Making An Ass Out Of Yourself Legally

I'd first planned to do an extremely lengthy post on drug legalization, but then I realized two things: 1) Everyone already has their mind made up on the issue, so it would just be wasted space; and 2) I don't really care either way. Nevertheless, there are a few points I'd like to bring to light, since it seems to be a hot topic in the news lately. Full disclosure here, before I get into it - I've smoked pot before, maybe seven or eight times my whole life. I enjoyed it twice, but I was already drunk both times. The other experiences are divided equally between sleepiness and raging paranoia. I have no personal stake in the issue, as I haven't smoked it since my early 20s. With that said, here are just a few thoughts I have on the issue:

1. THE MEDICAL MARY JANE ARGUMENT - "It's for Glaucoma!" "It eases the pain!" "It has a calming effect!" "It's like smoking holy water!" "Health benefits blahblahbalbbitywhatever!" Whenever someone brings up the 'medicine' argument it causes an involuntary muscle spasm in my eyelids, making the eyeballs underneath roll around uncontrollably. For one, several studies have shown that smoking a joint is like smoking a half pack of cigarettes. There's this little carcinogen present in marijuana called benzopyrene, which is the same carcinogen in tobacco that they're pretty sure causes lung cancer. Only in MJ, it's about ten times more prevalent. Even without that factor, common sense should tell you one thing: No matter how you burn it, you're still breathing fucking SMOKE. People aren't supposed to breath smoke. Hence all the coughing. Firefighters wear those masks for a reason.

'Health benefits' aren't why most of the 'Pro' folks want it legalized, though. Try a counter argument sometime, along the lines of "Once they distill the medicinal properties from it and distribute them in pill form instead of smoking it, it could provide a lot of medicinal benefits." You'll see most folks stammer and stutter and say stuff like "No, man, that would break down the purity of the blahblahblahblah." BULL. SHIT.

You just want to get fucked up and not go to jail. Which is fine. Fair enough. But at least be honest about it; I'd have a lot more respect for you. When you give me the 'medicine man' or 'many household uses for hemp' argument, it's insulting - it makes me think you're trying to put one over on me. If it were all about the Hemp Rope or the Glaucoma, then you shouldn't have a problem with it legalized for those purposes only, while keeping recreational smoking illegal. Health Benefits my ass. Do you feel healthier when you're coughing up that solid wad of brownish phlegm in the mornings? You just want to get fucked up and not go to jail. THERE IS NO MIRACLE DRUG.

2. GOING TO JAIL - The bottom line is this: it's illegal. If you smoke it, sell it, or just buy it to braid into your hair, you do it with the full knowledge that it's illegal. If you get busted, don't whine. You knew it was illegal when you happily drove down to the trailer park to buy it, and you didn't have a problem with illegality when you were smoking it, so shut the fuck up and stop crying about how unfair it is when they shove your head down to keep from bumping it as they're pushing you into the cop car. You have no right to complain, since you knew exactly what you were getting into from the start. Doesn't matter if the laws are stupid or not - they exist, and they're enforced, so there you have it.

Are the laws fair? Not really. But until you get off your ass to change them to your liking, don't bitch about it when you're standing in front of the judge not looking Your Honor in the eye because you're too embarrassed.

3. THE PIPELINE - As for drug dealers? Fuck 'em. Drug dealers aren't in it for 'the cause'; they're in it for the quick, easy money. If pot is legalized, the low-level ones will move onto the next substance which will bring in the piles of quick, easy cash. Once it's legal, the free Pot money Joe Dealer was making is gone. Phillip Morris will make it cheaper, better, in more varieties, and sell it all as easily-handled pre-rolled cigarettes in attractive packaging. Joe Dealer working out of his greenhouse down the street can't do that. So he'll move on, because he can make Ecstasy right in his bathroom and get forty bucks or more per pill for it. I've met a few drug dealers over the years, and some of them seemed pretty normal in other respects, but while I was talking with them this thought never left my head: Once the package is out of their hands, they don't give a fuck where it all ends up. Like, say, in the hands of your 12 year old sister. They can paint themselves out to be as radical, 'fight the power', heroic, innocent, just trying to pay their way through college, etc. as they want, but what I just wrote doesn't change. They don't give a fuck where it all ends up. It's all about the dollars for them. Legalizing Pot isn't going to solve the drug traffic problem - it's not even going to slow it down. Like I said, there's always going to be a 'next big thing'. These people aren't going to care where it goes, aren't going to care how dangerous the product they're distributing is, aren't going to pay a dime in taxes, yet somehow certain elements of our society will always seem to find a way to present these worthless pieces of shit as hapless victims of the machine. Fuck em.

4. THE TAX ISSUE - You are extremely naive if you think making pot legal and taxing the hell out of it is going to make your own personal taxes go down by even one cent. Did you know that income tax as we know it was started during WWI? And, at the time, it was instated with the promise that it was only a 'temporary' tax to fund the war effort? TAXES NEVER REALLY GO DOWN, AND ARE NEVER TEMPORARY. Your taxes will stay exactly the same, and the gubbermint will just make extra Pot dollars on top of it.

5. POT VERSUS BEER VERSUS TOBACCO - A standard rebuttal in the bag of tricks, but it's always seemed like a phantom argument to me. I can have a single mixed drink or a single beer, enjoy either one for the taste, and not get drunk. Can you smoke a joint or hit the bong without getting stoned? If yes, then you've either gotten hold of some really shitty weed or you're smoking way too much pot. As for the tobacco, well, you got me there. But, since there is increasing evidence that Pot is just as bad for you in the long term, the two cancel each other out. Yes, at least you get high, but the racking cough you get from tobacco which causes you to see spots is the same racking cough you'll be getting from Pot.

I've seen the 'pot makes you less aggressive than alcohol' theory proven wrong countless times. If you're an angry redneck prone to throwing fists at the slightest provocation, you're still going to be one, regardless of whether you've just hit the bong all night or knocked back a few shots. You'll just be stoned or drunk, and easier to beat in a fight because your reaction time is off either way.

And, having observed former roommates staring at the Preview Channel for hours at a time, I can vouch for the 'pot makes you less motivated' theory. That theory was also in effect when I asked for the rent money and was informed they were broke until payday, yet there was always a freshly filled bag on the coffee table.

I can also attest to the 'short term memory loss' theory, having seen the lifelong pot enthusiast father of a friend lack the concentration to make it through the morning newspaper without having to read articles several times over.

Well, that's enough, I think. People on the Pro side are going to disregard everything I wrote, simply because pot gets you high, therefore everything about it must be good. I'll let you in on a little secret, though:

Even with everything I've just written taken into account - I think it ought to be legalized. It's hypocritical of me to smoke and drink and say you can't enjoy something like pot even though you should still be aware that it's just as bad for you and you should quit lying like a weasel about it. Compared to every other illegal drug, it's still pretty benign. I don't smoke it, so I really don't care either way, but if pressed that's my opinion.

- BUT -

(and that's a big but) Should it come up for legalization, I absolutely will not support it unless the following conditions are met:

1. Once legalized, whenever a customer enters a Marijuana Emporium and attempts to purchase Pot, they should be forced to sign a statement worded somewhat like this: "I - insert your name here - am purchasing this Marijuana product with the full knowledge that it may harm me physically and/or mentally. I do this taking full responsibility for my own actions, and promising to neither sue the company which processed it should ill physical health befall me, nor beg my government for support money should it cause me personal loss."

If you really want total freedom, you should be prepared to take on the total responsibility for yourself that comes along with it. You can't just have the cake and expect other people to clean your crumbs off the table after you've eaten. If you think otherwise you're just full of shit, wanting everyone else to pay for your party - and I will reverse my opinion to actively fight against legalization, because I don't need my taxes hiked up to support you. I shouldn't have to pay a dime towards your habits - and I think the same rule should apply for alcohol or tobacco, in case you're wondering whether I'm a hypocrite. Smoke, Drink, Toke your fucking brains out, but don't cry 'lawsuit' when they're hooking you up to the Iron Lung or Dialysis Machine, and don't beg for government health funds when you did all the damage to yourself.

2. All drug dealers who were charged before legalization went into effect should still have to pay retroactive taxes owed on their drug earnings. No one gets a free ride, period. You laughed and coasted along on all that MJ money, now pony up like everyone else eventually has to. My current taxes are too high in part because of people like you getting over all this time, so fuck you. Pay the man.

