Danger!

This past Saturday, I sprained my ankle.

The End. See you next post...

No, wait. There's more to this story. How did I sprain my ankle? Well, let me tell you, you impatient person: We were babysitting a pair of diabolical children, and we had taken them to a neighborhood playground, in which there was an extremely dangerous jungle gym: seriously, this thing was a heap of rusted pig iron covered with jagged edges, poorly discarded hypodermic needles, and fresh human waste. The kids loved it.

I made the mistake of going on the jungle gym, and as I was getting off (no, not like that you perverts), I misplaced my step. My ankle then made the most horrible sound (imagine fresh celery being ripped in half), after which I fell and bruised my knee. Do I have your sympathy now? Good. My ankle hurt...a lot. I could hardly breathe. I thought I was going to vomit.

I eventually made my way to the Emergency Room dressed as a ninja, just to make sure there wasn't anything broken or misaligned. I went to Somerville Hospital, which is actually a lovely little place located on Highland Street between City Hall and Davis Square.

As I was being checked in, the woman taking my information had to ask me thousands of questions, including my ethnicity. She said that the data was for the federal government, e.g., if enough people of a particular group patron the hospital, they can receive federal money to obtain translators, etc. Even though I was born here in the United States of Lower Canada—tee-hee—she wanted to know what I consisted of anyway, even though I doubt too many people from my ancestral homelands are coming to America these days, which brings me to my next almost-related topic:

Earlier in the summer, I took a DNA test to see what ethnicities are contained within my genetic goo. I knew some of what was inside of me (besides dark, creamy chocolate and nougat). I have relatives—dead ones—from the England, the Ireland, and the Poland that I actually sort of knew and really knew, so you can imagine my surprise when I received my results...which said that I was mostly Danish, with a healthy portion of Englishness. I was like, "Danish? Who's from Denmark?" That's going to send me on some sort of quest. Despite my very Polish last name, I'm about one percent Polish. Hm...Ham.

In the Meantime

I'm writing a new post as we speak, my friends. Here, enjoy this. It's AMUSING.

http://www.jossip.com/corrections/the-corrections-of-our-times-20070910/

Road House

Here is, courtesy of YouTube, the original trailer for the 1989 classic Road House, starring Patrick Swayze, Sam Elliot, Ben Gazzara, that guy from Emergency! who's not Randolph Mantooth and who also played Locke's father during the third season of Lost, and John Doe, the lead singer and bass player for the seminal LA punk band X. As many have stated, Road House is the greatest bad movie ever made. I cannot think of a worse movie that is also this entertaining. Let me be clear: Road House is terrible, but it is not boring. Enjoy!

Robotic Freddie Mercury! (April 14, 2001)

This is a goofy thing I wrote a few years back for a website. Enjoy. Or not.

Sonicare Personal Model PS-1 Sonic Electric Toothbrush

Pros: Sonicare vibrates the plaque right off your filthy, stinking teeth.

Cons: Sonicare is pricey. Did not blur my vision or induce IBS.

The Bottom Line: It's like having a dentist in your hand, only shorter. And plastic.

Full Review

I must admit that at first I was hesitant about trying the Sonicare toothbrush. I was quite satisfied with my previous toothbrush, a little Bulgarian number called the Stotinki 500.

The Stotinki 500 is a state-of-the-art, cast-iron toothbrush, powered by a 500-cc, OHV, chain-driven Diesel engine. The Stotinki came complete with solid (and shiny) 1-inch copper bristles that, when powered by the Diesel, provided me with brutally clean teeth and a tangy, copper flavor that lasts for weeks. But that's not all the Stotinki provided. Its Diesel engine produced soothing white noise, drowning out earthquakes, screaming children, and nearby explosions.

One of the Stotinki's rare shortcomings was it only came in two colors: army green and battleship gray--that and its high cost of maintenance, as it required monthly oil, coolant, and filter changes; lube jobs; and yearly tune-ups.

One the Stotinki's best features was its Electro-Talkie Unit or ETU for short. As you brush, the ETU gave detailed instructions on how to improve your brushing experience. Unfortunately, the ETU only came with two language settings: Bulgarian and an all-purpose Low German, making the Stotinki sound either confused or really p.o.'ed. So, to further enhance my brushing experience, I ordered the English module featuring the voice of international superstar, William Shatner. But my expectations were utterly deflated, as this proved to be a falsehood: the English module wasn't equipped with the voice of Captain James T. Kirk but a Japanese man who spoke in broken English and declared, "Me Wirrum Shatnel! Blush teet now razy Engrish-speaking pelson or die!" How rude.

After thorough counseling, my dentist, Country-Western superstar Eddie Rabbit, claimed that the Stotinki was harsh on my enamel and gum tissue and affected my ability to speak. That's when he recommended Sonicare.

I quickly drove home, yet still obeyed all posted speed limits, and ordered a Sonicare toothbrush from Amazon.com. Within a few short months, UPS arrived with my toothbrush. The driver was a Siamese twin, and I asked one of the heads, "How long have you and your brother been with UPS?" to which he answered, "We're not related."

Unlike my Diesel-powered Stotinki, I did not need a special license to operate Sonicare. And since Sonicare runs on electricity, there's no danger of asphyxiation, unlike the Stotinki with its noxious Diesel fumes that often killed pets and overnight guests.

Sonicare comes with endorsements from dentally empowered superstars, like the very macho Erik Estrada and octogenarian hard rocker Sammy Hagar. Who can't drive 55? I would not hold these endorsements against Sonicare.

Oh, it cleans teeth really well.

Learn How, You Idiot!

To all of you who dislike my All My Children postings: have no fear, as this entry only contains one short blurb about that particular show. Yesterday, local meathead medical student Jamie Martin informed local skank Arabella "Babe" Carey that he was leaving Pine Valley to join his uncle, Dr. Jake Martin, who has established an AIDS clinic in Africa. First, I thought it was funny that no other location was given other than Africa. No particular country on the continent, just Africa. (Apparently, Jamie will be helping to treat the entire continent. Bully for him.) Upon hearing the news, Babe tearfully told Jamie, "But if you go, you’ll be gone."

