it’s like an opportunity for people to get together with one another and share food.  And, you know, give thanks for stuff.  Like being together, or, I don’t know.  And watch football.  It’s got a history to it: basically it marks the day the first settlers exchanged food with the natives.  Native Americans.’

Can I say ‘Indians’ to an Indian?  Probably not.  And yes, the story was an oversimplification, I know.  I’m not going to explain the intricacies of shoe buckles, nor am I comfortable going into the socio-political ramifications of the event, nor the irony, nor any of the rest.  But I couldn’t leave it at that.  I love Thanksgiving.  It’s one of my favorite holidays.  So I continued to blather.

‘It’s good.  It’s a good holiday.  I mean, it’s just a chance to get together with your people and celebrate being together and I guess just give thanks for having each other.’  I took a short breath, then added,  ‘And to watch football.’

‘I see’ said the mouth attached to the ear on the other end of the string.  I think this answer was acceptable to him.  Or he was tired of talking about it.  I hope he has something similar, though.  The idea of celebrating closeness with family, with friends, with other people is universally important.

No it is not the sexiest holiday (Mardis Gras, obviously).  It’s not flashy and cheerful like Christmas.  It’s not explosive and bombastic like Independence Day.  Thanksgiving Day is just a meal with your friends, your family, your loves.  And occasionally one or two people you don’t like or don’t know as well, but whom you can certainly tolerate for an hour or two.

Happy Thanksgiving,

-Nat

A Letter to The Man Regarding Internet Anonymity

Dear The Man,


I understand that you are not in the business of being any fun. You’re The Man. Your job is to make everyone else’s lives miserable. I get that.

So, The Man, if you want to kick a bunch of hippies and unemployed people out of a park, that’s fine.  If you want to fire a revered 75 year old teacher/ordained minister for something minor like masturbating behind his podium while teaching algebra, that’s fine too.
But for the love of God, don’t take my Internet anonymity away from me!

Apparently, your friends in the Department of Justice are asking Congress to make lying on the Internet a prosecutable offense.
I mean, if that’s the case then they may as well remove the Internet from being on the Internet. The whole point of the Internet is that it’s a lawless no-man’s-land of pornography, vice and convenient banking. If you take the lying away from that, all we’ll have left is pornography! Which is fine – pornography is great – but we’re really not making the most out of this wonderful tool of deceit.

We’ll all have to get our lying fix by lying to each other’s faces. That’s no fun! What if someone punches me? Next thing we know, you’ll try taking sports commenting away from us, and then what will we have?

To sum up, The Man, you can be a dick all you want. Just don’t dick around with my Internet.

Love,

Reginald L. Cummerbund III
From The Internet

P.S. That is a real picture of me.  For serious.

Friday: We Celebrate Veterans Day...

...by wasting time on the Internet.  Just like all other holidays.  And all other days in general.  Generals are in the military.  The military is where veterans serve.  We've come full circle.

You're welcome.

Underappreciated Holiday Today:

Happy Friday and Happy Veterans Day to all of you people who are veterans or know somebody serving in the military. Normally, this is where something dumb or jokey or sarcastic would go, but I’m just going to skip it today and just say thanks.


But now that we’re on a different paragraph, let’s take our quick Friday Jaunt Around The Internet. I hereby dub the following…

“Exercises in Uselessness”

Yes It’s Tiny, But It Gets Great Mileage

That’s what… she… nope, I stopped it. I stopped the joke.

Scientists are capable of some great things: space exploration, smart phone wizardry, the creation of gravity (how did things stay down on the ground before Newton?!). Sometimes, though, they do things like create the tiniest car ever using nanotechnology, and you’re left wondering what the point was of that. Unless, as I’ve suspected for a while, science is simply trying to create a real life TRON. Which I’m pretty sure is almost completely fact.

The molecular car will make it a lot easier to take trips to the nano-supermarket, as well as for subatomic nuclear families to bond by taking road trips to the other side of the needle head.

Does This Bunting Make Me Look Fat?

Yeah, probably. It's either the bunting, or you're just fat.  What?  Did I say something?

Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a big problem in this country, and that problem is the Christmas tree. Specifically the public image thereof, at least according to a new Federal government mandate that’s imposing a 15-cent Christmas tree fee on the sale of fresh cut trees.  The mandate is meant to help “enhance the image of Christmas trees and the Christmas tree industry in the United States.”

This article treats it like a Christmas tree tax imposed specifically by Obama because he hates America.  It’s not really a tax though, just a fee that Christmas tree sellers are paying specifically to promote Christmas tree sales. Whatever. Of course, the flip side of the coin is, does the Christmas tree really need an image makeover?

I didn’t think so initially, but then I went and visited my local neighborhood Christmas tree and, well…

Oh no tennenbaum!

Things aren’t going so well I guess. I mean, I can understand the heroin and the moonshine, but cigarettes, Mr Tree? Cigarettes?!

Behold: Our New Numberical Overlord!