I guess this turned out to be an extremely lengthy post on drug legalization after all. Huh.

I'll ask those questions about Moveable Type tomorrow. Right now I'm going to catch up on some blog reading and leave some comments, something I have sorely neglected these past few days.

Crazy Straws For Your Heart

Last Thursday my Father had a stent inserted into his body in a permanent manner. I had no idea what a stent even was until a couple of weeks ago, so for those of you who are as clueless as me, I will now clumsily attempt an explanation of the procedure:

They put a metal spring in your chest.

Okay, I suppose I can do a little better than that. What they actually use is a wire mesh tube, collapsed to its smallest point. The tube, called a stent, is miniscule, and looks like this:



It's slipped over the balloon catheter used for angioplasty, and the whole thing is inserted into your body via a hole cut into a blood vessel in your groin. Yes, they have to use razor sharp instruments within the vicinity of your treasured Jubblies, or your Fee-Fee if you are a woman. From what I gather, most doctors are not drunks like on ER, so you should have nothing to worry about. You'll most likely return home with all your genitals in their proper place, as opposed to floating in a souvenir jar.

When the catheter reaches the point of obstruction, the stent-sheathed balloon on the end is inflated gradually, smashing the sludgy sausage plaque you've been collecting there flat against the walls of the affected artery. The stent then locks into place (sort of like a Chinese Finger Trap), and provides support for the now-weakened walls of the artery, as well as holding the flattened plaque in place. The catheter is withdrawn, a bandage and weight (usually a sandbag) is placed over the incision, and you are then returned to your hospital room where you will enjoy diced pears, unseasoned baked chicken, paying twenty times the price per pill for special 'hospital' versions of medication you already own, and urinating into an empty two-liter Pepsi bottle in front of all your loved ones. Just kidding. I think it's a milk jug.

When my Dad went in, he was out in less than one hour. He was home by 10:30 am the next day. That's just amazing to me, as one who studiously avoids anything having to do with medicine (I only go to the doctor when blood is spraying out of me in jets like a garden sprinkler). Fifty years ago, if your heart crapped the bed on you, you were just out of luck - Shouldn't have dumped all that grease gravy on everything you ate, Podner. They gave you some Nitro pills and told you to lie down when you felt dizzy, or if you were dying. That was their answer for everything: Lie Down And Rest. Nowadays, they have your ass out of the bed before the dope wears off. When my mom had a triple bypass two years ago, they had her up and running within days, with me standing there shaking my head because she just had her breastbone sawed in half.

The guy behind the draw curtain opposite my Dad was a nervous wreck, asking the nurse for some pills to help him sleep. He'd never been in the hospital for anything before. I hope everything went well for him (he was having the same procedure the next morning), as he was a very nice fellow. My Dad recommended the pills they had given him that morning to relax him, since they'd relaxed him to the point of snoring.

Considering all the heaping abuse Pops has blanketed his body with over the years, I think he got off pretty light. He only had the one artery to deal with, and a pacemaker installed before that. This was a guy who used to smoke almost three packs of Pall Mall unfiltered cigarettes a day, drank like he had to before the alcohol dried up in the bottle, and ate like a stray dog scavenging neighborhood garbage cans. When he quit smoking and drinking in the mid-70's, he switched over to a sausage gravy addiction which has monkeyed his back to this day. Like I said, pretty light.

I understand scientists and doctors are also working on a future operation, in which a type of bacteria will be injected into your veins and will then eat away any plaque formed on your artery walls. If that means I will never have to give up my own shameful addiction to Monte Cristo Sandwichs, I fully support further testing and investigation into this procedure.

10,000 Man

I just noticed that the number of visits to this site passed 10,000 sometime during the night. Now, I'm sure at least 3,000 of them were ME, cursing because blogger was showing broken links instead of images again, or swallowing my archives like a Circus Geek swallows crushed light bulbs, but still...

I never thought I'd get 10,000 hits period, ever. I don't know how many people are actually sticking around to read anything, or just clicking through on their way to some other site, but I'm shocked nonetheless. 10k in less than six months.

Hey, thanks to everyone who's visited - whether you stayed and enjoyed what you read, or whether you woke up with keyboard imprints on the side of your face from the narcolepsy I induced. I appreciate the visits, every single one.

Grammy Jammy

Instead of posting three hundred times, I'll be adding to this with my invaluable numbered commentary as it goes along (that's a joke, I say, that's a joke, son):

1. I have many fantasies which involve saving the Dixie Chicks from a cult of obsessed stalkers Indiana Jones Style, and being repaid with a Dixie Chick Sandwich. I have a mile-wide crush on the lead singer, whatshername, you know, the one who looks kind of like an Elf. The country music women all look great, and make me wish I could stomach country music long enough to sit through one of the videos. One of my old roommates used to watch TNN with the sound turned off, and play his own music while watching Faith Hill or whoever dance around. He also left week-old balled-up socks around his easy chair, but there's no award for that I am aware of.

2. Peter Gabriel, please shave that goatee off. You look like a villain in a Burt Reynolds direct-to-video thriller from the late 1980s, McCallister, or some shit like that.

3. Aretha Franklin has REAAAAALLLLYYY let herself go right into the shitter. U-P-S-I-Z-E, that is what Burger King means to me... With that dress she looks like one of those coconut covered marshmallow cookies.

4. Eminem looked genuinely touched upon receiving his award. Maybe he's growing up, in which case he has about two more albums left in him - the first to stumble on (Record Companies will forgive a misfire), and the second to fall the rest of the way.

5. Robin Williams gave a speech so painfully unfunny that the sheer awfulness of it propelled it twenty years backwards through time and struck Richard Pryor, who immediately burst into flames. Not wanting to cause Robin future embarrassment by repeating what he'd heard, he made up some story about freebasing. How many times is Williams gonna use the "White Courtesy Phone" joke? I thought he was supposed to be some kind of Improv God - oh yeah, that was before there was a videotaped record of everything.

6. If they ever make a Divine Biopic, Harvey Fierstein has the lead role in the bag, by artfully tucking his own bags tonight.

7. How much do they pay that crowd of dorks to stand in front of the stage and pump their arms in the air, like for Avril Lavigne?

8. Coldplay reinforces this old theory: No matter how many orchestral arrangements, horn sections, or spotlights on the piano...a shitty band is still a shitty band.

9. I wish to Christ people would stop telling me I 'look a little like' Fred Durst. I think he only owns the one T-shirt and baseball hat. His appearance was as if someone from the Special Class Fantasy Grammy Tour accidentally wandered onto the stage and started mumbling into the microphone.

10. I really like Dave Grohl, and even though this will surely draw vehement rebuttal - I think the Foo Fighters are a better band than Nirvana ever was.

11. Hey, there's Robin WIlliams being five minutes' worth of unfunny introducing Bruce Springsteen.

12. Bruce Springsteen now looks like Ultimate Wolverine as drawn by Frank Quitely.

13. What's the big deal with Norah Jones that everyone's creaming all over themselves about? She's all right, and is truly talented, but she ain't ever gonna be no Ella. Jazz singers nowadays are pleasant, but all they really do is pull out a bag of vocal tricks used by older vocalists and hammer them repeatedly throughout their albums. She's sure winning a helluva lot of Grammies, though. Maybe I'm just out of the loop.

14. Note to celebrities: Berets were never cool.

15. How many Brittneys/Brittanys/Brittenies/Brit-Nees/Bryt 'N' Es are in the world now, do you think? I'd say approximately 150 million.

16. Okay, place your bets. How long before My Big Fat Greek Life ends up on USA at 10 a.m. weekday mornings?

17. Target Commercials = Over it.

18. The Eminem performance was well done. I'm not much of a fan, but I have to admit the guy has a few catchy tunes. Does using the phrase 'Catchy Tunes' make me irredeemably rhythm-challenged?

19. Did Sheryl Crow make that guitar strap herself? I would've liked to have been in the Benjamin Franklin when she walked in. "I'll take this EZ squeeze tube of Elmer's, these magic markers, a few of those sequins, some of this Testor's model paint, and this sack of glitter, please. Oh, and besides doing my own makeup I'm also going to be making a special guitar strap; what would you recommend I use for that?"