Ha-HA! That is awesome. It reminds me of that great line from The Brady Bunch Movie, as delivered by family patriarch, Mike Brady (Gary Cole), "Wherever you go, there you are."

Also occurring yesterday was the arrival of this e-mail:

From: "Robert Allen"
To: ryszard1973@yahoo.com
Subject: See How Morons Make Millions
Date: Wen, 22 Aug 2036 07:48:24 –0400

Trivia: Sunday Nights at Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square

Last night, as we tend to do on Sunday nights, we played trivia at Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square. Our trivia guy, or moderator for you snobs, is Mike. He's the greatest trivia guy of all time. It even says so on his business cards.

On a side note, just to let you know, I do not have shrine of Mike in my apartment that contains dozens of pictures and personal items. Christos, in his apartment of course, still has his collage of Tom Cruise photos with all the eyes cut out.

The game last night was a rough, tight one. That's sounds filthy, but it's not. Really. We weren't in the lead at any time, but after the final bonus round, our team somehow ended up in second place, and then first, after the winning team, Spider-Pig, admitted that they had more than six people participating, which is a no-no. Our team's name for the evening was "There's Always Room in Jesus' Camaro." Which is true. Our team's name last week was "Kirk Cameron Left Me Behind," and if my eternal salvation were dependent upon the whims of Kirk Cameron, I'd prefer to be left behind. "Show me that smile..." No!

Here is a sampling of other team names we have used:

• Blood Cookie
• Get Out of My Dreams and Into My Car, Trivia Guy!
• Harvard University Plagiarism Society
• Presbyterian Summer Social
• What Would Freddie Mercury Do?
• You Don't Know the History of Psychiatry—I Do!

And here is a sample of names used by opposing teams that I've enjoyed:

• A Big Bag of Sweaty Dicks
• Harry Twatter and the Cuntly Hallows
• Mel Gibstein
• Ninja Please...
• Optimus Prime Rib
• Transvestites, Robots in Disguise
• Bi-Curious George

Is It Time to Go Home Yet?

Previously, I had written a post about my quest to determine the location of Pine Valley in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania—home to the cast of characters on ABC's All My Children—and how the show's repeated scenes of lush tropical beaches, deep virgin forests, endless metropolitan skylines, and an occasional lack of gravity, hadn't been of much help. What makes this situation even more confusing is Erica Kane's wardrobe. No matter the location or occasion, Erica is always wearing some type of sleeveless cocktail dress accompanied by giant pendulous earrings and high heels. For example, she could be in any of the following locations or situations:

• at the beach
• ice fishing in Minnesota
• in a courtroom
• cage fighting in Thailand
• in a deep-sea diving bell
• trapped somewhere in the future
• in a volcano
• wrestling a gorilla
• in surgery (performing or receiving)
• folk dancing in Sweden
• on the moon
• repairing potholes on I-95
• in the Gobi desert
• providing guidance to teens with personal problems
• at King Richard's Renaissance Fair
• washing cars for charity
• on the crapper

Another Item from the Past While I'm Writing Something from the Present

During my senior year of high school, we had a "bomb scare." Yes, someone called into the school, before class, to claim they had placed an explosive device somewhere on the premises. This was back in the fall of 1990, so this prankster was some sort of innovator.

My friend Brett and I both had lockers located downstairs in a dungeon-like hallway. We were in the same homeroom because our surnames both began with the letter "W." Brett and I also had a several classes together, including "Contemporary Affairs." For that class we used Time magazine as our text. One of the things Brett and I enjoying doing, besides reading the articles, was to alter the pictures inside with humorous intent.

One day, Brett somehow acquired a daily calendar entitled Dog a Day. As you can surmise, each day featured a photograph of a dog. In a moment of sheer inspiration, Brett decided to alter the photographs by drawing a penis (and sometimes penises) in the mouth of each dog. Imagine, for example, a picture of a smiling Golden Retriever with a big fat dick in its mouth—as if it were playing fetch—complete with scrotum.

After completing his task, Brett hung (wacka-wacka) his altered calendar inside his locker. Each day he would rip off the previous day's page to expose a new picture of a new dog with a new schlong in its mouth. This went on for weeks without a hitch.

Months later, the day of the bomb threat, the fire department was called in to look for the bomb. The firemen and the vice principal opened every locker in the school during their search, including Brett's. I can only imagine what they thought when in an effort to determine the existence or nonexistence of a bomb they discovered a calendar with pictures of dogs with large floppy cocks hanging out of their mouths. Unfortunately, after we were allowed to return to the building, we discovered that Brett's calendar had been removed. Damn it. We depended on that calendar. How were we supposed to know which day it was?

Customer Service

Here's another blast from the past: I used to work at a Barnes & Noble. Wait, there's more to this story.

One day, while working at one of the INFORMATION STATIONS, the telephone rang. One of my coworkers—let's call him Brian—was working with me at the station, and I dared him to answer the phone and pretend that we were Papa Gino's (a pizza chain) rather than Barnes & Noble, and he did!

"Thank you for calling Papa Gino's. This is Brian. May I take your order?" The woman who had called sounded very confused. "This isn't Barnes & Noble?" Brian stayed in character throughout the entire exchange. Unfortunately, the caller never ordered a pizza.

I was so impressed with Brian's acting abilities that a few days later I dared him to do it again. Entertain me, Brian! As we were on our break, in the break room of all places, he answered the phone, again as a Papa Gino's employee, and began a long conversation with someone looking for particular book. Brian would actually try to sell pizzas to the customers, which just added to the confusion. And this time, as he made his daring sales pitch, I pretended to be an irate customer, "I said I wanted ham, goddamn it! Give me ham! Ham!" After which, I knocked over a metal folding chair onto its side.

