Friday, November 05, 2010

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"


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.

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


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, l
ike 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


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.)

Sunday, September 26, 2010

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 concl
usion 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 n

"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)

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

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


My PC Desktop


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 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


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, 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


Here's what I think we look like together:


Monday, June 28, 2010

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.

Friday, June 18, 2010

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 ( out there.

Friday, June 11, 2010

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.

Monday, May 31, 2010

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)

Monday, May 24, 2010

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)

Monday, May 17, 2010

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.

Sunday, May 02, 2010

Podcast 5: Big Foot, Fast Fingers


More Bigfoot is on the way with podcast 5: The Bigfoot Hides Again.

Just so you know, the podcasts can be found at the M4H podcast blog at podbean. You can use the Podbean site to download or share any of the podcasts.
(Or you can subscribe via Itunes here.) And we're always excepting new emails at!

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

An Average Day in 1985


I grew up in the 80's, so naturally I think of it as a magical time. But the more footage from those days I see, the more I realize...maybe it really was magic. Not Patronus beardy magic but magic nonetheless. One of a different sort. An intangible, unseen power affecting the world around it, invisible to the naked eye but perceivable through the observation of the people, places, and things influenced by it.

For example, take a gander at these fucking guys.

The 80's power is truly awe inspiring. The fact that the video STARTS with a forward moonwalk is enough to make me wonder if I've been taking psychotropic drugs secretly behind my own back. How did he do that? If I ever went to a party and saw that dance move I'd spontaneously lie on the ground and go brain blank. The sheer awesomeness would put me on the mat and touch my brain in a not-so-good way, like a Russian fist smashing Carl Weathers inside his face. It would literally Apollo Creed me.

I'm not exaggerating in any way, shape, or form. It's a moonwalk. Forwards.

How those kids aren't totally stupefied is beyond my comprehension. I'd react no less severely than if I'd seen a living, breathing dinosaur in front of me with a look in its eyes warning me of my impending death via face and body eating, promptly followed by my life going away on a trip to the dead person place. Seriously. That dance move is more than a move. It's the Mortal Kombat finishing move of the dance world. If I managed to not throw up from the shock of seeing it, I'd quickly excuse myself to the upstairs bathroom to cry silently, then slump in the corner, hugging myself nervously like the Mom from Poltergeist holding her baby who just returned from a demon Hell ride she took inside the slime-filled ghost closet upstairs.

I wish I could do the forward moonwalk. I wish I was that kid doing it. It's literally the most amazing thing ever done by a white teenager since Michael Fox turned into a wolf and played the sport of basketball with other teenagers (who, unlike Mr. Fox, were not wolves, nor were their spectating parents and loved ones watching from the bleachers. Yet somehow, these non-wolf, normal humans remained totally calm upon seeing a motherfucking lycanthrope
loose in their gymnasium.)

To put it less simply, I think of the 80's as the cultural equivalent to a cloaked Klingon War bird dressed in corduroy pants with the bottoms cuffed and a multicolored Australian Coogi sweater made out of lasers, cocaine, and Ronald Reagan. Which sounds a lot like the character bio of Max Headroom if you think about it.

Picture of the Day


In loving memory

"Hip Hop"


Songs to Lose by

Hey parents, looking for a way to take your uppity kids down a peg or two?!? Well, then run down to your local record store and snap up a copy of "Lullabies for Losers." Go to sleep with the satisfaction of knowing that your kids are quietly crying in their beds.

Includes such hits as:

• We All Die Some Day
&bull You Suck
&bull Cry as Much as You Like (Nobody Cares)

(All too real Charlie Brown via unrealitymag. Album cover via funkyjunktrunk)

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Wash, Sing, Repeat

Two groups of musical comedians doing the same bit about how all pop songs song the same using the pretty much the same songs = irony.

(both videos via milkandcookies)

Friday, April 16, 2010

It's the Bigfoot

Here's podcast 4, because you can't hug a child with Bigfoot's arms. Just so you know, the podcasts can be found at the M4H podcast blog at podbean. You can use the podbean site to download or share any of the podcasts. Special thanks to Ben and Rex for sending in some emails...
And if you want to send us some mail too, please, hit us up at!!

