DON'T STOP…

"Ah ah ah… watch it, Ron."

SHUT UP, OLD PHOTO OF FORMER JOURNEY LEAD SINGER, STEVE PERRY! 

Sorry, kinda angry at that dude because legally I'm not allowed to use the word Believin' in conjunction with those other two words in the header. Basically it's all a mess to do with Perry's being pissed about the ongoing lawsuit in which I claim that he stole the song from me after hearing me sing it on open mike night at a little dive bar in San Francisco back in 1979. So what if I was only 11 years-old at the time? So what if I had never been to San Francisco and wouldn't have been old enough to sing in a bar anyway? So what if my story is complete bullshit? Who the fuck are you, Gloria Allred? 

Fuck! 

But we're here today to talk about beliefs. (Ha ha! Can't stop me from using THAT word! Suck it, Perry!) If you were one of the very few people to happen by here and catch my ramblings last week then you recall me going on and on about Anne Frank — Yes, we're talking about HER again. But only for a moment so bear with me.

Talking about the tragedy of that young girl's life — and the subsequent tragedy of Justin Bieber setting foot in her museum — put in mind a quote that appears toward the end of her diary which reads in part… "It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” Shortly after that entry the diary comes to an abrupt end as she and her family and most of the people who sheltered them were captured and Anne died of typhus in Auschwitz sometime in February, 1945.

Well… that certainly was depressing. Still, all this leads me to consider the things that I believe. Contrary to our young Miss Frank, inherent human goodness ain't anywhere on my list. And when the subject of my beliefs comes up it always reminds me of a wonderful scene from the 80s hit Bull Durham starring Kevin Costner and Susan Sarandon (Whom I would still cut off a finger to sleep with. Not MY finger of course but still…) Classic scene where Sarandon (as ball slut Annie Savoy) asks Costner (as ball player Crash Davis) what he believes in. In answer to the question, Costner pontificates for two minutes about believing in everything from vaginas to the Kennedy assassination. (And I believe that the former definitely had something to do with the latter.) After speaking his piece, he abruptly exits and leaves Sarandon to deal with a situation that can best be delicately described as… juicy panties. 

Yeah you WISH that was all rainwater
down there, Susan! 

Now I'm not saying that exposure to my beliefs are going to leave you all dripping down under. In truth, 99% of those who are exposed will most likely suffer no end of horrible side effects the likes of which can only end in madness, death or Dutch citizenship. I mean, I just went from Anne Frank's death to Susan Sarandon's moist crotch in one paragraph. So yeah, my opinions are not good for your health, mental or otherwise but arousal will not be one of your 99 problems. However, for that rare 1% that do find themselves even the slightest bit damp after picking up what I'm about to put down… well I'm sorry but you disgust me and after a brief and altogether frightening sexual affair, I can never associate with you again. Trust me, it'll be for the best.

So now that you've all signed the proper release forms I guess we can get started. What's that? Didn't sign any forms? Well Allred's already on her way here so she can take care of any legal mumbo-jumbo should the need arise. Until she gets here though, we'll just have to proceed with caution and good faith as we wade hip deep into the murky waters of…

WHAT I BELIEVE!

I believe in BOOBS! That one probably could've gone without saying. And apparently it went without a picture. WTF?

I believe that any woman who's ever claimed some decadent food item to be "… better than sex" is either a really shitty lay or she's never been fucked correctly… because she's a really shitty lay. And for the record, no man has ever made such a claim.

She's really enjoying that eclair. And no, you don't wanna know how she took it in.

I believe that natural childbirth must stink like an alien autopsy. I know, it's a beautiful miracle and there's this tremendous outpouring of emotions and all. But you know what else is pouring out of that miracle? A secret blend of eleven different bodily secretions that when sniffed out of context would remind one of a Carnival Cruise ship returning to port. It's a wonder that delivery rooms are able to keep paint on the walls.

I believe that bacon is the truest sign of God's love for us. Better luck next life, Muslims, Jews and Vegans.

I believe that every time 'Real Housewife' Nene Leakes and comedian Steve Harvey speak, they're each guilty of committing a verbal hate crime. And on occasion when the two of them speak to one another, the English language blows a rape whistle that never gets a response. 

Translation: ???????????????????????? [SYSTEM FAIL]

I believe that the commercial where those two nerds create a crude robot to feed them Cheetos is total bullshit because any nerds with such talents would undoubtedly use those skills to build a sex-bot. Said nerds would later wind up in the ER with a wildly fabricated story explaining exactly how one broke his dick, why the other has fire retardant foam up his ass and why there's a concerned Dyson with a face sitting in the waiting room.

I believe in… TAWM FAHKIN' BRADY! 

(B-Strong, Boston!) 