A few days later, again during our break, I again dared him to answer the phone and pretend that we were Meineke Discount Mufflers. (I know they have since changed their name to Meineke Car Care Center, so eat me.) "Meineke Discount Mufflers, this is Brian speaking, how may I help you?" In order to assist in the illusion, I made silly noises one would hear in a mechanic's garage, e.g., vroom! fweeemvvv! fweeemvvv! clink-clank! As Brian continued with his phone conversation—I never understood why people just didn't hang up—I yelled, "OH MY GOD! MY TIE IS CAUGHT IN THE FAN BELT! AHHH!" Brian quickly ended his conversation with, "Oops. Got to go," and hung up the phone.

Autobots!

Figure 1: Optimus Prime

Remember the cartoon Turbo Teen? I barely do, but I just watched a clip of the show's opening credits on YouTube.

Figure 2: El Teen de Turbo

If you're not familiar, Turbo Teen is the story of a teen, full of turbo, who transforms into a 1980s Pontiac Firebird-like car when his body temperature increases. His hands turn into the front tires, his mouth the grill, et al., but no, I don't know what his penis becomes. The driveshaft? I suppose, if he's packing.

Figure 3: Puberty

Anyway, the Turbo Teen roams throughout the countryside, fighting crime and helping people with their personal problems.

Of course, the Turbo Teen's gimmick leads me to ask what if his entire family were full of the turbo? I picture his mother as a middle-aged menopausal woman who transforms into a 1993 Ford Taurus and then roams throughout suburbia, helping people with their personal problems. I picture his grandfather as an elderly man who transforms into a dented 1974 Cadillac Seville and then roams throughout suburbia at 23 miles an hour with his left directional on...complaining about minorities, trying to get to the bingo hall.

But back to the intended subject: I saw The Transformers—the movie—this past weekend. The movie was bad. Why? I can think of numerous reasons, but one of my primary complaints, besides every thing else, concerns an issue plaguing most of today's action-packed kinescopes: scenes filled with GCI animation and spastic jump-cut editing set at an astronomical pace that makes any action flick from 1980s look like My Dinner with Andre (in terms of pacing...and storytelling, of course). What do I mean? The Transformers themselves, more than meets the eye, were created using CGI animation—I hope that doesn't come as a shock to you—and whenever the Autobots (good guys) and Decepticons (bad guys) would get into a scuffle, I couldn't tell what the hell was occurring on the silver screen right in front of me. It was as if someone took the film, removed every other frame, and played it back at twice the normal speed. I had the same issue with the last installment of the Spiderman. I mean, really, what the fuck? I will bet you—yes you—that in ten years' time movies will simply be recordings of strobe lights. Wait a minute! Maybe I will do that! I could probably receive a major-studio distribution deal. To seal that deal, I'll tell them in advance that my film is a shot-for-shot remake of Teen Wolf II.

Figure 4: A "hair-raising" movie

Grammar

I work with an inordinate number of people who don't know the differences between the usages of "don't" and "doesn't" and that, my comrades, makes me bullshit. What the fuck? It’s as if the contraction "doesn't" DOESN'T—ha—exist. BOO-YAH!

The Yacht Club is Spotless

On ABC's All My Children, Sean Montgomery—nephew of the exceptionally tan District Attorney Jack Montgomery, who himself is currently involved with an annoyingly never-ending pseudo divorce storyline with the bobble-headed Erica Kane—is currently performing community service as a part of his punishment for possession of narcotics at the Pine Valley High prom! I shit thee not! Sean had quaaludes on his person, because All My Children is always up to date with the latest trends and events. Catch this dialog excerpt for example:

PINE VALLEY POLICE OFFICER ROGER SNITTINGHAM

Reach for the sky, hippie!

SEAN MONTGOMERY

Hey! Watch the threads! My old lady coughed
up a lot of bread for these groovy duds!

PINE VALLEY POLICE OFFICER ROGER SNITTINGHAM

Shut up, mop top. Hey, what’s this in your pocket, pinko?

To date, Sean has had several scenes in which he's picking up trash all hours day and night in rather odd locations, like the local yacht club. Now, if Erica Kane were performing community service (which she would receive as a sentence for multiple convictions of murder in the first degree), she of course would do so while wearing a slinky cocktail dress, because she owns thousands, and with a surrounding bevy of fawning male admirers, because who can resist Erica...Erica...Erica. By the way, Susan Lucci, who plays Erica Kane, is approximately 4' 2", yet her head is the same size as that of a 6' 10" Swede. Her neck must be ready to snap. Supporting her huge head with her tiny neck must be like balancing a dump truck on a toothpick.

But I digress. How was Sean even able to attend the prom? He'd skipped every single day of school either to dick-tease the whiny Colby Chandler, or to have shower sex with the "sultry" Ava Benton, identical half-sister of Lily Montgomery. Yes, All My Children recycled an idea from The Patty Duke Show, only Ava, rather than being Scottish, is stupid.

Come to think of it, I think everyone in Pine Valley is related to everyone else in some way or another. Someone's going to end up as his or her own grandparent soon enough. Yuck.

Lily, by the way, is supposed to be virginal innocence and Ava a sweaty bag of ho, sort of an attempt at yin and yang, or something. How so? For example, Ava is also currently schtupping Jonathan Lavery, Lily’s ex-husband and brother of the ultimate douche bag (his wrestling name) Ryan Lavery. What wrong with that? Besides being Lily’s ex-husband, more than 30 years of age, and a serial murderer, Jonathan is currently sporting a just-not-quite-there, Paul Snider-like moustache that your average creepy gym teacher wears.

"Ungh! You’re the BEST sandwich."

The chef in the cafeteria at work is on vacation this week, and the catering company he works for has sent a substitute. So, in honor of his absence, allow me to tell you a little about our fearless chef.

Now, the chef is kind of crazy. For example, he may tell someone ordering lunch that she can have anything she wants, but the next unfortunate person in line may get a verbal bitch slapping. I’ve seen it many times. There’s no rhyme or reason to his behavior.

