There are no overweight Amish

Authorities raided a compound the morning of November 23, 2011 arresting seven men accused of engaging in a crime spree across eastern Ohio.  The men allegedly terrorized this area over the course of three months and have had charges of hate crimes brought against them.  Okay, not exactly the light hearted approach one might expect in my return to blogging after all this time.  Until you consider this: the accused are Amish!

Wha-!?

That’s right.  Amish.  And not only that, but their victims were also—as if it could be anyone else really—Amish!  That’s it; if we’re resorting to Amish-on-Amish crime this country has officially run out of original ways for people to hate each other.  Which is sad because we fucking love finding ways to hate each other.  It’s what we do best, other countries say.  In fact, I found about seven or eight people I hate on my way to work this morning.  And I’m sure I’ve never even seen them before today.

It would seem this gang of mutza suit clad thugs hail from a complex in Jefferson County and are led by Sam Mullet.  Ol’ Sam broke away from his old community to form his own in 1995.  I can only imagine what kind of disagreement led to this separation.  So I will.

Hezekiah: Brother Sam, I believe it’s past time we speak about your work habits.

Sam: My work habits, brother?

Hezekiah: Frankly, they’ve been a bit suspect recently.  You haven’t been getting out of bed until 5:00 in the morning, your barn raising is the joke of the community and lately your beard has reeked of what seems to be horse genitalia.

Sam: Brother Hezekiah, you can say what you want about my work habits but you crossed the line when you brought the horse into this.  Crossed the line I say!  And everyone knows Esther’s Cerebral Palsy is the joke of the community.

Hezekiah: Brother, all I’m saying is…wait.  What have you been doing with that horse?

Sam: Never mind that.  If I’m not welcome here any longer I’ll take my leave.  But Thunder is coming with me.

Sam:  Hope you’re not too attached to that beard…

Hezekiah:  What was that?

Sam:  Nothing.  Fuck you.

Okay, I may have taken a bit of artistic license with the swearing at the end but I’m fairly confident the rest is faithful to actual events.  So what is it that a lawless Mennonite posse does you ask?  Well, apparently a string of forced beard and hair cuttings that’s what.  No shit.  For those that don’t know—like myself prior to writing this—Amish men quit shaving their beards after they’ve married.  Similarly Amish women don’t cut their hair.  Ever apparently.  Amish folk with short hair and/or beards is a source of great humiliation.   I can’t claim I’ve gained a great deal of understanding of this culture by just clumsily/drunkenly skimming over some internet articles but I’m led to believe this type of embarrassment is kind of like the Corey Haim tattoo on my neck.  (I knew I should have went with Feldman the moment the artist started)  According to Jefferson County Sheriff Fred Abdalla one of the male victims claimed “he would rather be dead than have his beard cut off.”  Holy shit, that is intense!  I get that he hasn’t shaved his beard in a while but was he also beaten in the head so repeatedly that he’s now forgotten how hair works?  It’s not like the thumb you lost manually inseminating that cow, Levi; it’s going to grow back.  And I’m willing to bet it will be just as glorious as it was before.  Jesus will hardly know it was gone.

Alright, according to the rules of Amish society, a guy walking around sans beard would be like me walking around town screaming my unrelenting love for wearing infant’s onesies, while wearing an infant’s onesie.   But is this community so big that there are going to be people who don’t know what the fuck happened to him?  Sure the shunning of TV and the internet isn’t going help get the word spread any quicker but I’m willing to bet local gossip exists no matter how plain your society is.  Okay I suppose all the person to person communication might make the whole place a big game of “Telephone” (irony, huh).  And perhaps by the end of the gossip trail some people may have a bit of a misunderstanding of what has actually taken place.  It’s entirely possible that some might believe he had his pubes sheared off in a planer accident while others think his goat has come down with a case of parasitic winter diarrhea.  Those people would definitely be surprised to see him stumbling into church beardless, that’s for sure.  But I don’t think that’s the case.  I think he’s just petrified because his lack of facial hair now exposes his own Corey Haim tattoo.  And that’s probably more than enough to get someone shunned.

In a story that features a lot of odd shit, one of the things that stood out to me was the fact that Sam Mullet’s group of Amish marauders actually took pictures of some of their victims.  Which begs the question: what kind of cameras are Amish allowed to use?  As funny as the thought of Amish still using Daguerreotype is it’s probably a bit too cumbersome so I’m going to rule it out.  So, I’m going to have to assume they’re using digital cameras.  Either that or this group of scofflaws has taken to carrying cell phones.  I know that thousands upon thousands of children in this country already do, but if there are pockets of Amish with better phones than me I’m going to be pretty pissed.  And then sad.  Then drunk.

Naturally, the Mullet crime syndicate’s days were numbered.  Amish culture is notoriously tight lipped but even the most dastardly of evil geniuses would find keeping word of their misdoings from reaching the “English” a tall order.  I mean, there’s really only so much you can do when your primary mode of transportation to and from your “hits” is a horse drawn buggy.  With a large, reflective, orange triangle on it no less.  It wasn’t long before Johnny America and his Law Brigade came a knockin’.  The seven men were sleeping when the FBI arrived and despite three of them initially refusing to exit, all of them—not surprisingly—were taken into custody with little incident.  Which is really, really disappointing.  How much fun would it have been for some of them to make an exciting escape?  Or attempt an exciting escape at least.  I imagine your options are a bit limited when the horse power on your getaway vehicle is literally two.  Seriously, a pursuit at these speeds would have made Al Cowling’s White Bronco look like some sort of rocket car flying across the Bonneville Salt Flats.  But, alas, as fun as this story is nothing is perfect.

There’s probably more—much more—that I could write about this.  Most of it of the same dubious quality probably but that’s fine.  It hasn’t stopped me before.  But I better call it quits here because I’m really beginning to think that the Amish are on to something and God is getting more and more upset the longer I write this.  Plus I’m positive the devil lives in my computer.

I really need to grow a beard…

When Wienermobiles Attack

Yet another Myspace blog entry.  It’s not quite as old as most of the others but is just as lousy.  This one is about giant hot dog cars so maybe it will be worth something.

AP – “MOUNT PLEASANT, Wis. – One southern Wisconsin homeowner is probably not in love with the Oscar Mayer Wiener. The famed hot dog’s Wienermobile crashed Friday into the deck and garage of a home in Mount Pleasant, about 35 miles south of Milwaukee.”

I guess this gives new meaning to a “Big Mac attack”!  Hehehe heh heh….oh shit.  Wait.  That’s the punch line to a completely different joke. Not to mention a ridiculously outdated reference.  Hey, I haven’t done this in a while.  I’m a little rusty yet, ok?

Anyway.  According to the police, no doubt more than a little light headed from all of the laughing, the pilot of this particular gasoline powered frank was using the driveway of this home to turn around.  She mistakenly thought the vehicle was in reverse and wound up forcing about 7 feet of hot dog car into an unsuspecting garage.  Now I’ll freely admit I don’t know much about giant meat vehicles but that seems like an awful lot.  Hell, I’ve made the mistake of thinking my car was in reverse when it was actually in drive before.  Once.  And I made it all of about 6 inches before it donned on me that I was being a fucking idiot.  No one was hurt and nothing was destroyed because it was fairly obvious from the moment I started moving that something wasn’t right.  And that’s despite a reaction time that’s surely been slowed over the years due to an over saturation of alcohol and internet pornography.  The driver, to do the damage that she did, had to have slammed on the accelerator.  Either that or the Wienermobile is rocket powered.  And since I have to imagine that thing is barely street legal in the first place we’re going to have to rule out the latter.

I’m not in possession of, nor do I know of whatever special class of license is needed to drive a large sausage through the streets of this country but I am smart enough to realize that navigating such a vehicle in reverse would generally require some delicate maneuvering.  I have to imagine that a humongous hot dog on wheels has some pretty serious blind spots. Violently shoving the gas pedal to floorboard with little to no regard for whatever structure or life happens to be in your path is probably frowned upon by the suits at Oscar Mayer.  So that makes me wonder, just what kind of person is qualified to drive a Wienermobile?  In a day and age where PETA and other “animal friendly”, pro-vegetable slaughtering organizations are seemingly becoming more and more popular on a daily basis it would make sense that Oscar Mayer would need a dedicated and skilled professional to coast across the country in an animal murdering promotion machine.  Then again, ask any recent college graduate how they’re hoping to spend their time and driving a hot dog car city to city for the foreseeable future probably won’t come up.