I believe that Usher fucking sucks! He sucks as an entertainer and since he's the one that discovered Justin Bieber — yeah, HIM again — then he sucks for that as well. So fuck him twice! And fuck The Voice as well for giving him a weekly forum for sucking. 

You ain't half the judge Cee Lo Green was…
literally and figuratively! 

I believe that if I ever got my fat ass involved in a three-way with Melissa McCarthy and Rebel Wilson, the gravitational forces unleashed by our slapping masses would rip the moon from its orbit and in turn unleash worldwide tectonic hell. Still, I'm gonna make that dream happen so you should all get your emergency plans and go-bags ready. 

And if I can persuade Adele to join us then none will survive the fatocalypse.
Sorry in advance, Life-As-We-Know-It. 

I believe that tanning salons are a wholly racist enterprise started by people who wanted to neither hire nor serve black people.

I believe that Betty Draper needs to be written out of Mad Men already! For God's sake, bitch wasn't interesting when she was married to all-American hero Don Draper, and being his "better half" was the only reason to give a shit about her. Now that they've been divorced for two seasons do we really need to be reminded she exists? I don't care that she's gotten remarried, gained 100 pounds, had a cancer scare and yet through it all she's still useless. Kill her off in a bizarre hair dryer accident and bring the kids to live with daddy. That way we can possibly get into some drama about daughter Sally running away to turn tricks on the streets of NYC because she hates Daddy's new wife, Megan. And perhaps little brother Bobby meanwhile feels just the opposite and regularly raids his stepmom's hamper for dirty pretty things to help him through puberty. You know, good old-fashioned, wholesome story telling. 

Actually, Bobby might be on to something. Where's she keep that hamper again? 

I believe that toward the end of his second term, President Barrack Obama will loosen up and drop a record nine uses of the word 'motherfucker' into his final State of the Union Address. I also believe that the FCC won't be able to do shit about it. Because he's the motherfucking POTUS, that's why, motherfuckers! 

I believe… THERE! ARE! FOUR! LIGHTS! 

(Where my Trekkies at?)

I believe that when Law & Order creator Dick Wolf was in high school he must have hated sitting through attendence. 

"All right everyone, stop laughing. I'm looking for Wolf, Dick.
Is there a Wolf, Dick here?" 

I believe that the Kentucky Derby would be more interesting if the National Thoroughbred Racing Association took a cue from NASCAR and changed it to the Kentucky 500. Bunch of horses thundering around a 2.5 mile track for 200 laps before stumbling to the finish line and exploding in a bloody pulp. Now that's what I'd call the sport of kings.

I believe that a perfect spinoff for The Walking Dead would be The Walking Wounded. A gripping drama about a group of folks trying to survive in a world where a cure for the zombie plague has been found, but now all the former undead just shamble around bitching about their missing limbs and lack of healthcare. 

I smell a hit! Or is that rotting flesh? Yup, definitely rotting flesh.

I believe that HAN SHOT FIRST! 

(Star Wars nerds in the house!)

And lastly, I believe that things such as the magic of a child's laughter, the majesty of a sunset and the simple pleasure of a porch swing don't matter anymore just like everything else on this list since Earth was obliterated last week! All of this is just my mind killing time while my flash-frozen body is in transit to the planet Proxima 8 where me and what's left of the human race will serve our new alien overlords. Well some of us will actually serve the overlords and some of us will BE served to them.

So that's it I guess, you're all dead to me now and I'm on my way to either a lifetime of intergalactic servitude or a brisk dry-rub followed by seventeen hours of slow roasting until I'm fall-off-the-bone delicious.

I believe I'll go great with a nice Pinot.

DIARY OF A WWII KID:

Okay, so Anne Frank's not the most cheerful way to begin a post, but here goes. 

Kind of a late night ritual around the Savage household, 11:00 pm rolls around and the TV gets flipped over to the E! Network to catch Chelsea Lately. Not one of my prouder admissions, also not my fault since it's not by choice on my end. (MARRIAGE IS ALL ABOUT COMPROMISE!) Still, only have to suffer through the first fifteen minutes because the wife only likes the panel portion of the show, not enough of a fan to deal with the interview segment. If you've never seen Handler's interview skills in action… fucking keep it that way, you lucky bastard! But here's a quick rundown of the way the show's second half usually goes: 

HANDLER: "My guest tonight is a blah blah blah…please welcome ( insert celebrity name here )."

Guest enters, they hug, they kiss, they sit.

HANDLER: "Thanks for coming."

GUEST: "Oh thanks for having me."

HANDLER: "You look great."

GUEST: "Thanks, so do you."

HANDLER: "Oh stop it. So… let's talk about me. Me. Me. Me. I drink a lot. More me. More me. Me some more. I like it when black men ransack my vagina. Speaking of me… Me again. Hold up a sec while I throw it over to the Mexican midget I keep on a charm bracelet for laughs. By the way, did I mention me?"

