NOT KOOL!

All right, gonna get serious here for once. I want to take this opportunity to speak to you all about something very near and dear to my heart.

Nah, I'm messing with you. I'm just here to f@%k around as usual.

So let's go back, shall we? Let's climb into the time machine of our collective imaginations — because there's no such thing as a real time machine, you know. There's only meth junkies who say they're from the future, con you into climbing into a phone booth with them by asking you to go back in time and help prevent the recession from happening. But then you find out it's all a lie when he punches you in the junk and steals your wallet, leaving you penniless, coddling your sack and crying in a glass box on the mean streets of NYC. Well who knew there were still phone booths around in 2011? I figured he had to be on the level. I've seen Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, that shit could really happen. I did it for America! 

"It happened right there, Officer! No I will not calm down!"

But I'm not here to punch you in the nuts. (Unless you're into that sort of thing.) I'm here to take you back to the year 1984. For some of you that sparks recollections of big-ass hair, shoulder pads, piano ties, parachute pants and Members Only jackets. For others it means absolutely nothing because your daddies hadn't even met your mamas yet. And I hate you young mother f@%kers for that. Anyway, in 1984 rock legends Van Halen released an album titled, appropriately enough… 1984. Great album, instant classic, one of my favs. Being young and having the freedom from responsibility and the spare time that I took for granted and now miss with every breath that brings me closer to death, I wanted to see Eddie and the boys when they came around to play New York's Madison Square Garden. But alas I found myself to be a little cash poor at that point. That whole freedom from responsibility thing translates into my not having a damn job back then. But my boy Andy stepped up and was all like: "I'll spot you on this one. I'll pick up tickets and you pay me back when you can." (Paraphrasing of course. How am I supposed to remember his exact damn words?)

"Um… guys, maybe you shouldn't all be grabbing it like that.
That's looking kinda… never mind. I'll just take the picture."

So imagine my surprise a day later when Andy informed me that he didn't get me a ticket. Oh he meant to, had every intention of doing so… until his girlfriend Joanne — whom he'd just hooked-up with like a day before — told him she wanted to go and there wasn't enough cash in the coffers to spot us both. At that point what could I do… but break them up? Oh yeah, that bitch had to go. To my credit though, I never lied or did anything underhanded to achieve this goal. Understand that Joanne was a whore and I just made sure Andy knew it. And she didn't make it all that difficult either. Getting regular transvaginal exams (Topical Phrase Alert!) in parked cars with dudes other than Andy provided me with plenty of opportunity, ammunition and witnesses to help prove my case and get me my damn ticket. Ahhh… memories.

"Are you sure wearing a seatbelt counts as protection?"

Annnnd we're back to the present. And just like twenty-eight years ago, (REALLY?) Van Halen's back as well, kickin' it once again with David Lee Roth, a new album and a new tour and I'm once again too broke to get a ticket. Doesn't really matter as much today since I wouldn't want to go even if money weren't an issue. Not gonna be breaking up any relationships all in the name of rock 'n roll, so all my buddies married to unfaithful sluts can just relax. You dudes should probably check your bitch's phone records though. Just sayin'. But your marriage is safe from me at least because I don't want to see Van Halen when they hit the road this year with Kool & the Gang as their opening act. Wait…WTF?

Somebody's agent must have lost a bet.

Holy shit! A pairing like that simply defies explanation. I'd wanna see that just out of sheer morbid curiosity alone. But alas it's a moot point. According to the tour sheet, when Eddie and Diamond Dave get here to Connecticut, Kool & the Gang will not be joining them. Only spot out of about thirty-two states that those glorified wedding singers won't make. What the hell, Kool? You're too good for the Nutmeg State or something? 

Now my wife with her bright side mentality is giving them the benefit of the doubt. She's like that, always trying to see the best in people. (Wasting her time with me though.) Since the CT show is at the Mohegan Sun Arena she's thinking maybe Kool or one of the Gang might have a gambling problem or religious aversion to playing a casino. Yeah, that sounds plausible, until two weeks later when they're playing New Jersey's Boardwalk Hall in the heart of Atlantic City. And okay, maybe that's different, that's just a concert hall and not actually in the middle of a casino like Mohegan Sun. So maybe their religious beliefs or 12-step program will allow that. But what about two months after that when they're playing the MGM Grand Garden Arena in the MGM Grand Hotel and CASINO in Las Vegas? Las Vegas, that place with so much vice they call it Sin City. What up with that, huh? Where's your God now, Kool?