All things considered it seems likely that this, much like most of the great things that happen in this world, is alcohol related.  But it’s hardly surprising.  Why wouldn’t the driver of a Wienermobile be drunk most of the time?  I mean, four years of your mom calling to remind you that she was right about you wasting your time getting an Art History degree would cause anyone to start and/or keep drinking heavily.

Ok, so we’ve determined that the driver was drunk.  But what the fuck was she doing at this house in the first place?  Is the economy that bad that the Wienermobile is making house calls now?

*CRASH*

“Hey!  Did somebody order 30 feet of orange, phallus shaped road cruiser!?”

“Yes, I did, but I specifically asked the salesman to NOT have it crash through my front door!  Your boss will definitely be hearing from me!”

“Sorry ma’am, but the Wienermobile goes where the Wienermobile wants to go.  And in this case it wanted to be shoved awkwardly into your garage.”

According to Wikipedia, Oscar Mayer currently has a fleet of seven Wienermobiles.  Despite the plentiful numbers I’m almost positive each one of them is almost constantly scheduled for a grocery store appearance, Big Kmart opening (that is, if Big Kmart’s are still being opened) or something.  So how the hell did it wind up at this house, especially since the owners weren’t home?  Simple, they were lost.  And how fucking awesome is that?  I don’t own a house but the possibility of some iconic pop culture vehicle getting lost in my neighborhood on the way to some dumbass appearance and having to use my driveway to turnaround makes me want to buy one.  I wouldn’t care if it was the Wienermobile, the Batmobile or even the Munster Koach.  It would be the unchallenged highlight of my life.  And I’m just a big enough loser to not be afraid to admit it.

I’ll admit I’m kind of proud of myself.  I wrote this whole damn thing and haven’t once mentioned the hilariously kick ass sexual innuendo of a photo showing a Wienermobile crammed into a garage.  That shit ends now. Seriously, I can’t help but think that hot dog fetish aficionados across this planet are having the weekend they’ve been dreaming of for practically every year of their lives.  Expect to see reports of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome up by at least .0002% come Monday.  Reduplicative Paramnesia should remain largely unchanged though.

Steve Bartman vs. the Chicago Cubs

Another old Myspace blog dealing with baseball.  This one hits a bit closer to the heart since it deals with Steve Bartman destroying the Cubs’ 2003 season.  Whatever, have fun reading how Satan/Bartman ruined everything.

Observant readers of my blog ramblings may remember a year ago when I dedicated an entry to reliving the magic of Kirk Gibson’s 1988 World Series performance.  Those same readers may also remember that I promised a follow baseball related article about the ’03 Chicago Cubs/Steve Bartman debacle.  Seeing has how another season of baseball is underway I guess now’s as good a time as any to finally fulfill my promise.  While I didn’t plan on waiting this long to finally write this, you know what they say, time makes fools of us all.  Well, at least it does of me.

The Chicago Cubs are cursed.  Hopelessly so.  It’s been 99 years since their last World Series win.  99 years. If this was something like “Baseball Idol” and there were thousands of other teams to contend with it would be somewhat understandable.  But there’s not, there are only 29.  And aside from that, between 1909 (for those of you who have trouble with subtraction ’08 was the last time they won) and 1960 there were only 15 others. So essentially it’s more like “Baseball Survivor.”  But even though you’re subject to being “voted off” so to speak (The Cubs are usually voted off around mid-May) you’re invited back the next year to give it another shot.  So even though the odds have gotten a little worse over the years you’d think that at some point they would have at least accidentally won one.  You know, like the Cardinals did last year.   But, no, apparently it is just not meant to be.  And I know why.  Like I said earlier, the Cubs are cursed.  And this isn’t some make believe bullshit like the “Curse of the Bambino” that had Red Sox fans bitching and moaning like Rosie O’Donnell waiting in line for the buffet at an NRA convention.  No, folks, this is a real and true, honest to God curse forged in the deepest recesses of Hell by none other than Satan himself.

It’s a little known fact that the Devil is a huge baseball fan.  And why wouldn’t he be? Barry Bonds, Jose Canseco, Ty Cobb and countless other baseball stars from all eras owe at least a portion of their physical prowess to the Dark Lord.  Brady Anderson hit 50 home runs in 1996 for fucks sake.  The world’s top scientists could be forced at gunpoint to work for a thousand years and not develop a steroid that could produce those results. With so many future residents of his metaphysical housing project playing professional baseball Satan’s obviously going to have more than a passing interest in the game.  And on occasion, when the opportunity presents itself, he likes to see the game played in person.  Like, for instance, Game 4 of the 1945 World Series between the aforementioned Cubs and their American League challenger, the Detroit Tigers.  With World War II winding down and the Nazi leadership dying faster than a white comedian at the Apolo Hell was a busy place that year.  So it’s not surprising that Satan was getting somewhat burned out, no pun intended.  When torturing and tormenting child molesters, Democrats and unwed mothers starts losing its appeal you know you’re due for a break. What better way to relax a bit than by spending an afternoon catching a ballgame?  One problem though, this is no ordinary game, it’s the Fall Classic and tickets have long since sold out.  TV coverage wasn’t around back then and radio reception in Hell has always been spotty at best.  So what’s the Archfiend to do?  Get resourceful that’s what.  Sure the ushers and security staff at Wrigley Field weren’t going to let anybody without a ticket in to the game but what if it wasn’t a person trying to get in?  His plan was so simple it was genius: find a person with a ticket, change into the form of an animal (a goat, naturally) and have that person take them into the game.  It was brilliant and it worked too!  His host for the game?  Greek immigrant and local tavern owner, Billy Sianis.  Years prior to this Mr. Sianis had been trying to obtain his green card so he could continue living in the U.S.  Unfortunately, he was running out of time and, out of desperation, was on the verge of entering a sham marriage with a woman who locals identified as “Peoria’s Ugliest Woman” in order to stay.  Satan helped him avoid this Godless charade of a wedding by getting him a green card for a debt on his soul.  Getting Satan into the game was going to get Billy out of his debt and back to his regular life of infrequent showers and planning keggers for his house’s rush week.  Getting to the ballpark proved to be the easy part because when Cubs owner Phillip Knight Wrigley got word that a goat had been let into the stadium he was not pleased.  Mr. Wrigley immediately had the goat and Mr. Sianis ejected from the stadium.  The official reason for the dismissal was said to be due to the “animal’s objectionable odor.” To be fair it was a reasonable complaint.  I mean, this is Satan after all.  The smell of brimstone and burning flesh is going to be around no matter what form he happens to take.  Like a messy stink palming it’s a smell that just won’t wash off.  Legend has it that Mr. Sianis was so upset he placed a curse on the entire Cubs franchise.  They did indeed wind up losing the game that day and ultimately the entire series in 7 games.  And they haven’t been to a World Series since.  Of course, now that you know the truth you realize Billy had nothing to do with the curse whatsoever.  Satan was more than a little pissed that he had just been kicked out of a ball game by some douche bag chewing gum salesman.  This shit just wasn’t going to fly.  Mr. Sianis would get the credit for it but it was definitely the Devil putting the hex on the team (let’s face it having the Greek guy admit to it was going to be slightly more believable than telling everyone it was the goat who did it).

While the curse has held up well over the years it hasn’t been without a challenge now and then.  Every once in a while the Cubs have been fortunate enough to employ some very talented players.  And in a few rare occasions they’ve fielded some championship caliber teams.  Sure these situations are usually few and far between and normally only last a year or so before they collapse back into the Dukakis-like spiral of losing they’re accustomed to.  But they do occur and when they do Satan has had to intervene physically at times to keep the curse alive.  In 1969 it was in the form of a black cat that ran in front of Ron Santo, in 1984 he disguised himself as first baseman Leon “Bull” Durham and booted an easy grounder.  But it was the 2003 team that presented the most formidable challenge to the curse.