"So T.I., you're saying your name doesn't stand for Twelve Inches? Well that's disappointing." 

You can totally see how her twenty person writing staff is earning their keep. So last night was no different and even seemed to be a welcome change from all the Boston Marathon coverage. That shit was just… whatever… fucking people can't even run safely anymore. We're ready to go anytime you are, Black Jesus! 

Anyway, first topic up on last night's panel was the Justin Bieber/Anne Frank flack. Seems those two kids have gone and found themselves involved in a Twitter war and… No wait, Olivia Wilde got into the Twitter beef with Bieber. What was Anne Frank's deal again? Oh yeah, WWII, Nazis and all that. Had that brief cameo in the third Indiana Jones movie.

"The grail has to be there, son. Anne drew the map in glitter
and marked the location with a smiley face." 

While recently visiting Amsterdam, Bieber stopped by the Anne Frank House and wrote the following in the guest book: "Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a Belieber." For those who don't know, (like me until a couple hours ago) Beliebers are Justin's diehard fans. And you'd be hard pressed to find a more rabid bunch of crazies anywhere other than a midnight showing of the Twilight films. Actually, they probably share the same fan base. 

Nothing that a strong father figure and a blanket party couldn't fix.

Handler weighed in on the issue with her panel and eventually got into a very loud disagreement with panelist Michael Yo on one particular bone of contention; whether or not Anne Frank listened to the radio up in the attic where she and her family were hiding from the Nazis. Yo's opinion was that Anne DID listen to the radio and he referenced her famously published diary as source material for this belief.

Handler however, was of a mind that Anne Frank DID NOT listen to the radio because she would not have been able to make a sound during that time. Apparently Handler thinks that the Franks lived in the crawlspace above Hitler's personal residence and had to be silent 24/7. And to back up her argument she stated that she knew she was right because she's a Jew and that a Black/Asian like Yo shouldn't try to argue Jew stuff with her. 

Wrong Black/Asian dude, Google! Whatever,
I'm sure they all look alike anyway. 

Now while it's true that Handler is a Jew, (I guess) she's also an idiot for using the race card in that way to back up her argument, especially when you consider this quote from Anne's diary entry of June 15, 1943.

"It is really true that as the news from the outside gets worse, so the radio with its miraculous voice helps us to keep up our morale and to say again, 'Chins up, stick it out, better times will come!'"

No mention of whether or not she would've liked Bieber though and of course no reason there would be unless her radio could pick up signals through time. (And that would be pretty sweet.) But that's no longer here nor there since we've clearly gone off the rails on this one. In my humble opinion though, I would have to say yes, she would have been a Belieber since she was a fucking 14 year-old girl and that's his whole fucking fan base. Also, she was hiding from Nazis in a fucking attic! She would've loved Bieber or any other ridiculous thing that offered a momentary escape from that hell. The unedited version of her diary probably contains pages of ink devoted to the sheer thrill of new smells. 

She really wrote this. Swear to God… zilla.

Although to be fair, I suppose that Handler might very well have been joking during the whole bit. Gotta admit, I'm not sure, kinda hard to tell because I wasn't paying close attention. Most of the time when her mouth is moving, I'm just thinking about what she looks like naked… same as when I watch The View. 

I like to start with Elisabeth Hasselbeck and then slowly work
my eyes left over to… BLLLLAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH! 

So I guess I kinda might owe Chelsea an apology for calling her an idiot before. Unless she wasn't joking and really thinks being a Jew automatically validated her argument. Then she actually is an idiot. Then again, she's the one with the TV show, millions of fans, Twitter followers and fat bank, while I'm alone in a basement, broke and pretending anyone cares what I think. So really, who's the idiot? 

"It's okay Ron, you're black so just climb in my vagina and all is forgiven." 

Oh if only it were that easy, Sugar. I'd make you go back.

FREE BLADE!

Wesley Snipes was released Tuesday from federal prison after serving his three years for tax evasion. So congratulations Mr. Snipes. Get on out there, breathe the air, walk in the sunshine, enjoy that freedom and then get your ass to work on White Men Can't Dance Either. It's what the public wants.

I was gonna caption the photo to say something about how hard it must have been for him on the inside, but that picture was taken BEFORE he went in so… damn. He must look like a gargoyle by now. Posting a pic of him today might just turn us all to stone.

SAM'S CLUB:

"Ya'll shut the fuck up now and pay attention! Ron's talkin', dammit." 

Thank you Old Samuel Jackson. March 28th is just around the corner and I couldn't be happier. Why's March 28th gonna be such a good day for me? Well I'm glad that I pretended that you asked. Friday, the 28th of this month will see the big screen release of G.I. Joe: Retaliation, a film I've been waiting like nine months to see. Seriously, I kinda liked the first one (he said opening himself up to an ungodly amount of ridicule) and this one actually looks pretty good too. Had planned to see it last summer, before it got pushed back from its original release date of June 29th, 2012.

