The Dark Side of Garfield

February 21, 2006

I’m not sure I’ll ever look at Garfield the same again. So much for fond childhood memories.

Apparently, some guy had the idea to remove all of Garfield’s speech bubbles from the comic, so it would look like Jon’s just talking to his cat. It makes for a rather dark comic strip, at least in comparison to the original.

I like the one where he’s shouting because all of the food is gone. Without the responses from Garfield he’s now a sad sociopath living alone in an apartment, mumbling and/or yelling at himself. He has no where to project his anger with the world, no one to confide in but his pet cat. It’s so perfect and depressing. Now it just needs a strip showing him in sweatpants with gravy stains, cruising his old minivan around middle school parking lots after work.

It’s like the last time I went to get my palm read.

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I’m gonna drink you anyway

February 18, 2006

Tonight, I looked over at my half empty case of beer and noticed in small print on the front: “born on date: xxxx”

Do people actually look at these things? Has anyone ever actually gone shopping for beer, found something they wanted, looked at the expiration date on the package and said to themselves “Oh, no, I can’t buy this. It’s spoiled!” and then continued on down the aisle looking for fresher beer?

Seriously. Anybody?

Which leads me to something else. Wasn’t there a beer…Budweiser or something…that had the “born on” date on the bottom of the bottle caps? If so, how is that helpful? I suppose you’re supposed to drink a beer, note that it tastes like sour ass, and then go to consult the bottle cap to see why. Much like how you would go to eat cereal in the morning.

I cannot begin to explain how pantshittingly angry I get when I pour sour milk into a bowl of delicious Fruity Pebbles and spoil them forever, all because I forgot to check the expiration date. But that’s another old man rant for another day.

Sleepless In Shithole

February 18, 2006

Last night I got bored with the darkness and the tossing and turning I do just about every night, so I turned on the TV. They had that mattress infomercial on, the one that I hate, the one that makes you think, “What the fuck, couldn’t Comedy Central afford to put on, like, an old Richard Pryor movie or something? Anything? Do they really have to whore themselves out to a mattress company?” The one where they try to convince you that you’re an insomniac for being up so late, and that you need this mattress that you can jump on without knocking over a glass of wine. Y’know, for those people that leave glasses of Gew├╝rztraminer lying around on their beds.

The spokeswoman was rambling on, and at some point she mentioned that Einstein needed 10 hours of sleep to function. (I like how they use Einstein to sell a mattresses, like I used him to sell my math grades when I was 12. “Yeah, but Einstein failed math! And he invented the atomic bomb. So this C minus? Not a big deal.”) Really, that’s a lot of sleep. And he was Einstein. Maybe he had it figured out.

But then there’s Napoleon…the French midget who worked his way up through the ranks to become Emperor, the military genius who schooled Europe in warfare, the guy who once said “Six hours of sleep for a man, seven for a woman and eight for a fool.” (Oh yeah, well maybe if you got four more hours of sleep you wouldn’t have had that shitty idea to invade Russia! Bitch.) He built his empire, was kicked out of France to be imprisoned on a small island, escaped the island, came back and fought until Waterloo, all on 6 hours of sleep a night. Nicely done.

Well, I got up today to check my e-mail and Sam had sent me a link to this dude who supposedly went 33 years without sleep. I have to call total bullshit, as it’s not like “Thanh Nien Daily” is what I’d call a reputable source for news, but can you imagine that? Even a year without sleep — a year without a break from reality? If I were that guy, I’d run to the nearest undetonated American landmine and pounce on that fucker. I’d slit my wrists with bamboo shavings. I’d run around screaming to the local police that “communism is dead,” begging to be shot. I’d do anything but keep on living.

But what IS the right amount of sleep? 6? 8? 10? None? I really don’t know. For me, it seems to be “whatever feels good,” and that usually leads to complications, like sleeping until 2pm in the afternoon like I did today. I’m what Napoleon would call a fool.

Unrelated to most of this crap is something I found morbidly funny. I was searching for something about sleep and came across a page about Chris Farley’s death:

With his growing fame, his problems got even bigger. He didn’t want to be the “fat guy who falls down” any more. But Chris had several other problems, too, namely with alcohol and drug dependency.

He bought an apartment in the John Hancock Building on Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago. His apartment was on the 60th floor.

He spent his last day primarily with a hooker named Heidi.

John Hancock building? You mean the Herbie Hancock building.
Haha …What, you haven’t seen Tommy Boy? Well, fuck off.

“ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?”
— Gladiator

I was talking about the Olympics with a friend today, and we both agreed that it’s mostly a boring ball of shit. Especially the Winter Olympics stuff (except for that one event where the dudes fly through the air on the huge skis). I just don’t get it. What the games really come down to are bragging rights… those people are out there proving to the rest of the world that their country is superior, that their people are better conditioned and prepared for competition. It’s about showing off your best of breed and earning gold medals. But how does doing a backflip on a snowboard prove that you’re better, mentally or physically? That’s just downright silly. I feel that in order to really compete, we must utilize our most primal instincts. We must take risks.

And how do we do that? How do we really compete? How do we prove who is stronger, faster, smarter, better? You prove it with hand to hand fucking combat. Yes, the ultimate competition! Life or death, the weak vs the strong; the losers don’t go home, the losers are annihilated. The winners survive to become heroes and legends. Face it, it’s what we’re trying to simulate when we put on those cleats and head out onto the field anyway.

