There's something really annoying about a lot of people. It seems that there's a set of things that people think that they are good at, and no amount of evidence to the contrary will ever make them think otherwise. Here's a brief analysis of some of those things, in no real particular order:
Singing. You are not Mariah Carey. She has a four-octave range (or something) and despite the fact that nearly every one of her songs is aural eczema, she can sing. All you really need to do is watch the early episodes of American Idol for examples of this phenomenon. Hell, I'm sure you know someone who is like this. For some reason there's a lot of people out there who think that they are fantastic singers, despite professionals telling them they are garbage (American Idol again), and often rightfully so. I think the reason behind this is that if you play a musical instrument, for example, you really can't fool anyone. You have to spend the time to learn how to play the instrument well, or even to get a note out of it. Theoretically, every human has the ability to create different pitches with their voices. This is where tragedy begins, though, because most people who think they are good singers when in fact they are massive idiots all have one thing in common: they can't carry a God damned tune. Don't insult my intelligence. You suck at singing.
Poetry. Here, I wrote this haiku for you:
Haiku is easy
There is an obvious form
Please just stick with that
There is form to poetry, even when it doesn't rhyme. Oh, and contrary to popular belief, free verse is a lot more difficult than poetry that rhymes. Simply put, if you are writing a poem in free verse, it had damned well be worth saying. Screw that... if you are writing poetry at ALL, it better be worth reading. This is usually not where people fail, though. Most things people write bad poetry about are a good source of inspiration: love, nature, family, musings, etc. The problem is that poetry takes a certain amount of skill with words. Poetry should be like painting with words. More often than not most people just paint with whatever they found in a used Kleenex. This is why I don't attempt poetry anymore. I'm no damned good at it.
Music criticism. I don't have much to say about this that I haven't already said. There is a general rule of thumb that you should use whenever you talk about music to someone else.
If you can't write a song yourself, you have no business telling others what you think is good.
To be fair, I think most human beings have the potential to write songs. Moreover, I think that every once in a while they'll be pretty good. If you have never attempted to do so, shut up. Don't expect to have people agree with you on your appreciation of The Strokes if you don't know what a bridge is (no, it's not something you use to get across a river). And you BETTER not get down on others for their tastes.
Driving. I suck at driving. I know this. If you have ever pulled out in front of someone without realizing it, cut someone off, have been legitimately honked at, YOU SUCK AT DRIVING. It's okay, we can't all be Emerson Fittipaldi. But I recently read somewhere that over 65% of the populace considers themselves good drivers. Based of what I've seen, 65% of the populace is full of copious amounts of doo-doo. You WILL be a better driver once you realize that there's room for improvement. Trust me.
5.14.2008
Great Moments In Honesty, Vol. 1
Part of a new series I'm starting, Great Moments In Honesty is dedicated all those whose honesty will grant them peace. More importantly, it will grant me something that I find absolutely hilarious.
Our first inductee: semi-prominent artist Steven Chandler.
Steven Chandler has created a painting from what I am assuming is Georgia mud. You can view it here. It's a pretty interesting work of art, but the Great Moment In Honesty I want to nominate this man for is what he had to say about his motivation behind creating this provocative work.
The money from this auction? Will I donate to another horse charity? No, not this time. I have an adopted parrot and a bunch of stray cats to feed. The fallen race horse industry is y'alls problem, you created it, you fix it. You people invaded my mental art making space and I make art, that's what I do, deal with it. No, I'm going to roll around in the money, just like you all do. I'm gonna roll and think of all you horse racing people that race your horses, gamble and send your kids to college on that money. Thousands, millions even, you make on those horses-I'm gonna roll in it. I hope that disgust you as much as you disgust me.If the painting doesn't sell, well that's fine too. I'll hang it on my wall and when another horse goes, I'll paint another until there are no walls left or until there is a great wall to China made of Michael Vick Rides....whoever is next.......
So there you have it. Steven Chandler plans on using his proceeds not for charity (as he did in a similar painting he made of Barbaro last year). He's going to spend it on himself.
A couple of things here. First and foremost, Steven Chandler is the fucking MAN. An artist who has had a decent amount of success selling past paintings has told his public that he doesn't give a shit if his painting sells, and I find this to be a breath of fresh air.
Second, there are those of you who know of my recent attempts at satire by referring to Barbaro as a "fallen hero," an "inspiration" and "possibly even Jesus Christ the almighty in horse form." Can I just tell you that there is a method to the madness. Barbaro was just a fucking horse. He died racing against other horses, and when they found out his leg was broken from racing, they put him down. He's dead now. So is this other horse that went down at the Kentucky Derby recently. They are not heroes. They were animals pressed into service for the amusement of a diminishing group of enthusiasts.
Sports involving humans are a different animal entirely, if you'll pardon the expression. I love football, which involves the slamming of hormone-fed beeftanks into each other at speeds unattainable without drugs. It's badass, and it's barbaric all at the same time. But the big difference between that and horse racing is that these creatures (football players, not horses) volunteered for it. I have a problem with anything that involves one party's entertainment without the consent of another. Horse racing is no exception.