There was an aura of destiny surrounding the 2003 Chicago Cubs.  Slammin’ Sammy Sosa and his collection of corked bats led the team to 88 wins and their first division title since 1989.  With a trip to the NL Championship Series on the line their stable of great young pitchers helped pull off a hard fought Divisional Series victory over National League powerhouse the Atlanta Braves.  Everything was beginning to fall into place.  The Cubs’ had home field advantage for the up coming series and their opponent was to be nothing more than the lowly Florida Marlins.  The Marlins were only in the playoffs because all the other teams in the NL were busy that week.  Surely the Cubbies were on the verge of qualifying for there first World Series appearance in 58 years, right?  Not if Lucifer had any say in the matter.  But this year was different than the others and he knew he had his work cut out for him.  Like a necrophiliac left alone in a morgue, Old Scratch knew he was going to be busy.  During the first five games of the series he reached deep down into his demonic bag of tricks in an attempt to swing momentum in the favor of the heavily underdog and almost hopelessly outmatched Marlins.  From soaking the player’s jock straps in IcyHot (a la Revenge of the Nerds) to sewing their gloves shut to using deceased play-by-play man Harry Carey and his razor fingered glove to terrorize the team’s children while they slept, he tried everything.  And this time it wasn’t working. Sure it helped even the odds a bit.  But the Cubs definitely had the upper hand after the first 5 games of this 7 game series.  Up 3 games to 2 the Cubs were heading back to the friendly confines of Wrigley Field for what could potentially be the deciding game.  When the game began you could tell the Cubs were a confident lot.  One game away from a National League pennant and their young superstar ace in the making, Mark Prior, on the mound meant everything was going in their favor.  But Satan had one last trick up his sleeve: Steve Bartman.  You may not recognize it from his very pedestrian name but Steve Bartman is one of hells most powerful and accomplished demonic agents. According to legend his birth is the result of Judas Iscariot raping a dog.  When Satan heard of this he immediately took him under his wing and has for the last 2 millennia used Bartman’s skills to help his most dubious plans come to fruition.   The burning of Romewas all Bartman’s doing not Nero’s.  Rats didn’t spread the Black Death throughout Europeit was Bartman.  The 8000 Protestants killed during the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre was an idea Bartman came up with over a lunch break.  Richard Nixon’s campaign manager?  That’s right, it was Steve Bartman.  The holder for Scott Norwood’s failed field goal attempt in Super Bowl XXV?  Uh, you get the idea.

Aisle 4, row 8, seat 113.  It’s a box seat along the front row along the left field corner.  It’s also the seat Bartman would spend watching Game 6.  Satan was expecting him to blow up the team bus or give them all terrible, bloody diarrhea or something so he was a bit perplexed to find out Bartman had only purchased a seat for the game.  But, he’s been nothing if not a loyal soldier thus far so he had no choice but to trust him.   All the Devil could do at this point is sit back and see how things play out.  After the 1^st inning the Cubs take a 1-0 lead.  In the 6^th inning they pick up another run to make it 2-0.  Yet one more run in the 7^th made it 3-0.  Time was running and so far Bartman has done nothing but sit back, chug down 2 or 9 ice cold beers, slam down a few handfuls of hot dogs and watch the game.  Time was running out and Satan was getting worried.  He had no reason to be.  The Marlins were batting in the top of the eighth inning with one out, a runner on 1^st base and light hitting second baseman Luis Castillo at the plate.  The Cubs had Mark Prior on the hill and were a mere 5 outs away from punching their ticket to the World Series.  It was just within their reach.

And then it happened.

Castillo hit what seemed to be a harmless fly ball towards Moises Alou in left field.  The 2^nd out of the inning was a near certainty.  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a strong wind broke through the calm October night.  The ball, still hanging well in the air, was suddenly being pushed toward the left field foul line.  Alou, never one to be known for his dazzling glove work, was able to follow the ball on the ground as it took him rapidly towards the stands.  What was once a routine fly ball is quickly turning into what may be the most important defensive play Moises will ever make.  As the ball crept closer and closer to the stands Alou knew he was getting nearer and nearer to a brick wall that could potentially cause him all kinds of problems.  But that was the least of his worries.  It was Bartman who, using whatever demonic control over Mother Nature he could muster, was drawing the baseball towards him.  Alou, now positioned at the base of the wall directly below Bartman’s seat realized that he was going to have one chance at catching this ball but it was going to take a perfectly timed jump to do so.  Alou watched the ball as it raced towards the seats.  Timing was going to be everything in this situation, jumping even a fraction of second too early or too late could easily be the difference between a caught or missed ball.  The moment had arrived, it was now or never.  Alou leapt from the ground as if there were a rocket shoved up his ass (thank you Bob Uecker).  As Moises left the ground, he entered some sort of epiphanic state.  As if he was suddenly the star of some sort of Dominican “Matrix” everything around him seemed to slow down thus making it that much easier to focus on catching the ball.  He was really going to do it.  And he would have too, if not for the intervention of Steve Bartman.  Bartman was there, at his seat waiting for the ball he was magically pulling to himself.  Bartman then used his twisted, monkey-like claws to knock the ball away from Alou’s waiting glove.  When Moises returned to ground he was pissed, and rightfully so.  Some dickhead in the stands, wearing a Cubs cap no less, just single handedly kept him from making the all important 2^nd out of the inning.  Although the recent series of events were understandably frustrating the Cubs still had the game perfectly in their control.  They were still up by 3 runs and Mark Prior, who had been almost unhittable to that point, was still on the mound.  But Bartman’s plan wasn’t to just keep the Cubs from getting an out. You see, the Cubs played with an extra something on their side that season.  A sort of mystique if you will.  One of those odd, unexplainable, metaphysical devices that can only be “seen” by some small animals, babies and crazy people.  When Bartman got his hands on that foul ball he did more than just keep Castillo’s at bat alive, he took the “mystique” that had gotten the Cubs this far and turned into his bitch.  It was now nothing more than the ball gagged and hand cuffed submissive to Steve Bartman’s whip wielding, leather clad dominatrix.  With their aura now crotch roped and useless the Pandora’s Box of the franchise’s past failures that had been held at bay the past 7 months was about to blow up in the Cubs’ faces.  From the Lou Brock for Ernie Broglio trade to the ill fated “College of Coaches” to those years where they wore blue jerseys with white pants when they played road games all the negative moments of their past were unleashed upon them. Not that anyone but the most psychically astute of the Cubs would even have had any idea that something was wrong.  Luis Castillo, given new life at the plate, was able to eventually draw a walk.  And with that the flood gates blew open and like a golden shower party at a school for the blind it left everything drenched.  Before the third out was mercifully achieved the Cubs found themselves on the losing end of an 8 to 3 score. With their spirit completely and utterly crushed the Cubbies held little hope of possibly overcoming such a deficit.  Not surprisingly (unless you’re surprised the Marlins didn’t score more runs in the 9^th) the game’s final score remained 8-3.

Although Wrigley Field hosted Game 7 of the series the following night and the Cubs technically still had a chance to win the series it was all but over.  No matter how often the team and their fans tried to convince themselves otherwise they knew it to be true. Substantial and irreversible damage had been done.  A terminal, inoperable cancer was spreading quickly over what had until one night ago been an amazing season.  The Cubs were about to wind up doing what many people felt was there rightful destiny from the get go: watch the World Series on TV from the comforts of their homes.  And it was all thanks to Satan and some ass shaving, taint loving, cheap whore pimping, Clevelandsteaming, donkey punching, Raymond loving son of fuck named Steve Bartman.

You talk about the roll of the dice…

Baseball season is here again.  I barely care since MLB doesn’t give a shit about competitiveness.  Still, it’s March and I’m sure as hell not going to make a post about college basketball.

It’s that time of the year once again.  The days are getting longer, snow is melting and anabolic steroid sales are up about 130%.  That’s right, it’s baseball season!   In honor of this occasion I’ve decided to recollect upon Major League Baseball’s long, storied history and share some of my favorite moments.  Keep in mind, however, in an effort to help convey the magic of the moment I’m going to forego the use of any other outside references to these events other than my own sometimes alcohol saturated memory. Although I can’t quite claim that this will be totally accurate in a historical sense, moments of this magnitude have a way of living with you for years.  It’s possible that I will screw up a few details here and the there but, like I said, this is about capturing the essence of the moment.  I ain’t writing a fucking text book here.

So, here we go.  This blog’s installment:  Kirk Gibson’s legendary World Series home run.