In addition, while making your, let’s say, sandwich, he may start a dialogue with himself on how your sandwich is the greatest sandwich he’s ever seen. “Look at this! Oh boy, now this is a sandwich! I buy the best cuts of meat. It may cost a little more, but it’s worth it! They ought to build a wall around Mexico!” Remember, this is the chef talking to the sandwich, not to you. In fact, he’s so involved with this conversation that he often loses all awareness of everything around him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he one day started humping a sandwich.

“Ungh! You’re the BEST sandwich. Yeah. I’m going to make you suck it! Ted Kennedy better watch his step! Look at all that mayonnaise!”

Guten Tag, My Bitches!

Once, a long time ago, but in this galaxy, I knew this girl. Wait, the story gets better. In this same galaxy, I wrote an e-mail, and included this girl on the "To:" list. This same e-mail included a salutation that went something...like...this, "My bitches!" This e-mail went out to all sorts of friends of mine, male and female. This girl responded with a sternly worded e-mail explicitly informing me that she was, in fact, "a lady." I laughed. I then informed her, via e-mail, it was fortunate that she had majored in marketing because she was astonishingly uncreative. "I’m a lady." (Who the fuck says that in this day and age? Well, I do, but only when it's convenient.) Then in a wave of utmost maturity, I put on a pair of my cleanest panties and blocked her screen name/e-mail address. Thanks, AOL!

CNN Typo

Study: Publicly-funded tutoring under NCLB pays off

That was the headline as written on CNN.com at the following URL:

http://www.cnn.com/2007/EDUCATION/06/28/nochild.tutoring.ap/index.html

I sent an e-mail to CNN.com informing them of their HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE MISTAKE. One does not hyphenate a compound modifier if the first word of that same compound modifier is an adverb ending in
"-ly." So there, my bitches!

Knight Rider, a shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist…

Or not.

According to legend, Hasselhoff bombed during his first audition for the role of Michael Knight, after which he begged for a second chance. Before returning for his second audition, Hasselhoff yelled repeatedly to himself in the bathroom mirror, "I am the Knight Rider! I am the Knight Rider!"

Figure 1: Hasselhoff acting in outer space.

After reading that little bit of history, I wondered if Hasselhoff did the same thing at the second audition: yelling repeatedly at the producers, "I am the Knight Rider! I am the Knight Rider!" He’s a convincing fellow, for sure.

Figure 2: Hasselhoff: "Ladies, it comes out to here."

For the unacquainted, Knight Rider was a TV show on NBC from 1982 to 1986, starring David Hasselhoff. The show followed the crime-fighting adventures of a man and his talking, homosexual car, KITT (an acronym for "Knight Industries Two Thousand"), played by a 1982 Pontiac Trans-Am and William Daniels.

Figure 3: KITT’s dashboard made the control panel of
a commercial airliner seem idiot-proof.

Recently, I found a website dedicated to the show. One of the website’s features is a list of each episode paired with a brief synopsis. Believe it or not, I read every synopsis, and in doing so, made a discovery that you may find shocking: some of Knight Rider’s plots are implausible, and even more shocking, some plots were recycled, multiple times, with little variation. Provided below, as evidence for my theory, is a list of episode synopses grouped by theme. These are actual plots from the show. The only changes made to the synopses were for grammatical and stylistic purposes, and Hasselhoff’s own name is used in place of the character he portrays, Michael Knight. Why? It just seemed funny. Enjoy.

Theme 1: Sinister Business Deals

(1) Hasselhoff and KITT go undercover at an auto-daredevil show whose owners unwittingly took out a second mortgage from a crooked broker who arranges accidents to force the owners into bankruptcy.

(2) Hasselhoff and KITT go undercover as a daredevil act to investigate a circus whose owners are being forced into bankruptcy by the angry local townsfolk.

(3) Hasselhoff and KITT go undercover at a ranch for troubled teens that’s being forced into bankruptcy by the angry local townsfolk.

Theme 2: Archaeology

Figure 4: Hasselhoff and KITT on their way to another adventure.

Figure 5: Hasselhoff and KITT arrive at another adventure.

(1) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate the mysterious deaths among members of an exclusive club for geniuses involved in an archeological excavation.

(2) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate the mysterious disappearance of an archaeologist excavating an ancient Native American burial ground.

(3) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate a voodoo priestess who is inducing the members of an archaeological expedition to commit crimes and then kill themselves.

Someone on staff had an obsession with archeology. I’ll bet you $100 that it wasn’t Hasselhoff.

Theme 3: Witnesses

(1) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate a businessman exploiting illegal aliens. A blind woman is the only witness.

A blind woman is the only witness? Does she "only see voices?"

For your pleasure, please refer to the 3:51 mark.

(2) Hasselhoff and KITT must prevent the assassination of a Latin American president by a terrorist group, and the only person who knows their plan is a woman who has amnesia.

Amnesia? What is this? All My Children? Is the woman portrayed by Susan Lucci?

(3) Hasselhoff and KITT attend a Christmas banquet when they encounter a gypsy boy who has witnessed a bank robbery and is sought by the robbers from whom he stole a gold watch.

Did I forget to mention that the gypsy boy is also a blind amnesiac?

Figure 6: Hasselhoff: "KITT! I can’t see!"

Personal Favorites

(1) Hasselhoff poses as a "space-weapon scientist" to gain access to a club operated by a women dealing in blackmail and top-secret weapons systems.

The fact that Hasselhoff is pretending to be a “space-weapon scientist” makes this one of the greatest episodes of television ever. I actually saw this episode, and Hasselhoff’s disguise consisted of a pair of fake eyeglasses and a power-blue tuxedo.

(2) Devon [Hasselhoff’s boss] sends Hasselhoff to stop a range war over water rights.

A range war over water rights? Did Devon send Hasselhoff back in time to 1840s Utah? What the fuck?

(3) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate the theft of heavy-duty construction equipment but are pushed into a quarry and buried under tons of gravel.