Steven Chandler is on to something with his parallel of horse racing and pit bull fighting. But more importantly, he doesn't give a shit what you think. So here's to you, Steven Chandler:
Our first inductee: semi-prominent artist Steven Chandler.
Steven Chandler has created a painting from what I am assuming is Georgia mud. You can view it here. It's a pretty interesting work of art, but the Great Moment In Honesty I want to nominate this man for is what he had to say about his motivation behind creating this provocative work.
The money from this auction? Will I donate to another horse charity? No, not this time. I have an adopted parrot and a bunch of stray cats to feed. The fallen race horse industry is y'alls problem, you created it, you fix it. You people invaded my mental art making space and I make art, that's what I do, deal with it. No, I'm going to roll around in the money, just like you all do. I'm gonna roll and think of all you horse racing people that race your horses, gamble and send your kids to college on that money. Thousands, millions even, you make on those horses-I'm gonna roll in it. I hope that disgust you as much as you disgust me.If the painting doesn't sell, well that's fine too. I'll hang it on my wall and when another horse goes, I'll paint another until there are no walls left or until there is a great wall to China made of Michael Vick Rides....whoever is next.......
So there you have it. Steven Chandler plans on using his proceeds not for charity (as he did in a similar painting he made of Barbaro last year). He's going to spend it on himself.
A couple of things here. First and foremost, Steven Chandler is the fucking MAN. An artist who has had a decent amount of success selling past paintings has told his public that he doesn't give a shit if his painting sells, and I find this to be a breath of fresh air.
Second, there are those of you who know of my recent attempts at satire by referring to Barbaro as a "fallen hero," an "inspiration" and "possibly even Jesus Christ the almighty in horse form." Can I just tell you that there is a method to the madness. Barbaro was just a fucking horse. He died racing against other horses, and when they found out his leg was broken from racing, they put him down. He's dead now. So is this other horse that went down at the Kentucky Derby recently. They are not heroes. They were animals pressed into service for the amusement of a diminishing group of enthusiasts.
Sports involving humans are a different animal entirely, if you'll pardon the expression. I love football, which involves the slamming of hormone-fed beeftanks into each other at speeds unattainable without drugs. It's badass, and it's barbaric all at the same time. But the big difference between that and horse racing is that these creatures (football players, not horses) volunteered for it. I have a problem with anything that involves one party's entertainment without the consent of another. Horse racing is no exception.
Steven Chandler is on to something with his parallel of horse racing and pit bull fighting. But more importantly, he doesn't give a shit what you think. So here's to you, Steven Chandler:
STEVEN CHANDLER
Georgian artist
For excellence in the field of not giving a rat's ass.
5.13.2008
The Nerds Win
Some people say that their high school experiences were some of the best of their lives. Others have contempt for their lives throughout high school that carries well into their 40's if they let it. Personally, I fall somewhere in the middle.
See, I grew up in a town about fifteen miles from Iowa City. West Liberty has a healthy and prominent Mexican population in a town of about 3,500. In other words, I had the small-town experience with very little of the small-town bigotr that goes with it.
This translated into my own experience being quite interesting. When I was young, I was far from the cutting edge of hip. I wore ridiculous outfits, never said the right thing, was a big introvert, and had a tendency to talk to myself a lot. You can imagine that I wasn't at the top of the invite list to the first boy-girl party. At the time I craved acceptance from everyone, but it just wasn't going to happen. I did, however, save myself a lot of potential beatings by somehow (to this day I'm not sure why they liked me) making friends with the kids at West Liberty who got into trouble a lot for fighting. No one screwed with me even though some of them wanted to because they would have to worry about repercussions.
Still, a big part of my personality is to want to show people how incredibly entertaining having me around can be. Once high school rolled around (and I started showering regularly), people began talking to me and being nice without there being any sort of cruel, sarcastic connotation behind it. I was starting to be known for playing tuba. In a town of only 3,500, I was the only one who could really play the tuba with any kind of ability, and for some reason I got to be a small celebrity for it. After a while, the inevitable gloriously occurred: I was invited to the cool kids' party. The best part was, no one really seemed to think anything of my presence. Even a kid who tormented me all throughout junior high even spent sometime talking to me because he found out I was a sports idiot savant, something that is still true even now.
So my first boy-girl party with the cool kids didn't really happen until I was 16. I was okay with it then, and I'm okay with it now. I had found my niche at Wet Lib: not really giving a shit. This became apparent one day in Psychology class when our teacher asked the class if there was anyone in the class they felt was self-actualized. A girl raised her hand and said "Marc." The class vocalized their unanimous consent.