And yea, on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the eleventh year, a child turned eleven. Naturally, I hereby pledge my undying allegiance to our new overlord. All hail John Biscaro, master of numerology and amateur flautist. Submit or be destroyed.

Had enough?  Good.  Go enjoy your weekend!

Bachmann Level: Yellow!

For those of you concerned, or looking for a forecast of the amount of Crazy we can expect this week, the national Bachmann Level is YELLOW!

As you can see:

Level YELLOW is also Level WEEE!! ARROW THROUGH HEAD crazy.

During these conditions, you can expect Michelle Bachmann to wield the term 'Socialist' like Joe McCarthy's old school dropping the beat and spitting out the red scare rhymes.  You know, back before Communism got commercial.

Suggestions: wear your protective headgear to keep out the shrill when in public, and avoiding looking pant suit wearers in the eye at all costs.

Friday: The Blog Returns From The Dead...

...to hump you, or at least offer, and smoke a cigarette while it steals your beard.

Preamble to the Preamble to the Preamble:

Well, Patriots, this November is election season, when all Americans of voting age head to the ballot box to elect the next President of the United States.

Oh wait, that’s next year? Then why the hell have there already been, like, nine debates already?! Do these people not have anything better to do?

Turns out, the answer to that question is ‘nope!’ Although I suppose Herman Cain could go back to denying claims of naughtiness, or film making!



The smoking actually doesn’t bother me at all. The wide eyed crazy and the complete and total lack of anything specific does, though. The smoking is just lovely nicotine icing atop a cake made of bizarre. “Let’s do this shit! Who’s with me? What are we doing? Something about nines! Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em and cue the music!”

The Republican Primaries, or The Search for Someone Who Isn’t Creepy or Crazy.

So, I guess, hey: only one more year to go!

And now, a quick Friday Jaunt Around The Internet. I hereby dub the following...

“Rural Ribaldry”

Pornographic Poltergeists:

Do ghosts get it on? Apparently they do in Euclid, OH (the ghost sex capital of the Midwest!), where four year old pornographer Kimora caught two apparitions in flagrante delicto deceased. Personally, I’m glad to see that the corporeal urges stay with us post corpse. Although, I’d like to think I’d wait until the four year old with the camera phone isn’t snapping pictures of me and my pasty white ghost ass in someone’s nasty living room.

I actually wrote a comedy sketch a couple of years back about a masturbating ghost. Turns out, it wasn’t perverted after all! It was just prescient!

Pretty sure a ghost had sex in this chair.  Probably not safe to sit...

As a side note, God bless you local news! In Chicago, we get a bunch of incredibly horrendous crimes, but elsewhere in our fair country you get some pretty entertaining attempts at killing broadcast time.

Speaking of local news and incredibly old things having sex…

If You Got It, Grampa, Flaunt It:

This one ties into pretty much everything we’ve talked about so far. Politics? The dude’s running for city council, so check. Incredibly old/possibly dead things? 83 years old, so check. Kind of out in the middle of nowhere? Centerville, Iowa? Check.

Hanky panky? Well, attempted at least. Pay attention to the verbiage of this:

“Ben Clifford Dawson, 83, of Centerville, was charged with prostitution and assault with the intent to commit sexual abuse after he allegedly offered to let a 33-year-old woman repay part of a $7,000 loan by allowing him to perform sex acts on her.”

Again, read the “by allowing him to perform sex acts on her” and now let your imagination run wild.

Romantic, right?

This is akin to the bank coming up to you and saying ‘look, I know you still owe tens of thousands of dollars on your loans, but how about we forgive all that and I give you a nice BJ?’

(The Simple) Life Imitates Art

You think the masturbating ghost was prescient? How about Amish gang violence? First, Life:

“Troyer believes that he and his wife were lured into a cult made up of breakaway members of the larger Amish community near Bergholz in rural eastern Ohio. He said it was – and still is – ruled with an iron fist by his former father-in-law, Sam Mullet, a man who Troyer and others say is anything but a typical Amish leader.”

Now Art:



Compare and contrast.  Please show your work.

Texas Rangers Fan Club

Yes, it has come to this.  Yes, someday I will write about something else.  But for right now, this is what you're stuck with because I can't stop thinking about...

TEXAS RANGERS PLAYOFF BASEBALL!

Yeehaw and hot damn!  It's that time again, and there's nothing I would love more than for the Texas Rangers baseball team of Texas to make it to win the American League pennant and make it to this year's World Series!  Because Lord knows, it's not enough to make it to last year's World Series!

Here's Nelson Cruz!  He plays baseball and he's good!

These two love each other!  The one you can see is called Colby Lewis, and I hope he has many excellent innings of hit free baseball pitching in the near future, along with the rest of the Texas Rangers Baseball Club's excellent stable of fine professional baseball pitchers!

Oh boy!  Texas Baseball Rangers of the MLB!

My Homage to the Yankees

If you need an explanation why, here it is.

