Master Debaters Only Stimulate Themselves!

This Thursday night there will be a solid three hours of completely rehearsed spontanaeity in the first of three Presidential debates. This "debate" has more rules than the restraining order Chuck E. Cheese (the company, not the actual man, he died in 1986 of congestive heart failure) sent me for "defacing the Chuck E. Cheese suit with more than one unclean bodily fluid." I really like pizza. Sue me.

I'm just afraid that, under the hot lights, John Kerry will finally finish melting. He's been on the verge for years now, but using a cryogenic containment unit that they put on his head between public appearances and lots of Wetnaps®, they've been able to control that.

George W. Bush may have a tough time if he can't figure out a way to work September 11th into every single sentence he says. He works that angle more than Al Bundy and his four touchdowns in one game. It's irritating that people actually fall for the stuff that he says. Republicans say anything they want but as long as they say it with a discerning scowl, people take it at face value. "It's been proven by a panel of people who prove things that John Kerry has, in fact, raped a robot. I know. I couldn't believe it myself, but somebody said so, so it must be true. September Eleventh." They're wiley.

I think the Presidential debates would be much more entertaining if they were both hooked up to a lie detector and each time it went off ("went off" in the fictional way that lie detectors buzz when somebody's lying) a member of their family would be shot in the chest at point blank range by a Cherokee Indian using a traditional bow and arrow (Small Pox-infected blankets optional). I think that this way both candidates wouldn't throw out information that may or may not be true. And, actually, I think G.W. would be pushed to (public) incontinence.

I think it's a sign of my age and somewhat political activism that I'm actually excited about the debates coming up. I feel like Anthony Michael Hall's character in The Breakfast Club. "Why do you have a fake I.D.?" "So I can vote." I hope and pray to Allah every day that somehow the stubborn sheep of the right wing will learn the error and close-mindedness of their ways and burn their cowboy hats and "I hate the gays" bumper stickers in protest.

Sometimes it seems like people vote based on what they grew up with instead of actually figuring out their own ideals. A lot of people treat their party (both Republicans and Democrats) like it's a sport's team that they can't just let go. It's a shame that people stick to the name rather than the ideals that the candidate pushes forth. It would be interesting to see if everybody was left in a bubble with only their own mind to tell them what to think instead of Fox News or CNN or the homeless guy near work who says he's voting for a week-old ham sandwich. I'm not sure what side would "win out," but at least this way it would be much more pure. Right now, after I vote, I feel like I have to take a shower or at least get a scalding hot water and bleach enema.

Well, it turns out that that girl from my Spanish class has a pretty good front, too. I probably won't say anything to her because I'm just a dirty old man; I'll just quietly masturbate in the back (in Spanish).

Interesting thought of the day:
If you're voting for the candidate that Don King is endorsing, you really may want to rethink that choice.

I got my political on today. I'm so fucking multi-faceted.

Spanish is Expensive--Redux!

I have commented previously about how expensive the Spanish language can be, and, my friends, it is no truer than now. I just spent $185 on books for one class that I'm required to take because my major is film. It's a good thing there's a logical reason I have to take Spanish, or else I'd be really upset. Man, that girl in my class better turn out to be really cute and, for the $185, I better be getting some out of the ordeal.

I saw The Forgotten over the weekend but I don't remember what it was about. HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEEEHEEEHEEEHEEE! Man, that's probably the funniest thing I've ever written and I was the author of the hit children's book Penis Vagina Hump Balls. Honestly though, the movie was okay because Julianne Moore is a good actress, but the plot got so shitty so fast, like a Port-a-Pottie at a laxative convention. I'm not going to ruin it for you because they do a good enough job ruining it themselves, but it starts off promising, but then goes for the easy plot cop-out instead of making it more interesting.

