Monday, August 30, 2010

So Long, Sea Monkeys!


Listen. Can you hear it?

“Ding-dong the shit is gone
Which old shit?
Mye neighbors shit
Ding-dong the neighbor’s shit is gone!”

The planets must have been in perfect alignment, or something just as significant has transpired in the cosmos to because the colony of sea-monkeys that live next door finally saw fit to clean up all the shit that has accumulated in their front yard for the past three years and move.

Seriously, it has been like living next to Samford & Son.

And when I say “clean”, I mean they dragged a broken ass rake across the what little remnants of a lawn they have left and collected it all in a few Glad bags and then dragged it to the curb.

Hey, it’s a start!

Within this huge pile of crap they mounded up on the street curb is only about a years worth of dog shit, tattered blankets and tarpaulins, scrap wood, segments of leaky garden hose, broken action figures, rusted bicycle frames, wobbly shopping carts, loose chicken wire, long since deflated basketballs, as well as every other piece of broken, useless shit your mind can conjure up.

The other neighbors were so absolutely ecstatic they were practically dancing in the street. Yep, there was a spontaneous dance celebration to rival the Sharks vs. the Jets. Hell, I can still here them singing their glorious Negro spirituals from the rooftops now.

These sea-monkeys you sea, have been the Bain of all our existences since the time they moved in three summers ago. I know now how Amanda and Hubert Peterson felt when the Addams family moved in next door, or when the Gruesome’s moved in besides the Flintstones…you get the idea. They are the oddest assortment of stinky, plaid-clad trailer trash that one could ever hope to avoid, much less, have live beside them. The smell alone that has permeated the neighborhood from their yard over the last few months has often been enough to warrant a NATO inspection. Nothing buried in the Iraqi desert would ever rival what you might have stumbled across in their yard only a few days ago – believe you me!

Lets look at this cast of carnival freaks for a moment shall we?

Firstly, there is the “head of the household”, Bob.

Bob wears the exact same t-shirt, stained jeans and backwards baseball cap covering up his lobotomy haircut every day; ever the fashion plate if I do say so. For whatever reason, Bob feels the intrinsic need to bring home anything that’s either not chained down or so badly broken that nobody else in his or her right fucking mind would ever want it. It’s like his yard has become a nest that he’s attempting to feather with scrap metal and broken appliances. And it’s not like he can even claim that he broke the stuff himself – it all came home that way and immediately occupied a position of honor on his front lawn to waste away into rust or mould.

I’ve seen clinical pack rats with more discretion than this moron. The guy is total crazypants!

Bob also has a strange habit of beginning tasks that could be considered as something of a “home renovation” nature except that he never finishes them and ultimately just abandons these projects in various stages of incompletion. My favorite is the dilapidated craptacular “dog house” that you could shoot a rifle at and have the bullet pass directly through without ever hitting anything. Now it just stands there like some twisted early contemporary 21st Century lawn ornament.

Bob Vila this guy is not!

Then there’s Hogzilla, his wife (I don’t know her name). Together they have the combined social grace of a box of hamsters.

She never leaves the house, but we know she’s always there based on the tremors we feel rippling through the earth each time she struggles off the couch to the kitchen and back to fetch herself another box of donuts. It’s true, she makes the mother in ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape’ seem like Farah Fawcett in the movie ’10’.

Every now and again, she will venture out on the front porch to gaze across the ‘ol ranch stead. Of course, she doesn’t venture very far since the porch would likely collapse from the sheer weight of her girth if she ever took more than 2 steps out on it. Instead, she prefers to open the front door, lob the day’s garbage out into the yard and then retire back inside to her Jerry Springer and industrial-sized bags of Oreos.

Last and least, is their devil spawn of a child – Brandon.

Brandon is the quintessential “Problem Child” and about as bright as a sack of rocks. In three years, I have never been known anything other than “Mr. Man”, despite several attempts of getting him to learn my name. Not that I ever have much to do with the kid communication-wise, but who likes being continually referred to as Mr. Man?

