The Perfect Gift for the Homophobe on Your List: Musical Theater

By now, the vast majority of you have heard me grumble about how empty I found the sentiment when the pundits were lauding America's election of Barack Obama as the embodiment of our nation's commitment to equality for all, while here in the "liberal" state of California the masses succumbed to a campaign of ignorance and fear-mongering to vote yes on Prop 8. I was so frustrated and disappointed by this that I actually participated in a protest a week after the election. Yes, you read that correctly: I participated in a protest, and not the fake kind where you turn the lights off in your house for an hour on a random Tuesday. No, I actually marched around and chanted things for the better part of an afternoon. Just so you don't think it's an outright lie, I'll readily admit I was with friends the entire time, never actually held a sign, and rarely raised my voice even to the level at which I lecture my students. Nevertheless, for those of you who know me well, this is still clearly a sign of the pending apocalypse. Yea, and the wry observer would participate in political action, and the seas would boil, the skys raineth blood, and as hell frozeth over, many a date that was sarcastically promised in youth cameth to be.

My goal here is not to praise my first tentative step into political activism, 'cause let's face it, this will most likely be my only one. No, I bring the matter up as segue into a charming little video from our friends at Funny or Die, who have given us such hilarious yet offputting gems as The Landlord and Green Team. This artistic triumph, however, has anything anyone could ever want: Jesus with a shrimp cocktail, musical theater, Neil Patrick Harris (aka NPH, aka Dr. Horrible), and a political message that isn't (too) heavy handed. And it's set in a Sacramento community college, albeit one that doesn't actually exist. Enjoy.

"Prop 8 - The Musical" starring Jack Black, John C. Reilly, and many more... by Jack Black

A Bridge Between the Holidays

After watching High Fidelity last night, I was inspired to make a top five list of my own. As we've just waddled out of the Thanksgiving holiday (bloated, satisfied, and proudly displaying gravy stains in the most embarrassing of places) and find ourselves on Black Friday (which, for a considerable period of my youth, I mistakenly thought had something to do with Irish people being slaughtered by British colonials, but now fully appreciate how much more grim the day really is), I ask myself what better kind of list to make than of the top five creepy corporate mascots selling food products? Indeed, how better to bridge Thanksgiving and Christmas than to combine morbid obesity, corporate whoredom, and feelings of unease and vulnerability? Don't worry - the question was rhetorical.


(Dis)Honorable Mention: Ronald McDonald. While a clown selling children deep fried portions of chicken that cannot reliably be placed on any anatomical diagram of the beast is absolutely terrifying, this famous spokesman for pederasts the world over is disqualified because it's just too damn obvious. No, we must blaze a new, slightly less obvious trail of our own, dear friends.


#5: Arby's Oven Mitt. To be honest, this guy isn't all that creepy. But he could very easily smother the life out of you with his quilted folds, and to be honest, I find his expression a little condescending. Hey Oven Mitt: I've almost got a Ph.d and you're selling fast food; get that fucking look off your face before I set you on fire. So why even let this comfy bastard slip into my top five? I absolutely despise Arby's.


#4: Quiznos Rat-Hamster-Beast. Clearly, this thing is an abomination in the sight of God and Man. Using a rodent that appears to be an amorphous lump of fur isn't the best bet for advertising food in the first place, but to then put crazy eyes on it just sends the message that not only will your food fail even Eastern European standards of prison meat quality, but you'll also get rabies from an animal bite. The only conceivable link I can see between this thing and a Quiznos Sub is that, like their tasty sandwiches, their mascot is best consigned to purging flames.


#3: Swiss Dairy Man. I really don't know if I feel comfortable having this thing delivering me my milk. First of all, how did he lose his other eye? For one reason or another, "prison shower fight" comes to mind. And if that's the case, what the hell does he have to smile about? Probably because he's deliberately holding his quart of milk in such a way as to simultaneously hide and suggest his raging erection. With a giant container of milk. Real subtle, crazy maimed ex-con milkman. Real subtle.

#2: Pillsbury Dough Boy. Sure, he seems harmless, and the whole family seems to love him in the commercials, but one musn't overlook the simple fact that this pale, dead-eyed chef seems to spend his every waking hour breaking into people's homes and demanding to be touched. And when they do, it's not a gentle caress. No, they jab their finger way the hell into his torso, and while by all rights he should be suffering massive internal organ damage, all he does is giggle and beg for more. He's unstoppable. Mark my words: when Zu'ul arrives and we choose the form of our own destroyer, it will be this little guy. And when the M1 tanks fire their 105mm cannon rounds into his doughy gut, his staccato laughter will be the song that ends the world.


#1: The Burger King. As the top of any list should, this winner holds many characteristics of his fellows further down the list: dead eyes, perpetual mirth, and a job shilling absolutely atrocious food. That said, he isn't really all that bad, I suppose, even if I put aside my heartfelt belief that it's a ripoff of Jack from Jack N' the Box. But when I saw the commercial where a guy wakes up in bed and the King was right there, waiting, staring with those enameled eyes as this poor bastard tried to figure out why he wasn't already chained to a wall in a Burger King themed sex dungeon, the King immediately took his place of honor atop the throne of this list. I have no doubt his reign will be merciless and terrible.

He's Like a Lawyer the Way He Gets You Off

Last week my brother Brian found out he passed the New York bar exam, which means he passed both of the bar exams he took. Congrats, Brian, on a job well done. I don't really have anything funny to add. I'm just really proud of you.

Kitten Hanging from Tree Branch = Cute + Emotionally Uplifting

Both quarter and semester have resolutely passed their midpoints, and I for one am starting to show signs of wear and tear. I increasingly leave my classes frustrated, especially at the junior college where I get to watch my students routinely sabotage their chances of passing the course. Progress on my dissertation can best be described as glacial, less in the sense that should my dissertation melt it will raise global sea levels and wreck havoc on marine ecosystems, as it's just moving really fucking slowly. And it occasionally sloughs off ice flows into the ocean. But mainly the slow thing. Clearly, I need a "pick me up,"and while I always have my alcohol abuse to desperately cling to, for those of you who respect your bodies enough not to actively try to kill it by repeatedly ingesting delicious poison, I humbly offer some inspirational posters for your consumption. Enjoy.

Cast Your Vote Today!

I was awoken at 4:48am this morning by a text message from a friend in New York who apparently forgot that if it's pretty early where he lives, I'd most likely still be asleep on the other side of the country. This might be forgivable if it was something particularly important, but in reality he was threatening to punch me in the crotch if I didn't vote. I'm curious whether this was a general threat he sent to many people on his contacts list, or if I have somehow earned his ire in particular. Nevertheless, I can get behind the general sentiment, if not the particular threat to my reproductive capabilities, and consequently I have decided to make a quick post to ensure this anonymous New Yorkian that I am indeed aware of the grave decision due to be made this very evening:

I really can't decide if this is funny or sad, though I'm leaning toward the latter, seeing as whichever idiot wrote it got their timeline completely wrong, having Lando claim he's against a war that was already nearly twenty years in the past. That, and poor Billy Dee gets that confused, "where am I?" look characteristic of the elderly at the very end. If that's not sad, I don't know what is. Hopefully there will be some other news tonight to cheer me up.

Best.....Birthday.....Ever!

Those of you who frequent Ryan's blog More Rants than Raves no doubt saw his recent post about the crackhead who was stealing spark plugs in order to make crack pipes, courtesy of The Best of Craig's List. If you don't frequent his blog, it's funnier than mine, so check it out. Unlike me, who depends on his ponderous vocabulary and sardonic, downright mean observational humor, Ryan simply finds all the strange and funny things going on, and as they say, truth is funnier than fiction.