Contains so much testosterone that women and
children are warned to stay the hell home.

The reason the studio suits gave for the push back was something all to do with retooling and reshoots and reorganizing and synergy and brand awareness and a bunch of other buzzword bullshit. Most of us outside of Hollywood figured they were flinging crap around to try and mask the fact that they were scared shitless about putting a comic book/action film into the mix against the likes of The Avengers, The Dark Knight Rises and The Amazing Spider-Man. And even though the flick would have indeed gotten its camouflaged taint handed to it by those first two films, they needn't have worried about Spider-Man because that movie chugged bug nuts. 

Out of costume, not avenging a damn thing, still raking in the dollars. 

But conspiracy nut that I am, I have a theory about the even deeper meaning behind the suits' decision. Wanna hear it? Well your lips say 'NO' but your eyes… still say 'NO'. That being the case, I'm gonna tell you anyway. The real reason is the secret beef between Samuel L. Jackson and Channing Tatum. Think I'm crazy? Well I am, but that has nothing to do with it. Just put the God damn phone down and hear me out! Ever notice how Channing Tatum seems to be in almost everything these days? Guy has a movie in theaters almost once a month or so it seems. 

A small sampling of the amount of cinematic poon this guy's been getting. I hate that lucky bastard.

And back in the summer of 2012 he would have hit the multiplexes again with G.I. Joe: Retaliation — herein to be called GIJ:R for the sake of me not wanting to type all that shit out no more. But then suddenly the suits pulled GIJ:R back from the big box office beatdown it had coming to it for thinking it could go up against Samuel (Mr. Jackson if you're nasty) and his avenging crew. And I believe that Mr. Jackson (because I'm nasty) had a little something to do with that decision. 

Just click HERE in case you forgot how that shit turned out for him. Classic. 

Check it out. To date, Mr. Jackson has been in 137 movies since making his film debut in 1988. That's 25 years of being a badass motherfucker both on and off screen. Now the record for most feature films by an American actor is held by another badass of the silver screen, John Wayne. Wayne starred in 142 movies during his 50 year career. And the distinction there is that those were all starring roles. While Mr. Jackson's 137 outtings were not all starring roles, he has amassed quite a catalog of feature parts in half the time as The Duke did. 

Not all the films were great, some were even downright vomit-like. But I ain't gonna tell HIM that.
(I'm looking at YOU, Star Wars prequels.)

And with no sign of slowing down at 64 years old (Black don't crack!) Mr. Jackson is sure to eclipse the Duke sometime in the next decade becoming the most prolific American actor of several generations. I stress the word 'American' because the true record is held by some ass driver from Bollywood named Adoor Bhasi. Bhasi appeared in nearly 550 movies before his death in 1990. But since I don't feel like outsourcing another damn thing over to India, we'll just keep such concerns in the good old US of A. Besides, since all of Bhasi's movies together probably didn't even make enough money to pay for the goodie bags given out at this years Academy Awards ceremony, then they don't really count for anything. AMERICA, FUCK YEAH!

Bhasi, seen here… or maybe not since even
Google isn't sure who the hell the guy was. 

So back to that former stripper punk, Channing Tatum. Dude started his film career in 2005 at the age of 25 and has since starred in 33 movies. At this rate, by 2030 when he reaches his 25th year in cinema he will have been in roughly 110 movies and only be 50 years old. (Or perhaps not because I suck at math.) Still, even if all my numbers are off (and they probably are) he's still on pace to best Mr. Jackson because he's 34 years younger and has time on his side. 

And dreaminess, he's also got dreaminess on his side. Damn him! 

That's why GIJ:R got bumped last summer, because Mr. Jackson did the math (probably better than I did) and came to the same conclusion as me. Tatum is a threat to Mr. Jackson's cinematic superiority and therefore must be stopped at all costs! Oh sure, bumping GIJ:R back a few months didn't really help matters, just delayed things. And the film still counts no matter when it gets released, but that wasn't the point of the exercise. Using his badass motherfucking cinematic Jedi abilities to keep Tatum's movie from seeing a summer release was just Mr. Jackson's way of firing a warning shot. Letting Tatum know that he could be fucked with if he didn't slow down and stop messing around in the record books where he shouldn't be. Sure you're probably thinking, "But Ron, Tatum was in 21 Jump Street AND Magic Mike during the summer of 2012, so your theory is bunk." 

"They've got you there, Ron. Your theory sucks worse than my acting."

SHUT THE HELL UP, CHANNING TATUM! Except for that thing about your acting, that was pretty insightful. I said that Mr. Jackson got GIJ:R bumped to send a message. Anyway, it doesn't look as if that message was received so we can all expect Mr. Jackson to start using more extreme methods in the near future. 