I know it’s terrible that I speak about a child in this manner, but after three years, any sympathy or patience I have had for him has been squashed out of existence. I avoid the kid now like I avoid trips to the dentist. In fact, the whole neighborhood seems to avoid him. Whenever the kid is outside, neighbors will avoid walking out to their cars or leave their porches for fear the kid will accost them with endless questions. Whenever one person makes the inevitable bid to leave their porch, the rest of us will seize the opportunity to commando roll out to their own cars and pull away while Brandon is occupied.

So it was a very happy day indeed when we watched the family wagon pull away for the last time. So much so, that it was a few hours before anyone ever officially recognized the fact; no doubt suspicious that it was all an elaborate ruse and they would return at any moment much to our disappointment.

But alas, it was true. The Sea Monkeys are at last gone.

No more random bits of broken garbage to marvel at in the mornings, so more stench of fetid body odor and rotting dog shit, no more screams of “Brandon, git yer lazy ass outside!” in the evenings, no more loud domestic disputes to rival the Nazi Party rallies in pre-war Germany, no more middle of the night visits by the local constabulary.

Nope, it’s absolutely blissful.


Friday, August 27, 2010

Reality Horseshit

Intelligent television is dead. Not that it was ever really intelligent to begin with, mind you, but whatever semblance there was to semi-thoughtful broadcasting has now been completely erased and replaced with brain-numbing, soul-sucking Reality bullshit.

Suddenly, it seems that my life has become even less exciting and insignificant than I once thought. It’s as if everyone else's life is so much more interesting than mine. I used to watch television as an escape mechanism from my own skull-crushingly humdrum life and delve into more fantastical worlds of solving crimes, diagnosing life-threatening diseases or thwarting elaborate terrorist plots. Now I get to watch people bake cakes.

Whoopee shit.

Pioneers into this Reality TV frontier like Big Brother, Survivor and American Idol are becoming passé as we are now more intrigued by the more mundane shows like Antique Roadshow, Pawn Stars, or Miami Ink. It doesn’t matter if you design tattoos or maneuver heavy machinery across frozen inland lakes, the North American public wants to know about it apparently.

Am I the only person who doesn’t give a shit?

Lets’ review some of the current popular Reality show trends, shall we?

Ice Road Truckers / Ice Pilots

How did this ever make it to syndication in the first place? They drive trucks back and forth across Arctic wastelands; it’s cold and dangerous – I get it. I don’t need to watch three-fucking-seasons to get the gist. There’s never much wondering what the next episode is going to be about, is there? More ice, more cold, more trucks, more idiots driving across frozen lakes. You could be deaf and dumb and still be able to follow this plotline; same for its latest spin-off Ice Pilots. Yep – you guessed it – they fly over Arctic wastelands. And, yes, it’s still cold and dangerous. It’s enough to give you brain freeze.

Ace of Cakes

Here’s a show I’d love to nuke. They make cakes; most notably “they make it bigger, make it badder and make it awesome”. Booooooring! And when they’re not making their cakes they’re out Alpine skiing down remote Alaskan mountainsides or playing concerts for sell out audiences. Is the cake making business that lucrative? Shit, perhaps I should pack it all in and taking baking classes at my local college. Never mind making it bigger or badder; how about making it less gay?

Jon and Kate Plus 8

Here’s a show that really twists my Charlie Brown’s in a knot. Two parents exploiting their uber-fertility and children for fame and fortune. The bounds of their shamelessness must be as deep and loose as Kate’s hoo-hoo I suspect. The fact that they have lots of children, for some reason, also seems to entitle them to all expense paid vacation trips to Hawaii or Disneyland. And when they aren’t globe-trotting all over paradise with their rug rats in tow, we’re forced to watch them doing ordinary stuff like having breakfast, getting ready for school or defusing temper tantrums. Seriously? This is considered entertainment? If I wanted to watch family squabbles I’d go visit my own family, thank you very much.

