Just in time for the Apocalypse...

 

Cheers, friends! Happy 2012! 

So, all details and relevant information about my noticeable absence you may learn from and/or appreciate aside, I thought now was as good a time as ever to update this digital dirt hole with a few monkey plants before the all-powerful electric Octopus that oversees the Internet via black magic and ancient off-world overlord techno-sorcery becomes properly angered, and, in a hasty move brought on by said anger, suddenly  flings a continent-sized tentacle of digital oblivion in this direction and sweeps us under the rug of electronic existence for good. You know, that old chestnut.

But for serious, this past year my presence on the Monkey Mothership was very much like Patrick Swayze's character in the Hollywood film 'Not Alive Person': people knew I was around, but they just couldn't see me. So, unless you were a sexy lady into foreplay pottery or the sassy Afro-American icon and comedienne who got her break serving Romulan Ales at the Star Trek's space bar who now hosts a popular morning show in North America in which a multicultural quartet of quasi-famous shrieking ladies of various ages and sizes collectively dish out sass-enhanced "advice" to millions of women across the world, you didn't have a chance of spotting me on the line. (Facebook and/or paranormal conspiracy website forum boards excluded.) Here is a scientific diagram for further clarification:

Speaking of "The View," here's an interesting fact: market research shows that this show is also enjoyed by several other growing audiences, including but not limited to: young felons on house arrest, pre-nap cats, peripherally-amused vacuuming housekeepers, home bound truant children ages 12 to 18*,  and, last but definitely not least, the demographic most highly sought after by advertisers of 2011 and speculated to grow explosively in Q1 of 2012: the 28-34 bored/unemployed/marginally depressive male sector that tend to watch the program ironically while text-scoffing friends about American greed and the piggish capitalist avarice of the upper class barbarian blood drinkers of Corporate elite, all the while while using marijuana both before and after their daily MW3 prestiges, boredom masterbations, and disco naps, who also enjoy cyber-stalking the various women they've friended on Facebook whom they are too afraid to/too bored to/too stoned to ask out on an actual date. (TV execs call this group "Recons." See picture below.)

Example of a "Recon." Pictured serving mark ass busters for spawn camping.

*Amongst market researchers, this specific group is known as the "young adult Asshole demo," or "YAT's" as the ad wizards call them. It's longer official title, the "12-18 year olds that stay home from school and are highly-depressed young adults that frequently miss school and have no will and/or motivation to do anything at all, with the exceptions of eating cereal slowly at 2:30 pm while staring at the black and smooth handle of a sharp kitchen knife on the counter which just ends up depressing them even more, at which point they sigh heavily, slump out of the room in their pajamas while scrolling their tumblr dashboard for something suitably ironic to express their anguish at the universe and their (ugh) dumb Mom, who is being a total effing C-word lately for no reason at ALL, which sucks (natch) wicked bad. And, it makes them totally not feel bad at all for stealing her Xanax or telling her she's waaaay too much of a fatty and too effing old to be on Facebook liking MY friends posts all the damn time. Right? Bible, I totes need to get emancipated from my dick asshat parents ASAP. Apparently you can do that. Fuck yeah, America! For serious, guys, I borrowed Adam's new Droid during math yesterday and wiki'd it, and apparently this actor named Gary Coleman did it (no idea who that is) and Drew Barrymore, too. And she turned out fine, so...yeah" demographic is, in short, far too long and unnecessary for the purposes of this discussion. 

Where was I? Hmm. Oh. Yeah. Me being an asshole and never writing. Sucks, I know. I wish I had a story about being attacked by finger eating bears deep in the hinter forests of some remote state park I had absolutely no business being in after dark. But it wasn't at all like that. It's simply because I just couldn't write. I could have blamed it on the rain, but seeing how Vanilli put a boom stick in his lip-syncing mouth and pulled the trigger, starting the last one hit wonder he'd ever have to live through again, painting the sad, barren wall that his crying chair leaned against in a light coat of strawberry, I decided not to chance it.

Superstitious, I guess.

But on the off-chance I may accidentally summon an angered God from above that controls the sky waters and hates the mockery of foolish mortals I want to go on record for not blaming it on the rain in any way, shape, or form. And, if that God still decides he or she (or it) will go continue to go ahead and smite me for my e-blasphemous words, I will tell them that Milli put me up to it, and hopefully reunite them so they can do the running man together again, in Heaven.

 

Heaven 5 day forecast: 

Sunny, Sunny, Sunny, Sunny, Sunny.

It's funny, if you don't "blog" enough, every post becomes an apology. So I’m sorry for that. I can only offer my apologies for the ongoing apologies, and a pre-apology for my constant apologizing I plan on doing after this apology. Sorry for that. And the first thing I said. But, this place isn’t going anywhere. Fast. With a vengeance (not really). 

But, through my absence I heard from many of you encouraging me to re-light the monkey fires. Which brings me here, to you. So if you're reading this, you are fucking terrific. I want to gift wrap a high-five with a laser beam bow and mail it to you on the back of an awesome fire breathing death dragon that you can keep as a pet for fun, friendship, or use to terrorize your local village with.


I love you. (Yes, in that way.) I said it. Can you take the emo uppercut? I know you can. I don’t love losers who can’t handle the truth. So you must be winners that can. 


Congratulations on being my new anony-friend crushes. And I'd stand outside your window with a boom box like John Cusack if it meant you'd keep loving me back. I love you more than Dick Cheney loves shooting lawyers in the face. I love you more than mustaches love newly gentrified sections of Brooklyn. I love you more than robot alcoholics love drinking oil. I love you more than…well, you get the idea. 
Sooooo...what have you been doing? Wait. Don't answer. Let's not ruin this chemistry we got percolating with boring “conversation” about stuff that matters to you that I likely won’t care about. It’s not personal, it’s just, last time I checked, (I've never checked) this is my blog. Technically it's Google's blog, but they own more things than the Oprah or the Rothschilds combined, and it’s forbidden to toss stones at the laser Gods. So, if you don't mind, I'll now continue talking about myself and anything else I see fit to discuss without any more back sassing. Coolio? Great. Speaking of Coolio, that word is tangible proof that it takes exactly two letters added to the word “Cool” in order to completely and totally eliminate 100% of the actual coolness from it.

cool+(i)+(o)= - cool. 

