Points in Case - The Fine Print of College Life

My Czech Post Office Nightmare

Cole F.M. — Sat, 18 May 2013 23:37:06 -0400

Column by Cole F.M.

Prague, city of light, city of magic! The crown jewel of Eastern Europe, Prague has a long and storied history, full of strife and intrigue. The architecture is awe-inspiring. The people are kind and friendly. The cuisine is powerfully delectable. The post offices are a fucking nightmare.

Maybe I should rewind a bit to clarify.

During my time in Prague, I had a package delivered to me. I should rewind a little more. While I was in Berlin, I ordered a package. But, as I was ready to leave Berlin (I had drunk all the beer, you see) and move on, I wanted to have the package sent to the next stop on my trek: Prague. You see, there exists a magic address called Poste Restante where they will send the package to the central post office of whatever city you want. Neat, right? Sounds easy and convenient, right? Well, if you have any idea how my articles work, you should have at least a vague concept of much of a clusterfuck this is about to become.

"Hi...your...friend...or, or Satan...maybe she's Satan, said that you could help me out with getting my package."The following is an entirely true story, and the conversations are posted as close to verbatim as possible, as much of the talking was in Czech, and it's just a silly language.

I walked down the marvelous streets, surrounded by a crisp breeze. Clouds obscured a sun that longed desperately to bless the land below with its golden rays, but was basically being told to fuck itself. It in turn told the clouds to fuck themselves, and they had a massive sky-based orgy that resulted in something that looked like shit, but felt warm and inviting (much like the orgies I host). Regardless, I was excited on this day, because this was when the package I had ordered was expected to arrive in town. I was practically giddy with excitement (except not really).

After some hard research (twelve seconds on Google Maps) I discovered the location of Prague's central post office, and quickly sauntered over like a motherfucker. Upon arrival I quickly learned that fuck, I still don't speak Czech, and that would really, really help right now.

The massive hall of the post office had a couple of dozen different windows full of people that look positively exuberant about assisting other people, but unfortunately, they each had a different number above, describing what each line was for, and each in a different color, with a short description under the number of what it was. It was also in Czech.

I soon surmised that I needed to get a number and wait for said number to be called, so I stumbled around pointlessly for a few minutes before I found a machine that dispensed numbers. It was right by the line of people getting numbers from a machine. Hindsight's 20/20.

Unfortunately you had to tell the machine what kind of number you wanted. Like, which line you wanted to wait in, and I still didn't know that, because I suck.

Fortunately, stumbling around aimlessly muttering curse words under my breath paid off, as I managed to find an information office, and lo and behold, the jolly bastard inside spoke English.

Sort of.

"Hello...do you um, speak English?"

"Of course! How can I help you?" He seemed quite happy to get the chance to use his English skills. Or maybe he was this happy about everything.

"Yeah, I'm here to pick up a package..."

"Yes?"

"...I, uh, where do I do that?"

"Over there, by windows 1 through 4."

"Oh, cool, thank you. That is much easier."

"You're welcome."

Still smiling.

I ventured to the number machine again, now confident that I knew where I needed to go.

The machine did not dispense numbers for windows 1 through 4.

"Excuse me?"

The information man looked up at me to answer.

"Oh, hello again. Has a problem?" (Note: Grammatical mistakes are his, not mine. Although some are probably mine.)

"Yeah...uh...where do I get a number to wait?"

"I don't understand."

"I need a number to wait in line, and your machine might be racist because it won't give me one."

"Oh, you don't need a number for those lines. Just go stand there."

"Awesome." The whole post office should be like that.

So I headed over to the lines. Only two windows were open and only one was unoccupied. I approached.

"Hello."

(Something something in Czech. Sounded kinda Russian.)

"Umm...I need to pick up a package."

A questioning look.

"Umm...a, a package?" I considered grabbing my crotch to help illustrate my point.

"She speak English," he said, pointing to the occupied window next to us.

"...okay."

"You are welcome," he said, sounding like he meant anything but.

The second window soon opened and I approached a very haggard looking woman who had clearly earned a deep-seated hatred for... probably everything. She looked so pissed.

"Hello, I'm here to pick up a package."

(Something in Czech.)

"Umm, English?" I asked tentatively.

"He speaks English," she said, pointing to the window I had just come from... that was also closed now.

"There are four different ways that there is no one there. Here, I have the order number," I said, setting down a slip of paper with my order information on it.

She eyed it skeptically.

"That number means you hate me," I whispered quietly, pointing to the order number.

"Go there," she said, pointing to the information office.

"I already did, he's all smiles but—"

"Go there." It was not a suggestion.

"...Yes ma'am."

I walked across the hall once more, empty-handed.

"Hi!"

"Oh, hello...again. What now?"

"Well...the succubus over there told me to talk to you about getting my package."

"The what?"

"The package."

"No I mean— um, well I can't help you with that...you will need to go back to them."

"...I don't want to."

"They can help you."

"...okay."

So I left the information booth yet again and walked once more to the line.

"Hello."

"Yes?"

"He said to come over here...he says you can help."

"No."

"...isn't it your job?"

"He can help," motioning once again to her co-worker, who had finally returned to his seat.

"Hi...your...friend...or, or Satan...maybe she's Satan, said that you could help me out with getting my package."

"No speak English."

"That is so cool because you don't even have to. Here," I said, placing the order number in front of him.

He eyed it with nearly as much disdain as the she-devil at the other window, but he actually typed it into his computer.

Yes! Victory!

"We do not have."

Wait! Shit!

"...What?"

"No have package."

Oh so now you know what package means.

"...Could you check again?"

"No. Maybe try tomorrow."

"Well the order said it would be here today..."

"Try tomorrow." This time the woman said it...she was more than a little off putting.

"...okay."

So I left, broken. Defeated. And more than a little disappointed in the quality of the local customer service. When I got back to McDonald's (my local base of operations) I checked the interwebs and discovered that according to DHL (the package delivery service) the parcel was delivered on Tuesday. (Note: It was Thursday, which is Tuesday only in the sense that fuck you it's not.)

So okay...okay, I'll try again tomorrow. Maybe things take a few extra days here when coming from another country, kind of like how they're just now getting the hang of VHS. Yeah, totally gonna work this time.

It totally didn't work.

I returned the next day to find a new set of people waiting to "assist" me at the parcel pick up window. So, I approached, and in my best "idiot tourist who only speaks loud English," I said "Hello?"

"...Yes?"

"Umm...I'm here to pick up a package?"

"Where is the package?"

"Whoa, really do things backwards around here, huh? ...Umm, I would guess it's probably in a storage area of some sort. Perhaps a closet."

"......"

"...This...this is the order number..." I said, once more sliding the series of digits across the counter. He looked at it like it was poison. He leaned over and asked the person at the next window something in Czech, and then started typing the number into his computer before he got an answer.

"We don't have."

"...Yes you do."

"We don't have."

"I checked with DHL, they said the package arrived days ago. Did, did I like, miss it or something? Do you guys like, burn the packages if we don't get here quick enough? If so, amazing incentive, but that sucks so bad."
"Try here," he said, tapping his computer screen.

It was an address.

"Is this where my package is?"

"They maybe have."

"Is it another post office? A warehouse? A brothel? A post office brothel?"

He seemed less than amused by my suggestions of post-related prostitution. Or maybe he simply sold his happiness in exchange for his legendary unibrow. I was envious.

"Sometime package go not here."

"...Yeah, I noticed that."

"Sometime package go there."

"...So it is a post office...and they sometimes get packages from here by mistake?"

He nodded, but I'm pretty sure he was just doing whatever he could to make me go away the quickest. Can't really blame him.

He leaned over and asked his co-worker something. I looked over and—

"AH!" Shit! It was Satan again.

She straight up glared at me.

"Yeah...I'll try that other post office now."

"They are closed," she growled. Literally.

"...Did you eat them?" I asked hesitantly.

"They open tomorrow. Then, they close on until Tuesday."

"Right...thank you...so much...I'll go tomorrow. Goodbye forever."

I then ran as far away as I could.

Okay, day 3 in the Clusterfuck Saga, time to find this goddamn post office.

First off, good luck navigating public transit in Prague. It's, umm...different. I passed by several castles and got an awesome view of the river, until I found out that there was no river by the post office.

I walked after that.

Three hours later I finally managed to find the right street, and eventually I located what appeared to be a post office. Although it had no signs.

A very beautiful woman held the door for me and for a brief moment I thought that my Post Brothel idea might impossibly be correct, but then I realized, like I do every day, that I am stupid, and that this was just a regular post office. Simply one with really hot customers.

Once more I put on a full stage performance attempting to illustrate the point that I needed a package, and that they should give me that package. And that all they had to do was type this goddamn number into their computer.

It didn't seem to click with anyone.

Eventually someone noticed that "Hey! This guy doesn't seem to speak our language!" and that the strange, guttural grunting noises I was producing were in fact a form of communication, and they quickly (24 minutes and yes I goddamn counted) produced a fellow with a respectable command over the English language. And by that I mean he knew the words "package" and "we totally don't have yours."

God.

Damn.

Ring Ring

"Pick up the shitting phone..." I muttered to myself, crazily.

"Cole? What are you doing?"

I had decided to stay at a hostel for a bit while I sorted some things out. One of the other guys staying there, a Dutch fellow whose name shall be excluded, seemed to be watching me with a morbid sense of curiosity, and also a bit of concern, mixed in with a dash of what appeared to be fear.

"I'm calling DHL directly. See if someone there accidentally murdered my package."

"Still trying to get that thing? I thought it was supposed to be here days ago."

"Yes."

"...I'm, uh...gonna get a beer. You want one?"

"Yes. All of them."

Not quite sure what to make of this, the man wandered off.

Ring Ring.

(Something in Czech that I will assume was "Hello? We hate you.")

"Does anyone in there speak English?"

"One minute."

Yes.

"Hallo?"

"Yes, I'm calling to report some bullshit."

After that statement I went ahead and explained the entire situation, and all of the bullshit contained within. I gave him my tracking number.

"Ah, yes, your package is at the airport."

"...Fucking what now?"

"The airport."

"...Is it trying to go somewhere?"

After a brief exchange in which I'm pretty sure he muttered some creative Czech curses, the man told me that I should go to the DHL facility at the airport, as there had been some problem with the postage system (no shit) and it was now there.

...

So I went to the airport facility... two days later when it opened again.

"Hello?"

"Hallo!"

Please note, "hallo" is not Czech for "hello." I think it might be a very specific ancient druidic curse meant to invoke the demon of fucking my shit up.

"I need you to not hate me."

No answer. No English.

I simply gave him the tracking number.

He smiled.

Then left the room.

For a while.

Eighteen minutes actually.

Then he came back.

"Sign here."

What is it with these people and their sudden onset English? And...that's my package! Yes! Praise sweet Odin above!

So I signed. Got my package. And then went back to my hostel, where I started drinking all the beer I could find and began writing a very angry article describing my experience with the Czech Postal System.

Maxi Pad Bulge Voyeur: Just One of My 10 Favorite Search Terms

Molly Williams — Thu, 16 May 2013 16:38:43 -0400

Blog by Molly Williams

There's this super neat thing we get to use to track page views and stuff called StatCounter. I love seeing the creepy search terms that lead people to things I've written here. When someone googles something especially weird, I add it to this list. I'm not sure what it says about me that "masturbate horses to make them run faster" leads to shit I've written, but okay. Incidentally, does that work? Now I'm curious enough to google it and suddenly my search history is 20% creepier. For the record, results are inconclusive enough that I'd put off rustling Seabiscuit's jimmies at least until a day when there's nothing good on TV.

1. "The more you masturbate, the creepier you get"

False. The more you masturbate in public the creepier you get. If you're at home (note to my neighbor: this does not include your balcony), you can fucking go to town. But don't actually go to town, since that's a public area.

2. "Uncle rapey"

... is actually quite a kick at family barbecues. Just remember to say no if he asks you to try his special sauce.

3. "My bitch has fat lady bits"

Can lady bits be fat? How does this work? Does the term "lady bits" refer specifically to her nether regions or is this about boobs? I'm pretty sure fat boobs equates to big boobs, and I've never heard anyone complain about big boobies. Or is this in reference to a dog? Why are you concerned about your dog's lady bits? Remember kids, don't fuck your dog. Assert your dominance like a normal person, by peeing on it while it sleeps. "What is the point of peed on bitch", I just answered your query, too.

4. "Bible stories as told by rednecks"

"And on the eighth day, Jesus appeared in a fried pork rind so that he could watch NASCAR with your Uncle Jim-Bob." Do you ever have days where you just feel stupid? I was having one of those but then my two-packs-a-day redneck neighbor informed me that her pastor blesses her cigarettes so that she won't get cancer and the moment passed, just like she will.

5. "Adult Depend diaper red dot front or back" (image search)

Alone, you might think that this was someone trying to figure out how to put on an adult diaper. But this is the internet, and things are never not creepy. Related search terms include:

"Diaper voyeur" and "diapers for masturbation" and "maxi pad bulge voyeur"

And then, while I was writing this and happened to click refresh, "maxi pad bulges naked".

That's a party I'll be skipping. I love how "diaper voyeur" and "maxi pad bulge voyeur" sound like things that could go on a resumé.

6. "Goat that rapes girls thinking they are does"

Aren't does female deer? Why would a goat want to rape a deer? Also, how could a goat confuse a girl with a deer? Some of my friends call me Bambi, should I be more cautious around goats? This was followed by "show pictures of raped goats babbies". Why were you looking for pictures of this? It's the internet, I guarantee you there's video available. It's important to have standards, after all.

7. "Molly Williams naked"

Julian has pictures, ask him. Or if you wait a few weeks my current post-graduation plan is stripping. It's not a bright future but I'll settle for glittery.

8. "Womens rights make sandwiches win"

Sandwich-making is our duty, not our right.

9. "Flatter shy anal"

I'm friends with enough bronies to assume this was supposed to be Fluttershy anal, and unfortunately I know creepy bronies to know that out of all the victims of Rule 34, My Little Pony has been hit pretty hard. Remember that picture of a fuckable My Little Pony plush from Etsy a while ago? No? Allow me to refresh your memory and/or scar you for life: http://static.regretsy.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/yonni.jpg

10. And suddenly, "masturbate horses to make them run faster" isn't the weirdest thing on this list.

Or maybe it is. Fuck it. Not the horse, that would be weird, and apparently not as effective. The My Little Pony plush.

Three Generations of Manliness, Completely Ruined

Casey Freeman — Wed, 15 May 2013 03:39:45 -0400

Column by Casey Freeman

It was 10 years ago and I had just graduated from NYU and returned to Colorado for one of my brothers' high school graduations. Seeing my immediate family excited me, but seeing my grandparents, uncles, and aunts really got me going. I knew they didn't have the time, money, or patience to fly to NYU for my graduation, so my brother and I kind of threw a joint graduation party.

My mom told me one day we'd all go to the Coors Brewery about an hour from our house. This was my chance. Back then, I fancied myself a big-time drinker. I still do, but now I don't see the need to brag to passersby about how wasted I can get.

"Why don't you bleach blond your hair again there, Pretty Boy?" my grandpa said. "I'm getting another one of these tasty concoctions."Besides seeing my middle bro collect his diploma, I really wanted to snap a photo of my grandpa, uncles, dad, brother (using a fake ID he stole from me), and myself. Three generations of Freemans sipping beers together. This would be one for the mantelpiece. A manly memory forever. Maybe the manliest.

Grandpa would tell us stories about WWII and flying airplanes for the Marine Corps in Guadalcanal. My dad might do the same about flying helicopters for the Marines in Vietnam. My uncle could inform us about kicking ass and forgetting names as a prison guard. I might be able to instruct them on, um, how to do the 200 butterfly in a swim meet. So my thing wouldn't be as macho, but maybe some of theirs would rub off on me.

Naturally, I picked up a new disposable camera. (Remember, this was a decade ago and I was still a poor, recently-graduated college kid.)

We drove off in a column of pickup trucks and SUVs. I wore my boots and my "KC" belt buckle. Each guy beside me carried a pocket knife. I couldn't remember where I put mine because I never seem to need it, but they could always find a use for a blade: cutting apart an apple, killing a newly-caught trout, or picking their teeth. Total testosterone.

We arrived at the Castle de Coors. I felt my testicles surge with power. We walked through and my family joked about how crappy the beer would be. The tour actually entertained us, even though the men kept asking when all the free malt refreshments would show up. Our guide obviously dealt with this type of heckling eight hours a day, but I still admired him.

Finally, our lesson about the brewing process ended and sample time started. I checked out the lighting, surroundings, and seating arrangements for the perfect snapshot. I didn't want to sound like a wuss and explain this, but I thought in a few years we'd all look back at this awesome photo with nothing but thanks and astonishment for my planning.

We waited in line. "Do you like Coors Light or Coors OG? I'm more of a 40-ounce malt liquor man, but I can do either," I said with my deepest voice possible. All these near Neanderthals and me in a bar waiting for beer. I couldn't be happier.

Then it happened.

My dad jabbed my uncle with his thumb and pointed to something. "What's that stuff? Zima? It looks like Sprite."

"Oh no, Dad. That's for girls."

"Oh what the hell? It's free, let's all give it a shot."

"No, Dad. Seriously. You lose your man card for that."

"KC, you have a girl name. Shut up about man cards," my dad chuckled. "Can my father, brothers, and I order those Zima things, please? And my dipshit son will probably take a regular beer."

"Dad, c'mon. You don't want that."

"What I want is for your flapping jaw to stop flapping, or I'm going to spoil all the dentistry I worked overtime for."

The bartender came out with four Zimas and a Coors Light. I figured maybe after they found out how gross and girly their beverages were, they'd come to their senses and I could finally capture this moment in maleness.

I watched in anguish as all my direct male bloodline drank these ladylike libations and considered telling them to put Jolly Ranchers in their glasses for a more rainbow color.

Then the horror grew worse.

"Wow! These are awesome!" my ex-prison guard uncle shouted. "I could get on board with these."

"You know, after a long day of gardening and pruning and filling up hummingbird feeders, this would really hit the spot," my dad informed everybody.

"My allergies really get me in the summer, so this would be a nice change from beer," my grandpa said. "I wish they invented this stuff during Dubya-Dubya Big One. It would have made my stay much nicer."

"Guys! Get a hold of yourselves here!" I cried. "Only little kids and chicks drink this!"

"Who are you calling a little chick?" the toughest tough from California State Prison erupted.

"How about this, my dear KC," Dad snapped. "This stuff has an alcohol percentage of 10 percent, while your beer is barely above five. So we're doing more damage than you."

"But it's fucking Zima!" I whined.

"Why don't you bleach blond your hair again there, Pretty Boy?" my grandpa said as he strolled up to the taps. "I'm getting another one of these tasty concoctions. Do you sell these things in California? If you don't, I'm buying a case of them right here and bringing them back."

I sulked in the corner and read some history of Coors. I cursed the day they developed "Zomething Zifferent." I wondered why the universe, the Lord, or humanity in general decided to humiliate as well as punish me. I pinched myself hoping this nightmare would end. It didn't. Worse things happened.

"KC, you know I don't believe in drinking and driving. We all drank two of those amazing Zimas, but we're going to wait around for the booze to wear off a bit. Gramps, my brothers and I think we'll check out that outlet mall nearby. I'd let you drive, but you're still an idiot."

I never took the coolest photo of three generations of Freemans drinking pints of beer together. I never looked at my family the same again. And I never hated a drink more than Zima.

THE ASIANS ARE COMING!!

Mike Lamb — Sun, 12 May 2013 22:13:31 -0400

Column by Mike Lamb

It's recently come to my attention that North Korea is probably going to blow up the world pretty soon. And by the world, I mean America. Apparently it has something to do with some crazy fat guy with a bad haircut and a Disney fetish. Now I may not know much about global politics or hard news facts, but I do occasionally skim enough headlines to make uneducated, often childishly ignorant assumptions. I'd like to take a moment to share some of those with you.

