Another E-mail from Brett

"I just heard on the radio about a shooting that was caught on video. The shooter drove off in a 1973 AMC Gremlin, and the police tracked down the owner through the DMV. First, the guy shot someone. Second, he was caught on video. Third, HE DROVE AWAY IN A 1973 AMC GREMLIN. No one drives a friggin' Gremlin any more. Not even your dad. I mean, if you are going to shoot someone on camera and drive away, get a Ford Focus or Hyundai Accent or Honda Accord, preferably in silver. But I have to give the shooter props for driving a kick-ass retro hatchback."

Funny to Me at Least

Here is an excerpt from an e-mail from my friend Brett:

It's good that we became friends after I bought the [Ford] Ranger. You wouldn't have liked me as a Chevette owner. I was really cocky and arrogant. Driving such a fast, sexy car does that to folks, you know? Plus, Pentucket wouldn't have been able to handle TWO old, ugly, tan Chevy bitch magnets like the ones we had. That's right! Yours with four doors, and mine with two and a hatchback, pussy galore, man, pussy galore!

Michael!

On Sunday night NBC showed the TV pilot movie for the newly revamped Knight Rider, known in Germany as Schnelles Automobil des schrecklichen Mannes. (Important: Make sure that you are shouting when discussing the Knight Rider using the German language.) Yes, that Knight Rider: The one that featured the harrowing adventures of one Mr. David Hasselhoff as the perfectly coiffed Michael Knight, a special agent equipped with special chest hair for the mysteriously nondescript Foundation for Law and Government, and his forever–faithful sidekick, KITT, a talking, robotic, and utterly gay 1982 Pontiac Trans-Am, as they traveled across the our fair country—or at least southern California—fighting crime, attending the theater, and helping people (usually Gary Coleman) with their personal problems, much like that other contemporary NBC program, The A–Team (known in France as L'équipe de l'A). Or so I have heard. Sorry about that previous sentence containing more than 100 words. Anyway, this new Knight Rider is quite different from the old show: it has much higher production values and uses a new Shelby Cobra Mustang as the talking homosexual car. Yes, it is a two-hour car commercial. Enjoy!

More to come on the return of this national treasure.

He Saw the Light!

Baseball Mitt Romney dropped out of the presidential race this morning or afternoon or whenever, and because everyone loves to listen to him talk, he gave some sort of speech after his announcement. I listened to a portion of it on NPR during my well-deserved lunch break. Goodness gracious; he is such a bag of stick fuck. Here is a summary of what he had to say, "REAGAN! EUROPE SUCKS! GAY JIHADIST IMMIGRANTS ON WELFARE THREATEN THE VERY SANCTITY OF OUR CORE CONSERVATIVE VALUES! DO NOT TOUCH THE HAIR!"

Yes, indeed. He apparently has some sort of issue with Europe. He referred to Europe in a manner similar to how many Americans refer to Africa: as if it were a single nation. He basically said gangs of godless hoodlums were roaming the streets of a cultural wasteland formerly known as "the Europe," raping, murdering, and drinking (coffee). I am no economist, but the last time I checked, the euro and the English pound were all worth more than the American dollar (hecky wecky, the Canadian dollar is worth more right now). Then he went on some obviously Mormon–inspired tirade against pornography and how it was a serious threat to our nation. So, pay attention, Stephen Colbert; there is a new number one threat: tits.

Super-Duper Tuesday (Wednesday)!

Yes. I did not vote yesterday because I forgot to register in my new city of choice and inhabitance, Somerville. Have no fear, my teenage satanic time bombs: I shall register before the presidential erection election this fall. I have voted in every presidential and gubernatorial (GOOBER!) election since I came of voting age in 1991. The first person I ever voted for was Jerry Brown in the 1992 Democratic primary. Basically, I voted for him because everyone thought he was nuts. That fall, I voted for Bill Clinton for president and for my friend Geoff Breton for light commissioner in our town. No one was running for that office, so I wrote in Geoff's name. Anyway, he is really good at determining if a street light is on or not. "It is dark over here."

I heard there was some sort of football game...

Goodness gracious me. All this bitterness about the Super Soup & Salad Bowl. I am a native Massachussettsiansson, a person of Boston, and not all that into football (approaching zilch), but I watched the game and was sad to see the Patriots lose. I congratulate the Newer City of York Giants on their win and their impressive playing. Their fans should be happy.

What bothers me—and since I am bothered, you should be very concerned—are some of these comments I have been seeing on the Internets, and in the media in general, about the New England Patriots. To me, these comments sound just like the profoundly learned commentary of the mildly retarded, severely inbred, Yankees–obsessed psychofuckwads I hear in every bar during every Red Sox game. Please, do not stoop to this level. I already hear enough of it from living here (and no, we Massachusettsianonites are not all like that).

I never bought into the anti-Yankee bullshit. The Yankees, until recent years, always played better when it counted, which is why they beat the Red Sox, i.e., stop complaining and beat the other team. For instance, what is this lame accusation of the Patriots "running up the score" double-douche shit? My goodness, it is professional fucking football! If you prefer not having the opposing team score, prevent them from doing so. I think that is what professional football players get paid to do. I am sure of it. I read it somewhere.

In conclusion, I say, "Good job, Giants. You beat our team, which is something no other team was able to do. Congratulations, you deserve it." The rest of the NFL? Suck it. You lost, too; but you lost to the Patriots. Now all of you go out there and do something important, like sheltering the homeless or teaching the blind to fly commercial aircraft.

Johnny Douche Bag's

Last night, we played trivia at Johnny D's in Davis Square. Johnny D's does not serve food during trivia. You are allowed to bring in food from another establishment or have a free slice of pizza, courtesy of Johnny D's, but do not ask for more than one slice of pizza, even if you are picking up a slice for someone else: the bartender will yell at you. Why? Well, besides the fact that the bartender is a royal prick, patrons are only allowed one slice each, no matter what. Is this rule made clear to all beforehand? No, not at all, but Johnny D's is not a professional establishment. Rather than make customers aware of this rule, Johnny D's rather have a dick-cunt bartender yell at members of the paying public. Fuck you, Johnny D's, fuck you. The "D" stands for "douche bag."

New Postings Coming Soon!

I've been busy with a class I've been taking. The last class is next week, after which I'll be able to post again for a little while...before the next class begins.

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.