Authenticity...but at what cost? 

So where was I? Ah, yes. I spent the better part of last year, sighing, crying, smoking, betting, regretting, Boba-Fetting, Facebooking, Google-tumbling, relationship stumbling, napping, clapping (sarcastically), rapping (bombastically), carb attacking (diabetically) (see fig. a) and I-app-ing myself into the state of digital numbness post-modern Internet 2.1+ blasé boredom we all wade in from the moment our devices wake us up in the morning until our vices tranquilize us into the hibernation period in between day cycles and market closings.

 Fig. a: "Diabetes"

I have to admit, to you, oh wonderful, loyal electo-ninjas who have laughed with me over the years as my cheerful faceless friends that I hope to one day have proper awkward conversations with face to face, and to the real life people I know who think I'm amusing who drop in to the Simian beta stream, that with all these tween-opiating technologies suddenly at my nerd fingers it seems that M4H posts have become less frequent than I would have liked. 

So, seeing as the Internet has become a giant, overwhelming share-orgy gang-banging the link world with cross-sharing net 2.0 widgets and "like" and "share" buttons on every website with a decent Alexa rating, I've decided to only post original content here from now on. 

I can't keep up with the linky-links. There's just too many of them. I simply can't process them all. Think of me as that guy no-one remembers in Star Wars somewhere towards the end of Star Wars IV right between Porkins getting killed and the awesome part where Luke blows up his Dad's office, except hyperlinks and retweets and memes, gifs, and cats in hats are the swarming mob of tie-fighters blasting me in my brain's face for daring to rebel against the Empire. The onslaught of stimulation and sensory bombardment overwhelmed my early internet nerd brain, a thing I was convinced was ready for anything after years of Jedi training shooting links off the net faster than Endor Forrest troops going on Ewok joykilling runs when on Moon leave. (fyi: nothing brings out the kill lust in the emotionless clone hearts of Empire troops like space cocaine. Combine that with the visceral anger and depression commonly found in troops on remote outposts in unjust wars with some kick ass speeder bikes, and presto! A giant pile of dead Ewoks.) 

While on the subject of Ewok killing, I must note that although I usually don't agree with the Empire politically speaking, on a practical level, I tend to side with the Palpatine camp on this issue. Anyone who has ever had a holiday on Endor ruined by their noisy drum parties or had a dangerous run in with one while hiking can attest to their repulsive nature. Those filthy little monsters have abducted groups of people (and robots) simply for the purposes of eating them at their paganistic rituals. And that's not Imperial propaganda, that's just truth. The more dead Ewoks the better. Plus less Ewoks would be a huge shot in the arm for the Endor tourism industry, in turn creating literally hundreds of jobs for both local Endorians seeking vermin-free hiking experiences and off-world hospitality job seekers alike. Who can find the harm in that? I sure can't. 

Doing the Internet (see fig.b) these days is like doing the futuristic drug "Nuke" from Robocop2. It feels good, but it hurts the brain area of my brain. Especially in my head, which is where my brain is, so that can really hurt my brain when that happens.

 fig. b: "The Internet"

Hence, the far less frequent posts. But I'm happy to report that my writer's blockade seems at least to finally be over. I’m just glad to be here again. Trying to adapt to Web 2.0 as an old dusty blogger from the days of yore is tiring. 

Remember before? Things are crazy and kind of awesome now, like Syd Barrett or Gary Busey. But the Internet where I used to blog by making a funny and/or discussing odd random links has become a super intense steroid-enhanced version of itself. The Blogosphere I knew seems to have only recently had its digital door kicked in by the laser tsunami cloud that is the new and shockingly overloaded internet 2.0; a place where information is streamed with the force of 10,000 nerds multiplied by a thousand hipsters then divided by the square of awesome. Which is greater than, or equal to, whatever. (Whatever.)

Seeing what has become of that wonderful web makes my eyes want to give my face a sadness shower. Where did it go? Does anyone know? Hold on, there's an app for that.

So from here on, in between gaps of original posts, I'm going to be attempting to be integrating my constant onslaught of pics I post on the M4H Tumblr into a new template I'm working on. Let us keep the precious Monkey blood of joyful laughter funshine flowing at ALL costs. Protect the priceless spice of stupidity at all costs. I'm going to mine the net like Baron Harkonen on Arrakkis if I have to. So that if it all ends tomorrow, I’m going out like Paul Attreides on Arrakis; riding the data-stream like Sand Worms till my motherfucking nerd eyes turn blue.

If you have any web design geek tips to keep the site going, let me know. I can harvest the apropos app from the iCloud that syncs my laserpad to my to do list. This way my robot butler doesn't get confused when he reads me my daily bucket list which I listen to while eating the poorly made eggs he cooked for me earlier with his awkward iron hands.

I've also been updating the M4H Facebook page, filling it with the 1000+ pics I've put up on the Tumblr, for those of you who do that computering. 

Oh and in closing, I'd like to say, all joking aside..thanks for reading.

In these pre-Asteroid of doom days where down is up and right is wrong, I know you have many options in the digital realm to amuse and entertain you. So it makes my chimp heart go ape shit bananas with dork love when I get your emails and hear you tell me outside bars why I should write again. (It's OK to get emotional, I'm crying inside like my Mom did on the outside when I showed her Christian the Lion on youtube.)

Here's to you. The only people I like besides myself (sometimes). But unlike me, I don't hate you ever. Never ever. For ever. (For everever?) Yes, rap fan. For ever ever. I promise I won't ever shake your faith in me like a Polaroid picture ever again. 

So take that little cursor inside your wondeful soul and go ahead and click "like" on your heart button, because... iLove you. All, of you. If I could "poke" your faceless faces with my nerd stick I would out of appreciation for your (b)lo(g)yalty through the years. (That sounded creepy, but sometimes love gets weird. Deal with it.)

Ok. I'm tired now. Gotta go. More posts soon! (And by soon I mean within the next year.) 

