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Just Great. No, Really.

“The first-ever BMW 2-series.”

Just great. Now we can have people with even lower credit scores driving like complete fucking assholes. At least the Mini Cooper owners will have some competition.

On a much more positive note, I imagine a future where the leading Kickstarter campaign utilizes alien-level tech to siphon some of that perpetual right-turn signal energy from every Toyota Avalon to allow a percentage of Infiniti and Lexus drivers to experience the thrill of illuminating at least one blinker bulb at some point in their vehicle’s life cycle.

It’s Not My Favorite Film

After avoiding it for twenty years, I made the mistake of watching the movie Swingers.
What an utter pile of dog shit. If you’re a fan, please, for the love of my fragile sanity explain to me just what the draw is. I mean, outside of the fraternity “Bro” crowd, I cannot see how anyone could find anything redeeming in that disjointed, poorly-written film. Had they simply taken the film from the tin and wiped it WITH that dog shit mentioned a couple of sentences back, the flow would have been more enjoyable and logical to follow.
“But it’s a nineties CLASSIC!!” these bearded, man bun-wearing hipsters will cry. I can only reply to that with a dose of reality:
No matter how you try to sugar-coat it, the 1990’s were garbage. Take off those blue mirror-tinted Gargoyles (or Heaven forbid BLADES, you moron) and turn down the Fugees, and wake to realize that films like this are worse than a splash of mustard on your Hypercolor t-shirt; a big disappointment.
Then again, I don’t like the movie Scarface. I cannot begin to put into words just how much I hate that fucking film. I can recall when it was on SpikeTV nearly every four hours, and probably goes a long way in explaining why that network sucked balls in nearly every respect outside of MXC, which should put things into perspective, having been simply an over-dubbed edit of the show Takeshi’s Castle. Say hello to acting school, you dwarf-ass guido shitbag. I don’t for a minute buy that you’re a Cuban. If you’re going to remake a film, at least do it some justice. The Pacino version is like the new Ghostbusters of remakes, only instead of being a bunch of man-hating hacks, Tony is a film-hating spaghetti bender playing a laughable Latin. Speaking of which, they’re talking about RE-remaking it. Yeah… the guy who just remade The Magnificent Seven is going to remake this slimy turd. Such talent, Antoine. You should go on a cooking show and serve leftovers. I’ve nearly gotten off track here. Where were we? Oh yeah, the LA cocktail scene of the 1990’s as seen through the eyes of a half-wit.
Swingers may have been the film that “defined” Vince Vaughn or whatever some idiots claim, but the thing is aggravatingly drawn-out and sheer and utter bromance bullshit. I really don’t want to sit there for the duration of the movie feeling embarrassed for this group of self-important failures. The entire thing feels like a rip-off of Clerks, but with characters you just wish would drop their showbiz dreams, exit the film and move back to wherever they fucking came from in the first place. You know when you watch something and root for characters to be offed? That gun scene had be thinking “well it’s about fucking TIME!!” And then in true 1990’s fashion, it turned out to be just a bunch of candy-ass parking lot posturing with a feel-good ending wherein they all get together to play video games. How dare you bring Hockey into this. IS NOTHING SACRED?!
I blame this film for the influx of douchebags and their ilk trying to be Mickey Rourke caricatures and running around quoting movies in the late 1990’s, and that crime can never be fully apologized for. Oh, you come close with the first Iron Man,  Johnny-boy. Hell, even Cowboys and Aliens or Elf to a point. But watching you in Swingers?! Fucking fuhgeddaboudit.
Like I said, Favreau went on to do some pretty good things afterward… So sitting around blaming this movie for everything is a crime tantamount to disregarding the shoddily-designed catapult that launched Wile E. Coyote into a cliff wall; sometimes you can forgive and even overlook the poorly-designed vehicle that got you to where you needed to be, even if that destination was splattered against a cliff wall in he desert. In that light, I’ll stick to implicating the film in having influenced a generation of weak-minded frat boys running around calling things “money.” And yes, if you’re quoting a Spike Lee-directed Nike commercial via a poorly written, lit and presented “movie,” well, you’re relatively weak-minded.
Short version, I fucking hate the movie Swingers. Ask me anything.