Obviously Mr. Robert "Kool" Bell (As if his mama really named him that.) doesn't have any addictions or vice aversions or religious beliefs that prevent him from playing here. That motherf@%ker just has a problem with my home state. And that being the case, I now have a problem with him. So f@%k him and f@%k his gang too! Not even a real gang anyway, bunch of posers! What kinda gang dresses in shiny satin jumpsuits and plays party music? This ain't no West Side Story! 

Okay, not really jumpsuits, more of a leisure separates
kind of thing. So I stand corrected. But still… DAMN!

So along with calling bullshit I'm also calling boycott! From now on I call for the song Celebration to cease being played at all weddings and other such affairs in the great state of Connecticut. Kool & the Gang don't wanna play here, then they should stop being played here as well. In the future, all resident happy couples looking to jump the broom (it's a black thing) should do so accompanied by the more apropos tune Jump by Van Halen, since they don't seem to have a problem with us. 

Of course on the other hand, Mohegan Sun's the only spot on the tour owned by a Native American tribe, so it might be a racial thing. Which would mean Kool and his boys don't have a problem with all of us, just Connecticut Indians.

If that's the case then… is it wrong that I'd be okay with that?

FUTURE FASHION

Found myself feeling all spring-timey yesterday, getting kinda geeked about baseball season coming up. For that reason I walked into work wearing my long sleeved Red Sox batting practice pullover. Penny, one of the women in my office (that I haven't sexually harassed… yet) commented that I looked like a red shirt ensign from Star Trek. Then oddly enough, later in the day my friend Terri made a joke on Facebook about me wearing a red shirt like a doomed ensign as well. And to my knowledge Terri hadn't seen me and had no idea what I was actually wearing. Unless she's ignoring the restraining order that is. It's possible… she's kind of obsessed with me. Now while Penny's observation was just her trying to make me smile and Terri's was more a desire to see me obliterated by some alien death trap, (I didn't say hers was the good kind of obsession) it was still a weird coincidence that I took a sign from above. I guess I'm supposed to talk Trek today. Oh well, who am I to thwart the will of fate?

So pretty. I'd totally hit that.

Just so happens that the 2009 film remake has been playing on FX Network all week and I've caught it once or… all nine times they've shown it. (That's normal behavior, right?) And something that's stood out for me every time I've watched are the uniforms. Well that and the fact that it's a really crappy story made enjoyable because of terrific special effects and a lightning pace that never lets you think about how truly asinine the plot is. Pretty much the type of film Michael Bay tries to make every time. But back to the uniform thing… who the f@%k dressed these people? Like I said before, I wore a damn baseball shirt yesterday and I looked like I belonged on the Enterprise. As if I could've just walked onto the bridge, taken a seat and no one would've noticed the difference. Just headed out into space, going to other planets, getting off this f@%king miserable rock. Maybe get myself a phaser and be all like "Pew-pew… suck it Klingons, ya punk-ass bitches! Commander Savage is all up in your space!"

I'm sorry, how long was I gone this time? Anyway, Starfleet's a military organization, the Enterprise is their flagship, the standard bearer and the entire crew looks like they just rolled out of bed late for finals. To illustrate, I've put together a graphic that shows Starfleet uniforms in chronological order. Because I have that kind of spare time since hiding from Terri means I don't go out much.

One of these things is not like the others. Which one's more ridiculous, can you tell?

Granted, they're all pretty much dressed like a bunch of futuristic bellhops, but notice how everyone else looks nice and neat, clean and pressed. Kinda like they're at least trying to get a decent tip for lugging your bags. Even Kirk in his golden years was all spit-shined and polished. Yet back in his wilder days when he was on a five-year mission to seek out new life and new hook-ups, he couldn't be bothered with ironing things I guess. And why toil around with concepts as mundane as belts or tucked in shirts when it's all just gonna just get beamed off at the first sign of poon anyway?

"Oh dear… my shirt didn't… beam in with
the rest… of me. And… you're welcome."