If there's one thing I want in this world, Internet, it is for the New York Yankees baseball club to win their next game and take on the Texans for the American League pennant.

This is Ivan Nova.  He is a starting pitcher for the New York Yankees baseball club, and I wish him a successfull, error free and strike out filled next outing.

This is another very famous, very well paid New York Yankees baseball playing Yankee, for whom I wish nothing but the best.

May this stadium be filled to the brim with jubilation, and not become a pool for Yankee fan tears.

Hot Sex Air Balloon

After five months, I now have a TV again.  One thing I'm enjoying right now are the ridiculous commercials I've missed so very much.  I sometimes like to write explanations of the action going on during the drug commercials, and how they relate to the drug.  The below is for Cialis.

There’s a sexy lady standing in front of a mirror in her tastefully decorated middle class bedroom.  She’s going out to probably get some coffee and run some errands maybe, and she’s fixing her hair or something flirty like that.  She’s got one sexy number on – a sweater jacket so hot it’ll melt your face off.  But oh no, her collar is turned up and she hasn’t noticed yet.  Who’s going to help her?

Boom, enter her husband.  He takes one look at her, and he sees that sweater jacket, the one he bought her for Sweetest’s Day because it looked so good on her and he can’t control himself.  He knows exactly what to do.  He saunters over to her, stands behind her, and flips that collar down where it belongs. 

Their eyes meet, and guess what?  Sexy lady just wasted her time getting dressed because someone’s had his Cialis, and now it’s time for sex.

Before you know it, they’re hugging and looking at each other and getting all touchy feely.  The camera’s losing its mind too, doing turns and stuff around the two as they’re getting busy.  The husband’s running his hands up and down that form fitting sweater jacket and, holy shit, what’s happening?  The bedroom walls are falling down and suddenly they’re in a gigantic basket.  What the hell happened?

Who cares?  It’s about to get kinky.

They’re lifting off.  Suddenly they’re in a hot air balloon.  And that air balloon is looking pretty hot, kiddies.  It’s a sex balloon now, and our happy couple is getting off the ground real quick.  They’re up in the mile high club now, floating over a warmly lit country side, high on Cialis and feeling good.  So good that the sexy lady takes one look at the camera and starts listing off some naughty little side effects.

And the husband can’t help himself, he’s gotta get in on this crazy action.  And before long he’s spouting of side effects too.  Holy shit, they’re talking nasty, nasty shit right now – talking about how long your erection lasts and whether or not you gotta go see that doctor and get your check up.

Hell yeah, Cialis in a hot sex air balloon.  Make that sex, crazy sex kittens in the sky.

How's that for horrifying?

Jean-Philippe's Love Corner, or I Have An Agent Now! Let's Celebrate!

Hey!  Guess what?  I have an honest-to-God voice over agent now!

BOOYEAH!

They're called Talent Group!  More information on the Voice Over / Audio Goodness tab!

To celebrate, here's a little piece of audio fun I made!  It features me doing a silly French accent!  More exclamation points than are reasonable!!  Enjoy!

JEAN-PHILIPPE'S LOVE CORNER - EPISODE #1: CHAD

If you would like your letter read and responded to by Jean-Philippe Emomonton, please email me

(nat [dot] topping [at] gmail [dot] com) with the subject 'JP's Love Corner' and, who knows, I might actually get around to making more of these.

Proposed Solution to the Memorial/Labor Day Problem - And Yes, This is a Problem

I have this problem, which is that I can never keep Labor Day and Memorial Day straight. Inevitable it gets down to the end of August and I say something along the lines of ‘Hey, Memorial Day is next weekend,’ at which point other people point out that I have the wrong day and they all start laughing at me.

 

AND I HATE BEING LAUGHED AT!!

 

Well, at least when it comes to my general inability to remember widely known calendrical details. In my own defense, though, they are basically the same holiday. Yes, I know that one is about celebrating Labor and one is about celebrating Memory. But I submit the following as evidence: 

• Both are on a Monday 
• Both mean a three day weekend
• Both mark an important milestone for Summer
• Both heavily involve barbecues and drinking
• Both involve the availability of public swimming pools
• Nobody knows what either is actually celebrating

They are therefore proven to be the same exact day. Quid pro quo. That’s a term, right? Did I use it correctly? Should I have used Cogito Ergo Sum? Anyone know Latin out there?

 

I can only assume, since I’ve had so much trouble with this throughout my entire lifetime, that most everyone else secretly has the same problem. Oh sure, they might deride me whenever I make the dreaded date faux pas, but deep down they’re thinking ‘Wait, is it Memorial Day or is it Labor Day? I myself am so confused that I feel the need to displace my anger onto another person, one who is incredibly handsome and good natured but naïve in the ways of holidays.’

 

In fact, I’m certain that’s what you’re thinking right now.

