As you may have read, I used to hate foreigners. As much as this pains me to admit, this was not my only act of youthful bigotry. In fact, I’ve come to realize that I was filled with hate years before. In order to cleanse myself of the racism that has coursed through my veins for so long, I must expose the evil within me. So I tell you this in hopes that someday you will be able to forgive me, my internet brethren and sistren: I used to be a white supremacist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It all started when I was 4, after my family moved out of Los Angeles to a suburb of Cleveland. Though I don’t remember anything from my days in the city of angels, my parents insist that I had a black best friend, so I can only assume that I wasn’t bigoted just yet. It seems that the transition came about in my new cornbread Ohio suburb.
Naturally, my sister and I were pretty damn whiny about the whole move thing, since we felt so at home in our city of crack and earthquakes, so we bitched and cried and cried and bitched to my parents. Eventually, the folks decided to make it up to us by getting us each a cat!
My sister, who was 5 or 6, got a brown calico female that she named Daisy. I got Daisy’s brother, a black cat with a really cool white belly that I named Mickey. Clearly, we were painfully unoriginal Disney-loving tykes when it came to naming our cats. Incidentally, Mickey and Daisy were quite the incestuous siblings, kittyhumping day and night, but I digress.
One day, my sister and I got pretty bored with the status quo, as young whippersnappers are want to do. Our status quo? A brown cat and a black cat. Since Mickey’s white belly looked so cool, we thought he would look even cooler if he were completely decked out in that white fur of his. While we were discussing the issue, we decided there was no reason for Daisy to be stuck with boring ol’ brown if Mickey was getting even whiter and more awesome. Our parents liked Mickey’s white spot too, so they would be thrilled if we surprised them with all-white Mickey and Daisy Redux!
Obviously, we thought about decking the cats out in white paint, but, as my astute big sister pointed out, paint comes off. We needed something that would last longer, something that would stick to them. We realized that the durable, permanent solution we were looking for was right in our trusty arts and crafts kits: Elmer's Glue.
We grabbed our glue and went to work, covering both our cats with as much Elmer’s as possible. I was sure that the cats would be ecstatic about the whole ordeal, since everybody knows how fun it is to get glue all over your hands and then peel it off, like a neat new layer of skin (I wasn’t a twisted little kid for enjoying that, right? Right??). After a good glue-bath for each, we couldn’t have been prouder of our new kitties. Now when Mickey and Daisy shack up, we’ll get a whole litter of Caucasian fur balls!
Naturally, this ended exactly as you can imagine: We showed our parents, and they were glowing. They adored the cats’ new looks so much that they decided to reward us with a trip to Bennigan’s for ice cream! At least I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can only hope that confronting this awful bigotry and sharing it with you can serve as a purging of my sins. I pray that these words I’ve written can be my waters of purity, slowly but surely washing away the thick, syrupy glue of white supremacy from my dark, matted fur. I may whine, scratch and bite at my tail all the while, but in the end, I will be cleansed anew.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Death of Scrambled Porn (And What You Can Do To Save It!)
Technology is certainly a-hustlin’ and a-bustlin’, providing us with all sorts of unprecedented access to media: broke college students can watch full movies for free at the click of a button; Wall Street execs can figure out the optimal time to jump just by looking at their Blackberry updates; both of the world’s Amazon Kindle owners can pay to read books they could have gotten at the library for free; and stoners can try to figure out their DVR so they can watch the Nannerpuss commercial over and over again.
That being said, technology giveth, and technology taketh away. Let’s not forget about all those media that are rapidly going the way of pogs and the dodo. I’ve seen minidiscs come and, thankfully, go. I’m a bit more concerned about the waning popularity of newspapers, since a good stack helps the diminutive Sax see over the steering wheel. Most importantly, though, it seems that with the advent of digital cable, scrambled porn has completely died off.
For my female, Mormon and six-year-old readers who may not be familiar, scrambled porn was what adolescent boys had to settle for back in my day, unless they were the son of the town’s token Cool Dad who actually had the Playboy channel. Y’see, back in the days of analog cable, if you didn’t get a porn channel, it would just appear as lots of blurry, scrambled static stuff. With some luck, tenacity, and tin foil, however, that blur would sometimes take the form of a boob! Rumor has it that a kid down Back Harlow Road once even spotted half a vagina, the lucky fuck.