Wasn't all bad though. There was one nice aspect of Kirk and crew's less than formal attire: mini-skirts.

How YOU doin', Uhura?

But all things considered, it could've been much worse. Looking like a star-hopping slumber party is still a hundred times better than what those assholes looked like a long time ago in a galaxy far far away…

And of course we can't forget this guy.

"I AM YO DADDY!"

Cant forget him because he's the lone touch of awesomeness in that whole hot mess of a universe Lucas created. There are those who would point to Boba Fett being pretty cool as well. But really, that walking hood ornament died like a little bitch, so don't even. Yeah, I know, we started off talking about questionable clothing choices and veered into… wherever the hell we are now. But that's just the sort of thing that happens when I start talking sci-fi.

Come on man, pound out some of those dents,
slap on a coat of paint, show some damn pride!

Many Bothans died to bring you this post.

See now if you were a true Star Wars fan you'd be LOLing all over yourself right now. Of course if you were a true fan you'd be pretty pissed about all that other stuff I said before. Like Terri, she's a Star Wars fan and I… shit! I think I done stepped in it this time. Probably on her way over right now and I'm gonna die soiling my britches and screaming like a little girl… just like Boba Fett!

YEAH, I SAID IT! COME AND GIT SOME, STAR WARS NERDS!

HEROINE CHIC

Got my hands on a bootleg copy of the unaired Wonder Woman series pilot that David E. Kelly produced last year. Not really gonna go into too much detail about it except to say that it's incredibly horrible. Just a mess from start to finish. The lone bright spot in the whole thing comes toward the very end when star Adrianne Palicki dons the more classic version of the WW costume, goes bare legged instead of running with the blue leggings she'd been seen sporting the rest of the time.

Less camel-toe, more thigh meat… just like it ought to be.

But even that nod to the classic character is ruined moments later when she — I shit you not — kills a guy by spearing him in the throat with a lead pipe. To be fair though, he kinda had it coming, I mean he was shooting at her. What was she supposed to do, block the bullets with her bracelets? That's so 43 seconds ago. (I f@%king hate those phone commercials!) 

There's also a scene where she tortures a guy to get information out of him rather than just use her patented magic golden lasso of truth on him. It was almost as if David Kelly had never seen or heard of the character before he made this thing. But then he did manage to stumble into an area that's been a big part of the Wonder Woman mythos for over two decades now… the inevitable discussion about her status as a role model for little girls.

Now I may be speaking out of turn here since I'm not a woman nor have I ever been a little girl, no matter what my high-school gym teacher might have said to the contrary. (You climb the f@%king rope Coach Callahan!) But why does that even have to be an issue these days? It's been a while now but I don't recall Lynda Carter hemming and hawing over boosting the self esteem of our nation's impressionable angels back in the 70s. (My God, has it been that long?) 

"It doesn't even matter that I have nice eyes, does it?"

I just remember her being stuffed into that star-spangled sausage casing and kicking ass on a weekly basis. Because that's what super heroes do and that's what Wonder Woman is. And she's not just a super hero, she's one of the big three, one-third of the super heroic holy trinity. Ask any average (non-geek) asshole on the street to name three super heroes and like nine times out of ten the answer's gonna be Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman. Results will vary if you ask a comic fanboy the same question. Then the answer will most likely be Wolverine, Wolverine and Wolverine. It's like a cult or something.

"I'm right there at #4 though, right? Hello? Anybody? It's me… Aquaman."

Well Superman's writers aren't concerned with his being an inspiration to little boys, he ain't got time for that. His dance card's pretty full what with rescuing cats out of trees, pissing on volcanos and pulling Lois Lane's silly ass out of whatever situations she gets into. (Doesn't even get a handy-j for his troubles.) Likewise with Batman, he's too busy brooding over the death of his parents that happened when he was like eight. (They left you a couple trillion dollars, buy yourself some happiness and move on Bruce!) He doesn't give a shit about inspiring little boys unless he can bring them home and inspire them to dress up in tiny green tights. (That is just so wrong.) 

And black super heroes both male and female are too concerned with the on-going fight for recognition and market share to be examples of anything. Besides, that's what Barack Obama's around for. 