Little People, Big World

Here’s a real gem of a show based on the lives of dwarf couple Matt and Amy Roloff, who are struggling to raise their four children on their 34-acre farm. Struggling? What struggling? The guy rides around his farm on a Gator all day long building stuff like fake canyons and pumpkin catapults – how is that struggling exactly? I work hard for a living and I don’t have any canyons or pumpkin catapults in my yard. And when he’s not building stuff he’s attending hockey practices with the Calgary Flames. Gone are the good ‘ol days I guess when dwarfs only achieved fame and fortune by dancing around in clown-like costumes and having pies shoved in their faces.

Practically anybody can have a Reality television show nowadays. Car salesmen, pawn shop owners, scrap metal dealers, hell, even garbage pickers. There doesn’t seem to be any limits whatsoever. In fact, the more boring it seems - the better. It’s not as if these people live terribly exciting lives either. But then again, who would watch a television show about working in a call center, or being a bank teller. Instead, we prefer to watch programs revolving around the things we’d rather be doing instead, no matter how dull or ordinary.

Even beyond these total wastes of satellite signals are other programs about interventions, hoarders, prison inmates, bail jumpers – you name it. No stone, no matter how uninteresting or unseemly, is left unturned. If you develop a case of genital herpes, you could quite possibly end up with your own Reality series – “Contagiously, Yours…”

Having said all this, there are some bastions of sanity in the Reality television world worth exploring that offer something in the way of entertainment.

Deadliest Warrior

This show is simply the tits. Ever wonder who would win in a fight between a Viking and a Samurai, or maybe between a Spartan and a Ninja? Well wonder no more - Deadliest Warrior to the rescue! “Experts” will wage faux combat on crash test dummies and hanging pig carcasses in an attempt to see who would wreck the most bloody havoc on the battlefield with their deadly arsenal. Yup – its blood splatter and gnarly carnage galore for this entire hour’s worth of programming, and all followed up with a computer generated mock battle between the two foes to determine, once and for all, “who is deadliest”. Classic television!

Jurassic Fight Club

Along the same vein as Deadliest Warrior is this Dino-nugget of a kick ass show that stages hypothetical battles between two colossus carnivorous prehistoric beasts. If that doesn’t give you wood then I don’t know what does.


Here’s a Canadian Reality show featuring a two-man team of ordinary rubes trying to elude two roughneck cowboys on horseback over an ever-changing landscape in order to reach a designated finish line undetected in 36 hours. It’s the Fugitive brought to life.

Tank Overhaul

They rebuild old tanks. Need I say more?

Iron Chef

For anyone who loves food – this show is a must. Based on the original Japanese broadcast, this North American remake pits a “veritable pantheon of culinary giants” against one another in something known as “Kitchen Stadium” to see who can make the most intricate and delicious fare out of some secret ingredient. It’s total food porn. Just because I can’t have any of it, doesn’t mean that I can’t beat off to it every now and again.

Monday, August 23, 2010

We'll Make Great Pets

I sometimes wonder if we are alone in this crazy universe and if we’re not, then what do they know about us – if anything? Let’s suppose for a second that we are not alone and, not only are they superior to us, but they also know of our existence here on the big, blue planet. I wonder what they would make of us.

Perhaps they managed to pick up some of our random television signals traveling through deep space. How would they interpret these clues about or culture?

For instance, any inquisitive extra terrestrial would know that on planet Earth, it is always possible to park directly outside any building we are visiting. Voila! Vacant parking spots for everybody! We, the occupants of the 3rd rock from the sun are never faced with the ultimate inconvenience of having to park away from our desired destinations and therefore need to…*shudder*…walk. Somehow, miraculously, there will always be that vacant spot directly in front of any building we ever need to get to.

Pretty sweet, eh?

Now if I were the head of a super-intelligent alien race I might just consider this as a perfect excuse for invasion. No more need to ever find convenient parking spaces for our advanced alien crafts. Forget trying to find secluded places like woods and valleys where nobody will stumble upon us – fuck that! From now on I’m parking directly out front of my abductee’s homes. That’s definitely a bonus. Shit, who wouldn't want that luxury in life?