The date:  October 15, 1988.  The place:  Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles, California.  The Dodger Dogs:  delicious.  It’s Game One of an all-California World Series pitting theOakland A’s versus the Los Angeles Dodgers.  The A’s had finished the regular season with a staggering won-loss record of 152-10.  Their opponent for the American League Championship Series, the Boston Red Sox, figured history was just going to take a big, steamy shit on them once again and decided to forfeit the series Oakland before it even started.  The Dodgers, on the other hand, didn’t travel such an easy path.  After finishing the regular season well below .500 (mostly due to a series of catastrophic injuries and drug and gambling suspensions and tragic player deaths and such) the Dodgers were only allowed to represent the National League in the Fall Classic after several of the teams ahead of them in the standings all perished in separate and unrelated plane crashes.  Basically the Dodgers didn’t stand a chance in hell of beating the heavily favored A’s.  How heavily favored you ask?  Vegas odds makers placed the odds on the Dodgers winning the Series at approximately 8,000,000,000 to 1.  It didn’t help matters that the A’s had found a loop hole in Baseball’s rule book allowing their best hitters, Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire, to each get an extra at bat during the batting order. Essentially the rule stated that if you had a coked up Cuban refugee and a red haired giant with popeye-esque forearms in your lineup they would be allowed, on the condition that both of their blood streams were filled with enough human growth hormone to kill a large horse, to pinch hit for other players in lineup while still keeping their original spots in the batting order.  This rule had devastating effects during the regular season as the so-called “Bash Brothers” combined for an unheard of 186 home runs and 531 runs batted in.  The Dodgers were simply outclassed.  To their credit, however, they decided to show up and take their nationally televised beating like men.  They shouldn’t have even been there in the first place so what do they have to lose?

As Game One was beginning to draw to a close, the unthinkable was happening.  The Dodgers were still in the game!  Heading into the bottom of the ninth inning the A’s were only up by a score of 4-3!  Miraculous!  But those smiles throughout Dodger Stadium were about to turn to frowns as Oakland went to their bullpen and called upon their ace closer, Dennis Eckersely, to finish off the game.  And just like that the hopes and dreams of Dodgernation went up like so much Southern California smog.  You see back in ’88 “Eck” was on top of his game like no reliever has ever been.  He pitched 200+ innings that year and had yet to give up a single run.  Earned or otherwise.  In fact, he was so fucking good that year that his ERA for the season was -0.05!  That’s right, it was below zero. During a game that past August against the Angels Eck was so completely dominant the score keepers actually took away a run from them.  What chance did the Dodgers have against this baseball god that walked with human feet?  None it would seem.  The first two batters up for Los Angeles each lasted exactly one pitch before they sat their asses back on the bench.  Amazingly enough both outs were strike outs!  Facing the very immediate possibility of going down a game to this Oakland A’s juggernaut, Dodgers manager, Tommy Lasorda, decided it was time to gamble a bit.  The Dodgers’ best hitter, Kirk Gibson, was forced to sit out that game.  Kirk was an emotional and physical mess. Aside from having to deal with 7 different types of face cancers Kirk learned earlier in the day that his entire family, parents and grandparents included, had just died.  To make matters worse right before the game began both of his severely damaged legs were amputated.  And replacements weren’t going to be available until Game 3 at the earliest. So with an utterly stunned nation watching at home, Tommy Lasorda sent Kirk Gibson to the plate.  Well, he sat him on a small cart and rolled him to the plate.  And then he had to set him on a 3 foot stool at the plate so he would actually have a chance to hit something. Anything other than a home run would do no good here.  Even if Kirk could hit one to the farthest part of the field he still wouldn’t have time to fall off the stool and roll to first before the ball got there.  It was home run or nothing.  And Eck was throwing heat right from the get go too.  But much to his amazement, Kirk fouled it off.  The next pitch too.  In fact, Kirk was able to foul off pitches for an incredible 45 minutes!  Pitch after pitch after pitch after pitch were fouled off!  An then, just as if it were written by one of L.A.’s multitude of unemployed screen writers, Kirk finally found a pitch to hit.  With a mighty crack of the bat as if the ball had been hit by Jesus himself, Kirk sent the ball racing towards the right field wall!  As a matter of fact the ball was hit so hard that it went through the wall itself!  But it still counts the same.  Home Run!!!!  Baseball Commissioner Peter “Mountain” Ueberoth was so impressed by Kirk Gibson’s heroics that he awarded him an extra point for the homer giving the Dodgers an improbable 5-4 come from behind win!  Kirk proceeded to somersault his way around the bases.  When he reached home plate, 13 minutes later, he was mobbed by his overjoyed teammates.  Lasorda’s gamble paid off.

After that the A’s were not the same team.  Fearing the Dodgers were now riding an all most unstoppable wave of emotion and momentum, the A’s quit playing their game and wound up losing the Series 4 games to 1 to the miracle Los Angeles Dodgers.  And their legless, cancer ridden hero, Kirk Gibson.

The Agony of Victory

Yeah, this is old as shit.  Don’t mind the whole “Olympics ending a week ago” bullshit.  This thing was written five years ago.  Still, there is some good shit about figure skating so it’s still maybe worth a read or two.  Enjoy?

So the heart stopping athletic competition and grand pageantry of the twentieth Winter Olympics have drawn to a close.  The world’s greatest cold weather athletes can now head back to their respective countries and do whatever it is they do in the 4 years between the Winter Games.  And I can only get down on my knees and thank our loving and merciful God it’s over.  My boycott of NBC can now come to an end.

I know what you’re saying, “Uh, dumbass, didn’t the Olympics end a week ago?”

Yes, I am in fact aware of this.

“So why the hell are you just getting around to posting this now?”

Well, I am quite lazy.

“Don’t forget ignorant.”

I wouldn’t dream of it.

Just what are the Olympics exactly?  Are they an elite gathering of some of the world’s foremost athletes set to compete on behalf of their respective countries while helping to promote peace and harmony as the entire world watches on?  Or are they just a collection of mostly stupid ass sports that almost the entire fucking world could give two shits about save those two “magical” weeks every four years?  Magical, right.  About as magical as Roy Horn’s ability to avoid savage butt lust from his “partner” and repel near fatal tiger attacks.  Honestly, I can’t help but wonder why Joe Q. Olympichopeful’s quest for gold in the skeleton could be such a big deal during the Olympics when barely a soul cared about him competing in the world championships last year.  Or the year before for that matter.  And since I have absolutely no idea if there even is skeleton world championships held at any time other than Olympic time, at all, ever, I think I’ve just proven my point.  Until this past February the last time I heard the name Apolo Anton Ohno was at the end of the 2002 Olympics.  So what the hell happened to him?  Did the governing body of U.S. speed skating have him cryogenically frozen so they could thaw him in time for the 2006 Games still in top physical form?  I doubt it.  If such a process was more than mere science fiction I’m quite sure Walt Disney would be sitting on his throne of human skulls atop Epcot Center by now.  With that theory thoroughly ruled out I decided to do some online investigating.  Responsible journalism, baby!  As it turns out Ohno didn’t go anywhere.  Let me rephrase that.  Ohno did go somewhere, to more speed skating competitions.  Much to my surprise speed skaters continue to hold events and reward themselves for jobs well done even in non-Olympic years!  What sort of shocking conspiracy have I uncovered here?!  The puppet masters hiding in the shadows who are orchestrating such a devious cover-up must be most powerful indeed!  Or maybe it’s just that speed skating is boring and nobody should or does care.  Which, oddly enough, I do find a bit strange.  Regular running-style track races are relatively popular.  When you add a rock hard “playing” surface and require the contestants to strap blades to their feet you raise the risk of serious injury significantly.  Sounds like something most Americans would enjoy.  Ok, so maybe not most but a few more at least.  While I’m on the subject, if the world’s speed skating officials really want to get people to watch their sport they would be wise to spice things up a bit.  Instead of using regular ice skates, use rocket powered skates.  Make one of the contestants skate the course in the opposite direction of the other skaters.  How about blind folding them and lining the inside and outside of the course with electric fence and razor wire?  Sound like fun to me.  And here’s one that should really help with skater motivation:  the loser of the race is killed in the center of the arena..and eaten by the guy who finished 2^nd to last.  I could keep going but I’m afraid the authorities are reading this.