So let's forget about the Chinamen in North Korea for a moment. What about the other Chinese countries? How dangerous are they? Are they our enemies? Well, let's examine some potential Asian invasions.

Japan

Japan is like our best friend that we used to beat up in middle school but now we like them because they make cars and computers. Japan could definitely kill us. I hope they do. It would be the coolest, kinkiest, most fucked up weird ass apocalypse in the history of the universe.

Think about it—50-foot tall anthropomorphic squirrels come stomping up out of the ocean Godzilla-style and start shitting bombs everywhere and shooting lasers out of their massive tits while singing an incomprehensible J-pop love song about a magic gumdrop and a talking fish. Also, ninja schoolgirls. With tentacles. And ass-chainsaws. Hell, they could sell us overpriced tickets to our own funerals with a show like that.

China

China is dangerous. For one thing, it's full of Chinese people. Hundreds of them. Possibly trillions. The Chinese have always been a wise and crafty lot, responsible for inventing things like math, noodles, bicycles, stringy mustaches, Chinese Checkers, rice, and heroin. There's no telling what would happen if they all banded together against us.

Personally I hope they don't launch a full scale invasion. I think that would be incredibly boring and unoriginal. I hope they send one guy. Like a Bruce Lee back from the motherfucking grave meets Chinese Hercules meets the Five Deadly Venoms starring in a Shaw Brothers kung fu holocaust covered in duck sauce. I think I'd be okay with that.

Vietnam

Vietnamese armored vehicle rolling into combat.Vietnam is bad news. Never trust people that don't like you, especially ones that go to war in their pajamas. Granted, we don't really hang out with those guys anymore so I'm not exactly sure what they've been up to for the past forty years or so. But what they're not doing is selling us cars. From that I can guess one of two things: one is they're just too dumb to make cars like Japan (who, incidentally, we bombed the shit out of, but you don't see them holding a grudge against us, do you?). Or two, they make the greatest cars in the world and we will never ever be allowed to have one.

That's pretty cold, Vietnam. Just for that, you can't watch our Hollywood movies... about Vietnam. Don't make us send Rambo back over there for another sequel. If you had any idea who that was, you'd be scared.

Thailand

Thailand is like the Mexico of the Orient. It's terrifying. It's full of swarthy speed junkies and crime lords. In Bangkok, a tourist gets stabbed by a bipolar lady boy every 3.7 seconds. It's a fact, look it up.

I don't think Thailand would ever really attack us, though. I think we'd just all turn up missing one day. And maybe after a few weeks Canada would stop by to borrow money and they'd be like, hey, where is everybody? And there would just be this one shady looking Asian dude in sunglasses, and he'd just walk away whistling to himself with his hands in his pockets like he had nothing to do with it.

Other Korea

Shit man, I don't know. Which one has Gangnam style? And what the fuck does that even mean?

Taiwan

I know even less about Taiwan than I know about Gangnam style. Is it even a real country, or just some cheap sweatshop kingdom tucked away somewhere inside China's asshole?

I guess maybe the worst thing they could do to hurt us would be to sell us some exploding toys filled with broken glass. Which is pretty messed up. What the hell, Taiwan?! I'd expect something like that from Vietnam, but you? I don't even know who you are. If I had a map I'd find you and kick your sorry child-murdering asses for good. For America. And democracy. And other stuff. God stuff. Our god will kill the shit out of you.

Laos

I once knew this Laotian dude who owned a bar, and his wife made really fantastic egg rolls. That's seriously all I know about Laos. So as long as they don't start making poisoned egg rolls I've got no problem with them.

India

I'm not sure if India counts because nobody there looks Chinese. But I am afraid of this guy:

Hawaii

What, you think you guys are off the hook because you're American? Yeah, well I'm keeping my eye on you, buddy, so watch your back.

As for everyone else: Polynesia, Micronesia, the Philippines, and whatever the fuck else, well... congratulations, nobody cares about you. And I don't have any good jokes about you, so we're done.

The Shortcut Guide to Overcoming Depression

Wesley Jansen — Sat, 11 May 2013 23:57:51 -0400

Article by Wesley Jansen

Do you often become nervous right before taking a really big exam? Have you ever experienced anxiety during an important job interview that could potentially change the course of your entire life? Do feelings of annoyance creep up on you during moments of extremely heavy traffic when you're already late for work? Have you ever felt tired after working out in the gym for three and a half hours?

If you were turned down or rejected by the person of your dreams, would you feel sad or disappointed for a little while? Do you get angry whenever you're disrespected without an apology? If you were to hear the words, "I have something rather upsetting to tell you, and this won't be easy for you to hear, so please sit down first"...would you feel a bit uneasy?

If you answered "yes"..."no"...or "maybe" to any, all, or none of these questions, then you are probably suffering from severe depression.

But don't panic...I'm here to help you. If you want to overcome your depression and continue living a happy life, simply read this article. Reading this article will help you a lot more than seeking therapy, taking medication, or discussing your condition with a loved one because chances are, nobody loves you anyway....so read ahead.

1. Utilize laughter and fear to help overcome feelings of sadness.

Yawning won't get you anywhere but to bed early...again.Before I go any further, I must say that the best and most effective way to cure depression is to abuse substances. Driving over teenagers with a really large truck also tends to alleviate feelings of despair. However, if you're one of those individuals who does not wish to resort to alcoholism or violence in order to solve your problems, then I recommend experiencing the emotions of laughter and fear.

Laughter and fear are two very powerful feelings that are highly effective in overcoming sadness. Laughter makes you feel better about life, and it releases positive chemicals in your body. Fear, although considered a negative emotion, does have the effect of producing adrenaline, which makes you feel alive, alert, and extremely focused...thus snapping you out of your current slump.

And fortunately for you, laughter and fear are not mutually exclusive. In fact, you can probably experience both of these emotions at the same time simply by looking into a mirror.

2. Observe happy people around you.

When you're depressed, you may easily assume that other people around you are depressed too. This simply isn't true. You need to avoid the trap of projecting your own misery onto other people, otherwise you'll start to think that the entire world is full of sadness, and this will only make your depression worse. Therefore, you must focus your attention on those who are cheerful so that you can recognize that joyfulness and hope do exist in the world.

There are plenty of happy people out there. If you look carefully around, you will see children having fun at the playground, couples walking down the street holding hands, people socializing with their friends having a great time, and much, much more. So, before you sink too far into your own depression, make sure you acknowledge that there are plenty of happy, socially active, well-adjusted people out there who have lives that are characterized by warmth, fulfillment, and unconditional love.

Just don't forget, of course, that you will never actually be one of those people.

3. Take the opportunity to help others.

Use your current state of depression to help others. There are plenty of people out there who are confused about life. They might be suffering from a death in the family, some type of tragic loss, a divorce, a career that didn't work out, a failed relationship, or even just a broken heart.

Some of these people sincerely need somebody to talk to. With your current state of depression and the resulting knowledge that you have about sadness, confusion, and pain, you will easily be able to connect with these individuals. Once they talk to you, they won't feel alone anymore. In fact, once they get a good look at just how permanently debilitating, irreversible, life-long, and extremely embarrassing your problems are...they probably won't feel bad at all.

And don't forget, even if you're too depressed to have a sense of humor yourself, you can still make other people laugh. There are several ways to accomplish this, such as:

Sending a picture of your face to friends and relatives....well, you probably don't have any friends, so just send it to your relatives (unless, of course, they have refused to give you their mailing address).

Taking 3 minutes to tell someone your entire life story.

Taking your diary (containing all of your deep thoughts, hopes, and dreams) and publishing it online.

Telling the bartender about your last therapist who committed suicide.

4. If you're confused about life, then talk to an older, more experienced person.

Older people have been through more, and they can often provide good advice. Take this conversation for instance.

Billy: Mr. Jansen, can I ask you a question?

Mr. Jansen: Sure Billy, what's on your mind?

Billy: Mr. Jansen, I feel confused. Life seems so difficult and unfair. Do good things ever happen in this world?

Mr. Jansen: Oh goodness, Billy, sit down for a moment. I have a little story to tell you.

Billy: That's great, Mr. Jansen.

Mr. Jansen: You see, Billy, life often seems difficult and confusing when you're young, but things do eventually work out. You just have to allow life to take its natural course. I once knew a person named Daniel who was just as confused about life as you are.

Billy: Really?

Mr. Jansen: Yes, indeed. Daniel was really depressed and confused for a long time, and then one day he suddenly met a beautiful girl named Jennifer. He fell deeply in love with her, and sure enough, all of the sadness and confusion in his life went away. Daniel was the happiest person in the world.

Billy: Golly, that's swell, Mr. Jansen. What happened next?

Mr. Jansen: Well, Daniel woke up one morning and Jennifer was gone. Weeks went by with no word, and Daniel was extremely worried. Just when he thought he could no longer handle the anxiety, he received a letter in the mail. It was from Jennifer.

Billy: What did the letter say, Mr. Jansen?

Mr. Jansen: Well, as it turned out, Jennifer had found another man. In the letter, she explained that she was deeply in love with this new man, that he was giving her the best sex she had ever had, and that she had only been with Daniel because she felt sorry for him. And just to make sure that Daniel would not be confused about the situation, she also included photos of herself in bed with this other man.

Billy: .......

Mr. Jansen: ...and of course, Daniel fell into the worst depression he had ever been in. He was devastated. He couldn't eat or sleep, and he often stayed in his room for hours upon hours simply staring at the wall. People who saw him walking around described him as a sick, empty, soul-less vessel just waiting to die. And sure enough, one day while he was going for a walk, he just happened to pass by Jennifer and her new man as they were holding each other and making out passionately on a park bench....a sight that made his depression even more profound.

Billy: Mr. Jansen, I don't think I want to hear the rest of...

Mr. Jansen: ...and to make matters worse, just as Daniel was about to jump off a bridge, he was arrested by the police. Apparently, someone who looked exactly like Daniel had committed a very serious crime on the other side of town, and the police mistook Daniel for this person. He sat in prison for years under the death penalty. On the day of his execution, something went horribly wrong with the electric chair, and Daniel ended up sizzling, twitching, and frying for a really long time until finally...his head exploded all over the place.

Billy: Mr. Jansen, what is the point of this story?

Mr. Jansen: Well, now that I think of it, there really is no point to this story. I guess my only advice to you is "Don't lose your head." Hahaha....get it? Hey Billy, where are you going? I have another story to tell you.

5. For you young and single people who are depressed because you're lonely...be sure to maintain a proper balance between fluid expulsion and intake.

Chances are, many young people who face depression are probably single and lonely, and feel that they will never find the right person to be with. If you are one of these individuals, then don't worry, you will not be alone forever. You will find someone who wants to be with you, and once you are with that person for more than 5 years, the extreme pain, horror, misery, and torment that you face will be much worse than the seemingly eternal void of loneliness that you are currently experiencing. It will be so profoundly awful and terrifying that it will not even fit into the category of depression. In fact, I don't think they even have a word that describes the magnitude of pain that you will eventually be in.

But anyway, if you're depressed because you haven't found a partner yet, you do need to know that engaging in the act of masturbation while crying intensely does tend to result in a lot of fluid expulsion from the human body.

On the other hand (no pun intended)...if you are somehow able to use your free hand to consume alcohol while you engage in the sinful act of creating enough friction on your genitals to cause an explosion of your sexual fluids to splatter all over your computer screen as you stare at pornographic images through blurred vision caused by the salty and meaningless tears pouring down your face...then you may actually avoid the dangers of dehydration.

After all, it's always important to maintain a proper dynamic equilibrium between fluid intake and outtake.

6. If you're a young, single, lonely woman who is depressed, then stop feeling sad and find yourself a man.

You probably want nothing more than to find a nice, well-mannered, supportive, loving, decent man who will take care of you and stand by your side. Well, that's not going to happen.

But that doesn't mean that you won't be able to find some beer-guzzling, smelly, brutal, menacing, prehistoric, grunting, mammoth baboon of a creature with no emotions whatsoever who would just love to cradle you in his massive, hairy, sweaty, pimple-infested arms right before blowing his load all over your face.

Don't give up on yourself just because you're depressed.

7. If you're a young, single, lonely man who is depressed, then go out there and find the woman of your dreams.

You probably want nothing more than to find some lovely, innocent, nurturing, sweet, intelligent young woman who will love you unconditionally. Well, that's not going to happen.

But that doesn't mean that you can't go out there and find some vile, rotten, demanding, greedy, narcissistic, back-stabbing, vicious, two-faced, blood-sucking cunt who would just love to bounce up and down on your genitals with her disease-infested crotch right before she fucks up your entire life...

If "life" is actually the proper word for what you have.

8. Study historical figures for inspiration.

History is full of highly motivated people who have left behind great legacies. You have no shortage of inspirational figures to look up to...such as:

The Roman Emperors Caligula and Nero, Cleopatra, Genghis Kahn, King Henry VIII, George Armstrong Custer, Rasputin, Vlad the Impaler, and Aleister Crowley.

These individuals were not depressed...so why should you be?

9. Watch funny, happy, and light-hearted movies.

A great way to get your mind off of depression is to watch "feel-good" movies that are humorous, light, and "fluffy." Make sure that the movies have happy endings. I personally recommend:

The Godfather I, II, and III
Full Metal Jacket
The Exorcist
Platoon
Carrie
The Shining
American Psycho
The Amityville Horror
The Hunger Games

10. Allow yourself to have "a good cry."

Never keep your emotions bottled up. You need to let them out, otherwise they will emerge as other forms of self-destructive behavior. I often refer to the movie Good Will Hunting as an example. A psychologist played by Robin Williams is able to skillfully confront Matt Damon's character in a way that forces him to release his true emotions in a very dramatic and powerful crying scene at the end of the movie. During this scene, Matt Damon's character acknowledges his childhood memories of abuse and rejection, releases his anger and feelings of insecurity, and finally opens up his heart so that he can live happily ever after with the woman of his dreams, played by Minnie Driver.

I would like to apologize for giving away the ending to this movie for those of you who haven't seen it yet, but I'm not going to, so fuck you! You're the one struggling with depression, not me. I drink every day, so I'm doing just fine.

Anyway, if you don't have the benefit of being able to see a highly skilled psychologist on a regular basis, then you must rely on yourself to look deeply inward to let your true emotions out. In order to have a good cry, simply go into your bedroom, shut the door, hug your favorite pillow, and try to let it all out. This part isn't easy because you probably won't be able to let everything out all at once. You need to start crying about something in particular so that you can open up a pathway for the rest of your buried emotions to flow out in an inevitable, endless stream of bitter and wretched tears. In other words, you have to focus your thoughts on something really sad just to begin the crying process.

Thinking about your greatest accomplishments in life should do the trick.

5 Laws and Legal Rules You Should Know About

Cole F.M. — Thu, 09 May 2013 21:46:36 -0400

Column by Cole F.M.

I will open this article with a disclaimer: DO NOT TAKE LEGAL ADVICE FROM A COMEDY WEBSITE OH MY GOD PLEASE DON'T EVER DO THAT.

With that out of the way, I would like to fill you in on a few legal matters that are worth noting for any discerning individual. Some are legal misconceptions, others are things that might land you in a prison cell next to a guy named Fuckmissile without you having any idea why.

1. You Can Totes Go Topless

A little bit back, New York made headlines when it announced that it was now legal to let your chesticles out to play in public. Well, it made headlines on really slow news days. But unfortunately for them, they're woefully behind the times. Almost Victorian, really, in their sensibilities regarding lady chest bubbles, because nationally, toplessness is fairly legal.

As of the writing of this article, the only places where boobies are considered an outright crime by state law are Tennessee, Utah, and Indiana. Now, a few other states have some rather...open interpretations of the law, but a total of 33 states in this fine union have decreed that breasts shall not go quietly into the night!

But, before all of you ladies and overly chest-endowed men rip off your bras and go prancing through the streets (and because I am so in touch with women, I know you are all clearly just waiting to do that), you need to know that individual counties and cities are more than allowed to make their own rules regarding cleavage showing.

Because I have too much free time and access to Google, I can assure you that plenty of towns across the nation are more than accommodating to your right to have a more interesting chest than men though. Just check your local ordinance, and if a cop gives you trouble, ask him to cite where exactly it says that you aren't allowed to do that.

Check out gotopless.org for some real information. (Note: Site has a lot of pictures of boobs...so, uh, NSFW, I guess. Unless you work there. Then I guess it's kind of the point.)

2. Just Because You Weren't Read Your Miranda Rights, Doesn't Mean You're Getting Away With It

The single most annoying thing I ever see on cop shows (which I watch way too many of because I'm not very discerning with my free time), is when someone gets off the hook for a blatant crime simply because the arresting officer forgot to read them their Miranda Rights.

This does not happen in real life.

I regret to inform you that your cousin was lying when he said he knew a guy who's uncle's dentist got away with grand theft auto because the cop who busted him didn't read him his rights. I know. It hurts. And it seemed like such a trustworthy story.

"But Cole," you ask, because even after all this time you're still weirdly intent on butting into my articles, "they wouldn't just make that up for the sake of television! That's got to be a technicality that people actually get off on!"

First off, shut the hell up, it really kills my ego-boner when other people interrupt me talking down to them, and another, no, it's not real.

Those rights are read to a person about to be interrogated, because in our judicial system, everyone has the right to be informed that if they violently curse out a confession while dripping another man's blood in the back of a police cruiser, that will be used as evidence against them when they go to court.

So basically, if you've ever heard of a technicality involving Miranda Rights, it was likely that a suspect let slip a vital piece of evidence whilst being arrested, but because the arresting officer never informed him of his rights, it couldn't be used as evidence.

The police can arrest you without reading you those rights, because if a dozen witnesses and multiple video recordings suggest that it's you who's been sodomizing the jungle gym at the local elementary school, then they don't really need to worry about any information you might leak while you try and close the clasp on your trench coat.

3. Jaywalking Isn't Always Illegal

Okay, as annoying as we can all agree cyclists are, I think we can all take a step back and say that people with legs are pretty douchey too. Damned pedestrians, walking wherever they please! (Full disclosure: I have never owned nor operated a motor vehicle of any kind. I commute entirely by means of walking, Razor Scooters, Heelys, and rainbows. All but that last thing were true.)

And you'll usually hear those smarmy bastards ranting about how pedestrians always have the right away.

They don't.

Now, don't go dusting off the Skull Mauler just yet (I assume that, like me, all of my readers keep a Combine Harvester/Diesel Powered Armored Personnel Carrier in their garage in order to mow down all footwalkers on the day all footwalking privileges get revoked. And you named it the Skull Mauler), because, as utterly bullshit and unfair as it may seem, if you hit a pedestrian, you will still get in trouble. Now, in certain places, like in places where pedestrians don't have the right of way (more on that in a second) they could very well get in trouble after they've been carted off to the hospital, and if you have a very good lawyer in those circumstances, you may be able to get the charges against you overturned. May.

Where are these magical places where those bastards don't have the right of way? Well, nationally, the only places where they don't have those rights are places where pedestrians aren't allowed to be in the first place, such as highways. But on the state level, it gets a little grayer. Many states have laws that say if the speed limit hits a certain speed, then pedestrians lose the right of way. Sometimes it's low (35mph), sometimes it's higher (55mph).

But what about jaywalking?

Well, here's where you might be surprised to learn something.

Jaywalking isn't illegal in a buttload of places.

Again, I don't recommend that you run out and try this everywhere you can, but the fact of the matter is, in plenty of places, it's perfectly legal for a person to walk through the middle of the road.

Please don't be the asshole who does that.