Now I know what you’re thinking: But Sax, isn’t life better when we can get all sorts of crazy, kinky, non-scrambled porn at the click of a button? Don’t get me wrong, I love that I can think up something that would have been absolutely unheard of just a few years ago, and be able to find a video of it online within seconds, like say, three midgets, Orrin Hatch and a paraplegic sloth….
…okay, I’m back. Sorry for the delay, I got, um… distracted. Anyway, scrambled porn had so many great qualities that can’t possibly be replaced by all the girls and cups in the world. For one thing, it’s the only porn this side of Erotic Photo Hunt that is its own little game. Like the Blue’s Clues of sex, horny twelve-year-olds had to search around and try to piece everything together in their Spanking Chair until it all comes together in the form of a Goo Skidoo. It’s not just vigorous masturbation; it’s a learning experience!
Keeping on the subject of children’s shows, I think it’s also worth noting that Barney, Mister Rogers and (obviously) Pee Wee Herman would appreciate the value of scrambled porn. This is because it gives all viewers an opportunity to exercise their imaginations, as countless shows from our youth have encouraged us to do (Or maybe kids’ shows are just an elaborate ruse to get people to watch scrambled porn, which would be fine by me). If you take scrambled porn at face value, it’s really not that sexy. But if you let yourself try to read between the blurry lines, you can see yourself being slapped on the ass with a spatula by your elementary school lunch lady, right there on the TV, which kicks the crap out of anything I’ve found on RedTube (and believe me, I’ve seen it all… several times).
That’s not all that’s great about scrambled porn! Unlike other pornography (except for stumbling across the ol’ mid-orgasm Tranny Surprise) scrambled porn forced viewers to explore all ends of their sexuality, and not just because it usually took place in a room full of guys during sleepovers. They would squint just right and tell themselves that they were staring at a nice luscious pair of breasts, only to find out as the focus changed that they’ve been wanking it to the back of some dude’s scrotum. (As an aside, such is the Murphy’s Law of scrambled porn: If the image becomes clear, it’s balls). In our world of taboo and lacking sexual education, Kinsey would be damn proud that scrambled porn has filled some gaps.
So what do we do? Can we let scrambled pornography become a relic of the past, reserved in a museum alongside cuneiform tablets and Gutenberg’s printing press? Should we accept that pornography will never again be able to stir our imaginations along with our loins? To this I shout a hearty, resounding “NO”, hoping that my cries will serve as a beacon to my scrambled porn-loving brethren across the far reaches the Internet!
But how can we save this medium from extinction? I propose the creation of a charitable organization that aims to focus all of its resources on the preservation of scrambled pornography: a blurry, shaky, negatively-colored Sierra Club of ephemeral, inaudible sex, if I may. I’ve even gone through the trouble of thinking up a name for such an organization: the Scrambled Pornography Continuation Association, or SPCA for short.
So how can you do your part? Start your own local SPCA chapter! Local chapters may try to raise money through old-fashioned scrambled porn bake sales, or they could get a bit more inventive, such as by playing Scrambled Porn I-Spy:
1) Have community members each pay a $20 entry fee
2) Set up a projector in a large public space (or in your parents’ basement, if you’d like to simulate most real scrambled porn experiences)
3) Play a clip of scrambled pornography
4) Award prizes to the first people to correctly identify a nipple, a dildo, a feather duster, a Rubik’s Cube, and so forth.
All proceeds will be pooled together until there is enough money to purchase a cable television channel. Just like how some rich guy bought a video of Marilyn Monroe fellating a man just so it would go unviewed, keeping her legacy untainted, the SPCA will buy space its own channel in order to protect it from the clutches of unscrambled pornography. In fact, it will be an improvement on scrambled porn, since it will feature 24 hours of constant blurry-blurry; no more boring-ass horseracing before dark!