How come the local police department wasn’t called to investigate the theft of construction equipment? Seems like a situation well within their capabilities...TURBO BOOST!

(4) Hasselhoff and KITT go to Mexico to investigate a talent agent who is using beautiful models to smuggle diamonds in their vaginas into the United States.

OK, I made up the part about going to Mexico.

(5) After an explosion, Hasselhoff and KITT are separated, and KITT’s memory is erased. KITT befriends a boy (played by Jason Bateman) being chased by thieves who think he is a witness to their crime.

Although this plot could have been filed under the "Witnesses" category, the fact that KITT, a 1982 Pontiac Trans-Am, has amnesia is what makes this story SHINE!

Atari Memories

I'm going to date myself—no, not like that you mental perverts.

Like most people my age (mid 30s), my family owned an Atari 2600 video game system. The Atari 2600 was the thing to have in the early '80s because there wasn't much else, besides Intellivision. Recently, I had a conversation with my friend (using mental telepathy) about the Atari 2600 and its lackluster games, particularly a game vaguely based on one of the most successful and beloved films of all time.

No, not Spice World.

No, not Troll.

Figure 1: The screen captures featured in this blog entry are from the hack version of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial because they are much funnier.

I’m referring to E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. This game is perennially cited as one of worst videogames of all time. Or the last 30 years. E.T., the videogame, was quickly released for the 1982 Christmas season to cash in on the success of the movie. Hoping to boost sales, Atari produced millions of copies of E.T., which is unfortunate, as it sucked major (dad) ass. Unfortunately, 1982 was a bad year overall for videogames, as the market was flooded with dozens of inferior titles. In fact, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial and Pac-Man are often cited as the dual impetuous behind the histrionically titled "Video Game Crash of ’83."

How to Play E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial

You are E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.

But wait! There’s more! But not much.

As E.T., you must collect the various components of your space-phone in order to phone home. Sounds easy—too easy—correct? Yes, in theory. Along the way, you must avoid all sorts of antagonists, like doctors and FBI agents, who are out to steal your space-phone, but your good friend Eliot, of course, is there to assist you, sometimes.

Figure 2: In this picture, E.T. builds a modest, split-level
ranch home in ancient Athens. Notice his rather limp dick.

Now comes the insane bit: Where does E.T. find the components for his space-phone? In the hundreds of deep, giant pits scattered around town! Just like the movie! You, as E.T., must fall into the pit, collect the component, and then levitate out of the pit in a very particular manner, otherwise you will fall back into the pit, and if you keep falling back into the pit, you could DIE. Trying to get out of a pit takes MINUTES, thanks to Atari’s inadequate control system. Anyway, to levitate, you must fully extend your E.T. neck, float away, and then retract it as soon as you get to the top of the pit, or, for some reason, you will fall back down, again. Oh no!

Figure 3: E.T. inside one of the infamous pits.
Notice his rather prominent erection.

E.T. was almost pointless, and somehow managed to be simultaneously too difficult and too simplistic. What explains almost all of this is that the game was developed, programmed, and tested within six weeks by one person. And here he is!

Figure 4: The Atari programmer responsible
for the E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial videogame.

Yes, I bought a copy. I bought it because it was cheap, as I couldn’t afford the better games, which were sometimes 30 to 50 dollars! But most of America, unlike me, knew better, and Atari had fourteen truckloads of copies buried in a landfill in Alamogordo, New Mexico. Urban legend has it that meddling kids located the dumpsite and stole copies, but officially, what I’ve determined, is that Atari had the copies crushed by a steamroller before burial. Why not recycle, you bitches?

Summer Fun

During the summer of 1992, after a successful first year at college, my friend Brett and I drove to our friend Erik’s house to see if he wanted to join us on our adventures, which usually consisted of driving Brett’s old Ford Ranger on power line trails to see where we would end up. Yes, indeed. Erik’s family (a horde of Vikings) lived on a rural road, deep in the woods, like mountain men. Or Vikings. Side Note: Erik's mother was from Norway. Their large and rustic-looking house was at the top of a steep hill, and as we were coming up the driveway, we noticed that the front door was open, wide open. We parked the truck and walked to the door to see if anyone was home, and...no response. We went inside, and determined that yes there was no one home, and yes, Erik’s family had not been murdered—at least not on the property. We could not find any sign of…foul play...

For some reason, which I can’t quite remember, Brett came up with the idea that we should go to the supermarket and purchase a cake to leave on the kitchen counter. I added that we should also buy a tube of decorative frosting and write a message on the cake. I suggested the following in pretty, teal-colored frosting and a florid script: "Lock the door, assholes!"

We laughed and laughed.

Funny Website

http://planethiltron.com/index.php

This person has really amusing pictures of celebrities altered by means of this Photoshop thing all the kids are talking about these days. My personal favorite is the little person Dina Lohan (see below).

Look Out!

Yesterday, on my way home from work, sitting in traffic on 128, an accident involving two motorcycles occurred next to my car. "How could this have happened?" Calm down bitches, and let me explain.

The first rider, named...Chuck (?), was speeding in the breakdown lane, which is always a good idea, and he came to a sudden, screeching stop. Why? I was not aware at that moment, but just up the highway, also in the breakdown lane, were a state trooper and the remains of a three-car pile-up. And just as Chuckie came to a complete stop, a second rider named...Gary (?) who, in addition, was carrying a wild filly of a passenger, probably his old lady, smashed into Chuck-O and sent him FLYING forward, like William Katt on TV’s The Greatest American Hero. Or Puma Man, but that’s a bit of an obscure reference. The Chuckster somersaulted, sans gym mat, but he got right back up, just like Lee Majors on TV’s The Fall Guy, and as soon as he did, Gary took off (I’m assuming Chuck and Gary knew each other, but who knows?). Afterward, Chuckberg sat his ass on the guardrail. I almost called 911 (which is certainly not a joke in my town), but then I saw the trooper up ahead and started to inch my car toward him. I could tell by the expression on trooper’s face that he had seen the accident, and he started to make his way toward Chuck, but I still performed my civic duty and informed a police officer that I had just shat my pants.