Dr. Force

Furs + jehri curls + F medallions = the official medical team for M4H.

I don't know why more doctors don't swap out their lab coat for some furs.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Robot Bear Hugs All Around

Ok, Japan, take off your jacket and have a seat because we need to have a serious talk about what's going on in this video. First off, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THIS VIDEO?!?!? Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to raise my voice but I was scared out of my liver by the sight of a giant robotic bear with gangly alien arms gingerly lifting a child.

And where is this giant pupiled bear taking the child? My guess would be back to its horrible space station den to be probed and tormented and eventually eaten. Seriously, why else play the "nothing could possibly go wrong so don't be concerned" music unless these children are in imminent danger? Come on, Japan. This has to stop. This is the real world not an extended game of Final Fantasy.

Also, just for the record, I am never, ever, in a million years going to clap to get that things attention. My preferred strategy will be to play dead. Oh, right, that won't work since someone (I'm not naming names but you know which country you are) gave this killing machine facial recognition software. Well, that's just great.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Steven Seagal Loves Wine

According to "the media", Steven Seagal is some kind of weird pervert. Whatever. We'll see when the truth all comes out. For now, the only thing that matters is that he really, really loves wine.

Hang tough, Steve. I got your back, Brosephino.

(via EIT)

Mumblebots, roll out.


Oh hi! I know, it's retarded how long it's been. Not Chunk from "Goonies" retarded, but definitely Corky from "Life Goes On" retarded, and that's plenty to warrant a semi-heartfelt apology. Forgive me. Please. I beg you. It's just I've gotten so lazy since we started podcasting. I'm even lazier than I was before. It's like I'm trapped inside an infinite loop of slack, and the only time I have to myself between work and screeching subway jaunts I spend looking at the back of my eyelids during marathon rounds of viking bear sleeps and getting taken to nerd school by 7 year old murder prodigies playing CoDMW2 online. After seeing how easy it is to record my jabbering and then watching as The Unbeatable Kid turns said jibber jabber into Ipod-ready, digi-bitified laser magic overnight, it's really hard to sit here with giant ape fingers and push normal finger-sized buttons at such a painfully slow pace. See, in real life I talk faster than most humans (Please download podcast #5 later this week for an example of this). But when I type, my normal pace screeches to a halt, and as a result when using a keyboard my words come out approximately every 3 to 5 minutes on average. I may be the least enlightened person I know, but if I typed the same way I spoke I'd sound like a foul mouthed stand-up comedian imitating a Zen master on his death bed. As stated earlier, this is mostly due to my gigantic Godzilla hands, but also has more than a lot to do with my lack of basic skills in grammar, punctuation, as well as spelling, not to mention my disregard for all forms of labor, big and small (including typing).

All this aside, It is nice to see my words again rather than having to hear my awful, awful voice. It's refreshing not to hear that painful droning I make when I open my face hole to communicate with others. Because when I read myself (rather than listening to myself) I can at least imagine my voice sounding better than the Harvey Fierstein Meth Chef thing I got going on in real life.

Can someone explain why the pitch of my voice is so high? In my head I sound like Roy Orbison or James Earl Jones. But on tape it's a different story all together. I need to stop smoking cigarettes. I sound like Joan Rivers on testosterone therapy. For serious. When I breathe I sound like a bagpipe getting thrown down the stairs. On more than one occasion I've been told I could do ADR for Mutley from Hanna-Barbera, or make extra money providing dubbing for the subjects of a non-English speaking documentary about Transsexuals. I know. That all sounds pretty cool. But the last time I checked, I'm a MAN. And you can call me old fashioned if you want, but I know what I want, and what that is is to sound like a MAN when I speak the King's English. Sorry to be a sexist. But it's the truth.

Remember back in olden times when I first wrote this blog I told you that I'd never lie to you? Forget all the lies I told you before, this time I mean it. Until I find a way to de-wimpify my voice I'll keep sounding like the shifty kid at Ritalin camp that hit puberty too early.