Some of you may think I'm full of shit when I tell that story. I'm not lying to you. Rather, I'm trying to tell all of you of past experiences that have become a big part of the kind of person I am even now. I'm okay with tooting my own horn every once in a while because damn it all if no one else will. And that's fine, it's not their job to do so. I also make an effort to be as intuitive as I can with my friends because I appreciate the company of every single one of them.
All of this because of my tuba-playing, and my propensity to not give a shit.
See, I grew up in a town about fifteen miles from Iowa City. West Liberty has a healthy and prominent Mexican population in a town of about 3,500. In other words, I had the small-town experience with very little of the small-town bigotr that goes with it.
This translated into my own experience being quite interesting. When I was young, I was far from the cutting edge of hip. I wore ridiculous outfits, never said the right thing, was a big introvert, and had a tendency to talk to myself a lot. You can imagine that I wasn't at the top of the invite list to the first boy-girl party. At the time I craved acceptance from everyone, but it just wasn't going to happen. I did, however, save myself a lot of potential beatings by somehow (to this day I'm not sure why they liked me) making friends with the kids at West Liberty who got into trouble a lot for fighting. No one screwed with me even though some of them wanted to because they would have to worry about repercussions.
Still, a big part of my personality is to want to show people how incredibly entertaining having me around can be. Once high school rolled around (and I started showering regularly), people began talking to me and being nice without there being any sort of cruel, sarcastic connotation behind it. I was starting to be known for playing tuba. In a town of only 3,500, I was the only one who could really play the tuba with any kind of ability, and for some reason I got to be a small celebrity for it. After a while, the inevitable gloriously occurred: I was invited to the cool kids' party. The best part was, no one really seemed to think anything of my presence. Even a kid who tormented me all throughout junior high even spent sometime talking to me because he found out I was a sports idiot savant, something that is still true even now.
So my first boy-girl party with the cool kids didn't really happen until I was 16. I was okay with it then, and I'm okay with it now. I had found my niche at Wet Lib: not really giving a shit. This became apparent one day in Psychology class when our teacher asked the class if there was anyone in the class they felt was self-actualized. A girl raised her hand and said "Marc." The class vocalized their unanimous consent.
Some of you may think I'm full of shit when I tell that story. I'm not lying to you. Rather, I'm trying to tell all of you of past experiences that have become a big part of the kind of person I am even now. I'm okay with tooting my own horn every once in a while because damn it all if no one else will. And that's fine, it's not their job to do so. I also make an effort to be as intuitive as I can with my friends because I appreciate the company of every single one of them.
All of this because of my tuba-playing, and my propensity to not give a shit.
5.06.2008
Movie... Or Porn?
This is a recycled rant. I apologize for my laziness in advance.
There's an interesting pseudo-paradox at play in the minds of Americans. All you need to know about it this: take a good look at anything playing on FX. This is the network that brings you "The Punisher" with very little of the graphic violence removed. You will never see a boob or a wiener on television, however. FX will make damn sure of that, after they tell you about how there is no box.
A bit of a sidetrack, I can't think of anything more irritatingly bloated and rediculous than the "edginess" that is "The Shield." This. Show. Fucking. SUCKS. Believe it. Type "the Shield" into a Google image search and you are assaulted by Michael Chiklis in all sorts of overly dramatic poses. Wow. What a badass. Douche.
My original point is this: I saw an episode of a mostly-lame show on FX called "Rescue Me" which went so far as to nearly show Denis "my career flamed out in 1994" Leary dog-styling some blond chick. I was titillated, disgusted, and had to retreat to my bedroom to violently masturbate. Sadly, the only thing that could get me to stop was realizing I was masturbating to Denis Leary's naked ass. GROSS'
Now I'm sure they did that to show you how "edgy" the show was. At some point "edgy" became a part of the vernacular, I would euthanize the person who did this if I knew who they were. "Edgy" does not mean good, and really, what the fuck does edgy even mean? Moreover, if we all pretty much agree that "edgy" is a word, what is so damned "edgy" about sex? When you plow your girlfriend or get plowed by your boyfriend, do you consider it "edgy?" No, I'm willing to bet you consider it ball-drainingly satisfying or orgasm-inducingly liberating.
Unless, of course, it's this genuinely disturbing piece of work brought to you by the fine people of Montana. Now THAT'S fucking EDGY, son!
But back to my original point.
You see, the problem is that we as Americans (this is NOT a European phenomenon, as far as I can tell) revel in the destruction of things. We love it when buildings explode, we watch that reprehensible "Bumfights" series, and we watch all the cop video shows our brain can handle before it has an aneurysm of stupid. Janet Jackson shows some boob, and suddenly we are "A Nation In Crisis." I hear people say "My child was watching that!" and my only response is "you think that's bad? Wait 'till your kid finds out he SUCKED on one of those for nourishment!" Actually, that's not true... my other response is "Man, I wish this woman would get the fuck off my TV screen before I hit her in the back of the head with a wiffle bat."
Hopefully in my lifetime we will be at the point where we can show a fine set of titties on television (and some of the not-so-good ones, I'm not a hater). Right now after nearly sixty years of mainstream television, what do we have?
