Merry Annual New Year Celebration Day

AH!!!! 2010!! Congrats to all of us for making it to such a futuristic-sounding year. The robots haven't killed us yet. +1 Humans.

But 2010, when I imagined it as a kid, was different. We have cool stuff, I guess. But I want Moon Casinos and light sabers. I want miniature Tigers and Elephants as designer pets. I want virtual motherfucking reality, dude. Where's my flying skateboard? I was promised this, and I demand it. I also want Nano-bots to make me not have to exercise, sleep, work, or quit smoking.

Also, where are the laser guns? I'm not pro war, but I am pro lasers. And when are the Aliens going to show up? Are they waiting for a more futuristic sounding year to land? Fucking Prima donnas.

Anyway, I hope more time for writing appears in my world next year. I hope for a lot. But instead of rambling on, tell me what you hope happens in 2010.

And until then my friends, I bid you all adieu. Recon out!!!!

Here Comes Ranta Claus

This is the second time I've started this, and at least the 20th time I started writing a post inside my head over the last weeks. Writer's block? Maybe. I think my mind is just lazy from being used so much during the work week that it shuts off the moment I walk through my door.

My job is cool. I love where I work. I'm lucky to be around cool shit all day. But if I could just somehow take the 'work' part out of working, I'd have a less crappy time from Monday till Friday. God I hate it (the work part). Even when it's awesome it's still wicked fucking not-terrific. And if it indeed builds character, that character totally sucks compared to the character that being lazy and thinking about lasers creates. (btw, that character is DJ Jazzy Awesome, and he lives on the moon where the power of his break-dancing makes the flowers bloom.)

So, during this brief moment of awkward silence shared with myself and current taxi driver, I tap out these words like a mountain gorilla and realize it's been a while. My fingers feel funny. (Let's hope they actually are, or the rest of this is going to bore the shit out of both of us.)

Another iPod rant written in the back of a cab. Work has swallowed my life like a giant metal whale from the abyss, and now I find myself in its belly surrounded by suits of armor, barrels of nails, xerox machines, excel spreadsheets, and pain. Yet with all the 9 to 5 Dilbert bullshit I still clock vampire hours, with no regard for my bear-like craving for long sleeps. Is that what life has become? Writing invisible letters to myself in the back of a man's car that I just met? I guess so. Fucking Internet 2.0.

I can't do anything without a machine telling me what to do or telling a machine what to do in order to do anything. It's crazy how these robots are all up on me. It makes me think that freedom is much more than a word Mel Gibson says before sword fighting in dirty fields. It's what I want. Just some time to be way from all this day to day pay the bills meat and potatoes hum drum daily grind malarkey.

Freedom. Yeah. That's the ticket.

Hurry up, red light. I want to go home.

I think Hemingway said it best when he said, "Time is like the Hamburglar." It makes sense to me. All those precious minutes I'd rather spend eating, loitering, and enjoying nerd stuffs are constantly being used up by some asshole named Work. What a dickweed that guy is. Time is his boss, and although we've never met, I here he's a major league fucker. Watch out for him. He sneaks up on you and steals your shit from you while you're not looking. Total fucking criminal, that guy.

I have a scientific hunch that there's a powerful chemical reaction occurring inside us when MSG is ingested while watching television on large screens after dusk. The effects of this are not dissimilar to being shot in the neck with a circus-grade tranquilizer gun. Basically, the reaction causes one to feel like a slightly less retarded facsimile of Sloth from Goonies, but minus the energy, happiness, or ambition to do things.

All that shit that old people told us when were kids about not eating after 8pm? Totally fucking true. I routinely eat dinner after 10pm, and like Swiss fucking clock movement I wake up the next day I wake up feeling like robots are fighting a laser war inside my body. If only I could get paid to feel like shit at 8am. I'd be the P-Diddy of that industry. Take that, take that.