20. I like Cyndi Lauper. She's so self-deprecating.

21. I think Bloomberg just gave a super-secret eye signal to have the guy smoking a butt in the audience taken out and executed by his hired Tobacco Ninjas.

22. In a shocking reversal of the way these All-Star Tribute Jams usually turn out, the All-Star Tribute Jam of 'London Calling' sucked Aretha Franklin-sized balls.

23. Elvis Costello, Peter Gabriel, and some hot chick pass the Album Of The Year award to Norah Jones. I get the distinct impression that at least half the people in the audience have never heard any Norah Jones music before tonight.

Well, I think this is the way I will watch awards shows from now on, here with you. That was fun, and I certainly enjoyed the Norah Jones Show - I mean, The Grammies - a lot more than I would have otherwise. Truthfully, I probably would have done what I do every year at Grammy time - completely ignore it and play video games.

Tomorrow I will tell you of the steel pipe my Dad just had inserted into his chest, and ask some questions of you knowledgeable bloggers regarding my upcoming move to my own server and Moveable Type.

Tedbits

Ted Rall to Guest on "Real Time with Bill Maher"

Ted will appear on Bill Maher's new "Real Time with Bill Maher" on HBO
(Fridays, 11:30 pm) both on February 28 and March 5.

I hope everyone is aware that they take live calls on this show. Just letting you know.

Ted Rall Wins Aronson Prize

Ted Rall has won the James Aronson Award for Social Justice Journalism for
2002 in the category of social justice graphics or "Cartooning with a
Conscience." the Aronson Award is administered by the department of Film
and Media Studies at Hunter College of the City University of New York. For
more information, you can check out filmmedia.hunter.cuny.edu/aronson.
Previous winners include Jules Feiffer, Art Spiegelman, Ed Sorel, Steve
Brodner and Tom Tomorrow. The committee told Ted that it was "impressed
with your mordant portraiture of a grim political scene and your work in
graphic and print journalism, as well as the generosity embodied in your
efforts to bring forward the work of your colleagues."

Hahahahahahahhahahahahahahah...

Know what this tells me? This award news tells me that you can commit yourself to being an arrogant, irrational, spiteful person, and folks will reward you with a lot of little statues, plaques, and certificates.

Accentuate The Positive

This is really nice. Head over and read for a while, then lend your own observations on what's GOOD about America (and your home state). It's nice to hear stuff like this instead of insane bullshit like "AMERICA IS THE FOURTH REICH!!!", for a change.

EDITED TO ADD: It was rude of me not to mention that the link above was inspired by a wonderful post from the very talented Michele, so I'll just correct that right now.

Prepare The Tearful Acceptance Speeches

Well, results have been tabulated and the Blogcritics Music Awards (The Critiquees) for 2002 are here. Click the following links for the top picks in each category:

Album of the Year

Song Of The Year

Songwriter Of The Year

Rock Album Of The Year

Country-Americana Album of the Year

R&B Album of the Year

Jazz Album of the Year

Electronic Album of the Year

Soundtrack Album of the Year

Reissues and Collections

Best New Artist

The Momma And The Poppa

Born to proud parents Frank Carrera and his wife Laura:

Angelina Nyomi Alvarez-Carrera
6lbs, 12oz at 7:56 a.m. Wednesday, February 19th, 2003

Congratulations, Frank and Laura! Now, everyone go and say nice things to the Daddy.

POLL RESULTS 2/19/2003

As always, my comments in italics.

Here are the results (Total Votes: 24) for Those "Truth.com" Ads Make Me Want To:

Quit Smoking (0) 0% - Wow, I really wasn't expecting this at all. I thought there'd be at least one vote here. If this is any indication, they'd be better off spending those millions of Ad dollars just PAYING people not to smoke. Really. Start with me. $100 bucks a week and I'll stand right there with you, all glassy-eyed like a fucking Moonie.

Start Smoking (3) 12% - So would I, if I wasn't already a smoker, if only to keep that bunch of sanctimonious dickheads away from me.

Blow Smoke Rings Out Of My Ass (7) 29% - I just think this would be a fun thing to do, even if you didn't smoke. Think of all the parties you'd be invited to! "Hey, do that thing where you fart a heart Smoke Ring, and then fart a smaller one through the middle of it."

Blow A Smoking Hole In My Television (3) 12% - And if they ever hire Robert Goulet to star in any of those ads, you might actually read about some instances of this. BONUS POINTS TO THE FIRST PERSON WHO FIGURES OUT WHAT I'M REFERRING TO AND POSTS IT IN THE COMMENTS SECTION.

Hunt Those Holier-Than-Thou Asshole Kids Down And Give Them All Indian Burns (8) 33% - You'd have to catch them quick, though, because the further they run the more likely you'll be lying on the sidewalk, mouth working like a freshly caught fish twitching on a boat deck.

Other (3) 12% - suggestions listed below in bold:

Make fun of all the idiots who still smoke, knowing the risks to themselves and others. - Yeah, your collar's a little crooked there, Father Flanagan.

Up my cigarette intake to two packs a day, instead of just one. - Huh.

truth.com? what's that? - Not the whole truth, that's for sure. If it were, there'd also be ads damning the Governmental Profit obtained through taxes on every pack, and the whole cycle of lies involved there designed to keep you smoking, instead of laying everything at the feet of the tobacco companies. Also, it would be pointed out that almost none of that money goes towards what we've been told - health care, etc.. Remember when all those States sued 'Big Tobacco' a few years ago, the lawyers claiming that money was going towards establishing anti-smoking education, health care, blah-blah-fuckin-blah? Know how much of that has come to pass? Very, very little - as in 'More than Zero percent, but less than Five'. If you really want to make smokers think about quitting then tell the the WHOLE truth, not just the 'Big Tobacco' side of it. Because 'Big Government' has 'Big Tobacco' right where they want them - bleeding streams of endless cash. The government doesn't want you to quit, not really - that would cut into their tax profits. They jack the tax per pack up with the statement being they'll eventually price them out of the hands of most people, but that's not true at all - addicts always find a way to support their addiction, and they'll keep buying. It's all about the dollars; giving a shit whether you die of lung cancer or a heart attack has nothing to do with it. In a way, that's worse than anything the Tobacco companies have ever done - because it's consciously preying on the sympathies and emotions of the 'concerned citizen' for a profit.

And, one comment, which needs no additional intrusion from me:

I want to give them all indian burns WHILE blowing smoke rings out of my ass. - CS

RESULTS FOR POLL NUMBER TWO

Here are the results (Total Votes: 26) for If I Could Have Any Super-Power/Feature Below, I'd Pick:

Give Criminals Chronic, Explosive Diarrhea (5) 19% - Yeah, that one was my favorite, too. You could call yourself 'Johnny On The Spot' or 'The Blue Squirt', or 'Charmin The Great', or something like that.

Genital Shrinking Ray (1) 4% - 'The Emasculator' or 'Wee Willie Winkie'.

Ability To Mimic Criminal's Grandmother - Who's gonna beat up their Grandma? (0) 0% - I just laughed, thinking about my late Grandma hopping up from her recliner, tobacco snuff juice running down her chin, kicking eighteen flavors of ass, doing a Chun Li from Streetfighter II Turbo 'Spinning Star Kick'. She'd be called 'Fannie Fury', because her nickname was Fannie.

Teleportation, One Body Part At A Time (2) 8% - "By the Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth, I banish thy Testes to Pluto! Bamf!"

Eating Criminal Organs Adds Their Strength To Yours (3) 12% - 'The Crime Gobbler'. 'Kid Buffet'.

Mind Control, But Only ON Bank Tellers And Porn Stars (4) 15% - Purely legit, becasue you'll need a sexy sidekick to take all the bullets and beatings headed your way, and you'll need to fund your crimefighting operations (unless you are an orphaned Billionaire and can fund them yourself, as is common amongst masked vigilantes).

A Straw That Shoots Hellfire Spitballs (5) 19% - My second favorite, and I would have KILLED for one of these in the second grade. Blisters all over the back of little Susan Johnson's neck, I tell you.

Throw Lightning Bolts, But Only From Your Asshole (1) 4% - And then you could blow some smoke rings, thus tying the two polls together as neatly as the plot of a Hollywood Comic Book Adaptation!