4. Cops Can Legally Steal Your Shit

You know how you have things? And that you like having things? Well, cops like having things too. And sometimes they like having things that you have. But they don't so much like paying for the things you have. So they can just take your shit.

Legally.

It's a practice known as Civil Asset Forfeiture, and it happens a lot more than you might think (unless you think people like free things. Then it probably still happens more than you would think).

Thanks to totally factually accurate police drama shows, you're probably familiar with Civil Asset Forfeiture's brother, the more upstanding Criminal Asset Forfeiture.

Here's how it goes down:

Bad guy has things he uses to do bad things. Bad guy gets arrested. Cops take the things bad guy used to do bad things. Cops usually sell those things. Everyone is happy. Except for bad guy. He will go on to write large amounts of poetry from his cell. This will also be criminal.

And shazaam. It works. But here's where the problem arises. Sometimes, the bad guys like to use things that belong to other people to commit their dastardly schemes (I live in a movie from the 1920's, wherin "dastardly scheme" is still an appropriate way to describe the things that criminals do), and when they do that, the police are allowed, with total, legal immunity, to take your bullshit.

Here's how that goes down:

Let's say there's a gang of serial animal masturbators... that take animals, masturbate them into cars, then eat the animal. It's awful. Really bad. One day, the cops catch this gang. Everyone's happy. Except you, because the gang masturbated a particularly fertile orangutan in the back of your Civic. The cops take your car because the bad guys did bad things in there, and so it's part of the case.

And now they'll probably sell it. Because they can also do that.

Now, the law, in its infinite wisdom, does allow you to challenge a case of Civil Asset Forfeiture.

But the burden is on you to prove why it should be allowed to be yours again.

Bummer, man.

5. You Can Legally Print Your Own Currency

No, not counterfeiting. I've run extensive tests that have proved that this practice is still very much illegal, and I would like to give a shout out to any former associates who may be reading this article from inside of prison as a result of those extensive tests. And the shout out is, "You probably shouldn't trust people who post ads on Craigslist seeking assistant counterfeiters to not rat you out about all the counterfeiting."

What I'm talking about is your legal right to print your own currency, and suggest a value for it. Take Cole's Baby Back Fun Dollars for instance. I pay all of my local businesses with them, and they hate me for it, because I forgot both of the two very important steps to your own currency.

First off, it cannot bear any close resemblance to any existing currency, domestic or foreign. And since my money looks pretty close to American currency (if you look closely, all of the presidents are actually penises with funny wigs on), shops tend to get pissy when I pay with it.

Then they get even more pissy because I forgot the second rule of printing your own money: Backing the money with something valuable.

Gold is the international standard for backing currencies, but in theory you could use other forms, such as diamonds, tobacco, greasy back-alley Hardees blowjobs, or charcoal.

So let's say you manage to print your own bills (not coins; apparently that's still a no no. What the hell?), they look completely original (Freddie Mercury surfing on a laser over a volcano erupting more volcanoes), and you have a large stack of precious metals and gems in a vault in your mom's basement to back the currency with. Now what?

You gotta get people to accept the currency.

People in America have no reason (legal or otherwise) to accept non-American currencies. So if you can convince people of the value of your currency, and get them to take it in lieu of regular money, then you're home free.

Now, there are other rules and regulations regarding making your own currency, but that's the general gist. So go ahead, brush the dust off your crayons and get to work making the next great currency.

5 Reasons It's Your Parents' Fault You're Fat

Jeff Gassen — Wed, 08 May 2013 21:00:13 -0400

Column by Jeff Gassen

Despite what fitness gurus, Dr. Oz, or that asshole at the office who daily tells you about his morning jog and is probably named Brad or Joe try telling you, almost every diet and exercise program is focused on increasing your caloric expenditure or reducing your caloric intake. The common logic across the pseudo-scientific, striated-muscled fitness world is that people who are fat just eat too much or are lazy. It's entirely their fault, they exercise too little, they claim glandular issues, their feet look disproportionately small, and every single one of them watches Shallow Hal twice a week.

Let me propose a question: What if someone's propensity to being overweight, including their exercise and diet habits, can be traced back to genes and the environment in which they were raised? If the conditions that make you fat or skinny, exercise-addict or couch-potato, can all be traced back to conditions out of one's control, you'd quickly realize that it isn't fair to try to put yourself in someone else's shoes and reason that you'd be able to drop those few extra lbs. If you were in somebody else's shoes that look tiny compare to their huge ankles watching Shallow Hal, you'd BE them. So weight, motivation, metabolism, feelings towards exercise, and even likelihood to change any of those really aren't something someone can allocate blame or take credit for.

So if it's not your fault you're fat, then whose fault is it?

Your fucking parents.

1. They fed you chemical cocktails.

Do you remember that scene in The Sixth Sense when the entire funeral party of the little ghost girl is really sad because the movie's almost over so Bruce Willis is free to go make more Die Hards? Well, immediately following that, Haley Joel Osment's character delivers the damning tape of the girl's mother poisoning her daughter's lunch, effectively ruining the nice catered and chemically kosher meal for the rest of the funeral posse.

Now insert yourself into the place of that little girl. That is exactly the same position you were in growing up...except the poison was Bisphenol-A (BPA) instead of household cleaner, it made you fat instead of dead, and your mother didn't have Baron Munchausen Syndrome or whatever.

"Wait, that household poison you slowly murdered me with was in a PLASTIC CONTAINER?"

BPA is a synthetic chemical that has been around since the 50's that is present in line pipes and containers, as well as in a variety of plastic products that otherwise wouldn't be interesting. In humans, it acts as an endocrine-disrupting compound and its toxic potential has caused a stir with scientists and consumer advocates beginning in the mid-2000's, particularly concerning fetuses and infants. It wasn't until last year that it was banned by the FDA for use in sippy cups and baby bottles which was really important since manufacturers had already ceased use anyway. In 2010, Canada became the first country to label it a toxic substance because it wasn't a goose or hockey puck.

"But it's organic!"

If you're old enough to read this, your parents have probably been exposing you to BPA in the form of baby bottles, soda cans, and even sports equipment if they loved you and supported you at Little League, Dad. A study done by Indians (the doctor kind) showed that even when controlling for caloric intake, children who had the highest amount of BPA in their urine were more likely to be obese than children who had the least. Another study even linked high urinary BPA levels to sexual dysfunction in males. So, whether it was inadvertent or your limp-dicked dad thought it would be funny to pee in his infant's formula (kind of would be), your parents set you up with an IV of obesity from Day 1.

2. They gave you shitty genes.

When they're not giving mice electrical shocks or cocaine (both, if you're into that sort of thing), scientists are always breeding knockout mice, which sound like mice that would end up on a YouTube video featuring some high school football players in Texas, but are really just mice bred with missing genes.

Not a shitty Gene.

TRIP-Br2 is a protein that is involved with metabolism and fat storage. Mice have it, humans have it, Adrien Brody has it. However, when mice are specifically engineered not to have it, no matter what they ate—even when they were fed more fat than normal—they gained no excess weight and were perfectly fit to go dig and run restaurants and other rodent stuff. However, when mice that did have TRIP-Br2 were given the same diet, they gained a substantial amount of weight and their health declined.

Another study separated rats by those that liked to run the most and those that liked to run the least. Then they bred the best runners together and the worst runners together, repeating the cycle through ten generations. The offspring of the Lance Armstrong/(insert name of any Kenyan) rats ran 10 times more than the lazy rats. Out of 17,000 gene candidates, the scientists identified 36 that differed between the two groups.

3. They gave you antibiotics.

Made with bits of real housewife so you know it's good.

One thing you may have noticed is that livestock are fat. In fact, most people want their livestock to be fat because, interestingly enough, they will then use meat from the livestock to make food. People then eat the food. You learn something new every day.

For a long time, farmers and ranchers have been using antibiotics in agriculture. The obvious reason would be to prevent the livestock from contracting illnesses when the rancher's son doesn't wear a condom, but antibiotic use is also used specifically for the purpose of increasing weight.

Scientists didn't listen to their Ayurvedic doctors and put some mice on antibiotics. Six weeks later, the mice that were given antibiotics gained 10-15% more fat than the mice that were not given antibiotics. In children, which aren't mice, a study found that those given antibiotics from birth to 5 months had higher Body Mass Index (BMI) than those who were not. The study revealed: "By 38 months of age, exposed children [to antibiotics] had a 22% greater likelihood of being overweight" and also "...the kids were also responsible for all of their parents' marital issues and should stop being so loud on planes." The researchers concluded that antibiotics kill healthy gut bacteria and throw the gastrointestinal system off balance.

4. They got you addicted to junk food.

Conventional wisdom is that "you are what you eat." That's why Dick Cheney looks like a gigantic baby. It's also said that, "you are the company you keep," but I'm super-not a dead hooker in my basement. What I'm trying to say is this: what if what you eat makes the company you keep when the company you keep is a baby in your belly that you didn't eat? Let me explain.

Two groups of preggo rats were involved in a study in which one group was given human junk food and the other just ate gross rat stuff. The pregnant rats that drank things like Alp Wet Stuff On Grass In The Morning and ate things like Lying Down's Potato Chips (generic names) gave birth to offspring whose opioid systems were less sensitive to the effects of junk food consumption. In other words, they developed a tolerance to it and would need to consume more in order to experience the same satisfaction as you or I when we spend our nights bobbing for Margarinephalanges candy bars in a soup of Nurse Practitioner Pepper (that one wasn't as good). The findings also suggest there are some Oedipus complexes that sons don't tell their friends about in the morning.

5. They moved you to the South.

My parents didn't pull out on this pull-out.

Despite the recent tragic event that shocked Connecticut and the entire world (except places where that stuff happens every day, such as, most places that aren't Connecticut), Connecticut is a pretty nice place to live. They have full marriage equality in Connecticut, so it's a great state for same-sex couples to move if they want to...get away from black people. In addition, Connecticut ranks 50th among states with the highest adult obesity rate, behind only Colorado (where that marriage equality/black joke doesn't work as well so I didn't use it).

In the top 10 are Mississippi (33%), Kentucky, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Alabama, Tennessee, and Arkansas. All in the South, all with front lawn furniture and gay traps, all fat as shit. It's unclear whether there is a positive correlation between social equality and healthy adult weights, but it's quite peculiar that folks in Connecticut and Mississippi probably spend an equal amount of time on their knees and only one of those state's citizens don't resemble a young Ricki Lake. Apparently the Confederate Flag is really just a labeling X for people that will die of diabetes (die-abetes?!) so the incoming alien horde can ignore them.

So Your New Girl Wants to Get to Know You

Tom Eydmann — Wed, 08 May 2013 19:55:30 -0400

Blog by Tom Eydmann

Modern life is shite. It is almost universally accepted that things are not as good as they used to be. Nuclear war is ever imminent, terrorists keep trying to spoil our fun at national events, and any young girl under 16 doesn't stand a chance of not being sexually abused at least 3 times before she turns 20. Add to that the fact that you have an 87% chance of being stabbed on your way home from work every day; the constant reminder by our fat, coughing bodies that we all eat, drink, and smoke too much; mutated flu viruses threatening to wipe us out on a daily basis; and the ever present looming threat of the sun exploding just for the hell of it. But is it really so bad as the papers make it out to be?

We want this stage of the relationship to last as long as possible before having to deal with all the inevitable baggage. Most comedians and comic writers will constantly tell you that, due to the recession, various nutters running various countries, and the fact that your neighbor is probably an axe-wielding, Jimmy Saville impersonator with a homemade nuke in his shed, we are all resigned to a life of misery and reality TV. I, however, have always found myself to be quite upbeat. Life isn't that bad is it? There's still good music, films, and TV out there. The weather is occasionally quite hot, I'm in pretty good health, and there's always the existence of true love out there to keep us going through the dark days. Yep, all in all I would say I'm mainly an optimist. I have a spring in my step and a cider in my hand and that can only be a good thing. Or so I thought.

I have recently started dating a pretty, young 19-year-old. We are keeping our relationship fairly low-key and secret for now. Not because she has two heads or is a secret racist but just because it's more fun this way at the start. We're still in that early magical stage where everything is exciting and we get a nice feeling in our stomachs when we see each other rather than the one of dread and inevitable death that most long-term couples get. We want this stage of the relationship to last as long as possible before having to deal with all the inevitable baggage. Her exes, my exes, our friends and families, and my massive fear of committing to anything even remotely serious without the promise of at least 8 pints of premium strength lager first. I believed this feeling went both ways but last week she sprung a surprise topic on me.

We were sitting in a pub out of town (part of the fun of the relationship being secret is that we have to go to places we normally never would, so we don't spend our evenings in Wetherspoons and Nandos like most couples). We were just having a casual chat about who would win in a fight between Lois Lane and Michelle Obama when she suddenly came out with a statement that was both scary, sexy and surprising all at once:

"Eastwood," she said (for that is my name), "I want to get to know you."

Now I was fairly sure she had stolen this line from a film but still I....

Hang on, scratch that. This is both bad manners and narrating.

My name is not actually Eastwood. It is Clint Easterfield but Eastwood has been my nickname for around 6 years now. To be honest I don't like it too much but I definitely prefer it to Clint, since when I close my eyes and think of "Clint" I get the image of a man in a white string vest drinking a can of Stella while reading Zoo magazine on the sofa in his pants. One of the reasons why I really like the lady I'm currently dating is because she calls me by this nickname. I don't know what it is about women but they never seem to call any male friends or boyfriends by their nicknames. I have no idea why. I'd love to go out with a girl with a cool nickname like Scarlett, Blaze or Crackles. Well maybe not Crackles—sounds too much like a pet chinchilla. Some of my friends who have nicknames that are basically versions of their own name or their surname get called it by their women pals (my good friend Tom E, for example, who has kindly let me take over his blog for a while). But find me a girl who calls her boyfriend "Squirrel" or "Perky" and I'll buy you a shot. But I digress.

I didn't really know what my lady friend meant by "I want to get to know you." Surely the sharing of our body parts was a lovely way to get acquainted. I questioned her cautiously. She told me she wanted to know what went on inside my head. What made me tick and what my innermost thoughts were. Of course I just told her to check my Facebook updates or ask what I'm thinking before giving me a suitable amount of time to make something normal up. But she had clearly been thinking about this for a long time and had something she wanted us to do as a couple.

She took out her University dictaphone which she uses when she is too hungover to pay any sort of attention in lectures. She passed it to me and said that she wanted me to record all the thoughts I had for the next week. It didn't matter what they were about or how insignificant they were, she wanted to know me and wouldn't judge anything I said. I mulled it over for a few minutes. If I was going to do this I was going to do it properly. No faking it and no leaving anything out. I kissed her on the forehead and accepted the challenge. What could possibly go wrong? Like I said, I'm an optimist. Surely my thoughts are that of happy, positive things and nothing negative, pessimistic or weird at all. Right?

Wrong. As it turns out I worry about things on an almost minute to minute basis. From the tiny to the impossible to the downright dirty and weird. The next week when I sat down and played the tape for my lady friend she began to look at me in a very strange way after the first 20 seconds. Here are a few choice things that I worried about over the past 7 days. Make up your own mind if you think I'm a pessimistic weirdo or just a normal human being.

Why is this song constantly in my headwhen I walk to work as a sort of Macabre theme tune?

Why can't I grow a proper beard? It just grows in groups of three or four hairs likea big toe knuckle.

What if my train crashes on the way to or from work? Or it somehow mounts the platform while I'm waiting for it?

Is it wrong that certain songs I've made love to in the past instantly arouse me when I hear them?

Is there a chance aliens could actually invade us? What if they do, and enslave the whole human race as gimps fed only on tuna? I really need to invest in a light saber in case that happens.

Do women really prefer a man with a good sense of humor who can make them laugh? Because I have yet to see any proof and am fairly sure they prefer a six pack and a 9" erection.

I'm fairly sure at some point a plane is going to crash into my bedroom window.

What if I got cancer? I'd look terrible bald; my scalp's too white. Like a hard-boiled egg with the top cut off.

What wouldI do ifI woke up one day, looked out of the window, and saw another planet Earth on a collision course with our planet?

I've got a bad feeling about this.

I don't watch Top Gear. In fact I actively hate it. Does this make me homosexual?

Two of my friends haven't returned my phone calls. I bet they're having an affair and planning to write a horrible article about me in a national paper.

I really hope I'm not a pedophile.I mean I don't fancy kids or anything but I bet those dirty old men didn't know they were a nonce until it was too late.

If I ever got framed for murder would I commit suicide to avoid being bummed in prison?

Why do I still have the sex drive of a 16-year-old boy? I swear it's supposed tocalm down by now. And why am I stressing about something that is technically a good thing?

I'm not even half as funny as the guy who wrote this book I'm reading and it's not even a very good book.

Why am I too much of acoward to pluck my own nasal hair?

Is it a bad sign thatI have no idea who themusicianall my friendsseems to be discussing at the momentis? Also, it's too loud.

Who the fuck are Spencer and Heidi? Because "Speidi" sounds like an infection you get from sailors.

Am I slowly turning into my dad? And if I am does that mean he slowly turned into his dad? Are we all just like some really old original dad?

Is there a slight chance that The Matrix is real?

Should I be voting for Ukip? Will they know if I don't and throw me out of the country?

What if there is no God?

Even worse what if there is a God and he knows about that time I got an erection in a church?

What the fuck are Pinterest and Instagram?

I looked up at my lady friend after the tape finished. She drummed her fingers on the table a bit and looked into her glass of wine. Clearly I'd screwed this up. Note to self: never be honest with anyone. Ever. Then out of nowhere she grabbed my hand and kissed me on the cheek. Everything is OK again. But what if she has the MRSA virus? Or AIDS? Or she supports Spurs? God life is hard.

Clint "Eastwood" Easterfield is a semi-fictional, semi-alter ego, and a blogger, writer and icon. Follow him on Twitter and Facebook.

Why Defiance is the Least Original Show on TV

William Franklin — Tue, 07 May 2013 23:33:01 -0400

Article by William Franklin

You might have heard of the recent and original sci-fi drama Defiance from the internet or SyFy's fastidious marketing campaign or during sex with me because for a while it was all I was able to think about. And after finally getting around to watching the feature length pilot, a few things have struck me.

Truly, the SyFy channel has produced nothing of note since its inception. Nothing but a parade of low-budget, throwaway shite tailored for nerds without the eye for cynical, critical judgment so endemic to our kind. Let's face it, TV is not the medium for fans of sci-fi and fantasy. Barring Game of Thrones (and that's just HBO's Rome with more dragons), we're tragically under-served on the small screen. So it came as a pleasant surprise to me when I heard that a rollicking star odyssey with a little money behind it was on its way.

Sci-fi has taught us that aliens are just like us. Except with the minutest variance in face skin. Let's get the boring stuff out of the way first. I have a lot of time for the ambition on show here. It doesn't just reflect the budget; if Michael Bay has taught us anything it's that pouring a developing nation worth of cash into visual design is never a guarantee of good looks, but there's a particularly good use of color here. Too many post-apocalypses are all muddy brown and dismal grey vistas of ruined buildings and dust. I live in London; I see enough of that even without all the rapey bandits.

Sure I could go on pointing out Defiance's already detailed lore, decent character designs, and other ways in which it's pretty good, but isn't it more fun to just rip on it for stealing from Firefly? Of course it is, and it does. It's a Firefly clone without shame is what it is. True, there are worse programs to plagiarize from, but sadly, SyFy copied all of them as well.

"Evil" red lights, fake curse words, and rampant softcore sexuality from Battlestar Galactica.

This might get me spat on in the street (except only outside Comic-Con) but Battlestar Galactica was just Hollyoaks in space. Or, err, what do you guys across the pond have? The Brady Bunch? That should upset some people. Anyway, it was conceited, repetitive, and looked worse than Bill O'Reilly after a drunken amateur face painting session devolved into a knife fight.