This slight misinterpretation might just be the total rationale behind man’s ultimate demise at the hands of marauding alien invaders from another planet. We’ll be erased from the celestial record forever for better parking opportunities.

Something else the aliens will assume about us is that we all love to dance. In fact, if any of us should ever decide we need to get our swing on, everyone around us will automatically know all the steps.

It’s a total Footloose throw-down 24/7!

What would the aliens make of this besides that we’re all a bunch of light-footed panty-waists? Maybe they find it a bit endearing, if not entertaining and decide that besides having our parking spaces, we’d also happen to make great pets. Before you know it, we’re all performing chorus lines on the bedroom floor of young three-headed Tomax from the planet Beta-12. Not a happy ending for mankind – how embarrassing.

Damn you, Kevin Bacon!

If the aliens do decide to invade us, then how would they go about preparing? For example, aliens who have studied our television signals carefully would inevitably learn that we humans have a particularly unique code of battle. It does not matter if we are heavily out-numbered in a fight involving martial arts, our enemies are expected to wait patiently to attack us one-by-one, killing time by dancing around in a threatening manner until we have knocked out their predecessor; that’s just how it’s done…end of story. We humans sure like things to be neat and orderly when it comes to combat. Would our alien invaders respect this battle code or see it as a weakness to exploit? Perhaps the aliens are practicing up right now on their hand-to-hand combat and threatening dance moves as I type.

The aliens must also assume then that we all prefer to fight bare-chested and make strange animal noises when we’re being attacked, so they probably expect fighting us will sound like beating a sack of howler monkeys.

Of course, aliens will also know that most of our home computers and laptops are capable of knocking out or overriding even the most technically advanced communications and advanced operating systems of any alien UFO. Yes, even our basic Dell laptop is more than just a simple porn box with the ability to hack into anything, so they would need to prepare for that little contingency before lining up to attack us…one by one, of course.

The aliens will also know how cool, calm and collective we all are under pressure. Even when involved in high speed car chases, hijackings, explosions, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes and, yes, even when threatened by invading alien spacecraft, we humans will never panic – not ever. Not even when faced with a speeded up conveyor belt full of cupcakes - we will not waver, making us very formidable foes indeed.

Likewise, we’re insanely tough. Television will definitely have taught the aliens that whenever one of us is hit over the head with a bottle or blunt object, we never actually suffer any concussion or brain damage. Even when completely knocked out, we will eventually just wake up and be more than ready to exact our revenge*.

The aliens will no doubt also be looking at the overall effectiveness of our leaders in battle. When analysis the signals, they will conclude that all our police officers are mismatched and an only solve cases or are victorious only after they’ve been suspended from duty. In fact, Police Departments must place great emphasis on performing personality tests to ensure that all its elite detectives are deliberately assigned a partner who is their total opposite; a very cunning strategy indeed. Likewise, our military leaders are all cigar-chomping cancer cases with a loose hold on authority at best.

The aliens probably think it’s a miracle we can mobilize at all. However, like the parking spaces, we all have the ability to locate a chainsaw whenever we have the need for one. The aliens will need to be prepared for that and have their big lasers ready and trained on us prior to any actual outbreaks of war.

After taking all this into consideration, I have come to the following obvious conclusion about our existence here in our solar system:

We’re fucked.

* Which sure comes in very hand when taking on multiple attackers one at a time…

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Tequila Surmise

So here’s a real corker in the news lately, Reality TV star Tila Tequila was attacked on stage when concert goers at the ‘Gathering of the Juggalos’ music festival in Hardin County, Il. Attackers hurled rocks, beer bottles, firecrackers and even shit at the stunned celebutant. Fucking awesome, isn’t it?

Concert-goers also, apparently, chased poor Tila back to her trailer where she barricaded herself inside with her two bodyguards as the trailer windows were smashed out and the trailer itself was rocked like a Haitian schoolhouse. Likewise, they literally chased her SUV that wisked her away to safety afterwards.


