The news is always full of stupidity, but one issue in particular kept coming to my attention recently. And, goddamn it, I’ve got some questions! So let’s begin, shall we?

Does having camera on your cell phone mandate that you take nekkid pics of yourself?

Costanza!

What the hell is wrong with you? Is it really that much of a temptation? Do you get a digital camera in your hand, look at it, scroll through the pics, and say to yourself “You know what this camera really needs? A picture of my dick/twat!”

Or, is it meant to be a treat for your significant other? If that is the case, what the hell happened to the fine art of dating? Has the titty pic replaced the handwritten notes passed in the hallways between classes? Is the MMS picture of the cockus erectus sent to your lady friend’s cell the new “So… whatchu doin’ tonight?”

Are you that impressed with your nakedness that you think “Oh yeah… I have got to share this with others…”?

Did people always do this? Did I miss out on the Fotomat “two rolls of fuckpics developed for the price of one” craze of the early 80s, where I could send one set to my girlfriend and leave the other in a Xerox machine at the library for safe keeping? Or is this all Polaroid‘s fault?

Image by Circa71 via Flickr

And are you mentally deficient? Even a little? Did someone in your family tree, at some point, pluck and eat the fruit of that very same tree, if you know what I mean? Do you really think your wangchung pics are private?  Don’t you not realize that the phone, the internet, the entire “cloud” of cyberspace is one virtual bizarro beach where all the nerds get to kick sand in your face, because here they are Charles Atlas and you are the 90lb weakling? That they “are God here”?  They are highly motivated force of knowledge and pent up rejects and they can, and will, get your naked pics.

Which leads to the next question: Did you learn nothing from Lawnmower Man?!?!

I am God here!!!

For shit’s sake, people, look at that picture! Jeff Fahey has your peepee and weewee pics and can do whatever the hell he wants!

So, my message is this: We must stop Jeff Fahey. The more boobypoopypenisballs pictures, the more powerful he becomes. And the more piercing his blue eyes get. Which he uses. To look at your boobies.

I seez uR b00Beez!

STOP TAKING PICTURES OF YOUR NAKED ASS SELF!  Especially if you work for fucking Disney!

END OF LINE

Image via Wikipedia

I was raised on the simple things: a cup of coffee was a cup of coffee, a hamburger was a hamburger, a taco was exotic but still a taco. Hell, I never stepped foot in Chinese restaurant until I was 17 and had my own money, and happened to be dating a person who can check “Pacific Islander” on the Census form. In fact, this same person (whom I later married, but not for this reason) introduced me to Chinese food, Filipino cuisine, buffets, Starbucks, and toppings other than ham and/or pepperoni on a pizza.  Oddly enough, they are not very experimental with their own palate, and I soon had to branch off on my own.

And that is where I run into issues. By my nature (ADD with a dash of OCD for good measure), I prefer consistency. If things are in the same order, the same way, all the time, the odds of my forgetting something or ignoring it are less.  As a kid, I would take an hour trying to decide on a candybar to the point where my parents would just say “Forget it” and drag me out of the store, treatless.  I soon got sick of this and decided that M&Ms were my favorite so that, when I was not allowed to take all that time, I could get those and get out alive. Nowadays, all growed up, I tend to eat the same foods at the same time of day, day in and day out.  And if I can’t decide what candy to get, I buy them all.

Once in a while, I don’t mind jumping out into the fray and going somewhere different. Sometimes, I never fully adjust to the new things.

Starbucks is a perfect example. It took me years to go and order myself in a Starbucks. They were weird, with odd things they claimed were coffee in Italian sizes that boggled my fragile little sense of order. I wanted a large coffee with cream… how the hell do I get one of those?!?! So, I depended on the kindness of others to get me my fix. Caribou coffee is the same way.  Given a choice, I would quickly head to McDonald’s or White Castle and order (and get) exactly what I wanted.

Image by animakitty via Flickr

And don’t even get me started on Chipotle. That place is the worst of all. A vague menu and the additional pressure of the person waiting to assemble your clusterfuck of a meal, while the yuppies behind you tap their feet and sigh impatiently. The pressure is too much. The first time I order there, I said got some kinda burrito and when asked what to put on it, I said “I don’t know… everything…?” I wound up with a 20 lb monstrosity which they had to triple-foil. “How the hell am I supposed to eat this?” And the next time, when they asked what I wanted the answer was “chicken, rice, that’s it.” Chipotle is a fucking madhouse, a tasty, fattening as hell madhouse full of crazy people who all apparently were born knowing how to order.