Laying it Out There

Far be it for me to dump on a dream, but no matter how good the food or service or atmosphere, I’d imagine that the hardest part of opening your own artisanal grilled cheese sandwich restaurant would be realizing that you’d never really have any “regular” customers.

My Hatred Has Spared Dozens, Perhaps More

Say what you will about “hate never solving anything,” but my hatred for Brussels sprouts has spared me many an unpleasant meal, and those around me many an unpleasant digestive aftermath. I’m a giver, after all.

The floor is yours, hippie.

Father’s Day in Perspective

A few thoughts on Father’s Day, if you don’t mind…
I have been blessed with one of the Good Ones. I’ve known a few people over the years who weren’t so lucky. Perhaps they lost their Dad early in life due to health-related incidents or an accident, or maybe the guy just didn’t stick around. Life can be pretty cruel like that, and my heart goes out to all of you who may be without your Father today.
I have been fortunate to still have mine around, and he’s close by. That’s awesome, and something I didn’t think too much about when I lived across the street from him (and you thought my life was like a sit-com in OTHER respects? You don’t know the half of it), or even when I lived under the roof that he and my Mom worked so hard to keep overhead. When I lost my Mom, I gained a new perspective on my father, and learned a lot about picking up the pieces and moving on, but still paying respect to those you lose. And hat perspective fit neatly into all of the lessons he’s taught me over the years, strengthening values and giving me a great foundation upon which to build the three young men that I’ve been blessed to be a a Dad to. And hopefully those guys go out and do likewise when the time comes for them to have children, with the added benefit of more colorful language and cool techniques for throwing phones and pencils. Scratch that last bit.
My father has been my number one fan, pushing me through dark times when my hands weren’t (and AREN’T) quite working right, and getting me to see things as they are, not some deary vision I tend to cloak over things from time to time. Perspective. There it is again. The man knows how to view things realistically, yet optimistically. While I tend to lean toward pessimism, I do often give pause to what he’d take from a given situation, and find myself calling on him for advice quite often to this day. He’s saved a lot of people some dental work, listening to and diffusing me when needed.
The man gave me a sense of the absurd, an appreciation for dry humor and fart jokes alike, and the knowledge of when to employ each. He’s taught me to go into a fight prepared, and when to act dumb enough to get away with something, or use that to lower and adversary’s guard… But to always fight fair, and even to fight only as a last resort. It’s not about winning for the sake of winning. Keeping things in perspective. I see a theme here.
I’m not proud that there are times when I get so busy that I’m short with him. I’m coming to realize that nothing in life is worth that, and if you haven’t yet done likewise, take pause and do so now. I’m lucky to have great advice, moral support or a dirty joke just a phone call or few miles down the road, and thank God that I’ve grown up just enough to know what that is worth. Perspective again.
That said, with Father’s Day coming up, you now know who to blame for this mess that is me… And that’s a beautiful thing, because if you see the both of us in one place, you can’t say that you haven’t been warned.
A Happy Father’s Day to all of you out there who have taken on the job of putting things into perspective for your kids, or who are gaining some from your own Dad presently, or even reflecting on that which he left behind for you.

In the Garden of Idi. I Mean…

Having had the song stuck in my head for nearly three days, I have concluded that I am NOT a rock, and I am no island.

I’m somewhere between a Nerf-like consistency and soapstone, perhaps, bordering on doughy, depending on what I ate for dinner the night before. And possibly more of a jetty or an isthmus or a peninsula, even. It’s not a commitment thing by any stretch, but more of some Darwinian deal, in which I’d prefer some form of diversity, yet I select to have this marshy land that’s difficult to traverse to get to the core of my land mass, you know? Not fully secluded, but certainly not to the point of having an Applebees and four Starbucks. A small town with some cultural history, yet not enticing to hipsters. Like sort of dangerous-looking, but mostly due to the abandoned, half-stripped car sitting on the corner near that really tasty rib place.