Fusion Green

Yesterday on All My Children, the women of Fusion presented their new marketing campaign for Fusion Green to a representative from a very important chain of imaginary department stores.

To those who don't know, Fusion is the local cosmetics giant founded by Kendall Hart-Slater, Greenlee Smythe du Pres Lavery, and the deceased Simone Torres, who last year was a victim of the Satin Slayer! What? Yes! The Satin Slayer was a serial killer who targeted the women of Fusion, as brilliantly surmised by local 34-year-old fetus, Dr. Joshua Madden, despite the fact that fellow Slayer victim (the Satin Slayer, not the band) Dixie Cooney Martin had never stepped foot or feet inside the Fusion offices.

Dixie, of course, was killed by a helping of poisoned peanut butter and banana pancakes. (Never had I seen such a disgusting sight on my television before—the pancakes, not Dixie.) In fact, the visually revolting pancakes had more screen time than long-time character Brooke Allison English Cudahy Chandler Martin, especially since Dixie took almost a week to eat the damn things; I thought they were going to receive an on-screen credit and a SAG card.

For some not-so-obvious reason, the Satin Slayer and his serial killings negatively affected Fusions sales, and in response, Fusion Green was created to win back those sales. What is Fusion Green? Fusion Green is a series of new, environmentally conscious cosmetic products. Still clueless? So was the representative from a very important chain of imaginary department stores. How's this: The marketing materials mostly consisted a series of 8½-by-11 prints featuring images of various fruits and vegetables that happen to be green, with the Fusion corporate logo printed in the corner. Brilliant. Doesn't ABC Daytime have a marketing department they could ask to make some mock advertisements? I know ABC Television is only a small division of the cash-strapped Disney Corporation, but someone in-house must have a copy of QuarkXPress.

Anyway, Di Henry, local Dixie Cooney Martin impersonator and now non-descript Fusion employee, proudly presented these marketing materials as Greenlee gave her speech about Fusion Green being "fresh, new, and exciting." Sold!

(Greenlee's oratory reminded me of Henry V's monologue before the Battle of Agincourt. No, not really. Goddamn it Greenlee, buy a frigging thesaurus.)

As usual, the writers of All My Children prove they have no concept of the real world. For example, the Fusion Green video presentation featured the rep himself. Let me explain that again: The new video presentation of Fusion Green's marketing campaign features the rep himself watching the video presentation among scenes of the Fusion woman frolicking in the office, with various shots of trees, bodies of water, and of course, fresh green produce. Apparently, Fusion has a corporate TARDIS, in order to defy the laws of space and time.

It Might Prove Comical, But It Could Cost You Your Job!

That’s a quote from a training video I watched during my first day of work at Marshalls in August of 1991. I shall always remember that video. I might write more about that in the future. That’s a tease.

We had a meeting at work this afternoon about insider trading. Why? I can’t tell you! What I learned from the presentation given by a doughy financial guy and his accompanying video, which must have been produced in the late eighties judging by the eyewear of certain actors, are the following facts:

1. You may not sell any company stock you possess at any time.
2. You may not discuss any company stock you possess with anyone, not even yourself.
3. It is illegal to possess any company stock you possess at any time.

The presentation was a bit dull (NO!) but the video was kind of funny in a retro/overdramatic kind of way. Although it wasn’t quite as dramatic as the testicular cancer video I had watch in my senior year gym class in high school:

"Hey, son. You look kind of down. What’s wrong?"

"Dad, I got a lump."

"A lump? Where?"

"It’s on my...it’s on my...it’s on my nut."

And scene!

Who are these actors in these instructional videos? Most of these guys and gals take their roles far too seriously. Or not at all. In the video I watched today, I thought the man arrested (in public, a la Law & Order, with snappy one-liners) for insider trading was going to cry when confronted later on by a corporate middle-wig (played by Eric Roberts wearing a dojo): "I JUST WANTED A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR MYSELF!" Calm down, bitch. You should take a cue from the guy playing the FBI agent who arrested you; he was about as animated as HAL 9000.

The Final Episode

OK, last night on this HBO show called The Sopranos, the character Phil Leotardo, played by the actor Frank Vincent, is "wiggity wiggity whacked," as the kids like to say, at a gas station, standing just outside the SUV driven by his wife. In the back seat sit two of his grandchildren, who happen to be infants, speaking some strange baby language.

After Phil is shot, his body drops to the ground, and his wife screams and runs out of the SUV while the transmission is in still in Drive. The SUV starts to roll forward, and the rear passenger-side tire rolls right over Phil's freshly dead head. POP! The scene is so graphic that a young man baring witness to Phil's demise vomits profusely. That, or the kid ate one of those microwave burritos sold at gas stations. The grandchildren continue to giggle with glee and roll all the way to that night’s Tony Awards.

So, what I learned from last night's episode is that the scenario of a man’s head being run over by a truck "driven" by babies is really funny to me.

I Won Jossip's "Comment of the Day"!

Yes, it's true! I have won Jossip’s prestigious "Comment of the Day" award for the very comment I posted this morning! Wow! I’m truly honored. What was an offhand remark has brought me utter glory. Go here to see the proof:

http://www.jossip.com/clay-aikein/comment-of-the-day-8-20070605/#comments

I must thank the editors of Jossip, my wife, my parents, and my friends. Thank you, all of you.

www.celebitchy.com

http://www.celebitchy.com/4098/clay_aiken_stinks_up_first_class_flight_with_his_feet/

Hello! Recently, I posted a comment on celebitchy.com, a gossip website I read at work when I’m bored. I’m going to assume that from the URL you can figure out the subject of the posting on which I commented, although I highly suggest reading the story on super-duper star Clay Aiken. By the way, my screen name (Zhudokhchichtskov) is a Russian surname made of gibberish. I combined a bunch of common Russian syllables with the appropriate male suffix (i.e., "ov" or "son of"). Enjoy!