Don’t get me wrong, aside from most of them being unbearably fucking boring, there’s nothing particularly wrong with the sports that make up the Winter Olympics.  If you’re a fan of any or even all of them, great!  Who the hell am I to judge anyone else on the sports they choose watch and follow?  Hell, next month I’m going to spend about 30 hours over the course of a single weekend watching the NFL Draft for Christ’s Sake.  But at least the NFL draft doesn’t need a 4 year layoff to build up interest.  That shit’s money every year! So go ahead and spend the next year or so getting psyched up for 2007 World Ski Championship in Sapporo, Japan if that’s what you want to do.  Just don’t be too upset or surprised when you realize the rest of the world doesn’t care this year.  And won’t again until 2010.  Walk down any street in this country and ask a stranger what the “Nordic Combine” is.  I dare you.  The very few who don’t look at you like you have a huge penis growing from your forehead are probably the ones who think the Nordic Combine is some sort of old-timey Scandinavian snow blower.  I’m writing this damn blog and I don’t even know what the hell it is.  But apparently Germany’s own Georg Hettich won a gold medal for his performance in it last month.  If you’re reading this and you happened to have known that, congratulations.  I hope for your sake you find an NTN trivia question asking that very question someday.  Otherwise that information is going to spend a lot of time gathering dust in the closet next to that guitar you promised your parents you’d learn how to play if they bought it for you all those years ago.

Although I paid very little mind to the happenings in Turin, Italy this past February I do have to admit I wasn’t completely unaware of what was taking place.  The coverage for the Olympics was like the hair on George “The Animal” Steele’s back, it was everywhere.  I couldn’t escape it.  My personal favorite moment was when U.S. snowboarder Lindsey Jacobellis got a bit too comfortable with her lead and decided to show off a bit.  Nearing the finish line of the women’s snowboardcross final Lindsey had a gigantic lead on the rest of the competition.  She was a virtual lock for the gold medal.  The cheap gold paint was practically already rubbing off on her hands (you don’t really think they give out real gold for something like snowboardcross do you?).  All she had to do was land one more jump and coast in for an easy win.  But Lindsey saw an opportunity to do a little hot dogging and pounced on it with the flair of a Mexican wrestler and the balance of newborn baby.  After struggling to her feet (or board or whatever) Lindsey was just able to see Switzerland’s Tanja Frieden blow by her and claim the gold medal in the name of neutrality.  As I sat in the bar laughing I could only wonder at what point in time did Karma start sponsoring the Olympics.  Not soon enough if you ask me.

As great as it was to hear of Bode Miller’s futile effort at multiple Olympic medals, I think it was even more enjoyable when he admitted to 60 Minutes prior to the start of the games that he’s skied hungover and even drunk before.  Awesome!  Finally a world class athlete just goes out and admits it!  Why the rest of the sports world proceeded to get their panties in a bunch is beyond me.  Come on!  Normal people get shit faced and place themselves in dangerous positions all the time.  Myself, I’ve got a name for situations of that nature.  I like to call them Friday.  Bode certainly isn’t the first athlete to do it nor will he be the last.  When the guy stands at the top of a slope, snorts a big line of coke off the unconscious body of the hooker he just punched out, covers himself in kerosene and attempts to mix up a big batch of meth on his way down the mountain I’ll start to get concerned.  First I’ll laugh and hope he crashes but I’m quite sure I’ll start worrying for his safety at some point.  Maybe.

My last favorite 2006 Olympic moment occurred during pairs figure skating.  The duo shall remain nameless because, frankly, I haven’t the foggiest idea who they are.  Remember how I said speed skating has the long shot chance of possibly being interesting because of its possibility of serious injury?  Well pairs figure skating is all that and more.  Not only does it have the rock hard ice surface and humans having blades attached to their footwear like speed skating but they up the ante and include acrobatics as well.  Figure skating disasters are one of the best things in sports.  It’s just unfortunate we have to put up with all that figure skating to get to the accidents.  Anyway, at one point during the pairs skating competition the male of the pair mentioned earlier, as per tradition, attempted to toss his female partner through they air so that she could do some sort of twirly thing. I suppose I shouldn’t say attempted because he did in fact toss her through the air and she was able to complete some sort mid air maneuver but I have a very strong feeling that landing on her knees and almost smacking her face off the ice wasn’t part of routine. As fun as that was to watch (when you intentionally put yourself in that sort of predicament I just can’t feel sorry for you) I felt the best part of the entire ordeal was when the event’s female NBC commentator shot back at some nameless, faceless figure skating critic by asking, “who says figure skating isn’t a sport?”  Really?  Is that all it takes to be sport these days?  You just have to get hurt while doing something?  If that’s the case maybe the next sports to be added to the Olympic roster will be car crashes, shaving and masturbating too much.  Personally, if there’s a reason why figure skating isn’t a sport it’s because you need judges to determine who wins and who loses.  You can’t tell me these judges don’t come in with a predisposed notion of which competitors are better than the others.  If the so called best skaters in the world don’t fuck up completely during their routine they’re still probably going to do better in the judges eyes some nobody from Latviaville even if said nobody performed flawlessly.  If you want to be a sport you need to either beat your opponent to a certain spot or score more points than them.  Take bowling for example.  I can barely consider an activity that can be performed by both really fat, out of shape people and the elderly (and sometimes by fat elderly) a sport but since you win by outscoring your opponent, it has to be considered one.  The same can’t be said for figure skating.  Sorry figure skaters, your time in the Olympics is about to run out.  Your replacement in the 2010 games?  The Maple Syrup Chug.  Maybe I’ll be watching the next Winter Olympics after all.

I was saved by the bell

*NOTE* Would you believe it?  Another old Myspace blog?  Seriously I fucking love (and mercilessly hate) “Saved by the Bell”.  I actually had fun writing this thing and have had plans to write another installment for quite a while.  Although I do have a notebook lying around somewhere with a shitload of notes, I never got around to finishing the next installment.  This one was posted on January 9, 2006.  Yeah, four years later and I still don’t have the sequel complete.  Fuck me.

I consider myself very fortunate.  Fortunate because as a youngster I was blessed with a very powerful and positive guiding force to help lead me through the typical trials of youth.  And although high school eventually came to an end and we naturally started growing apart, I feel comfortable facing each and every day, no matter what obstacles I may encounter, because I’m confident the lessons I learned back then will help me through.

And who or what might this mysterious mentor be you ask?  My parents?  Jesus?  Ghandi?  Saint Armogastes?  Shit no!  Why it’s none other than the one, the only, “Saved by the Bell!”

Yes it is proven fact that “Saved by the Bell” is by far the most wretched program ever unleashed upon American television audiences.  And although I don’t have any actual “proof,” I’m fairly certain “Saved by the Bell” is the result of a curse released upon the Earth when some small bladdered and dim witted Egyptologist accidentally took a piss on some ancient Pharaoh’s mummified remains.  But for reasons not even the combined forces of history’s greatest super-scientists and pro wrestling hall of famers will ever be able to explain (although I’ve got my own theories), I can’t get enough.  I’ve watched every episode more than once, and I still happily catch reruns whenever I can.  And since the “Saved by the Bell” gang was so generous with their teachings during my upbringing I feel obligated to share what I’ve learned with the people of the world.  Class is in session.  So put on your favorite pair of stone washed jeans and sit back and learn.

Lesson #1:    Drinkin’ and Drivin’

Every person who attends public school in America will at some time be exposed to the beautiful, dizzying highs and terrible hangovers associated with alcohol.  And for most this will happen before they even get to high school.  So it should come as no surprise that the writers of “Saved by the Bell” (more than likely while in their own alcohol fueled “creativity”) decided to tackle the issues of underage drinking.  Except, in the typical SBTB fashion of being completely out of touch with anything remotely having to do with real high school, the “gang” wasn’t finally tempted with the sweet, sweet world of marathon drinking sessions and drunken late night trips to Denny’s until the last season of the show.  I. E. their senior year.  How the most popular kids in the entire fucking school were able to avoid exposure to even the sissiest, most colorful of adult beverages until their final year in school is beyond belief.  It’s just simply ridiculous.