I’m sorry, Paul Simon, but while you touch no one, and no one touches you, I simply cannot keep my hands off of myself. And this isthmus/jetty/peninsula-man thing cries.

A lot.

The Leftover Uncertainty Principle. And Farts.

For years, I was convinced that we had somehow become stewards of Schrödinger’s refrigerator; at any given moment there may or may not have been food in it.
Since the oldest sons have moved out, it has not only become much more stable in there (a sort of “consumable constant” has emerged), but my fears of some Kitchen Aid warming/milk entropy state have dissipated exponentially.
On the opposite side, I am down two persons upon which to blame fart noises.

This is the Answer You’ve Been Looking For. Or Perhaps Not.

Indecisiveness kills creativity.

…or maybe it’s procrastination. Or lack of concentration. Or constantly changing the goals. Or not knowing what you want, but knowing that when you see it that you might want it. It could be indecisiveness, after all. Or perhaps poor communication. Or even weak technical proficiency disguised as managerial prodding. Or some design-by-committee thing. Or not having a predefined idea of just where any of it is going in the first place. Or some time-management thing, maybe?

It’s a lot to think about, really. What if it’s just too damned many choices, or comfort in doing things the same fucking way they’ve always been done, and then knowing that no matter how much of a let-down it will be when the results are always the same, that the feel of that safety net always gives some reassurance in an odd way? Like being cuddled sweetly with a noose.

It brings us full-circle: Indecisiveness kills creativity. …or perhaps over-thinking the indecisiveness kills it. I’ll ask my team and get back with you.

The Ever-Lowering Opinion on Spider-Man as it Relates to Black Widow’s Breasts

My Family’s Dinnertime Roundtable Discussion Presents:


“Why do they keep making Spider-Man suck so bad?”
“He sucks so bad his parents left.”
“And why is he like twelve in Civil War?”
(In mocking falsetto voice) “Hey, everybody! These pants are waaaaayyyyyy tiiiiiiiight!”
“He’s SUPPOSED to be young.”
“Not THAT young. He’s in High School, right? That dude hasn’t hit puberty. School must be rough.”
“Especially with such a hot Aunt. And big head. And 35 year old facial features.”
“Maybe that’s why he cries all of the time.”
“That guy quit. And he was like forty.”
“Anyway… This relaunch crap should stop. All of the other characters are progressing in real-time, right? So like Tony Stark is aging and losing his marbles, the Captain has out-lived his hot nurse friend, and the Hulk has a receding hairline. Why not age Spider-Man?”
“Black Widow may need to shift that neck line a bit.”
“So why isn’t Spider-Man left to age and move on?”
“What about Black Widow? Are you saying that her, uh… you know. Might be sagging?”
“Yes. But Spider-Man is defying age. He is the Oil of Olay of the Marvel universe. That bastard has been sitting dormant for years. They should show the effects of that.”
“So Scarlet Johansson is looking worse for wear?”
“Be like the Hulk and get off of her.”
“Well, now…”
“If the Hulk and Black Widow could have kids, they’d need second jobs to buy all of those purple pants.”
“All I’m saying is that while every other character has done pretty well and moved on in life, Spider-Man is caught in this weird loop of suck. He hasn’t ever really had a good movie. They should portray that. Self-deprecation worked for Deadpool, right?”
“But Deadpool wasn’t some whiny douche. Between the cancer and the self-healing and whatnot, his brains are all scrambled. Yet, he moves on.”
“Exactly. He accepted his fate. Much like Black Widow and her ever-lowering boobs.”
“Enough of that.”
“They should assign her to an Avenger Space Station to help her out. Like some form of long-term disability.”
“That’s what the costume department keeps saying.”
“Anyway… By now, Spider-Man should be a little overweight, move slowly, and show signs of depression. That mask should be hiding a huge beard, and the back of his suit should have a panel or two stitched-in to make it fit.”
“And mustard and pit sweat stains.”
“And cat hair all over it.”
“…or the bottom half of the mask is just cut away to make sliding a pizza in there easier.”
“And stretch marks from his man-boobs.”
“…but like higher on the suit than Black Widow’s.”
“Is there dessert? I hope so. We have a lot more ground to cover.”