 

And so, I would like to propose the following: we ditch the two different names and combine them into a holiday that happens twice a year: Membor Day*. It’s nice and inclusive: everyone’s a Membor! And, you won’t have to worry about remembering which is which; you can just enjoy yourself and go “cook sausages,” “play bags,” drink “tall boys” and do other suspiciously phallic sounding things. There might be an issue if people are trying to plan parties for both early Membor day and late Membor day, but if that’s the case then to hell with you; Membor Day is about last minute barbecue plans, not planning ahead.

 

Contact your senator. Lord knows, they’re not doing anything else worthwhile right now.

 

*It’s either Membor or Lamorial Day. We can take a poll if you want, but I’d rather just move ahead with Membor if it’s okay with y’all.

The Insane Clown Posse.  Two grown men, hip hop 'artists,' and creators of the most parody resistant song ever in the history of parody resistant songs, Miracle.

Jack White.  Half of the group The White Stripes, modern day guitar legend and producer.

Mozart.  He was Mozart.

Together?  One of the most unholy of songs ever created in the history of man kind.

It is not safe for work.  Not safe for pretty much anything.  It is a horrible, vile, disgusting song about licking ass.

And I love it.



"Mozart: dope for the most time,
Respected, 'cause he knows art."

More info can be found on the Third Man Records website.

REAL HISTORY

By Matthew Bucholz, by way of Serial Optimist.

The Most Beautiful Place in America

Prepare for some rampant Michigan homerism.  And... GO!

Whenever I try telling someone from elsewhere in the country that Michigan is a very pretty state, they inevitably look at me like I’m crazy. For most people, ‘Michigan’ conjures images of Detroit, urban decay, civil unrest [looking at you, MSU fans…], the decline of the auto industry, poor governance and the Michigan militia (a group recently called ‘goat-raping rednecks’ by my very own kin).


People don’t normally think 'pretty' when they think of Michigan, but for a lot of the state that’s exactly what it is: pretty. Growing up, I was lucky enough to have parents who appreciated that and recognized the importance of passing on an appreciation of their home state to their kids.

And I’m telling you people, from Sault St Marie to South Haven, it’s very, very pretty.

Nearly every summer we would take that trip ‘up north’ to that corner of the lower peninsula; normally we would camp, though sometimes we’d stay in Traverse City – the land of cherry pies, beaches and pirate themed mini-golf. But without fail, we would always take a trip over to the Dunes and to tiny Empire, Michigan.

Here is a picture of Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lake Shore:

The Dunes

According to legend, a mother bear and her two bear cubs went running into Lake Michigan. The two cubs fell behind the mother, who reached the shores of Michigan only to find that her children had drowned in the lake. The mother bear waited on the shore, and eventually she waited for so long the sand covered her over and she became the dunes. The children became the Manitou islands off the shores of the dune.

It’s a sad story but a beautiful one in its own bittersweet way, and the natural beauty of the Dunes reflects the timelessness of the legend perfectly. For countless centuries people have come to the Dunes to witness the beauty, reflect on the peaceful atmosphere and to simple enjoy the lake shore.

As little kids, though, we didn’t really care about legends or timelessness or any of that. In fact, we usually wouldn’t even make it far enough to see the beautiful vistas, to hear the gentle crashing of the waves against the shores or smell the aroma of that Great Lake. Instead we would spend hours climbing and tumbling back down the glorious mountain of sand. We played in an enormous sandbox, where any falls were cushioned by the sand and where the wind picked up your kites and carried them high above the Dunes for all the other children to see. By the end of the day we would be too tired to walk to the water, too covered in sweat and sand after climbing up and down the mother bear’s back for anything other than a nap.

After leaving the National Park, we would always drive over to Empire and have dinner there in an old inn. Afterwards, we would walk over to the Empire beach and swing on the swing set or take a dip in the water.

The beach at Empire.

What brings this up? Sleeping Bear Dunes was just voted by viewers of Good Morning America as the most beautiful place in America. I’ve seen many a beautiful place in America, but what can I say? I’m biased.

If you ask this Michigan ex-pat, though, I will tell you it’s worth the trip.

Forever Marilyn, (re)Visited!

So naturally once you've made fun of a gigantic statue for being an excuse to show off plaster panties, it only makes sense to go on a pilgrimage to that very statue, no?  Is the statue as gauche and bizarre in person as it appears to be in the photographs?  Let me answer that question with ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH:

Shadier than the shadiest tree!

As you can see, not only does Forever Marilyn titillate and arouse, it also provides much needed shelter to families and middle aged couples alike.  Looking at this picture, I like to think of the original movie and imagine that beneath real Marilyn Monroe was a lilliputian army of pervs staring up her skirt.  But hey, that's my hangup, not yours.

The question on my mind, though, was 'What do all of the other sculptures in the area think about Forever Marilyn?'

I had a chance to catch up with Jack Brickhouse, seen here practically salivating.  Obviously, a Forever Marilyn fan.

Insert sports related double entendre here, followed by broadcaster catchphrase!  Hey-hey!

Nathan Hale?

"I only regret that I have given my life to my country for this."