Anyway, in this particular episode the gang winds up attending a toga party where *gasp* some of the revelers are drinking alcohol!  First of all, if these dipshits knew the first thing about toga parties they’d know that booze is pretty much a pre-requisite.  The fact that they were even let into the party without so much as a drop of alcohol on them or in them is a statement to just how popular these people were.  Once the proposition of an action filled evening of intoxication and violent vomiting is offered to the gang they’re accepting even if they’re more than a little apprehensive.  Not wanting to be left out of all the fun the kids expectedly gave in to the peer pressure.  Just like all good kids should.  Long story short, the only thing these lightweights were able to choke down during the duration of the party is about 2 beers.  Except for Zack, all he had maybe one swig.  And knowing Zack like I do I bet he was holding back tears the entire time that swig was sliding down his esophagus.  As expected they all wind up completely and utterly ripped.  Zack having had less than the others decides he should be the one to drive.  The precognitive services of Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce or St. Malachy will not be necessary to predict what happens next.  One smashed up car and an arm injury to Slater later the gang is scrambling for excuses.  The SBTB writers wouldn’t have waited so damn long to make the obligatory teenage alcohol episode if they didn’t have a very important message to convey.  And that lesson is of course; drink more when you’re younger.  Build up your tolerance in your first couple of years of high school so once you reach legal driving age you won’t have to worry about driving home drunk after one beer.  When it takes 10-12 beers before your operation of motor vehicles and heavy machinery is affected you’re on the right path.  And come on, you may be popular enough in high school to get away with not drinking but what the fuck are you going to do in college?  You don’t want to be the dude at the frat party that’s passed out by 8:30 do you?  If you are that dude you better not mind washing swear words and genitals drawn in permanent marker off of your face.  Because it’s going to happen.  A lot.  Me, I made damn sure I paid extra special attention to this particular lesson.  Sure I wasn’t my high school’s biggest drinker but certainly did enough to make sure I wasn’t a complete pussy when it came to my future collegiate alcohol consumption.  A complete loser?  Well, that’s a different story all together.  It did also help that I come from a long line of award winning beer drinkers.  And while it is true that all of the awards are imaginary they’re still a great source of family pride so I’ll include them.  Despite my alcohol consuming lineage I’ll always be in debt to the SBTB creators and producers for helping me get ready for college.

I did plan on including a few more lessons in this opening SBTB blog but I think lesson #1 rambled on long enough for one entry.  Besides, I’ve neglected my blog for far too long and need something to hold my readers over before they start unsubscribing.

Eye on Entertainment Minute Report Tonight Extra

*NOTE*  This little ditty is from way back on October 14, 2005.  Apparently my obsession with Mary Hart had reached its zenith.  Fortunately for all those involved my entertainment reporting days were over at about the same time this was posted.  Hell, if you read it you’ll probably see that those days never really started.  Someday…someday.

Boy George was arrested on suspicion of drug possession.  Apparently the police found a small amount of cocaine in his apartment last Friday.  Although I’m not, nor have ever been, a fan of Boy George, I can tell you with all confidence that these allegations are false.  Boy George (seen in the picture to the left) wouldn’t ever, EVER be caught with only a small amount of cocaine on hand.  So until the police can find his actual stash, would they please just leave the poor man(?) alone?

Peter Mayhew, the actor who played Chewbacca (Yes, Chewbacca is played by an actual human.  I know, I was devastated last year when I found out as well) in 4 “Star Wars” movies is set to become an American citizen.  The people in charge of this country do things to make it a pretty easy target much of the time, but it’s moments like this that reinforce my faith in the old Stars and Stripes.  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, your 7 foot tall upright walking dog monsters with bell bottom fur, your wrinkly 900 year old midget mystics, your bikini-clad princess slave girls yearning to breathe free.”  God bless America.

In the “What the fuck is this world coming to!?” department, a 38 year old woman in Pennsylvania has been accused of beating her 8 month pregnant neighbor with a bat and attempting to steal her unborn baby.  I’m sure the going rate for infants on the black market is pretty good but, Jesus Christ!  This is just fucking crazy!  Killing people to take their shoes is one thing but this has just gone too far!

In happier news Fox has decided to initiate a plan to help raise the collective IQ of America.  Its first step in this noble effort was to cancel “The Simple Life.”  I guess the lesson here is: just when it looks like you’re about to lose faith in Humanity, Humanity goes and cancels Paris Hilton’s shitty ass TV show.  Thanks Humanity.  I’ll never doubt you again.  Unless “Dubya” discovers a loop hole and winds up winning a third term.

On December 6^th of this year recently deceased actor James Doohan’s, Scotty from TV’s “Star Trek”, ashes will be launched into space.  This is actually a more common way of disposing of the dead than I had originally thought considering he’ll be among 120 others left in orbit that day.  In fact, “Star Trek” creator Gene Roddenberry’s ash remains were launched into space after his death back in 1991.  So not only is this not an uncommon practice but it’s been going on for some time now.  But here’s the crazy part, Mr. Roddenberry’s remains actually returned to Earth in 2002.  And by returning to Earth I mean they entered the atmosphere and were subsequently burnt to so much nothingness.  The very same fate “Scotty’s” remains will be facing 50 to 200 years from now.  So basically people are paying to have their ashes float around in space before an even more intense fire than the one used to cremate them in the first place finishes the job.  What’s the fucking point?  Why didn’t you just have your corpse incinerated completely the first time and just get it over with?  Or better yet, if you want to make a fiery fall from the sky, why not just fill your corpse with explosives, have something toss you a few hundred feet in the air and have yourself detonated.  This way at least some people will get some enjoyment out of it.  Better yet, save it for the 4^th of July.  Kids love exploding dead people.

According to a recent Associated Press-Ipsos poll, Americans are actually becoming ruder.  And to that I have to say; go eat an asshole, cock-chugger.  USA!!  USA!!

Want coffee with that?

*NOTE*  Another oldie from the Myspace blog.  Some of them hold up a bit better than others.  This one, however, is really, really dated.  But killing hookers in video games is practically timeless so hopefully it has kept some of its relevance.  Originally posted August 2, 2005.

Enough is enough!!  Now I’m pissed!  What the hell is this world coming to!  For years this country has been threatening to cross the line of good taste by peddling debauchery in the disguise of “entertainment.”  Now they’ve crossed that very line, and more than likely made fun of Jesus while doing it.  Folks, we live in society where video game producers think its ok to secretly add sexually explicit content to what was a wholesome game of gang warfare, drug use, carjackings, and murder.  I assume I join the rest of America when I say, “Rockstar Games, you should be ashamed!!!!”

Ok, so I don’t really think that.

In case you haven’t heard, the game I’m referring to is “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.”  Apparently a secret “minigame”, called “Hot Coffee”, was hidden in the game and can be unlocked with a cheat code or mod.  The user is then able to, in the right situation during the game, see two of the games characters – how can I put this nicely – fuck.  That wasn’t so nice after all was it.  Whatever.  And although the scene is said to be graphic I think it’s important to remind everyone these are humanoid-like creations made of polygons and a shitload of 1s and 0s not actual people.  Video game technology has come a long way since “Custer’s Revenge” but I’m willing to bet the scene doesn’t look that much like real sex.  I can only imagine it’s like watching cartoon porn.  Not that I, uh, know what cartoon porn is like or anything.  Once it was proven that this “minigame” was actually programmed into the game and not just an add-on developed by amateurs from the mod community it created a holy firestorm of controversy throughout the world.  A firestorm not seen since Janet Jackson exposed her evil, satanic, somewhat covered (but not nearly enough for the lunatics at the FCC) breast at the Super Bowl.  I can’t even imagine what would have happened if it turned out the game characters in question were of the same-sex.  Well, aside from God raining fire and brimstone down on us dirty, morally devoid heathens of course.

What gets me most about this whole situation is how people have gotten so up in arms about a sex scene in a game so full of what would be considered “questionable” content in the first place. The Grand Theft Auto series is a group of very, very violent games.  One of the biggest hooks of the game has been the ability to carjack.  Literally pull in-game characters out of their vehicles and then drive away in said stolen vehicle.  Whether or not you kill the victim is entirely up to you.  Now, I haven’t played any of the GTAs since GTA2 so I don’t know if this is true for the San Andreas game but a way to regain your character’s health is to “visit” a prostitute.  Of course, as in the real world, this service isn’t free.  Once the job is finished, however, you can kill the prostitute and take your money back by stealing it off her dead body.  So healing yourself really doesn’t have to cost you a thing, just like in real life.  While killing the hooker isn’t something you have to do to finish the game it is something you can do should you choose to do so.  Just like you don’t have to use the “hot coffee” mod but you can if you want.  So why is it that two animated characters rubbing up against each other got the panties of the pussies in this country in a collective bunch when they didn’t seem to care too much that you could kill hookers (or pretty much anyone else roaming the streets in GTA) for fun?  Maybe because most of the same people who have problems with games like this also think killing prostitutes isn’t such a bad idea.  Ok, I shouldn’t say the pussies don’t care about the rampant, imaginary killing taking place in GTA games.  After all, the GTA series has long been a target of the legions of people with sticks up their asses in this country.  And it probably should be to some extent.  While I’m all for keeping things like GTA from being readily available to children I can’t help but sit in wide-eyed bewilderment by the knee jerk reactions from the self-appointed keepers of morality in this country when a situation like this pops up.  Before “San Andreas” was known to have the “hot coffee” feature included it was given a rating of “M” by the ESRB (Entertainment Software Rating Board).  An “M” means “mature” and is a warning to prospective buyers that the game may contain violence and some sexual content and shit like that.  It’s basically saying, “hey all you video game shops, don’t sell this stuff to minors, it’ll fuck ‘em up good! But if their parents, grandparents or some adult the kids paid to buy it for them want to come in and buy it, well, we won’t stop you from selling it!”  Now that the various Godless evils of baby making featured in “hot coffee” have been discovered the ESRB has changed “San Andreas’” rating to the dreaded “AO,” adults only.  That means many big software retailers, like Best Buy for example, refuse to carry it.