Other (5) 19% suggestions listed below in bold:

Make Women Not Laugh at My Naked Body - Then your power would involve me suddenly appearing next to you, also naked. Sort of a 'misdirection' type of power.

Bust a Move Like Young MC - This was mine. I was just checking to see if the 'suggestions' box was working. Come to think of it, though, I suppose everyone could use a power like this.

A cone of force that repels morons - And aim it directly at Hollywood, repelling the whole place into the sea.

Republican truth-telling ray - Ah, but would that be 'The Real Truth', or just 'The Truth' as you'd like to hear it? See, grey-area powers like this are subject to a lot of interpretation.

And, one comment:

No matter how strong or vicious a criminal is, they will bow to the Almighty Squirts. - Would you say it like Green Lantern recites his oath? And use a Toilet Plunger for your Power Battery? Maybe a Urinal Cake as a Powerstone set in your Mystic Belt Of Blowout? That would be so awesome.

New Polls are up, in the same place they always are.

I'll change that Joe Millionaire Photoshop Gag out tomorrow; I'm too tired right now. Good Night, Sweet Dreams, Sleep Tight, Don't let the bedbugs bite, etc.

Head's Up

I posted that Daredevil review to Blogcritics, and it is slightly different from the one below so you may want to reread it. My first review, and I already screwed up, apparently, since none of the Amazon products I linked to are showing up.

Anyway, Blogcritics is a great site, Eric Olsen is a very nice fellow, and it all just seems to be a lot of fun. Click over and read for a while, then consider buying some of the suggested products to help keep it alive.

Here's the review.

Later tonight I will be back with Poll Results, and to replace that offensive Joe Millionaire Photoshop gag with something equally disgusting.

A Quick One While He's Away

Finally managed to log on here, after three instances of 'Page Cannot Be Displayed'.

As is normal, I am a week behind everyone else with this Blogger/Blogspot/Google business. I only have one question:

When this deal is finalized and the takeover is complete, will Blogger still go down as predictably and consistently as a Two-Dollar Vietnamese Drinkee-Drinkee Girl with a hundred dollar a day drug habit? I'd almost be disappointed if it doesn't. Familiarity and all.

HeadDevil

Well, that's what it looked like to me

I viewed the Daredevil Major Motion Picture Saturday with my friend Rick. I say viewed for a reason, which I'll get to shortly. Sigh. I know, I broke my resolution. I knew I eventually would - there are way too many interesting-looking upcoming films I want to see in the theater/don't have the patience to download. And the afternoon started off so well. We arrived at the Cinema with almost twenty minutes to spare, plenty of time to purchase a snack and find a proper seat. There was no line to speak of, so we we were in the doors within a minute of walking up to the ticket booth. So far, it seemed that THIS would be the one moviegoing experience which would make up for all the other Dante's Inferno scenarios I'd been through in the past.

HAHA! SEE, THAT'S HOW THEY GET YOU! And by 'they', I mean the Invisible Goblins which scamper around and about our Nation's Beloved Chain Movie Theaters. They also make you have to go pee at the exact same moment you almost catch a glimpse of Jennifer Garner's very athletic nipples, ruining the whole Daredevil experience for your boys. But that's not what I'm complaining about.

We wandered over to the Concession Stand to load up, and it was eerily desolate, as if we'd stepped through a dimensional portal to the Galaxy Of Pleasant Filmgoing. Alas, this was not that to be. One guy in line, and he's paying for every snack separately, with what appears to be Confederate Scrip. Of course. Finally, a nice young lady behind the counter is touched by the divine hand of healing and overcomes her autism long enough to notice that she ought to be running her register, and waves me over. Large Coke, Medium Popcorn, please, half the ice, no butter. For some reason (goblins, I swear to God I saw one crawl across her hand) the drink cup explodes in her grasp, showering her with the contents of the tissue-paper thin cup. I understood the resulting delay, and felt a little sorry for her, but on her third trip around the counter showing all her Concession Stand Compadres the spill and squealing 'OHMIGOD! D'YOU SEE THAT?!?! OMIGOD IT'S SO COLD! OMIGOD IT BLEW UP ON ME! OMIGOD!' I began to get a little annoyed. Now I know why they load up every Teen Comedy I've ever seen with Loud Wet Farting Noises - it doesn't take much to amuse kids today. So, I finally get my popcorn and drink, and it's one minute past Movie Time. Already I can feel my pulse slam from my temple down the side of my neck, and I figured a sure cure for that blood pressure ailment would be a generous helping of the heavily-salted and entirely free Popcorn Flavorings on the counter. There was White Cheddar, Orange Cheddar, Parmesan and Garlic, Ranch, Sour Cream and Onion (and a couple others I can't remember) to choose from. I picked Sour Cream and Onion and dumped half the contents of the container into my bag, shaking it vigorously with my free hand as I followed into the dark theater, where I almost tripped and broke out all my front teeth on the first step. So far, so good! Thumbs up!

WONDER OF WONDERS - empty seats, right in the middle of the theater! We spread out like Gangsters and covered each end of the aisle, effectively blocking anyone else from stealing the coveted slots, and ensuring our buttocks would be gently placed into seating of the finest sort. Oh, yeah, baby, nothing but the best for these ass cheeks, you bet. We'd only missed the first preview, it seemed. Ahhhhhh. better. Now that we were seated, nothing could go wrong!

Then, the previews:

Head of State - Chris Rock runs for President. I wonder if all the Republicans will be presented as Evil Scheming Hand-Wringing Darth Vader Types, trying to ruin the country, laughing at poor people and minorities, while they smoke cigars and fan out their graft money around a dimly-lit table like melodramatic character heavies from old 1930's movies? No, Chris Rock wouldn't be in a movie that obviously cliched, would he? Will they give a shout-out to the Democratic Party and Chrysler in the 'special thanks' section of the credits?

Phone Booth - Shouldn't this be on CBS on a Saturday night, for free? Colin Farrell looks to be to movies what Colin Quinn was to Saturday Night Live.

Willard - I'm so glad Hollywood is finally learning how to properly utilize Crispin Glover's mental problems. This looks decent, and any film with R. Lee Ermey is worth at least a peek.

Bringing Down The House - It'll be funny, see, because Steve Martin is SO White, and, like, Queen Latifah is SO Black! She'll say all kinds of 'Gangstah' stuff that he won't even understand because he's SO white! He'll try to dance Hip-Hop and twist into funny shapes, bringing back fond memories of The Jerk! She'll finally teach him how to properly dance in a comical way because she's SO Black, and they'll bond! In the end, they will have learned a great deal from each other's 'World's Apart' lifestyles, and a touching tune will be tinkled out on the piano as they tearfully part!

X-Men 2 - Nightcrawler looks really cool, except for his coat, which appears as if he borrowed it from Kate Hudson in Almost Famous. I'll dork out all over this movie, with all the mutant 'cameos' that are rumored to be scattered throughout the film. Speaking of cameos, you know what would be REALLY cool? If they cut Halle Berry's part down to one.

Then the film started proper, and like I said, I viewed it. I say this because I certainly didn't hear any of it. No, what I heard was the constant babbling chatter of Four Teenage Girls EVERY SINGLE GODDAMNED SECOND THE FILM WAS SPOOLING THROUGH THE PROJECTOR. Let me perform an America's Least Wanted reenactment for you:

FIRST MADE ME THINK WASPS WERE IN MY BRAIN GIRL: Ewww, his eyes are all gross. Why would they do that?

SECOND REASON CONDOMS MAKE GREAT CHRISTMAS PRESENTS GIRL: I guess he's supposed to be blind or something.

THIRD FUTURE OF AMERICA SO CONSIDER PRAYER GIRL: That guy is FAT. He's, like, REALLY big and fat.

FOURTH HORSEMAN OF THE MATINEE-PRICED APOCALYPSE GIRL: What'd he just say?

FIRST MADE ME THINK WASPS WERE IN MY BRAIN GIRL: He said - "insert line of dialogue they all missed by talking here" -

OVER. AND OVER. AND OVER. AND JUST WHEN YOU THINK IT'S OVER - OVER AGAIN.