No doubt it was an effort to be faithful to the original '78 version that no one remembered or cared about. But the only attempt to bring the formula into the modern day was to occasionally show Starbuck's meaty thighs while she pranced around in Ripley's cryo-sleep outfit from Aliens. Let this be a lesson to anyone thinking of rebooting classic nerd TV: they all looked like arse back then because the tech wasn't there to prevent everything from looking like arse. You're only doing it as fan service and they'll all complain regardless of what you do, so you might as well make the Cylon Centurions not look like brushed stainless steel kettles or the Raiders like Fisher-Price toys.

Don't get me wrong, Battlestar Galactica was still fun. I remember a few sparse moments with something resembling fondness and clearly so did the producers of Defiance. Main protagonist Nolan is in the titular town less than ten minutes before PG-13 screwing the madame (with a terrible misunderstanding of how brothel management works) in a sex scene with all the eroticism of Trainspotting and less nudity. Nolan has already been established as a character that thinks with his dick at this point but his doesn't have the problem-solving talent of Don Draper's. He's a clutzy Casanova now and in one season's time still will be. But maybe with a few more scars and a thousand yard stare.

Because he'll probably have seen shit, yo.

I feel like I've spent too long belittling Battlestar so let's speed this up. The Votan race's ships all have the ridiculous crimson lights that are the international sci-fi sign for "owners of this technology are evil," and the ludicrously named Irathient race of aliens have some swears that sound just enough like boring Earth curses to carry a modicum of weight when Nolan or his Irathient ward, Irisa, expel them, and to avoid the interstellar wrath of the frackin' censors.

Aliens with make-up and protagonist unconcerned by lack of Earth vagina from Star Trek.

A wise man with a sexily silky voice once said that "Commander Worf's head looks like a fanny," and not only was he right, but welcome to touch me wherever and whenever he likes. Look I get it, CGI is expensive and if you want to have recurring characters with a lot of face time that're non-human, you need a cheaper way to announce that fact to the section of the audience that's too drunk to listen to the script.

Sci-fi has taught us that aliens are just like us. Except with the minutest variance in face skin. The Irathient (Christ, I can feel my genitals taking my use of that word as proof that I don't need them) have smaller noses, dumber contact lenses, and a circular tattoo at the bridge. If you were a speciesist, it wouldn't take many space beers for you to make a terrible mistake at the town of Defiance's silent disco.

I will never blame you. Sometimes even I forget.

But of course, Nolan ain't no bigot. He adopted an alien as his daughter so it's only a matter of time before he gets space fever and beds one of the series' seven non-human races. I swear, the only reason none of the more boneable aliens have blue skin is because Shatner's legal team would fast wire down onto the set and mow down all the writers with photon rifles.

Literally everything else from Firefly.

Please, can you spare any change? We haven't eaten in weeks.

Defiance doesn't exactly play its themes close to the chest. Once you've given a grizzled stranger a "lawman" badge you've officially given Subtlety license to take the rest of the season off.

Sci-fi is no stranger to the whiskery and whiskey-soaked insertion of Spaghetti Western influences. It could be argued that it all started with the bloated father of all modern space shenanigans, Star Wars. The ne'er-do-well smuggler, the conscience-lacking bounty hunter in the employ of the nebulous invader, the damsel in distress; it might not have been intentional but the tropes of Sergei Leone were there.

Of course it was Joss Whedon who made it stylistically prevalent. The crew of Serenity are outlaws. They carry glorified six-shooters, yada yada. So when you make a sci-fi TV series with even the slightest horsey-whiff of Old West, you expose yourself to comparison to Firefly. And one of the things I oddly love about Defiance is that the creators don't give a fuck about it. They approach their Western themes with outright enthusiasm. They gleefully introduce racial disharmony amidst aliens and humans as if it's in any way original. They've created a civic society whose dynamics are so utterly derivative, it's almost charming. Almost.

I don't know about you, but I'm putting this juvenile theft down to genuine excitement that people have thrown actual money into SyFy's moldy cage for once. And you people don't have Doctor Who, so whatever anybody says about Defiance, it's worth keeping. For now.

We Need Another Oil Spill

Mike Lamb — Mon, 06 May 2013 23:46:59 -0400

Column by Mike Lamb

Hi there. My name is Brent Vanguard, CEO of Solutions, Inc., the highly profitable non-profit organization committed to improving the quality of life of your family, friends, pets, and casual acquaintances. We're here for your safety. The environment is a threat to that safety. Think about it—jungles filled with venomous things crawling and slithering through the darkness, just waiting for some hapless hippie nature lover to stumble across their path. Forests full of man-killing bears and wolves. And what about deserts and tundras? Forget it. Nature is not your friend. Would your friend try to kill you?

Oh sure, we care about the environment. After all, we have to. But that doesn't mean we have to trust it. Trust is something stupid people do. You're not stupid, are you? Of course not. If you were, you wouldn't be reading this. The words would hurt your brain.

And when it comes to the horrors of nature, there is absolutely nothing more terrifying and deadly than the treacherous oceans that engulf our planet. There is no escape; they're always out there, lurking, plotting against us. And should anybody be so foolish as to swim in those fatal waters...

But there are many brave people on our side in the fight against nature. The Oceanic Defense Bureau (ODB) is a special division of Solutions, Inc. dedicated to protecting humanity from the monstrous abominations that slumber in the briny deep, just waiting to rise up from their watery lairs to enslave mankind. Thanks to the hard work of the men and women (just kidding, nobody hires women for important jobs) at ODB, we can go through life pretending that there are no such things as giant squids and cyclops sharks. We can pretend that dolphins don't go around raping tourists and scuba divers.

But ODB needs your help. Our funding has been cut and we need your pledges to continue our oceanfront assault in the war against the environment. And we know the sea monsters' secret weakness: it's oil. With our resources and your money, we are prepared to create the largest oil spill the world has ever seen.

Wait a minute, Brent! You can't just go dumping thousands and thousands of gallons of crude oil into the ocean! That's wasteful! We need that oil to make gasoline for our cars and trucks!

Not anymore, we don't. Here at Solutions, Inc. we've perfected the Vanguard engine. It's 100% alcohol powered. But don't worry, the Vanguard engine isn't some pansy ass piece of crap for tiny little hybrid cars that any real man would be ashamed to drive. No sir, this is a whiskey guzzling big block monster made with Detroit steel and American pride. It'll make your piece of shit Buick tear ass around the neighborhood like Mad Max on a bender in the last of the V-8s. So screw the oil. And screw the Middle East, because after this oil spill, we won't need them either.

What about boats and planes? Will they be able to run on alcohol too? Of course. What about lawnmowers? Yes. Chainsaws? Also yes. How about weed-whackers? Yes, you goddamn hillbilly, now stop asking stupid questions.

And just in case you're concerned about some trivial issue like "saving the whales," you'll rest easier knowing that it's been taken care of. They're fine. We already saved them. They're very happy now. We also rounded up all the tuna. Just because we're going to kill the ocean doesn't mean we should have to give up sushi. After all, we're civilized people.

Sure, we've had oil spills in the past, but they were much too small. They were quick fixes; we need something big. Something devastating. Something permanent. Because if we don't kill those things lurking in the deep, they will rise up and murder your children. So give money to ODB. We're ready to destroy the ocean to keep the world safe. Are you?

The Wrong People in All the Wrong Places

Lenard Welsh — Sun, 05 May 2013 17:20:22 -0400

Article by Lenard Welsh

What is wrong with the world today? Do you feel it already? Let me tell you what's wrong: Everything! I don't even know where to start. Science? Inventions? Do you even remember the time when scientists were actually inventing something new? Remember the days when a single guy was able to come up with a light bulb concept? Or those brothers who risked their lives to achieve their dream of flying? Or the team who came up with the first television screen? Those were the days, when people used to create stuff out of thin air. We felt like gods back then. But those times are long gone.

What great things do we get today? Facebook? Cherry-flavored Pepsi? Another horror movie with a creepy little girl in it? Enough of that crap. I get it. You take MySpace and pretty it up with some nice colors, ad some extra features, and voila, Facebook. I've got nothing against it, of course. On the contrary, I use it often. I also enjoy the taste of cherry-flavored Pepsi, and I do watch horror movies, but forgive me if I don't start jumping up and down out of sheer happiness. I'm not impressed, okay?

When I watch the fastest hitter in the world, I want to watch him fight somebody who doesn't know how to dodge his hits. Let's be honest: we don't invent things anymore. We simply build on something that's already out there. There hasn't been a single original invention in at least 30 years, with the exception of the internet, of course, but even internet was thought up a long, long time ago. We were simply waiting for technology to advance enough to make it possible. We've become parasites. We eat on the flesh of true geniuses who created the world as we know it. We sweeten up their creations, paint their work in pretty colors, and resell them again to restless consumers.

We've been building a whole civilization on the shoulders of those few who sacrificed everything to make a better tomorrow. Why is that? What kind of explanation can we find?

"The industrial world started taking shape at the end of 19th and beginning of 20th century," they say. "Thanks to the effort of handful of those geniuses who shaped this world in their extraordinary vision we became the society we are today." That sounds pretty reasonable at first glance, but when you dig a little deeper, there's a lot of crap to it.

So let me get this straight, humans lived for thousands of years killing each other and eating crappy food with dirty hands and all of a sudden for no obvious reason we simply decided to change all that? In a span of 80 years or so those geniuses started popping up like mushrooms after some heavy raining? I'm not buying it. I'm not trying to dispute it of course, but you can't just say it happened and leave it at that. Where were those people before? Where are they now?

You want to know what I think? They're around. They were always around; they're simply not allowed to come to the surface. They're stuck cleaning floors somewhere. And this is the single greatest threat humanity is facing today: the wrong people in the wrong places. You've got actors who think they can act, singers who think they can sing, politicians who think they can rule. Why is it that those who have nothing to say are the very same people who always talk the most?

Remember when you were kid and you saw somebody important on TV, like a president or a senator, and thought to yourself, "My god, can you imagine how incredibly smart that guy has to be? He's running a whole country or something, making sure that every family is happy and has enough to survive. Do you have any idea how hard that is?" But then you grew up and realized that a lot of those people aren't that smart, probably not even smarter than you.

Today you can almost say that the majority of politicians around the world are dumber than your average Joe; not because your Joe is so smart but because politicians are so freaking dumb. I've had enough.

Aren't you sick of scientists telling us that global warming is happening because the cows are burping? Aren't you sick of UFC fights where two equally good fighters are locked in a never-ending struggle to beat each other? When I watch the fastest hitter in the world, I want to watch him fight somebody who doesn't know how to dodge his hits. I want to see teeth flying, blood splattering. Only then I will jump from my seat, spill my beer, and say, "Fuck, yeah! Now this is a fight!"

Put the right people in right places. We demand it. We can't all just keep taking it up the ass and pretend that we like it. Some of us have to stand up for what we believe in. Some of us have to walk out to the busy streets, where people are walking as if nothing is happening, and scream at those people. "You sick bastards! Put the right people in the right places!!" And don't be afraid to mention names. Choose somebody who you can't stand at all. And scream from the top of your lungs. "I hate you, Chelsea Handler!! You're not funny!" Try it. It will be a relief. It will bring you peace, at least for a while.

Word of advice, though: if any of you should try this little experiment, keep in mind that you shouldn't stay exposed for too long, because if you do, a couple of strong guys might just show up in a vehicle to take you to a nice facility at the edge of a town, where they might just put you in a white suit with extra long sleeves and where you'll be able to converse all day long with some friendly people who share similar views. The right people. All of them in the right place.

How to Politely Screw with Customer Service by Phone

Cole F.M. — Thu, 02 May 2013 23:03:34 -0400

Column by Cole F.M.

Needless to say, when you bring a computer with you on a long trip, shove it in a backpack, and then proceed to treat that backpack with the type of dignity usually reserved for Guantanamo Bay prisoners, your computer probably isn't going to make it out wholly intact.

The screen was more broke then Greece, and I had little in the way of money to repair it myself, so logically I decided to call up customer service to see if they could throw some money at the problem for me. Unfortunately, I had no idea if my computer was still under warranty...or if I had any warranty to begin with. But since when have I ever let logic stand in the way of berating someone who probably doesn't deserve it for the sake of comedy?

What follows is a real conversation with the very real people at ACER customer support.

Customer Support: Hello, thank you for calling ACER customer support, my name is Steven, how can I help you today?

Me: Hi there, Steve. Can I call you Steve?

Steve: Sure.

Me: How about Mary? If you let me call you Mary it would fulfill a very specific fantasy of mine. Is that alright?

Steve: You can call me Steve. What can I help you with today, sir?

Me: Cutting right to the gravy of it. I like that Steve. I respect that.

Steve: Sir, the problem?

"That is how bad you are at this, Steve: you made me put my pants back on. I expect a little more professionalism out of you." Me: Of course. How rude of me. Anywho, it has recently come to my knowledge that my computer's screen has malfunctioned, and as such, I can't stare longingly at photos of Neil Patrick Harris anymore. As you can plainly see, this is a bit of a problem.

Steve: I see, and how did the screen malfunction? Do you know?

Me: Do any of us really know anything? In the grand scheme of things, in the whole machination of the universe, is it really possible to know something so sublime and metaphysical as this? Is it—

Steve: So you don't know?

Me: ...probably not.

Steve: Right, I see. Well, at the very least I can take down your information to check on the warranty.

He then proceeded to ask me several questions and no I'm not posting my personal information on the internet, I know the kind of people who hang out on the internet, and more often than not, they aren't wearing pants.

Steve: Alright sir, one moment please while I search for your information.

Me: Right, right. So, Steve? Whatcha wearing?

Steve: Excuse me?

Me: Just curious. Just making small talk. Whatcha wearing?

Steve: ...I, um, I'm wearing my uniform.

Me: Right, right. Kinda like a catholic school girl's "uniform"?

Steve: No, sir. And I have to say that question is a little inappropriate.

Me: Well, it's a start, but you're gonna have to go a little farther then "inappropriate" if we're going to get these balls rolling, if you know what I mean.

Steve: Well, I have your information here sir. You have an ACER brand Aspire One with Intel Atom and Windows 7 Starter Edition pre-installed. Is this correct?

Me: That is some god-awful dirty talk, Steve. I'm not a robot, I can't work with this.

Steve: It also says that you don't have any warranty, so if I may ask—

Me: Your computer is wrong, obviously. So should I give you a shipping address now, or...?

Steve: Sir, I'm afraid that I cannot help you any further. If you believe that you do have warranty coverage, please contact the vendor you purchased your computer from and ask—

Me: Alright, my pants are on. That is how bad you are at this, Steve: you made me put my pants back on. And don't think you've heard the last of me; I'm calling back, and next time, I expect a little more professionalism out of you.

*Click*

*Ring* *Ring*

Customer Service: Hello there, thank you very much for calling ACER customer support, my name is Lilly, how can I help you today?

Me: Hello Lilly, can I call you Steve?

Lilly: Umm, I, um, I suppose so...what can I do for you, sir?

Me: Well Steve, I...I...hmm, you know what, this Steve thing isn't working for me, Steve. What else do you have, any other names?

Lilly: Well, my friends call me Lill for short.

Me: Creativity is not one of your friends' strong points, is it?

Lilly: Sir, can I help you?

Me: I sure hope so, Steve. My computer has a broken screen, and I think you need to fill a crate full of money and send it to me as reparation. Think we can agree on this?

Lilly: Sir, is your screen actually broken?

Me: Well, unless someone remotely deleted all of my porn and then broke my screen, yes.

Lilly: I, I don't think I quite understand what you're saying. Is the screen broken or not, sir?

Me: Yes. Yes it is.

Lilly: And how did it break, sir?

Me: Do any of us really know anything? In the grand scheme of th—

Lilly: Sir? How did it break?

Me: ...you cut me off mid-rant. Are you single?

Lilly: No.

Me: Figured. People like you are never single.

Lilly: People who interrupt you?

Me: No, people I visualize as being really really hot.

Lilly: I'll ask once more, how did the screen break?

Me: Well, it was in my backpack and then I took it out and it wasn't working.

Lilly: So it cracked while you were carrying it in your backpack?

Me: No I beat the shit out of it right after I took it out yes it broke in the backpack.

Lilly: Sir if you use language like that I will be forced to disconnect with you. And sir, if the screen broke because you were careless with the computer, then I'm afraid the basic warranty does not cover that at all, as it is not a problem with the product itself, but rather something you did yourself. Do you understand?

Me: Not a product with the problem? That doesn't even make sense?!

Lilly: That's because you said it backwards, sir.

Me: Hmm, so I did. Touché, Steve, touché.

*Click*

I hung up, not her.

*Ring* *Ring*

Customer Support: Hello, this is ACER Customer Support, my name is Steven, how may I help you?

Me: Shit!

*Click*

*Ring* *Ring*

Customer Support: Hello, this is ACER customer support, my name is Raul, how may I assist you today?

Me: Hello Raul, I would like to file a complaint.

Raul: Alright sir, I'm sorry to hear that. May I ask what this is regarding?

Me: I think that's actually part of your job, so I'd be a dick to say no.

Raul: Umm, I suppose so?

Me: You can do more than suppose.

Raul: Right...so, what is the complaint regarding?

Me: It's about the fact that I am still not a wealthy oil baron. You see, I was going to invest my money in oil, but since you guys keep failing to approve a new screen for me, I had to spend money to fix the problem myself, leaving me without money to invest in the aforementioned oil.

Raul: I...umm, so you're blaming us for...for what specifically?

Me: Well, Raul...yeah that's not working, can I call you Steve?

Raul: Can you call me Steve? I don't see how that's rele—

Female Voice in the Background: Wait, what did he ask you?

Raul: Umm, sorry, I'm with a customer at the moment.

Female Voice in the Background: He asked to call you Steve though?

Me: ...that voice sounds familiar...

Raul: Yes he did.

At this point the line made a funny beeping noise.

Lilly: Sir? Is this Cole F.M.?

Me: ...nnnoooo......

Lilly: Mr. F.M., I have your number here on the screen, I know it's you.

Me: ...do any of us really know anyth—

Lilly: I am going to ask that you not call back until you have a legitimate complaint to file, sir. If you call back and harass any more of the staff here, we will be forced to take legal action. Do you understand?

Me: Oh quit beating around the bush and ask me out already.

Lilly: Goodbye, sir.

After that I decided not to call back, as I felt at least a little resentment in the way that Lilly talked about legal action. So ends a day where I can say the most productive thing I did was harass a customer service line. Bastards.

7 British Not-Quite-Super Heroes

Ben McArdle — Wed, 01 May 2013 23:53:04 -0400

Article by Ben McArdle

What makes a hero? Are they brave because they feel no fear, or is courage derived from feeling the fear but embracing it? The following fictional characters have elements of both I think. Though only a couple could possibly be called "super" in a supernatural sense, they all display a certain selflessness that sets them apart from the crowd. I've focused the spotlight on those British few, who I hope may demonstrate that you don't have to be able to fly, or even herald from this particular landmass, to be a hero.

I just reckon it helps.

1. The Highlander

Scotland, home to free range haggis, deep fried mars bars, and immortals. Unfortunately only two of these are a work of fiction. There can only be one, apparently, but with three films, two TV series, and an animated series...I forget my point. Connor MacLeod fights war after war on behalf of others with the constant threat of decapitation hanging over his own head (I know I see it). In the original movie Conner indeed becomes "The One." On achieving this he returns back to his native land where he started five centuries earlier.

On paper, Bond is an amoral, brutish, womanizing sociopath with few qualities you'd want children to emulate, but you forgive all that.Being the last immortal he gains "The Prize," a mystical ability to read the world's minds. Lesser men would immediately use such a power to their own selfish ends, but not Macleod. His intentions? "I can use it to help them understand each other." What a legend.

