Friday, August 29, 2008

This is the best I can do.

There are times when you're out somewhere probably doing stuff when you see someone—or something—that is so breathtakingly remarkable, so utterly...unique, that you spontaneously burst into tears. Because you don't have your camera.

I would give anything to travel back in time to that ordinary day in Silver Lake (yesterday) armed with my trusty iPhone. While it is indeed a tragedy that I can't show you exactly what I beheld with mine own eyes, I've worked up a humble artistic representation. If you please.

Let me give you some context. 

We live across the street from a reservoir. I run around it. This woman was walking her dog around it. She seemed unimpressive at first glance, but as I got closer I noticed something...extraordinary:

That stuff coming out of her chin? That's hair. Long, gray, curly hair. Coming out. Of her chin.

Before you get all huffy tell me, "maybe she was homeless," you've got to remember. She was walking a dog. And this is Los Angeles. She could have easily traded him for some tweezers. In fact, I bet the salon down the street would have been willing to pluck those suckers out, pro bono.

I hope this image brings almost as much satisfaction and wonderment to your day as it did to mine. Thank you.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008


If you know me, you know I'm a people-hater. That's right. Most people are useless. All they do is crash into my car and make long lines at Disneyland. But today is different. Because today I made the discovery that some fantastic human creature, some brilliant child of God, came up with the single most unbelievably incredible invention in the history of everything, ever.

Behold. Pootah Pants.

Flawless in both form and function, this modern and becoming undergarment employs the gifts of a magical maxipad, one with the mind-boggling ability to neutralize malodorous flatus most foul.

But the question remains, will the Pootah Pants also render your rumbling farts speechless? Can they stop the stench and silence the war cry of your gut-busting mud-butt?

Only time will tell.

In the meantime, please enjoy this artist's representation of the literal pain and crippling humiliation that accompanies human flatulence.

Monday, August 25, 2008

stop, drop [your droors], and r[un around like a suicide bomber whose 'come to Jesus' done come a tad too late]!

**i'd suggest watching this 'sans sound', unless multiple F-bombs are your thing** - Watch more free videos

i thought we all learned how to avoid this scat in kindergarten.


The Best of Beijing 2008: A Photo Essay

See more here.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

This is how it's done.

Don't feel bad. I didn't know about this either until last night, but basically, the rules are as follows: when you watch the Olympics, you need a blanket and most importantly, a mask. If you don't have a mask, you don't get to be under the blanket. I learned that the hard way.

Friday, August 15, 2008

I thought we were friends.

Read this article by Robert Lanham today. I learned a few things. First, that I'm not a member of Generation Y as I'd previously assumed, but having been born after 1982, I am a member of a group known as "Millennials" along with everyone who was born after me up until 2002. Which puts me in the same generation as my nine-year-old nephew who's never watched anything on VHS.

Well guess what, Mr. Lanham. You and Wikipedia are about to get in a huge fight, because they say Gen Y ended in 1994. Which, I think, makes way more sense.

But that's not really the point. This is: you guys, this Lanham guy hates our guts. And it's not just him either. It's all the Gen-Xers. They despise us in the workplace, they loathe our music, they can't even stand our online personas.

I always liked Generation X. I thought they were so cool with their flannel shirts and long hair. I even wore a hemp necklace for waay too long because I thought Gen X was so awesome. I listened to Pearl Jam, even though I was much to young to be a fan. And I remember exactly how I felt on the day I found out Kurt Cobain died. Sad for a minute and then I probably went outside and played. But none of that matters. Because now I know how the Gen Xers really feel. The truth is simple and a little sad: they're jealous.

Lanham says we were spoiled; coddled by our baby-boomer parents out of their disdain for Gen-X. The truth is, we were the busiest group of kids, ever. While they might have been able to hang out at their friends houses after school and watch MTV, we were shuffled to soccer practice, piano, choir, karate, scouts, student government meetings and the like. Our parents wanted us to be the best damn kids we could be. And as a result, we got mono and blank spots in our memories that we can only assume were filled with practice sessions and commuting. Not to mention the fact that with all these kids studying and running and drilling their guts out, we created some sort of high school master race where it's become nigh impossible to make that team, get into that college or squeeze into the top 10%. No more of this big fish, little pond business. We flooded the crap out of that pond! Because our parents made us!

I loved you, Generation X. You had great music and movies like Stone Temple Pilots and Clueless. All we had when I was in high school was 10 Things I Hate About You which sucks in absolutely every aspect except the fact that it gave Heath Ledger his breakthrough role. You had grunge. We had Britney Spears and Boy Bands. We had to look really hard to find Sunny Day Real Estate, and you had it there at your fingertips all long. Your favorite bands didn't have to "sell out" to Outback Steakhouse, because people were still buying their albums. And you'll probably claim Garden State, too.

There are 30 million of you, Gen X, which means that when you flooded the workplace, you had a fighting chance. There are 80 million of us, and a lot of us have college degrees. We had to wait tables until we got an internship that lead to another internship that finally lead to the bottom of the totem pole somewhere. And then we got laid off. You don't have to worry about losing your jobs to us. You have the experience. And you're closer to paying off your student loans.

So quit your bitching, Gen X! You don't have it so bad. You have solid jobs—nay—careers! You have savings accounts! And please stop hating us, because we think you're cool. You're the big brothers and sisters we never had...or maybe we had you but you wouldn't talk to us because you were too busy brooding. The Boomers don't really hate you. Maybe you're just paranoid? (Maybe it's all the pot?)

All I'm asking is, can we end this rivalry go back to me thinking you're cool and you thinking it's cool that I think you're cool? Please? I'll even forgive you for letting Brian Austin Green have a career....