"No really, we're the good guys! Quit screaming!"

Same should be true with the Amazing Amazon. Don't waste time fretting about the My Little Pony crowd, just go do super things. Because really, if little girls are looking to a fictional character as a life coach while we've got women commanding space shuttles and running for President, then they kinda deserve to end up like Tanya Collins. Tanya was this little girl in my neighborhood back in the 70s. (God I am old!) Seems that Lynda Carter had inspired Tanya to let Billy Jefferson shoot BBs at her one day because she thought she could stop them with the bracelets she made out of Dixie Cups and tin foil. No, he didn't shoot her eye out, but she did catch one up the nose which was pretty awesome. Guess I should feel kinda guilty about having been the one to talk them both into doing that. I don't, but I feel as if I should so I'm not a total monster. 

I need to look Tanya up, that chick was fun.

TAKE ME… TAKE ME… TAKE ME TO…

WARNING: This show contains no singing teenagers.
So it probably won't be around long.

This week after what seemed like a full year of hype and hoopla, ABC finally premiered a shiny new ball of mysteries and riddles masquerading as an hour-long Tuesday night drama. Only this time instead of an island, they're looking to get viewers Lost on The River. (See what I did there? Word play… sexy.)

Wasn't really interested in the show when I first heard about it, but then I saw that Bruce Greenwood was in it and I decided to give it a look. I mean… Bruce Greenwood, dude's a fine actor in his own right, but the man was also Captain Pike in the recent Star Trek film and he's the voice of the cartoon Batman. Star Trek AND Batman? Obviously the guy's trying hard to win my loyalty. And he has it dammit!

"I'll just sit here until they promote some third-year punk cadet
to be Captain. Because that would make total sense.

Some slight spoilers follow so if you haven't seen the show yet, then go do that and come back. I'll wait. Unless you don't give a crap about seeing it and then by all means read on. Of course, if you don't care then why would you keep reading? I mean, I want you to keep reading of course and… I've just made my head hurt.

The plot in a nutshell involves a mom, her son and a reality television crew venturing into the Amazon to find the pater familias. (Google that shit if you don't know what that means.) Greenwood plays the lost pater, a Steve Irwin type guy who disappeared six months prior, was officially classified as dead but then his emergency beacon suddenly starts chirping so the search is on again. At first glance the show is annoying as all hell because it's filmed with handheld cameras and hidden stationary cams to give it the feel of reality TV. What, we even have to make scripted shit look like monkey television now?

But here's the thing, mom and son head into a part of the jungle so effed up and scary that the very mention of its name makes the locals shit their loincloths. And they do so after finding out that dad got lost in there because he went looking for magic. Yeah… magic. They even find video evidence that he was getting into dark voodoo type stuff and things that human beings who wear shoes and take indoor shits shouldn't ever mess with. 

"Dude, are my hands on fire? Because
I am seriously tripping balls right now."

That's where the show took a turn for me. Please understand, I love my dad dearly. And if my mom called and told me that while he was minding his own damn business one day, just sitting on his front porch enjoying his retirement, some banshee from hell came outta nowhere, scooped him up and dragged him kicking and screaming into a swamp, then I'm going into that swamp armed with whatever ordinance I can carry and I'm not leaving that bitch without my Pop-pop. Main thing being that in this tale of make-believe, my daddy didn't go in there of his own freewill. Different story if Mom calls up and says: "Your father went into the swamp over by Dead-man's Holler because he thought it'd be fun to draw pentagrams on trees with bat piss and try to poke the Devil in the eye with a stick." That being the case then I'd find myself on a whole different quest. I'd be out looking for a new father figure because the old one was apparently broken. 

Great, even tokenism
is getting outsourced
these days.

Still, the nine idiots portrayed in this show press on through a butt-load of supernatural shit to find the dumbass. And let's profile those nine people, shall we? Six of them are white, two of them Hispanic, one of them — A.J. the cameraman — is black. But not only is A.J. black, he's British. Reason I bring this up is because there is no f@%king way an American brother is going to see the shit A.J. sees in the first hour of this show and continue on with the search for some white guy he doesn't even know. Sorry, that don't happen. But I suppose they raise brothers differently across the pond and perhaps that's why the producers included the character. His skin color helps the show fill some network diversity quota while his being a proper English gentleman explains why his one line of dialogue isn't "F@%k that shit!"