So where was I? Oh yeah. Nowhere exactly. But at least words are coming out again. Thank god for that. Since I haven't been able to write, I never shut the fuck up. It's like my mouth is on Cocaine. Those of you who have met me know how annoying I can be when I talk. It's ok, I know it's true. I'm cool with it. For those that haven't, my real life voice is tinny and shrill, like what you'd imagine a tired wolverine to sound like if they swore too much, smoked too much, and lied too much. Seriously, If I have to hear myself talk anymore I'm going to delete me from my friend's list and avoid the shit out of myself. If only I sounded like Louis Armstrong or Ernest Borgnine. When they talk, it's like my ears are at Disney World on a sunny day with no lines.

Anyway, I'm done. Feel better. Jump back, wanna kiss myself. And it's Friday, which is filled with things that don't suck.

It feels like just 4 days ago I was an angry man frowning it up on the Monday morning iron horse ride to oblivion.

 

Then Tuesday rolled around, and I got scared because I couldn't see the weekend when I looked behind me. So I held on for dear life.

Wednesday was better, but then the work attacked me out of nowhere when I was just starting to enjoy the sunny day. I felt like an evil golfer in a Cynthia Rothrock film.

Thursday I caught a movie. Actually, when I say 'caught a movie' I mean I worked late and didn't watch a movie. But if work on Thursday was a movie (which it was not), it would be a tragedy. The plot themes would be pain, crying, and hopelessness, and the star would be a exhausted yet still handsome me with an attitude problem and flagrantly sassy disregard for the rules.

And now...now, my friends....it's Friday.



Fuck yeah.

Oooooo Weeeee ...

So, I haven't watched SNL in a long time, but last week the stars aligned and I happened to catch this shining gem of retarded genius. Between the mildly concussed look in Kenan's eyes and the irresistible catchy-ness of the song I had to share.
ENJOY!!!

This skit makes me wonder where Kel is now??? Probably off drinking orange soda somewhere...

Happy Early Annual Turkey Consumption Day

I'm off to the forest regions of the South, where as a straggler I will graciously accept my friend's family invitation to gorge on their roasted communal bird and any other foodstuffs I can get my freeloading hands on. And time permitting, maybe sneak in some dragon punch practice under the waterfall in back of my Shidoshi's condo. Kiaaa!!!!! Happy happy. I wish you all the best! (Except the Turkeys. I wish them nothing but swift death and a future inside my stomach.)

Love, Recon

Dear Monday,

YAAAAAAAAAARRR!!!!!!!!!!



That is all.

Boum! goes the dynamite

NASA: Still no sign of intelligent life in space

In related news, New Jersey has been discovered in the Buttafuoco Star Cluster near Alpha Centauri.

Thriller 8-Bit Tribute Mix

Nothing approximates the soundtrack inside my head better than this. So cool.

It's actually too cool. I feel self-conscious watching it, like I'm a high school freshman again who just arrived at the cool senior party with nobody to talk to except my older brother who has a mustache and smokes cigarettes. Then I look around for him, suddenly realizing that he managed to disappear into the crowd with a bunch of other people with mustaches, presumably to go and smoke reefer out in the garage and talk about tits and Metallica.

Now all I can do is watch my palms sweat and fight off the anxiety by drinking beer after beer and doing all the free drugs I can as fast as possible before I freak out, which in doing so would label me the "sweaty hands freak-out guy" for the next 4 years, setting up the core framework of my social identity which I will undoubtedly carry with me well into my dysfunctional adult years.

Wow. Where was I? Oh yeah. This video is like laser heroin for 30+ retired rave dorks. Watch it and prepare to have its wonderfully synthetic sounds engage in the act of taboo digital lovemaking with your retro-nostalgic ear drums.

TMNT Amber Alert

The Turtles are back. And this time, they don't want Pizza.

Video game lesson #83: Punching fixes everything.

Monkeys on Ice.

Well I can't really say anything to make this any better than it already is. All I know is it makes my brain feel like there's a disco ball bouncing lasers off the insides of skull. These monkeys are probably not as smart as me, but that doesn't mean I don't respect the shit out of them. I know I can't ice skate without falling on my face 56 times in a row and using profanity like it's the new Twitter.