So that's that. Download the podcast. Unbeatable will send the laser links later in the week.

I guess that's all I have to say. In closing, here are three awesome things.




Love always,


Sunday, March 14, 2010


Waiting for the World Cup is like shoving my face full of Christmas cookies and counting the hours to Christmas. I'm saving my voice up so l can scream my head off like Chewbacca at the vet.

Here's a translation for those of you who don't speak Dutch:

"The Dutch are driving now... and the ball falls to DeBoer... oh wait, the delivery guy just walked in. Thank you Mr. Delivery man for this giant meat grinder. I'll just... OH MY GOD MY ARM! TURN IT OFF!
TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! ARRRHHHHH! DEAR LORD! Please someone call an ambulance."

On a lighter note, nothing seals a goal like an a little operatic improv.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Hello, Satan?

I'm good! I'm good! How you living?

Yes, I know you're not technically alive. Don't be snarky. What I mean is how's it going? What's the 411 on the 666?
Oh word? That's cool.
Me? Just chillin'. Kicking it at work, you know. Slow motion, playboy. Playing minesweeper, hating on my mark ass buster of a boss who thinks I'm actually gonna come in on Saturday and work on this presentation. He's bugging. Wish I was home blazing an L-Ron Hubbard playing Starcraft. Instead I'm stuck in this stupid office, on some straight up Dilbert shit. Whatever. It is what it is. How's your day going?
Cool, cool... hope the rest of it goes OK for you. I just wanted to call to thank you for the birthday present.I dig it!
Yes, I do really like it!
Stop! It's a great gift. What's not to like? I love McDonald's. I love chatting. How can I not fucking love it? Easily the best phone I've ever owned.
I mean it! It beats the pants off the faggy pocket watch the wife got me.
Ha! I know, right? What is this, The Industrial Revolution? She must think I'm 158 years old. Why would I want that piece of shit for my birthday? Get me a Timex, get me a set of Golf clubs. Why get me a fucking pocket watch on a chain? It's ridiculous.
I'm not being dramatic! Satan. She's an idiot.
I don't care if it sounds harsh. I married a shockingly stupid lady. I think I know why she got me this, but it doesn't make her any less of a retard for doing it.
Probably because one time I watched "Antique Roadshow" with her and mentioned how old things are kind of know, just to say something so she wouldn't talk. I didn't really mean it. One little comment and pow! she thinks I'm Winston Churchill.
Yes. She is stupid. Just because she got a 1412 on her S.A.T.'s doesn't mean she isn't a freaking retard. According to USA Today those tests are culturally biased..
The point is, the watch she gave me sucks. I suppose it wouldn't suck if I worked on a Steam train inside a Mark Twain novel. But I don't. So that makes her an ass for giving me Scrooge Bling when it's 2010 outside. Did we lose a war or something? I don't work in a textiles factory in London in 1836. I work here. In a shitty office with fluorescent lights, surrounded by fat nerds and computers that are smarter than me, in a futuristic age of scientific discovery and technological advances, not in the motherfucking past. So, she's an idiot. That's all I'm sayin'.
Well, agree to disagree. Whatever. Way to take her side, by the way.
You are taking her side! Very dickish of you. You know, you can't be the Devil's Advocate. You're the Devil. Choose one and stop being an asshole.
Whatevs, bro. Let's drop it. Speaking of the ladies, If I tell you something, do you promise to keep it on the D.L. Hughley?
Just promise, asshole.
Ok. Dude, you wouldn't believe the amount of Poontang this phone is getting me!!!
Yes, bro! It's silly. I'm like Lorenzo Lamas up in this motherfucker.
Believe me. Shorties are feeling the double arches. I'm baggin' digits like the Hamburglar. High five!
{Sigh} The Hamburglar? The striped guy who hung out with Grimace and Mayor McCheese and stole burgers? From the McDonald's ads? Jesus Christ, do you get cable down there?
Whatever.All I know is that this Ronald McDonald jump off is totally the new Iphone. Tell everyone. Blog it out! I just tweeted that shit like 12 seconds ago.
AND, I'm calling you from it right now! How rad is that? All hail the Dark Lord! You are truly the Master of Evil and supreme emperor of casual gifting! Booyah! Up top!
What are you doing later? I got these Carrot Top tickets my boss isn't using, and was wondering if you wanna catch the show with me, maybe catch a brew, play some Big Buck Hunter?
Oh? Yeah. I'll hold.