This man's ass on prime time television. Hellloooooo ladies.
Let's make sure that we unite as a people and demand better alternatives. For God's sake. Dennis Franz's ass.
5.05.2008
21st Century Courtship Rituals
A man sits in front of his computer. He sits and stares at his desktop for a long time, wondering if he has the nerve to admit to himself that what he'll be doing qualifies as creepy, or worse. He tries to convince himself it's in the name of getting to know someone a little better. He tries hard, but he fails. His inner-demons hold the truth over him like a torch, lighting the way towards his journey of pathetic.
He sighs. He takes the mouse reluctantly, and clicks on his Mozilla Firefox icon. He types in the address for Facebook, and stares at the screen again. This time the guilt is a tangible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knows full well that what he's doing is sad and lonely. He tries to make one last attempt to reason with himself. He fails.
He types in the first three letters of her name, and the box appears. It shows her name, and status. It hasn't changed since the last time. He clicks on the box since it would be even more shameful somehow to type out her whole name. Her profile comes up. His mixture of guilt and being smitten overtakes him. There's essentially no turning back now. He clicks on photos, looks at a few and sighs audibly. He grows resentful of the vague allusion her relationship status. Married to her best friend? Really? Why can't she be honest! It's not funny anymore!
Now is the time we have reached the point of no return. He feels even more compounded shame and disgust with himself. He sighs one last time, and clicks the X on the top of the window. He decides he needs to stop doing this. He knows she's not single. Why submit yourself to that kind of torture?
He thinks for a few seconds, then clicks on the Mozilla Firefox icon again. He watches some streaming porn videos, tops himself off, and heads to bed. He'll likely go through the same routine in a few days.
He sighs. He takes the mouse reluctantly, and clicks on his Mozilla Firefox icon. He types in the address for Facebook, and stares at the screen again. This time the guilt is a tangible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knows full well that what he's doing is sad and lonely. He tries to make one last attempt to reason with himself. He fails.
He types in the first three letters of her name, and the box appears. It shows her name, and status. It hasn't changed since the last time. He clicks on the box since it would be even more shameful somehow to type out her whole name. Her profile comes up. His mixture of guilt and being smitten overtakes him. There's essentially no turning back now. He clicks on photos, looks at a few and sighs audibly. He grows resentful of the vague allusion her relationship status. Married to her best friend? Really? Why can't she be honest! It's not funny anymore!
Now is the time we have reached the point of no return. He feels even more compounded shame and disgust with himself. He sighs one last time, and clicks the X on the top of the window. He decides he needs to stop doing this. He knows she's not single. Why submit yourself to that kind of torture?
He thinks for a few seconds, then clicks on the Mozilla Firefox icon again. He watches some streaming porn videos, tops himself off, and heads to bed. He'll likely go through the same routine in a few days.
5.04.2008
Pretentious Nonsense
There is no such thing as honesty. Everyone's perceptions are shaded to the point where everything you say is a lie. Even the attempt of being completely truthful will betray you because your subconscious is a gossiping, dirty whore.
Everyone has an addiction. I don't mean the fun "I am addicted to new episodes of Lost!" kind of addictions. Everyone has an addiction, whether it be one to drama, hate, another person, self-destruction, or food high in preservatives.
Not everyone is special. In order to completely be at peace with yourself you must realize that at some point someone is going to have to finish dead last no matter how good they are at something. Someone is always going to be better than you.
There is hope. It can be found in the moments you have that end in an epiphany. It could be in the moments after screaming at someone. It could be found when you weep bitterly at the prospect that something you wanted is gone, and it's not coming back. If you can come back from that, you've already won something.
(puffs on pipe)
Damn, I'm good.
Everyone has an addiction. I don't mean the fun "I am addicted to new episodes of Lost!" kind of addictions. Everyone has an addiction, whether it be one to drama, hate, another person, self-destruction, or food high in preservatives.
Not everyone is special. In order to completely be at peace with yourself you must realize that at some point someone is going to have to finish dead last no matter how good they are at something. Someone is always going to be better than you.
There is hope. It can be found in the moments you have that end in an epiphany. It could be in the moments after screaming at someone. It could be found when you weep bitterly at the prospect that something you wanted is gone, and it's not coming back. If you can come back from that, you've already won something.
(puffs on pipe)
Damn, I'm good.
5.02.2008
The Critic vs. Family Guy: An Unobjective Analysis
I'm really, really dating myself by making this statement, but here goes: The Critic was, and will always be one of my favorite television shows. A surprising number of people considerably younger than me (some of you would have been seven when this show was actually running) are aware of this show and enjoy it as well.
Go here and see a good example of what I'm talking about.
This show was taken off the air after only two seasons. There was a time when I would have said that it was easy to see why that happened: the show's frequent cut-away jokes became increasingly more hit-or-miss, and a lot of people couldn't quite get with it. My opinions on this have changed quite a bit, my understanding of this show's early demise being slowly replaced by bitterness and irritation.