I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Jackson wasn't even at this very moment developing a way to send his spirit through time and space to communicate with his younger self and warn himself about the threat to come. Such an event would allow Mr. Jackson to take advantage of the ironic twist of fate that in 2005 found a young Channing Tatum in his feature film debut, within arm's reach of Mr. Jackson on the set of the basketball bio-pic Coach Carter. 

There he is Mr. Jackson! Right there! See the arrow? Get him! Get him! 

Thus armed with knowledge of the future, the younger Mr. Jackson will undoubtedly see that Tatum meets with an unfortunate accident and thereby never lives to threaten his dominance or his place in history. Of course if/when that happens, the resulting cascade effect will most definitely alter the space/time continuum, changing events to such a degree that I would have already seen Magic Mike star Chris Hemsworth as Capt. Duke Hauser in GIJ:R this past summer and we wouldn't even be talking about… um… talking about… who the hell was I talking about again? I was gonna blog about something and then I just… can't recall. Something to do with Samuel Jackson and… someone. Knowing me it was probably something to do with boobs. But what would the star of Snakes on a Plane have to do with boobs? Unless it was something like Boobs on a Plane. 

Close enough.

Hey, ever notice that Chris Hemsworth's been in quite a few movies since he made his film debut in 2009?

Just sayin'.

RUSH JUDGMENT:

Big things happened this past Sunday. No not to me, don't be silly, nothing ever happens to me. Well there was that one thing that happened to me but I don't think anyone else would consider the return of the Shamrock Shake to be a big deal. I do of course because I'm as much a sucker to the allure of sweet libations as I am to shiny objects. It's the reason I wind up in the back of at least three strange vans a month. 

Oh sweet frosty green heroin.

But to the rest of the world the two biggest things happening this past Sunday were the Daytona 500 and the Oscars. Of course this being Tuesday means I'm a day late in proclaiming that Danica Patrick lost at Daytona and the Oscars sucked. 

Well, THAT part of the Oscars was pretty cool. Yeah, that's
right Adele… kiss him all the way down to the base. 

Now onto other shit that I think is more important. Seems that the 2013 inductees for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame were announced recently and I missed the news that prog rock gods, Rush were finally given the respect they deserved after years of being snubbed by the Academy… or whoever decides that sort of stuff. Now while this is no doubt great news for the boys in the band and they of course earned the honor, I can't help but feel somewhat responsible for it. 

The band is seen here in high spirits while waiting for
an orderly to help them to the stage in Orlando, FL. 

As some of you might recall (probably not though because nobody cares) back in September of last year I did a little bit of bitching about the exclusion of Rush from the list of 2012 inductees. Seeing as they'd gone for years without getting even so much as a second look from the Hall of Fame, one can only assume that the Canadian rockers were sorely in need of a champion. Now this time around, one year after I let my opinion on the matter be known and BOOM, they finally get their chance at enshrinement.

I also bitched about the absence of former rockers/current non-rockers Kiss from the Hall of Fame in the same post. Sadly, Kiss is still without any laurels anointing their heads despite any help I tried to give them. Although I hear that Gene Simmons is kind of a douche so really there's only so much good my words can do for those guys. 

Staring at me like that only proves my point Gene, so stop it.
Seriously, you're creeping me out. QUIT IT!

Like I said though, I'm not here to take all the credit for Rush's good fortune, I'm more than willing to admit it wasn't all because of me. I mean really, they're the one's who've been playing for over thirty years so that probably had a lot to do with it. I'd say roughly 45% of the HoF's decision was based on my words and even that's probably a slightly inflated number. Still, it's obvious that I helped so I guess I should expect a call any day now from one or even all the guys in Rush to let me know that I'm invited to the induction ceremony to be held on April 18th in Los Angeles.

Strange though, the inductees were announced months ago and you'd think I'd have heard from someone by now. I'll give 'em another couple weeks. Someone's sure to… was that my phone?

Nope, just the TV. Anyway I should figure out what I'm gonna wear to the… wait, was that…?

Nah, that wasn't the phone either, just my carbon monoxide detector. Been going off a lot lately, probably busted. Should really get that fixed sometime. Maybe later… getting kinda sleepy right now. Think I'll just take a little nap while I wait for someone from Rush to call.

Any time now and… man that detector thing won't shut up and getting' all… fuzzy like a… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz 

Behold the harbinger of my doom.

WHAT'S ON THE BOOB TUBE:

Just a little something naughty from the good old days. 
Back when 'Made in America' stood for something 
and 'outsourcing' meant making your wife get you a beer.

Yeah, went kinda literal with the title and header art this week since I finally carved out some time to sit down and watch a television show that I felt I should have been watching all along from the very beginning of the first episode. I say this as if I'm somehow super busy and have so little time to watch TV these days. Well… yeah, let's go with that version of events. Super busy… no time for TV… things to do, finding new ways to fail at life, got a few dreams left holding on that I still have to watch die. You know, not like I don't have shit happening.