Anyway, he passed this little gem along to me last weekend, and I must say, it was like he had kicked aside some innocuous gravel to reveal a perfectly resplendent diamond in (appropriately) the rough. Indeed, I think they made a movie about something like that; I forget the title, but Leonardo DiCaprio dies in the end of it. Something about blood and diamonds. I think it was Titanic.

Despite my rambling, the point is not the subtle differences between his blog and mine, but rather this splendid post on Craig's List. I'd say something funny about it, but I don't want to detract from it's sheer genius:

We need an Adult Drunk Clown who is good at getting drunk and stupid. No need to do any clown tricks, just hang out and drink a shit load. We will be hopping around to different bars and want a clown to tag a long and drink heavely. He doesn't even need to socialize with anyone, just drink.
The birthday is on Friday, Sept. 5th in Bucktown. Oh, did I mention that the clown needs to get shitfaced. Don't worry, we will purchase all the drinks.

I have two words for these intrepid young men: Fucking and Awesome. These are the types of lads you see with their left legs cocked at an uncomfortable angle on Captain Morgan commercials. Drunk and clearly inspired frat boys, I salute you (if not your skills with spelling and punctuation)! Take a moment if you will, dear reader, and breathe in the sweet hilarity of this concept.

Now take a second to think about how this request gets exponentially creepier for each year you subtract from the birthday boy's age. Bon appetit.

JAPAN: Where Taking Real Life Too Seriously Just Isn't Enough

Let me preface this by saying that I completely realize that the line between digital worlds and real life can sometimes, under certain circumstances, become hazy--typically when I have a few beers in me and a nine year old is walloping the sweet shit out of me on Halo 3. That's bad enough, but when said grade schooler then starts lobbing slurs at you that he, by all rights, shouldn't even know, then it's time for Colonel Gentleman to remind the kid his mom doesn't love him and his dad has a whole other family in another state. Or that his teacher told me she thinks he's stupid and finger paints like a special-needs chimpanzee. One of the two usually does the trick. But I digress.

Believe it or not, this post isn't necessarily just about people being bat-shit insane within the safe anonymity of cyberspace, but rather when said craziness bleeds into the real world. Case in point: last week, a Japanese woman found herself suddenly divorced from her virtual husband on Maple Story without notification of any kind. No doubt she believed the split was without provocation either, but who among us can say that, after being dumped, we confessed, "Hell, I really fucking deserved that." Anyway, she decided to murder the son of a bitch in response. Why is this really all that newsworthy, you may ask? Because she had the good sense to keep it in the digital realm from which this all-too real anguish sprang. In other words, she logged on her "husband's" account and deleted the character. If only this lesson could be applied to us men in the real world: if we feared actually ceasing to be the moment we spurn another, there would be a whole lot less douchebaggery...and a lot less men period, until the human race could no longer sustain itself as the only survivor would be Jared from Subway, who seems like a nice enough guy, but not quite the genetic stock you want to repopulate a planet with.

Anyway, the 33 years young man who had his Maple Story avatar deleted by the 43 years young piano teacher who lives 650 miles away is apparently a little upset over the altercation. And rather than contact the company that maintains Maple Story to see if his character can be retrieved or some other sort of compensatory gesture can be made, they've arrested the lady responsible. If charges are pressed and she is convicted, "she faces up to five years in prison and a fine of up to $5,000." Come on, lady. At least have the class to strap on an adult diaper and drive the 650 miles (in her undoubtedly adorable and fuel efficient car) to confront the man in person like we would here in the States. Simply deleting his character is far too passive aggressive, and thus plays right into the misogynistic stereotypes we misogynists hold. Next time just stab the fucker and cover your tracks. That I can get behind.

Local GOP Group Reaches New Heights of Hillbilly Ignorance

A few months ago, my wife brought home a newsletter she received from someone at school, not to sway me to its extreme right political leanings, of course, but to rather show me another reason why Norco is bat-shit insane. I assumed the woman who printed the rag was the usual crazy shouting in the wilderness, publishing her libel happily from her double-wide trailer and only occasionally taking breaks from her propaganda machine to visit the well out back and remind the children trapped inside that "They put the lotion in the basket, or they get the hose."

Sadly, we Inland Empire residents need not suffer alone any longer. What I assume is the same newsletter has reached a new level of offensive recently by publishing a story that is quickly gaining national attention, complete with an image that even I feel too disgusted to post, of Obama's face on a donkey in the center of a food stamp, flanked by a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, ribs, koolaid, and....wait for it....watermelon. Apparently the harpy was musing one day about what denomination of currency Obama's face would one day grace should he be elected President, and the answer, apparently, was "food stamp." When confronted with the obviously racist overtones of the image, the shrew responded, "I didn't see it the way that it's being taken. I never connected," she said. "It was just food to me. It didn't mean anything else." No need to plead ignorance, lady: we already know you're a fucking idiot.

I'd suggest perhaps turning a high powered hose on her instead of the kids in the well, but I don't think she'd see the connection. Here's the article in the Press Enterprise, complete with picture of "Obama Bucks," for anyone who needs reminding that some of us out here are clearly floating in a warm spot in the gene pool.

Why I Won't Teach Elementary

After making a joke in my last post about huffing paint and cruising...er....drag racing in front of a preschool, I took a moment for Colonel Gentleman, looked inside my heart, and asked, "If I got out of that car and engaged all those children at once in vicious, no-holds-barred combat, would I ultimately stand triumphant upon an unmoving pile of vanquished foes?" The thing was, I didn't honestly know if I could take all the little bastards. But as I started to fashion a crude set of "battle-mitts" out of woolen gloves, shards of broken glass, and duct tape in order to test that very hypothesis, I discovered a digital quiz that would answer this very question for me, and as I don't know where a local preschool even is, my sloth won out over my desire for righteous battle. And the result?

16
At first glance, this may appear to be a respectable number. Remember, however, that with the state of the American educational system what it is, classroom crowding at all but the most elite private preschools would ensure I was taking thirty to forty of these drooling, sticky hellions on at once. And am I satisfied with only a 50% casualty rate? I don't know.

I suspect my inexperience with avoiding swarm-tactic combat attributed to the relatively low number, as well as my inexperience with combat of any kind. That, and the stale milk breath I imagine most of those little kids have would be a deal breaker. I mean, how can you concentrate on dropping an atomic elbow on Betty Sue when little Tommy Miller smells like a month old quart of Clover Stornetta?

I have my suspicions which of my regular readers will score highest on this quiz, one of whom is appropriately enough planning on teaching young children. Do please take a moment to take the test and share your results in the comments section. When the inevitable zombie apocalypse comes, I want to know who's on point when the gaggle of toddlers break through the door and shamble our way.

Congratulations All Around

My younger brother passed the Connecticut bar exam on Friday, which means that, statistically speaking, there is one state in the Union I am now much more likely to commit a crime in. Of course, I should first pinpoint where exactly Connecticut is. No sense huffing paint and drag racing in front of a preschool in the Carolinas, now is there? That Maker's Mark Ambassador card of mine isn't a get out of jail free card, and even if it were, I'd save it for something big like hunting the homeless for sport.

In completely unrelated news, save for their relatively close proximity, hat's off to Greg's wife Melissa for getting a theater gig recently that will ensure her acquisition of her equity card. I'd say something else, but I don't know what an equity card is. I imagine it involves her being equal to something, or perhaps how much a house is worth. Ah well. I'll let the egg-heads in Washington figure that one out...which means the Gallaghers are either due for a 700 billion dollar bailout, or we'll be declaring war on them. Rest assured, though--neither will be effective anyway.