The Forgotten, though, was like goddamn Citizen Kane compared to what could easily go down as one of the worst movies of the (relatively) new millenium. The movie I'm talking about, of course, is Wicker Park. First, don't feel too badly for me, I didn't have to pay for it. I'm pretty sure that Josh Hartnett just tries his hardest to make the worst movies that can be made--he's like the acting version of John Tesh. Just by being in a movie, he automatically makes it suck exponentially more. But Josh Hartnett couldn't make this the worst movie ever by himself. He instilled the help of another guy who has the keen ability of the Hartnett--Matthew Lillard. These two men together are like the Siegfried and Roy of shit. They magically make horrible movies appear as though out of thin air (and, coincidentally, with the help of adorable white tigers). If you want actual explanations of why it sucked, fine. Josh Hartnett and Matthew Lillard aside, the director tried way too hard to make it so artsy. His music choice sucked. There was an actual musical cue to let the viewer know that "true love" was being experienced and it was some weird-sounding Enya song (guess that was redundant) or something. If I ever, in my cold, dead heart, experienced true love, I definitely wouldn't hear Enya; it'd probably be something like "Baby Got Back" or "Face Down, Ass Up" by Beethoven I believe.

I'm done. I have to go pick lettuce for nine hours to pay for my Spanish books. Not only do they not accept American money to buy Spanish books, but they only accept payment in the way of their people. It was either pick lettuce or steal car radios.

Interesting thought of the day:
Mayonnaise is like heroine. It's fine in small amounts, but if you get too much of it that's been in the sun for a few hours, you'll die.

Oh Mexican-y Day!

Today was the first day of my last quarter at school. The interesting thing about the first day of school is that you can tell, no matter how old people get, they always still try to come to school looking awesome and there's so much scoping out that goes on. I'm guilty of it, too. The bad part is, being a film major, there aren't really too many good looking chicks in these classes. But, I have to take the last of the Spanish series of classes since I didn't test out of it altogether (by the way, fuck the future perfect Spanish tense--I'm sorry, I mean, will you have had fucked the future perfect Spanish tense, please?). Anyway, there's a chick who had a cute back of the head in that class. I'm going to have to see if I recognize that back of the head again and try to sit closer to her next time so I can see what the front looks like.

Speaking of that Spanish class, the professor is probably the most awesome professor I've had ever. He made a joke, in Spanish, about being retarded in the first five minutes of class. Is this love? Este esta amor? Creo que si!

In another of my classes, some girl was kicking the back of my chair like somebody told her they'd give her a dollar every time she did it. She made close to $800 in an hour.

The reason I've titled this Mexican-y Day is because one of my classes that was supposed to be an experimental and avant-garde film class was, all of the sudden, a class about the portrayal of Latin people in film. Now, this being my last quarter, it's impossible for me to drop this class and still graduate, so I have to sit through ten weeks of hearing about how wrong and misrepresenting it is to have a Mexican gang stealing the stereos in Short Circuit 2. "Los Locos kick your ass. Los Locos kick your face. Los Locos kick your balls into outer spaaaace!" The toughest gangs are those that sing nursery rhymes before they commit their crimes. So, two of my four classes deal with Spanish people or the language. And, to top it off, I had some carne asada for lunch. This carne, however was more chewy than Han Solo's best friend. Ooohh, I said it. I'm not afraid to make a Star Wars pun, bitch.

But, the best thing that happened today has to have been when I was in the library reading between classes. What a fucking dork I am, you're thinking. Well, sure, the first day of class and I was already getting my reading done, but what the hell else am I supposed to do with an hour and a half and a two hour break? There's only so many times a guy can masturbate on the fourth floor in the section that holds all the National Geographics without getting caught. I wasn't going to risk getting caught on the first day.

Well, as I was reading, I hear a voice coming from behind me. This voice was quiet, yet loud enough so that I could hear it about three feet away. I turned to see what this young chap was doing, and he was reading questions aloud from his textbook. Okay, this isn't that bad. I can let this go. But, then, after he read the question, he would answer it, again out loud, and check the answer in his book. Then, when he would get it right, he would actually say, "Yes!" I want so desperately to be his friend. I should have said something to him, but I didn't want to be the reason he got an answer wrong. The reason I wanted to be his friend is because there's no way he'll ever last at school and he's going to pull a Remy from Higher Learning and shoot up the school from the top of the damn belltower.

The next ten weeks will help me fill this bastard with tales from school. I hope that, for some strange reason, a blind, deaf Eskimo ends up in one of my classes. Coincidentally, I'm going to be taking Hunting Whales Using Only Your Sense of Smell 101, so I think the odds are pretty good.

Interesting thought of the day:
People with outie belly buttons are the unicorns of the human race.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince! Also, My Ass Hurts Again!