Because she decided to show them her boobs – that’s why. I wonder how Ms. Tequila feels knowing that her breasts have the ability to turn a crowd of thousands into a violent horde of rioters the likes of which hasn’t been witnessed since the Mongols rampaged across Eastern Europe. Must be pretty discouraging to say the least! Maybe we should be harboring the power of those enraging puppies for combat purposes, and displaying them to our troops before deploying them into war zones or search-and-destroy missions. Shit, our armed forced would be invincible!

But – first off – who is this Tila Tequila person exactly and what rock did she happen to crawl out from under? As it turns out, she’s a Singaporean-born singer, rapper, model and television personality. In other words, she’s just another product of our celebrity-obsessed culture; famous just for being famous. Besides her spreads in Stuff and Maxim magazines, she is most renowned for hosting Fuse TV, featuring the ever-popular ‘Pants-Off Dance-Off’.

Oh yeah, a real artist to be sure.

Ms. Tequila was quoted afterwards by saying: “I went onstage and immediately, before I even got on stage, dudes were throwing huge stone rocks in my face, beer bottles that slit my eye open, almost burnt my hair on fire because they threw fire crackers on stage, and they even took the shit out of the port-o-potty and threw shit and piss at me when I was onstage.”

Quotable isn’t she?

My only question is, if the fans were apparently throwing rocks (the stone kind – mind you), why would she even go onstage and try to perform; much less show them your tata’s? That’s like diving into a lit pool of gasoline and complaining of being burned. It is also noteworthy I think that her first song selection was ‘I Fucked the DJ’. Now, if that doesn’t encourage a throng of kooky clowns to riot – I don’t know what would.

A front row spectator had this to say about the incident at the time when the rocks and bottles began to fly: “She was taunting them. She didn’t know how to handle them. She didn’t understand the dynamic.”

What dynamic? We’re taking about a group of people who follow the band Insane Clown Posse for Pete sakes; not exactly a group of Rhodes scholars here. These fans often show up in clown make-up and refer to themselves as Juggalos and Juggalettes. To say the least, they are known to be a little rowdy. Hell, they probably came to the concert armed with pockets full of feces already – just in case. That’s probably the official standard operating Insane Clown Posse fan policy.

So what does one do when they are met with disapproving angry fans? Why show them your tits of course. Good show, Tila! Way to fall back on the hallmark of your success - the ‘ol moneymakers – too bad they had the opposite effect, huh? Maybe, had you been at Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale, or the Playboy Mansion or something, eh? Things might have been different.

What the hell was she doing at a festival organized for and around a band known as the ‘Insane Clown Posse’? What the hell was she thinking? Did she intend to lead the crowd of riled up clown freaks in a few spirited rounds of Kumbaya, maybe a line dance or two, before baring her breasts and retiring back to her trailer for the evening? Seriously!

So how is Ms. Tequila responding to the incident? Why, how every other well-grounded, red-blooded intelligent being would, of course – with an angry Tweet.

The following message was posted to Twitter the next day:

"Thank you everyone for your support. The people at Juggalos behavior was disgusting and I am filing a suit against Them now. Thanks 4 ur luv. Pretty soon the owners who run the Juggalos will be bankrupt. My attorney Alan is already on it. This is disgusting behavior from men. But to all of my fans, I appreciate your outpour of love and support! Xoxo"

Suing 2000 fans for flinging poo? Good luck with that. I guess Alan really has his work cut out for him, eh?

Personally, if I went to a festival to watch rowdy punk-rap bands and a pint-sized Reality Princess walked out just for appearance sake, I might be brought to hurl fistfuls of shit as well. I say, sue your agent dumbass.

She should be counting her lucky stars that she wasn’t also stoned to death.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Modeling Bad Behavior

Don’t you just love to hate famous celebrities? I do. And I don’t mean the seemingly nice and normal ones; you know, the ones who get all passionate about their third world orphan babies, political prisoners or earthquake victims or something semi-sensible, but those kooky holier-than-thou celebrities who seem to feel as if the sun rises and sets on their own ass. I mean those ones that if something tragic should ever happen to remove them from this mortal coil; you wouldn’t give two shits, like, Carrot Top or, say, Naomi Campbell.