2. Sam Gamgee

You're already thinking of two objections to this inclusion I know. One, he's not British, and two, he's a Hobbit.

I'm going to ignore your second objection because it's simply racist, and that's your problem not mine. But onto the first one, from Tolkien himself:

"... If Hobbiton and Rivendell are taken (as intended) to be at about the latitude of Oxford, then Minas Tirith, 600 miles south, is at about the latitude of Florence."

So there we go, some of the earliest recorded Brits, so just... drop it.

Sam is the typical true unsung hero: he wants nothing more than his own quiet slice of the Shire (itself based on England) to settle down in with the village barmaid. Sam's dreams are stalled by his cock-blocking master who drags him on a dangerous journey of certain death (because the pots won't wash themselves), and because Master Frodo's accustomed to having his face stroked gently as he feigns sleep under a forest canopy.

Frodo Baggins and his pet/manservant Sam's relationship can best be summarized by the old song, "You've got the brains, I've got the looks, let's make lots of dead Orcs." I'll leave you to decide who's the brains and who's the looks. The smart one isn't missing a finger...and didn't nearly screw the entire quest up by taking an ultimate warrior ego trip at the last second. So yeah, Frodo's the incompetent ass.

3. Bond... James Bond

You were expecting him, Mr. Reader.

On paper the man is an amoral, brutish, womanizing sociopath with few qualities you'd want children to emulate, but you forgive all that the moment you see this magnificent bastard in action. Seemingly motivated by a sense of deep unwavering patriotism combined with an innate obligation to serve his Country, 007 asks for no thanks, which is just as well because its rarely forthcoming and he nonchalantly struts into situations no sane man could reasonably expect to return from.

Yet he does. With nothing but an arsenal of dodgy puns, backed by his more vaunted, though much less effective, arsenal of gadgets.

Gadgets are more effective than puns you say? Seriously, if Bond's making a pun at you you're either about to die in a horrifically ironic fashion or you're going to be dry humped until formal consent is given. Either way, the capabilities of his watch and pen will be the last things on your mind. Love or hate the guy it cannot be denied that he knows where his loyalties lie.

4. Robin Hood

He's fictional. Get over it.

We're all familiar with this guy's modus operandi: he steals from the rich and gives to the poor, so he's arguably the inventor of the first tax rebate. Ever polite and courteous, especially to the fairer sex, Sir Hood is a swashbuckling, quiver-carrying hero for the everyman; the only side he takes is the one he considers right. He had an undeniably British penchant for fair-play and fair Maidens, most notably Miss Marian who, if we're honest about it, didn't exactly make him work for it. Nice as he was, the guy still made her live in a forest with scores of other blokes. Seems good swordsmanship can actually get you pretty far...

Swiftly moving on.

5. Fireman Sam

Wales: where the men are men and the sheep are scared.

As far as I'm aware, "the hero next door" is Wales' most recognized fictional hero. In the interests of fair representation I thought he should be included. Cool, calm, and unflappable in a crisis, Samuel "Great Fires of London!" Peyton-Jones is always there for a person in need, both on and off duty.

When not putting out fire station fires initiated by his inept colleagues, Sam can be found tinkering in his shed making convoluted, though ultimately useless inventions. If that doesn't scream British I don't know what does. This fireman has time for everyone and everything and oozes civil responsibility. His one annoyance? Postman Pat. Apparently that guy can go fuck himself.

6. Sherlock Holmes

This coke addicted gentleman is in a league of his own. The archetypal detective has yet to be surpassed in his logic and reasoning skills. A genius surrounded by lesser men, Holmes is tenacious without condescension. Alright, that's bollocks. The guy's a bit of a pretentious wanker, but he's allowed to be, he's Sherlock Holmes.

Under his almost Asperger's-like veneer, Holmes has shown himself to ultimately be a man of compassion, often waiving the fee for his services in the greater pursuit of justice.

Despite his faults (and there are plenty), he showed his true metal when he was temporarily killed off in a final confrontation with the equally gifted, but infinitely more insidious Professor Moriarty. Finding a note at the scene of Holmes' demise, Watson finds out Holmes decided to take Moriarty down once and for all, showing a trait more valuable and worthy than all his intellectual gifts combined: self-sacrifice.

7. King Arthur Pendragon

Albion's Finest. The man and his Knights are the epitome of chivalry, death before disservice, and honor above all.

King Arthur defined the Camelot he ruled over, had the roots of democracy with his round table, and treated his knights as brothers who, if he couldn't save, would gladly die by their side. Arthurian legend would have us believe heroes are only born, not made; after all, it was "destiny" that led Arthur to pulling Excalibur from the stone.

Whether its nature or nurture in this King's case is debatable; what isn't debatable is that the finished product is a dragon-taming, wizard-bitchslapping badass with a heart of platinum. Platinum's like super gold, so you know the guy's ultra special.

The best bit? He isn't dead. You see, awesomeness springs eternal. He's currently sleeping off a sword to the heart inflicted by either his half-sister or nephew, depending on your story of preference. All the legends agree, however, that when he's healed he will return from his peaceful rest on the mystical island of Avalon, when "Albion's need is greatest."

How a sword can counteract nuclear Armageddon I have no idea. Then again, I don't need to know—I'm not the once and future King.

Up Yours, Mars

Mike Lamb — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 23:32:18 -0400

Column by Mike Lamb

First off, THIS HAPPENED.

That story is real. We did that. We sent a ship hurtling through space, dumped a dune buggy drone on a world millions of miles away, and etch-a-sketched a giant dong all over their stupid planet's face like it was passed out drunk at a frat party. We just vandalized their shit like it was the handicapped stall in a Burger King bathroom.

That, my friends, is the enormously expensive handiwork of a bunch of genius frigging rocket scientists. That space cock doodle probably represents months of careful mathematical plotting. Who says math isn't fun?

So... how did this happen, again? Let's look at some possibilities. And "silly accident" isn't one of them. Because that explanation is boring.

1. Cosmic Nerd Rage

This is basically a lone gunman theory: one nerd acted alone without any encouragement or outside influence. One day he was sitting in his little smart guy rocket science cubicle playing DOOM and happened to glance over at another monitor showing the surface of Mars. He thought, "Look at that stupid planet, just sitting there all red and smug looking. I'll fix that. I'll put a big fat weiner on it. Maybe then Glenda will notice me." And after it was all said and done, he probably bragged about having the biggest dick in the solar system, even though Glenda still wouldn't sleep with him because she's stuck up and possibly a dyke.

Then word got out about what he did and the astronaut bossman or whatever was like, "Sooo, heard you're the one that drew that dick on Mars. Yeah, you're fired, Bob." (I decided his name was Bob. And his boss was fucking Glenda. That's not actually important, I just thought you should know.)

2. NASA Gives No Fucks

Another theory is that everyone at NASA was in on the joke. All of them. Even the janitors. Maybe it was known as Operation Dick Drawing. Who knows, maybe those guys are just straight up crazy and high all the time. For all I know they've already put tits on Venus and carved "Slayer" into the moon. Anyone who spends their entire life staring out into space has to be a little warped to begin with.

Maybe NASA is just one great big stoner circus full of zero gravity monkey knife fights and rocket riding astronaut strippers gyrating to Monster Magnet songs. Maybe astronauts are total fucking rockstars and we don't even realize it.

3. It's Not Porn, It's Art

Everyone's a critic. Sure, it may just be a sloppy dick sketch now, but that's just the start. They've probably planned out a massive sprawling mural to cover the whole planet like a full body tattoo. Something grand that will put the Sistine Chapel to shame.

And not just dicks, either. There will be mighty warriors fighting aliens and ravaging their three-breasted Martian women. There will be spaceships and monsters and giant explosions. It will be Edgar Rice Burroughs and H.G. Wells on acid meets Boris Vallejo and H.R. Giger. It's going to be incredible, just wait.

You know, assuming they can ever get the funding. That's the problem with Congress—no appreciation for the fine arts.

4. We Finally Won that Bet with Russia

During one of the summits between Reagan and Gorbachev during the 80's, one of them probably at some point said, "First person to draw cock and balls on the red planet wins the Cold War."

5. We Just Declared War with the Martians

It's not just NASA, the president and the Pentagon are in on it, too. Mars is just no good. Evil, in fact. A threat to democracy. We wanted to trust them. We tried to negotiate a peace treaty. We tried to be civil and contact them with radio waves, but they wouldn't respond.

Dead planet, my ass. Those commie alien creeps are up to something and it's up to America and the rest of planet Earth to put a stop to their interplanetary terrorism and/or shenanigans. They probably have death rays. Maybe death beams, too. Not to mention all the lasers. Bugs Bunny tried to warn us, but we didn't listen. Oh, but it's on now. Mars is the new Middle East. Payback time, motherfuckers. I'm not sure what we're paying them back for, but I'm sure they'll get what's coming to them. God can back me up on that.

The moral of the story is fuck Mars.

6 Potential Characters for Their Own Star Wars Spin-Off Movie

Matthew Chard — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 23:25:39 -0400

Article by Matthew Chard

In recent times the internet has been swamped with rumors about the new Star Wars films. Every wannabe Jedi or Sith has thrown their blaster into the ring, furiously stating that it's their own personal favorite who deserves the spin-off treatment. While it's fun to imagine our fan-fiction wet dreams brought to life, though, it's important to realize that every character in the Star Wars universe brings both positive and negative attributes to the table, and that these factors have to be weighed carefully before green-lighting a feature-length movie. Just one slip-up and we'll be watching the kid from Jingle All the Way playing Darth Vader all over again.

What could possibly go wrong?

Here are six characters that could be given their own Star Wars films, and what good and bad would come from doing so.

1. Yoda

Introduced in The Empire Strikes Back, Yoda is a Jedi Master and the trainer of many a young padawan. Lives in something of a fixer-upper.

"Kill you to put some curtains in here George, would it?"

Pros

If Yoda proved one thing it's that size doesn't matter (providing you can do triple somersaults and have Mark Hamill available to carry you around in a backpack). A classic underdog, he defied all expectations to become a truly beloved character, and assured that midgets at Star Wars conventions would never have to stoop to dressing as Ewoks.

Cons

Yoda is famous for his pidgin English and crazy voice, which is hilarious...in very, very small doses. Having to listen to two hours of it could prove more painful than spending a trans-continental flight sitting next to Jabba the Hutt. A film focusing on Yoda could also rob the character of some of his mysteries (e.g. What race is he? Where did he come from? Do he and Grover from Sesame Street ever party together? Did they really do that with Ms Piggy?).

2. Han Solo

A nogoodnick smuggler who rose up to become a star member of the rebel alliance. Responsible for more dampened space-panties than incontinence and the Aliens films combined.

Pros

You can't spell "loveable rogue" without "loveable." Han was the heartbeat of the original saga, giving the lads someone to aspire to, and the ladies someone to mentally picture while their boyfriends made them wear Leia's gold fetish bikini to bed again. It goes without saying that any of his earlier adventures would likely be filled with plenty of action, adventure, and copious amounts of hitting hyperdrive to avoid pesky intergalactic paternity suites.

"Strap yourselves in. I'm going to make the jump to light speed."

Cons

Recreating Yoda means time spent in front of a computer, or at worst, digging through George Lucas' checked shirts to find his puppet collection. Recreating Han Solo means finding an actor that can ape Harrison Ford's famous looks and mannerisms. In today's Hollywood, where most young males are as masculine as C3P0 preparing for a vaginal wax, this may prove something of a problem. The last actor to play a younger version of a Harrison ford character was River Phoenix, becoming a young Indiana Jones in The Last Crusade, though we're going to assume that he won't be available for the role (due to the small matter of spending the last 19 years being dead).

3. Obi-Wan

A legendary Jedi who played a large part in the tutelage of both Annakin and Luke Skywalker, helping to shape the fate of the entire galaxy. Learned everything he knew from Liam Neeson (presumably by watching Taken thirteen times in a row).

"Now, Obi-Wan, watch as I use the force to build a makeshift electric chair so I can brutally interrogate this foreign stereotype."

Pros

Obi-Wan is one of Star Wars' most fully realized characters. He carries the guilt of failing Annakin, the emotional burden of trying to set Luke on the right path, and is an essential link between the original and prequel trilogies. A film showing what he was up to between Episodes 3 and 4 of the saga would give great insight into just how much things changed in the universe when Darth Vader came to town. In addition, he is played by a quality actor in the form of Ewan McGregor; the handsomest Scotsman since Sean Connery wore bright orange fetish underwear in Zardoz.

Cons

The real reason you never look up a Scotsman's kilt.The Star Wars expanded universe states that many events occur between Episodes 3 and 4 of the saga. Unfortunately, not so many of them involve Obi-Wan. While he does eventually see a bit of action, far too much of his time is spent being exiled in the Tattooine desert, hanging around the cantina, and spying on pre-pubescent boys working on moisture farms. There are also viewers who can't warm to the character because of his balls-up in not killing Vader/Annakin when the time was right (i.e. when Annakin was a fucking annoying kid).

4. Boba Fett

Masked bounty hunter extraordinaire, who has worked for Vader, Jabba, and many other of the galaxy's seedier types over the years. Still refused to take a position with Fox News on the basis of moral grounds.

Pros

With guns, gadgets, and more cool then the entire inhabitants of Hoth combined, Boba Fett is easily one of the most beloved Star Wars characters ever. Making a stand-alone film for him seem like a given. Countless books, comics, and games have been launched into the Star Wars extended universe to cover his back story, and whether he is squaring off against zombies or attacking a herd of gungans with an acid-spraying gun, Boba never fails to bring the smack-down.

If you squint and look closely you might still recognize Jar Jar.

Cons

Boba's back-story was revealed in Episode 2, but the scenes showing him alongside his dad/clone Jango Fett divided the Star Wars community. Some liked the addition, whereas others felt that it robbed the character of some of his mystery—do people really want to watch the galaxy's most badass bounty hunter before he's had the chance to ball hairs yet? There is also the fact that it is impossible to make any adventures about him set in the future, due to the fact that he died in Return of the Jedi via falling head-first into a giant sandy vagina.

5. Darth Maul

Sith Lord and apprentice of Darth Sidious. Was being a general evil dick across the universe whilst Vader was still sending his Pampers to the dark side on Tattooine.

Pros

Maul is widely recognized as being a) a Star Wars fan favorite, and b) killed off way too early, making him the complete opposite of 95% of the characters in The Phantom Menace. In addition to having the best lightsaber and more tattoos than David Beckham being gang-banged by the cast of Miami Ink, the character also has an interesting back story, involving witches, tribal rituals, and a collection of high-profile assassinations. Seeing more of him on screen would help ease the pain of his premature demise in Episode 1, and also give us an insight into why Palpatine/Darth Sidious is seemingly so desperate to have younger men serve under him.

"What, kid; you got a better offer?"

Cons

The fact that Darth Maul is such a nasty piece of work might make it hard for some audience members to identify with him—watching a movie devoted to him killing off jedi would be a bit like having a film where Hannibal Lector spends 90 minutes turning Jodie Foster into a BBQ steak and rib combo. Whilst some of us have no trouble cheering for the bad guy, others might find it as fun as finding one of Chewy's pubes in their soap. It also has to be considered that bringing the character to the screen requires more money spent on makeup per day then it takes for Madonna to appear semi-human.

6. Jabba the Hutt

Famous intergalactic crime lord. Best not to get stuck behind him at a buffet.

Pros

Jabba may look like something you would have found floating in Elvis' toilet bowl, but it is clear that the guy has a taste for the finer things in life. Girls, entertainment, gambling, exotic pets, hiring bounty hunters, eating entire civilizations; nothing is too extravagant for the big Hutt. After all, whose idea was it to put Leia in the gold bikini? It certainly wasn't Vader's!

"Son...I now totally forgive you for trying to bone your sister."

Cons

Imagine the Kathy Bates nude scene from About Schmidt. Now imagine that scene stretched out to a full-length film.

Now try to convince President Obama to build that real-life Death Star and destroy Earth so there will never ever be a possibility of having to watch that film.

4 Questions for the New Pope

Copernicus Thunderbird — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 19:40:45 -0400

Blog by Copernicus Thunderbird

Alright New Pope, I guess you're here to stay. I've been holding off on writing this because I kept thinking it was a hoax and Old Pope would come back at any moment to resume his post. He'd say, "Just kidding, guys, I'm back, get this jerk-off outta my chair." You'd pull off your hat and admit that you were actually Arnie the janitor and we'd all have a good laugh. But nope, not the case. So I think it's time that you answered some of my questions.

1. What makes you think you're better than the old pope?

So you think you can just come waltzing into people's lives and have them accept you with no questions asked? Well let me tell you something, buddy—Old Pope was my friend. In fact, he was my best friend in the whole world. We were like brothers. Me and Old Pope, or Pope Classic as I like to call him, hung out all the time. We went everywhere together: mini-golf, basketball games, titty bars, antique stores, casinos... we were practically inseparable. We went camping once a month. He'd take me out on his Pope boat and we'd go fishing. Do you even know the first thing about fishing, New Pope? I'll bet you don't.

I'll bet you don't know any good jokes about Hindus and Wiccans like Old Pope, either. Old Pope was a laugh riot. He was great at parties. He brightened up the room wherever he went.

If we were out drunk driving around town and accidentally killed a guy, would you help me bury the body? Probably not. Old Pope would've, because he was awesome. You're not my real Pope. I hate you.

2. How good are you in a fight?

I'm not asking you to kill the Devil or anything, but what about a very small demon? Like an imp or a really drunk leprechaun? Do you think you could handle that? I'm guessing you must have some sort of magical powers, right? Maybe a few enchanted weapons and holy relics from the Vatican? A holy water super-soaker? A flaming crucifix sword? A raygun that runs on prayers, maybe? Holy hand grenades? If a pack of wild hellhounds burst into the room and started eating freshly baptized babies, how would you handle the situation?

I once saw Old Pope take down a class five arch-demon in a fucking cage match. You know what else? I bet on him. I won a thousand bucks. I'd never bet on you, New Pope. I think you'd lose. I think you'd lose bad.

3. What do you even do?

I honestly know nothing about popes. Are you like the church king wizard? God's sheriff? Do you fight crime in the Popemobile? Do you guard Vatican treasures from international saboteurs? Do you grant wishes? Why are you important? I didn't even vote for you, you know.

New Pope, I have a confession to make. I made up all that shit about Old Pope. I don't actually know him at all. I never really had a father growing up, and sometimes I project. But I still think the old pope was probably a better pope than you. I believe that each new pope is worse than the previous one, which would make you the worst pope in history. You should probably go ahead and resign now.

4. Kids? Really? Still?

I thought I could get through this without a pedo joke, but I just can't. You know why? Because that's what the audience expects. Think about that for a second. You can't even begin to discuss Catholic Priests without everyone secretly thinking, "Oh boy, there's gonna be a humdinger of a kid-fucking joke coming up." Because everyone secretly uses the word humdinger. Christ, man, it's not even fun anymore! It's a stale punch line. You guys have done that shit so much for so long that there's no sport in mocking it anymore.

Does the Virgin Mary know what you guys are doing? You really think she would approve? Hell, what am I saying, she doesn't even know where babies come from and she let her son get slowly murdered because she lost a bet with the sky. Worst parent ever.

Seriously, New Pope, can't you get your priests under control? Have them neutered or buy them a couch to hump or something? Or here's a crazy idea: how about letting them have some honest-to-god adult pussy once in a while. Do you have any idea how many hot ass porn genres have been accidentally spawned by Catholicism? Lesbian Catholic schoolgirls. Latex bondage nuns. What's not to like about that?