The SPCA will even try to use new media to benefit scrambled porn: Watch it on the go with your iPod Touch; get automatic vibrating alerts on your cell phone every time the Scrambled Porn Channel shows what may or may not be insertion; or use DVR to watch your favorite scenes over and over again, allowing you to impress your friends with lines like, “See? I told you they were balls!" With such advances in scrambled porn at our fingertips, we can be sure to keep it thriving for millennia to come.
Oh, and all surplus SPCA money will go toward trying to purchase the aforementioned Marilyn Monroe video, of course.
That being said, technology giveth, and technology taketh away. Let’s not forget about all those media that are rapidly going the way of pogs and the dodo. I’ve seen minidiscs come and, thankfully, go. I’m a bit more concerned about the waning popularity of newspapers, since a good stack helps the diminutive Sax see over the steering wheel. Most importantly, though, it seems that with the advent of digital cable, scrambled porn has completely died off.
For my female, Mormon and six-year-old readers who may not be familiar, scrambled porn was what adolescent boys had to settle for back in my day, unless they were the son of the town’s token Cool Dad who actually had the Playboy channel. Y’see, back in the days of analog cable, if you didn’t get a porn channel, it would just appear as lots of blurry, scrambled static stuff. With some luck, tenacity, and tin foil, however, that blur would sometimes take the form of a boob! Rumor has it that a kid down Back Harlow Road once even spotted half a vagina, the lucky fuck.
Now I know what you’re thinking: But Sax, isn’t life better when we can get all sorts of crazy, kinky, non-scrambled porn at the click of a button? Don’t get me wrong, I love that I can think up something that would have been absolutely unheard of just a few years ago, and be able to find a video of it online within seconds, like say, three midgets, Orrin Hatch and a paraplegic sloth….
…okay, I’m back. Sorry for the delay, I got, um… distracted. Anyway, scrambled porn had so many great qualities that can’t possibly be replaced by all the girls and cups in the world. For one thing, it’s the only porn this side of Erotic Photo Hunt that is its own little game. Like the Blue’s Clues of sex, horny twelve-year-olds had to search around and try to piece everything together in their Spanking Chair until it all comes together in the form of a Goo Skidoo. It’s not just vigorous masturbation; it’s a learning experience!
Keeping on the subject of children’s shows, I think it’s also worth noting that Barney, Mister Rogers and (obviously) Pee Wee Herman would appreciate the value of scrambled porn. This is because it gives all viewers an opportunity to exercise their imaginations, as countless shows from our youth have encouraged us to do (Or maybe kids’ shows are just an elaborate ruse to get people to watch scrambled porn, which would be fine by me). If you take scrambled porn at face value, it’s really not that sexy. But if you let yourself try to read between the blurry lines, you can see yourself being slapped on the ass with a spatula by your elementary school lunch lady, right there on the TV, which kicks the crap out of anything I’ve found on RedTube (and believe me, I’ve seen it all… several times).
That’s not all that’s great about scrambled porn! Unlike other pornography (except for stumbling across the ol’ mid-orgasm Tranny Surprise) scrambled porn forced viewers to explore all ends of their sexuality, and not just because it usually took place in a room full of guys during sleepovers. They would squint just right and tell themselves that they were staring at a nice luscious pair of breasts, only to find out as the focus changed that they’ve been wanking it to the back of some dude’s scrotum. (As an aside, such is the Murphy’s Law of scrambled porn: If the image becomes clear, it’s balls). In our world of taboo and lacking sexual education, Kinsey would be damn proud that scrambled porn has filled some gaps.
So what do we do? Can we let scrambled pornography become a relic of the past, reserved in a museum alongside cuneiform tablets and Gutenberg’s printing press? Should we accept that pornography will never again be able to stir our imaginations along with our loins? To this I shout a hearty, resounding “NO”, hoping that my cries will serve as a beacon to my scrambled porn-loving brethren across the far reaches the Internet!
But how can we save this medium from extinction? I propose the creation of a charitable organization that aims to focus all of its resources on the preservation of scrambled pornography: a blurry, shaky, negatively-colored Sierra Club of ephemeral, inaudible sex, if I may. I’ve even gone through the trouble of thinking up a name for such an organization: the Scrambled Pornography Continuation Association, or SPCA for short.