The show in question is also one that those who know me best figured I'd been watching all along given my obsession with the wonders of all things boob related. Talking of course about Double Divas on the Lifetime Network. Basic premise, two chicks who own an undies shop outfit special needs clients with bras. Translation: chicks with big tits need big bras. Amazing how very un-sexy this show turned out to be with that much going for it. I sat down the other night and watched an episode, certain that true greatness was about to ooze out of my television… and subsequently, other places. But after only being able to make it as far as the first commercial break without seeing a single tickle-fight or nipple pinch I realized that neither of those things was gonna happen since this show fucking sucks and I've gotten heartier boners from mascara commercials. Eyelashes… who knew?

Such wasted potential… bought all those tissues for nothing. 

But since I'm here and got nothing better to do today — what with Dominos and their staunch refusal to deliver to my house anymore just because I tried to pay the driver with Confederate currency  — why not just drop a few paragraphs about all the other shit I've watched during the week.

So lets start with Monday night. Why? Because Monday's the first day of the week so obviously that's where God wants me to begin. Quit questioning His will, ya fucking heathens! I AM AN INSTRUMENT OF THE DIVINE!

The week doesn't start off well with The Following on FOX. Lot's of noise was made about this show as FOX began hyping it last summer. There was the usual hard sell about what advance audiences and critics were saying. Quotes like: "Scary" and "Thrilling" and "Shocking" were all over the ads. Funny how none of them mentioned "Stupid" or "Real Stupid" or even "Real Fucking Stupid". Here's the hook: a convicted serial killer is given Internet access and allowed visitations from a bunch of random mouth-breathers over the course of eight years and manages to set up a killing cult under everyone's noses. Said cult then thrives thanks to the ineptitude of everyone on the FBI payroll. I gave this one a fair shot but now I'm done with it due to the fear that it might be a very accurate portrayal of how the penal system and the government suck at protecting us. So I guess all those critics were right after all, that is some scary shit indeed.

Hey Kevin Bacon, the killer's right behind you and…
you're probably still not gonna be able to stop him. 

Also on Monday nights is ABC's Castle. This show used to be good until the producers gave into pressure from all those cat-wrangling, frosting chugging, romance novel junkies who just wanted to see the main characters hook-up. Now it's just crap. So much so that they're not even coming up with original shit anymore. Like this last Monday's ep (SPOILER ALERT!) where Castle's annoying daughter gets kidnapped. You ever see the movie Taken? Then you've seen this episode, seriously. Except that where Liam Neeson spent his time awesomely kicking the Belgian shit out of a bunch of Eurotrash slave traders, Nathan Fillion spent the hour getting all weepy-eyed and blubbery while he recounted stories about how precious his baby girl was on the day she was born. And then it had the audacity to be a two-parter. Yeah, I'm done with this one too. Shame on you Mr. Fillion, shame on you! You were on Firefly, man… FIREFLY! I expected better.

Check it out, they drew chalk right around the spot where my level of interest died.

So basically, Monday night is now book night.

Tuesday nights around the Savage household means Justified on FX. I've talked about this show before because it's awesome and Marshal Raylan Givens is the man! If you ain't watching Justified then you just ain't American. 'Nuff said. 

"Oh you wanna talk about gun control? That's easy.
I have the guns so that means I'm in control. Any questions?" 

Given that I just questioned your patriotism in my previous statement, it's ironic that on Wednesday it's right back to FX for The Americans. This brilliant new drama focuses on a pair of Soviet spies living as an American married couple in Washington D.C. during the early 80s. (Ah Reagan's America, how I miss it so.) Hate to admit it but I actually find myself wanting Boris and Natasha to succeed in all their espionage endeavors. Not out of any sort of anti-American sentiment or anything, (You hear that Homeland Security?) just that if they screw the pooch then they'll be caught and shot and then the show will be over because who the hell wants to watch The Dead Americans? Then what the hell would I do with my Wednesday nights?

Hey look, they've got guns too. I'm sensing a theme here and… 
Hey, is that Felicity? 

I'll tell you what I'm left with if The Americans get whacked; Nashville on ABC. My wife loves this nighttime soapy bullshit and since we only have the one TV then I kinda have to watch it too. But I don't gotta like it! Not even when aging country diva Rayna James learned that her husband Teddy wants a divorce after finally realizing that his feelings for former flame Peggy are just too strong to deny any longer. Rayna of course has no idea that Teddy had just banged Peggy to a mattress the night before. And she's not one to talk since she was almost giving the flying-V to her former guitarist Deacon and… You know what, let's just move on. I said I don't wanna talk about it anymore! 

Connie Britton, Hayden Panettiere, shitty Photoshop effects and 
the chair from Game of Thrones: The Musical… what's not to love? 