Why? Because Family Guy has taken the things that made the prior unique and interesting and paid no dues. Essentially, I invite you all to my atomic piss-ranting at any and all Family Guy fanboys (the fact there even is such a thing makes me want to jump off a fucking cliff) in a point-by-point deconstruction, using The Critic as a comparison.
The Staffs. This is not totally fair just yet, since Family Guy is still running, and The Critic's last episode premiered in 1995, but take a look at some of the genuine talent this show had:
Humor. I understand that The Critic had some gags fall flat, especially in its second season. But compare that to Family Guy, whose writing team simply HAS to look something like this:
Here's a clip from The Critic.
Here's one from Family Guy.
Now here's a comparison of that last one versus the source material.
I find myself asking this a lot: WHERE IN THE NAME OF FUCK IS THE JOKE?
Ask the people in the photo above, because I don't know. For the people who like Family Guy, pointing out pop culture references with no actual punchline apparently qualifies as comedy. Pat yourselves on the back, you worthless mutants, because someone just appreciated the vast expanses of your intellect! And for you Family Guy fans, "intellect" means smarts.
The Critic died a dignified death, Family Guy gave us THIS:
I was going to write more, but now I think I'm just going to let that one speak for itself. Christ almighty.
Go here and see a good example of what I'm talking about.
This show was taken off the air after only two seasons. There was a time when I would have said that it was easy to see why that happened: the show's frequent cut-away jokes became increasingly more hit-or-miss, and a lot of people couldn't quite get with it. My opinions on this have changed quite a bit, my understanding of this show's early demise being slowly replaced by bitterness and irritation.
Why? Because Family Guy has taken the things that made the prior unique and interesting and paid no dues. Essentially, I invite you all to my atomic piss-ranting at any and all Family Guy fanboys (the fact there even is such a thing makes me want to jump off a fucking cliff) in a point-by-point deconstruction, using The Critic as a comparison.
The Staffs. This is not totally fair just yet, since Family Guy is still running, and The Critic's last episode premiered in 1995, but take a look at some of the genuine talent this show had:
- Voicework: Jon Lovitz, Nancy Cartwright (The Simpsons), Maurice Lamarche (numerous cartoon credits, including Animaniacs), Christine Cavanaugh
- Creators: Al Jean and Mike Reiss, James L. Brooks (producers of The Simpsons)
- Music: Hans Zimmer (the guy who did "Pirates of the Carribean")
- Animation supervisor: Brad Bird (you know, that guy who does PIXAR now)
- Voicework: Seth McFarlane in several different roles, Seth Green in several different roles with barely any variation on his voice, Mila Kunis (the girl from That 70's show), Adam West (they get points for this, actually)
- Creators: Seth McFarlane (has gone to do several other projects, all of which involve basically the same group of people that does Family Guy with him)
- Music: Ron Jones and Walter Murphy (not going to dog them... they do good work)
- "Animation" supervisor: some fucking idiots.
Humor. I understand that The Critic had some gags fall flat, especially in its second season. But compare that to Family Guy, whose writing team simply HAS to look something like this:
Here's a clip from The Critic.Here's one from Family Guy.
Now here's a comparison of that last one versus the source material.
I find myself asking this a lot: WHERE IN THE NAME OF FUCK IS THE JOKE?
Ask the people in the photo above, because I don't know. For the people who like Family Guy, pointing out pop culture references with no actual punchline apparently qualifies as comedy. Pat yourselves on the back, you worthless mutants, because someone just appreciated the vast expanses of your intellect! And for you Family Guy fans, "intellect" means smarts.
The Critic died a dignified death, Family Guy gave us THIS:
I was going to write more, but now I think I'm just going to let that one speak for itself. Christ almighty.
4.27.2008
Adventures In Marketing
I love the NFL Draft. There, I said it. I know what many people are probably thinking right now: based upon the kind of person they think I am (and they're usually right), and the fact that I once went on a diatribe specifically denouncing the folly of the NFL Draft, that statement should make no sense on a logical level.
It does, though. Allow me to explain what I honestly am thinking the weekend of the NFL Draft (from here on out ending in an exclamation point!). One, I want to know who my team, the Chicago Bears have decided is worth the effort of procuring into a talent worthy of the world's highest level of American football (played in America, shockingly). So far, I have noticed that they are addressing needs that surfaced throughout a lackluster 7-9 campaign last year, one that was especially frustrating coming off of the 2006 season that saw Rex Grossman lose the Super Bowl.
On a side note, does anyone else think that Brian Urlacher and the rest of the Chicago defense should have gotten one free kick to Rex Grossman's ass after that Super Bowl? Hell, for that matter, let's let the entire o-line get in on the action too. Rex Grossman has carried the banner quite well in the last few seasons as far as powerfully underwhelming quarterbacks. The list is almost as long as powerfully underwhelming Chicago Cubs pitchers, and that's especially inexcusable because there's five pitchers in a starting rotation. The Bears can only have three, and usually only one or two ever sees significant time. In trademark Bear fashion, however, they keep pouring money into Grossman like a 85-year-old widow pouring her pension into a slot machine at an Indian casino. Gah.