The following is a list of the few times it is acceptable during a movie to speak - and even then, ONLY in a low whisper:

1. "God, that looks like it'll suck." During the previews - Go ahead, get it out of your system, it's allowable since I know some of you can't stand it unless you can act like you're in your fucking living room instead of in a Movie Theater at least ONCE during a night out at the movies.

2. "Hey, isn't that the guy/girl from that Movie/TV show/Magazine/Porno we Rented/Saw on TV/Bought/Stole?" Once this is either confirmed or denied, IMMEDIATELY SHUT YOUR FLAPPING HOLE.

3. "Nice tits/ass/muscles." Again, once appreciation is expressed, CLAM UP.

4. "I think I maybe just had a stroke." SILENCE WILL HELP YOU THROUGH IT.

I considered lodging a complaint with the management, but Rick said they'd only shift from talking shit about the movie to talking shit about us after the Usher left, and apparently their Parents didn't give a damn about their children having consideration for others (SEND THEM TO IRAQ! SEND THEM TO IRAQ! OH PLEASE GOD, IF YOU REALLY LOVE ME, YOU WILL TELEPORT THEM ALL TO IRAQ IN A GOLDEN BALL OF FLAME!), so it was pointless.

A couple of times during the film I couldn't stand it anymore and said (loud enough for them to hear) "I wish you all would shut the Hell up! You've been running your mouths nonstop!" But they didn't hear me. Why? They were talking when I said it.

THE REVIEW (Spoilers, maybe - I don't know, I really can't remember a whole lot about it to be honest)

I was going to make a really mean, short comment along the lines of: The one good thing about Daredevil being blind is at least he didn't have to watch his own movie, but it wasn't THAT bad. It was just...digestible, I'll say. This is really a series of observations, both good and bad, in lieu of a complete rundown of the film.

1. BEN AFFLECK AS DAREDEVIL - He wasn't too bad. You could tell he really dug the comic and character, so he tried, at least. It was a nice surprise that he pulled off the whole 'Sighted Actor Playing A Blind Person' routine better than just about anyone I'd ever seen in a film. The milky eyes were a nice touch. Neat things in the script like Matt Murdock having to sleep in a Sensory Deprivation Tank to filter out all the noise, and having him chew painkillers like Chiclets after a night of getting the shit beaten out of him by thugs.

2. THE COSTUME - Eh. Whatever. At least it was red, and not just drawstring sweatpants or something. But the headpiece - I'm telling you, when he slipped it on his head automatically gained thirty pounds. Without it Affleck looked slim - with it, Affleck resembled a hand-rolled meatball with a generous dollop of marinara sauce cascading over the top.

3. THE 'RADAR VISION' AND OTHER ENHANCED SENSES - Nice effects on the radar sense, and not overdone. There's a 'sonic ping' touch, and that was worth a chuckle. The other senses are barely touched on. Speaking of touch, do you know how they explain all the flips and twists and dodging bullets and swan-diving off of forty story buildings without dying? Because he has an enhanced sense of touch. Yes, you read that correctly: Daredevil can grab things really good, which naturally leads to better flipping and leaping. Yeesh.

4. THE FIGHT SCENES - Hey, God, when you're done transporting that family of Assholes to Iraq, could you zip back in time and destroy all prints of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and The Matrix, wiping the memory of these movies from future generations of filmmakers? Thank you. One fight scene in the whole movie is worth a damn, the first one in an Underworld Bar (populated by 70's Cop Show Stereotypical Criminals). It's frenetic, brutal, crazy, and helter-skelter - with knees to the temple and lots of shoving and scrambling under tables, just like a real bar fight.

5. JENNIFER GARNER AS ELEKTRA NATCHIOS - First of all, yes, that's her name in the comic and in the movie. When you say it out loud it sounds COMPLETELY stupid, though. Just about the whole theater erupted into laughter the first time her name was uttered. Comic Book names don't translate well into spoken language, as a general rule. Don't believe me? Think Comic Book names are sexy and cool? Name your kid Elektra Natchios, then; just don't be surprised when she wakes you up one night to kill you with a golf club after having been tormented one too many times by her classmates.

In the comic book Daredevil, Elektra is an assassin. In the movie Daredevil Elektra is a College-Age chick who happens to know all kinds of fantastic gymnastic martial arts for no apparent reason, and thinks The Sai is a suitable crime-stopping weapon for the modern fledgling rooftop vigilante. She's in the movie for one reason only, which I won't spoil.

6. COLIN FARRELL AS BULLSEYE - This is one of those performances that magazine critics love, and point to as the 'saving grace' of a mediocre movie. Like Jack Nicholson in the first Batman film. Let me state my opinion for the record: Jack Nicholson fucking SUCKED as The Joker in Batman. Remember how he ragged all over Caesar Romero in interviews before that movie came out, only to end up being exponentially hammy himself? The only differences between the two being Romero didn't kill anyone in the Batman TV show, and didn't have a tub of guts spilling over the belt of his Joker costume? Well, Farrell is playing Jack Nicholson starring as Caesar Romero impersonating Mel Gibson from the 1980's. Actors love these kinds of movie parts, because they think there's no WAY they can be called out for overacting in such a role. COLIN FARRELL, I'm calling you out. Comics nerds can screech all they want about how cool and perfect he was in this part, but that won't help scrape the filmy layer of shit off your tongue as you walk out of the theater.

7. JOEY PANTS AS BEN URICH - Not in it enough to even matter in the slightest. So what? Cash that fat Daredevil paycheck, Joe - you have earned it through many other cool roles and great performances which didn't net you a dime over scale.

8. MICHAEL CLARKE DUNCAN AS THE KINGPIN - another critical darling, from what I've read, with apologies for an underwritten role. Bullshit. The screenwriters could have had the DNA essence of Dashiell Hammett injected and fused directly into their brains, written reams of hard-boiled dialogue for the Kingpin character, and Duncan still would have been just as shitty. This is the most non-threatening villain I have ever seen in a Motion Picture. Redd Foxx would have made a better Kingpin - oh, God, one last favor? Bring Redd Foxx back to life and use him to replace Michael Clarke Duncan in this movie, okay? "Daredevil, you big dummy, I'm gonna mash your face in some dough and make Gorilla Cookies."

9. STAN LEE AS THE OVERACTING OLD MAN WITH AWFUL TOUPEE CAMEO ROLE - Stop giving Stan Lee bit parts in Marvel Movies. He only has about ten seconds of screen time, and manages to completely blow that by wildly flailing his arms and exaggerating his facial expression as if he's in an Old-Timey Minstrel Show. Which, at least in his own mind, he probably is.

10. THE SCREENPLAY - Blew, for the most part. It's a Comic Book movie - all the screenplays blow, for the most part. Awful dialogue, stilted plot, one or two memorable moments. I guess the reason a lot of this is allowed to pass for quality scriptwriting is: Action figures don't need screenplays.

11. THE SOUNDTRACK - Someone go break all the fingers of Nickelback's band members, please. With one of those restaurant meat tenderizers.

IN SUMMARY: There's a scene in the film where Bullseye discovers Daredevil's weakness - loud noise. He then proceeds to delight in torturing him. Upon leaving the theater, Rick and I agreed that, had Bullseye really wanted to torture Daredevil with noise, he would have reached into a hidden passage and produced those Four Teenage Girls.

GIRLS: "EEEEEEWWW WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR EYEBALLS?!?!? WHY IS YOUR COSTUME SO WEIRD?!?!?! DO YOU WORSHIP THE DEVIL?!?!?! WHY DO YOU LIKE THAT ELEKTRA, SHE'S GROSS!!!"

DAREDEVIL: "Okay, man, I give up. Make the noise stop. Seriously, make it stop. Bullseye, please make the noise stop. I'm putting down the Billy Club, so let's call it even and make the noise stop, okay? Bullseye? Did you leave me here alone, you asshole?"

JOE MILLIONAIRE FINALE - Will there ever be a rainbow?

That ought to generate about two or three hundred more hits right there from the McCall's crowd. Welcome, gossip-mongers and Fabulous Fruit Salad makers! Wait - they don't call it McCall's anymore, do they? No, I think it's Rosie now, if I'm not mistaken. In that case, welcome Lesbians!