Not so much.

The Devil's Post!

I have figured out why I haven’t blogged lately.


Is it because I’ve been busy? No. Is it because everything seems to be falling apart around us? No. Is it because the city of Cleveland and their professional baseball team is deliberately trying to ruin my summer? No. Is it because of issues in my personal life, combined with general existential malaise? No, probably not. You’d think I would be blogging more if that’s the case.

No, my inter-friends, It’s because of post 666.

That’s right! The devil’s post!

This is a 100% real and true picture of something that exists.

My last post was post number 666, which is the purported mark of the beast and also just a naughty number in general. No wonder, then, that I’ve been struck by a lack of insight, inspiration, and various other positive words that begin with ‘in!’ It’s the devils fault!

I’m now working to exorcise the demon. Step one was post 667. Following this, I’ll be putting myself in touch with a priest, buying some sage brush, learning Latin and eating angel food cake.

Hopefully more to come. I still have to clue you all in on my pilgrimage to Forever Marilyn, let you know how incredibly awesome Cowboys and Aliens was, talk about food, and then possibly weep. I’d say check back periodically, but I’ve said that before and I’m running low on the will to apologize, so if you like you can subscribe, put this on your Google Reader or what have you, check Facebook occasionally, or wait for carrier pigeon notices.

Ok. Back to fighting the devil.

Obligatory Excuses Post #428

Hello minions of the electronic realm,


As you can see from the scant posting this week, I’m in a bit of a posting lull. This is a combination of a couple of different things. First, work has been ass busy, so the traditional ‘avoiding doing work, writing a blog post’ thing been happening. Second, the fall back posting times have – late at night – have been filled with trying to sleep, which I’ve been having trouble doing properly for a couple of weeks. Also, I’ve been actually doing things in my evenings – a writers meeting, a callback and some Reality Fairy goodness the past couple of days, and an ‘industry party’ for voice over people (apparently I’m industry despite not yet having an agent, nor having been paid yet for anything) happening tonight. So yeah.

But I do have stuff planned – specifically some actual pictures of the Forever Marilynn statue that I took last week but have to get off of my phone – so I’ll try to get that out to you people at some point.

Just know that I love you. That’s all I really wanted to say.

How to Survive a Bike Ride in 99 Degrees Heat

Not Chicago, but damned if it doesn't feel like it.

Yes, it is July and much of the nation is in the throes of a heat wave so intense, it borders on the comically ridiculous.  Forecasts festooned in red warnings litter the weather.com and (I can only assume) the television. Ideally, in such instances, all travel would be suspended and people would just stay where the air is properly conditioned and life can move on in semi-comfortable circumstances.


Unfortunately, life is anything but ideal. I submit as evidence the aforementioned comically ridiculous heat wave.

For those without a car, this leaves the options of either taking public transportation or biking. Both options are sweaty and uncomfortable in their own special way. Either way, you will spend significant amounts of time out in the sun and the heat. The question is, do you want to be standing there, crammed in next to a bunch of other sweaty people, or do you want to physically exert yourself during one of the most dangerous times to be physically exertive?

If you have decided, like I did just yesterday, that you prefer option number bike, then here are some suggestions to help you cope with your ride.

1: Resign yourself to the likelihood that you are embarking on possibly the worst ride in the entire history of bicyclized transportation. First, better to set expectations incredibly low so that, if anything, you will be surprised that you made it. Second, because this might just actually be the worst ride of your life.

2: On a related note, don’t die. If you feel yourself dying, or as though you might be edging in that direction, stop. This is a good general rule of thumb regardless, but deserves to be restated. Don’t die.

3: Stop for ice cream along the way. Not only will ice cream cool your overheated body, but it will also raise your morale. I like to stop multiple times and will often choose my route home based on the number of ice cream parlors along the way.

4: Do not start screaming unintelligibly. Trust me, it won’t help you. If anything, screaming just disturbs everyone around you – motorists, pedestrians, other bikers, police officers – making your situation more awkward and potentially dangerous. If you feel you have to scream, scream intelligibly.

5: Also, no crying. Crying saps your body of much needed moisture. In addition to that, the evaporation of your tears only adds to the humidity, which in turn heats up everyone else. This may cause people around you to start crying as well, which in turn adds to the humidity and thus creates a snow ball effect. Only, no snow.

6: You can pray to God but it likely won’t help. God most likely will be sequestered away in a cooled portion of heaven and will be unable to hear your cries over the drone of the AC unit.

7: Remove as much extraneous clothing as possible. No, it might not be pretty. You know what else isn’t pretty? A sweat soaked shirt on a panting gorilla-man riding down the street on a piece of metal.

8: Cover yourself in mud. If it works for pigs then it likely works for humans too.  Lost that pesky pride.

9: If all else fails, give up. Park your bike on the side of the road, and then find a taxi willing to pick up a grown man, naked except for what caked mud has not yet come loose, crying and blathering unintelligibly about how his ice cream cone melted.