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

Picture of the Day

Pug Life.

The Force: 1, Jabba's Intern: 0

Ice Cold Nirvana

I watched a ton of figure skating this past Olympics. It's awesome. It's the Freddy Mercury of the Sporting world but with more falling and less good music. (Actually, no good music.) I watch it because I like theatricality in my winter sports. I also like sparkly things and public humiliation, so it really works for me. But one thing has me coming back every time: The falls. The falls are so fucking amazing.

Some kid from Farawayistan practices tornado jumps and triple lutzes 14 hours a day at gunpoint hoping for the big day when all their work will pay off, only to have life sucker punch them in the grundle precisely at the moment of their promised glory.

I feel so bad for them when it happens, but I can't avert my eyes. Talk about having your dreams taken away. And how much must it suck to have Bob Costas narrating your life's single most embarrassing moment. As if you already didn't feel bad enough, now you have a Paddington Bear inspired man child mocking you with a voice beautiful yet full of judgement and disdain. You can almost see God's hand reaching down from Heaven balling up into a giant fist, then obliterating these poor souls until all that is left of them is sadness. Glittery piles of pulverized sadness.

That being said I can't help but wonder who feels worse: A: An ice skater who falls flat on their face in front of millions and millions of disappointed friends, family, and countrymen, or B: Kurt Kobain while watching this video?

B. By a landslide. I hope Zombie Kurt Kobain rises from the dead just to eat this man's brains.

(via Craplinks)

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Teach the World to Sing

Fun fact: The well tanned circus bears that raised Dolph Lundgren taught him to sing, dance and ride a unicycle in the hopes that he could put some "threat" back in the term "triple threat". But Dolph learned a lot of from the human world as well, like how to wear a tuxedo and not be afraid of fire. Thus, our hero can make a well dressed torch wielding entrance (at about 0:50).

Yes, strange things are afoot on planet Sweden, otherwise known as the Graceland of Scandinavia.

From Sweden, we travel half way around the world to St. Petersburg for another world champion of outstanding greatness, Edward Khil.

Clear evidence that the iron curtain was an effective policy: This guy was kept in and Yakov Smirnoff was let out.

Don't get me wrong, I love Yakov but as the great man himself once said. "In Soviet Russia, you don't laugh at the state of the country and in America no state in the country laughs at you".

But, seriously what is up America? We used to lead the world in production of ridiculous variety shows. Giants of the small screen like Laugh-in, the Gong Show and Hee-Haw testified to our greatness. Somehow, somewhere between the Jerry Springer and the Backstreet Boys, America lost her way.

We've got to get back to simpler times. We've got to strap on a smile, activate the jazz hands and show um what we've got. Come on people, how's about a little less Julius Caesar and a little more Cesar Romero?

Friday, February 26, 2010

More Proof That We're Living in the Future.

Someone's Twitter account just sent me a Viagra ad. (Actually, it was a Viagra knock off. Viagra doesn't need to advertise. But that's not the point.)

The point is this: A human I actually know in flesh form had their microblogging alter-ego possessed by an invisible (yet clearly capitalist) computer-robot, designed with the sole intention of selling me synthetic sex enhancers in pill form while disguised as a person I've known for years, leaving me feeling violated and manipulated. Future: 1, Me: 0.

I'm old fashioned, I guess. But I swear that this event is important somehow. My gut tells me it's another sign that robots are taking over the world. And my gut's gut tells him he's probably right.

This shit happens all the time to people like us (internet/tech users), but not to those Outlanders who for some reason stay off the grid (non-nerds, seniors, mountain folk). It's weird and unsettling if you step back and think about it. It feels like the old guy that oversees the logic center of my brain just crossed an item off his Armageddon bucket list.

You might think I'm crazy. It's just spam. What's the big deal?

