Friend or Foebia

It's a lot worse than you think.

Super Bowl Sunday — Christmas for Wife Beaters

Ah, Super Bowl Sunday!  The excitement.  The drama.  Millionaires giddily pursuing each other on fake grass. Who doesn’t love the Super Bowl?  That is, besides communists, socialists, the NHL, all the losing teams, Canadians, soccer fans, the Lifetime Movie Network, the blind, nerds, asthmatics, hemophiliacs, clausterphobes, germaphobes, neurologists and, well, most of humanity, really.

Wait a second.  Football isn’t interesting.  It’s barely even a game.  One team with a ball runs to the furthest point on the field while being trailed by the other, and then they trade turns.  That’s pretty much how I play with my cat.  At least boxing is a match between two men who test each other’s physical and mental limits, not to mention their unthinkably high thresholds for pain.  Football uses so many pads it’s like sorority row at the University of Alabama.  And the scariest thing on the field is most likely to be one of Bret Farve’s texts.

And for the fans, how dull must your ordinary life be that football suffices as an adventurous escape?  Where must you work, in a thorazine factory?  How could you possibly enjoy having your Sundays completely consumed for months with the repetitive, monotonous, corporate-fueled rumba of steroid-swelled ogres chasing a ball that, given its shape, isn’t even rolling away?  If you really want to make it a game, replace the ball with something like a toaster or, better yet, an iPad.  At least then the product placements wouldn’t be so distracting like the superimposed images they project over the field.  The last game I saw I wasn’t sure if I was watching football or reading a script from “Gossip Girl”.

Of course, admittedly, this is the minority viewpoint.

There are many who clearly enjoy weekends spent in a beer and Cheeto-filed haze, floating past visions of lost youth, and triumphs that never were — past a professional football career, past the band that was so much better than anything you’d hear on the radio today, past the seemingly foolproof small business idea of selling crack to school children.  So many could-have-beens.  So many failures.  So many lost dreams.  You know, the ones that would have certainly come true if she hadn’t entered your life with all of her questions like, “Are you listening to me?” and “Why won’t you listen to me?” and “Why are you wearing my bra?”

I’m referring, of course, to wife beaters, because what is Super Bowl Sunday if not a wife beater’s Christmas?  It’s a day marked by more cases of domestic violence than any other.  I suppose, it’s that one special day where the sports fan can justifiably be filled with rage if his team loses, and even more furious if, indeed, they win.  And it’s all part of the celebration.  For the guys it’s like cheering on Santa as he whips the reindeer leading his joyful sleigh.  And for the ladies, well, it’s like being whipped by a crazy man whose first audible words since the World Series are, “Now I suppose you’re going to hold this against me, too.”

Yes, it’s a time of rejoicing, remembrance, tears, and shame, the kind that can only come from spending 5 hours with a cheese-shaped piece of foam molded to your sweaty little head.  And the greatest gift of all is, of course, the one that doesn’t leave behind marks or photographic evidence.

Merry Wife Beater’s Day to us one and all!


iThug — the iPhone App for Dictators and Henchmen


New iPhone app alerts dictators of impending uprisings among repressed poor and religious minorities!

Easily network with pro-government sponsored goon squads.

Pinpoint with GPS accuracy the location of Anderson Cooper.

Shop online for tear gas from authorized Made in the USA sellers.

Fully integrated with Travelocity for last-minute flight plans.

Charlie Sheen on speed dial.  (Because, if you’re going to be ousted from power in a coup — bloodless or otherwise — you’re going to need some one who really knows how to throw a going away party!)

iThug — In times of revolt, it’s better to have a heads-up, than a head off.

Lindsay Lohan Attacks Anderson Cooper Over Egyptian Necklace

This is just astounding to watch history in the making.  And I can’t confirm all reports but, apparently, CNN anchor Anderson Cooper was attacked for the second time in as many days by an irate, irrational Lindsay Lohan.  The “Mean Girl” allegedly accused Cooper of tricking her into shoplifting a $2,500 Egyptian necklace from a Venice, Calif. boutique, and she is now demanding the dreamy, blue-eyed newscaster step down and immediately leave the country.

But I could be wrong…

Let Him Finish — Chris Matthews on Egypt and Tomatoes

A transcript from tonight’s “Let Me Finish” segment of Hardball with Chris Matthews:

“Let me Finish tonight with some thoughts on those brave and inspiring young people in Egypt who have been protesting for over a week in Cairo and elsewhere around the country.  I can’t help but think of my own youth.  As children on the Pennsylvanian countryside, like the poor Egyptian protesters, we didn’t have a lot, but we did have something they don’t have — bushels full of irregular Brandywine tomatoes.