Stay cool!

Forever Marilyn: Like Transformers, but Sexier

Well, I don’t know what you Chicagoans have done while I was away, but I returned to my fair city only to find it in the grips of a dreaded heat wave, choking its way through the thickly humid air. And now, we have Marilyn Monroe’s gigantic panties to deal with.


Oh, what? You haven’t heard about this?

Yeah apparently there’s a ludicrously gigantic statue of Marilyn Monroe holding down her skirt on the Magnificent Mile. The sculpture, the product of descendant of the Johnsons of Johnson & Johnson fame and (apparently) artist J. Seward Johnson, reproduces the iconic moment from ‘The Seven Year Itch’ which has titillated old men for many decades now. Here is a picture of the iconic moment:

And now, contrast it with this 70 foot tall monstrosity.

Look how far out the skirt goes in the back:

There's no denying it: this sculpture is about seeing and having your picture taken with panties. Gigantic plaster replica panties.

I can't believe she's been outside this whole time.  I'm worried for her.  It's been so humid out, I hope she doesn't end up with a SEVEN YEAR ITCH.

(Pause)

SEVEN YEAR ITCH, ladies and gentlemen.

(Cough)

Anyway, leave it to a man named Johnson to take an incredibly sexy moment from classic cinema and make it absolutely terrifying. I mean, who could ever hope to satisfy gigantic Marilyn Monroe? Perhaps a cross between Kennedy and the Jolly Green Giant? Gargantuan Transformer Arthur Miller?

But now that I know it’s there, I have to see it. I mean I just do. Why? Because once I actually had this very same nightmare. I was a 70 foot tall Marilyn Monroe, except with my face, and my skirt kept blowing up and every time a gust of wind would blow another Japanese tour group would come by, snapping photos and nodding their heads.

I eventually sold my gigantic pair of panties to one of them for 8000 Yen.  Arigato, perv.

Links to: Kuriositas for pictures of Forever Marilyn (flickr users credited through Kuriositas), sewardjohnson.com, filmforum.org and, of course, wikipedia.

A Modest Proposal to Remedy the Child Obesity Epidemic Ravaging the World, Making Life Uncomfortable for the Rest of Us

People, we have a problem in this world and the problem is Fat Kids.*

Yes, Fat Kids the primary social illness of the modern era.  I don't know if you people know this - if you've been outside of your fancy condo or incredibly expensive home lately or taken a walk during your lunch hour from your high powered job, you've noticed that there is a preponderance of Fat Kids out there loitering around in front of the convenience stores.  They sit there, frantically shoving Little Debbie baked goods into their face and refusing to exercise.

Oh my God, there are Fat Kids everywhere, and it's making it difficult for us to enjoy our delicious Starbucks bakery treats and highly sugared espresso drinks while we check the Wall Street Journal app on our smart phones during our breaks.

How did Fat Kids become such an overwhelmingly threatening threat that threatens the very threatlessness of our lives?  Simply answer, their parents.  While not responsible necessarily for teaching their children manners, thoughtfulness, morals, community mindedness or tact, parents are responsible for ONE THING: at least make sure your kids aren't Fat Kids.

Yes, they can be self-centered assholes and wastrels, but at least let them be thin.

You have one goal, parents: make sure your kids aren't Fat Kids.  Because when you have Fat Kids it's a little uncomfortable for the rest of us.

A few well intentioned but misguided researchers from Harvard (HARVARD!!!) have recommended that obese children be taken away from their obviously incompetent, uncaring and just frankly evil parents, and placed into the custody of foster parents.  Foster, as we all know, is Australian for fixing a child's life.

The idea is that the act of Child Fatening is tantamount to child abuse, which places it on par with such nasty acts as beating one's children, forcing one's children to live in a cage, and abusing one's children in ways that are more vile and horrendous than anything we could imagine.

You see, parents must provide their children with four things: food, clothing, shelter and safety.  We know that  when a parent fails to provide an adequate amount of these things, that they are harming their children.  What most people don't know is that providing too much can be harmful as well.  Too much food?  Obese children, disgusting!  Too much clothing?  Imagine a class of children running around with eight sweaters on!  Too much shelter?  How many roofs do you propose to put over these childrens' heads, sir?!

Too much safety?  Well, we know that's impossible.  You cannot shield a child enough from such things as pain, failure, disappointment, disillusionment, inadequacy or any of the other less desirable emotions they will repeatedly be forced to deal with their entire adult lives.  Better for them to be horribly surprised than have a non-perfect childhood.

It is certainly true that children must not be allowed to become obese, as that condition leads to many adverse side effects.  People must be kept alive for as long as possible, so that they can buy more radioactive phones, inhale more car exhaust fumes, bake longer in the tanning booths, alter their appearance more to become attractive to other people, and purchase more energy drinks; in short, to live a longer and more productive and enjoyable life.