A very sincere congratulations to my kid brother Brian and Melissa for their recent accomplishments: thank you for ensuring your friends and family have at least one person to count on financially.

Florida Man Becomes Front-Runner for Badass of the Year Award

What would you do if you were taking your pet for a swim and a shark suddenly grabbed the poor little furball and took him beneath the murky surface of the waves? We all probably have a few romantic notions of our potential, illusory heroism, but I wager a fair percentage of us might just squander those few precious seconds immediately after the abduction staring at the water stupidly, trying to wrap our heads around what the fuck just happened.

Greg LeNoir (aka "The Black," unless my French is even worse that I believe) begs to differ. When his rat terrier Jake was encompassed almost completely by the jaws of a shark and taken underwater, Greg dove straight in and punched the five-foot shark until it gave his dog back. The dive probably wasn't pretty, as his giant balls undoubtedly distort his center of gravity, but it's the results that matter--and the results are 100% undiluted "Awesome."

Greg LeNoir, I salute you. As, no doubt, does little Jake. Next time do us all a favor and don't take the little bastard swimming in shark infested waters. Moving out of Florida might be a nice start.

Sally Forth to an Age of Gilded Birthday Wonder

Last week was my birthday, and so my friends grudgingly decided to sally forth and celebrate fate's twenty ninth consecutive annual failure at wiping me from the face of the planet. Vegas had me, admittedly on a long shot, succumbing to syphilis-induced dementia and wandering into the desert to die this year, and while it's about as likely as winning the lottery, some couldn't resist the odds given. Hell, even I dropped a fiver on it. I suppose my widow would have received the winnings...and, if I really had syphilis, hopefully a shot or something.

...speaking of syphilis, we went to Medieval Times to celebrate. If you've never been, it's a magical place where grown adults wear paper crowns, eat their food with their hands, and shout at failed actors struggling for a paycheck. I adored it. Of course, getting mildly drunk and shouting at people is ingrained deep in my DNA, but the others made a point of putting on a brave face:


Obviously I'm having a blast, as I have a new crunk chalice in my right hand and a miniature flag in my left, and Kelly's good, as she's standing next to a prettier man. Nick looks mildly irritated, but only John on the right seems desperate for a quick death, and his fiance Megan appears all too happy to oblige. I can only imagine how long a blunt, plastic, light-up sword would take to sever a human neck. Of course, that may be like asking how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie-pop. Either way, as John is still alive and well at the time of this writing, it apparently takes at least a week.

The crowns' color tells you what section and what knight you will be supporting, and as anyone can imagine, the Yellow Knight was a fucking embarrassment. Honestly, he should have had a lame gazelle surrounded by lions on his shield, but I suppose that sort of heraldry is too large for anyone's blazon. Here's a shot, not of our man, but of the MC, who sounded a lot like he was announcing a boxing match.


I mean, come on. The light is shining directly from the front, but his shadow still darts blackly forward. Clearly the laws of physics do not apply in this magical, liminal space, and so I thought there was a chance the Yellow Knight, despite over a thousand years of literary precedent, might win. Alas, it was not to be.

Afterward we went back to our place, and in traditional fashion, got blasted drunk. Indeed, our faculties became so impaired that we started letting any piece of gutter trash come in and hang out with us, which is what led to the arrival of a second, far more terrifying Yellow Knight:

Indeed, the only vaguely redeeming feature of this hobo was his enduring affection for his mother, proudly displayed on a pale, completely un-muscled shoulder. That, and those glorious flaxen strands.

Thanks for a great time, folks. And for all those of you who called, thanks very much; you were there in spirit. As, apparently, was a hillbilly.

The Collar Pops from Within

Over the years, my wife has struggled to break me of certain lingual habits, not the least of which is using the phrase "lingual habits." I'm told it smacks of pretension, but as a friend recently told me, pretension is the new modesty. And in the spirit of both those sentiments, today I want to talk about the douche bag, kids. I'm not talking about that mysterious feminine product that seems doomed to be forever linked to meadow or spring metaphors in advertising, but rather that special brand of gentleman who makes me what to drive a railroad spike through my temple.

I bring this esteemed topic to the fore in honor of a man who I met last weekend at a wedding. Let's call him Andy, or as we soon started calling him: DB; the Douche, that guy, and Andouche. "But Colonel Gentleman," you might say, "you're a complete narcissist and your default opinion of any newcomer is disdain." Touche. Nevertheless, I still maintain I'm in the right on this one, and despite the rapid and unanimous consensus of those in attendance at the blessed nuptials (congrats again, Brock and Natalie!), allow me to furnish you with proof.

Item 1) Insisted on going on separate trip for his special, elite tequila (Don Julio, as it turned out) during a family barbecue furnished with enough booze to bring down a rhino because "I only drink margaritas."

Item the Second) The following morning, he insisted on taking the remainder of his tequila with him, rather than leaving it at the host's house.

Item Two and a Half) The same morning, he also refused to leave the room he slept in, or for that matter, even get out of bed, until his girlfriend went to the store and bought his special french vanilla creamer for his coffee, because he can't get up without his coffee, and he can't have his coffee without his special creamer. I opined that a steak knife to the trachea might due, but after some consideration, we decided it wasn't worth staining the furniture with arterial spray. Barely.

Item the Third) He's 39 and dresses like he's 22.

Item Fo') Here's a sample interjection of his into an otherwise innocuous conversation. See if you can detect the pattern developing before the train utterly derails:
"Hey Jim, I saw this shirt you'd like. It read: 'Shakespeare hates your emo poems.'"
"That's hilarious, Darren. You know about the one Kelly got me that has a picture of the Bard and says, 'Prose before hoes,' right?"
Enter Douche. "I saw this shirt that was two lines of gibberish on it, but if you fold them together right, it reads FUCK YOU."

Awesome, right? Anyway, here's a website that utterly captures the spirit of this man, and since the gentleman is actually a web guy, hell, maybe he made the site himself. It's called A Shirt for a Stud, and I'm genuinely sad to say I don't think it's meant to be funny. ....sorry about that. I just looked at the page again, and I started weeping blood. I don't think that's supposed to happen. Of course, it could be worse. They actually showed the page to someone's pet, and look what happened to it:


I'm not sure what the hell that thing was to begin with, but it's clearly been abused. And in Andouche's defense, so was he; his girlfriend was a real gem. Still, that's no excuse. Of course, it's not entirely classy of me to take pot shots at him from the dim corners of the internet, but I figure it's okay. I'm kinda a big deal.

The Robot Apocalypse Inches Ever Closer, A Gelfling Astride Its Back

I know, I know, not long ago I was raving about the inevitabilities of the pending zombie apocalypse, and now here I am preparing to rave about the robot apocalypse creeping up behind us with its cold, glowing red eye staring at us unblinkingly. So what? I'm covering my bases. It's like the man who bets on both red and black on the same roll at the roulette wheel, except he always breaks even and looks like a jackass, while in this scenario we die or are enslaved. ...Okay, so maybe it's not the most accurate metaphor. Perhaps my abject terror is clouding my judgement.

It's not that there's yet another futuristic prototype finding corporate backing that threatens to bond man to machine in blasphemous parodies of coupling that make the soul blush and, like Adam and Eve, suddenly recognize its own nakedness. Though that's part of it. My larger concern is that our budding robot overlords are beginning to cull from my childhood in the least likely of places, and that I will not stand. Behold, if you dare: the Deux Ex Machina Motorcycle Exeskeleton, first runner-up for most pretentious invention name ever (it just lost out to the "Jesus Excelsior Christ" Crock pot). You really need to watch this thing in (simulated) action to get the full picture.