And why boys? Isn't that kind of gay? I thought you guys hated gays. Is there some sort of age requirement before it becomes full-on gay? Or a height requirement? What about midgets or forty year old dudes with that Gary Coleman disease? Would that work? Hell, at least when Mormons fuck 12-year-olds they have the decency to marry them first.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking What about Michael Jackson? How come he got to touch kids and we don't? I'll tell you why. Because Michael Jackson had a roller coaster, and molestation without rollercoasters is like date rape without lobster. It's just fucking wrong.

The Greatest Minor League Baseball Scout

Jerry Landry — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 03:34:48 -0400

Article by Jerry Landry

It's another dewy Saturday morning at another minor league ballpark. The sun sits low behind the rows of stands flanking the first base dugout. The only people in those stands are also the only people that can get in there so early—before batting practice, before the sounds of leather gloves popping and ash bats crackling. These people are minor league scouts. Nobody is closer to the distillation of the purity of our pastime than the scout. He's sees players in the raw, projects where their talent will take them, and makes them stars before they shine.

And of those men that record home-to-first times, look for live arms, and listen for pop in the bat, there is one that stands out (although sitting in the shadows cast on the grandstand). His name is Craig Ryburn and he's been doing it for nearly the entire live-ball era. Having applied the eyeball test to almost every prospect, having reduced the romantic game of baseball to a subjective science.

His subjective evaluation is boiled down to a scouting report which he underwrites with his signature.

Craig Ryburn's minor league baseball scouting reports typically look like this:

Soft hands. Electric arm. Possibly a neo-Nazi... but great body. Great body.

A template of four short and ascending colorful sentences, the third being off the wall, and the fourth explaining that the third doesn't result in a total loss. Instead of saying "he's got the tools" in summation, he re-iterates the fact that a good-looking prospect has a "great body."

Good burst. Quick bat. Most likely uncircumcised... but great body. Great body.

His scouting reports are quick and direct. Their best quality is that they're incredibly easy to remember, and this makes delivering information up through the organization both easy and efficient. Everyone from the minors to the bigs knows Craig, and many are grateful that he knows them.

Fantastic range. Jeter-like leadership. Hits multiple women... but great body. Great body.

If you have a character flaw, Craig Ryburn is gonna find it. This is what has kept him in the trade for 34 years. He knows how to put everything on the smallest of tables.

And sometimes when there really isn't a daunting character flaw present, the great Craig Ryburn finds something else to add.

Good nose for the ball. Excellent bat speed. Looks like Jose Mesa... but great body. Great body.

He's discovered many greats: Otis Nixon, Orel Hershiser, Jeff Blauser, Doug Drabek, Tim Wakefield, even Billy Ripken, Jr. His track record is truly remarkable. Finding diamonds in the rough more often than an Ivory Coast blood servant.

Jeff "Looks Great in a Blaus" er

He's monitored talent all over this country and within a few island nations. He prefers the warm weather, wearing a tank top and displaying his abnormally wide nipple breadth as he jots down notes about potential big leaguers.

Excellent 60-yard time. Looks natural out on the field. Sucks ass at Mario Kart... but great body. Great body.

Every circle in the scouting profession has been bubbled in by Craig Ryburn. He's an ever present enigma to others in the field. Concise, yet interesting. To the point, but thorough. The style of Craig Ryburn is unique, but the upside of his projecting is untouched and continues to be impeccable. He's the greatest influence on Major League Baseball you've never heard of.

Good plate coverage. Sees the ball well out of the pitcher's hand. Can correctly identify only four state capitals... but great body. Great body. Superb body.

The Time I Accidentally Climbed a Volcano

Cole F.M. — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 22:47:51 -0400

Column by Cole F.M.

There's this one volcano over in Italy that you may have heard of. It's called Mount Vesuvius. You might remember it from your history class as the volcano that got into a slight territorial dispute with the city of Pompeii. Pompeii wanted to not be on fire, and Vesuvius wanted... I think you can see where that joke was going.

A lot of people died. It was pretty horrible, but realistically, building a town next to a mountain with smoke pouring out of it and just hoping that it has an addiction to comically over-sized cigarettes might be just a tad over-optimistic. So maybe I don't have the deepest of sympathies for them.

And neither should you have sympathies for me.

Hi, I'm Cole, and I do profoundly stupid things in places where being stupid can get you caught on fire.

"Wow. What are the odds that the rock would look like a hardened lava flow? Weeeeeeiiiiiirrrrrd, man." And then I continued climbing, not really thinking anymore about it.If you've read some of my earlier articles, you'll know that I traveled across Europe for quite a time over the latter half of 2011 and into the early stages of 2012, and that I was frequently an idiot, and probably should have died. Like, a lot. Like, I hope my mom only claims to read my articles because then she'd know how much I almost died, a lot.

Hi mom.

Anyhow, during this trip, I sobered up long enough to find myself in Venice, and after I teamed up with Mos Def and Mark Wahlberg to steal a bunch of Mini Coopers from that one guy from Fight Club (my memory relating to the plot of the film The Italian Job may be more than a little off), I actually teamed up with a pair of the loveliest Canadian girls you ever will meet. Their names shall be withheld in order to protect them from being associated with my crippling buffoonery. We decided to bum around Italy for a little while, because they were too polite to tell me I was annoying and smelled like an overcooked Turkish bath.

Many an adventure was had, and eventually we took a train to Naples. On the way in, I saw a picturesque looking mountain, and I had an epiphany: I want to be on top of that shit, yo. Not the most profound of epiphanies, but hey, there you go.

But we did not linger in Naples. We went from there to a town called Sorrento. The kind of place you see on postcards. Lot of lemons grow there. Not entirely coincidentally, out of all of the lemons I have stolen in my life, most of them where stolen in Sorrento. We enjoyed it there, but after a couple of days, the ladies departed for greener pastures (read: "places I wasn't") and I was left to my own devices. So naturally I got tanked.

Once I sobered up, I decided to go back to Naples and angrily curse at that mountain I had wanted to climb, and maybe pee off the top of it a little bit. (Please note the fact that I specifically made this decision after I was drunk. Not during. I am a danger to myself.) So back I went! After spending some quality time in a hostel I set out on a trek of epic proportions!

By this point in the story the majority of you will likely have noticed that there may be some correlation between the preface of this story, wherein I discussed a volcano, and to the mountain which I was attempting to climb. Or maybe you're a spoilsport who read the title of the article. But even if you somehow haven't figured it out yet...don't worry, you still will before I did.

I had started pretty early (like, before noon, even), but I'm in really bad shape, so it took a while to even get to the base of the mountain. There looked to be a few miles of pine forests before I actually hit the steep parts of the mountain, so I got ready for some smooth, easy walking.

Turns out people live in those forests, and it looks more than a little The Hills Have Eyes-y in there. Rapey would not be an improper adjective to describe the place. When you think of Italy, you don't stop to consider the idea that they have rednecks too, and that those rednecks might own very large dogs that they just let wander around and chase chubby guys with backpacks. They do, though. Lots of 'em.

Fortunately though, they don't live all the way up the mountain. You know what does though? Thorns. Angrythrust-loads of thorns. Big thorns. Thorns that hate you personally. Like, I killed their parents and railed their girlfriend at the same time kind of hate. Fortunately, thorns are pretty slow at the "giving chase" aspect, so I was able to avoid them by finding slivers of the mountain where they had yet to infest. (Yes, I probably could have just circled around until I came to a clear patch, but, well, fuck you I didn't really think of that at the time.)

I started to come across long trails of black rock running down the mountain at a few points, and thought to myself, "Wow. What are the odds that the rock would look like a hardened lava flow? Weeeeeeiiiiiirrrrrd, man." And then I continued climbing, not really thinking anymore about it.

I do not deserve to be alive.

A couple hundred meters up (look how cultured I am!) I found a nice, flat place, just a few hundred more meters from what looked to be the summit, so I set up my tent and left my backpack behind, taking with me only my flashlight. And the clothes I was wearing. That would be weird if I was just like, "Oh, well, almost to the top, better get naked so I can go up there."

And I climbed.

Remember before when I mentioned that there were thorns on the mountain that I had apparently offended? Well, those thorns apparently called ahead and told these thorns that I was coming and that a gang rape wasn't entirely off the list of ways to deal with me. But lo and behold I eventually made my way out, only mostly regretting the decision to hike up there.

Reaching the very top, I threw myself over the edge, and made a very interesting discovery: I was falling down again. The first thought that went through my mind was that I had discovered the world's thinnest mountain, but after I caught myself, a quick survey told me otherwise.

There was a crater on the top of this mountain. (I am not proud of my first thought.)

"Wow! A meteor must have landed on top of this mountain at exactly the right angle to— oh my dear sweet literal fuck that is a volcano I am on a volcano oh fuck a volcano is steaming under my feet and I am not a lucky person I am going to die!"

Now, to anyone who knows about Vesuvius, you know that it is generally considered safe to be around, hence why Naples is a thing that exists. But, I saw steam coming out of the crater, so forgive my slight of mind (read: heavily considering pissing myself). It took a minute, but I eventually figured out where I was, and that I likely wasn't in any real danger other than what I usually pose to myself, so I decided to enjoy the setting sun for a bit. A beautiful view to be sure. Forests stretched out hundreds of feet beneath me, a small village past that, then fields, and eventually the beach, and the great sea beyond that, the setting sun turning it a magnificent shade of orange.

It was a sight to behold.

...then the sun up and fucking vanished.

From the position of the sun and the beach, I figured I had about half an hour, maybe 45 minutes before dark. Plenty of time to whisk my way back to my tent (and my warm, warm survival equipment), but apparently nobody told the other mountain about that.

When we think of smog, we tend to think of it as a problem a lot closer to home, or maybe we make some snappy joke about Mexico City, but Italy apparently has it too, and it does a really good job at hiding mountains that the sun can vanish behind. For the few of you curious enough to check Google Maps and figure out behind which object it was that the sun pulled it's Houdini act, don't bother, I did that already. I have no thrusting idea.

I don't know exactly what angle I was looking off of Vesuvius, but none of them seem to make sense for there to have been a mountain. I don't know. It's a mystery but it happened. The sun went bye-bye well before it actually hit sea level.

And now I was on top of Mt. Vesuvius. In the dark. In November. In a hoodie. With a sea of pissed off thorn bushes in my way to safety.

I was scared. Scared I might freeze to death while lost on an unforgiving mountain. An unforgiving mountain where no one who might even hear it would even understand my cries of "HELP!" because Italian is a ridiculous language.

But at least I had my flashlight.

I immediately broke my flashlight.

There was a tiny bit of light left, so I started making my way down the mountain to try and find my tent probably a bit faster than recommended by a physician. So I took more than a couple predictable falls. After which I had a couple of problems. First off, my shirt was pretty ripped (not a problem. I'm a trend setter. I could make it work), and my flashlight was broken. It was at this moment that something I had said to myself a few months prior flashed through my mind.

"Oh, I'll just get a wind up flashlight for the trip. That way I won't have to worry about batteries, and the only way I won't have light is if I threw it off a mountain or something."

Please note that I did not make that up for the sake of comedy, that is an actual thing that I said and it proves that oh my God I do NOT understand how foreshadowing works.

So I sat there in a broken heap, with a non-functioning flashlight, freezing cold, hoping that it was just blood and not piss that I felt running down my side (because due to the angle I was sitting, if it was piss, that would mean that I fucked up so hard, physics stopped working).

So what did I do? Did someone come to my aid at the last second? Did I actually fall right in the vicinity of my tent? No and no. This is real life, not a movie, so there was no one around for miles, and my tent was still a small, dark blob hidden in a nondescript, random patch of trees, and it was quickly getting dangerously cold.

So what did I do? Stumbled around blindly. In the dark. ...Seriously.

A lot of crap goes through your head at times like that. Some of it makes more sense than others. Like, I wonder if they'll find my body. Or, if they do, will they find it tragic that my beauty was struck down so soon in life? Or will the cold, unfeeling Italians simply point and laugh at the bloated corpse of yet another foolish American lost in the icy clutches of their fire god, Vesuvius. Maybe they'll actually be sad? Pour out a forty of red wine to mark the loss? Also going through my mind: thoughts that I might be kind of racist.

Eventually I found somewhere pretty free of thorns, but remarkably full of tree branches that think it's funny as fuck to ninja chop you in the dick. But despite my genital centric trauma, I felt that it meant I was going the right way, because I knew that I had set camp on a mostly clear, flat place. I was close.

I fell down another hill. (God is real. And he's kind of a dick.) My previous thought had been correct. I had been close. How close? Close enough to the point that when I stood up and began walking, I tripped directly over my tent only about fifty feet later.

So I had to set that up again. In the dark.

But I was safe. I had my sleeping bag, my real coat, and about a dozen illicitly obtained space blankets. I would survive the night.

It was after that fiasco that I swore to never again attempt to climb any sort of mountain whatsoever.

Needless to say, I'm going to try and climb my next mountain in May.

Also of note, just, you know, to rub it in my face a little more, it turns out that on the other side of the mountain there is a very well maintained road and park of sorts for the dozens and dozens of hikers and day trippers who want to go up the mountain. It has like, lights and everything. Yes, if I had tried to climb the other side, not only would that have been something that lots of people thought was a good idea, but I would have been in no danger. Cool.

Last Night's NBA Finals Live Blog was a HUGE Mistake

Julian Asange — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 08:44:35 -0400

Blog by Julian Asange

We lost a lot of money last night. Last night's live blog was a disaster and I'd like to formally apologize on behalf of our two biggest sponsors for it, Cheetos and the National Institute for Suicide Awareness.

Full disclosure: Cheetos is a sponsor of this post.

Thus the following changes will be instituted across Points in Case:

3 More Andrei Trostel Articles a Year
Sometimes You'll Click on what looks like a funny article like 'the 7 Things you've Seen on Facebook that I've also Seen on Facebook' and it will JUST be an ad for cheetos.

Warmest Regards,

Jlian Asange from Wikileaks

(the real Julian Asange, from Wikileaks)

NBA Finals Live Blog For Boston Tonight!!

Julian Asange — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 14:06:02 -0400

Blog by Julian Asange

Daddy's back and ready to crack some jokes and some soda pops as we watch the NBA Finals together tonight. You know there's gonna be some Bucks-Heat action, some Celtics-Knicks versus each other, and fucking goddamn is that fucking the Nuggets versus the Golden State Warriors? You bet your fucking dick it is! Watch the live blog below and send your comments!!

Wikileaks NBA Live Blog!

All proceeds go towards the memorial of the Boston Marathon victim and his family. Boston Strong.

5 Ways the Catholic Church Can Survive the 21st Century

Jeff Gassen — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 03:20:39 -0400

Column by Jeff Gassen

On Christmas Day of last year, former Pope Benedict XVI emerged from his humble chambers, saw his shadow, and winter continued. When he re-emerged, he gave a heart-felt plea for a revival of purity, advocating for the interests of the poor from his $63 million cathedral wearing the entirety of Ron Paul's gold reserves in jewelry.

Months later, Pope Benny the Jet, as nobody has referred to him until now, shocked the world by announcing he would retire, as his health was failing and he wanted to spend his remaining years laying around in his pajamas all day and drinking wine with his friends; or in other words, being pope.

The resignation of a pope whose robe didn't have to be torn from his cold, dead, weird-looking old-guy elbows hasn't happened very often and some have reasoned that it is a sign of the decline of the traditional Catholic mind (RIP Nate Dogg). Here is how the Catholic Church can ensure that it makes it through the little hiccup that has been the 21st century.

1. Embrace Sexual Deviance

The Church has a difficult task continuing to pitch a bearded guy in a robe who hangs out with his underachieving buddies all day.I was an altar boy once. I know, I know, you're expecting me to insert some obvious and recycled joke about how I was molested by a priest, but I refuse to do that, because I signed a written agreement that I wouldn't bring it up again when we settled out of court. It's clear now that it would be harder to put those tiny male skeletons back in the closet than it would be to put a cardinal behind bars for creating them. So, how could they assert their return to the Judeo-Christian values of only disenfranchising slightly older females?

Solution: Consolidate the two places you put $1 bills: the offering plate and strippers' asses.

By using strippers in the church instead of offering plates, donations would skyrocket, men would no longer have to lie to their wives about their bank accounts being in the hole, young boys wouldn't understand it because they've never had sex ed, and young girls could see what would happen if they end up going to public school.

2. Recruit Pope Gregory the Brady

What does every failing business marketing team resort to? Big tits or a memorable face (in the case of Subway, both). Because using a female to revitalize the face of the Catholic Church runs the risk of her whoring the whole thing to the ground with her crazy menstrual hysteria and trying to fly planes around the world, the Church needs a celebrity spokesperson to become the face behind the cloth.

Solution: Hire Pope Gregory the Brady (of the Bunch).

There have been a long line of Gregorys that have ridden the papal bull (it's a thing, trust us). It was Greg—in an ode to asceticism—when tempted by a woman, who said, "Something suddenly came up." It was Greg, who in a feat of self-control didn't have sex (on-screen) with his step-sister, even though she was incredibly hot. And it was Greg who reassured Alice that there's more pride in a hard day's work washing dishes in an apron than being one of those talk show lesbos (that sounds so Greg). Yeah, I realize he's a Jew. Which brings me to my next point...

3. Drop Jesus

The Catholic Church has had a particularly rough time reconciling conservatism and the canon of Christ as of late. It's hard to convince the upcoming hoards of pacifist vegans who want to replace capitalism with six strings and their daddy's Chevys with their moms' hybrids that Jesus really turned water into napalm or only cured the sick with a co-pay. They've had an even more difficult task continuing to pitch a bearded guy in a robe who hangs out with his indolent, underachieving buddies all day, because this isn't 1998 and Vietnam vets stopped being funny after...well, this certainly isn't 1998.

Solution: Lose the Messiah hack.

Listen, I realize Jesus isn't the type of guy you want to cross (hey-oh), but his time has passed. Once you've lost the Savior bit, you're left with Judaism, and look how great those folks have done. Man and woman were created, hit a slight speed bump for the rest of recorded history (6,000 years or half the age of Clint Eastwood), and now Spielberg's winning Oscars. Besides, Christians are really just fair weather Jews anyway. It will totally catch on with the kids because The Lumineers are already dressed for the part. Plus, now you could go to the Orthodox orthodontist and after you tell him you halakha what he's done with his office, you can let him know you're haredi to get the retainer...on his nephew's law services.

4. Make Amends with Science

It's no longer socially acceptable to burn the Bill Nyes of the world at the stake for proposing theories that contradict the dogma of the Church. No matter how ridiculous they sometimes seem, the majority of people actually take objective scientific inquiry seriously, even if it is counter-intuitive that using the thing that prevents people from getting pregnant and transmitting disease isn't, indeed, causing pregnancies and spreading said disease.

Solution: As much as it may Herz, the only chance is incorporating scientific and technological advancement into the Church.

We institute sermon podcasts. We give people who pray out loud bluetooths so they fit in with all of the other assholes on the street. We hire Stephen Hawking to tune the organ. We accept that 65 million years ago a celestial object hit the Yucatan peninsula, effectively wiping out the dinosaurs. And yes, it was sent by God to kill the dinosaurs for having sex before marriage.

5. Go Gay

"See? As long as you're not in a robe too, there's no attraction." There was a high-ranking priest who admitted he had sex with a man. It turned out he was just kid-ding (oh wow, even I'm taken aback). Look, there's no other group that has more political clout that isn't a rich, white, straight male than the gays. There is also no other group that has been as at ends with the Church in recent years that's old enough to talk about it. Unfortunately for Catholics, the outcry for equal rights in the workplace and altar for homosexuals has risen higher than the pant legs at a Bill Paxton premiere in San Francisco (do we still think Bill Paxton's sexy? Did we ever?).

Solution: End the public stonewalling (Stonewall riots, get it?).