The big deal is, if this message was sent with exactly the same content but delivered as snail-mail instead, (the kind I grew up with, also known as "mail" mail), I'd only be able to come to the conclusion that someone took my friend hostage and sent me a ransom letter demanding I buy dick pills or else I never get to see him again.

We put too much faith into people's social network identities. So what exactly happens to the internet version of you when your friends' internet versions of themselves go missing? Do you call the Architect from the Matrix? Dial 311 and ask for Tron? Put up flyers on Facebook walls until they come back to us?

God. It's all so befuddling. I get caveman hands trying to type about it.

Just imagine what the grizzle-faced rapey dudes from "Deliverance" would think if you tried explaining this to them.

They'd be so mesmerized by the pops and clicks in those fancy college words coming out of your pretty, city-slicker mouth that they might just forget to anally rape you long enough for you to make a run for it.

Oh well, I guess it's all inevitable.

I'm just glad this particular pirate-tweet is one with health benefits in mind. If I have to have internet ninja robots hacking into my world from now until I die, it's better to have a cool one doing it rather than one of those asshole robots. Because evil or not, a robot that wants to make my penis strong is far more preferable to getting a email confirmation from Skynet telling me they're sending one of their special T-1000 Life Technicians somewhere between 2 and 5 tomorrow in order to disconnect my life service.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Observations taken during the 1 AM Westminster Dog Show re-broadcast.

So I'm watching the Westminster Dog show with my sister right now because I can't sleep. But I realize I don't want to. Why would I? This show is so much more than a dog competition. It's a total fucking bug out. You get to watch dogs which have been poof-preened into weird little fur clouds; fuzzy, shiny, boxy things that swish and sway across the floor like
animated throw pillows from Henry Kissinger's Honeymoon suite.Then you have the rest of them; big, awesome horse-sized things that look like concept art for the Tim Burton Marmaduke reboot, which when gathered together in large groups begin to resemble a Wookie drag queen parade float. What is not to love about this cavalry of absurd beauty unraveling before my eyes.

You also get to enjoy the spectacle of tight-faced men and women
geeked to the gills on Xanax and milk-bones, running around a giant green carpet while being watched by hawk eyed retirees in Civil War funeral attire who usually resemble one of the following: A) political cartoons of 1920's industry tycoons, B) Ellen DeGeneres/Wilford Brimley, or C) the heavyset, bullet-dodging barkeep in every Western film ever made.

The judges and handlers are an interesting cross-section of American dog nerds and visiting dog nerds from other countries. It's fascinating how similar and different they all are. There's a lot of story in their faces. If you take dogs and pantsuits out of the mix, I could easily be watching a Reba McEntire book signing or maybe even a cocktail hour at
New Vermont's 2016 singles mixer for survivors of the Great Robot Wars.

I noticed that Poodles always win, or at least make it to the finals. So do those little bastard Terriers. Something is screwy in this world of dog. Totally fixed. I wouldn't be shocked to learn that Poodle and Terrier syndicates are the Yakuza and Triads of the show dog world, deciding who gets the Blue Ribbon through mortal combat in a candlelit ring deep underneath the mansion of Caesar Milan. He's the kingpin, definitely. And why shouldn't he be? America's growing addiction to illegal dog show gambling creates a revenue stream ripe for criminal plundering. Why else do you think Caesar Milan has so many dogs? Not because he likes them. He hates dogs.The fucking dude kicks one in the face every 5 seconds on his show. But he knows they're good for certain things. You try convincing TV crew interns to bite an FBI agent in the balls for college credit.

My sister just asked about a judge, "How does that woman get her job?" I wouldn't know. I imagine they're like Carnies with better credit and less tents. My ignorance and prejudgment tell me that two prerequisites for them are to be both off-putting and extremely hard to be around. The perfect candidate is probably a 40-something man or woman that pretends to be well read, is the owner of tired shoulders and deep frown lines carved into their bitter faces by soul-crushing loneliness caused by years of frustration in trying to deal with people that don't get the whole “dog thing.” I could be wrong. But I have pretty good radar for people that suck at being awesome and succeed at being the fucking worst.