One more side note: Brian Urlacher wants a better contract. The Bears might not give it to him, despite the fact that they've labeled him a franchise player. So it could be possible that the Bears will let Brian Urlacher, a future Hall-of-Famer, go somewhere else... but they'll stand behind Rex Grossman. Welcome to Chicago Bear fanhood. Also, it's kind of funny that when I typed "Urlacher" into the spell-checker, it came back with "Bellyacher" as a possible option. How deliciously coincidental.
Anyway, the other reason I keep up on the NFL Draft! is because I want to see if anyone from the University of Northern Iowa will get drafted. Granted, this doesn't happen often, and I usually don't need to check on this aspect until well into Sunday afternoon. But I'm just saying... one of these days it's going to happen again.
But back to my original point. The NFL Draft! has made itself felt in the hearts of football dipshits everywhere. ESPN calls them "hardcore fans," but this is usually only during the duration of the NFL Draft! and it's subsequent promotions. I'm sorry, I have to refer to these people as dipshits. You can make as big of a deal as you want about signing some completely unproven prospect, but the fact is he might be a total douchebag that you just poured 30 million guaranteed into. You have a pretty good idea that some guys are going to do well. You have a pretty good idea that some guys are going to flame out worse than a drunk pilot at an air show. Ryan Leaf? Who the fuck was that guy? He played for Washington State? What the hell of have they done? He passed for 3,000+ yards? So did Ty Detmer. Ty Fucking Detmer.
Another side note: here's a tip, NFL scouts: if a guy passed for more than 5,000 yards in a single season, I'm willing to bet he's a going to be a cumstain when he reports for camp. Why? Product of the system. Come on, work with me here. Show me a quarterback who passes for 5,000 yards in a season and I'll show you a pissed-off and scorned halfback and a defense so inept that they should probably be wearing tinfoil pirate hats and speaking in tongues.
But you can't stop the NFL Draft!, so don't even try. Too many people these days want to pass off promotional tidbits they learned from Darth Kiper, Jr. as knowledge. You can be sitting at a bar, chatting with your friend about the upcoming season, and some guy you don't know will sidle up and want to join the conversation. If he interjects with "you really think Glen Dorsey can make an immediate impact?" my friend, you have just scored a new drinking buddy. If he responds with "Glen Dorsey will save the Kansas City Chiefs!" you should probably move to another bar. This man is a product of ESPN's hype machine, which is almost Orwellian in its ability to tell people they're being educated about sports when essentially ESPN just wants them to buy more shit or watch more useless speculation passed off as "expert analysis." Just say no, for Christ's sake.
And that, my friends, is the NFL Draft! in a nutshell. A similar beast would be all these shit-smellers who consider themselves "recruiting gurus" in the college ranks, but they are far worse. That's a rant for another time, but I'll say this: at least in the NFL Draft! people can talk about how much they're being signed for monetarily.
To recap: the NFL Draft! should simply be a draft, nothing more. To cover the event for the whole weekend is absurd, stupid, and breeds a generation of hopeless knuckle-dragging sports twats who probably smell like stale pee and are at least fifty pounds overweight. Thank you for your time.
It does, though. Allow me to explain what I honestly am thinking the weekend of the NFL Draft (from here on out ending in an exclamation point!). One, I want to know who my team, the Chicago Bears have decided is worth the effort of procuring into a talent worthy of the world's highest level of American football (played in America, shockingly). So far, I have noticed that they are addressing needs that surfaced throughout a lackluster 7-9 campaign last year, one that was especially frustrating coming off of the 2006 season that saw Rex Grossman lose the Super Bowl.
On a side note, does anyone else think that Brian Urlacher and the rest of the Chicago defense should have gotten one free kick to Rex Grossman's ass after that Super Bowl? Hell, for that matter, let's let the entire o-line get in on the action too. Rex Grossman has carried the banner quite well in the last few seasons as far as powerfully underwhelming quarterbacks. The list is almost as long as powerfully underwhelming Chicago Cubs pitchers, and that's especially inexcusable because there's five pitchers in a starting rotation. The Bears can only have three, and usually only one or two ever sees significant time. In trademark Bear fashion, however, they keep pouring money into Grossman like a 85-year-old widow pouring her pension into a slot machine at an Indian casino. Gah.
One more side note: Brian Urlacher wants a better contract. The Bears might not give it to him, despite the fact that they've labeled him a franchise player. So it could be possible that the Bears will let Brian Urlacher, a future Hall-of-Famer, go somewhere else... but they'll stand behind Rex Grossman. Welcome to Chicago Bear fanhood. Also, it's kind of funny that when I typed "Urlacher" into the spell-checker, it came back with "Bellyacher" as a possible option. How deliciously coincidental.