So how can you do your part? Start your own local SPCA chapter! Local chapters may try to raise money through old-fashioned scrambled porn bake sales, or they could get a bit more inventive, such as by playing Scrambled Porn I-Spy:
1) Have community members each pay a $20 entry fee
2) Set up a projector in a large public space (or in your parents’ basement, if you’d like to simulate most real scrambled porn experiences)
3) Play a clip of scrambled pornography
4) Award prizes to the first people to correctly identify a nipple, a dildo, a feather duster, a Rubik’s Cube, and so forth.
All proceeds will be pooled together until there is enough money to purchase a cable television channel. Just like how some rich guy bought a video of Marilyn Monroe fellating a man just so it would go unviewed, keeping her legacy untainted, the SPCA will buy space its own channel in order to protect it from the clutches of unscrambled pornography. In fact, it will be an improvement on scrambled porn, since it will feature 24 hours of constant blurry-blurry; no more boring-ass horseracing before dark!
The SPCA will even try to use new media to benefit scrambled porn: Watch it on the go with your iPod Touch; get automatic vibrating alerts on your cell phone every time the Scrambled Porn Channel shows what may or may not be insertion; or use DVR to watch your favorite scenes over and over again, allowing you to impress your friends with lines like, “See? I told you they were balls!" With such advances in scrambled porn at our fingertips, we can be sure to keep it thriving for millennia to come.
Oh, and all surplus SPCA money will go toward trying to purchase the aforementioned Marilyn Monroe video, of course.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Hippies: An Ethnography
In the spring of 2009, anthropologist Marshall Friedman journeyed to the remote mountain city of Asheville, North Carolina to study the unique, mysterious peoples known to civilized man solely as “hippies”, living as one of them for several months. The following are excerpts from his field notes.
May 22, 4:00 PM
It is apparent that no regulated economy exists among the hippie people. Rather, hippies generally deal in an informal barter system, as shown through an anecdote I witnessed recently. A young hippie named Darius proposed a trade to another, a dreadlocked female named Clover: “Hey man [this greeting seems to have little regard for gender within the hippie lexicon], you still got that roach clip left? My parents are taking me out to Macaroni Grill in a few hours and I could like bring you back some leftovers or something if you let me hit that.” Both parties agreed to the terms set forth. When I encountered Clover the following day, I asked her if Darius had made good on his promise of leftovers. She could not recall.
May 24, 9:00 AM
Though hygiene is wholly lacking by civilized standards, one hippie named Barry stands out as being particularly malodorous. Perhaps this is a sign of leadership within the community? More research necessary.
May 28, 7:00 PM
Hippie residency is entirely unlike that of normal people. While a large number of hippies live in regular houses, such houses are generally occupied by up to a dozen hippies. Though some have standard beds, it seems that most sleeping places are created much like birds’ nests: Small items such as socks, empty cigarette wrappers and beer bottles accumulate en masse in living spaces (hippies do not seem to mind the proliferation of garbage within their homes), creating a “trash bed” of sorts for the hippies to rest on.
Other hippies are more nomadic, traveling from trash bed to trash bed within the city. In line with the aforementioned barter system, nomadic hippies generally offer goods and services in exchange for a place to sleep, such as a 40-ounce malt liquor beverage or a slightly out-of-tune guitar performance. In order to better know the hippie people, I allowed one such nomad to rest in my home. He opted to sleep under my dining room table, despite the availability of a futon. Whether this was out of humility or drug-addled confusion, I cannot say.
May 30, 12:00 PM
It is clear that the hippie people are quite spiritual, despite the lack of traditional religious beliefs among them. Most hippies practice animism, believing that all things contain a spirit of their own. This was made clear when I accidentally kicked a small rock as I walked down the street, causing one hippie to exclaim, “Watch it man! Rocks are people too!” Afterwards, she picked up the rock, caressed it gently against her bosom, and whispered some words of compassion before carefully placing it back down. A wistful gaze overtook her, and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek.