I say Naomi Campbell because she has happened to make recent news headlines recently when she was requested to testify in the on-going trial against former Liberian leader, Charles Taylor.

I know, I know…”huh?” What could these two dipshits possibly have in connection with one another? But it’s all true.

Last week, supermodel Campbell was summoned as a possible character witness to support prosecutors allegations that Taylor received so-called “blood diamonds” from rebels in Sierra Leone and then used them to buy weapons during his 1997 trip to South Africa. Along with these charges, Taylor is also accused with 11 counts of instigating murder, rape, mutilation, sexual slavery and the conscription of child soldiers during wars in Liberia and Sierra Leone in which more than 250,000 people were killed.

Of course, Taylor denies all charges - duh. So how does this involve the 40-year old supermodel and celebrity bitch extraordinaire?

Well, it has claimed that Taylor offered Campbell a few of these “blood diamonds” as a gift after meeting her and Nelson Mandella at a charity dinner back in 1997. Or, rather, the diamonds were passed to Campbell by two unidentified men who came to her bedroom in the middle of the night.


Well, apparently not if you’re the likes of Naomi Campbell. Campbell testified that she was “sleeping and had a knock at the door that woke (me) up. Two men were there and they gave (me) a pouch and said: ‘A gift for you’”, she told UN Special Court for Sierra Leone.

“I went back to bed. I looked into the pouch the next morning,” the model said. “I saw a few stones, they were very small dirty looking stones”, she continued.


Two strange men bring you a mysterious pouch with God knows what in it and you can’t be bothered to open it until the next morning? Am I the only one not buying this load of horseshit?

Furthermore, Campbell claimed that “I’m used to seeing diamonds shiny in a box…if someone had not said they were diamonds, I would not have known they were diamonds.”

Again, my bullshit meter is reading off the charts. I’m pretty certain that if supermodels are able to recognize anything in this life, it’s anything with a calorie count in the double digits and diamonds…no matter what kind of rough condition they happen to be in. I’m sure in this case, Naomi’s inner diamond meter probably lit up like a Roman Candle on ‘Cinco de Mayo’.

And really, how rough is life when you only get to see shiny diamonds in fancy boxes? Poor woman. I’m all choked up with sadness.

Campbell initially refused to testify and told judges she feared for her family’s safety after reading on the Internet about Taylor’s alleged involvement in mass killings. She has no problem chill-axing with the guy at International benefit events, or accepting midnight presents from the guy…but testify after reading something on the Internet? Hell no!

Citing these reasons for security, Campbell won a court order barring journalists from photographing or filming her arrival and departure from the courthouse. Yeah, right, because Taylor must also rely on his Internet Google searches to locate and identify his targets. Makes perfect sense, right?

So how does an International supermodel celebrity protect her personal security while the jury deliberates over her crock-of-shit testimony? Why, incognito on a luxury yaught in Sardinia with Leonardo Di Caprio, Kevin Spacey, Janet Jackson and famous diamond merchant Fawaz Gruosi at the famous Billionaires Club in Porto Cervo.

Sure, why not? Taylor will never think to look for her there, right?

Furthermore, Campbell was quoted in court as saying “I don’t want to be here. I was made to be here… This is a terrible inconvenience to me. Obviously, I just want to get this over with and get on with my life.”
Too fucking right! We all know how sucky it must be to make hasty first class vacation trips to the Netherlands. Geez! Will the madness never end?

Her multiple secretaries and personal assistants just aren’t going to abuse themselves ya know; neither are any of the paparazzi reporters going to insult and punch themselves, now are they? In fact, there hasn’t been a single telephone beating the entire time Campbell was testifying at The Hague. Won’t somebody please think of the poor neglected secretaries?

My but how this poor woman suffers! Somebody should just save her all this pain and suffering and just stick a cheese knife in her rib cage. I don’t know how she ever manages to deal with it all.