Maybe I’m starting to repeat myself but why did adding a “sex” scene to a game full of violence all of a sudden make it adults only?  Shouldn’t all of the violence have done that in the first place? Imagine this, what if; instead of having your character bump uglies with the female character in “hot coffee”, you tortured and killer her instead.  Would the game still get the “AO” rating?  Unless there was an excessive amount of blood loss (and really, what is an excessive amount of blood loss?  A gallon?) I’m betting not.  I mean, it’s just more violence piled on top of other already known violence after all.  So is it that having senseless violence and sex together is the reason the game is “bad?”  Nah, I’m guessing it’s just the sex.   Because, as all people with an iota of intelligence know,  people watching sex and nudity is what keeps the Devil alive, keeps drug dealers selling their wares at schools and is somehow responsible for letting terrorists win…..whatever it is terrorists win.  A little violence now and then is ok but sex?  No way, that shit is right out.  And shame on whoever can’t see the evils of the naked human body and the act of reproduction.  Shame on you and may God have mercy on your evil liberal soul you dirty tree hugging baby killer.  Maybe this has already been done but if Larry Flynt ever gets into the software programming business I’m betting “Hustler’s Beaver Search:  The Game” will be getting an “AO” rating for sure.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they made an XXX equivalent rating just for him.  I’m sure there wouldn’t be one lick (pun intended) of violence in the game, other than a few pounded beavers naturally, but getting anything less than an “AO” rating is as impossible as Pauly Shore winning an Oscar.  But if a game came out like, say, “NRA:  Hippy Killer” I’d put money down on nothing worse than an “M.”

So wear does this fear of sex and nudity come from?  It has to be nothing more than an inherited fear passed down from generation to generation because I just can’t figure it out.  Now I’m not saying sex should be plastered all over the fucking place.  Believe me, I’ve seen enough pornography in my life to know some things should be left in the bedroom…..or the kitchen, or the garage, or the church confessional, or on the top of your car, or blind folded, handcuffed and hooked up to a car battery, or…..well, you get the idea.  Sex probably isn’t the best thing show to children but honestly, nudity?  How does that fit into the equation?  Normally I don’t like to beat a dead horse, and this horse has been beaten so much it’s nothing more than a fine brownish red paste by now, but I can’t help but think about the whole Janet Jackson fiasco as I type this.  I know it’s been talked about way, way too much already but I’ve just got to throw in my two cents.

Can you believe she was able to hide her marriage for so many years!?

Just kidding!  That’s not what I’m talking about!  Of course I’m really referring to the exposed breast incident from the Super Bowl that, despite having mentioned it already in this very column, I’m going to dig up again.  I’m just not that good of a writer.  Sue me.  Anyway, I couldn’t figure what the big fucking deal was at the time of the “unveiling” and a year and a half of reflection hasn’t helped me understand it any better.  I heard rant after rant after rant about how terrible the whole situation was and how most of the nation’s children were going to grow up to be drug addicts and pedophiles because they watched it.  But not once during the incredible amount of media time devoted to these lunatics did I hear an explanation on why it was wrong.  Why?  Because nobody hasan explanation.   It’s something that has been taught for so long that virtually nobody even questions it anymore.  It is because it is.  I watched the incident, I saw it actually happen.  Not that I like to admit that I’ve ever seen any performance by Justin Timberlake but I kind of have to fess up to it in this situation.  While I wasn’t watching a high definition broadcast or anything I was watching on a pretty good-sized TV and honestly I could barely see what had happened.  Besides, her nipple was mostly covered by some star-shaped doodad and certainly couldn’t be made out since the camera at the time of the broadcast was so far away.  I’ve watched enough TV in my life to know that the most evil area of the human female breast is the nipple and that’s the one part of the Janet’s “shame” no one can even claim to have seen at the time of the broadcast.  So basically all anyone saw was a bunch of boob.  I see cleavage on the TV all the time so excuse me if I don’t understand what’s wrong with showing more of it than usual.  But Goddamn it, with the uproar that took place afterwards you’d have thought everyone had just witnessed the “Super Bowl XXXVIII Halftime Show Presented by Satan, Osama Bin Laden and the KKK.”

Fuck, I don’t know.  I just spent quite a bit of time typing this out and it hasn’t helped me understand anything more than I did before I started.  Nor is it going to help make things better but dammit, I feel better now.  And if “G.I. Joe” has taught me anything during my life it’s that “knowing is half the battle.”

That didn’t make any fucking sense whatsoever did it?

Something about Tigers or Something

*NOTE* This was originally posted to my Myspace blog on July 8, 2005.  It is a bit older than that, though.  It was initially meant for a website I was working on but never got off the ground.  God bless laziness.

Really!? Is that the same tiger that tried to eat Roy Horn?  Wow.  Busy year.

While researching this piece, I came across some information concerning the white tiger.  Information that, if put through the proper channels prior to Roy’s near fatal encounter with his own tiger, might have saved Las Vegas’ now nearly non-existent gay, hugely budgeted, overly flamboyant, magic scene.  On a website listing facts about the white tiger I saw this:

Diet: Deer, antelope, oxen, wild pigs and homosexual German magic-men.

Dammit! If only somebody would have given Siegfried & Roy this information years ago we could have avoided this needless tragedy. And in turn, prevented the many tears of a saddened nation. Tears now warping the solid wood floor or a once proud country.

Uhhh… well, maybe not.  The guy works with fucking tigers! Several of them!  Everybody has to know this was bound to happen sooner or later.  We should actually all be amazed this is the first time it’s ever happened.  Well, the first time we’ve heard about it at least.  You see, I’ve got relatives in Las Vegas so I’ve got sources near the scene of the, uh… attempted feeding.  If the rumors are true (and seriously, when have rumors not been true?) then the original Siegfried & Roy are long since dead, digested, turned into tiger shit and are now helping grass grow somewhere.  The rumors continue to say we are now, unofficially, on Siegfried #7 and Roy #12.  “Experts” believe there’s been more Roys over the years because they get stuck doing the terribly dangerous tricks like the infamous “5 Minute Tiger T-Bag.”  That one’s always a showstopper. It’s difficult to feel too sorry for them, though.  When you’re a wild, carnivorous animal based entertainer, lethally savage and brutal tiger attacks are kind of par for the course. These are undomesticated, 700 lb., blood thirsty, razor clawed, meat eating beasts, after all.  It wouldn’t be much of a problem if humans were made out of plants or rocks or something, but if 7th grade science class taught me anything (and I assure you, it didn’t teach me much), that’s not the case.  Essentially, we’re all made out of the same stuff tigers need to consume to survive.  That presents at least slight problem for anybody who wishes to work with them.  Remember those old “Looney Toons” cartoons that had a couple of dudes stranded on a desert island starving to death? They were so hungry they’d each look at the other guy and see like a hot dog or a cooked turkey or something.  Then they’d spend 5 hilarious minutes running around the island trying to eat each other (damn, I wish today’s cartoons had the same blatant cannibalistic overtones as the “children’s” cartoons of yesteryear. You don’t see this kind of shit on Rugrats).  Well, that’s pretty much what tigers see when they look at us. All the fucking time!  To them, we are food! No amount of club and whip based “training” is going to beat that fact completely out of their heads.  In all the years Siegfried & Roy (all 19 or so of them) have been doing their act there’s no way they could’ve been attack free.  The only reason this latest one got so much attention is because it’s the only one to take place in public. The others either happened during closed rehearsals or while they were lounging around the “S & R Gay Magic Paradise” mansion. Roy #12 is more than likely dead and in magician heaven (and I don’t mean a Turkish bathhouse or a men’s rest stop) and Roy #13 is on stand by ready to take his place.  Problem is, since so many people saw so much blood, they can’t go and roll out a new, surprisingly mint condition Roy this soon after the incident.  Eyebrows would raise, wild conspiracy theories would form. The secret would be compromised.