This is not to say that there are no deities within the hippie belief system. In fact, I have observed a couple of parallels to Western religion. Comparable to Allah or Yahweh, hippies worship the late musician Jerry Garcia as the one true god, the holiest of holies. Though there are no churches or temples, hippies are quite fervent in their worship of Jerry Garcia, proclaiming him as 'So Sweet' or
describing his music as 'A Flaxseed Boner Penetrating My Ears And Ejaculating Easygoingness Straight Into My Brain" several times a day, often in a meditative state." Much like the seraphim found in Christianity, the hippie people worship Jerry Garcia’s most faithful followers: a legion of brightly colored, illustrated bears.
June 2, 1:00 PM
Just as the Anasazi clans of antiquity would unite for a festival of the fall harvest, so too do the hippie people band together for several days, as we have traversed to Rothbury, Michigan for a festival of music. We are joined by thousands of members of the hippie tribe. And just as the Anasazi would ingest peyote as a spiritual rite, the hippies at Rothbury experiment with a motley assortment of hallucinogens. Naturally, it is proper ethnographic technique to completely immerse myself within the culture of those I am studying in order to understand them fully. As such, I have just taken several “hits” of “acid”, along with a large handful of fungi that had been procured from bovine feces. A jovial, elderly man named Corn Blossom then offered me a small pill called GX-83. Though my dear Martha would surely frown upon my taking an unknown pill, Corn Blossom assured me that a couple in Sacramento creates them within their home. As a supporter of small business, I decided to take six of them.
June 2, 1:15 PM
It’s like, how can they keep spinning and just float up there? That’s God, you know? That’s like his word, holding the frisbee up there. It’s like, instead of the Bible, it’s the Frisbee. Instead of guns, I think we should give soldiers frisbees. Frisbees are like love guns. Love bible guns. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiime. Tiiiimeeeeeeeeeee.
People think Corn Blossom is crazy, but he’s a really smart guy. He’s working on a way to make computers out of hemp. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime. He said they’ll run like eighty times faster than regular computers or something. The government knows all about it, but it will put all the greedy execs out of business and they’re the ones with the oil. Who do they think they are? Who do they think I am? Like, who am I to study these people like they’re mice in a cage? We’re all people, you know? Or maybe we’re all rocks?
Marshall Freidman’s last contact with his publisher was the day before attending Rothbury. These excerpts, found in a port-o-potty at the festival, are all that is known of his whereabouts. If you have any information regarding Marshall Freidman’s location, please contact the American Anthropological Society.
May 22, 4:00 PM
It is apparent that no regulated economy exists among the hippie people. Rather, hippies generally deal in an informal barter system, as shown through an anecdote I witnessed recently. A young hippie named Darius proposed a trade to another, a dreadlocked female named Clover: “Hey man [this greeting seems to have little regard for gender within the hippie lexicon], you still got that roach clip left? My parents are taking me out to Macaroni Grill in a few hours and I could like bring you back some leftovers or something if you let me hit that.” Both parties agreed to the terms set forth. When I encountered Clover the following day, I asked her if Darius had made good on his promise of leftovers. She could not recall.
May 24, 9:00 AM
Though hygiene is wholly lacking by civilized standards, one hippie named Barry stands out as being particularly malodorous. Perhaps this is a sign of leadership within the community? More research necessary.
May 28, 7:00 PM
Hippie residency is entirely unlike that of normal people. While a large number of hippies live in regular houses, such houses are generally occupied by up to a dozen hippies. Though some have standard beds, it seems that most sleeping places are created much like birds’ nests: Small items such as socks, empty cigarette wrappers and beer bottles accumulate en masse in living spaces (hippies do not seem to mind the proliferation of garbage within their homes), creating a “trash bed” of sorts for the hippies to rest on.
Other hippies are more nomadic, traveling from trash bed to trash bed within the city. In line with the aforementioned barter system, nomadic hippies generally offer goods and services in exchange for a place to sleep, such as a 40-ounce malt liquor beverage or a slightly out-of-tune guitar performance. In order to better know the hippie people, I allowed one such nomad to rest in my home. He opted to sleep under my dining room table, despite the availability of a futon. Whether this was out of humility or drug-addled confusion, I cannot say.