K, I'm ghost like Zeul. See you on the laserbus, nerds. 

Muchos digi-besos,

Señor Mr. Recon  

-M4H commander/chief nerd herder in charge, graduating class of The Internet, 1995.

PS: We are currently seeking to hire a blog caddy/information gopher to help turn this glorified old man's final project from HTML night class at Community College into something new; a fresh, bold look that will ensnare the attention of the Adderall sniffing, sarcasm wielding, overclocked internet hipsterati of the new world nerd order who can hopefully tolerate and accept this place into their daily buffet of infoporn and social oversharing. Basically I need a nerd, with real professional nerding skills, to e-deliver a series of round house kicks to the binary electronic face of my source code. Just a cool gal or fella from cybertown who packs a e-hook like a bulldozer and works for cheap.

We need someone to pull the bully beatdown all over that Internet's grill; beating it mercilessly, punching it square inside its number-filled Matrixface. This (and readers' continued support) will allow me to keep M4H alive and continue to annoy the world with the stupidest things I can find to say. 

So if you want to help make my site cool and awesome(er), I'd be glad to have your help. E-mail me. (On the computer. Over here. Or here.)  

And to all the rest of you, I got 2 new posts in the queue. Stay tuned.....

LOL!!!

Secrets at the South Pole: An M4H Travel Special Report

As you are all undoubtedly avid conspiracy enthusiasts like myself, I'm sure you've heard that Reptilian Extraterrestrial Overlords from the Draco Star system secretly control the world. (with help and cooperation from a shadowy elite group of world power brokers, CEO's, The Illuminati, Alien Greys, and the US Government, of course.)

But if you're like me, you've probably always wondered...Where do those dudes like to party?

M4H Travel presents:
The South Pole-Top Secret::Fun!

(An informative vacation guide for traveling to the secret Nazi/US Alien subterranean cryptobunker hidden beneath Antarctica.)

Attention Brosefs! Lady Brosefs! Dangerous adventure fans!

Get ready...to ROCK. Word to Admiral Byrd, Hollow Earth theory is definitely in the House! Strap on your preferred Oakley eye wear of choice and take that Red Bull to pound town, because it is time to chill, grill, get ill, and pay the biz-ills. Get ready to chillax with the world's most elite party crew. Tell your homies, spread the word. It's about to be talked about! Get ready for the ultimate VIP retreat; a luxurious mahogany filled compound watching the entire fucking world be destroyed in style and luxury, hosted by the very architects of the biblical Armageddon being shown before you. Tonight you're going to party like it's 2012. Boom!!!!!!

Get that face ready, it's time for a long, sweet kiss right on the Apocalips. Because you are about to embark on the most extreme UFO vacation ever imagined in any of your wildest and most evil terrible dreams. Sounds bad? You bet. But who said bad can't be fun, too? I didn't. But I did hear that, girlfriend! High fives all around. Know what that means, party peeps? It's about that time...

Let's Jam.

fig. A: Reptilian Overlord.

(Don't let the Judy Jetson dress fool you for a nano-second. He'll eat your kids.)

The 411:

This top secret installation of awesomeness is the hottest, most extreme, totally rad-tastical vacation destination of the 2011-12 season. And seeing as this might be the last year we get to live on this topsy-turvy rock called Earth, what better way to enter into extinction then to party alongside the people (and the non-people) responsible? That's right, homes. Hold on to your Carabiners: It's the motherfucking Illuminati.

Bling³.

Why not check out some of the more well-known alien bases, you ask? Because new is the new new, and old is just plain old. Area 51? More like Area 1991. Super secret is the new relatively-hidden, and Planet X Reptoids are the new Greys, so pass that the fuck along, Agent Mulder. While your at it, go tell your favorite Scully to pick out some flip-flops and book the dog-sitter because you're taking her to a place so hidden, so undiscovered, so über-elite that it doesn't even have a name! (Take that Google Earth. Right up your robot ass.)

(Do not let the local nudists near your private parts. They get weird down there.)

Climate:

Consensus among the human slaves that make up the majority of the base's population is that these Lizards really really like it down there. Apparently being close to the Earth's Core makes everything feel like a giant Terrarium. Like Boca Raton in August, minus the sunshine, beaches, and mall walkers. And, to all the cave loving spelunkers reading (looking at you, Pitfall Harry) you'll be hard pressed to find a more secluded, visually stunning location to spend a few relaxing days and nights communing with nature...All the while meeting interesting people, making powerful friends, and learning the nightmarish (but fascinating) secrets of the ET-controlled cabal that make up the true powers behind America's industrial military complex.

Earth is so HOT right now.

How to Get There:

First, get your ass to Antarctica. Yes the cell reception blows, and yes the local cuisine is a bit lean, but what did you expect to find? If your seeking the luxuries of the modern world complete with strip malls and Applebees family-style restaurants, no dice, compadre. Take that salad-fork attitude back to Laser-town where it belongs. This is the South Pole, dawg! Yes, there is a ton of fucking snow everywhere. But trust me my dreadlocked friends, it's a short trip to paradise from here.

Once you get to the South Pole, head East towards Lake Vostok..then, go waaaaaay farther for at least a shit ton of miles. Then look for a Giant Hole, you can't miss it. Now break out the climbing rope, it's about to get even extreme-er! (Holler at your sherpa). It's all pretty safe and easy,actually. Simply navigate the 15-mile optical laser field, then go straight for a while, bang a left at the Apple Store, and then you're almost there. Just try to avoid being eviscerated by the CIA-sponsored robot murder squads and predator patrol drones and don't to freeze to death. It's just that easy!

fig. C: It actually makes sense if you think about it.

Getting In:

The hard to reach UFO landing zone/visitors center is located inside a giant, jewel covered cave approximately 1,800 miles beneath the Earth's crust. Why? Because it's caliente, amigo! Get vertical, brohaim. Hold on to your seashell necklace...it's time to take this vacation to maximum velocity.

What to Bring:

In order to properly blend amongst Bilderburgs, Rothschilds, and other cigar chewing Satanic billionaires from the Bohemian Grove set, you'll need to pack wisely.