When it's completely extended, I suppose I can see the Tron reference, though to be honest you're never really gonna sell me on the comparison until the subject is glowing in some hideous shade of neon and is followed by a stream of solid, two dimensional energy. Call me a purist. But honestly, am I the only one who thinks this thing looks like a Landstrider from The Dark Crystal?

Do you know why the driver in the picture is covered head to toe, his reflective visor pulled down to obscure even his eyes? Because it's a Gelfling, thrust unceremoniously into the 21st century and determined to compensate for his weak, puppet physique by augmenting it cybernetically. This is not a pretty picture, my friends. These little bastards could already communicate feelings, thoughts, and impressions telepathically via their dreamfasting ability, and to make matters worse, they can communicate with savage, amorophous beasts like this:
Imagine what will happen when they replace those skewed, felt teeth with razor sharp fangs, or, God help us all, they actually attached a body to this thing. It'd be like having Chewbacca devour you whole, and I'm sorry, but if I'm going to be killed by a wookie, I'll have my arms ripped off for beating him at space chess, thank you very much.

Joss Whedon Strikes Again: This Time, My Heart

So I sometimes have a habit of coming to the party late, so to speak, as I don't know the proper channels on which to scour the interwebs for the latest "buzz." Thus I hope you'll forgive me when I come to you bearing expired gifts you undoubtedly already own, but in case even one of you haven't seen this yet, allow me to brighten your day.


You see, there's this little gem called Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, a delightful three-act musical comedy about an up-and-coming supervillian who's trying to gain membership in an evil fraternity and win the heart of a girl he semi-stalks at the laundromat. Neil Patrick Harris (NPH) plays the good doctor, Felicia Day is his love-to-be, and Nathan Fillion (aka Captain Mal Reynolds, aka Han Solo before Lucas went back and made Greedo shoot first) is Horrible's nemesis, Captain Hammer. As the last member of that trifecta might suggest, Joss Whedon--and from the credits, most of his extended family, too--is behind this. It is, in a word, delightful.

Still, I feel a bit like the guy running into church on Easter morning shouting "Hey, have you guys heard about this dude Jesus? He's awesome!" so I won't go on much longer. The link above will let you watch the whole thing in its entirety, fo' free, so that's not a bad thing. If you're dubious, though, and too lazy to click the link, I've posted perhaps my favorite song from the piece below. Bon appetit.

For the Elderly Cosmonaut

With Christmas just around the corner, are you worried about finding the perfect gift for the octogenarian NASA enthusiast in your household? You know, the foreign national whose tenuous grasp on the English language may horribly mutilate his speech, but never his fiery enthusiasm? Well, look no further, my dear reader. Your prayers, and my own, have clearly been answered:

Alternate Endings Cannot Save Season 2's Mediocrity

So it's no surprise that I'm a fairly big fan of the show Heroes, and for those of you who watch it, it's also no surprise that the second season wasn't necessarily their best yet, though the addition of Kristen Bell (aka Veronica Mars) to anything is always a good idea. I'm willing to bet that if they dropped her onto Beijing from 10,000 feet she would cleanse the very air of China as she plummeted to her doom, but as our nation is unwilling to squander such a valuable natural resource, we have remained content to let the world's Olympians blacken their lungs. But I digress.

Since some of you may not have watched this show up to its current point yet--or at all--I won't go into any details, save to say that Season 2 contains the worst fake Irish accents in the history of sound. While that kind of stuff is a deal-breaker for me, it passes under sane people's radar, so I'll let it be. Anyway, said season is out on DVD now, and already some of its extras are popping up on the Interwebs. I've linked a page here that has three such tidbits: 1) an alternate ending where what they were trying to stop wasn't stopped and got out (you know, when I write it like that, it sounds pretty damn cliche, doesn't it?); 2) the revelation of Kaito Nakamura's (Hiro's father, aka Mr. Sulu) ability/power; and 3) a scene with Nathan yelling at his wife and kids, which I think is a lovely segue from my last post. None of these are particularly earth-shattering, but of course if they were, they probably wouldn't have been cut. Still, enjoy.

Everybody Poops...On Their Kids' Self Esteem

As a staunch Irish Catholic and someone who likes to think of himself as "Old Skool," I obviously approve whole-heartedly of the aggressive, even draconian physical, psychological, and emotional chastisement of children. As I have none of my own yet --barring the pug who rules my apartment with a chubby, iron paw--I freely substitute my students, and on rare occasion, random children in the supermarket. There are few things so satisfying in this world as slapping the wrist of a strange child with a wooden ruler (like you don't carry them on you at all times, too) as he reaches on tippy toe to snatch a bag of Double Stuff Oreo cookies from the shelf. Finding that perfect mix of utter disgust and disappointment on my face is difficult, I'll admit, but my acerbic "God hates fat children, Oreo-lover" usually overrides any facial nuance the lad may have missed.

Imagine my shame, then, to have found that I am behind the times in this necessary, revered pastime. Simpleton that I am, I always assumed to only berate children for their own shortcomings, but truer prophets than myself have thankfully seen the primrose path of abusing kids for their parents' flaws. Take, for instance, My Beautiful Mommy, a book ostensibly in the same spirit as Everyone Poops and The Gas We Pass: The Story of Farts. But unlike these insightful tomes, which are designed to help explain the foul realities of the body to kids, My Beautiful Mommy is intended to explain the vile realities of their mothers' narcissism.
Now, the issue isn't about cosmetic surgery per se, nor about the fact that it has become prevalent enough in our culture that there are now books explaining it to children. The true beauty of this little gem is that the primary symptom needing surgical remedy is stretch marks--specifically, stretch marks resultant from pregnancy. In other words, it's essentially Junior's fault that Mommy needs to go under the knife. And here I thought accusing them of stealing the best years of your life was enough!

And there is absolutely no evidence of bias, no lingering stench of opportunistic "tweaks" on reality. For instance, the cosmetic surgeon himself looks like Superman in scrubs, and when we are privileged with a glimpse into Mommy dearest's mind, we see this very Hercules--this time in a suit--planting a tiara upon a newly "did up" Mommy. I'd be concerned that this Adonis was invading the fantasies of America's housewives, but he isn't really the most articulate chap, according to page 1: "Blah, Blah, Blah, Tummy, Blah, Blah, Blah, Nose." So the bastard may be staggeringly good looking, physically statuesque, obscenely rich, and enchanting to the fairer sense, but I've got my pointy verbal barbs. Oh, how I hope they sting.

"But I can't even read, Colonel Gentleman," you might say. "Is there any way to psychologically abuse my child from the comfort of my own double-wide trailer?" Have no fear, disembodied hillbilly voice! Like some sort of twisted perpetual motion machine of despair, you can plant a seed at birth that will cripple your child emotionally from the moment it can comprehend human speech. Or at least, you could until Johnny Law got involved. Apparently, some leftist nut job of a judge stepped in and made a Hawaiian child a ward of the court so that they could change her name. And what was it? Talula Does the Hula. I shit you not. Hell, just calling the kid "Talula" by itself is skating on thin, rotted ice, but to then blatantly reveal her favorite pastime in the same stroke? She may as well be that guy from the fraud protection commercials who has a truck with his Social Security number drive around downtown Manhattan. The poor kid was so damaged by the name that even her best friend didn't know her true identity, and instead was asked to simply call her "K." Apart from strategically positioning her little friend to tacitly agree with anything she says ("Do I want to suffer through Don't Mess With the Zohan....K"), why the hell would she choose that letter? If you're going to lie, why not use a full name? Clearly, the child has been damaged already by the moniker...so why bother changing it now?