But will taking these Fat Children from their parents and placing them in the custody of foster parents really solve anything?  After all, by the time these children have been saved, they will already be fat.  Aren't these unreasonable expectations to place on foster parents?  Make these fat children unfat?  Can you even do that?

For this reason, I would like to propose another method to remedy this highly undesirable situation: obese children are to be taken away from their parents, and placed in a battle dome with an entire zoo's worth of predatory animals.  Their lives will be then monitored by television cameras, which will broadcast the Fat Dome to people around the world for their viewing pleasure.

Most of you Readers are right now nodding in agreement.  This is, you say, the most obvious answer to this problem.  However, we live in a "democracy" so some of you have a differing opinion on the matter.  And so, I will now convince you.

Have you ever seen an unfit gladiator?  No.  That's because gladiators must battle constantly for their lives, and in doing so they (a) get a lot of exercise, and (b) eat only what they have time to eat in between battles with tigers.  This also satisfies our society's Darwinian belief that only the strong survive.  While normally 'the strong' constitutes 'rich kids with parents that buy them everything' in our modern era, the Fat Dome method allows Fat Kids to achieve their own unfatness and, in doing so, their freedom.

In this way, these children are given something that even perfect children on the outside are not given: actual physical exercise.  Not that the lack of good playgrounds or competitive sports at young ages are detrimental to the development of modern children - after all, kids are to be protected from cuts, bumps, bruises and scrapes at all cost - or that this societal obsession with safety and it's preference that kids just play video games might possibly in some small way effect the healthiness of children in the first place.  I'm not saying that at all.  I'm just saying, it's different.

And of course the real boon here is that we, the rest of society, get to watch the Fat Dome play out on television and really just enjoy this blood sport for everything it is.  Yes, some of the Fat Kids might be eaten by wild animals or be forced to kill other Fat Kids just to make it out alive.  But hey, they were probably going to develop diabetes anyway.  This way is a lot more fun for the rest of us.

Now, the call to arms: dear Reader, instituting the Fat Dome is the only logical way to solve this problem.  I can only do so much - after all, I'm just a shadowy figure with a blog who makes mostly snarky comments but who SOMETIMES writes entirely sincere prescriptions to remedy societal ills - and what I am capable of I have already done.  It is up to you, friends, to spread the word and help make this happen.

Write your congresspeople!  Convert your friends!  Don't listen to those naysayers out there who would call you an animal, a shallow asshole and an idiot!  If you must, send them the link to this post if it will help convince them.  But we must not fail in this endeavor.

If it were up to this guy, we would just eat the Fat Kids.
Of course, he would say that.  He looks a little pudgy himself, no?

Fat Dome.  Let's make it happen.

*Please note, this entire post is facetious.

California: Chasing the Sunset

I took a quick break from reading the magazine I bought in the airport terminal to take a look out the window.  I don't remember what the captain said our cruising altitude was, but we were up above the clouds.  A field of puffy white mounds stretched out in every direction and over in front of the plane somewhere the sun was setting.  Our plane was chasing the sunset.

Not a bad way to start a vacation, that.  Of course, nobody planned this little bit of loveliness; it's not like the airlines said, "Let's schedule a flight for this time; the trip should be really really pretty."  No, it was very much by accident.  I don't think many people noticed - a lot of them were watching Jane Eyre or whatever nonsense was playing on the in-flight movie - but I saw it and I loved it.

That's pretty much the theme so far: I saw it and I loved it.

When my Dad took a job outside of Los Angeles almost a year ago, the immediate thought was 'that's so far away, when are we ever going to see him?'  But now that I'm on vacation (and sweet lord did I need a vacation) it has worked out nicely.  I'm staying in Laguna Beach, a place I have no business staying, for a little over a week, and I've loved every minute of it.  Here's a picture:

It was cloudy at the time of that picture.  It's even more beautiful when the sun is shining.

I'm trying to take it easy as much as possible and just enjoy being somewhere nice without trying to do too much.  That said, I've already been up to the Sunset Strip, out to Rancho Cucamonga, down to San Juan Capistrano, over to a slightly shady part of L.A. for some Karaoke and then back down to Laguna Beach and I've been here, what, three days now?

My friends Rachel and Mike, who is eating a microphone.

That's a lot of driving.  What can I say?  Can't help myself.

A couple of things I've learned about Los Angeles so far:

• This is a driver's city.  As near as I can tell, you drive everywhere.  There is some mass transit to be seen, but it's generally scarce.  The vast majority of the bikers I've seen are the snob bikers who wear the biking outfits and are hardcore about biking.  Contrast that with Chicago, where you can abandon your car for weeks and never need it.
• I love how traffic behavior generally reinforces my stereotypes about the locals.  It seems like drivers here are aggressive, now laid back, now self-involved, now irritated but accommodating.
• Everything blooms here.  There are flowered plants everywhere.  The cold, dead part of my Detroiter/Chicagoan soul - the part that must steel itself for the cruel winter - says 'ah for god sake cut it out,' but I'm on vacation so it's nice.
• When people ask where I'm from and I say Chicago they all go "Oh what I great city!  I love that place!"  I think there's a bit of that grass-is-always-greener thing going on.