I'm going to write this post quickly because my ass hurts. See, I completely destroyed my computer chair. It turns out, I'm a big fucking fatass. After only about nine months or so, I've decimated a perfectly good chair assembled by a Malaysian boy in a sweatshop at 3:30 in the morning. Damn lazy kids.

It all started a few weeks ago when the hydraulics on my chair started to malfunction. Now, I know, calling it hydraulics is a bit far-fetched, but you know what I'm talking about, the little lever that lets me lift my chair to normal adult-feeding height. Plus, I have to call it hydraulics because I bought them in a package deal with my five two-inch spinner rims I put on all my wheels. Slowly but surely the damn chair started falling apart.

One day, I look over and there's a rip in one of the armrests where, apparently, a bear had tried to eat and/or mate with my chair. I could put up with both of these things. My spine had adjusted to sitting two and a half feet below my monitor. I couldn't see the keyboard, but I can type without looking, so that wasn't a big deal.

But, it completely died today when I tilted to the left ever so slightly and the chair suddenly developed Palsy. It then constantly leaned to the left like the heroine addict that hangs out in front of the 7-11. So, being the handyman I am, I took the bastard apart to fix it. When I had it opened, I realized that it was too late and I should announce the time of death. If I had a welding torch and knew any sort of shit about how to weld stuff and didn't have a raging fear of fire like Raymond's fear of water in Rain Man, I would have completely fixed it. But, alas, the chair's torso just stared up at me, its lifeless green eye empty and soulless. This wasn't the chair I once knew. The chair I used to know wouldn't have stood there, he would have commanded me, "Force your ass upon me with all your weight, good sir! For I shall bare the brunt of your posterior until the day I die!" Well old boy, today's the day.

Today's the day.

I miss my loyal, British-accent-having chair.

Interesting thought of the day:
Do deaf people ever hear God speak to them? No. Because the lazy bastard took Latin instead of Sign Language when he was in college.

Charles in Charge of You, Beeeotch!

Though I've written about The Baio in the past, I haven't gone into enough detail as to why I shall, now and forever, worship the ground on which he charges.

See, as some of you may or may not be aware, this young man began his rise to superstardom on the television show Happy Days. This was a show about hippies who dressed up like they were from the Fifties because they were on acid all the time. The bald guy who directed How the Grinch Stole Christmas was in it before he was bald, and the gay guy from The Waterboy was in it before he was gay and when he was really cool and probably beat up gay people (not so cool, but it can be forgiven by looking at his awesome leather jacket).

Anyway, there was this sparkplug of a man-child named Scott Baio who wore a bandana better than Bruce Springsteen or a gaggle (the actual, scientific term for a group) of bikers. He romanced the ladies with his prepubescent charm and won the heart of one Joanie (Erin Moran--the sad part, I didn't even have to look up her real name). As a side note, while searching google for pictures of a young Scott Baio, it's nigh impossible to find one of him with a shirt on. So, instead, you get a picture of the VHS cover of the film, Zapped, starring Scott and lifelong buddy, Willie "Bibleman" Aames.

After his turn as lover of Joanie in the spinoff of Happy Days, he went on to star in two incarnations of one of the--if not the--greatest television shows ever made. The reason for his status to near-deity, is because of his ability to balance his own pedophilic urges (sure, maybe I made the word pedophilic up just now, but you know what I'm talking about, so fuck you and your high-and-mighty attitude) with the homoerotic undertones that surged through his relationship with Buddy (the aforementioned Willie "Bibleman" Aames). I'm a sucker for parentheticals. Jesus Christ. I get more sidetracked than a necrophiliac with a gift certificate at the morgue. I'm not even sure what that means. In one episode, Charles could go from reprimanding Lila for making fun of Douglas by punching her in the cervix, to making out with Buddy on the couch in a sorority house after the commercial break. Sure, I was on medication to stop my hyperactivity when I was younger that had a few side effects, so these things may not have been exactly as I say here. But, there are two things I am sure about: 1) Charles constantly spit fire at the Pembrokes and the Powells and 2) It was wrong of me to take a dump on the TV in front of my grandparents.

This was a fun entry. I don't think any of it made sense and that's the way I like it.

Interesting thought of the day:
Pubic lice (crabs) are a lot like regular lice except they really like cock.