I don't see the big deal. When I fly first class, I usually take a shit on the seat next to mine.
Zhudokhchichtskov | 06.05.07 - 3:01 pm | #

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ok, that was funny.
I DON't know | 06.05.07 - 6:44 pm | #

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Yard Sale!

On May 26, I helped Jess with her yard sale. She's moving into a new-to-her apartment in the nearest of futures, all the way across the street, and she wanted sell some possessions she had accumulated over the years (e.g., obscene finger puppets), and to make some serious scratch, since the feds had shutdown her startup organ bank. Damn you, craigslist!

Jess was nice enough, for once, to let me bring some items of my own to sell. Until then, I had not been aware of the number of colorful, i.e., bat-shit crazy, people who might attend a yard sale, and they made their presence known in full force that day.

First, there were the two women, whom Jess and I referred to as "the women." I'm not sure where the women were from, but I would have to guess somewhere in the Caribbean, given their accents. What made these two women stand out was their complete case of sticker shock after they learned the outrageous prices Jess was charging. Some of the sale items were priced at SEVERAL DOLLARS! One of the women asked how much the toaster I had brought was, and Jess said five dollars. (I hadn't considered how much to charge for the toaster, since it had only been used a few times, but I never removed the crumbs. Or the blood.) The woman rolled her eyes in disgust and began to barter. Easily aggravated, Jess whipped out her switchblade and said, "Listen, bitches: I think it's time for you to leave."

Later, a very nice homeless woman stopped by and bought, among other items, two VHS tapes of HBO’s Sex and the City. I'm still wondering whether or not she has a VCR. She did have a very nice pair of fuzzy leopard-print slippers.

But much to my surprise, even more than the crazies, was the fact that Jess was selling one of her most prized possessions: a Buck Rogers space helmet, based on the hit NBC 1979 to 1981 series Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. It's an extra-large space helmet, able to contain the most massive of heads, and equipped with several exciting features, including a "Buck Rogers" label across the brim of the helmet that Jess modified herself to say, "Fuck Rogers." Now you too can pretend to be...Fuck...Rodgers...on his latest adventure to thwart the sinister plans of Princess Ardala or whomever…Jess likes to wear the helmet in public and announce, "Hello everyone. It's me, Fuck Rodgers."

LowerMyBills.com

What's with the dancing women in the LowerMyBills.com ad?

Censorship or Something?

Job interviews suck. I was interviewed once for a position at a public library, and the interviewer asked me several questions about censorship. She asked me about my time as a bookseller for a national bookseller chain (the one that begins with the letter "B"), and how that company would handle the sale of an "offensive" book. I informed her that the company only "regulated" the sale of one and only one book, The Anarchist's Cookbook, which was sold only by special order, and customers needed to prove they were at least 18 years old at time of order and again at time of purchase. All other titles were stocked openly on the shelves.

She then asked me about a specific title, Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. I said that Tropic of Cancer was not The Anarchist's Cookbook, and therefore was stocked openly on the shelves. Oddly enough, she asked me what would happen if someone who couldn't prove his age wanted to by a copy of Tropic of Cancer, and I said that, yet again, the sale of Tropic of Cancer was not regulated, and that anyone could buy the book.

Next, she created a scenario in which someone purchased a copy of Tropic of Cancer, was offended by its content, and returned to the store to complain. I said that in my three years of working in a bookstore, not once did a customer complain to me about the content of a book, and that most people who buy an "offensive book" never actually read it. She asked me why, and I said, "I don't know for sure, but most 'offensive books' are challenging literature, and therefore, not easy to read." Seriously, if you were looking for a book to masturbate to, you'd buy of a volume of Letters to the Penthouse Forum, not Tropic of Cancer. Besides using the requisite terms "fuck" and "cunt," Mr. Miller uses big words and complex concepts, which are kryptonite to the casual reader. For example, where else could you read about a man discussing Dostoevsky with a woman as he inserts live toads into her anus (metaphorically speaking)?

Like most job interviews, the topic of conversation next turned to pornography. The interviewer asked me if we sold "porno," and the conversation went on like this:

"The store I worked in sold what corporate preferred to call 'men's sophisticate' magazines, like Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler."

"Would you sell a copy to a minor?"

"No, selling a men's sophisticate magazine to a minor is against corporate policy and the law."

"To whom would you sell a copy?"

"Anyone at least 18 years old at time of purchase."

"How would you know if they were 18 years old?"

"I would request to see proper identification."

"What constitutes proper identification?"

"Any government-issued ID, like a driver's license."

"What if they didn't have any ID?"

"I wouldn't allow them to purchase the magazine."

"Why not?"

"If there were any question as to whether or not the customer was of age and if that same customer couldn't produce valid, government-issued ID, I wouldn't allow them to purchase the magazine because it would be against the law. The company and I would be in big trouble."

She was convinced that it was my personal beliefs that would not allow this imaginary minor to purchase Playboy, rather than the frigging law. I later learned from someone on the inside, if you know what I mean, that this woman was obsessed with pornography, and didn't want anyone on staff cramping her style, or something. Whatever, dork. Personally, I don't give a damn who "reads" Playboy (for literary reviews, political commentary, and tits), but it was against corporate policy and, more importantly, the law (you fucktard), to sell anything of that ilk to children. Apparently, I had entered the Bizarro World, because to get a job I had to prove that I really enjoyed top-notch porn. Though I did want to smack her across the face with a big iron dildo.

Kurt Vonnegut Died

Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday, at the age of 84. I read the report on CNN’s website this morning as I was getting ready to go to the dentist. Mr. Vonnegut was a decent human being and a good writer. He was born in Indiana, studied chemistry at Cornell, was drafted into the Army during World War II, observed some events in Dresden, studied anthropology at the University of Chicago, worked for GE, opened the first Saab dealership in the United States (in Massachusetts), wrote a few novels and short stories, taught at various universities, and many other things too, but you can read about them in his own words in the books Palm Sunday and Fates Worse than Death.

