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?

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.

Podcast 2: Hamburglering the McGuffin

Well, podcast 2 has arrived in the mail and damn! it's over 30 minutes long. Enjoy.

(Click here to get to the Downloadings)

(photo via realtybs)

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!!!!!!!!

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3 Reasons Rock N Roll Will Live Forever

In related news, my face just asked me for permission to explode.

Japanese Star Wars Tuna

Star Wars and Japan can sell anything. This could be an ad for cans of weapons grade Anthrax and I’d still buy a thousand in Costco-size family packs and hoard them like Smaug the motherfucking Dragon guarding treasure in "The Hobbit". Normally I wouldn't be interested in purchasing anything that looks so awful, but for some reason I can't resist this. It's not my fault. It's Star Wars and Japan. That's peanut butter and jelly for the nerd's soul. I should never have underestimated the powers of their force.

I'd like to send a handful of kudos and an awkwardly long laser hug to the visionary director, for somehow making C-3PO ten times gayer than George Lucas ever imagined possible. Seriously. No amount of Imperial programming can account for that much showmanship. He looks like a craft services protocol droid fetching water and cocaine for Nicole Kidman on the set of "Moulin Rouge".

1978 はごろも缶詰 シーチキン (via ksoik)

Sweeping the Clouds Away

Dear Bird,

Having a great time. Telly was right, the people here really know how to live. Remember all those things I said that night we did those speedballs and burnt down the Count's castle? Probably not. But, I wanted to let you know that I finally feel like I belong in this world, like I'm a real thinking being and not just a puppet. Hang in there, Bird. rehab looks great from the other side. Kick Oscar in the balls for me. -C

(image via Paco Pomet at booooooom)