Bohemian barbecues: always a hoot.

Pack snow shoes and bikini briefs, as you'll be going from tundra to tropical on this double-trouble ski and sunshine package. And bring your camera, this is a hot spot for celebrity schmoozing. Just last month, popular songwriter and television star Ms. Mylie Cyrus filmed a music video for her latest song, "Will somebody please help (I'm a young girl trapped inside an Alien base)" . Kissinger is a big fan, btw. (true story).

Ms. Cyrus. Seen here, being an asshole.

Gear:

Secret societies like to be discreet, but that doesn't mean they don't like to get sexy from time to time. Rubbing elbows and clinking glasses with the Extraterrestrials and the all powerful global elite in style isn't as easy as it sounds.

Fellas, when you're kicking it around the pool, keep in mind, the banana hammock plays. the more moose knuckling going on downstairs, the better. Little known fact: Powerful and evil men have uses the ancient art of bulge observation as a means of communication and social stratification for eons. Also the Reptilians don't permit board shorts in their pools, so go ahead. Give your grundle a hug!

Henry's Limbo tip #5: Get low. (Get low, get low, get low.)

The Illuminati like to dress up when out on the town, so pack accordingly. This might not be South Beach, but it's no Carnival Cruise either. Lots of uniforms and space-man onesies abound as the primary function of the unnamed facility is a military one. Ladies: pack a nice dress for dancing, and NO snakeskin! (The Overlords forbid it.)

Outside of the pool, the style around the base seems to be a hodgepodge of Bahama shorts, puffy coats, and assorted small firearms. But come nightfall, when the lizard men from the other side of the universe enter their evening hibernation period, the humans break out the fancy pants, sucking down the Mai Tai's faster than the American public consumes NSA misinformation filtered through popular television and media outlets in order to hide the truth of the alien agenda set upon them. (too soon?)

When all else fails, the evil eye-patch always plays.

Flora & Fauna:

Besides the blood-snorting, dragon-faced alien Overlords from beyond the moon, there are only a few local inhabitants worth noting.

The most important neighbor to keep a keen eye peeled for is the Antarctic Vampire Yeti; a friendly-seeming (but often very hostile) cousin of the North American Sasquatch (aka "Bigfoot".)

fig. D: The Vampire Yeti, seen here murdering lost skiers.

Despite their creepy name, Vampire Yeti don't actually drink people's blood. But they do occasionally devour travelers on their way to the base. (Leave the rugrats at the ranch, this is grownup territory). And leave that trail mix at home, no exceptions! Rocking Chex Mix is good carbing if you're stretching out the hammies at K2 base camp, but no es muy bueno in this neck of the woods. No cereal-based party snack is worth earning a Colombian Necktie, brosefino. Because Unlike Yogi or Boo-Boo, these furry fellas don't crack wise at the ranger or snatch picnic baskets from campers in a lovable and comedic manner. Instead, what they will most likely do is either:

A: Eat your face (and the faces of your fellow travelers)

B: Smash your body into a lumpy pile of Patagonia wrapped bro-pulp

or

C: Rip your torso open like a fat kid going elbow-deep into a birthday pinata, then make jewelry out of your insides, making sure to save your eyes and still-beating heart for their growing younglings to eat.

So...tread wisely!

Fun/dangerous fact: Strangely enough, pepper spray attracts and angers this breed of Yeti, so arm yourself with a high-caliber rifle if possible. Leave the spray and grab the AK. You're not dead travel-mates will thank you.

And if all else fails, bring cigarettes. Science Fact: Yeti love smoking.

(A pack of cowboy killers might snag you a candid with the unpredictable beast of the North. Just make sure you escape before that last cig gets smoked!)

Final Notes:

• Although American dollars are accepted on base, the preferred currency of choice for the Defcon set are "Bilderbucks":

• The only denomination is 100's, but that's just because...well you know how these guys roll. So hit the ATM and money exchange before seeking out the Pole hole.

• Don't look Dick Cheney in the eyes, especially when he's in Reptilian form.

• If you bring cookies, make sure you pack enough for everyone.

• And lastly, try very hard not to talk to the Nazis. They're dicks (of course) but besides that, they also happen to be extremely busy working on the Saucers for the Overlords. So, for the good of the fleet, do us all a favor and leave those evil bastards alone!

Until next time, travelers....

-R.

Mortal Kombat 7: Amber Alert

NBC's "To Catch a Predator" is TV that makes a difference. Thank you, Chris Hansen. America's pedophiles are on the run. It's nice to see television making the world a better place.

That being said, this does make it harder to track these guys down. Sure it's easy enough to wrangle up baby-petters in some armpit swamp town in Central Florida. But now these guys have taken refuge in the Underworld. Those cops are going to need more than pepper spray to get past Shang Tsung. Why, you ask? Because, he's a motherfucking shapeshifter. Who absorbs the souls of his enemies in order to maintain his god-like powers and immortality. Good luck, officers.

In related news, the annual fighting tournaments Mr. Tsung sponsors have caused quite a stir in the Martial Arts community as of late. Some contestants say that the event is tied to a string of mysterious deaths in the area. Shang Tsung's personal secretary and life coach Jonas Raiden told reporters that Mr. Tsung is in full and total cooperation with authorities. As of press time, Mr. Raiden couldn't be reached for further comment, as he was "too busy being awesome and shooting people with lightning bolts that fly out of my god-damned hands".

I wish India was a person so I could high-five them with both hands

Well I haven't written on the blog in a long long bit, but only because I haven't been truly inspired until this very moment.

I'm a fan of all things Indian. It's a known fact that I'm 110% gay for Chicken Tikka Masala. Not to mention Garlic Naan, the crack cocaine of the carbohydrate universe. I love reading books by Yoga dudes with long, awesome sounding names..the ones that hipsters name-drop during late night post-dinner convos in order to look both deep and cerebral. I do enjoy soaking in the wisdom of smiley eyed, peaceful wizards who rock mind-powers and Snuggies at the same time, all the while sporting proper Jim Henson beards to keep the Hippie cred strong and keep it green. Don't even get me started on Ghandi (the movie), which won like 67 Oscar Meyer statues back in the day, and is such a fantastic movie that I happily sit through all 14 hours of it whenever it comes on TV. Which is something I only do for the likes of "Bloodsport", "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure", and post-beard Riker episodes of "Star Trek: The Next Generation". (A feat indeed for a man who already forgot how this sentence is supposed to end, because of a condition that sometimes makes me jumpy like a squirrel, and occasionally causes my elocution to take on a pace and consistency akin to the movements of a severely retarded goldfish.