My favorite part of the whole story, though, is the list of other names that have been banned, and on occasion, allowed: "Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Keenan Got Lucy, and Sex Fruit...But others were allowed, including Number 16 Bus Shelter [always nice to be named after the place you were conceived, eh?] and tragically, Violence."

So it seems my dreams of simply smacking my children and occasionally locking them in the basement are merely average, even pedestrian. Thankfully, my wife has no intention of letting our DNA mingle anytime in the foreseeable future, so I have time to plan. And now that my brother has taken the BAR exam, he's officially a lawyer and can warn me about the most obvious legal pitfalls that might prevent me from constructing a truly magnificent warren of psychological torment for my progeny. Sure, my kids will be all kinds of fucked up, but I guarantee that if you give them a birthday present, you'll be getting a thank you card within the week. Of course, it'll be covered with their desperate pleas for liberation, but oh, what stunning penmanship.

Mantastic! ~Fin~

While the use of tildes on either side of the word "Fin" might suggest some sort of ominous dorsal ridge skimming the water, my intention here was the unnecessarily inclusion of a foreign word in a pretentious grasp at sophistication, one so very commonplace that its dependence on cliche only screams to the world that I'm a hack. Clearly I'm trying to get into character here in the hopes of better understanding dear Prof. Chiarella, an effect I mean to heighten through the donning of a turtleneck and the quick application of Crisco to my face to enhance my already pallid glow to downright sickly, vampirish levels:


That done, let us breach the even more hideous depths of the man's affected prose. I'm less concerned here with stumbling upon the Holy Grail of masculinity as I am an end to this hellish pit into which I've cast us. To borrow from the urban youth, "my bad, yo," but I promise I'll finish my grisly business this time. I fear some of us may already be suffering from a sort of frostbite of the soul, and the longer we dwell amidst the barren, arctic wastes of this man's intellect, the more we'll have to amputate later. So, let us proceed.

41) Speak to a waiter so he will hear, curiously, appears immediately adjoining 42) Talk to a dog so it will hear, clearly betraying the rosy impression our host has of those in the service industry.

45) Break another man's grip on his wrist. Why am I not surprised that Prof. Chiarella sees masculinity as predicated upon enacting his favorite scenes from an episode of Walker Texas Ranger or any of Steven Segal's exquisite canon of work? Personally, I have found squealing in pain and bawling like a hungry infant to be the best bet, for inevitably the man's man clutching you wil turn away in disgust, at which point you kick him in the small of the back or break your bottle of Bartles & Jaymes "Body Shot Lime" over his head.

46) Tell a woman's dress size. Never out loud. Not if you want to live.

52) Step into a job one one wants to do. Like reading your work, sir?

55) Point to the north at any time. Thanks, Daniel Boone. How very rustic of you, defying our savage, contemporary days of GPS phones and sedentary, indoor existence. I hope that little skill comes in handy at the tenure meeting when your department chair tells your sorry ass your scholarly acumen is no longer required.

59) Write a thank you note. Fair enough. And what sort of note does our sage recommend?
Thanks for having me over to watch game six. Even though they won, it's clear the Red Sox are a soulless, overmarketed contrivance of Fox TV. Still, I'm awfully happy you have that huge high-definition television. Next time, I really will bring beer. Yours,
Wow, not only did he come off as his usual pretentious self, but he also made himself seem a cheap, ungrateful prick. Of course, it would definitely ensure a second invite from me, if only to ambush him in my living room and hold a dry-cleaning bag over his head until he stopped fighting.

61) Cook bacon. Yes. A hundred times YES. Put it on anything and everything: burgers, sandwiches, salads, even your children will be better human beings with a few strips of bacon judiciously hidden amidst their flaxen curls.

62) Hold a baby. ...nestled in bacon. Obviously. Get them used to the heady aroma of grilled pork early on, and if you're really lucky and they end up smelling vaguely of bacon for the rest of their lives, then that's just all the more reason to hug your delicious progeny every single day.

64) Know that Christopher Columbus was a son of a bitch. You mean we're not supposed to desperately cling to the oversimplified lessons of our second grade history class? Okay. "I loved the very idea of Christopher Columbus. I loved the fact that Irish kids worshipped some gnome who drove all the rats out of Ireland or whatever, whereas my hero was an explorer." Wait a second...what the fuck was that? A gnome? Rats? No wonder the Irish kids on your block beat the sweet shit out of your chubby ass at every opportunity. I'm tempted to track you down next week myself and tell you Saint Patrick sends his regards, courtesy of Lefty McUppercut and Righty Fitzsuckerpunch.

That's it. I'm done with this guy, lest my paroxysms of rage give me a stroke. I think I'll instead turn to some student papers now; at least they have something intelligent to say.

Mantastic! Part deux

It appears I have betrayed you once more, dear reader, fleeing from my responsibilities as a blogger for other duties, and in so doing leaving you hanging in the wind. Sure, I can promise I'll never do it again, but we all know that's a lie, if not a particularly convincing one. But allow me to say that I won't let virtually another month lapse between posts again. I promise.

At least part of my absence is explainable, though. You see, I was in the Sierras playing Dungeons & Dragons for a week straight. Yes, nestled in the trees and rock, in passages where no cellular reception dare stray and where savage men with long beards and no hygiene rein supreme, there I was feverishly rolling my twenty-sided die (poorly, more often than not) and seeing my paladin spread righteous justice throughout a corrupt and evil land. Oh, if only the rest of my life were as simple as that week, where virtually every decision can be made through the fortuitous roll of a die. I sit now at my desk on campus, trying to make myself work on my dissertation, but clearly I have failed my Will save. Somewhere in the world a twenty-sided die has skittered across a tabletop, coming to rest with a 1 staring skyward like the fiery eye of Sauron.

So if I can be of no service to myself, allow me to be of service to you and continue our journey through the trite and staggeringly inane world of Tom Chiarella's "The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master." And let me warn you: these ones are worse than the last batch.

21) Argue with a European without getting xenophobic or insulting soccer. Reminding them that we bailed their ass out of World War II (or stomped their ass, if you're talking to a former Axis power) is completely fair game, though. I recommend telling them they'd be speaking German now if it wasn't for us. If it's a German, compliment him on his lederhosen.

22) Give a woman an orgasm so that he doesn't have to ask after it. Forgiving the pronoun confusion and all the deliciously Freudian things it suggests, as a Catholic, I can't endorse this whole communicating during sex thing. I'm even on the fence about eye contact. Instead, may I humbly suggest a gong placed on the nightstand, which upon orgasm, your partner hits with a mallet. Should one find oneself in flagrante delicto without your gong present, simply shouting "Yahtzee!" should suffice.

25) Drive an eightpenny nail into a treated two-by-four without thinking about it. Thanks for "sexing up" this one, as "hit nail into wood" might threaten to undermine the man who considered this an essential aspect of his identity.

27) Play gin with an old guy. While I would prefer drinking gin with an old guy--and recommend not calling hiim "old guy"--this item only becomes truly hilarious when you take it in stride with the subsequent tip.

28) Play go fish with a kid. Fair enough. His first bit of elaboration recommends "You talk their ear off," which is great when you glance above and see he warns that the "old guy" will "drown you in meaningless chatter, tell stories about when they were kids this or in Korea that." Oh I see. This older gentleman's story about serving in a war or living through the Great Depression is 'meaningless chatter,' but the author's stories about "when you were a kid this or in Vegas that" are utterly apropros: "So after we dumped the hooker's body in the laundry shoot we went downstairs, did some blow, and took a piss on the roulette wheel. Do you have any 8's? How old is your mom, kid?"