And we created our own sort of government takeover in the form of a game we called ‘tomato tag’, where we’d repeatedly and, yes, sometimes ruthlessly, pelted one another with the overripe fruits until our bodies were bruised, our skin soaked in tomato goo, our hair buzzing with flies.  And we had our own sort of protest songs, too.  We’d take popular, or as we called them, ‘pop’ tunes of the day like Bill Haley & The Comets’ ‘Rock Around the Clock’ and change the lyrics by inserting profanities.  Oh, boy, were we bad.  ‘When the clock strikes two, three and four, if the band slows down we’ll yell for Marilyn Monroe to take her top off and squash ‘em together like two helium balloons.’

Oh, maybe it didn’t rhyme by today’s standards, but it’s what kids did then, and no one ever got hurt or brought a gun to school, except for maybe the kids in skeet shooting club, but we knew better than to pal around with the likes of them.  They may have had their pump-action shotguns, but we had our tomatoes and, believe me, it was enough.  And that’s what young activism is about — being willing to and, dare I say, relishing the dignity that comes with taking a produce shot to our old noses, or as we used to call them “Pennsylvania face holes”.

When I see these brave kids, and that’s what some of then are, kids, I just want to wrap my arms around them and bury my face holes into the nape of their necks and breath in the fresh scent of Brandywine tomatoes — It’s like an heirloom summer salad, the kind they make in small towns all across this great land of ours.  I remember later after I returned from the Peace Corp. and met long-time Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill, my old boss, in an elevator for the first time and he said, ‘Who the fuck reeks like rotten Brandywine tomatoes?’  And I proudly stood forward and brushed a shriveled tomato skin off my shoulder — and god only knows how long that piece of composting material had been there — and I stuck out my red stained hand and said, ‘Mr. Speaker, I smell like garbage and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’  And then we went and shared a caprese salad, I’ll never forget that — loved his caprese salad, my old boss did.

He was so smart.  He once told me, ‘If you took all the homeless people in the world, and offered them lucrative no-bid government contracts to do exactly what they were already doing, they’d probably still give you a confused look and ask why all the zombie leprechauns are purple canaries.’  In other words, all politics is local, is what I think he was getting at.

Which brings me back to Egypt and the protesters, and my fondest memories of being bludgeoned with Brandywine tomatoes.  To the people of Egypt, I’d just like to send out a message and let them know that America, or at least I, stand with you in your quest for a democratic, representative government that respects its people and never treats you with disdain or turns up its face holes at you and, if I could, I’d smoosh you in the head with one of my garden’s finest.  Summer is just around the corner, and this year, I’ll be saving a bushel for you.”

Buzzkill: Desserts Will Eat Your Lunch, Sucka!

Egyptians Demand Overthrow of “Two and a Half Men”

Thousands of Egyptians turned out on the streets of Cairo demanding that Charlie Sheen dedicate his full efforts to hookers and blow, and free the television airwaves from the tyranny of his unfunny hit TV show “Two and a Half Men,” or as the Egyptians refer to it, “Two Great Humorless Satans and the Slightly Smaller Humorless Satan, Who We Liked in ‘The Rookie’ but is, Nevertheless, Still Not Amusing”.

Dear Hollywood: It’s Not Hard to Win an Oscar

As Oscar fever heats up in Hollywood over who will win these silly — and they really are embarrassingly silly, self-congratulatory awards — let’s all just face one simple truth: It’s just not that hard to win an Academy Award! There, it needed to be said.

That’s not to say it’s not daunting, if not nearly damn impossible, to secure a starring or supporting role in a movie, any movie, but if you’ve made it that far, the odds are on your side that you will one day receive an award for some type of historical drama where you play a mentally challenged, washed-up country singer who discovers a gay, homeless, musical genius, former wrestler on the streets of LA, and the two of you eventually drive your car off a cliff in a climactic moment of symbolic unity, all while inconspicuously doing a product placement for your Boost Mobile Two-Way.

Think about it, according to the MPAA — and this changes by year — but there are roughly 700 to 1,000 movies made each year directed toward English-speaking audiences. Now, that includes the lowest of low-budget B, C, and D movies, as well as Hollywood blockbusters. The vast bulk of these never secures distribution, are never shown in theaters, and go directly to DVD (and that’s if they even make it that far).