Where was I? Yeah. Ghandi. God dammit that is a good movie. That movie literally made me begin to hate white people. I'm white, which is cool I guess, but I can't really grow a mustache, and I'm terrible at accents. Also I'm not an Imperialist British land baron who shoots Indians and relishes in the act of being a total dick for no reason. I'd even go as far to say that the movie "Ghandi" illuminated a defining moment in history; it illustrated the moment when passive-aggressive mustachioed British men of wealth and influence officially became the biggest assholes in the entire world.

Even though I'm excitable, I'm surprisingly not prone to being starstruck. That is with the exception of this one time I met Ben Kingsley at my old job. First of all, he's a fucking Knight, which could only be more badass if they gave him a real sword and a suit of armor and sent him off to burn villages and drink mead out of bejeweled goblets. Secondly, he's Ben fucking Kinsley. Who, some have dubbed, "The Ben Kingsley of actors". I'd even go out on a limb and say that Ben Kingsley's Ghandi, while obviously not as world-changing and influential as the real Ghandi, was more, how do I say,"convincing" as Ghandi than the actual Ghandi was. Which is totally crazy, because non-Kingsley Ghandi was Ghandi all the time, plus, he was the original.

Anyway when I met him he was so cool that it kind of took me off guard. I figured someone who got Knighted would have at least a few diva tendencies, so when he had none at all, I got nervous. And, for whatever reason, I got all nervous and I started to feel like one of those sweaty European girls about to faint at a Thriller-era Michael Jackson concert, somewhere in the grayish part of the map between Eastern Siberistan and the western half of the Balkan Powder Keg. (Shout outs to the Ottoman Empire. Play on, players!)

You know the type of place I'm talking about...that little "whatever"
country shaped like an Amoeba, the one conveniently wedged between former Cold War adversaries that only Wikipedia webmasters can properly pronounce or even care to know the name of. A country so insignificant and small that their two Olympic athletes flip coins to see who gets to carry the flag at the opening ceremony and who gets the top bunk back at Olympic Village. A land where kindergartners smoke unfiltered cigarettes and men's names sound like a brand of assault rifle, and women's names either sound like poison flowers or a chemical ingredient of Industrial Solvent. A place where smiling is restricted to supervised children under the age of 5 and allowed only during daylight hours, and only on their birthdays. Adults caught smiling without just cause face a mandatory sentence of 20 years hard labor in the notorious ice mine of the northern lands, a place rumored to be haunted by Communist ghosts.

The clip below reminds me why I love the Indian movie industry. It literally has all my favorite things in it: robots, nonsense, noises, unnecessary assortment of guns, leather jackets, mustaches, fun, Mom jeans, fast movements, inexplicable kung-fu zooms, the list goes on.

Just watch this video. I promise you it's so good you'll want to snort it, then spend next month in the woods drinking coffee in hooded sweatshirts with tired looking men and frowny women with clipboards, detoxing from the effects of it's awesome motherfucking awesomeness.

Bucket List

It's been a minute. Several thousand to be exact.

The irony of the situation is that life has been boring so I don't have an excuse. Except that I'm awesome. Which under usual circumstances would be a pretty awesome thing. But like anything else, taking or giving out too much of it can be potentially very problematic. I'm not saying I'm dangerously awesome. But I am saying that I'm awesome to the point that the waves of awesome I emit from my head and body can sometimes disrupt consumer electronics, scramble sonar in nearby dolphins, confuse basic robots, and cause mild to acute panic to spread in small impressionable children of all sizes and types. (Specifically the smaller, jumpier ones that eat food like squirrels and act gun shy in loud crowds.) It only makes job interviews at daycare centers, ocean theme parks, or Sharper Image stores far more difficult and awkward than they already are.

But who am I to complain about being awesome all the time when there are plenty of good people out there who deserve it as much as me but don't have as much as I do? I should try and be grateful for the surplus I've been given. See it as a gift rather than a curse.

Instead of abbreviating the last few months and boring the fucking face off your head with self-introspective rabble and such, I'll instead take this time to show you my list. It was supposed to be a to-do list, but most of the things on it I haven't done yet, so I made it a list of things I plan on doing eventually when I get around to it. Sue me. I'm got the hustle and wherewithal of an stoned teenage tree sloth. So without further ado, here is the official Bucket List* for the rest of my natural life (a very slow work in progress).


My Life Plan: 3 Complicated and Delusional Steps to Personal Happiness.

Step 1: "The Road to Riches"

1. Calm the fuck down.

2. Stop being so calm and get up already.

3. Quit horsing around like a donkey with the Nintendo and dope and come to your senses about real life things, like money. You jackass.

4. Get a new job that provides you with American money in the form of legal tender as the reward for work completed. Frown at Uncle Sam and his taxes. Realize quickly that it would be preferable to make 3 or 4 million annually.

5. Come to the conclusion that 3 to 4 million dollars a year would require the undertaking of a serious life of crime.

6. Follow 4 easy steps to learn crime:

• Grow a proper mustache. Watch all 5 seasons of the Wire.

• Befriend charming street grifter after getting maintenance job in retirement home. Pay for 12-week intensive crime school lessons with money earned. Learn colorful life anecdotes and obtain necessary skill set for future crime career.

• Use "the internet". Take notes with a pen and paper.

• Adapt crime school lessons with knowledge gained from being "online" and form an effective criminal recipe. Apply crime knowledge in one large heist which promises large sums of money but is 100% foolproof with absolutely no chance at all of getting caught by the police.