Anyway, the other reason I keep up on the NFL Draft! is because I want to see if anyone from the University of Northern Iowa will get drafted. Granted, this doesn't happen often, and I usually don't need to check on this aspect until well into Sunday afternoon. But I'm just saying... one of these days it's going to happen again.
But back to my original point. The NFL Draft! has made itself felt in the hearts of football dipshits everywhere. ESPN calls them "hardcore fans," but this is usually only during the duration of the NFL Draft! and it's subsequent promotions. I'm sorry, I have to refer to these people as dipshits. You can make as big of a deal as you want about signing some completely unproven prospect, but the fact is he might be a total douchebag that you just poured 30 million guaranteed into. You have a pretty good idea that some guys are going to do well. You have a pretty good idea that some guys are going to flame out worse than a drunk pilot at an air show. Ryan Leaf? Who the fuck was that guy? He played for Washington State? What the hell of have they done? He passed for 3,000+ yards? So did Ty Detmer. Ty Fucking Detmer.
Another side note: here's a tip, NFL scouts: if a guy passed for more than 5,000 yards in a single season, I'm willing to bet he's a going to be a cumstain when he reports for camp. Why? Product of the system. Come on, work with me here. Show me a quarterback who passes for 5,000 yards in a season and I'll show you a pissed-off and scorned halfback and a defense so inept that they should probably be wearing tinfoil pirate hats and speaking in tongues.
But you can't stop the NFL Draft!, so don't even try. Too many people these days want to pass off promotional tidbits they learned from Darth Kiper, Jr. as knowledge. You can be sitting at a bar, chatting with your friend about the upcoming season, and some guy you don't know will sidle up and want to join the conversation. If he interjects with "you really think Glen Dorsey can make an immediate impact?" my friend, you have just scored a new drinking buddy. If he responds with "Glen Dorsey will save the Kansas City Chiefs!" you should probably move to another bar. This man is a product of ESPN's hype machine, which is almost Orwellian in its ability to tell people they're being educated about sports when essentially ESPN just wants them to buy more shit or watch more useless speculation passed off as "expert analysis." Just say no, for Christ's sake.
And that, my friends, is the NFL Draft! in a nutshell. A similar beast would be all these shit-smellers who consider themselves "recruiting gurus" in the college ranks, but they are far worse. That's a rant for another time, but I'll say this: at least in the NFL Draft! people can talk about how much they're being signed for monetarily.
To recap: the NFL Draft! should simply be a draft, nothing more. To cover the event for the whole weekend is absurd, stupid, and breeds a generation of hopeless knuckle-dragging sports twats who probably smell like stale pee and are at least fifty pounds overweight. Thank you for your time.
4.25.2008
At Least I Don't Have Scurvy
All right, let's get one thing straight. For those of you who know me, you probably know a few things: some of you were starting junior high the year I started going to college. Get your jollies from that as long as you'd like. We all make choices we wish we could have back if given a second chance. There. Feel better? No? I can wait.
Second, there's a few of you who seem to think attempting to verbally sabotage my looks is going to have some sort of effect on me. Think again, sphincter. First of all, you can try to bring me down as much as you can. You WILL fail. I know in my heart of hearts that I am the most attractive, suave, interesting human being I know. Oh? You'd like to point out the fact that I'm probably fat to look at if I have no clothes on? There are people out there who could confirm your assumption. You know what? I still don't care.
And therein lies the problem. In this world of self-image, self-esteem, self-affirmation, and self-pleasure (I wrote the book on that one), it can be hard to know where you stand. Allow me to tell you all what I think the right amount of self-confidence is:
If you don't think you are the greatest thing to ever grace the planet earth, just get the fuck out.
Don't get ahead of me on this.
You see, no one is going to do you any real favors by telling you how awesome they think you are. The fact is that anytime anyone has to reaffirm you themselves, they kind of just lost some respect for you. If you can convince others that you are the bomb-diggity or whatever you kids are saying these days, they will likely believe it without them ever having to tell you. Sure, some people will think you're an asshole, but fuck them. They've got their own 300-pound, over-eating demons to worry about.
To recap: Satan is not a woman in a beautiful red dress to most. Maybe some, but not most. No, Satan is a grossly obese, whiny cunt-stain who just wants you to join him on the couch so you can eat buttered Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies and watch episodes of Rock of Love. Don't give in. Satan is a twat. You are not.
Second, there's a few of you who seem to think attempting to verbally sabotage my looks is going to have some sort of effect on me. Think again, sphincter. First of all, you can try to bring me down as much as you can. You WILL fail. I know in my heart of hearts that I am the most attractive, suave, interesting human being I know. Oh? You'd like to point out the fact that I'm probably fat to look at if I have no clothes on? There are people out there who could confirm your assumption. You know what? I still don't care.