May 30, 12:00 PM
It is clear that the hippie people are quite spiritual, despite the lack of traditional religious beliefs among them. Most hippies practice animism, believing that all things contain a spirit of their own. This was made clear when I accidentally kicked a small rock as I walked down the street, causing one hippie to exclaim, “Watch it man! Rocks are people too!” Afterwards, she picked up the rock, caressed it gently against her bosom, and whispered some words of compassion before carefully placing it back down. A wistful gaze overtook her, and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek.
This is not to say that there are no deities within the hippie belief system. In fact, I have observed a couple of parallels to Western religion. Comparable to Allah or Yahweh, hippies worship the late musician Jerry Garcia as the one true god, the holiest of holies. Though there are no churches or temples, hippies are quite fervent in their worship of Jerry Garcia, proclaiming him as 'So Sweet' or
describing his music as 'A Flaxseed Boner Penetrating My Ears And Ejaculating Easygoingness Straight Into My Brain" several times a day, often in a meditative state." Much like the seraphim found in Christianity, the hippie people worship Jerry Garcia’s most faithful followers: a legion of brightly colored, illustrated bears.
June 2, 1:00 PM
Just as the Anasazi clans of antiquity would unite for a festival of the fall harvest, so too do the hippie people band together for several days, as we have traversed to Rothbury, Michigan for a festival of music. We are joined by thousands of members of the hippie tribe. And just as the Anasazi would ingest peyote as a spiritual rite, the hippies at Rothbury experiment with a motley assortment of hallucinogens. Naturally, it is proper ethnographic technique to completely immerse myself within the culture of those I am studying in order to understand them fully. As such, I have just taken several “hits” of “acid”, along with a large handful of fungi that had been procured from bovine feces. A jovial, elderly man named Corn Blossom then offered me a small pill called GX-83. Though my dear Martha would surely frown upon my taking an unknown pill, Corn Blossom assured me that a couple in Sacramento creates them within their home. As a supporter of small business, I decided to take six of them.
June 2, 1:15 PM
It’s like, how can they keep spinning and just float up there? That’s God, you know? That’s like his word, holding the frisbee up there. It’s like, instead of the Bible, it’s the Frisbee. Instead of guns, I think we should give soldiers frisbees. Frisbees are like love guns. Love bible guns. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiime. Tiiiimeeeeeeeeeee.
People think Corn Blossom is crazy, but he’s a really smart guy. He’s working on a way to make computers out of hemp. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime. He said they’ll run like eighty times faster than regular computers or something. The government knows all about it, but it will put all the greedy execs out of business and they’re the ones with the oil. Who do they think they are? Who do they think I am? Like, who am I to study these people like they’re mice in a cage? We’re all people, you know? Or maybe we’re all rocks?
Marshall Freidman’s last contact with his publisher was the day before attending Rothbury. These excerpts, found in a port-o-potty at the festival, are all that is known of his whereabouts. If you have any information regarding Marshall Freidman’s location, please contact the American Anthropological Society.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Joke Retirement Center: The Ol' Win-Win
I’m a big fan of jokes. Take, for instance, this little gem (answer at the end of the article):
How many ants live in an apartment?
But, just like everything besides socks and juice boxes, there can be too much of a good thing when it comes to jokes. Sadly, some jokes have overstayed their welcome and need to be shipped off to a home, which is why I have created the Joke Retirement Center.
The Joke Retirement Center is a place where old, stale, overused jokes can be taken care of far, far away from our vernacular. In order to get the ball rolling, our very first joke has been committed to the Joke Retirement Center:
The Ol’ Win-Win
The scenario is a lovely Saturday afternoon in early autumn, with family and friends enjoying a nice barbecue. The men, being men and all, make their way into the den to watch some college football. Who’s playing, you ask? Why, none other than the Clemson Tigers and the Memphis Tigers! Seeing as there are over 300 schools in NCAA’s Division I, and that wild, ferocious animals are a common team moniker, it’s no surprise that both teams are called the Tigers. Nevertheless, this doesn’t stop Larry from making that classic comment, “I bet the Tigers win!” Everybody gives a hearty laugh while Larry smiles and scoops up some salsa.