Commercial break. OMG. This adopt a dog ad is making me feel like bees are stinging my heart. Thanks for the kick in the beans, David Duchovny. Your "narration" makes me feel bad for being a human being. Hope you enjoy that mall money you earned during the 7.5 minutes you spent sucking down Fiji waters in the vocal booth, Mulder. I could really use one of those waters to rehydrate myself after all the crying I'll be doing down the road thinking about the images of confused puppy eyes staring at me through a fucking cage. Good work, you joy-killing asshole. Not even Scully can suck the air out of a room that fast. And the music is just... comically sad. It sounds like Thom Yorke's face. Excuse me while I crawl into a bottle of despair and murder my life to death. But please, don't stop your slow piano playing on my behalf. Those sounds are like tears of a Basset Hound puppy left out in the cold all night hitting the keys one by one. Nice touch, you manipulative bastards. You've made me sadder then when I watched E.T. die.

Other notes:
  • The Westminster announcer sounds like God, if the part had been played by a white economics professor from New England imitating Morgan Freeman during a wine-induced after-dinner board game with the new theater professor and his wife who drank too much and got awkward around his kids. Add to that some stadium reverb and an asshole filter and you have your man.
  • I'm pretty sure the handler of the Australian cattle dog just gave him a treat, and then immediately put the other half directly in his mouth and chewed it without even blinking. I rewound it on the DVR, and yes. Yes he did. That man eats dog food, or the dog eats man food. Either way I'm engrossed with the grossness of it.
  • Even if you call it a Belgian Tevuran, it's still just a Nazi police dog in hipster camouflage. You can't make a word like Tevuran sound cute. Names like that belong on whaling ships and airborne diseases, not on man's best friend. So give it up, Belgium. The dog slang ain't playing. It sounds like a waffle dish served at a Romulan Friendly's.
  • There's a commercial on asking me if I have a case of "dirty carpet anxiety". Last time I checked that doesn't make sense, so go fuck yourself.
  • If wolves has sex with bears they'd make the perfect Collie. Like this guy for example (below). He's so cool he should have his own dog so he can walk them. Look at this badass! He's like a werewolf version of Gandalf. I bet he can fly when nobody's looking.

Other, other notes:
  • Sheepdogs look like Koala Bears dressed as ZZ Top for a Wildlife Conservation calender.
  • Swedish Vallhund also a Viking dog, looks like it was engineered by dog scientists to the optimal proportions and size for specializing in attacking the genital area of an adult man.
  • Norwegian Buhund: the dog of Vikings. SOLD. Fucking sold. Apparently they were the companion of the Vikings when they were working on farms, or taking work breaks to visit other towns and burn other people and their farms. It's called a Viking siesta.
  • The Canaan dog is named after the Bible, not New Canaan, CT. Take THAT, white people.
  • Bouviers look content and pretentious. I can see Elton John playing one in a Pixar movie. They're not exactly fat, but more husky and sturdy. But at the same time kind of rebellious and rad, like Alec Baldwin or tugboats. God, I always wanted to ride in one of those. (Tugboats, not Alec Baldwin).

Closing note: I just heard the expression "love this breed!" come out of the commentator's mouth for at least the 45th time in minutes. Listen, pal. I applaud your enthusiasm, but I can't commit to trusting your judgment. Script or no script, I can tell you're more than a little over-involved in dog literature. You fucking adore them. So saying that you "love a breed" is an insult to my intelligence. Those European Mom pants can't possibly hide the raging boner you have for obscure canine trivia. Look. I love dogs. I accept that I'm totally gay for them. But being gay for dogs doesn't make you an expert, and being Liberace Ice-Capades gay for everything related to, or even casually associated with the dog kingdom gives you a bias I simple cannot accept in an objective dog show judge on the professional level. You may sound like a lady when you talk about your passion for the toy group, but I assure you, Sandra Day O'Connor you are not.

Update: A Terrier named Sadie won Best in Show tonight. Fixed again!!!!!!!!

Best version of Batman ever

Monday, February 15, 2010