Image via Wikipedia

A lot of the time, I will go in and, in order to avoid the confusion and tension, order the strangest thing on the menu. Sight unseen. Often ingredients unknown. Sometimes this pays off, and sometimes it doesn’t. But, I avoid bullshit.

What’s my point? I have no clue, other than I realize I’m crazy.  But, I wish these places did not have their ancient codes and handshakes for entry into their secret society of the satiated. I wish I had not just used that alliteration.

I may just lose it the next time, and go off all Howard Beale style. “I’M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE! GIMME A LARGE COFFEE WITH CREAM, A GODDAMN CHICKEN BURRITO, AND SOME M&Ms! TO GO!”

Related articles

• facebook: BOGO Free Chipotle! (consumerqueen.com)
• Starbucks’ Latest Market: Starbucks Haters (newser.com)
• What should you get at starbucks (wiki.answers.com)

2,500 rubber ducks stolen from Ill. police academy

Image via Wikipedia

Now, I know the economy is  still not all that, but rubber ducks? Really? What exactly is the thief going to do with 2500 rubber ducks? Is there a black market for these things that Dateline NBC or CNN have failed to do an exposé on?

This points to a much deeper issue, one that transcends economy and rubber ducks. It gets to the real core, the reason everything is apparently so fucked up.

We have spawned people that would steal a shitload of rubber ducks.

This story gets to the heart of all that is wrong with America right now, and what will hinder us in the future is not resolved: we have a population of fucking idiots.

How can we expect, as a nation, to every maintain our pride and glory when we are raising a population that values The Jersey Shore over NPR or Nova, the still supports the Michael Vicks and Chris Browns of the world, will vote T-Baggers into office without ever challenging their bullshit, and will steal 2500 rubber ducks meant for a charity event and think it’s the heist of the century?

Image by J.Gusto Foto Streamo via Flickr

I know that every generation has had it’s share of dumbfucks and has managed to overcome; reefer mad, sock-hopping teen hooligans in the 50s, hippies in the 60s & 70s, coke-snorting yuppies in the 80s, my slacking, give-a-shit generation (Generation X) in the 90s. But, it seems to be proliferating at a frightening rate.

And the danger is not that we will not have enough smart folks to run things as time goes on. There are a good number of smart, honorable, viable folks out there, as well as kids dying to follow in their footsteps. The danger is that the population will be too fucking dumb to vote in an intelligent, informed fashion when the time comes, much less vote at all.  And an uninformed, stupid, scared population is exactly what keeps the wrong people in power and works against everything this country was founded on.

Image by nebedaay via Flickr

As I mentioned in a recent recording for the podcast “Where’s My Pants?,” I guarantee that every person who protested in Egypt‘s Tahrir Square, stood their ground in Tripoli’s Green Square, or burned Baath Party buildings in Syria knows exactly why they were doing what they were doing, and what they want changed as a result.

Meanwhile, in America we have more people voting for the next American Idol than the next American President, resulting in an electorate that is more concerned with silencing the evil that is NPR and the labor unions, than dealing with our current economic hell on earth and the two wars we’re involved in.

The rubber duck theft is merely a symptom of a deeper problem.

And the ironic part of it all: the prime suspect is supposed to also be one of our leading faces in children’s education in this and 120 other countries.

Image by debaird™ via Flickr

Ernie, you heartless bastard… if I find you, I will rip your fucking nose off.

Related articles

• 2,500 rubber ducks stolen from Ill. police academy (hosted.ap.org)
• Subjects sought for Gen X documentary shoot, Los Angeles (jenx67.com)
• Leadership and the Inter-Generational Divide: A New e-Book by Jim Taggart (changingwinds.wordpress.com)

Wild Thing

I haven’t written a post of substance in a while (most might say ever), but I find myself pulled to this topic. It is something that affects us all, young and old, large and small, intellectual and box of rocks alike.

Celebrity Metamorphosis Syndrome. Specifically, the type where the actual person the celebrity may once have been is lost and they’ve metamorphosed into a caricature, usually in the form of some character they’ve played.