Thursday nights it's Elementary on CBS, a wonderful update or re-imagining or retelling — or whatever the hell they wanna call it — of the Sherlock Holmes mythos. Right now this is a great show but I'm just waiting for the producers to try reaching out to those same bored housewives and sexually frustrated old maids that wanted to see the hook-up over on Castle. Every time I read about this show somewhere there's some asshole wondering/hoping if there'll be any romance between Holmes and Watson now that the latter is played by the eternally hot Lucy Liu. Well not THIS time! Not THIS asshole! Wait a minute… oh whatever. I don't wonder about the possibility of romance, I fear it! Did we worry about such things when Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law were filling the roles in the movies? Nope. So why we gotta worry about it now? Of course there were a very vocal few who wanted to see Misters Downey Jr. and Law going at it. Not the housewives and old maids though… different bunch of people. Never mind where I know them from. I don't wanna talk about this anymore either! 

Like they say: Behind every successful man there's a good 
woman. And she needs to get back to work because those 
windows ain't gonna clean themselves.

After Holmes and Watson spend an hour foiling murder most foul in a completely professional and wholly platonic manner (And it better stay that way CBS! Remember what happened to Moonlighting?) then it's a hop on over to FX. Third night in a row with the good folks on that network as I tune in for the animated super-spy misadventures of Archer. Without a doubt one of the most politically incorrect shows of the last ten years and also one of the funniest. Nothing bad to say here. So Thursdays are good for me. (Danger zone!) See, if you were watching it you'd know what the hell I was just talking about there and you'd be laughing. Probably for the first time since you got here.

Hmmm… another FX show with guns. But that shadowy side-boob going 
on behind him is sexier than anything happening on Double Divas, so it's okay. 

Friday and Saturday there's really nothing of interest on so that means I got time on my hands to reflect on all my mistakes and regrets and sorrows. If I can manage to make it through to Sunday night without eating a bullet then I at least have The Walking Dead on AMC. This is another one I've mentioned here before, several times in fact. And I'll probably mention it seven or eight hundred more times before all is said and done. But there's really no need to go on anymore about it this time around. If you're already watching it then you know how awesome it is. And if you're not watching it then what the hell am I wasting my time talking to you for?

"And I'm all like… BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! FUCK YOU, ZOMBIES!
Yeah, we got guns on AMC too, bitches!"

Well, that's my week, sitting around watching television. Some days it's enjoyable, other days it reminds me that I'm a just wasting the life that my parents weren't legally allowed to terminate all those years ago. Does it make you as sad as it makes me? Sad enough to make a tax-free contribution to my fake charity? Just think, for only $24.99 per day — the price of a cup of coffee … at Starbucks — you can help save me from this.

Have you no shame, man? For God's sake, close the 
damn drapes! There's kids playing outside!

Look at him, pathetic wretch laying there on his sad fat ass, watching television all day with an empty chip bag teetering on what little he has left of an actual lap. Is that what you want me to become? Are you gonna just sit there and let that happen to Yours Truly in another couple months? (More like a couple days really.) Well with your help and generous donations I could afford to pay the Indian kid across the street to go to the store and buy me more snacks and not end up like that chipless bastard. Perhaps even a bigger end table so I got a place to put some dip and a 75 oz. Big Gulp.

What'd you think I needed the money for, a gym membership? Think I was gonna use it to get up, get out and get a life? The hell I wanna do that for as long as there's still Star Trek reruns to be watched over and over and over again on Netflix? Hell, I might just need a bigger couch. Who am I kidding? Definitely gonna need a bigger couch. So let's get busy sending in those dollars people, and quickly because I'm gonna have to do some dirty business soon and I'll need some cash to pay Sanjit to come over and bring me a bucket.

Don't look at me like that, Captian Sisko. We can't all live in the future where 
they can just beam the poop right out of your bowels. But perhaps someday… 

Before I go I just wanna take a moment and mention that this right here is my 100th post and to commemorate the occasion I talked about television shows and bodily functions. Same trivial shit as I've been spewing all along.

So… yeah, I really need to rethink my life.

THE SOUND OF ONE HAND TYPING:

"No No No… don't come in here Sweetie! Daddy's busy
watching the Super Bowl… with his pants down."

First off I wanna congratulate Tom Fucking Brady for masterfully leading the New England Patriots to an awesome victory over the hated New York Giants last night in Super Bowl 47. After scoring a record-setting 126 points in the first half of the game, TFB kindly took a moment to smile and wink into the camera, thereby impregnating every fertile female watching the broadcast. During the halftime show he jumped up on stage and taught the men of the world how to satisfy a woman by making Beyonce say his name in seven different languages that she hadn't previously known. Then he capped off the 238-0 victory by single-handedly ending terrorism with that same wink and smile.