So just for the record, allow me to say fuck a skate. While I'm at it, fuck a rink, fuck a puck, fuck a Zamboni. I hate all that shit.

Yet despite being a skater hater, I confess now to all of you that my cold heart can't resist the sight of chimpanzees in Cosby sweaters.

This gets a 10 for excellence. I get a 1 for becoming a skating aficionado. (If even for just 30 seconds.)

Give It to Me Straight, Mr. Parker

Screen writing tip number 42: When at a loss for dialog, just have your characters narrate their own actions. This technique is quick, easy and has the added benefit of making it very difficult for the director to fuck up "your" movie/TV show.

Look out Peter, alternative Spiderman seems to have the power of exposition.

Ill Alliance

Nothing like a little visual confirmation of you worst nightmare.

(via neatorama and this)

Picture of the Day

Kevin loved to show the cowards his Key West Kitchen Karate after kicking it with his crew over Kahlua and Keno. Kiaaah!

Why choose a Sockalingam & Peeler Real Estate Agent for your next market move?

Two reasons.

They punch the real estate market. In the face.

Plus, they've got Cocaine.

(via tofuttibreak)

Ode to the Internet

I love the internet. It takes it only two letters to guess my thoughts.

Yesterday's Dummies

Give me 5 more entertainment geniuses like the creators of this "act" and I will take over Hollywood. I love the fake house set, I love the creepy ventriloquist smiling and the overwhelming whiteness of the whole endeavor plays. The "just got out of the barber's chair" look could use a little refinement though. Were they expecting rain in the studio?

(via cynical-c)

MC Trebek in the Hizzouse

Hanging out with Recon this weekend, we were both enjoying Steve Porter's follow up to the Slap Chop remix called "Press Hop." It's good, especially if you're a sports fiend like me (the autotuning of Namath's drunken, nationally televised sexual harrassment alone is worth the price of admission). But as I was getting ready to post the "Press Hop" video, my mind was officially blown by something even MORE amazing: MC Trebek. Since this Tronovich treat is way more up M4H's alley, I thought I'd bless the blog with the smooth stylings of one Alex "Make it Rain" Trebek. Thank you internets.

Picture Of The Day

Speaking of the future, I'm pretty sure this guy just robbed a gas station 10 years from now. He's like a Nascar driver from Beyond Thunderdome. And yes, if you were wondering, drunk driving is A-OK in post Nuclear war wastelands. As long as you show the future police your wolf hat, you're as good as gold. Laser Gold.

I want to email this guy a highfiveotron but something tells me he doesn't "do" computers.

Future, Much?

Check out this super ridiculously Rad device called "The Courier" that Microsoft is releasing sometime during or near Armageddon times. Super tips of the laser hat to SleepONE for showing your humble nerd this amazing piece of amazingry. It reminds me of Sony's Japanese tile computer prototype. Honestly, I'll take either.
I'd just need to install one of those plastic guards they put near gross buffets in case of face explosions.

Remind me again: how is it that we can't control the weather yet? All I'm saying is we need to get on that shit. Science it up, Science! I swear, if it rains on me again while on my way to work and I puddle-rape my Nike's one more time, I'm going to save up my terrible salary for R&D to design a robot that challenges clouds to fistfights.

Yes, I fucking hate rain. Hate it like fat kids don't hate cake.

And once they're done punching all the clouds in the face, I'll command them to systematically hunt down all the weathermen who think it's all good to tell me to "bundle up" and pack some rain gear while they exchange chuckles over coffee with their brick-faced colleagues, mocking my inevitable misery from their warm, dry TV studio with their bone-white giant teeth and dead mannequin eyes. Smile now, pay later, Mr. Weatherperson. Lock those doors, Smiley. They're coming for you. And when they do, I can guarantee a 75% chance of you getting a robot kick inside your giant watermelon-sized face.

Picture Of The Day

Mr. Gorilla, you had me at Gorilla.