30) Feign interest. Preach on, Dr. Chiarella! Your take on masculinity is refreshing and fascinating! It's doesn't make me want to drive an eightpenny nail into my eye socket at all!

33) Hit a jump shot in pool. By now, we should not be surprised that this superflous and largely impractical shot is just the type of thing to catch Sir Douche's attention. A new revelation, however, is that our gracious author seems to have difficulty describing fundamental spatial relations. Observe: "Make the angle of your cue steeper, aim for the bottommost fraction of the ball, and drive the cue smoothly six inches past the contact point, making steady, downward contact with the felt." Actually, if you drive the cue six inches past the "bottomost fraction of the ball" in a steady downward motion, you'll put your cue through the felt and into the slate underneath. Bloody hell, is there anything this asshat knows how to do well?

40) Speak to an eight-year-old so he will hear. This, of course, bears upon the Go Fish fiasco from above, so allow me to help our befuddled author with how to accomplish this feat: call the kid "Child," regardless of age or gender, or perhaps "Hey you, tax deduction"; shout at them, reaching spasmodically for your belt as if about to wrench it off and brandish it menacingly in the air; confide that you're actually their father, but don't let daddy know, then wink at their mother over their little shoulder, pat them on the back, and tell them to get lost.

More to come, sooner rather than later this time. I left a significant number out this time around, as I was literally choked by contempt and couldn't will my fingers to type; feel free to comment with your own response to those others, assuming you can stifle your gag reflex.

Mantastic! Part 1

I'm ashamed to admit it, but when I saw a link to an article entitled "The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master" my cursor flew toward its blue text like a bee to the expectant, be-dewed flower, a metaphor which makes all too obvious my desperate need to find out what makes a 'real man.' As far as I know, self-indulgent floral imagery was scratched off the "dude roster" about the time opium went out of style.

As is my way, I was almost immediately filled with righteous contempt upon the reading of this man's list, so much so that snarling and/or rabid dog imagery is entirely appropriate. And it wasn't simply because some cock-knocker took it upon himself to itemize masculinity--shit, I'll take all the help I can get. It was the absurd crap he was peddling as significant, undermined all the more by the asinine elaborations following most points. But like the Incredible Hulk, my best work is fueled by pure rage, and as I read on, I couldn't stem the flood of bitter rejoinders to this man's commentary on the male sex. And so, because I clearly had a good kindergarten teacher, I've decided to share. As a courtesy (read: humanitarian gesture), I'll spare you the whole 75 and will furthermore deliver my thoughts on the rest only in fits and starts over the course of multiple posts.

But enough of my pre(r)amble. I feel like the host who delivers an unnecessarily long prayer before a sumptuous banquet, forcing my beloved guests to suffer needlessly while satisfaction sits mere inches away. Consider my supplication to a silent deity complete. Let us feast:

1) Give advice that matters in one sentence. Yes, God forbid you construct an idea so complex that grunts or gesturing with the femur in your hairy palm won't suffice.

2) Tell if someone is lying. Good call, pal. I should hope "You're a clever writer" raises a warning flag.

3) Take a photo. Whoa there, Ansel Adams. Don't set the bar too high for the rest of us.

5) Name a book that matters. "Catcher in the Rye does not matter," he usefully opines. Really? Tell that to John Lennon.

8) Not monopolize the conversation says the douche who wrote a four page document listing 75 things he feels a true man knows how to do.

9) Write a letter. I can get behind that. Hell, I sealed a photocopy of a seventeenth-century letter with red wax. I'm down. Let's see what else he has to say. "So easy. So easily forgotten." Okay. Trite but whatever. Anything else? "A five-paragraph structure works pretty well." Oh you son of a bitch.

12) Show respect without being a suck-up. Man, no one appreciates obsequious groveling like they used to.

13) Throw a punch and 14) Cut down a tree, in my humble opinion, should only count if you punch down a tree. Also, you are automatically disqualified if, upon successfully felling the mighty trunk, a lush beard does not immediately sprout from your face.

16) Tie a bow tie. I actually agree completely. No joke. Looking like a tool afterward is just gravy if you ask me.

17) Make a drink, in large batches, very well. I would recommend using a bathtub. If the air isn't dangerously combustible like a meth lab, you're not making it strong enough. In fact, why not just make your moonshine in your meth lab? Two birds, one stone, baby.

and today's final entry...

19) Approach a woman out of his league. Now, let me start by saying I whole-heartedly support this, mainly because I think every true man must know how to court failure, and experiencing the sweet sting of bear mace in your tear ducts is a thrill everyone should savor at least once. But what makes this entry so delicious to me is the writer's non sequitor of an explanation afterwards, which I have quoted in its entirety:

"Ever have a shoeshine from a guy you really admire? He works hard enough that he doesn't have to tell stupid jokes; he doesn't stare at your legs; he knows things you don't, but he doesn't talk about them every minute; he doesn't scrape or apologize for his status or his job or the way he is dressed; he does his job confidently and with a quiet relish. That stuff is wildly inviting. Act like that guy."

I wish I could make stuff like that up. I really do. Its profundity is thick, almost overwhelmingly so, the sort of potent morsel that you cannot immediately swallow, but must chew leisurely amidst your back teeth as you assimilate its constituent ingredients. That first line alone... There are men sitting in monasteries who don't have enough time to figure that one out. Just imagine, then, what bounty the next few items have in store for us. I, for one, cannot wait.

Long Time No See

So it seems I've been lagging on the whole 'blog' thing again. My apologies. Allow me to catch you up on the exciting events of my life from the past three weeks: 1) I still haven't started writing the second chapter of my dissertation; 2) grading student papers still corrodes my soul, and more importantly, keeps me from working on my dissertation more; 3) my brother graduated from law school this weekend.

This final point merits more discussion. My brother, two years my junior, has just recently graduated from Hofstra law school. Finally, one of my father's sons will make an adequate wage. My family flew out to see him walk, which ended up working well this time, since he had arrived late to his own graduation when he received his B.A., prompting my father to fly into a fit of such intense Irish rage that Saint Patrick granted the souls of Purgatory a momentary respite from their cleansing flames in appreciation. Everyone was on time this year, though, and to make the pot even sweeter, Kelly and I got to spend the weekend in New York and visit some very good friends we don't get to see nearly enough.

On a related note, I don't sleep on planes. Ever. I must have traded away the ability to do so for never getting cavities, or some other inane deal with Satan. Anyway, I actually used some of that time this weekend to draw, something that I haven't done for well over a year, which is saying something, considering how often I used to sketch when I was younger. I thought I'd post the results now that I've finished the piece.

Happy Birthday, O' Upstart Crow

Last week, at least as far as we know, was Shakespeare's birthday (April 23rd, or at least we suspect so, since he was baptised on the 26th and typically it was a three day delay). If he were a vampire, he'd be 444 years old now, which would be weird on a number of levels. Putting aside for the moment any images of Shakespeare roaming the streets at night, marauding for flesh, I thought I might put my expertise in the English Renaissance to use and offer a number of things you might do over the next few days to help celebrate the bard's birthday, things that will help you relive those glorious days of Elizabethan and Jacobean London in which Shakespeare thrived:

1) Blame all venereal disease on the French, specifically syphilis, which you should simply call "The French Disease."

2) Use a silken handkerchief for a prophylactic. You might be historically rigorous and use some sort of silken bow or tie to cinch your "little gentleman's cloak," or acknowledge the unbridgeable divide between then and now by slapping a couple of rubber bands on for good measure.