What Gives?

Last year, at about this time on ABC's All My Children, Dr. Gregory Madden, the world-renowned fertility expert, was still alive, and was discovered to have been operating a tropical-island resort inhabited by his specially selected patients. Yes, it was an island with a population consisting entirely of pregnant women. Unbeknownst to them, these women were producing children for Dr. Madden's waiting list of ideal parents—ideal according to his own twisted standards. This story arc was reminiscent of Aldous Huxley's 1932 novel, Brave New World, only stupid and not well written.

Dixie Martin, former wife of Tad Martin, had been a patient of Dr. Madden's after she had had a car accident somewhere in the Alps. Yes, those Alps. Dr. Madden told Dixie that she would not survive her injuries and that she should put her child up for adoption. Reluctantly, Dixie agreed.

But Dixie survived, and returned to Pine Valley, in search of Dr. Madden, who had, for some reason (plot convenience?), established a practice in Pine Valley. Dr. Madden really gets around. Apparently, he had some sort of international medical license, yet seems to prefer establishing medical practices in Swiss mountain villages and mundane Pennsylvanian suburbs. His preference for Pine Valley was due to his decades-long obsession with its homegrown international superstar (who also prefers living in mundane Pennsylvanian suburbs) Erica Kane.

Through the magic of flashbacks, Erica remembered that Dr. Madden is the same doctor who had performed her landmark abortion in 1973. Of course, last year, it was revealed that Dr. Madden had in fact removed the fetus and implanted it into his own wife, which explained the origins of Josh Madden, son of Erica and Dr. Jeff Martin (Tad's brother and Erica's first husband, who had returned last year to reclaim his extremely annoying 34-year-old baby).

After Dixie had finally located the not-so-clandestine Dr. Madden, she demanded from him the location of her missing daughter. Madden refused to answer due to client confidentiality. Not one to back down, Dixie recruited the assistance of local tough guy and casino kingpin, Zack "Attack" Slater. Eventually, through their combined efforts, Dixie and Zack found their way to Dr. Madden's tropical island resort, off the coast of...New Jersey? Yes, apparently so. And it was inhabited entirely by pregnant women (the tropical island resort, not New Jersey), who, when questioned by Dixie, have nothing but praise for the good doctor.

Before they left the island, Dixie and Zack found a video recording of Erica's abortion, and learned the secret connecting Dr. Madden, Josh, and Erica. Eventually, Tad Martin, who had fathered Dixie's baby, decided he had enough circumstantial evidence to kidnap and torture Dr. Madden. What? Yes, Tad drugged Madden and then buried him alive inside a coffin, in the park where two-thirds of the show's "outdoor" scenes are filmed. But Madden would not give into Tad's demands and, thanks to a rare Pennsylvanian earthquake, Madden died. Oops.

Anyway, my question is this: what the hell happened to the Island of Pregnant Women?

"Favorite Friendly's Memory?"

Recently, the Boston Globe's website, boston.com, posted a topic on its message boards entitled, "Favorite Friendly's memory?" I of course chose the hepatitis outbreak in Arlington, Massachusetts.

Back in the late spring of 2004, I moved to Somerville—Union Square, to be specific. A friend of mine—who shall remain nameless (other than the moniker "friend")—helped me move in the final few items. Afterward, we decided to get something for supper, and down the street from her apartment was a Friendly’s. Why Friendly's? We were tired, and Friendly's was fast and cheap, just like your momma—SNAP! A few days later, during my commute to work, I heard a report on the radio stating that an employee at the Friendly's in Arlington had been diagnosed with hepatitis! And anyone who had eaten at that particular Friendly's was in danger of contracting the disease! Not much of a Happy Ending™, aye? Great.

After I arrived at work, I called my doctor in a mild panic and asked him if had the vaccine, to which he replied, "Where do you think we live? In Congo? I don't have that stuff. Go to the hospital. Bitch." He then kindly informed me that on the very next day a hospital in Arlington would be giving away free vaccines, among other fabulous prizes, to anyone who had eaten at the Arlington Friendly's. Hooray. I called "friend," and we made plans to go to the hospital. The next day, as we arrived at the hospital, we saw something that caught us off guard: a line of more than 4,000 people. I couldn't believe that all these people had eaten at that one Friendly's within the past week; I soon considered that these were all the people who had ever eaten at any Friendly's.

After creatively parking my car on a grassy incline in a manner that defied the known laws of physics, "friend" and I got in line behind the world's most horrible human being (I think it was his official title). This young man couldn't have been more than 21 years old. He had a wife, somehow, and three—yes, three—not-so-adorable "children." He was the last person I would have chosen to disseminate DNA to future generations. He had a tiny, rodent-like head and a Paul Snider (of Star ’80 fame) moustache. I deemed him Rat Boy.

Four hours later, literally, after our section of the line had finally entered the hospital, a nurse was dividing the line in two: one for people with children on hand, and one for people without. The nurse came up to "friend" and me, and told us to get into the childless line, which immediately set off Rat Boy: I had only taken one step forward when he stuck his puny arm in front of me and said, "You're not going in front of me!" Rat Boy was under the impression that "friend" and I were receiving some sort of special treatment. Why is that? Why do the ignorant always think everyone is getting "special treatment" but them? For fuck's sake, I had eaten supper at a goddamn Friendly's! Hadn’t I been standing in the same goddamn line behind you? Prick.

Anyway, Rat Boy was about five foot seven and weighed almost 100 pounds, if you included his belt buckle, so I considered taking his tiny head and ramming it into the concrete wall. But the nurse saw this lame confrontation and repeated her instructions again, directly into Ray Boy’s stupid pointy face. After that, "friend" and I were inoculated and on our way out within five minutes.

So, die Friendly's die, for making me stand in that Bataan Death March-like line with Rat Boy, his mate, and their litter. I hope Rat Boy caught hepatitis.