It’s the current “drama” unfolding in the media involving Charlie Sheen that brings this phenomenon to the forefront once more. See, Charlie Sheen is going the way of so many celebrities before him. He has become someone he played on screen, a character beloved by all, and loathed by the evil owner of the Cleveland Indians. That bitch…

That’s right. Charlie Sheen is now Ricky “Wild Thing” Vaughn from the timeless classic family film Major League.

Whether or not his metamorphosis is drug-induced or not is irrelevant. It is not necessary for this type of psychological shift to occur. But it certainly helps. Drugs and alcohol can be a catalyst to speed up the inevitable. And, yes, it is inevitable.  Because celebrities, by their very nature, are insecure and unstable creatures. They crave the attention and validation because they are generally very self-doubting on the inside, some more than others.  So, it’s only natural that over a lifetime of pretending to be anything that people will love and adore, they will lose themselves and latch onto the one that people most identify them with.

It’s been documented time and time again over the history of celebrity:

• 

  Image via Wikipedia

  Bela Lugosi eventually, with the help of heroine, became Count Dracula. A strung-out, bitter Count Dracula, but still.

• Clayton Moore turned into the Lone Ranger, selling pizza rolls and justice for decades until his death.
• Elvis Presley became “The King,” demanding deep fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches instead of random peasant hangings, ruling ruthlessly until dying on his throne.
• Jackée became Sandra from 227, Mario Lopez is just a grown up version of Slater from Saved by the Bell, and Abe Vigoda is basically just Detective Fish from Barney Miller now.

And let us not forget the godfather of all batshit crazy celebrity metophoses: Marlon Brando, who essentially became a melding of every character he ever played all rolled up into one rotund package, slathered in butter, and then eaten by Mr. Brando, thus changing him into the Über Brando. The full glory of the Über Brando can be seen in 1979′s Apocalypse Now and the 1994 interview with Larry King.

Image via Wikipedia

What’s the point? The point is that people need to quit getting so riled up by the Sheen debacle and just sit back and enjoy it for what it is: an actor performing as a character we’ve enjoyed in order to entertain the masses in a way that goes beyond movie screens, dvd rentals, and syndicated re-runs.  Tonight’s premiere : Charlie Sheen starring Charlie Sheen as Ricky “Wild Thing” Vaughn as Charlie Sheen, and guest starring Abe Vigoda as Fish as Abe Vigoda.

Related articles

• Charlie Sheen is Batshit Crazypants (laist.com)
• Sheen: I Am on a Drug, It’s Called “Charlie Sheen” (tmz.com)
• Charlie Sheen’s ‘Wild’ Comeback? (huffingtonpost.com)
• Counterpoint: We’re All Going to Hell for Laughing at Chuck Sheen (thescruff.wordpress.com)

The coolest pain reliever EVER…

Originally uploaded by eyerait

Cobroxin: Stage 2 Pain Killer!

Kicks the ass of arthritis, joint pain, repetitive stress injuries, baseball bats to the face, and bear attacks!

How can it do this, you ask? With more pain-killing manpower that mortal man has ever seen!

Can you say ASIAN COBRA VENOM*? That’s right. Fucking cobras. Times five, bitches!

Are you a believer now? Or do you need to be taught a painful lesson in kick-ass medicine?

*For external use only. Unless you are a real man.

Mystery Flavor

Someone left this on my desk for Christmas. I was intrigued by the “mystery flavor” on the label. Being a man who thrives on danger and excitement, I had to try it.

And let me say: Mystery solved!

Turns out that it’s the exact flavor of the inside taint of the Iron Man suit itself. An unexpected mix of ball sweat, ass juice, and metal. I can only assume whoever left this for me hates me and/or wants me dead.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

Found this at the gift shop of the Krohn Conservatory. Says it’s a monkey. But it lies. Look at that face…

It is clearly the evil, scientific gene-splicing of a monkey and a bear. However, it has a cape, a mask, and a smile. So it clearly has defied its evil origin to become a defender of truth, justice, freedom, and inter-species potential.

Where there is evil to be fought, or a bear or monkey that need to see that they can, in fact, “get along” you will find:

MONKEYBEAR!!!!