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Holy Freaking Crap! Look what I found!!

Will you please just take a minute and look at this? First, you might want to make sure you're alone or you're somewhere where you can laugh or scream or laugh AND scream without disturbing your co-workers or sleeping babies. Don't worry, it's not porn. It's better than porn. Or is it worse than porn? All I know is somebody let the crazies out and now they've taken free reign of the Interweb. Super-funny or super-horrifying? You decide.

Favorite quote:
I am not an extremist ... I just want you to read, explore and think about this topic. The topic is that Barack Hussein Obama may be the Antichrist.

I think, in theory, the democracy thing was a good idea, but I'm not so sure it works in practice anymore, since it turns out that a bunch of Americans are retarded.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Can. Not. Wait.

In my whole entire life, I've never , ever seen anything this completely and undeniably awesome. Is that Oscar buzz I hear?

Dear Academy,

I hesitate to write this letter, because I know that you're just a bunch of self-important Hollywood-type a-holes. Which is the worst kind of a-hole. Which means I hate you guys. But please, for the love of everything that is good in this world, don't screw this one up. RDJ and I are counting on you.

And thanks for coming through for No Country for Old Men. That crap was excellent.

Alf Alfa vs. Orson Scott Card

There are two types of writers I like: those who write good stuff, and those who write good stuff that is also funny. Sometimes the funny stuff isn't really that good, per se, but the level of hilarious-ness usually makes up for any lack of skill. In my mind anyway.

That's why it breaks my heart to see Michael Swaim (Cracked blogger and all-around funny dude) take on Orson Scott Card (best selling novelist and award-winning writer). Swaim took issue with this op-ed by Card on (how he stumbled upon that website remains a mystery to me) and subsequently published this rant, thereby informing the fan-boys and man-boys (and me) who make up the Cracked audience that The Mormon guy who wrote all those books about the innocence of a child winning out over war and hatred wants us to raise arms against any queers who feel like expressing their love legally. Which, as you probably guessed, is not exactly what Card said. But it's close.

Now I'm not going to express my opinion on the subject. That's not what this blog is for. This blog is for discussing things like the dangers of falling victim to one of Beijing's sleeping dragons (how can American Athletes win gold medals if they've been eaten or burned alive?) and such. Or perhaps I'm not going to say how I feel about gay marriage because I'm trying to avoid the judgment that might befall me from either side. Who knows? I don't. You be the judge. No...wait...actually, please don't be the judge.

Sorry about that confusion.

I've learned some things today: First, my people are even less popular than I thought. And second, my vote carries infinitely more weight in my mind than it does anywhere else. Which means I'm going to keep it there until election day when I've—hopefully—figured it out.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Seriously so ... something.

Quick disclaimer: I love my friends and their blogs and their babies.

Came across this
site today. I can't decide if I hate it because it wasn't my idea and I'm jealous or if I hate it because the spot-on-ness conjures in my mind a whole grip of things that annoy me.

And, yes. Happily ever after looks like stick figures.

I would argue that this blog doesn't qualify as satire because it's too painfully similar to what it satirizes. I don't like being reminded of things I wish didn't exist, namely, the people who went to college with me. (J/K, guys! Go Cougs!)

I do, however, I appreciate that there's someone else out there that thinks it's funny to hear people say words like "rilly" and "meer" (really and mirror, respectively...I think).

And it didn't take me too long to realize that the regular readers of this site are very often the ones being lampooned. Either the irony is completely lost on them, or they're just "rilly" good sports.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Sorry, China. Not interested.

I've been skeptical of these Beijing Olympics since the beginning. I don't know why. I used to love the Olympics. I even proved that love in 1992 by breaking my arm while demonstrating my original floor routine in the basement. It's just that I'm not exactly comfortable with this China business. That, and we don't have a TV, so I'm trying to get everyone else to be as uninformed and uninterested as I am.

Today, I tripped over my validation:

Dragons, pits and sleeping stone warriors. Need I say more?

Some may call me ignorant, but the information presented in this video is all I need to stay the hell away from China and competitive sporting events.

Monday, August 4, 2008

No thanks, Facebook.

Here's what I know about Facebook: It's what all the cool kids are doing. It's how all my friends from high school know what's going on in each other's lives without actually speaking to one another and then I feel like I'm a really bad friend but then I find out it's just because I don't have an account. And it's why some of my most removed friends communicate with my brother more than I do even though he's in Africa and he's my freaking brother. But that's really all I know about it.

Except that Mark Zuckerberg is not only a lucky bastard, but also kind of a presumptuous a-hole who stole a bunch of ideas and is getting a reputation for being super greedy in addition to being difficult to work with, just like every other Ivy League douche I've ever met.

So, I don't like Facebook. I don't have an account. I don't want an account. Sure, I was involved in MySpace, but I maintain that I was tricked into that. Plus, I had sole control over the pictures that people saw of me. That crap is important. I don't want some third-degree high school friend posting a wonk-eyed picture of me flaring my nostrils during my eye liner stage. No, sir. I demand complete control over my online persona. That's what the World Wide Interweb is for. Here, I can pretend to be as cool, as awesome and as kick-ass as I want. (All the Internet wants in return is my job...and the entire journalsim industry...and any hope I ever had of being an intrepid reporter like Brenda Starr
.) And I don't have to "friend" people to prove it.

These guys get me:

See?  Scrabble wasn't Zuckerberg's idea, either. He stole that one, too. Also, "Scrabulous" is a faggy name.

If this turns out to be an all-out war between us and them I'm with you, Tom from MySpace. You were my first friend, and I'll never forget you for that.