I didn't watch the finale of Juh-Juh-Juh-huh-hoe, but...excuse me, I'm a little overcome...okay, okay, hold it together Kevin, just hold it...hold it...I think I'm okay, really, no, I'm fine...water, yeah, I could use a little...um, that's good...okay...As I was saying, I didn't watch, but I heard all about it, and I just huh-have to say...I juh-just have to sayyyyyyeeeeee...oh, God, this is so embarrassing...is my Mascara running? Rilly? That bitch at Sally Beauty Supply said it wouldn't...said you could even swim in it...they'll just tell you anything to get you out the door, won't they?

All right. I'm calm now. I just have to say, upon hearing the magical fairy tale ending to a magical fairy tale tale, and the magical fairy tale way everything turned out, just like in a magical fairy tale...

After hearing about this wondrous and heavenly final episode, and they way things turned out for that girl, getting everything she ever wanted in life, and finding such a wonderful and upstanding mate, it only reaffirmed my feelings about love, and all the roller-coaster twists and turns that come with it. That TRUE LOVE doesn't come in a shade of Water-Marked Money Green with colored fibers and anti-counterfeiting strips running through it. TRUE LOVE knows no budget. TRUE LOVE can be satisfied with Bologna over Filet Mignon. TRUE LOVE waits for the matinee. TRUE LOVE drives a Gremlin. I knew it, I really did, deep inside my heart, I knew it all along - Money doesn't matter when it comes to TRUE LOVE.

Only looks.

No Clever Title For You!

I helped Terry from It Could Just Be Me fix her jacked-up template (and if you've ever read any of my screeds on blogger, then you know that is truly a case of Retards Teaching Calculus), so she invited me to do a Guest Post on the retooled new blog. Not one to pass up an opportunity to be derivative (thanks, Laurence!), I gladly agreed.

You can find the results here.

Heh, I just thought of something. I promised her I'd keep it clean over there, refraining from liberally sprinkling curse words and obscene images throughout the post like I usually do - because of her family. When they click back over here through the links, though...the first things they're all going to be greeted with are a picture of a naked New Guinea woman nursing her child and a pig, and a fat naked cartoon man lovingly stroking a doll.

Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week, except on the days I'm not!

Vamoose!

Share The Love Today

Happy Valentine's Day, Everybody!

Wednesday Drippings

Just some tossed thoughts to keep me occupied while my underwear is in the dryer. And no, I am not going to stand guard over my skivvies even though I had some clothes stolen from the laundry a few weeks back. If someone is desperate enough to steal my drawers, they're more than welcome to them.

1. Will you idiots making the Magical New Toy Hovercraft stop sending me email advertising your Miraculous Product? I have no children, and even if I did I would not construct a $30 toy for them to stuff M-80's into and destroy. How do I know they would stuff M-80's into it and destroy it? Because that's what I would do.

2. I was gonna make a Madonna joke, but the ravages of time beat me to it. Well, that, and every other blogger in the known universe.

3. 'Scuse me while I disinter this guy...

4. Okay, if I were the defense attorney in this case, the sequence would have ran a little something like this:

ME: "Your Honor, Mr. Seagal is a pathological liar."

STEVEN SEAGAL: "I'm a movie star - "

ME: "The Defense Rests."

5. I just wanna know: Was she going to sing 'Thank Heaven For Little Girls'?

6. All this blogger talk about the French being a bunch of incompetent pussies (like that's shattering news), and I CANNOT BELIEVE no one's latched on to this.

"Do Yew Have A Lisanze For Zat Bumb, Or Zat Minkey?"

7. So I guess I'll be dining at Taco Bell exclusively from now on.

8. Finally, I'd like to sincerely thank Ryan The Celtic Samurai (who should really think about starting up a blog, if you ask me) for steering me towards this fantastic display of weirdness. If I knew how to use Flash, I still couldn't come up with something as bugfuck nuts as that. I like this one a lot, too.

VIKING LOVE

Do you recall when I told you of The Great Halloween Round-Up, and described how we all had to dress up like Big Fat Jerks and pass out candy to the Apartment Tenants?

Well, here's a sample Kodak Memory of that moment. Ladies and Gentlemen, I now present to you BLACKFOOT (not his real name, just his Viking one):



He sure looks happy to be decked out in the latest fall fashions from Leif Erickson Sportswear, eh? This is my buddy Chuck from work, and he has his own blog called At 24MercerAve. He sent me that pic via email the other day, and I thought it was special enough to share with all of you.

Hey, you're welcome, Chuck!

PRANKS 'N' BEANS 2: Short Shots, Almost Shot!

Gather round, Kids, it's time once again for more Tales Of Idiocy And Gross Negligence. You can find the First Part here. These are just some short bits the neighborhood boys and I used to pull before we discovered girls smelled real pretty. And, a longer story of the time we came close to being murdered.

MOCK FIGHTS
Mock fights were easy, and free to stage. We'd just stand on the corner beside the road and pretend to beat each other to death until someone stopped, then we'd laugh and haul ass, disappearing into the woods (if you haven't noticed, there is a pranking pattern here within which every prank tends to end with us 'disappearing into the woods). We became quite adept at fight choreography, and I think if we'd kept it up we could've all been the stars of a teenage Saturday Morning version of The Fall Guy. It wasn't all fake, though. You can't fake a flip. I came close to breaking my assbone a few times when David Marshall would toss me over his shoulder and I'd land the wrong way. I would then limp into the woods to disappear.

TRASHCAN DEMOLITION DERBY
You take two empty trashcans, and tie them together with fishing line. Place one on each side of the highway, using enough fishing line so that they are far enough apart but the line is taut. What you're ideally trying to achieve is the line catching across someone's radiator grill, which pulls the two trashcans. You want enough line so that the trashcans don't hit the car, instead slamming together behind it and bouncing down the road. It was rare that this actually worked, but when it did the noise was very comedic.

FISHING FOR SUCKERS
Find an old purse of a light color. Take some fake (but realistic appearing from a distance) money and put it inside the purse, leaving some of it hanging out. Tie a piece of fishing line (fishing line, by the way, is one of the Prankster's best friends) to the purse handle and reel it out into the woods. Even better, leave it on the fishing pole if at all possible. As cars pass they will stir the money, some of which may even fly up in the air, giving a good effect. Eventually a car will stop. When the driver (or passenger) reaches the purse, snatch the line or reel it in as fast as you can. This will almost always catch the person off guard at first, and they will take a few steps towards the purse in pursuit. The object is to see how far you can make the person stagger after the purse before they catch on. We managed to get one dimwit within a few feet of us before he realized he'd been had, and stared right into the woods at our laughing faces.

AROUND THE WORLD WITH EIGHTY DUMBASSES
This was a Spur-Of-The-Moment Prank which quickly got out of hand, and resulted in our fleeing the scene like a pack of hunted fugitives. All of us were perched on our bicycles at the corner of Masonboro Loop Road and Patalanda Road, trying to think of some group activity which might kill one or more of us (well, not really, but someone always ended up crying). Bubba was staring into the ditch at some shiny object, and when an enquiry was made, got off his bike and produced a discarded cassette tape. As it didn't take much to capture our fascination in those days, the cassette was passed around, inspections were made, and it was determined that the contents of said musical cassette tape were unsalvageable. There would be no REO Speedwagon or whatever the hell it was.

At some point we began debating the various other uses for the tape housed with the plastic shell: Should we affix the tape to the community stray dog's tail and observe as it comically chased the cassette around? No - he was a good dog, followed us everywhere, and never hurt anyone. He'd never forgive us. Should we wrap each other's head with the tape until it ran out, and pretend to be Ninja Mummies? No, that would be stupid. There are only Ninjas, and Mummies. There are no Ninja Mummies. Should we make tassels for our bike handlebars with the tape, and laugh as they flapped and fluttered in the breeze? No, we weren't GIRLS, and whoever suggested that ought to be frogged in the leg until he can't walk. Should stretch it out, light it on fire, and see how long it takes to burn from end to end? Hmmm...that had possibilities, but none of us had fire-making equipment handy.

Someone (and I don't recall who) noted that the Stop Sign at the end of Patalanda Road and the Street Sign across Masonboro Road were perfectly perpendicular to each other...if one were to, say, unspool the tape from the shell and wrap it back and forth around the two signs, why...it would probably look just like one of those tapes at the end of a race! And the first car to break through it would be the winner!