Kylo Ren and the Unviable Sperm Theory Whitepaper

Giving this much more thought than it probably deserves:

Kylo Ren.

The guy is a shit-show. He’s a fan-boy at best, and comes across as some spoiled douche who picked up a few Force tricks on YouTube, and has some ghetto-looking cosplay thing going on (“I’M NOT DARTH VADER!! I AM AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER!”). He’s like a third-rate swordsman…? Light saber… ist? Anyway, he’s the equivalent of a kid trying out the lightsaber toys at Target after just having the casts removed from his experimental arm-lengthening surgery and having spent several months on a Tilt-a-Whirl. He may have been better to go with a blaster (consider the genius of a sun lamp-powered Endocrine Blaster: BRILLIANT FLASH OF LIGHT. “Skin cancer, motherfucker!!”), or maybe just have a few henchmen… I mean aside from the Stormtroopers. Like a couple of guidos or some shit. SPACE GUIDOS. I’d buy the shit out of those action figures. But I digress. Han Solo was carbonized in Empire, and that got me thinking about how that event may partially explain just why Kylo there is such a mess. It comes down to two words:

Damaged sperm.

I’d imagine that Han’s boys didn’t have time to creep fully into a safe zone when he was dipped into the freezer. I mean, physiologically-speaking, I’m sure they were a little closer to his taint at the crucial moment than, say when he was shooting Greedo in the dick (which broaches another of my long-standing theories regarding hands being lopped-off NUMEROUS times across films, and Greedo being shot in the – where I’d be led to ASSUME it to be, anyway – dick, and the incredible undertones of Han’s post-freezer blindness and the Ewoks having arms just a touch too short to well… touch, and how all of this ties into Jedi Masturbation)… After all, he’d be pretty stressed, I’d imagine, and in fight or flight, the balls tend to move inboard and all (ironically for protection and ease of movement when running), but still, the whole process went quickly, so I’d have to imagine that there was some damage. That considered, even after a couple of years between movies (I’m thinking he and Leia probably hooked up in the treehouse at the end of Jedi, as it puts the timeline fairly close, considering Kylo’s age and whatnot… I’d bet there’s a fucking treasure trove of fan fiction out there describing that night, especially the use of more parts from IG-88), those boys were probably swimming a bit, but still relatively fucked-up. Kind of like when you just stand up after laying around for a while, or when you’re super cold, and your extremities move all slow-like. Consider that nearly twenty percent of sperm frozen in a proper sperm-freezing setting don’t survive undamaged. Now multiply that by a factor of third-tier characters in a stockroom playing with a machine manned by some rodent-faced midget things.

My hypothesis then, is that Kylo Ren, aside from having a mother with some serious daddy issues, and probably also suffering a bit from the interrogation with Darth Vader (not to mention all of her drinking in the years since… I mean holy shit, her head is easily three hat sizes larger in the new film), is probably a bit off due to Han’s genetic material, messed-up when improperly frozen and thawed. Not to mention the stresses on DNA from all of that light speed nonsense, and always fiddling with leaky reactor cores and other shit. Kylo isn’t some malleable plaything for Voldemort’s third cousin Snooky; he’s a marginally-functioning bag of skin, filled with some jambalaya of horrifically-mistreated, loosely-coiled-at-best genetics. This certainly doesn’t absolve his parents from their poor work raising the dickhead, but it could potentially go a ways in getting him some disability pay and much-needed therapy. I’d assume that the Empire has some coverage, not to mention a few advocacy groups. I offer a solution because I’m a giver.

I had gotten too busy, and neglected to post this theory in a fan forum on the fourth as a sort of digital wedgie for that crowd. Lucky for you, I decided to type it all here. And while I should have really posted it on the fifth (“Revenge of the Fifth” and all), I figured it may be even creepier to post it today, as it’s the birthday of Renz Kyle, a YouTube personality, which may be the channel that our pal Kylo got his sweet moves from, bringing this whole shit-show full-circle.

Let’s see Fallon try something this advanced.

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