There's simply no way around it. Let's be honest, although it sounds pretty gay to support gays being allowed into the Boy Scouts, it's still less gay than just being in the Boy Scouts. Then at the Vatican they can finally remove that cardboard cut-out of the Archangel Michael with his hand up that reads, "If his head's beneath this line, it's not gay to ride this boy."

Screenplay for a Slasher Film

Mike Lamb — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 17:28:54 -0400

Column by Mike Lamb

Midnight in seventies film grain. Horror jazz soundtrack for piano and bass fills the air. Big dark city made of interlocking alleys, lit up by pink neon and yellow headlights. Loose trash stirs in the wind. A singing hobo takes a drink behind a dumpster. He stops, squints at the figure in the shadows. Man in a space suit? Couldn't be, makes no sense. Space man comes closer. Hobo stinks of fear and urine. Space man pulls out a knife. Hobo screams. Camera pans away as title of film splashes across crumbling brick wall in blood red letters: ASTRONAUT KILLER. Cue intro credits.

High school full of porn stars in their twenties. Students congregate pointlessly in front of lockers. Popular girls are planning a slumber party. Nerd flirts with hot girl for comic relief. Shut up, nerd, nobody likes you. Popular girls roll eyes and resume boring conversation. Their voices are annoying and their hairstyles are stupid.

Fat kid working in a video store. Store is empty because nobody rents videos anymore. Fat kid is bored, reads the newspaper. CRAZED MURDERER ESCAPES FROM ASTRONAUT ASYLUM. Fat kid laughs at headline. Astronaut walks into store, fat kid stops laughing. Astronaut is browsing horror section. Fat kid is suddenly nervous. Is this the astronaut killer? Maybe it's a different, harmless astronaut. Astronaut walks up to counter and stabs fat kid in the eye with broken shard of DVD. Fat kid screams, bleeds everywhere, dies. Astronaut steals soda and leaves.

Cool kids are smoking cigarettes after school. Guys are punching each other and talking about football. Girls are talking about the big slumber party, also their periods. Guy in rape van gives everybody rides home.

Hardboiled Detective is on the case. Old man takes pictures of dead fat kid at video store. CSI team wanders around the crime scene with tweezers and brushes, collecting hair and pretending to work. Detective lights up a cigarette, vows to catch the maniac before he kills again. Astronaut Killer must be stopped! Video store manager points to NO SMOKING sign. Detective flicks cigarette outside. It hits an old lady and sets her straw church hat on fire.

Astronaut Killer is lurking in the bushes. Dumb girls giggle while doing cartwheels in short shorts and no bras. Lawn sprinklers spray white cotton T-shirts. Astronaut Killer is watching, breathing heavily. Masturbation is implied.

Hardboiled Detective is getting clues. He speaks to the doctor of the astronaut asylum.

DETECTIVE: What can you tell me about Astronaut Killer?

DOCTOR: He went crazy after returning home from the space war.

DETECTIVE: Space war? I didn't know we ever had one of those.

DOCTOR: He seems to think we did. And judging by his condition, I'd say it was a pretty bad one.

DETECTIVE: Hmm... Thanks, Doc.

Hardboiled Detective cranks up his car and thinks up a plan.

Hot girls in lingerie are having a pillow fight in the suburbs. Shitty music plays as Black Girl and Brunette #2 share a joint and talk about boys. Blonde #3 twirls hair, stares into space. The power goes out, girls get scared. What was that noise? Is someone sneaking around outside? Glass shatters, everybody screams. Cat attack! Laughing frat boys break into house.

DOUCHEBAG #1: Hey sluts, did we scare you? We cut the power and threw a cat through your window!

BLONDE #1: Jerks!

DOUCHEBAG #2: We brought beer!

BRUNETTE #2: Let's party!

Everybody starts dancing. Black cat hisses and runs away.

Astronaut Killer is strangling a pizza boy. Pizza Boy dies.

Meanwhile at the party, drunk people are fucking. The doorbell rings. It must be the pizza they ordered. No, Pizza Boy is dead, nobody gets pizza. Astronaut Killer kicks open the door. He has a chainsaw. Gratuitous violence ensues, everybody gets killed. Only one girl remains. Thrilling chase scene. Girl falls down four times.

Screaming girl in underwear runs into police station for help. Cops laugh at screaming girl. Damn kids and their crazy stories.

SCREAMING GIRL: But you've got to believe me! Everyone is dead!

COP #1: Go home and get some sleep, you're tired.

SCREAMING GIRL: Why won't anybody listen to me?

COP #2: Look bitch, you're drunk. Take a hike before we throw you in a cell.

Screaming Girl runs away crying.

Hardboiled Detective to the rescue. Picks up Screaming Girl on the side of the road and drives off. Moon buggy in rear view mirror.

HARDBOILED DETECTIVE: Damn! Astronaut Killer is right behind us!

SCREAMING GIRL: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Action packed car chase scene. Detective rams moon buggy off a cliff. Explosion! Hardboiled Detective hugs Screaming Girl. They're safe, it's all over now. Or is it? Astronaut Killer is right behind them!

THE END... ?

4 Cases of Animal Cruelty in Children's Films

William Franklin — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 23:33:03 -0400

Article by William Franklin

We live in a world where a whole nation can be united by nothing more than a soothing voiceover from an octogenarian and stock footage of penguins fucking. And yet, there are still people willing to get all angsty about a fictional Italian plumber wearing the skin of a raccon dog. Organizations like PETA need to get off Nintendo's back and focus on the people who are really sending the wrong message about treatment of animals to kids: the creators of our most beloved children's films.

1. Juju - The Princess and the Frog

It's almost hilarious how this film swings between moral extremes. It starts off with a spoiled, demanding young girl tormenting the shit out of her kitten, but she's quickly reprimanded by her responsible adult maid. Thirty minutes later a blind, aging, and presumably drug-addled Voodoo woman is using a snake as a walking stick and loving every second of it.

There are three clear messages driven home by The Princess and the Frog:

All black people care about is an almost masochistic obsession with hard work.
All white people care about is playingukuleleand getting laid.
Life as a frog sucks harder than Aquaman.

Literally everything in the Bayou tries to kill our two heroes on their quest to turn themselves back into humans, in order to do the only things they respectively do: manual labor and partying. On that quest, they meet the aforementioned blind lady. Now I'm not saying that Mama Odie acts like she's tripping balls, but she clearly is, and after a predictable song and dance number, points out the important distinction between what a person wants and what a person actually needs. But apparently neither of them really need to be human, because guess what? You can be a more passive-aggressive workaholic than Geoffrey from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air or a slovenly, hedonistic douchebag and be a frog at the same time.

Imagine that you're a child watching this, and you have a shitty home life with an abusive parent: the film is basically telling you to man up and deal with it you little bitch--leave it to a complex series of events you have no control over to fix your life. And also that if you see a frog, fucking destroy it. Even disregarding that, Odie's treatment of her poor snake Juju is criminal.

2. Abu - Aladdin

Life as a street rat in Agrabah ain't easy because there's no such thing as a petty crime. Sure that loaf of bread or melon looks both tasty and unguarded, but is it really worth tangling with a platoon of militia with scimitars for it? Because they seem to have nothing better to do.

What annoys me most about Abu is that he only gets irritated by one thing throughout the film: the possibility of Aladdin parking his homeless dong in the Sultan's sultry daughter. Not, say, a life of abject destitution.

3. The Squirrelettes - The Sword in the Stone

Sometimes the aspiring animal abuser just doesn't have time to spare from their other evil doings to give their non-human companions the level of abuse they so richly deserve. At this point, they usually send their magically inept apprentice into the woods in the form of a rodent to cocktease squirrels.

Squirrels are kind of adorable, when they're not savaging park-goers, but this scene from The Sword in the Stone seems a little unnecessary. By this point, Merlin and Wart have already (pointlessly) robbed an innocent pike of a probably much needed meal, in order for young Arthur to learn about the circle of life. Then, in order to teach his young ward the vital maxim, "look before you leap," England's most successful wizard turns the boy into a squirrel and does his utmost to ensure he breaks his neck.

Along the way, they both attract the attentions of the opposite sex, and instead of embracing the opportunity to teach a young'un about the birds and the bees as well, they both add some broken hearts to the trail of chaos the two have left in Pendragon's hold. Annoyingly, I would have thought being groomed for royalty had exactly the opposite benefits.

4. Scrat - Ice Age

No animated organism in the history of cinema has received more punishment than Scrat. Another squirrel/rodent of some description, his only involvement in any of the four films is purely as an object of laughter for the audience while he desperately starves. Don't get me wrong, it's hilarious. As are all of the above, but for that to be true for me, something must have gone wrong in the minds of these directors.

Mother Nature's a bitch, sure. And I'm all for kids learning that at as early an age as possible. Nurses shouldn't just be slapping newborns on the rump, they should be screaming at them that they'll never achieve anything in life. But Scrat is such a tragic figure, removing him in the next goddamn installment would be a mercy killing. They even introduced a romance for him, just for the opportunity to see heartbreak and a look that says, "I'm definitely not going to survive this winter" on his pathetic face at the same time. The monster who pitched this character probably knows exactly how long every major brand of hand lotion is good for before it turns to paste when he's masturbating to UNICEF adverts. Shit. Even I felt bad about that one.

The Snippets Die Hard

Nathan DeGraaf — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 19:48:17 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf

Lisa: She said she couldn’t believe that we would treat her like that on the anniversary of her mother’s death.
Dan: Like we’re supposed to know when her mom died.
Gordon: We should totally make that a new Facebook setting. We could start a new Hallmark trend.
Me: What would the cards say? “On this day, ten years ago, your Mom died. Have a piece of cake or something.”
Dan: Well Nate’s clearly not our card writer.

Me: You know, I loved all my grandparents, but I couldn’t give you the date of any of their deaths.
Phil: My wife knows all those dates. She can even tell us the anniversary of when our pets died.
Me: Must be a female thing.
Dan: Like irrational thinking?
Lisa: Like “Fuck you,” Dan.
Dan: I can’t even tell you my parents’ birthdays.
Me: How is that even possible?
Gordon: It’s easy. Dan is a horrible human being.

Me: But Dan, like you get them presents, right?
Dan: Oh yeah.
Me: How do you know when to buy them?
Dan: My dad tells me when my mom’s birthday is coming and my mom tells me when my dad’s birthday is coming and when my sister’s birthday is coming, both my parents’ remind me.
Me: You know your own address, right?
Dan: I mean, I can find my way home.

Me: I got it.
Lisa: Herpes?
Me: You wish.
Lisa: Why would I wish you had herpes?
Dan: So you wouldn’t be so alone.

Me: No I mean I got something we could put in the death anniversary cards.
Gordon: I’m listening.
Me: “Dear So and So, years ago on this date your life changed forever. And though your loved one is no longer with us here on Earth, we cannot deny the fact that you will die too someday and life is, essentially, meaningless. Have a piece of fucking cake.”
Gordon: You’re an asshole.
Dan: That brought a tear to my eye.

Me: I gotta be going.
Lisa: Where to?
Me: A seventh grade cello recital.
Dan: Why to?
Me: Really? It’s two in the afternoon. Are you that drunk?
Dan: I like to. That’s why.

Me: Well there’s no arguing with that statement.
Gordon: It’s impossible to argue with nonsense.
Dan: Good point…y head. You have a pointy head!
Lisa: It’s more like, egg shaped.
Gordon: I hate you guys.

I'd Probably Be a Terrible Firefighter

Casey Freeman — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 21:41:07 -0400

Blog by Casey Freeman

I needed to pick up my cousin's car for my trip to my Grandma's house a few hours away. Scott, my cuz, works as a firefighter in LA, so he left his keys with a friend at the fire station. Unfortunately, the Super Bowl was going to start in 12 hours or so, and Scott needed to do his job as a life saver. Thus, I needed to find my way to his car. I saw his ride and breathed some relief that it wasn't anything big like the giant minivan my mom made me drive.

I arrived at the firehouse and gawked at the giant trucks. I've seen them before, and maybe stood on one as a kindergartner, but they're just so cool and shiny! And Korean fire trucks rank up there with glorified pickups. Chris, Scott's roommate, saw me ogling them and asked, "You want a tour of the fire station?" I nodded about 100 times without taking my eyes off the giant red truck.

"This one is a ladder, this one carries supplies, this is a backup ambulance, and this one is just a spare," Chris said as he pointed to different trucks. The tone of his voice told me he'd done this more than a few times. He seemed to enjoy the fact that I enjoyed this so much.

"This is the kitchen. Since we work 24 hour shifts, we eat all our meals here. One guy needs to cook on each shift, and since I'm the best cook, I cook all the time. Yes, it kind of sucks, but I never need to do dishes or any other crap-work. And yes, we cook a ton of chili. And yes, our farts stink."

"We don't have a Dalmatian, but sometimes the guys will bring their dogs. I'm not supposed to show you the dorms, but since you're Scott's cousin, let's check it out," and we climbed the stairs. I could barely talk this excited me so much. "Here are our dorms. Usually no civilian dorks are allowed, or chicks, but rules are meant to be broken."

I looked at the poles, hoping he wouldn't ask if I wanted to slide down them. I kind of did, but my fear of heights cripples me in these situations. "There are the poles. We use them when there's an emergency and we're up here. Some of the older guys just run down the stairs, because sliding down and landing roughs up your old-man knees." I thought of telling Chris about my bad knee...

But we headed down the stairs. Thank goodness gracious! I told myself. I didn't want to be asked to slide down a pole and then admit to being too scared to do it.

After the dorms, he showed me the scheduling system, the sweet private gym, a handball court and the amazing entertainment center. Then we hit the driveway that was littered with carwash stuff. "We wash and wax the engines all the time. That keeps them looking nice, and chicks dig it."

All the coolness of the firehouse made me start questioning my choice of profession as a boring-ass teacher. Who wants to bore university students half to death, write how-to-take-a-big-grammar-test textbooks (I've written one so far), grade papers and correct English pronunciation when they can dress up in fireproof armor and rescue people from burning buildings? Pick up chicks? Carry an axe and drive awesome trucks? Eat chili all day? Exercise constantly as part of your job? Star in a shirtless calendar?

Then I remembered: I'm terrified of heights, I hate driving big vehicles, and I don't even really like fire. I'd be a terrible firefighter.

But I'm glad there are other dudes who do it, and do it well. Because that is an awesome job. Stay safe out there firefighters of the world! I'm glad you do it, so pansies like me don't have to!

To Detect and Curse

Nathan DeGraaf — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 19:58:20 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf

A few months ago a friend of mine and I had too much to drink in a few too many bars. We laughed, we ate a jalapeno pizza like only two men whose stomachs are lined with iron and the dreams of unicorns are able and we left.

Now, my friend was smashed out of his gourd. I tried to tell him that he probably shouldn't drive and so he did the typical thing that drunken people do in this situation and told me that I was ugly and stupid and wished I had hair like his. He gets like this. I think we all do. Especially those of us with nice hair.

A few months ago was really cold in the river city so we had this conversation in my friend's car. And because this world is increasingly a police state, we were pulled over by the local police.

Keep in mind, my buddy's car was not actually going anywhere. We hadn't yet decided if we were going to utilize his vehicle, but nevertheless we got the two-cops-plus-sirens-and-lights-treatment, which is never pleasant and can cut through an alcohol buzz like a jalapeno pizza through a lesser man's stomach.

After we were removed from the car and searched aggressively, I asked the shorter and balder of the two police officers why exactly two gentlemen who had not yet started a car were being pulled over in said car and the officer, being a typical protector of the fine people of the United States of America said:

"You'll shut the fuck up if you know what's good for you."

He then turned to his partner cop and said, "We taking him in for a DWI or what?"

And his cop friend turned to him and said, "I haven't been able to find the guys' keys."

And I turned to my friend and said, "Did you lose your keys?"

"Shit," he said. "I must have left them in one of the bars."

"Hey officer," I said to the bald guy who'd informed me that talking was a bad idea. "Do you think we can get a ride home?"

"Ha ha ha. Fuck off," said the cop. And he and his partner got in their squad car and drove off to I Could Give Two Shits.

"Brad," I said to my friend because that's his name. "You are one lucky dumbass."

"You're just jealous because I'm stronger than you," he said, as we began the three mile trek back to his house.

In case you were looking for it, this story has no moral.

Observations Bombed

Nathan DeGraaf — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 22:42:05 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf

Whenever there's some kind of mass killing or attack in this country, it totally ruins my productivity at work. I'm like, "Whoa, hey, who can think of work at a time like this? People died. American people. Maybe even good American people. No fucking way am I being productive right now. What a tragic world."

The Little League people canceled my nephew's game today because of a tragedy in Boston, more than a thousand miles away. Every time people don't want to work because of some tragedy that most likely didn't affect them I'm like, "Whoa, hey. It's not the end of the world here. Do your job you lazy sumbitch."

We all grieve in our own ways.

A lot of people in Boston finished the marathon despite the bombing. I totally would have done that too. If I were to ever run a marathon, that is. Which I won't. I won't even run from the cops for more than thirty minutes. Once I start getting winded, jail sounds pretty good.

Today is Jackie Robinson Day all across the major leagues. All the players are wearing his number, 42. And if I could name just one thing that made Jackie Robinson awesome it would be this: he never blew up any part of an American city. He was cool like that.

If, and I would never do this but for the sake of hypotheticals here goes, if I were to plan a terrorist attack on this country I would totally pick a major sporting event. When you bomb America's most favorite marathon, even ESPN has to cover that shit. No burying your head in the sports page when the explosion happens at a major sporting event. A pity, too. I like my sports like I like my women: diverting my attention from what really matters.

Because I left all of my logic and fluidity in a world where people don't blow each other up and everyone loves each other and all breasts are perky, I leave you with the following, which I overheard at the gym:

"The Boston Marathon, that's in Connecticut, right?"

8 Terrible Shows AMC is Guaranteed to Green-Light

Cole F.M. — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 22:07:38 -0400

Column by Cole F.M.

Many lament the decline of television in recent years as a medium for quality programming, but I would like to point out that one of the first shows to ever be broadcast on national television was called The Less Sociable Ones, and it was just a series of different monkeys dressed up in admittedly adorable outfits in various, fairly random situations. There was no plot, no skits, no real...anything, really. And yet plenty of people tuned in to watch it. Week after week, Americans tuned in to watch a whole mess of monkeys grin like idiots for half an hour (they didn't have commercials just yet). And people say that TV is just now taking a dive.

For those of you who figured out that everything I just said in the last paragraph was bullshit to the tenth power, congrats, you didn't eat quite enough glue to get you put in the special classes. You've been blessed with the power to discern what is actual television, and what is someone just leaving a big steaming one right there on your screen.

We'll watch as convicted felons are given powerful and dangerous tools and then told to use them for eight hours a day and not go insane. AMC, however, does not agree with this statement.

Just recently, AMC debuted a new show called Immortalized. Now, a title like that can evoke some pretty stirring mental images from a wide array of categories.

Like taxidermy.

Totally works. And people would definitely watch a taxidermy show, right? What's that? You think that idea is offensively stupid enough to light your own underpants on fire in protest of just how stupid it is, but you can't quite figure out what angle would be considered a protest against stupid TV show ideas, but you already have the lighter out and you're just, ugh! So mad! So you go ahead and light your underoos on fire anyway.

I lost my train of thought.

Ahh, yes, AMC made a show about competitive taxidermy. They will literally accept any show in the world.

So here are my pitches for their next fall lineup.

1. Procedural cop drama—with a twist.

The key to success these days is to make a show about murders and cops solving those murders, and then horrifically misunderstand which parts of the police department fall under "homicide" and which people within any part of the station are or are not allowed to kick in doors and point guns at drug lords.

And the key to making the show really successful, is to put a twist on how they solve the crimes. In Numb3rs they solved the crimes with rock hard math, in CSI they do it with semen-detecting pocket pens, and in Bones they solve it with absolute bullshit.