Keep in mind Wilmington, NC was still a small place in those days, and we lived in the No-Man's Land between Wilmington City and Carolina Beach - sometimes you could play in the road for an hour before a car passed and forced you to move. I don't remember how long it took us to unspool the tape and wrap it between both signs, but I do remember the result - a nearly three foot wide band of highly reflective audio tape.

Well, that's settled. What to do now?

Say, I've got it! Why don't we all sit here on our bikes at THE SCENE OF THE CRIME like a bunch of Numbskulls?

I think it was some form of Mass Imbecility which came over us at that moment, because that's exactly what we did: sit (or stand, as a few of us including myself had parked our bikes) right beside the sign waiting for the next car. Which came around the bend not two minutes later.

We all jumped in unison, waving our hands as if we were cheering on the last runner in a marathon, whooping and laughing as the tape broke directly across the windshield of the white Buick -

and the driver slammed on brakes, spinning around in the middle of the road. You could smell the burnt rubber in the air.

Time froze. We all stared at the car, which began moving towards us. You couldn't see the driver for all the tint over the front windshield. The driver revved his engine and we broke, almost all of us in different directions. Another wave of stupidity passed over the group, Rusty being the only one retaining his senses enough to pick his bike up for mobile escape . David Dixon and I ran together, through Mrs. Field's front yard and around back, out into the field past the Pear Trees. David kept saying "ohshitohshitohshit" over and over; I glanced behind us only to see that the guy had pulled his car off the side of the road and was running after the two of US. He was a blur to me, but I could estimate he was no more than fifty yards behind and gaining. I stepped on the gas and shot past David for a few feet until his long legs caught up. We vaulted over a fence and broke into the woods leading down to Masonboro Sound. I was scared to look back until we'd ran for a couple of minutes, and when I finally screwed up the courage I STILL SAW THE GUY. He was further behind than before, but he was still back there, like the Sheriff leader of the posse in The Defiant Ones.

David grabbed my arm and pulled me down a side path (I was so out of breath by this point I couldn't see straight), which eventually led us past some abandoned Horse Stables into another darkly wooded area. We crouched behind some clustered bushes and tried to catch our breath. David was still muttering "ohshitohshit" under his. I looked around and saw that we were almost at the edge of the Sound.

"We can't run anymore, we're out of woods," I told him.

"Let's just wait here for a while," he replied, and we remained crouched behind the bushes for thirty years. Wait, did I say years? I meant minutes; we only aged thirty years during that time. Nothing. I started to stir, and I noticed David taking off his shirt.

"David, what are you doing?!?!"

"We can't stay here forever. Switch shirts with me."

"What for?!?!"

"If we're wearing different clothes, we'll look like different people. If he sees us when we're walking back, maybe we'll look like two different kids."

YES, I AM FULLY AWARE THAT THIS WAS STUPID, STUPID, STUPID BUT AT THE TIME IT SOUNDED LIKE MY FRIEND WAS A GENIUS

I switched shirts with him and started breaking off clumps of limbs from the bushes.

"Take these," I said, handing them to David, "And keep them with you. We'll walk along the woods edge of the Sound back home. If we see him duck down really quick and hold them in front of you. Camouflage."

YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME, I ALREADY KNOW

We began our trek back home, and decided to exit the woods at a random location in case he was waiting for us. Ninja skills came into play, and we side-stepped our way through the forest as silently as two young dopes stomping through leaves and dry-rotted tree branches could hope to. When we came to a suitable spot, we decided to cross the road and take the rest of our trip through the woods on the other side for maximum invisibility. Making sure there were no cars passing, we scuttled across the street wearing our Stealth T-Shirts, holding our Branch Camouflage before us and -

Walked right into the fucker's back yard.

That's right. Directly at odds with the very Laws Of Intelligence, we had ignorantly blundered our way right to the guy's driveway. There was the Buick, strips of audio tape still clinging to the Radio Antenna. We blinked at each other like the Brain Absent Morons we were for a few seconds, then moved quicker than the human eye Hong Kong Fuey-Style back into the woods we'd just exited.

We finally dragged home after backtracking for another half hour, meeting up with the rest of the gang at Rusty's house, where he held our bikes and relayed the full story to us.

What we'd missed:

Bubba, running from the Stop Sign right into the middle of the living room of the lady who lived across the street from the site of our prank, where he began talking to her like he'd just popped over for a visit.. Bubba pretty much didn't give a shit about anything. She even gave him Sweet Tea and Little Debbie snack cakes.

Rusty, casually riding down the dirt trails beside his house where he knew the guy couldn't get to him, and circling back when the coast was clear.

Sonny, running and hiding behind someone's bedsheets drying on the line in their yard, where he stood motionless for a few minutes until the guy chased David Dixon and I out of sight. He then made his way to Rusty's where they played Atari games while waiting for us to get back.

David Marshall, (who lived right down Patalanda Road) just ran the back way home, where he laid on the couch having a nice snack and watching TV.

The biggest news was this: When Rusty pedaled off, he looked over his shoulder and saw the guy getting out of his car with a pistol in his hand.

I never saw any pistol, but I was steady running at breakneck speed. I couldn't have confirmed what the guy looked like if you'd handed me a clear picture of him chasing us. Rusty wasn't one prone to exaggeration for no reason, so I took him at his word. The bottom line is this: We were the only ones chased by this pistol-packin' maniac until we finally ended up right in his back yard, while everyone else went home and had snacks; and not one of them told their folks or called the cops, because they were afraid they were going to get in trouble if they did.

All David and I got is an array of bruises from all the tree limbs we ran into, bug bites, and sore legs.

We never did get around to returning our T-shirts back to each other.

Misery Loves Comic Books

NERD ALERT: If you don't like Comics, you may want to just skip this one altogether.

Prefaced Notation: Lest the reader surmises the 'review' below indicates distaste and revulsion towards the 'subject' of the 'review', the author wishes to assure you it means nothing of the sort. In fact, the author found certain pointed aspects of the work in question to be of the highest caliber in regards to entertainment value, and whiled away the remainder of the evening pondering the implications of emotions raised within him upon completion. <---------This means I liked it, but I'm still going to rag on it. I was mimicking Chris Ware Speak.

I read most of The Acme Novelty Library #15 last night. From what I gather, this is the second collection of 'loose' strips Chris Ware has done over the years, as well as a compendium for new shorter features. There are four main strips compiled within the oversize book: Rusty Brown, Quimby The Mouse, Tales Of Tomorrow, and Rocket Sam. The centerspread of the book is one of Ware's famous highly-detailed paper 'cut-out' toys, along with a new (I guess?) Jimmy Corrigan tale and a Rusty Brown 1973/2001 calendar.