7. Get caught. Meet angry and heavily armed Federal agents who desperately want to get to know you better.

8. Have a stand-off with the police. Watch yourself on television as it's happening. Wave your hand in front of the window so you can see yourself live on TV at the same time. Try not to have your mind blown by watching something so fucking cool.

9. Surrender. Try not to panic while avoiding being shot by the growing number of intense, tight-faced snipers writhing on rooftops just waiting to explode your worthless criminal face with giant metal bullets.

10. Renounce life of mischief. Decide instead to cooperate and help authorities eliminate your former grifter mentor turned local crime kingpin.

11. Receive amnesty. Cry in court shamefully like the Menendez brothers. Dodge the mob of courthouse paparazzo and jackal faced reporters trying to snag the scoop of the month.

12. Write book. Hug Oprah for awkwardly long period of time. Option script to big shot Hollywood cocaine tycoon. Record audiobook. Go on NPR. High five the universe.

13. Collect giant check.

14. Cash it. Go to Casino to engage in high stakes, foolhardy gambling binge. Double money.

15. Decide what to do with all the fucking cash.

Step 2: Things to do When Rich

1. Donate millions to UFO research. Become honorary Martian ambassador to the UN.

2. Buy parents a motorcycle with a sidecar.

3. Learn the misunderstood art of drunk jetpack flying.

4. Buy a seat on the first commercial space shuttle flight.

5. Invent iPhone app that teaches old people how to use iPhone apps.

6. Travel to exotic non-humid parts of the world that have ice and air-conditioning.

7. Move to the mountain regions and practice dragon punching inside of waterfalls.

8. Go off the grid.

9. Stockpile soup, build large weapons cache. Occasionally get awkward over tense coffee when suspicious authorities drop in to ask questions.

10. Grow beard. Build large fires.

11. Study curling, alchemy, viking ancestry, time travel, and astral projection.

12. Get two dogs…one smart, one stupid. Maybe a Border Collie or something like it (anything that sort of looks like a wolf, moves wicked fast, and likes frisbees and piles of leaves) paired with something totally slow and stupid, like a Basset Hound.

13. Watch hilarious situations unfold as they learn to get along and live together in a crazy world.

14. Marry a lady. Raise pod of human children. Learn to create family moments and bake sourdough bread for no reason.

15. Pass on secret of the ancient ones to younglings.

16. Get very old.

Step 3: Things to do When Very Old

1. Live long enough to watch the first Robot president take office.

2. Survive the robot wars by any means.

3. Stop smoking. Take up drinking and swearing. Grab people on the arm when you talk to them.

4. Write letters to your local congressman complaining how the machine that controls the weather is too loud and disruptive when you"re home out in back gardening.

5. Gather soft sweaters and corduroy pants.

6. Squint at menus in poorly-lit restaurants.

7. Teach grandchildren to never trust robots, and how to effectively swear and steal from adults and get away with it.

8. Take walks in the mall at 8am with the wife. Try to not be annoyed with her because she always finds a way to walk too damn fast every time you go. It's not a race, you always tell her. But she doesn't listen. Also don't get upset about the fact that she always manages to somehow park the car so far from the entrance that your hands get too cold all of the sudden, or that she doesn't even care that you might get sick again just like last week when you kept her up with that cough and wouldn't agree to call the landlord to do something about the draft in the kitchen which is just making the cold worse, come to think of it. For the love of Christmas and all things holy. You tell her every single goddammed time you go to walk in the mall in the morning every Tuesday and Thursday that you don't like these things one bit, and just once in all those years you'd appreciate it if she listened to you.

9. Take frequent disco naps to offset fatigue from being so fucking elderly all the time.

10. Meet grandson's robot fiance. Learn tolerance and love, begin erasing decades old hates and fears of the robot community.

11. Reluctantly get a robot caretaker to look after you so maybe your sons will stop nagging you about it already.

12. Begrudgingly become best friends with your new robot caretaker after he saves you from being hit by a runaway laser car at the super-supermarket one day.

13. Find peace. Eat ice cream and brick oven pizzas as much as you want. Take up cigarettes again.

14. Teach a class on being awesome, shaping the hearts and minds of future awesome generations for years to come.

15. Buy vacation home on the dark side of the moon.

16. Die at the age of 119 in your home when the moon is suddenly attacked by aliens marking the start of the great Space War of 2096.

17. Once dead, use ghost pen to make a cool list of cool ghost stuff to do. Make list of people who aren't dead.

18. Haunt the shit out of them.

(*M4H does not endorse or support the views presented in the film "The Bucket List". We at M4H strongly encourage readers to never rent the film or even watch it for free for a short time on cable when nothing else is on. There has to be a Beethoven movie on somewhere on the dial. It can't be the only thing to watch. If you or someone you know has their own personal bucket list, make sure to always add "Never watch the movie 'The Bucket List'" at the top of it. Doing this helps avoid any confusion and/or potential misunderstandings when sharing your bucket list with friends or loved ones down the road. And although it is true that we at M4H have never actually seen the film, all the clips we've been shown of the it make us think that Morgan Freeman and Nicholson just phoned that shit it in for some free hats and walking around money. Couldn't look more awful. We're just saying.)

Conspicuous Aliens

In my dream, I'm waiting next to my car. I'm waiting because some people that I've never met want to borrow it. In my dream, it made more sense why I was waiting and how this whole borrowing thing worked - maybe it was some variant of Flexcar of something.

A family shows up to pick up the car and I ask them if they don't mind dropping me off nearby. I explain that I would be grateful if they helped me although I could manage either way. They seem congenial enough and agree to take me. We climb into the car, I get in the back seat with the kids and the mother while the father sits in the front - on the passenger side. No one gets in the driver's seat.

Then, the car starts driving.

I get suspicious. Mainly because the car is diving but no one is in the driver's seat.

The father is sitting on the passenger side and smiling contently. The whole family sits calmly while the car drives itself. It takes me a moment to realize why all this is happening but I come to the obvious conclusion fairly quickly. These people are aliens, not humans at all. To test my theory, I say a couple things in alien.

In a buzzy insect-like alien language:"What are you doing? That's right, I speak alien and I know you understand me."

Now, they start to glance at each other nervously.