Only a couple hundred of movies actually make it to the big screen. Of those, again, many are poorly made, low-budget flicks with no stars, marketing budgets, etc. Then, we can filter out the kinds of movies that are never Award contenders — action flicks, comedies, rom-coms, horror movies, etc. That brings the pool down to maybe 50 movies, and that’s being quite generous. So, right there, the odds of winning an Oscar are 1 in 50, and 1 in 5 to be nominated since 10 films and/or actors are generally nominated for each category.

But, when you consider Oscar history and the fact that the Academy favors films that include the mentally or physically challenged, have some sort of social or historic significance, are about the mafia or a boxer or a race horse, or the director, producer or lead actor is perceived to have been passed over, the pool of viable winners dwindles. So, let’s say that halves the contender base to 1 in 25 to win an Oscar, 1 in 2.5 to receive a nomination

Add to that the fact that only a small number of studios have the funds to launch the high dollar marketing campaigns required to influence/bribe the Academy, and that usually narrows the fight for the prize to 2, sometimes 3 films each year. So, at their worst, the odds of winning are 1 in 3, or 1 in 2.

Consider this: Wal-Mart employs over 1.6 million people and only one of those greeters/stockers/clerks/cashiers/glue huffers will truly beat the odds as the soul-crushing retailer’s Employee of the Year. Now, there’s an accomplishment.

The moral of the story: If you’re a working actor and you can’t win an Academy Award, you would never cut it at Wal-Mart, and the universe is giving you a metaphorical wedgie.

Ikea, Greek God of Go Fuck Yourself

If there’s anything more dehumanizing than the cold, lonely torment of assembling Ikea furniture, that’s only because the North Korean’s haven’t thought of it yet. We have Sweden to thank for the current limits of emasculating torture that one can inflict upon another. Yet, in the depths of assembling a kitchen cart with optional faux-stainless steel top, called something like a KVARRT-FAFRVKN, the name Ikea seems more Greek to me, and oh-so-tragic, as if Ikea were more of a state of being — a hellish one — as well as a physical location one passes by near the river Styx on the road to Hades. I imagine myself the tragic hero in a myth-in-the-making. There, amidst the forlorn looks of the damned, Cerberus, the multi-headed hell-hound, delivers me to three poorly packaged boxes — and there’s no way even in hell those bitches are going to fit in my trunk — a booklet of heiroglyphics and bewildering arrows, and an allen wrench. He then disappears into a mist of sulfur, leaving me with the one question, the only one that seems to matter, the only one that could possibly lead to redemption, for me and for all mankind, and a way back to the land of the living: What the fuck is a cam lock system?!

Good luck Teddy Bear … you’ll need it

So, golden-voiced homeless man Ted Williams has left rehab today and I am shocked, simply shocked. If you can’t count on a 20+ year drug addict and booze hound catapulted to international, overnight fame to keep it together, then I just don’t know what to believe in anymore. I mean, who would ever have guessed that this dirty, crack-scented man with his Pied Piper voice would have led us — as well as one Dr. Mr. Phil McGraw — off the cliff of despair like the rats, hobo-loving rats. Luckily, for us, there are ways to escape the unrelenting pain of lost dreams in the form of a bottle, one that holds the tears of unmet expectations and what could have been and, of course, crack cocaine.

Hello, I guess

Oh, the first post. So blank, so cold, so intimidating, like Oprah staring down a plate of defenseless fudge. Poor fudge. Never really had a fighting chance did you? And now with her newly discovered sister, oy, who knows what type of wonder-twin-powered pseudo self-empowerment/consumerist message they will unleash on the public, all while gorging themselves on fistfuls of sugary lard.

Anyway, what should the first post be? An introduction? An apology? A Unabomber-style manifesto outlining the impending doom of brown-shirted Justin Bieber armies with sight obscuring bangs accidentally demolishing the pillars of our society, both physical and idealistic?

Maybe I should outline the topics I will likely post about/ridicule on this site: politicians, celebrities, non-golden-voiced homeless men, golden-voiced men with homes, marginally interesting historical figures, Euro-trash dance trends, religious zealots, Ke$ha, numerologists, and the cast of “Glee”.

Why? I don’t know. Call it sitting back and fiddling as Rome burns because, no matter what you may fool yourself into believing, things are a lot worse than you think…

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