The bulk of the issue is devoted to Rusty Brown. Rusty is your typical 'Lives With His Mom And Obsesses Over Collecting' type. Over the course of the issue Ware presents several vignettes sliced from Rusty's life - from troubled child to middle-aged waste, and pays special attention to his relationship with his 'friend' Chalky White. You know the person Rusty Brown refers to, you've seen them at the Comic Shop or The Book Store or The Video Store - unconcerned over personal appearance, goes into gales of embarrassing hysteria over some dirty broken knick-knack from yesteryear, ogles any stray woman who happens to wander unknowingly into the store as if she's a stripper about to give them the Lap Dance of their lives. I managed a Comic Shop for almost three years (from 1991 to 1993), and I saw a lot of these guys shuffle through the doors wearing their backpacks (both straps on) and carrying their spiral bound notebooks. Nearly thirty yet their Mothers drive them everywhere, spend every dime they make on Collectibles, possessive of no interactive skills. When I ran the Comic Shop for those three years, there was one guy who reminded me the most of a Rusty Brown. Thursdays were New Shipment Day at the time, and I would meet the UPS truck at the K-mart down the street at 7 am to pay for the shipment. I did this because otherwise I would have to wait until 11 or 12 to get the books, and then have to pull the subscription copies and place new books on the stands while 30 people were hovering over me. I ran the entire store by myself (the owner travelled around doing those 'Mall Antique Shows' I'm sure you've seen before, sometimes he'd be gone up to three weeks), so I decided to save myself the hassle and get it all finished before we opened the store at 10. These were the days when 30 people milling about on shipment day was normal - nowadays Comic Shop Owners are lucky to get 30 customers all day long on any given day. Anyway, one of the customers caught wind of my early dealings and began appearing by the front door, waiting on me, as I'd arrive. This was 7:30 in the morning I'm talking about, folks, and he'd be standing there, his mother in the car with the engine running. When I unlocked the door she'd pull out of the parking lot (she NEVER came inside), leaving me babysitting her twenty-something maladjusted baby boy. I didn't say anything at first, I'd just let him in and explain that he was going to have to wait while I unboxed the shipment. This guy would get right up on me as I opened each box, eyes wide and expectant, fairly drooling as he waited for the forty or fifty titles he bought each week to be unpacked. I mean, he was right in my face, I could smell the pancakes and sausage links on his breath, and he'd do a happy little hop whenever I handed him something he'd been waiting on. And I realized that he was always waiting for something. From Friday (because you know he read everything the same day he got it - what the hell else did he have to do?) until Wednesday his days and nights were numb in anticipation of the next shipment. A circular obsession, round and round forever, or until New Warriors was cancelled. Once he got his books he'd go sit in a corner of the store and pour over them until his mother returned and honked his exit cue, and the cycle would begin anew. I felt a combination of pity and slight disgust for him, but I eventually learned to be gentle yet firm with these types. They know no social graces, so they'll stampede and knock over anyone to get at the latest issue of their favorite comic or magazine, and you can't let them do that, but you have to be patient because they are your life blood. Fanatics keep your store running. So I tolerated this fellow, until one shipment day I pulled into the parking lot to find ten Rusty Browns standing there out of breath with excitement waiting for me. The Nerd Word had spread, and it was all over for me. These guys scrambled into the store when I unlocked the door even though I told them to wait for me to cut on the lights and prep the register, some of them grabbing boxes out of my car and toting them in under the pretense of helping, only to try and tear open the boxes themselves when they sat them on the table behind the counter, crowding around each box as I cut it open, getting in my way and knocking shit over. It was a long day, because most of them had been dropped off by a family member and I had to deal with their never-ending discussions of Comic Book minutiae and mind-boggling stupid questions for half the day. Three weeks of this shit and I was over it. I got out of my car on that fourth week, told them all my boss had said no one else was to be allowed into the store until I'd unpacked the shipment (a lie, but so what), and made them all wait in the parking lot until I was finished. Took my time, too. I have a lot of Comic Shop stories, some of which I'll get around to here some day. It was the best job I've ever had as far as being able to observe different character quirks and types - but I ended up hating Comic Books before it was all over. For the last few months I was there, I didn't read anything unless I could do it in the store during down-time, and didn't buy a single Comic for around two years after I left.

So, I've known a lot of Rusty Browns. As has anyone who's worked in a Comic store, or shopped there. I still know one or two. The ground Rusty Brown covers has already been walked several times in the past by other creators, so it's not exactly an original, groundbreaking subject. And I don't necessarily want to read about them anymore. It's just a personal bias. Chris Ware seems to be taking the standard AlternaNerd position of assuming superiority over such types, when I can tell you from experience that I saw almost as many slobbering fanatical dinks waiting for word of a new Love And Rockets. They were just wearing Jello Biafra T-shirts instead of Wolverine ones, but both sets of shirts were equally pit-stained. A dork is a dork is a dork, and Evan Dorkin hit this nail on the fucking head in his comic DORK! when issue #6 featured a flip book with "The Northwest Comix Collective", the Mini-Comic scribbling AlternaNerd equivalent of The Eltingville Club. I understand Rusty Brown is Ware's next big project, following the Jimmy Corrigan mold. I may pass on this one; it's interesting, but I already lived it, you know?

Next up is Quimby The Mouse. This is the closest thing approaching funny in the comic. I chuckled a couple of times. It's about a lonely mouse living out his existence in exile (I guess after having retired from cartoons? It's not really explained). There are a couple of keen observations here about the way we tend to waste our time and regret it later, and all the missed chances we dwell upon. It's illustrated in a Krazy Kat 1930s style, which contrasts with the story in a neat way. I enjoyed the Quimby strips most of all.

Then we have Rocket Sam. There are only a few Sam strips in this issue, and it is kind of a one-note strip. Sam has crash-landed on a desolate planet, with only a Robot Servant (whom he constructed out of scrap) for company. I suppose Ware is making some sort of statement about how we're all really alone on our own planets of isolation with the objects of our infatuation constructed within our own minds - or something. It's dreary.

Even drearier is Tales Of Tomorrow. This flip-flops back and forth though time, actually. The same pudding-faced shlub appears to be the focal point of each strip. Alone, awkward, desperate to fit in and pursue happiness, the unnamed shmuck watches television (in the future, they have TV's everywhere!) constantly, meanders through his job, purchases the latest hip merchandise in an attempt to lift his spirits, and every single strip ends with him crying on the edge of his bed or staring forlornly into space. To tell the truth, I skimmed through most of these because I don't think reading a comic should make you want to slit your wrists lengthwise.

In conclusion, I was left pondering several questions at the end of The Acme Novelty Library #15: Is there some sort of unwritten rule at Fantagraphics that every title published must be filled with fucked-up miserable characters? Is everyone in real life that fucked-up and miserable, and I'm just not noticing? I mean, I don't know about you, but I'm not that fucked-up and miserable. Sure, I get to feeling miserable at times, but it usually goes away in a little while after I have some liquor. Then I am fucked-up, but not miserable. And, if you are a fucked-up and miserable person, do you really want to spend your time reading about other fucked-up and miserable people? Don't you think the money you spend on fucked-up miserable comics might be better spent on some intensive therapy to make yourself less fucked-up and miserable?

The paper toy was neat, though.

ADDENDUM: The author wishes to convey with the utmost sincerity and conviction that, should he survive to see the wizened old age of 100, he could have travelled through the the obstacled course of those rocky years quite blissfully without ever having focused his vision upon the following illustration from The Acme Novelty Library #15:

Blog Walk Part Two: Ninja Resurrection!

That Ninja comment has nothing to do with the blog walk. I just remembered as a child going with my buddies to see every single Sho Kosugi Ninja movie playing in town at the budget cinema. At one such screening (I think it was Ninja II: Revenge Of The Ninja), we all rose simultaneously to get snacks, ending up the bathroom together 'Ninja-ing' the hell out of it in imitation of Our Hero. I personally nearly kicked the paper towel holder off the wall, and my old chum David Dixon took out the soap dispenser with one well-placed shot. I was a Ninja Freak between the ages of twelve and fifteen. Bought all the magazines, collected all the Stephen Hayes Ninja Method Books, practiced sneaking around like a jackass, lost many crappy aluminum Ninja Stars deep within the woods by my house. One summer I saved almost every dime I earned to order an Authentic Ninja Uniform (complete with headwrap, but no Tabi boots, and I never did manage to save enough for those). I say a small prayer of thanks every day of my life for the absence of cameras while I was wearing that thing.

I'm going to stop at ten more blogs tonight for you, as we briskly stroll through the Cyberpark at midnight trying to avoid pixelated muggers and drug dealers. Don't worry, if we run into any criminal types I know all kinds of Ninja Death Nerve Pinches.

1. Misha over at The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler fisks everyone's favorite provider of Kegger Background Music here.

2. MtPolitics informs us of another STUPID LAW in the making here.

3. Solonor had a good rant over the Patriot Act yesterday.

4. Zany discusses some female problems I can't relate to but find interesting nonetheless at ZanyBlog.

5. How To Torture Teenagers, from Patty at PDawwg.

6. I don't understand this female crap either, Annastazia.

7. Chip Tijuana attempts to get his Weirdo Buddy Greg humiliated in front of millions.

8. Jennifer from Simplicity and Chaos shares the joy of working to help people who don't give a damn in her February 6th entry.

9. Peat from DiversionZ tells us how to get, how to get, how to get to Sesame Street.

10. Marc from Quit That! gives an excellent, in-depth report of a recent trip he took, complete with photos, Airport Security Overreaction, and Drinking With Acidman.

Enjoy all the links.

TOMORROW:

Back to my regular pathetic stabs at conjuring humor out of thin air with A Review Of Acme Novelty Library #15, and PRANKS 'N' BEANS PART TWO: Short Shots, and Almost Shot!