Californians - at least Southern Californians - like their abbreviations.  Pacific Coast Highway?  No no no, my friends: PCH.  San Juan Capistrano?  Wrong again: SJC.  You couldn't get away with that in Chicago.  If you were going down town along Lake Shore Drive, you wouldn't say 'I'll take Lake Shore.'  You would have to say 'I'm taking LSD.'  And that means something entirely different.

'Where you at right now, honey?'  'Oh, I'm on LSD.'  'Well, don't let me bother you.  And drink lots of water.'

One thing I've done since here, just to appease the comedy nerd side of me (as opposed to the other side: just plain nerd) is to go see a show at The Comedy Store.  Here's my fat head in front of the building:

Thanks, folks!  I'll be here all week.  Literally, I don't leave until Sunday.

So yeah, that's where I am.  I'll try to continue to blog, but I'm not promising anything.

Soft Selling a Caveman on Cable

The other night at the bar, following the concert of a friend, I found myself approached by a mutual acquaintance who worked for Comcast.  Had I been smart, I would have immediately vomited on him, but I didn't.  I'm too polite.  So instead, I mentioned that while I don't work in cable I do work in telecom and 'what do you do?'

Salesman.  Suddenly: I'm trapped.

'I really love it, too, just because the product is so great.  I mean, I'm selling TV!  How great is that?!  Speaking of...' salesman's soft sell segue sonofabitch... 'do you have cable?'

No, says I.  Oh man, he's salivating now.

'What do you have, Dish?  Rabbit ears?'

No, none of that.

'Well, what do you watch?'

Nothing.  I don't have a television.

A look of shock and horror on his face.  'What do you mean you don't have television?  Like, you just don't have one?'  Like, I have a horn in the middle of my face?

Oh no, not like that.  I have a television, it's just broken such that it flatly refuses to turn on under any circumstances and, as a result, is just a big hulking piece of plastic and glass sitting in the corner of my room taking up space.  It's actually a huge sore spot for me.  I have no idea what's going on anywhere.  I've started talking to myself.  I read all the time.  I spend a lot of time crying.  But yeah, no TV.

A good sized pause.  'Well, how about phone and internet?'

I have that, I say, holding up my cellphone.

'No landline?  What do you use for internet, by the way?'

My phone.

'Don't you have a laptop or something?'

I do.  My cellphone is a hotspot, so I use that periodically.  Or I go to the coffee shop.

Another pause.  Possibly appalled, he's searching for something, anything, from his sales training to help him deal with this.

I offer: I lead a very low-tech existence, as you can tell.

'Yeah, no kidding.  Well, look, we have to get you a TV or something.'

Oh yeah, I agree.

'Like a nice flat screen HD TV.'

That would be great.  Do you run a charity that hands out flat screen HD TVs to people?  Because I would sign up for that right now, if you would send me a free flat screen HD TV.

'Do you have any plans to buy one?'

Not anytime soon.  I'm actually a very stubborn person, if that makes any sense.

'Well, I mean, tell you what, once you get that TV... you know what?  I'm sorry.  I'm going to stop soft selling you.  I'm sorry man.'

Hey, you gave it your best.  This just isn't going to work out.  Don't beat yourself up about it.

'I know.  It's just hard to stop.'

Here's the Comcast guy, installing my new Comcast Xfinity!

I would argue that conversation was more entertaining than the last episode of America's Got Talent.  Not that I would know any better.

Transformers 3 Review: HOLY $H#!!!

Holy shit, dude, Transformers 3!  I mean, shit dude!  I never seen so much shit blow up before.  It was insane!  I mean, if you saw Transformers 1 and you were all like 'Whoah holy shit that's a lot of explosions,' then this is like that but like I mean damn.  Explosions everywhere!

Never saw Transformers 2.  Didn't matter.  Did not effect my viewing pleasure one bit.  And Shia LeWhat didn't even piss me off too much!

There was this part where they blew the shit out of Chicago - like the whole city - for like an hour just blowing shit up.  Like, buildings that you see walking down the street.  Not the buildings walking, smartass, but like you're walking and you see all these buildings.  Well, in the movie it's the same buildings only there's robots flying around busting shit up and setting everything on fire or exploding everything.

I mean shit, dude.  Transformers.

OH SHIT, Shit's about to get real.

And then, we like we left the IMAX, which is at Navy Pier, and we walked outside and there were all the buildings again, not on fire.  It was like 'no harm no foul' right?  But man, it was awesome.

Granted, the purported conceit of the movie was a bit routine and lacking in clarity, given that the supposed quote unquote lesson was a jumbled mess of loyalty, freedom versus tyranny, and naturally a 'love story' element that at its best was unobtrusive however at its worst was distracting in its cliched construction, but, like, DUDE.

Shit blew UP.

(Seriously, though, it was a lot of fun.)