You know what I hope Larry does? I hope he puts his money where his mouth is. Go on, Larry. March on down to your bookie and tell him you want to put two large on the Tigers. What Larry doesn’t know is that his bookie, though formerly a fan of such a stupid little joke, has become a hardened, frank man after years in such a cutthroat industry. He also has a mean temper and a tire iron. Now I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you, but let’s just say the bookie gets a bit bludgeony. And when that happens, I’ll be next in line asking the bookie for the over-under on Larry’s blood loss.
You may be thinking, “Why don’t the college teams just change their names so that they’re all unique?” I agree wholeheartedly, especially since it’s high time teams got a bit more inventive with team names, straying beyond big cats and predatory birds. Perhaps Larry would still be able to wipe himself had the Clemson Spoons squared off against the Memphis Sega Dreamcast Controllers that day. But that wouldn’t end all facets of the Ol’ Win-Win. Here’s another scenario:
My roommate challenges me to some Mortal Kombat Trilogy. He picks Sub-Zero for the ice projectiles. I pick Sub-Zero for the nasty combo and the polar bear animality (back, back, forward, down, high punch!). Then roommate number three comes and sits down to watch, since there’s nothing else to do (This is how we live). After eyeing the screen, he’s quick to point out, “My money’s on Sub-Zero!” We all LOL for a while, and then I punch him in the face.
Perhaps you’re upset at the prospect of losing these jokes to retirement. If that’s the case, just think of it as a joke Hall of Fame of sorts! The Joke Retirement Center is a magical place where legendary jokes like the Ol’ Win-Win are honored and fattened up. Then they’re turned into a nice, syrupy joke-glue.
Ten.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
A Story From My Youth
For whatever reason, I remembered a fun little story from my youth the other day. When I was in third grade, a couple years before I realized how easy it was to bullshit my way through school, I put a whole lot of effort in my work. On one assignment in particular, I was stuck with a very daunting task.
Remember those stupid things where you would spell out your name going down the left side of the page, and then you’d list a bunch of horribly trite adjectives to describe yourself, with each one starting with a letter from your name? They usually went something like this:
Special
Terrific
Extra Special
Very cool
Extraodinary!
First off, fuck Steve, that little paste-eating shit. There’s nothing “Extraodinary” about having to use two words because you can’t think of an adjective that starts with V. You’re probably right about being special though.
This was my attitude back in third grade, though I was admittedly less vitriolic (how do you like dem apples, Steve); I wasn’t gonna half-ass such an assignment, because I’m fucking better than Steve. I’m terrific, motherfucker.
So I set to work. I’ve only got three letters in my name, so this should be a cakewalk.
M. Well that’s an easy one. I’m marvelous. I’m also the manliest eight-year-old there is. I’m macho. I’m mighty putty, baby. I got this shit.
A. I’m athletic! I’m an eight-year-old in a fucking BOWLING LEAGUE. You know what else I am? Amazing. I’m also adorable in my lil’ denim jacket (but still manly!). I’m awesome as hell. Holy shit I’m good at this! It took like two minutes and I’m almost done. Cartoons are just ‘round the corner!
X. WHAT. THE. FUCK. Nothing starts with X! Mommy, is xylophone an adjective? Shit. How about x-ray? I can be x-ray, right Mom? Are you sure?
I checked the dictionary just to make sure. Nope, couldn’t be x-ray. You know what kind of bullshit Steve would pull if he had an X in his name, right? eXcellent. What a fucking cop out, Steve. You might as well drop out of school now and get a heard start on your Taco Bell application, because that shit ain’t excellent at all. It's eFcellent, and the F stands for failure, bitch.
So no taking the easy way out, no matter how long it takes. There’s GOTTA be an adjective that starts with X! I decided to read the entire X section of the dictionary until I found one. I even read secondary and tertiary definitions.
After what seemed like hours, I finally stumbled across an adjective that started with X. The primary definition didn’t fit all that great, but one of the secondary definitions said something along the lines of, “One who interacts with people of the same appearance, such as those having blond hair and blue eyes.” Seeing as I was blond-haired and blue-eyed, this was clearly the perfect fit! Finally!
Jokes on you, Steve, ‘cause I fucking NAILED it! I got the X! The final product:
Marvelous
Athletic
Xenophobic
Seriously. I guess my teacher was either uneducated or racist, because it hung in the classroom for a few weeks.
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