The different kinds of strangers

The lesson I learned: Avoid all human beings. I also realized how important it is to never overindulge in the use of Starwipes. Unless you're the assistant manager of a black-ops supersoldier brain washing project, one a minute should be enough for most films.

(via blort)

Booooo Shuda.

This dauber is my kind of scum. Fearless and inventive.

Mr. Baracus, you have the floor.

WORD.





LIFE.

Thank Satan, it's Monday!

Always RSVP to a Chuck Norris party invitation.

Poor manners are frowned upon, and Chuck Norris frowns with karate kicks.

Lose the forks, Luke

Toad It Up

Give the drummer some. Seriously, this guy is so good that for a minute there I was convinced that gold coins would pour out of the bricks in my apartment if I could just ram my head into them hard enough.

Bobby J: Number One

Nevermind that he looks like the steroid dealer for the 1986 Chicago Bears. Bobby J is fucking CEO of the International Boss Corporation. Watching Mr. J's constant Gormley-esque Powerstancing and his unique brand of reluctant mandancery, I feel like Harry Hamlin fighting Medusa in 'Clash of the Titans'. God he's cool. He's like the last Boss on the NES game you never finished because after a while you got so sick of trying to beat him you decided that the game was too hard and just said "Fuck it" and spent the rest of the afternoon burning your frontal lobes out watching cartoons sitting too close to the TV eating ice cream until your face hurt.

I want to crush him up, sniff him, check myself into rehab for awesome addiction, then get pretentious and preachy about it when other people tell me they have a grip on their Bobby J habit.

(Thanks Antonio!)

Picture Of The Day

Umm, careful dudes. That fucking Tiger is no joke. Even Poseidon looks scared. And he's fucking POSEIDON.

Carl Sagan's 'A Glorious Dawn' Feat. MC Steve Hawking

This year Jay-Z declared Autotune dead. Naturally, only true Gods of Science and Laser Magic could take it, resurrect it, and bring it to another level. A very, very nerdy level.

My hypothesis: This is what my television would sound like if it got high.

Misters Belvederes

Sorry, I couldn't help but share this. I know it's awful. It's like a still from an Aphex Twin video remix of my childhood. But I've been (re) watching the classic "New Blood on Falcon Turf" I posted many moons ago featuring a guest appearance from the older brother from Mr. Belvedere, and I've had a brutal case of chronic Belvederitis I can't seem to shake ever since. So if you haven't yet seen it, please, go ahead and share my misery. Don't worry, it's really, really good. I wouldn't lie to you.*

(*Except this once.)

Rippin' The Pit, We've Got It All..

This is like the Citizen Kane of 1980's Californian Boogie Board culture. Judging from the flickery production values, it actually plays more like a terrorist recruitment tape...but I for one am drinking the Kool-Aid and strapping on my wrap-around Oakleys like the good bleach blonde, wave-carving automaton I hope to become one day.

If only Daniel had rolled with these kids he never would have had to fight those Cobra Kai alone.

(via Rad Dudes)

Star Trek Picture of the Day

Remember that episode where Mr. Data got tired of the Captain's "make is so" sass mouth and decided to deploy the choke slam? That was awesome.

The price is WRONG, Jedi scum.

Let It Be: The Red October Remix

These days it's Beatles this, and Beatles that. And I'm fine with it. Mostly because they're fucking great. One could even go as far as to call them the Beatles of popular music.

But never before has a cover of "Let It Be" been so grizzly, saturated in Vodka, and straight fucking gangster as this gem of Soviet glory. Open your ears and take it in. Komrade Krunk, Homski. Feel it.

Now stop feeling, you sensitive American swine.

(via BoingBoing)

There's a Kung Fu fight inside my brain.

I became a citizen a few years ago, and Uncle Samuel just got around to snail-mailing me a old-timey paper style form to fill out for jury duty. And this powerful Zen koan was posed to me as question #2:

#2: Can you understand and communicate in the English language?