I know what you’re thinking:  “Well, Smartass. Where in the fuck do all these new Siegfried & Roys come from?  And could you possibly be any fucking dumber?”  All I gotta say is keep reading.  I should be able to answer both of your questions pretty thoroughly.  This Siegfried & Roy business brings in Camryn Manheim sized piles of money daily.  Trust me, they’ve got the resources needed to harvest Siegfried & Roy doppelgangers if the need should arise.  Actually finding them, however, does present a bit of a problem.  First off, they’ll need to find someone with very few to absolutely no friends. Someone whose family has, for whatever reason, long since disowned, given up on and forgotten about.  They should be able to find at least a handful of people like this in any comic book store anywhere on the planet.  The comic shops would also come in handy should they need to find any adult, male virgins. Not sure why they’d need one, that kind of thing’s usually left for female vampires and Liza Minnelli, but they’d be there just in case.  Another candidate to fill the highly overpriced, ruby encrusted shoes of Siegfried & Roy could be found among the ranks of the nations homeless.  Sure they all smell like ass and garbage, but It probably wouldn’t take too much money and sweet talking to convince them to do it.  If you’ve ever seen any “Bumfights” videos you’ll understand what I mean.  From a business stand point, hiring the homeless to replace Siegfried or Roy just makes good sense.  Plus, the Siegfried & Roy, Inc. overlords can spend that extra money on even bigger piles of coke and hookers.  And, if all else fails, I guess they can just run an ad in the classified section of the newspaper.  Las Vegas is a pretty odd place and I have a feeling running an ad like the one you see below won’t really raise too much suspicion.

But that might be because the ad above it was looking for someone who has “forever dreamed of participating in the adult film industry and doesn’t mind working with gas powered anal sex toys, amputees and mayonnaise covered midgets.”  Even in Vegas an ad like that is going to get most of the attention.  Unless, of course, you were reading the paper in hopes of finding someone looking for a closeted, magic powered, animal loving German. But how often does that happen.

You might think whole fuckin’ thing is already needlessly long and incredibly asinine.  Well, I’m not done yet.  And fuck you for judging me…. asshole.  Being Siegfried & Roy is a dangerous and highly complex job.  If one of them dies away from public view there has to be a new, trained Siegfried or Roy ready to take his place within a day.  Since these back up Siegfrieds & Roys are going to have to train with dangerous, blood hungry animals themselves they also run the risk of being mauled or eaten they’re going to need understudies themselves.  At any one moment there are several (perhaps even dozens) of highly trained Siegfrieds & Roys just waiting for their chance to get “called up to the bigs” so to speak.  But, where in the Blue Hell do all these Siegfrieds & Roys live?  They can’t all live at the mansion could they?  Although it is a gigantic mansion, having several Siegfrieds & Roys running around playing grab ass all day might be a little risky.  If the mainstream media somehow catches wind of this the shit is going to hit the fuckin’ fan. And that’s huge amounts of elephant, whale and dinosaur shit launched by cannon into some sort of humongous superfan.  That’s why there can only be one Siegfried and one Roy at the mansion at a time.  And what about the rest of them you ask? Simple, Area 51.  Come on people, it all makes sense now doesn’t it?  Area 51 isn’t some place where the government experiments on the aliens and their technology from the Roswell crash.  That’s just fuckin’ stupid.  Area 51 is the training ground and living quarters for all the next Siegfrieds & Roys! Think about it.  All the pieces are coming together!  IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!!!

Wow.  I don’t know what’s more incredible, the fact that this actually kind of makes sense or the fact that I rambled all this shit off based on a 3 word sentence about Tiger Woods’ engagement.  God, I need to get out more.

This is a Creative Title

*NOTE*  This entry was originally posted on my Myspace blog on June 28, 2005.  This particular bit of rambling may also have the ability to bunch up some panties.  Don’t go all art school graduate on me and start explaining the different sub-genres of abstract art.  It’s been about 14 years since my art history class and I’m not interested in getting too specific about this.  Besides, this whole fucking thing is nonsense anyway.

Question:  What do Vincent Van Gogh and Congo, a chimpanzee born in 1954 have in common?

If you guessed both enjoyed defecating in their own hands and flinging shit at passers-by, you’re only half right.  Aside from that, both were brilliant artists who were tragically underappreciated during their all too brief lifetimes.

Apparently.

Van Gogh’s story is well known: couldn’t sell a painting during his life, went crazy and cut off his own ear, died broke, paintings are now worth a fortune.  Congo’s story is actually very similar but with fewer fleas and one extra ear.  See, Congo was an artist too.  And one who is finally seeing his work make some sizeable bank even though he died in 1964.  At a recent auction in London, a lot of his paintings were purchased by a so called “enthusiast of modern and contemporary painting” for $26,352.  Yep, someone, who I assume was either an actual human or at the very least one of those sign language speaking gorillas, spent over $25K on artwork created by a monkey.  (And before anyone says anything, I really don’t give a shit whether or not a chimp is actually a monkey or not.  If an idiot like myself can figure out how to use a keyboard a chimp can be a monkey, ok?)  What’s even more shocking to me is the fact that the paintings were predicted to go for somewhere between $1000-$1500.  Somehow the auction house had reason to believe someone was about blow the same amount of money that could be used for an overnight session with a homely escort on paintings done by a fuckin’ monkey.  And while they were wrong, they weren’t the good kind of getting-fired-because-they-were-selling-unsellable-monkey-paintings-bringing-shame-upon-the-auction-house-and-now-they’re-picking-food-out-of-dumpsters-behind-the-museum kind of wrong.  No, they were the bad kind of sell-said-monkey-paintings-for-huge-profit-get-worldwide-attention-by-some-sort-of-cosmic-accident kind of wrong.

I’m actually happy for Congo.  The article I read said he made about 400 drawings and paintings during his “career.”  He was obviously very, very serious about his art and I’m glad it’s finally starting to make some scratch for whatever human was able to exploit him during his lifetime.  But this whole thing proves beyond a reasonable doubt that abstract art world is as phony as Joan Rivers’ entire upper body.  Is there any other artistic endeavor that can be done completely by accident?  If a chimp (or, from what I’ve heard, an elephant or a gorilla) can sell a painting for several thousand dollars can the industry from which that painting is from have any respect whatsoever?  Fuck no!  Aside from throwing paint randomly on a canvas like it was so much monkey feces Congo couldn’t have had a clue as to what he was doing.  Honestly, small children (even the retarded ones) have more artistic talent than even the most “talented” absract painter.  They can atleast draw and paint things.  You know, like flowers and trees and bubblegum and fruit and strangely colored grandparents and shit like that.  Animals will never accidently write a great song, paint the Sistine Chapel, direct a movie, write a hit Broadway musical, win any Adult Video News awards or anything else even slightly creative.  But they can, and have, sold abstract paintings.  I think that says enough.

Even though I said “that says enough” I apparently don’t believe myself because I’m not finished.  It’s entirely possible the fault doesn’t lie with the (human) artists at all.  If fact, maybe I should be praising and congratulating them for their brilliant underhandedness.  They know they’re talentless hacks but they also realize that there’s a surprisingly large market of people who like to overpay for things that suck and are horrible.  They’ve capitalized on this knowledge and have been able to create an industry where animals and 1 year olds are their peers yet they’re still able to line their filthy pockets with wads of $100 bills.  Pretty genius when you think about it at unnecessarily great lengths like I have.  The abstract buying market even affects allegedly intelligent people.  Pablo Picasso even reportedly had one of Congo’s paintings hanging in his studio.  To be fair he did get it as a gift and probably didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.  After all, an angry human artist is prone to go weep in a corner like a 5 year old girl while an angry chimpanzee artist would probably tear off your foot and chew on your genitals.  Makes sense to me I guess.  I’ll let you off on this one Picasso.

As usual I’ve probably dragged this on way too long so I’ll leave you with this:  abstract art is stupid.  Well damn, I could have typed just that and saved myself a hell of a lot of time.