Take football or rugby, for example: both are “civilized” simulations of warfare. You get out there, work as a team, and try to destroy your “enemy” with various strategies and formations. Hell, some rugby teams even have war dances before the games, all the while staring down their opponents on the field in an attempt to scare the life out of them. Soccer, too, has its connections to the battlefield. Stadiums filled with hooligans — clans & armies, basically — all men from different cities, chanting war songs to encourage their players. And all they get out of it is a little black & white ball bouncing up and down the field, or douchebags with ugly haircuts, like that Beckham guy. There’s no relief. There’s no satisfaction. It’s why those things erupt into violence. Soccer just isn’t the ideal outlet for our primal instincts. No sport is.

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This ain’t ancient Greece. Back then, they had so much war that they had to put their war in the refrigerator in Ziploc baggies and reheat the war leftovers the next day — that’s how much war they had back then! If the Olympics were anything, they were a preparation for war. Naked men in olive groves wrestling each other and hurling rocks around — what do you think it was all for? They had to hone their skills, of course! Today, it’s different. You can’t even invade a country without taking some guff, and when we kill each other, there’s nothing personal about it. It’s all about who can pull the trigger first from 500 meters, or who can hit the “detonate” button on the roadside bomb. It’s just not the same. Blood doesn’t mix with blood, sweat doesn’t mix with sweat. It’s too clean and rarely practiced. And our Olympics? Give me a break. They would laugh at us and our silly games.

What would be better is if we just brought back Gladitorial combat in arenas like the Romans and had a showdown at the Olympics every 4 years. 100 or so warriors would be chosen from each country, all of them experts in various fields of weaponry. For instance, some would be proficient in archery, others the sword, axe, bludgeoning tool, throwing dart, what have you. They would wear Roots breastplates and Nike helmets for protection.

The events would be composed of offensive, defensive, and meeting engagements. Barricades would be erected, hot oil would be provided, moats would be filled with vicious aquatic beasts, and catapults would be constructed, allowing competitors to hurl flaming balls of tar through the air at their foes. Then, and only then, would we see who’s got the bigger balls and who possesses the real skills — the skills important to survival. Open fucking warfare!

Then the countries would go through elimination rounds until they were down to a handful of warriors or until they were defeated, AND THUS, the real podium shit would begin. Picture hot 5 on 5 combat between Scandinavian berserkers covered in blue paint and Japanese samurai (the fine samurai way would undoubtedly be resurrected thanks to the New Olympics). Only the best and the luckiest would survive, making for the most heated of battles. After that comes the 2 on 2 and 1 on 1 combat. And then, finally, somebody would be crowned the victor.

I feel that this would also help our countries reduce political tension in certain situations. Maybe Canada and the US could finally resolve their differences in the logging industry, for instance. Instead of us Americans bitching at North Korea, threatening them with this sanction or that sanction, and then having them turn around and threaten to nuke us, we could just go into the arena and fuckin’ duel, and in the end we’d probably come out patting our little asian brothers on the ass and sayin’ “Good game, North Korea, good game. Way to hustle, bros.” We’d find some respect for each other, there’s no doubt about it. That’s what we need more of in this world — not choreographed ice skating in sparkly outfits, not snowboarding, not curling, but respect and love for one another.

And that can only be achieved through bloodshed and the deaths of thousands.

You can have your VD

February 14, 2006

“I am going. I am going where streams of whiskey are flowing.”
-Shane MacGowan

Valentines Day. Again. And you know what? This year I’m not so sad to be alone. I was thinking about it, and all men get to do on this day is run around and try to please their women even more than usual. As if watching A Baby Story on TLC with them, hanging out while they get their nails done, and reassuring them that they aren’t fat isn’t enough.

Well, tonight, TONIGHT I’m going to look at the bright side. Being alone on this Valentine’s Day, I get to:

-Drink a pint of John Daniels without getting any shit about it
-Watch The Life Aquatic — a film that no female I know has ever enjoyed
-Once intoxicated, sing badly to loud, punk rock songs before passing out naked & belly-up on my bed
-Have no sex
-…shit, just ruined my whole theory

Ah yes, that Sunday of the year where you get to ask the inevitable: “what the fuck was with the half time show?” and “did you see that commercial?”

The ads were boring because ABC didn’t wanna get bitchslapped with a fine, and I think “I can’t get no satisfaction” would pretty much sum up the half time show. It’s like each year they try to make it shittier than ever. “What could we do to make it worse this year? Hmm. Oh, I know. The Rolling Stones, and no sound!” Apparently, they couldn’t get the sound to work at all, so when the Rolling Stones came on, Mick Jagger was left to jump around like a fairy and sing to himself for half of the performance. Not that it would matter…people are always making jokes about how old the Rolling Stones are, but I’m seriously wondering if they’re starting to go feeble, cause it sounded like they didn’t know how to play their guitars anymore.

I was really disappointed with the lack of nipples shown, too. Couldn’t you whip out a pierced tit, Jagger, or your old wrinkly balls or something? I mean… something dramatic…a big fuck you to the FCC? Rock and fucking roll, man! You’re only getting older! Go out with a bang. Nothing will top Janet’s big black pierced saucer and the strange look on her face, but why not try? As it stands, the only bright side to this superbowl was that Justin Timberlake wasn’t there in all of his douchebaggery.

That, and Seattle lost. Next to my hatred for Peyton & Eli Manning would be my dislike for that cocky Hasselbeck.”We’re going to take the ball and score!” blah blah blah, nigga! You got smoked!

Uhh

February 5, 2006

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it was funny at the time, anyway ­čśŽ