3) Relieve yourself into a bucket or bedpan for as long as you can stand the stench, and then casually toss your "night soil" out a second-story window into the street below. Bonus points if at least some of your filth lands on a passerby.

4) Draw your sword on a stranger for an imagined slight. Here's a good one: "taking the wall" of someone meant walking alongside the wall when coming against someone walking the opposite direction, thereby forcing the stranger to take the far side and thereby inevitably walk closer to, or in, the gutter and all the delicious filth that entailed (see #3). So, the next time someone coming against you politely cheats towards a building/wall, quickly stab him or her in the stomach with your shank.

5) Accuse a neighborhood woman of witchcraft. One sure-fire way of identifying a witch, according to common practice, was to burn a piece of thatch from her roof. If she came running, that meant she was a witch. And honestly, and poor son of a bitch still living under a thatch roof nowadays needs that kind of excitement in their poverty-stricken life anyway. Ha. Poor people.

6) Torture and execute Jesuit priests for sneaking into your country and covertly saying Mass. Alternately, if you want to play at being from the continent, declare the Queen of England the Antichrist and try to assassinate her. So long as your religious fervor burns bright, either choice is alright!

7) Die by 35.

8) Make jokes at the expense of the Irish and the Scots. Excellent options include jabs about their barbarity, quips about their ignorance, or simply oppressing them as a people ruthlessly for hundreds of years. To Hell or Connaught, right, you limey pricks?

9) Attend an execution during your free time. While hangings and beheadings are, obviously, your best bet, a close second would be pelting people in the stocks with rotten produce, rocks, or any leftover night soil from #3. Either way, make sure to shout and gesture wildly as if you were hammered drunk at a baseball game.

10) Become a candy-striper at your local hospital. Should you, in your expert opinion, decide the patient has 'bad blood,' simply apply leeches or just cut them open at the inside of the elbow--you know, where your heroin goes. If you find an amputee immediately post op, help close the wound by shoving a red-hot poker against it, or if you've got a small cauldron handy, pour boiling oil over it. The tingles, and the screams of inhuman agony, let you know it's working!


Isn't being a modern boring? If only we could be Early Modern all the time. Now that's how I want to live...at least until I hit 35.

Still Waiting on Those Diplomatic Plates

This April marks my two year anniversary as a Marker's Mark Ambassador. Yes, you read that correctly. Yes, Maker's Mark, as in the whiskey. Don't pretend that you're surprised; I like to think that I'm on everyone's short list for likely candidates to represent the political interests of smooth, fine, and delicious Kentucky bourbon whiskey. Did I forget to mention it is also hand crafted? They actually make the whiskey out of human hands. Yeah, I couldn't believe that shit, either. Does it still count if said severed hands are clutching barley and wheat as they're hucked in the vat? I'll have to take this up with my dark masters in Kentucky.

The funny thing--apart from the fact that I'm an ambassador for an alcoholic beverage--is that I have no idea how I came to receive this auspicious post. None whatsoever. About a year and a half ago when I mysteriously received a box of plastic cocktail straws and napkins from Marker's Mark, I just assumed it was some randomized promotion. Perhaps my regimen of persistent liver abuse had caught the eye of some Uncle Jesse-esque (Dukes of Hazzard Jesse, not that delicious manwich from Full House) hick in the moonshine business. But as the gifts got increasingly noteworthy, I realized I had somehow been inducted into a secret cabal, one whose firm grasp on power I could manipulate for my own ends. And while the term "secret cabal" isn't always seen in the most favorable of lights, let me assure you that we're dealing with some classy gentlemen here. First of all, they make Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey, which is easily the finest bourbon whiskey to be made on this planet or any planet for all time. And did I mention it was hand crafted? And smooth? Yeah, that too. More importantly, though, said cabal started sending me devices so clearly anachronistic that my fingers twitched spasmodically at the thought of implementing them in this, our age of futuristic plastic polymers and interwebs. For instance, some months back I was sent a stick of sealing wax and a Maker's Mark seal, so that I can seal envelopes closed with my new lords' mark as kings of yore did:



Clearly, the ascot-wearing sophisticates at the Maker's Mark compound know their ambassadors' twisted predilections intimately, as I understood the seal and wax as not a gimmick but an actual tool to be implemented immediately. So fervent was this belief that I used a photocopy of a 1608 letter to Nathaniel Bacon, folded in the fashion of Renaissance correspondence, upon which to test this gift (I'm not kidding; that's a photocopy from the Huntington of a 400 year old manuscript). Behold the glorious results, and in so doing transport yourself to a gilded age of chivalry and savage venereal disease:

Much like a foreign prince lavishes gifts upon his heart's desire, so too did Maker's Mark continue to heap bounty upon me. The final nail in my bourbon-soaked (and thus even more flammable) coffin was the delivery of official Maker's Mark business cards, complete with my name, Ambassador number, and the serial number of my own cask.

Yes, my own cask. Squirreled away under the bluegrass hills of Kentucky, much like the hobbit holes of the Shire, squats a white oak barrel filled with delicious, smooth Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey with my name on it. Literally. Indeed, I almost like to think of it as my child, if you could split open your baby and fine whiskey would pour out. Of course, were that the case, we Irish probably would have died out a long time ago in feats of Swiftian barbarism. Ah, but we'd have died pissed out of our tree and happy.

And in the end, that's why I'm so proud to be a Maker's Mark ambassador, despite the fact that, in all honesty, I have no idea how I came to be one. I've polled the usual suspects and have been met with only confused, blank stares, as if a penis had started to grow from my forehead and staring at it was the only way to uncover the sacred mystery of its beginnings. Ironically, I've come to believe I was hammered drunk one night on the internet and signed myself up for it. I can't be sure, as the brain cells responsible perished in a chemical fire of sorts that very night. Nevertheless, I feel this sordid truth actually makes me qualified for the position. So while I continue to spread the good word about the smooth, sophisticated, almost white-oaky taste of Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey, sit back and enjoy a glass of delicious, fine, brownish Maker's Mark Kentucky bourbon whiskey. I'll be out killing a hobo to see if this office comes with diplomatic immunity.

If You Wanna Topple an Intergalactic Empire, You've Gotta Break a Few Eggs

Combing the web (i.e. the series of tubes) for a suitable picture of the Death Star (II) to convince you all that we're doomed, I stumbled upon a grim reality regarding Star Wars continuity, one that has never occurred to me despite my fondness for following trains of thought until they barrel past their blockades and plunge off the rails and into the abyss. Anyway, when I read this, I laughed out loud, and continued to do so for quite a while, so I thought I'd share it with you:

"When a moon-sized metallic object in low orbit injects its debris and fallout into the atmosphere below, the result is an immensely potent "nuclear winter" effect which will last for years. Darkness enshrouds the ewoks' homeworld, killing plant life. Herbivore and carnivores starve in succession. A handful of ewoks seem to have been evacuated by the rebels, escaping the biocide, since they are seen briefly on Coruscant in Dark Empire. Nevertheless, there cannot be enough survivors to constitute a genetically healthy breeding population. "

Yup, that's right: the Rebels' successful destruction of the second Death Star effectively killed everything on Endor, including the cutest little savage bear race of pigmies that ever tried to cook and eat Harrison Ford (there's more out there than you'd think--the Care Bears really despise him). And doesn't that just add a delicious new layer of irony to the celebration at the end of Return of the Jedi? To be fair, I can't imagine those furry little bastards had any idea what was going on in the first place. We like to think they were inspired by all creatures' desire to be free and the "can do!" spirit of every primative race, but chances are they were just looking for something to crush with a rock. Sure, there is a sad moment when an explosion knocks down two fleeing Ewoks and only one gets back up, but all we get to see is the survivor mourn his friend. I'm sure afterwards he dragged the carcass back up to the tree village and then brutalized it in front of the deceased's mate and offspring so as to assert dominance and claim that family as his own.