I just wanted to share because it's the deepest thing I've been asked in years. I haven't been so confused since the last time I was this confused. I'm trying to remember when that was but I'm too fucking confused by all of this! Damn you, Samuel! Your devilish mind tricks continue to taunt me. I'll have to ruminate about this one for a while.

In the meantime I should just stop thinking about it and enjoy my shaved ice.

(BTW, if you haven't realized it by now, these guys are the Alpha and Omega of the Awesome Omniverse. Take a look at those mugs..can you honestly truly say that you have ever been that fucking happy in your entire life? I'm leaving a note for myself to remind me to Google-stalk these dudes. I want to hold them for ransom to the Shaved Ice Corporation until they tell me the secrets of universal bliss they obviously possess. If they refuse I'll cut them a check and hire them as my personal joy and well-being technicians.)

After thinking about the question posed earlier, my answer is "No"... with a hint of "Yes"... and then more "No". So Sam (if that is your real name), why don't you take that, make it into a sandwich, wrap it up in an American flag print picnic napkin, and proceed directly to getting the fuck out of my business. God you're nosy.

Oh Hai?

Best Photoshop in the history of computering.

I wanna kiss technology right on the mouth for this.

Best Turkish TV Freak Out You'll See Today

Work is kicking my monkey butt all over the place. I wonder all the time..how nice would it be to just let the crazy fly? How refreshing would it be to forget all the rules of society that separate us from our animal friends and just fucking GO for it? Watch this mustachioed champion shake his Eurasian tail feather down to freaky deeky town and tell me he isn't made of the stuff of legend. He won my heart like a giant stuffed monkey at the state fair. I'd totally hug him if I wasn't so sure he'd stab me for it.

NO MORE QUESTIONS!!!

Creeps of the 1980's

Dating Montage
Uploaded by smithy00101. - Independent web videos.

Candy or Medicine

But, can't it be two things? Come on science you guys need to make some candy that is medicine. I can not be the first person to think of this.

Have trigeminal neuralgia? Try a smartie.

(via university of virginia)

Once you see it...

ROFL

I’ll never look at Colonel Sanders the same way again

Is this the best song of 2009?

The Bunny's a Stalker

Ah yes. Nothing warms the heart like a good old fashioned table turning. Having that lady cyberstalk you isn't a crime, it's a pleasure. This "interview" must have been conducted in the days before facebook because if cyberstalking is illegal then facebook is Amsterdam.

That clip is cooler than my "Expelliarmus!" t-shirt.

What lasers can do.

Clearly these cats need no explanation. I just pray to the alien lizard kings of space heaven that my blog absence is the same.

But explain I must. Because Twittling and Facebookery don't sufficiently satiate my narcisism and need to read my own stupid in black and white.

To quote Chaucer*, shit has been busy as fuck. And I miss writing. So in an effort to assimilate my nerding addiction, I got an "app" from the invisible laser net for my iPod..and this is my first official post using an electro-demon science I don't even pretend to begin to understand.

(fig a: Chaucer. Yes, Geoffrey, I'm talking to you.)

This iPod is iBananas. Cheers to all of you bearded millionaires for inventing a fucking Tricorder for lazy couch jockeys like me. I heart the shit out of you sexy style. Thank God someone was studying Math* during my drug and alcohol phase. It's good to know that humanity isn't only comprised of people like me who get nosebleeds from looking at numbers.

(fig. b: The Science of Mathery.)

Steve jobs should have a shrine built to honor him for coming up with this fucking thing. It wouldn't be hard to make that happen. All we'd need is some Baron-type individual (a Harkonnen will do) with stupid-fat, Scrooge McDuck-level Benjamins in the vault to airdrop a few hundred crates of iPhones over Brooklyn. Within days, the remaining hipsters that manage to survive the subsequent city-wide riots will build a magnificent, glowing white monolith the size of Voltron's* penis in honor of their turtlenecked lord. Oh, the humanity. I can see it now...a giant iPod covered in the skulls of the non-believers. Those infidels who refused to pay tribute to the one they call Steve. It would be the iPod of all iPods: capable of holding 48 Teraflops of Indie Rock, Baile Funk, and Tuvan throat singing mp3's yet would still be big enough that you could imprison your favorite bands and keep them hostage inside, forcing them to play Sinatra covers and Daft Punk remixes all the while staring down the business end of a Shepard Fairy edition AK-47. A fitting homage to the Lord of all Nerds. Even Borg would cry like Jimmy fucking Swaggart in the presence of such a thing.