"Look", I say, "I know you're aliens. That's fine. But don't you realize that when you drive a car someone is actually supposed to drive the car? You can't do it like this, you'll get pulled over. You people are so bad at this. Where did you learn about humans anyway? Seriously, if you get caught it'll be straight to the alien autopsy for the lot of you. I don't even know if I want you to borrow my car now."

End of dream



(image of alien fish via amazon where you can buy the decal if you so desire)

A eulogy to my dead PC / homage to my Macbook Overlord.

My PC Desktop
(2009-2010)

Dear Dead Computer,

I still don't know how you got so fucked up and died on me. But after the last few weeks of mourning, I really don't care. You left for no good reason, and too soon. I'm angry as hell and don't really give a damn that you're gone. I'm only mad because you were convenient, and getting my new computer was a gift I didn't deserve. Peace out, you selfish jerk. You were the worst.

I should say thanks. Thanks for not being awesome or cool or acceptable in any way. Thanks for lasting less time than "Cop Rock". You suck so fucking bad it makes me want to kick you inside your robot Tron face for being such a terrible, terrible, jerk of a bitch poor excuse for a computer. I'll only miss you for sentimental reasons (none of which being your operating system, functionality, stability, or design. Those were all complete and total shit.) I'll miss you for all those great folders we shared together, and the little things we had like MS Paint and Friday night defragging sessions. R.I.P. you stupid fucking bastard. In the end, you finally went Corky on me. I guess it's like the song says...life goes on.

But in this case, it will go on without you. If there is a computer heaven up there, I really hope you don't get to go. If you or one of those blue shirted jawas at Best Buy that sold you to me gives me back my 1100 American dollars, maybe we can talk about being friends or roommates again. Until then? Rot in digital Hades, fallen one.

My Macbook
(2010-present)

I don't know what to say to start this. I feel like Doogie Howser except without the thoughtful last sentence coming up any time soon. Sorry, computer. I'm no Neil Patty Harris and you're no Apple IIE.

But wait....what if you were an Apple IIE, how rad would that be? Old is the new new, you know.

Let's imagine for a moment you were in fact just that. Not an actual Apple IIE, but a jacked up, nerded out Mac Pro rocking an old Apple modified desktop casing that just made you look like one. A Billyburg Trojan Horse, if you will. Just imagine it.

If you were cool enough to be that retro, I know for a fact you wouldn't live in the trend-deaf slums amongst the proletariat hordes like me. Not at all, my good sir. You my friend are much too awesome and/or super cool for a fate as boring as mine.

If you were a refurbished Apple IIE instead of what you really are (a remarkably handsome, sleek lap-sized robot that serves up nerd fuel to me on a daily basis in exquisite fashion, compliments of the sheer classiness inherited from your father, the present day turtleneck emperor and future S.R. Hadden from Contact-level billionaire weirdo, Mr. Steve Jobs), I'd wager you 20 of your lasers to 100 of my synapses that the rest of your life would be spent tethered to the wall of some frown mongering macro-hipster, imprisoned in a fortress of pessimism forever, banished to extinction like Zod and his girlfriend and mentally retarded cousin in Superman 2.

There you would sit, perched like a giant owl, calling forth the ghosts of Silicon Valley only to mock them with your Reagan-era camouflage. All the while flaunting your 2.66 gigahertz dual core processors like blinged-out Silicon dubs, riding dirty in the face of your forefathers. A slap from the future's hand to the face of the past, calling out all those landfill occupying ancestors for being the mark ass busters they truly are. I see you there, casting judgment on the world from atop some small desk fashioned out of an old Tokyo street bench (the one your cooler-than-all-living-humans owner procured from his sketch-ball Otaku office mate last year as a consolation prize for being the unwitting victim of his category 5 Man-Crush drunken kiss. A gift so lavish and difficult to obtain and transport here that its mere existence makes everyone who hears about it become noticeably uncomfortable and eager to leave the room at once.)

I smile thinking about you sitting there, waiting like a giant one-eyed square cyclops quietly over-clocking your genius enhanced trust fund processors in the proper Feng Shui approved nook of your master's douche dojo smack dab in the middle of whatever fucking neighborhood the currently ruling Brooklyn hipster swarm is located.

Then I see your owner return home, his hands full of cigarettes and ironic keys and various other boosted schwag bits from the Ratatat listening party he just attended and subsequently informed his tweeps about in the cab ride home. And...oh no! Sucks for you! He's with that girl who everyone thinks is an asshole! Not the cool, squeaky one, the other one that smells like gin and looks like a duck. You wish you could unplug yourself whenever she goes on and on and on, fluttering her eyes while discussing her design portfolio and lamenting the lackadaisical funk hanging over the current artistic climate of the New York scene. I bet you curse your robot God and tell yourself how much she sucks under your computer breath whenever she comes over. I can't believe you put up with her. Honestly. Besides Denise Cosby, Pat Benetar, and Al Pacino, who else wears sweaters and motherfucking leg warmers in the middle of July? Let's not beat around the issue. She's very stupid.

I'll spare you the rest of the gritty details, computer. Let's just say it starts to get kind of gross when they put the "sexy" Ipod on (not the hot yoga/pilates nano, the touch with the case that looks like Dr. Zaius) onto the custom Kid Robot sound dock to pre-sexify the room before their sexiness gets sexy. If only you could blush, Mr. Computer. Once the Minor Threat/Sigur Ros mash-up starts to roll and they commence with their awkward climbing on one another, things start to get a little bit, well...you know.

But after that, during the inevitable post coitus refractory period, they sit down in front of you and share a cigarette. Content and completely unapologetic about blinding you with their nakedness. Just sitting there, wailing on a Newport like a couple of train hobos in love, rumbling onward into the west. (Minus the harmonicas, pants, and personalities you'd usually find in that situation.)

It's probably grossing you out thinking about this, Mr. Computer. It's making me feel weird just talking with you about it. I'd tell you to leave this hypothetical scenario, but where would you go? You can't close the one big black eye you have as hard as you try. For the next hour at least you'll have to sit through a few G.G. Allin videos and a seemingly endless wave of Facebook page visits, celebrity Tweeterati reports, and rounds Farmville mining via the free WI-FI courtesy of the pro-barter Communist lesbian magic shop downstairs.