Thanks TFB, I feel so much safer now… and a little bit pregnant.

Don't believe any of that really happened? Well don't tell it to my fragile mind because that's the way it went down in my head since I didn't give a chalky white shit about what was actually happening on the TV last night. Except for when the blackout happened at the New Orleans Superdome, that was pretty funny. Betcha everyone was having Katrina flashbacks for the first couple minutes. Okay, Katrina wasn't funny but panic always is… to me anyway. I'm just twisted in that way. So who won the game anyway? Never mind, nobody cares. Baltimore is a depressing place and San Francisco is America's stickiest city, so fuck them and their teams.

But even though I have no idea what really happened on the field last night, I did sit in front of the big screen with my dad and he seemed to enjoy it so I guess it must have been a good game. We had a nice time though, I made some killer chili, the wife made some guacamole and there were chips and things. Only thing missing… chicken wings. Oh sure we wanted some, would have loved to have had some, but we didn't even bother trying to get any since we heard the news of a big chicken wing shortage going on in the country. And by news of course I mean a bit that I saw on The Colbert Report.

Because the news just seems more real when delivered with jazz hands.

Well it turns out that Stephen Colbert pushed the panic button prematurely, there was no wing shortage, the crisis was averted, no one had to sell their dignity for a 20-piece pack of fried tangy goodness. But we didn't know that so Dad and I never ventured out to find any. A shame really because I do love a good batch of wings. And Dad would've loved to just go out for any reason at all, as long as I stayed well below the speed limit because he's old and yells at me when I drive too fast. But you know how the older folks can be, always ready to go for a ride. No wait… that's dogs, dogs are always ready to go for a ride. Which means my dad must be part canine… which means I must be part hound as well. Which explains why I sniff people's asses when I meet them for the first time. Yeah… that's why.

According to Ancestry.com this is a pic of
my great grandpa… and some jackass in a hat.

That's just the thing with the folks of the earlier generations, they spent their lives out and about, they did stuff, they went places, that's how they were used to living. That's why my dad jumps — well not really jumps, more like a barely perceptible skip — at every opportunity to get outside because to him, that's where life is. And in direct contrast there's today's generation, groomed by technology to stay the hell indoors and do everything via the Internet.

Meaning the future's looking bright for the elder-care professionals of tomorrow because we're currently training ourselves to be the most complacent residents any old-folks home has ever seen. Where my parents fear that one day I'll put them away in some home and never visit them, (WHAT? NO… NEVER… kinda.) I'm most likely not gonna give a damn when my son shoves my 75 year-old ass into some place called Shady Graves or Final Acres. Just so long as I got a place to charge my 22nd generation iPad and a decent data plan, I won't give a crap if the boy don't come around with his slut wife and his rotten kids. I'll be completely content as long as there's still porn to be downloaded. There will still be porn in the future, right? I swear to God, there'd better still be porn in the future!

"Relax Ron, we'll always be here for you."

Besides, who the hell's gonna want to even go outside in the future anyway? Look where we are today. All of China is currently obscured under a blanket of smog so thick they didn't even notice when a factory burst into flames a couple weeks ago. And speaking of bursting into flames, Australia's so close to doing that very thing that officials there had to come up with new color designations to describe the temperature. Seriously, how fucking hot does it need to get outside for the color red not to be enough of an indicator? Still, neither of these situations might even be true since — again — I heard it all on The Colbert Report. And after this chicken wing scam I'm gonna be a little more skeptical about what comes out of that guy's news-hole in the future. FOOL ME ONCE, COLBERT!

"I'm sorry Ron, did you say something? I was busy having a
conversation with your Uncle Buddy here."

For now though I think I'll take my dad out a little more often, let him enjoy some time in the sun while it's still safe to do so. Probably won't be so for my tired and wrinkled ass. And I'm not even talking about what my ass is gonna look like when I'm his age, it's tired and wrinkled right now. More than likely gonna look like beef jerky by the time I'm retired. Aw who am I kidding, in this economy I'm never gonna be able to retire. Be dragging my leathery beef rump through the smog and the burning ozone to spend my golden years as a cab driver, cruising around at 15 miles an hour with my left blinker on the whole time until one day I die at the wheel with passengers screaming in the backseat.

"Here we are young fella… that'll be $21.55…Uggggh."

Well this post has certainly turned into a Goddamned rambling mess of ideas and psychosis. Even the title makes zero sense. And as usual I'm gonna blame it all on those assholes at the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals with their holier-than-thou attitudes, thinking their shit don't stink because they don't eat meat and judging the rest of us because we enjoy a good wing every now and again. I'll bet those bastards were somehow behind the whole wing shortage story in the first place. They're probably the reason I had to sit through the Super Bowl without the pleasure of going all caveman on a platter of tiny poultry! Those  lousy sons of…!

But for some reason I can never stay mad at them.