(fig c: Voltron, pictured here at home. Notice the space shorts and the sword. Makes you wonder what he's overcompensating for.)

Ok, I guess that doesn't make sense. (Plus my grammar is terrible, but that's more of a blog-wide epidemic here at M4H.) The truth is, that besides Voltron's Mom, no one except those weird hyper kids who fly the lions that make up Voltron have probably ever even seen his giant robot penis. So to mention it at all is inane at best, and borderline retarded at worst. Frruk it. Who cares if it makes sense. None of this does. I can't even figure out how Ice works. Trying to wrap my mind around the whole process of internetting is befuddling at best. Thinking about it gives me cramps between my ears.

But seriously.. take a second and think about how fucking weird all this inter-connectivity is. It's pretty mindblowing.

That's all I can think of right now. Because I'm blogging this from a shiny glowing rectangle in the back of a bumpy taxicab while tearing through a rainstorm, dodging drunks, listening to Hindi techno, pushing 55 on the Queensboro bridge and I'm suddenly wondering if Global Warming is too blame for this awful weather. Maybe I'll Google it. Jesus. Robot Jesus. Life is so futuristic. I feel like Blade Runner. Except I hate running and don't trust knives.

I just looked out the smudged car window and saw another nerd in another speeding cab looking at an iPod just like mine. Robots in disguise, that's all I see everywhere I look. I feel like my insides are made of cogs and sprockets. And chocolate covered butter sugar.

My thumbs are tired. Ok, so now to post..hope this works..if it does, and these words somehow manage to reach your nerd-thirsty retinas, allow me to express my happiness at being back among the monkey collective. Good to be back in the saddle. Now let's ride this fucker into oblivion.

PS: Cheers, Unbeatable. You held it down like Lobot* on Cloud City. If I knew where to get, or could even afford a cape, I'd totally buy it for you, eventually mailing it to your domicile after asking for your address 57 times (and losing it 56 times). Realistically speaking, I'll most likely fax a picture of a caped you to your local Kinkos, then ask you to take some personal time out of your busy day to go down and wait in line for a "big surprise" that's "totally worth the wait". If only I could witness the underwhelmed look on your face when you see my crayon drawing of you with two thumbs up and a "I Rock!" thought bubble jutting off your poorly-drawn, cartoon visage.

(fig d: Lobot, aka Lobeezy, Cloud City's first white rapper.)

And if for some reason this little rant doesn't work its way through those fiberoptic science tubes beneath the rivers of concrete all around us, allow me to say this in advance: Fuck You, Apple. Fuck you and your cruel, mocking piano music that constantly teases me for not being able to afford your glorious statements of financially-stable Hipstery. Screw off, iTunes. Go download your ass inside your face. You know what? If this doesn't post, I'm totally going to ask a nerd to show me how to download a middle finger App. Then I'll hop in a gypsy cab, drive up 5th avenue, use it to e-flip off the sweaty tourist horde that plagues the Apple store, snap an iPhoto of it, email it to Steve Jobs's Twitter caddy, and finally, in the floweriest of words I can extract from my grey matter, I'll politely demand that he fax it to Mr. Jobs's Gulfstream with the motherfucking iSwiftness that only a bored nerd armed with new technology and a general hatred of modern life could wield.

Phew. Ok. That's enough. Now my thumbs are really tired. Ok, so now..I..press this button? Here goes nothing. And by nothing I mean something I don't understand at all. Cheers, friends. I'm in your internet, making the lasers.