I guess what I'm saying is, you look like an asshole pretending to be something you're not. So don't ever even think of changing. I like you just the way you are.

In closing, I'll say that I really love you, Mac. Please don't ever leave me. I'd hate to have to sell you off in these economic times only to see you end up in the hands of people like them. Brooklyn has enough Macs. You belong right here.


Love always and forever,

Uncle Reco

PS:

Here's what I think we look like together:

Your Gun is Showing

Is Megatron wearing a codpiece or do we have to add indecent exposure to the list of his crimes?


Seriously, who gives a toy like this to children. More than meets the eye indeed.

Podcast 6: Say Anything Just Don't Say That

The "Wolpertinger" AKA Bigfoot's German pet bunny

It's some more audio mayhem from Recon and I. This time we'll be talking about words and groups of words put together (often referred to as "sayings"). Hope you likey.

But there have been some technical difficulties to the audio embedding process that are making me feel like those monkey pilots in Project X. Sorry internets but you're just going to have to click on this link to the podcast blog and listen or download from there.

Thanks to all you listeners and emailers (monkeysforhelping@gmail.com) out there.

Zee Germans.

Of course I miss the 80's, but I imagine if I was alive back then, I'd probably also miss the 40's as well. Just because we had clear and present villains then. Proper fucking bad guys. Easily compartmentalized, well-dressed, and 100% evil. In 2010 things are so wishy washy. When I see world leaders gathered together for various nefarious and non-nefarious events it always looks like happy hour at an airport lounge bar. Where did all the shiny medals and important hats go? Remember Idi Amin? Noriega? They're like Dolce and Gabana next to these nondescript villains in training I see paraded across my television screen. I miss the big tasseled shoulder pads and bulky gun holsters. That's how a bad guy dresses. With the exceptions of Chavez and maybe Kim Jong Il, no one is bringing their A-game in the dictator circuit right now. Seriously, dudes. Step it up. You show me an AP photo of Ahmadinejad and I'll show you the official dress code for floor manager at the Olive Garden.

I suppose I just miss the old days. And according to the history of fucking forever, wars aren't going away anytime soon, so if we absolutely must continue on with them let's at least dress up for the occasion, yes? That's all I'm saying.

Which brings us to this picture.

Imagine you're being interrogated by the Berlin police in the 1980's. You just got because some bro you met at the beer garden put his bag of snizz in your rucksack while you were smoking a cigarette, and the next thing you know you're sobering up looking right into the square jawed face of a furious German man with dead eyes and a cold robot mouth curved harshly into a permanent frown of anger and hatred. Scary right? Fuck yes, it is.

Look at the photo again. Now try and imagine if that same scenario happened today.

Not afraid at all, right? Me neither. SO not scared, even. I actually feel like going to Germany and committing a crime just to have an excuse to have a weird motorcycle party in my hotel room.

These guys are fun. It's like I'm watching an Ultraman tribute show at Universal Studios Florida starring Travis Pastrana.

Pig in Space

Pulp sci-fi cover art is the air-brushed van of book covers. I get the feeling that whoever made this cover was more interested in smelling the paint than in capturing the feel of the novel.


What we have here is actually the dream sequence from Happy Days as reimagineered by David Lynch. It's the part when Richie buys some bad meth from the Fonz and ends up spending some quality down time hallucinating on the floor of the shed behind the drive-in. I believe "Happy Daze" is the working title for the project.

Call me crazy but with a title like “The Interstellar Pig” I expect there to be at least one pig on the cover.

(via the tumblelog)

For a Pie

And here's yet another tip of the hat to football (ie. soccer) announcing.

Well done sir! I could hardly understand a word of it but like all great art, it spoke to my soul.

And how about Mr. BBC back in the studio coming back with the deadpan quip. Brilliant.

(via languagelog)

Lessons in Gender, part 83

A few weeks ago, my buddy El Jus picked me up in his nice SUV so we could escape the city for the day and go shooting shotguns up north. He parked near my place and I told him I had to pick up a "Panini" at my local food monger across the street before we left. He agreed, and we walked there.

I was hungry like the Wolf because I only ate beer the night before, and had eaten a steady diet of nothing since being awoken by a Saturday morning douche bag Reggaeton drive-by a few hours earlier, so my stomach made the executive decision to tell my brain to walk and eat at the same time. And I did just that.

So I ate my Italian Panini sandwich and we walked back to his nice SUV. But I was conscious of the fact that I wasn't eating with good manners because of my terrible hunger, and I didn't want to go all man-bear inside his car's sparkly leather interior, so I hastily finished my delicious European style sandwich outside the vehicle, simply out of respect. I could tell he wanted me to hurry up, but his passive aggressive eye rolling achieved nothing. When a person is so hungry they think like a forest pig scavenging the frozen earth in a Siberian white out it's hard to pick up on those things.

Luckily, I eat faster than lasers fuck, so I was done pretty quick.

So then I see this cop with a ticket book standing outside my friend's SUV. I was really nervous because I didn't want to be the reason my friend got a ticket, and I looked at the cop and was confused. You see they had their back to me, and all I saw was this boxy frame with a cop hat on top of it. I didn't know what it was. It was sunny out, I was tired, and time was now my enemy. But I had to say something. Big ticket=awkward drive+no fun for the rest of the day. So before I could think, I blurt out:

"Excuse me! Sir! Ma'am! Miss! Sir! Sir! Officer! Ma'am! Miss! Officer! We're here, sir! We're right here! Please!!"

Then the cop turned around, and the face had a mustache on it. And it was Crimson red.

"I'm a MAN," he said, and flipped his ticket book closed, and walked away.

My friend proceeded to call me an Asshat for the next 45 minutes.

Whatever. I may have been wrong about his gender, but I swear to you that man owned a pair of plusher than plush gams, and had the unmistakable shape of a sweet, sweet, lady. And if I learned anything from the timeless lyrics of Colombian singer/songwriter Shakira, the hips never lie.