That being said, A.J. pretty much illustrates the reason I would never have to worry about something like that happening to my dad. And why my son will never have to hook his mom up on Match.com looking for Daddy 2.0. Because American made black men don't do that shit, true story. Want proof? Just look to Jerry Springer and Maury Povich. They've been helping black babies and their mamas find their daddies for years and none of them were ever found in the in the bowels of some rainforest looking for no f@%king magic. Most of the time they're just up the road hiding out at some skank's house so I rest my case. 

But you ARE the kid's father so quit f@%king
dancing and sit down, you jackass!

But getting back to The River… yeah that show sucks. Maybe shoulda just said that in the first place and saved us all some time.

Sorry.

THE DAY AFTER

SO PRETTY!

Been over a week since I last posted anything and I suppose you might've been wondering: "How come he don't write?" At least some of you were wondering that, right? No? Nobody? Really? Whatever! Truth is there's been a lot going on this past week, not to me of course, my life's sad and uneventful. But my next door neighbors have had a pretty exciting time of it from what I've seen… through their blinds. Yeah, they know I'm there and they like it when I watch.

YEAH, YOU WISH THAT
WAS CHOCOLATE… LOSERS.

Anyway friends, the big story of the day is that the Super Bowl has come and gone, the game was played, one team raised the Lombardi Trophy in victory and the other team crawled off to the locker room to eat a fresh-baked, hot steaming shit souffle topped with a healthy dollop of failure. As I'm writing this on the Saturday before the big game, I have no idea of the outcome, you know, not being able to see the future and all since I used up all my dark powers on my New Year's predictions. In retrospect not the smartest move in the world.

So either Tom F@%king Brady and the New England Patriots were the awesome engines of football greatness I always believed them to be and I'm on such a euphoric high right now that my victory boner lasted well past the four hour mark and I passed out before I could seek medical attention like they tell you to in those dick pill commercials. (Just hope I didn't fall on it. OUCH!)

Or… (God help me) Eli F#¢king Manning (Middle expletive used as a pejorative term, hence the use of # and ¢ to denote my disapproval.) and the New York Giants once again treated us like sheep before a pack of horny New Zealand farm boys. (New England, New York, New Zealand… WTF?) If that sad scenario came to pass, then lacking the courage to eat a bullet the way any decent fan of TFB and the NEP would, I most likely will have taken the pussy route by instead eating three tubs of Cool Whip spread between two Carvel ice cream cakes… a culinary creation I've dubbed the Shamewich®. Ingesting that much dairy in one sitting would most likely be enough to have catapulted my lactose intolerant ass over to the other side. If not then I hope that I at least remembered to put down a plastic tarp because that is gonna be one hellacious mess to clean up.

MMMMM… TASTE THE AGONY!

In either event, whatever happened on Sunday will have left me incapacitated and unable to post this myself. So if you're reading this then that means my wife found the instructions I left for her in a note pinned to my sleeve and she posted this for me. Good job Honey, now log out and ignore that folder at the bottom right of the desktop named "Work Stuff". Seriously Dear, don't look in there! Just some pictures from the job, nothing to… aw dammit, you looked, didn't you? Now wait, I can explain. That last office holiday party got kinda crazy. But believe me when I say that those women meant nothing to me. And the guys meant even less.

ARTIST'S DEPICTION. ACTUAL PARTY WASN'T
NEARLY SO CONSERVATIVE.

And now I'm in trouble with the little woman. So however the game turned out, hope it was a good one and I hope you enjoyed it. Doesn't matter to me because the wife is gonna kill me if she hasn't already. Seeing as this isn't the first time I've been caught engaging in inter-office shenanigans, her wrath should be a majestic thing of terrifying beauty indeed. Probably involve a great deal of bludgeoning.

MONDAY MORNING UPDATE:
Yup, woke up in a pool of my own filth, I'm dehydrated and my sphincter melted meaning that I took the Shamewich option. So the bad outcome must have happened.

Annnnnnnnd I forgot the plastic tarp.

Stupid f#¢king Giants. (There's that pejorative thing again.)