Winning the war on terror – with boobies. This now adds an additional dating criteria: do your bazzoms match my nose/mouth from a surface areas standpoint? Too small or too big and you won’t get a good seal and you will die. Men will now have to know their face cup size and date appropriately.

And on the female side, what do you do if your breast size doesn’t match your own face cup size? Do you need to get implants/reduction? It’s just too much of a headache.

I say we scrap this idea for the one-size-fits-all pelvic protective gear  (PP Gear) complete with easy-seal coverage, breathing tubes, and a two-hour supply of oxygen. Since most of us cannot reach our own crotches, they are sold in two packs: his & hers, his & his, and hers & hers.

We can all 69 right through the Apocalypse. Because, what good is surviving th End of Days if you’re alone?

It’s new… well, not really invented, yet. But, I am working on it. And looking for test subjects. So, email or tweet me if you’re willing to stick your face in my crotch.  Also, I am willing to put my face in your bra. For science.

Image via Wikipedia

An Oxford University scientist is asking government and private companies to study the effects of computer usage on the brain.  In an article in the UK’s Guardian, “Oxford scientist calls for research on technology ‘mind change’“, this scientist claims that this could be climate change big.

Basically, Lady Greenfield (Yes, that’s her name. It’s either a title, because everyone in the UK gets one eventually, or an example of parental optimistic spawn nomenclature.) says that spending lots of time on the ‘puter can result in what she coined “mind change.”  It can change the way the brain actually function, or not.  Basically, if you don’t use parts of the brain because shit is dished out to you in short, rapid-fire, succinct bursts, or you spend time mindlessly watching YouTube jerk-offs or playing World of Warcraft or Call of Duty against 12 yr olds, those brain parts could atrophy.

I have a term for it, too (partially courtesy of  Star Trek: The Next Generation): Fucking Pakleds.

Use your damn brain or you’re all going to become fucking Pakleds.  Close the laptop, step away from the XBox 360, quit watching reality TV, and get your hands off your happy place.  Go read a book, write something more than 140 characters long, have a conversation with someone in person, have some actual sex. With another person.

And stop reading this stupid-ass blog. It is most certainly brain-damaging.  It will not make you go.

Related articles:

• Oxford scientist calls for research on brain change (guardian.co.uk)
• The need for better research (mattmcalister.com)
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Cover of Jingle All the Way (Family Fun Edition)

As I have mentioned before, I turned 40 this year. It bothered me for a short time, until I realized that Arnold Schwarzenegger was 40 when Predator came out. Not that I’m Arnold, by any stretch. But, my point is that was fairly early in his film career. There was still Terminator 2, Twins, Total Recall, and  Jingle All The Way yet to come at that point. In other words, 40 was just the beginning.

So, I changed my attitude and began to enjoy being 40. In fact,  I have been feeling younger and better than I have in a long time. I still have my own T2 and Jingle All The Way to show the world. Or at least an End of Days in me.

Then, today, I got the mail.

Bills… bills… bills… political postcard of prevarication (thank you, dictionary.com)… and… what’s this?

“Convenient Pre-Purchase”  That sounds enticing.

“Be sure to see your Special Invitation enclose!” Ooh! A party! Whatever shall I wear?

“Effortlessly own your own cemetary space by mail, phone, or in-person.” Wow! My very own- wait… What the fuck?!?!

Image via Wikipedia

That’s right. I received my first cemetary plot reservation junk mail, courtesy of Crown Hill Memorial Park & Mausoleum. Son of a bitch.  After “what the fuck,” my next reaction was “Wait… do they know something I don’t?” Like they’ve got a special list delivered to them by Bengt Ekerot himself.

I mean, I’m ONLY 40! Arnold, Predator, workouts, and protein shakes! Damn it!

So, here it sits, unopened on my desk taunting me and my stupid positive outlook. Because, I’m 40 and Death’s right around the corner, waiting with competitively-priced, scenic, his and hers crypts overlooking  to Old Rugged Cross Garden, and all the amenities required for your aftercare needs.

Fuck you. I’m taking Zucol/Umcka and I’m going to live FOREVER!

Related articles:

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• Body stolen from mausoleum by grave robbers (walletpop.com)
• Janine R. Wedel: Shadow Elite: Selling Out Uncle Sam – Who’s Overseeing the Contractors? (huffingtonpost.com)
• 8 reviews of The Seventh Seal (rateitall.com)