And therein lies the problem. In this world of self-image, self-esteem, self-affirmation, and self-pleasure (I wrote the book on that one), it can be hard to know where you stand. Allow me to tell you all what I think the right amount of self-confidence is:
If you don't think you are the greatest thing to ever grace the planet earth, just get the fuck out.
Don't get ahead of me on this.
You see, no one is going to do you any real favors by telling you how awesome they think you are. The fact is that anytime anyone has to reaffirm you themselves, they kind of just lost some respect for you. If you can convince others that you are the bomb-diggity or whatever you kids are saying these days, they will likely believe it without them ever having to tell you. Sure, some people will think you're an asshole, but fuck them. They've got their own 300-pound, over-eating demons to worry about.
To recap: Satan is not a woman in a beautiful red dress to most. Maybe some, but not most. No, Satan is a grossly obese, whiny cunt-stain who just wants you to join him on the couch so you can eat buttered Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies and watch episodes of Rock of Love. Don't give in. Satan is a twat. You are not.
4.02.2008
One Last Effort
If there's one thing I've learned in my time on this earth, it's that people are pretty much hopeless. You need not look any further than fans of Larry the Cable Guy or Dane Cook for affirmation of this sad truth. I've been alive long enough that I'm near the halfway point of existence, and that's sobering. It means that I have yet to make a mark that I consider satisfactory. Some of you can try and convince me that I've affected you somehow, but that's a load of crap because two things have not happened: I have not flown first class, and I have not had a threesome (or possibly more, I'm not picky). I know that you all think I'm joking when I use one or both of those as benchmarks, but trust me: anyone who has scored a threesome has done something right in their life and should feel proud.
Back to my original point, however. Imagine you are on a date, and this conversation happens:
Person one: "So, tell me a little about yourself."
Person two: "Well, I'm really into dance music, and I love the works of Danielle Steele."
Two things here. First, if you are a guy and a woman has ever said the preceeding sentence to you, RUN THE FUCK AWAY. If you are a woman and a man has said that to you, RUN AWAY EVEN FASTER. Second, you haven't said a God damned thing about who you are. You've merely told me things that you do for fun. Every single asshole on earth has said this. Whether you are an avid fan of Tila Tequila or Kurt Vonnegut, you have tried to pass these interests off as a personality trait.
Now, therein lies the problem. I know people who consider themselves big fans of Chuck Palahniuk. Some of them are good people, and some of them should be beaten to death with rotten deer corpses. That doesn't define the kind of person you are. It may say that you enjoy reading fiction about people who are impossibly fucked-up and look down on you, the reader, for it. That's it. There's nothing on the inside jacket of a Curious George book saying "All readers of this book are inquisitive by nature, and enjoy rough bondage during sex." To be fair, though, it would kick ass if they did.
Basically, I'll find out enough about your tastes as I get to know you better. I know people who enjoyed the movie "Glory Road" and while I think that particular film is abysmally stupid and obtuse, I'm not going to immediately file fans of the film as abysmally stupid or obtuse. They'll do that on their own. Want to know what will happen if you fall victim to pidgeonholing people based on their interests?
THIS.
That's right, you become a PhD whose doctorate is cleary in Lossofperspectiveology. Oh, and my sincerest apologies to Joseph Campbell. I'm sure you didn't want to get drug into all of this.
Back to my original point, however. Imagine you are on a date, and this conversation happens:
Person one: "So, tell me a little about yourself."
Person two: "Well, I'm really into dance music, and I love the works of Danielle Steele."
Two things here. First, if you are a guy and a woman has ever said the preceeding sentence to you, RUN THE FUCK AWAY. If you are a woman and a man has said that to you, RUN AWAY EVEN FASTER. Second, you haven't said a God damned thing about who you are. You've merely told me things that you do for fun. Every single asshole on earth has said this. Whether you are an avid fan of Tila Tequila or Kurt Vonnegut, you have tried to pass these interests off as a personality trait.
Now, therein lies the problem. I know people who consider themselves big fans of Chuck Palahniuk. Some of them are good people, and some of them should be beaten to death with rotten deer corpses. That doesn't define the kind of person you are. It may say that you enjoy reading fiction about people who are impossibly fucked-up and look down on you, the reader, for it. That's it. There's nothing on the inside jacket of a Curious George book saying "All readers of this book are inquisitive by nature, and enjoy rough bondage during sex." To be fair, though, it would kick ass if they did.
Basically, I'll find out enough about your tastes as I get to know you better. I know people who enjoyed the movie "Glory Road" and while I think that particular film is abysmally stupid and obtuse, I'm not going to immediately file fans of the film as abysmally stupid or obtuse. They'll do that on their own. Want to know what will happen if you fall victim to pidgeonholing people based on their interests?
THIS.
That's right, you become a PhD whose doctorate is cleary in Lossofperspectiveology. Oh, and my sincerest apologies to Joseph Campbell. I'm sure you didn't want to get drug into all of this.
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