So what's my twist?

Bears.

Everyone on the show is, quite literally, a wild bear. They are bears who solve bear crimes in bear places where bears go. None of them speak English. Subtitles are silly.

There are a lot of mauling-related crimes.

2. Show based entirely on a cutesy pun one of the producers thought up.

I don't know, we'll call it "Birds of a Letter" instead of "birds of a feather" or some shit. It'll have postal workers in it, though I'm not sure yet what exactly it is that they'll be doing (postal work, one would be forced to assume). But like any good coke-addled executive producer, I'll just leave that up to the type-sluts* to figure out.

*Writers

3. Force-fed sitcom that ignores the fact that sitcoms are dead.

The Big Bang Theory kind of blows. I refused to watch it for the longest time because it looked like it blew like the chilly northern winds. Then I finally watched an episode, and it did. It blew. I'm not watching anymore.

And How I Met Your Mother (aka "Watch How Much You Wish You Were Neil Patrick Harris") is almost over. Those are the biggest sitcoms left on TV right now, and it's pretty obvious that there aren't many schticks left to play out in the pre-recorded laugh track era of television.

So here's another sitcom anyway!

This will be a show where a really ugly guy has a really hot wife and they both have (really cool) jobs that somehow give them enough time to teach witty life lessons to their three teenage kids, all of whom are actually pretty hot for being like, fifteen or sixteen, but you're not supposed to say that out loud, although everyone around you is probably thinking it.

There'll be a wacky neighbor who seriously misunderstands "boundaries" and spends more time in the main family's house then whatever hovel he dwells in normally. It'll be just like Kramer, you guys, and it'll be totally hilarious.

4. Another show that follows a random, specific profession and pretends it's interesting enough to make an entire TV series out of.

We're gonna go with pallet and crate assembly in a factory setting. Fuck you, that's why. We'll call it "Staple Sultans" or some shit. Because you use staple guns to make pallets and crates. Nail guns too. You learn that on the show. We'll get to watch as convicted felons are given powerful and dangerous tools and then told to use them for eight hours a day and not go insane. Spoiler alert: They often do go insane.

They do a lot of drugs in the bathroom and there would be a lot of drama about this but they get fired really quickly because they're doing drugs in the bathroom and that gets people fired, but they can't really stop doing the drugs because they're all hopelessly addicted, and it would be kind of sad, but the new episode of "Subservient" is on next so you kind of forget.

Oh, what's "Subservient," you ask?

Only the second show where we find a really boring profession and get mad at you for not thinking it's interesting. It'll take place at a place like Subway or Quiznos and it'll be exactly like your first job in that it's awful. That's really it.

5. Reality shows! Not the profession kind though. Like, the "group of horrible people sit around and be horrible" kind.

Well, these days we have most ethnic stereotypes covered pretty respectably so we're gonna try and go a different route and have two different ethnic groups compete against each other for something or other. It won't be very good and it'll probably be pretty racist.

A show like this may or may not already be on the air.

6. People with beards do beard people stuff.

Swamp People, Ice Road Truckers, Bigfoot Fuckers and many other shows have introduced us to the wonders of the professions and hobbies of rednecks with beards, both old and young. But as diverse and wonderful as all of those shows are, they miss the mark on the single most agreed upon and expounded upon redneck hobby; and that's where "Cursing Ignorantly About Minorities and Gays" comes in. The entire show is exactly what the title suggests it would be. It'll be horrible, and it'll probably get canceled pretty quickly.

7. Actually fun, creative, well-written show that gets great reviews and everybody pretty much agrees is awesome, but gets canceled way too soon to make way for a new show that everyone knows is going to be awful, and surprise surprise! actually is awful.

I really miss Firefly.

8. Show—probably a cop show—that has a really weirdly out of touch concept of technology.

That technology tagline is actually weirdly accurate for a surprising majority of mainstream television shows. *Cough* NCIS *Cough* This show will be all about hacking inanimate objects with computers. Like, cars, pools, and sedimentary soils. It's stupid, and the whole time you're thinking in the back of your head this can't actually work and hey guess what, it doesn't.

I have a full pilot written out for each and every one of these shows, and every single one will improbably star Nathan Fillion. Because I love that man.

TV, I'm waiting for your call back.

You have my number.

Go Ahead, Call Me a Fair Weather Fan

David Thorp — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 23:31:17 -0400

Article by David Thorp

This is for all you "I'm a better fan than you are because I was a fan when the team sucked, and I have faith, and I don't give up easily, wah wah wah" people. Get over yourselves. Who are you, the fan police? No one, except others like you, give a shit about your self-seeking interest in pointing out the lesser fans to validate your own devotion to the team, especially the team or team owners. As long as the team is doing well, the owners will make money and the players will make money. It's a business, not Little League; it just happens involve sports too. Fans ultimately pay the players, therefore, when a team doesn't perform, fans can be as disgruntled as they want.

Saying that it's over before it's over or giving up has nothing to do with being faithless. It's self-preservation. Do you really expect that there should be the same amount of fan interest when a team sucks? That is fucking retarded. If a team can go 0-16 every year and still sell out, where would the sense of urgency be for the owners? If this were true, the motivation to win would be thinned quite a bit without dollar signs behind it, don't you think? Nah, you don't think because you're such a faithful little in-good-times-and-bad-times super fan, aren't you?

It's not about a general lack of loyalty either. First of all, a disloyal act would be if a Red Sox fan decided to become a Yankees fan because of what happened in 2011. Even though it was an awful and historic collapse, no one is going to do that! No Boston fan is going to switch teams, so don't try and use that "you're not a loyal fan" bullshit. People might not pay as much attention when they're doing bad, but who wants to? I don't like watching any Boston teams lose, because it's not enjoyable. However, I'm also not going to sit there and put another team above mine, and nobody else will either. If anyone claims to have actually switched teams then they aren't even sports fans to begin with, and they ultimately don't care either way. So if you want to use the term "disloyal fan" anyway, it won't make any sense.

Furthermore, I cannot fucking stand when people say that they were Patriots fans when they were 2-14, or other crap like that. EVERYBODY WAS STILL A PATRIOTS FAN. It's not like anybody who legitimately followed Boston sports became a Jets fan during that period and then switched back to the Patriots when they improved. When your team sucks, you lose interest, and when they're doing well, it's more interesting, but that doesn't make you a bandwagon fan. Since the Patriots started winning, it's just happened to draw more New England people into becoming football fans. So what?

I am lion, hear me roar... softly.

As long as they keep selling out, owners don't give a shit. What the hell do you think drives them to build a team to win championships...to please you, Mr. Eternally Faithful Fan? No, it's to keep the goddamn seats filled, and it will never be the other way around. You can say whatever you want about any team and they will still be more than happy to sell you luxury box season tickets for a ridiculous price.

Everyone who curses their team up and down while they're losing (and I am definitely guilty of this) does it because they're angry, because they care. They hate to see their team lose; it's an emotional reaction. Saying that it's over before it's over or giving up has nothing to do with being faithless, or at least it doesn't in my case. It's self-preservation. It's preparing for the worst because you are emotionally invested in the outcome of your team's game/season, etc. Or maybe it's just someone's opinion. Either way, nobody ever gives up entirely.

No matter how angry or discouraged we get as fans, we still check the score, the standings, or watch SportsCenter at some point because there will always be a glimmer of hope. All "fair weather" fans do it too. If they were faithless, wouldn't that mean they would never follow the team again? Never pay attention to a scoreboard again? Never have a discussion about their team again? Never go to another game again? Nobody does that either!

When the Red Sox went down three games to none in 2004 against the Yankees, no one believed they would come back (and you're a fucking liar if you say otherwise), but everyone hoped they would, and everyone still watched Game Four. There is a difference. Fans get dissatisfied, flustered, and say negative things in the midst of defeat, but they always hope their team will win.

So going back to 2004, if we employ the "I'm a faithful fan and you're fair weather, wah wah wah" logic, doesn't that mean that every Sox fan in the world was a "fair weather" fan when they were down 3-0? Maybe some people believed in the team, or whatever, but nobody actually thought they were going to do it. You folks on your high horses need to stop confusing faith with optimism. Join the fan club and maybe they'll make you vice president for all your "faith." I'm sure they'll be glad you "stuck with it" during the hard times and had an unpleasant experience watching them lose so many games. I personally only prefer pleasant experiences...you know, like when a team wins.

The term "faith" means "to have confidence or trust in someone or something." If your team is down 17-0 at halftime, you may naturally have less confidence and trust that they're going to win the game, and that's all. Save your faith for God-at least he's not doing it for a contract. Most importantly, I will say whatever the fuck I want when our teams aren't doing well. Fuck you. I am still just as much of a fan as anyone else, and I always will be a loyal fan no matter what.

P.S. If there weren't any "fair weather" fans, then you wouldn't be so fucking special, would you?

P.P.S. You know what else really grinds my gears? When you see Dateline NBC, Inside the NFL, or essentially any program in which the anchor sits down and interviews a celebrity, sports athlete, etc, and holds that pen in their hand while they ask questions, like they're actually fucking taking notes. I think it's safe to presume everyone has seen this. You know, when you see Bryant Gumbel, Larry King, or some other idiot with their sleeves rolled up, holding a pen, interviewing someone and not even writing anything down, just pointing to their list of questions with the pen? Oh yeah, your sleeves are rolled up, that means you must be "getting down to business." Yeah, you might get your hands dirty because you're working so arduously in the grueling trenches of high-paid TV interviews, asshole. You must need your pen because you're such an excellent journalist, diligently taking notes to make sure we get the "scoop" right? Fuck you. What is it, the trendy new standard that reporters must hold a pen and flail it around aimlessly while interviewing someone? Put down the fucking pen.

Because I Wanna Liveblog

Nathan DeGraaf — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 20:01:10 -0400

Blog by Nathan DeGraaf

In case you don't know (likely) or don't care (even more likely), the winningest pitcher of the St. Louis Cardinals' 2012 season makes his return to Busch Stadium the Third (the only stadium with a trust fund and a ski-lift pass) tonight at 8 PM Eastern against the Milwaukee Brewers.

Because it is unseasonably cold here in the river city, and because I lack the funds necessary for a proper social life, I will be live-blogging tonight's game. Check back for updates as my lame Friday night continues. Mock my lame jokes and help me count my beers. Baseball is back baby, and with it comes that grand tradition nobody likes: me, without proper editing.

That sound you didn't hear was me popping beer number one. Tonight's beer is Budweiser, in tribute to Stan Musial, whose number will be marked on all of today's game balls. That's right, tonight is the night we honor the late Stan Musial, whom I never saw play but whose statue I touched after I saw my first Cardinal win live, a tradition I continue because I am borderline insane. I even make my nephews and nieces keep said tradition alive because what fun is insanity if you can't spread it around?

Stan's whole family came out for this. I'm glad no one in my family ever did anything so awesome that it requires me to give up my Friday night and stand around and watch Navy dudes unveil a plaque. I hate plaques.

Stan Musial was never ejected from a game. He is remembered as one of the nicest guys to ever play the game and the classy Midwesterners who flip off Brandon Phillips really value that kind of politeness.

The Musial family just got handed a bunch more plaques. I hope for their sakes that they have plenty of wall space but somehow I doubt it. Those plaques are going into storage until such time that they can discreetly be sold on E-Bay.

Musial's retired number six is on the balls, on the left sleeves of the players and cut into the outfield grass. In honor of this game, I shaved my pubes into a 6. No lie.

Okay, I lied.

And the Cardinals take the field! Shelby Miller is tonight's starter and before you ask, yes he is from the South. People named Shelby are always from the South. It's a rule.

Aoki leads the game off with a basehit up the middle which is followed by Shelby Miller striking out Segurra on a high fastball. Ryan Braun comes up and steroids a swinging strikeout. Shelby looks good, which is good (I am a smith of words). Rickie Weeks, the fourth batter of the inning and NORML supporter steps up to the plate, muscles a few foul balls and watches the little Japanese guy steal second. These things happen. Weeks sees something like three hundred pitches, works the count full and then finally strikes out. Dreadlocks looking good though, Rickie. Looking real good.

And there is Kyle Lohse. There's something not so special about facing a former player and that something can best be called: heyIknowthatdude.

Jon Jay flies out to right on the first pitch because the last thing you want you leadoff hitter to do is see a lot of pitches. Matt Carpenter pops out and takes a moment to reflect on how random existence really is. Matt Holliday, of the way-too-prematurely-bald Hollidays, rips a basehit. Allen Craig, who wishes he was taller, flies out to Steroid Braun and after one inning, one inning is over.

As we start the second inning, Jonathan Lucroy finds himself in the batters box (which is where he does his best flying out) and flies out. Alex Gonzalez (no the other one) just got nailed by a fastball. He could have charged the mound but it's so far away.

Next up is is Carlos Gomez (no the other one) who strikes out looking because swinging takes effort. Yuniesky Betancourt is at the dish now, swinging at everything because it's cold and ain't nobody got time for this. He grounds out to first base because there's less running that way.

Carlos Beltran is up. His little toe hurts. On a related note, I have an irritating cold sore (as opposed to those cuddly cold sores). Beltran breaks his bat into a basehit which always looks so cool. Yadier Molina, winner of the Platinum, Gold, and Stainless Steel Glove, flies to Steroid Braun who dives in an effort to drop the ball. Runners at the corners for the Redbirds. Hometown hero and really bad driver David Freese singles in a run and it's looking good in the Third Busch tonight. Pete Kozma, who could give two shits about what you think about him or even if you think about him, strikes out looking on a pitch out of the strike zone but does not complain because emotions are best left back at the dojo. Shelby Miller, pitcher, southerner and man holding a bat hits into a double play because he's a pitcher and what do you expect?

On to the third inning. The Cards lead 1-0.

Kyle Lohse comes to the plate and gets a standing ovation because, you know, he's alright. The announcers take the time to kiss the fans' asses, a St. Louis tradition since 1946.

Lohse chops to Kozma who throws to Craig who throws it around the horn even though it's cold because tradition.

And Aoki is back! I wonder how he feels about North Korea. By the way, I just popped beer number two.

Aoki grounds to Kozma who's used to it. Segurra grounds to seconds baseman Matt Carpenter just to mix things up. Shelby's thrown way too many pitches but he still looks good.

And that's good.

Hey, it's Jon Jay again. I remember him. He strikes out on pitch that hits him which always feels extra bad because, you know, not only did you get hit, you got out doing it.

Carpenter grounds out to second so as not to be in Matt Holliday's way. He's nothing if not considerate, that Matt Carpenter.

Holliday flies out to Aoki and that inning kind of sucked. On to the fourth. We're like a third of the way done with this.

And yes, I am aware it's Friday night.

Shelby Miller faces Ryan Steroid FedEx Braun and strikes him out on a breaking ball so Rickie Weeks can ground out to third without feeling like he wasted an opportunity. And now Jonathan Lucroy comes to the plate, settles in the box and has to leave before he really gets comfy because he grounded out to Miller.

As we go into the bottom of the fourth, let's take some time to remember what's really important in life.

Now that that is over with, let's watch Allen Craig ground out to Jean Segurra (which sounds like a brand of Mexican tobacco products). Carlos Beltran and his hurt toe loop a flyball out to the little Japanese guy who's probably all for the destruction of North Korea. Yadier Molina takes time off from polishing his many metal gloves to to rip a one hopper to third and end an inning.

Ah, baseball.

If you are the kind of person who wants a McDonald's McWrap, you are not the kind of person who planned on being at McDonald's.

Pitch number 76 for Miller (to start the fifth) misses outside to someone named Blake Lali who is in this game because I have no idea (these announcers in St. Louis prefer to babble on about the good old days instead of announcing). Anyway, Blake grounds to Kozma because all the kids are doing it and Carlos Gomez sees ten pitches before finally having the decency to strike out. Miller is at 89 pitches and 22 years old. He is not long for this game.

Betancourt joins the cool kids and grounds to Kozma who simply does his job and asks to be left alone afterwards, like a hooker.

Freese leads off the inning by flying out to right field and Kozma follows that act by ripping a basehit to left because like whatever. Miller bunts and Kozma surprises the hell out of everyone by advancing all the way to third because no one's covering third because this is apparently a Little League game.

Jon Jay grounds out to end the inning because there is no climactic like anti-climactic.

And ah one and ah two and ah one two three inning for Shelby Miller.

Okay, now Stan Musial liked to play the harmonica. So everyone in the stadium got free harmonicas and are playing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" horribly. As someone who can play the harmonica, I have to say that some ideas just seem better before they are actualized, like chocolate covered fried chicken. Anyway, touching moment. We love you, Stan (and yes, I just popped beer number three).

Matt Carpenter starts the bottom of the sixth of a one run game by lining a ball off SS Jean Segurra who picks it up and throws him out. Holliday flies out to Aoki who seems really sweaty for such a cold night. Craig breaks his bat but grounds out to third. Lohse has settled in. You can tell by the Lazy Boy he popped up behind the mound.

No lie.

Okay, lie.

Shelby gets Steirbraun and then Brother Tom calls because we have to hook up my dad's computer tomorrow and now I'm sidetracked. Okay, two outs, Lucroy at the plate, full count, Shelby at 735 pitches and a flyball to Holliday ends the inning. The last guy to get a hit off Shelby was the first guy to bat and this is where the pitch count vs. quality outing argument takes off. We need runs so we can avoid said argument. And I need to pee.

That peeing thing worked out for me and Lohse got Beltran to fly to center.

HOME RUN YADIER MOLINA!

Cards lead 2-0 and we have breathing room, which is located just off the kitchen and features an oxygenated water bong.

And by the by, that homerun ball was embossed with a number six, flew over a number six on the outfield wall, after crossing a number six mowed into the outfield, hit by a guy with a number six on his sleeve. I think you know what I'm getting at.

Yup, Satan.

Kozma grounds out to end the inning and here comes the bullpen.

Al Hrabosky calls himself the Mad Hungarian but he is not, in fact, Hungarian. Chew on that.

Trevor Rosenthal comes into the game to pitch the eighth and Daniel Descalso comes in to play second, moving Carpenter to third, removing Freese from the game and allowing Descalso to bat in the ninth spot. This is called a "double switch" first made popular by a really angry parent back in the pioneer days.

Rosenthal gets the first batter to fly out because he's friends with Shelby Miller and wants to see him be successful.

Betancourt bats with two strikes, two outs and empty bases and pops out because God is good and he loves me.

As we go to the bottom of the eighth, we take time to remember that Stan Musial got the same number of hits at home as he got on the road. That is coincidence. I mean consistency.

Okay so I mean both.

Descalso flies out to the Carlos Gomez who plays CF for the Brewers. Jon Jay grounds to second. Rough Day for Jon Jay sounds like it would be fun to say but it's not.

Matt Carpenter's at bat is not interrupting the conversation between announcers Dan and Al. But why should this part of the game be any different.

Carpenter grounds out and we head to the ninth inning to watch a guy with a beard throw hard.

Mitchell Boggs, a catcher who is now a pitcher, a set-up man who is now a closer: he contains multitudes.

(It's not a baseball piece until you reference Walt Whitman. Baseball is poetry.)

Boggs gets a groundout and then, because this game didn't have a walk, walks Aoki. Segurra comes to the plate and I think he smells fear.

Yup. Fear it is. Basehit. Two on one out for the league's most valuable anabolic steroid user.

Boggs gets Braun. And everyone is nervous. Like, waiting for the test results nervous. Two on, two out, two to nothing for Rickie Weeks. Locks vs. Beard. Who you got?

And it's beard. It's almost always beard.

In honor of the memory of Stan the Man Musial I think I should tell you that the Cardinals won with six hits exactly.

You know what I'm getting at?

Yup, Satan.

Thanks for joining me. It was fun doing this again.