My point is that it's probably a mistake to impart too much of ourselves upon those little furballs, but doesn't it make the irony so much more palpable anyway? One moment, they're hosting their new friends from the stars and celebrating the seemingly impossible victory they have only just recently achieved, no doubt emptying their winter stores of food to show an appropriately impressive amount of largesse on their part, and the next moment ash is reigning from a sky that has been dark for three days straight and your "friends" are making one last check of their ship to ensure none of your tribe is hiding on board (save for the ones thrust into cages to be taken as souveniers to rebel children across the galaxy). Clearly, it ain't easy being an adorable species casually included by George Lucas to garner the kiddie audience. But one thing's for damn sure: C3-PO is a cruel, merciless god.

New Contender for World-Ending Apocalypse! Vegas Oddsmakers Scramble to React

If I were you, I'd do a little research on the interwebs and then call your bookie, because yet another avenue to Armageddon has reared its ugly head, and once again, it wears a thick pair of spectacles and sports a pocket protector. Indeed, it looks like science still might find a way to kill us all and bring an abrupt end to God's creation, skewing the odds on my personal favorites: robot apocalypse, zombie apocalypse, and Menudo reunion tour. Behold the awesome majesty of the Large Hadron Collider, or LHC:

Apparently, a pair of concerned citizens are filing suit against the parties responsible for this particle collision machine to put the project on hold, granting additional time for what they claim are much needed safety considerations. What sort of considerations, you ask? The fear-monger responsible for giving me insomnia lists the following gems: creating a series of microscopic black holes that could combine together to form a much larger gravity well and, I imagine, collapse the whole planet in on itself; magnetic monopoles, which I surmise have something to do with magnets and possessing only one pole (like a fire station?); and my personal favorite, strangelets. Now if you're anything like me, you'll assume strangelets are a new breath freshener designed to lodge themselves in your throat, or perhaps a sexy bevy of background singers and dancers who promise to choke the life out of you. As it turns out, "strangelets" are subatomic particles that could theoretically transform anything they touch into similar kinds of matter in a kind of Midas affect that I can only assume would gradually turn our entire planet into a big grapefruit or something. Rest easy, though, because an expert retorts, "We see no evidence of this bizarre theory." Helpfully, he continues: "Once in a while we trot it out to scare the pants off people. But it's not serious." Thanks, asshole.

Now, normally I'm not one to help spread paranoia, but is it me, or does that HLC thing look a whole helluva lot like the inside of the Death Star?

No? Maybe if you close an eye or huff some paint? I don't know. I've had a long week. But if one moment you're sitting at home screaming at Tyra on America's Next Top Model (as one does) and the next you're in line at the pearly gates, be secure in your knowledge that it's the fault of some scientists working on particle collision deep underneath the French-Swiss border who have accidentally done the equivalent of crossing the streams. And if this doesn't obliterate us all in a flash but rather tears a hole in space time and allows Zuul to finally reach our plane, remember: If someone asks you if you're a god, you say 'yes.'

I Welcome Our New Canine Overlords

As every single one of you probably already knows, the role of supreme overlord in my household is one of the many prizes at stake in an ongoing, savagely fought contest between my wife and our dog. While my wife is a fierce combatant and prone to vicious sucker punching without warning, there are times when it seems the plucky contender without his testicles and a habit of licking the carpet until lather coats his chin (not me, in case you're wondering) seems to grasp the upperhand. I keep up on these things because I will be directly affected by the outcome, but my agency in the matter is limited to merely praying that my new dictator will be a relatively gentle one.

Or so I thought. Apparently my dog is part of a larger conspiracy to overthrow human government as we know it, one bent on raising a master race of canine autocrats to the highest seats of power in the land. Should we try to resume our place in those lofty seats, we will undoubtedly be firmly told we're not allowed on the furniture, hit in the head with a rolled up newspaper, and perhaps menaced with a squirt bottle.

My thanks to Oghrim for the tip regarding ObeythePureBreed, a site which is desperately attempting to uncover this budding coup d'etat before it's too late. The brave souls there have smuggled certain sensitive drafts of insidious doggy propaganda to prove their point, propaganda I feel compelled to share with you in a desperate gesture of resistance. May God have mercy on us all, for our canine overlords shall not.

And most sinister of all:

Spread the Good News: Catholic Church Declares All New Ways to Commit Sin!

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I wanted to share with you some information all good Irish Catholics should already know, namely that the Vatican has announced brand new ways for you to ensure your soul languishes in the unquenchable flames of Hell for all eternity. If you ask me, this is long overdue. As an Irishman myself, I find that I have far too few avenues through which to channel my innate self-destructive tendencies. Sure, I'm slowly drinking myself to death, and I remain an emotional cripple, but on the spiritual front my near-pathological sense of Catholic guilt keeps me from enjoying the truly heinous sins that are every independent soul's right, the kind of stuff that makes God level your entire city or flood the planet. Old Testament wrath, angels of death, flaming swords, pillars of salt--you know, the kinds of stuff that, when shared with your children at an appropriately impressionable age, can effectively keep them from masturbating for at least two to three years after discovering what touching their no no spot can produce.

With this new announcement, though, certain everyday behaviors of mine are suddenly steeped in delicious new layers of depravity, finally granting me that spiritual bad boy image I've craved for so long. For instance, cloning is now officially a sin, as is drug abuse and destroying the environment. While I've always suspected that smoking crack was tacitly frowned upon by my parish priest, the other two have completely caught me by surprise. Now, when I routinely fly down to South America with an army of clones, order them all to ingest suicidal amounts of PCP, and then see how much tropical rain forest they can chop down before their hearts explode in their soulless chests, I'm suddenly committing a sin. Eternity of gruesome yet ironic torment, here I come!

Other additions seem somewhat beside the point. Sure, when you clone yourself or your neighbor's super hot teenage daughter, you're playing God and thus I can see the sin angle. Ironically, actually donning a flowing robe and a fake white beard to indeed play God is somewhat hazy ground, at least according to the Church Fathers. Less hazy ground is donning said outfit and then standing on the side of the road and swirling around every time someone honks their horn at you, like a nice gentleman habitually does on my drive home. That goofy bastard is gonna burn. But I digress. Ignoring social injustice when one has the financial means to do otherwise (that seductively easy sin of inaction) is apparently a sin now, which I'm fine with. The funny thing, though, is that one article I read interpreted this sin as "being filthy rich." I think this writer is missing the point, though, because if I have obscene amounts of money, it'll be a sin because I'm snorting coke off the back of prostitutes and hunting homeless people on my own private island, not simply because I have a large amount of money in my offshore accounts from the clone logging operation I have running out of Brazil.

In the end, though, I tend to look at sin like cancer: pretty much anything you do causes cancer one way or another, and pretty much anything you do could be construed as a sin, if only from a certain perspective. Well, at least everything I do, though I still maintain telling strangers "That was a stupid thing to say and you're a stupid person for saying it" is neutral ground. And while this point may be overly macabre, I'd still like to think this has a little something to do with why the Irish have such a good sense of humor: when you're damned if you do and damned if you don't, you might as well have a pint and a laugh in the process. And if you're lucky, maybe you can convince St. Peter that it's the guy behind you in line (who happens to look exactly like you) who tinkered with the human genome, clubbed a seal, and did all that meth. Hell, it's worth a shot, isn't it?

Slainte.