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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.

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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.

The Science of Snack Foods

You know why Sun Chips come packaged in those opaque bags? I think it has a lot to do with that near baby-shit brown coloring of the chips themselves. Had they been packaged like normal snack foods, you’d see them behind that little window in the bag and think “Those look more Earthy than the name implies. Perhaps more like the contents of the colostomy bag found attached to a mummy. I am an American, and demand that MY Sun Chips look more yellow, as the sun itself,” and then Neil Degrasse Tyson could step in and reclassify the snack as something else, because that’s what astrophysicists do, obviously.

And don’t even get me started on the potential of a sixteen show series from Michio Kaku that would dig deeper into the mystery of the off-colored “red giant” chip, or the even more rare stellar collision, wherein two chips have merged into one unit (occasionally, there’s like five PLUS in some globular cluster, forming this nebula of not-quite Sun Chippy-goodness that you avoid because it’s more like the weird characters in Tod Browning’s 1932 film Freaks than some food, and you just can’t bring yourself to touch it, but can rest assured that some talent-less hack would have stolen the entire premise for a shitty cable series like some eighty years down the road).

That said, try a little fucking harder, Sun Chips. I demand accountability from my snacks. Now, about this “Milky Way” bar, and the obviously sloppy anatomical research by the “Butterfinger” people…

No, It Wouldn’t Be Cool OR Plausible

Look at you, fan of the sciences: You saw that pic and re-posted the whole “gosh, if our moon were replaced by Saturn” bullshit concept. Some third-rate hack with Photoshop learned a layer technique and boogered a few planets into a poorly-framed shot of the horizon, and suddenly you’re Neil Degrasse Tyson, pondering the mysteries of the universe with regard to altering the makeup of the solar system as though it’s yours to fuck with. It’s not all about YOU. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that I can make this all about ME. That is, after all, the point of social media, right? “Look at ME!”
 
Sorry to burst your bubble, cupcake, but let’s be honest here. It wouldn’t look all neat-o with Saturn hanging there with those rings all silhouetted against a blue sky. In fact, it’s doubtful that your dumb ass would be here to see it, assuming that one approached this fucking idea logically, and realized that between the extremes of heat caused by never-ending plate tectonics and volcanic activity (not to mention the debris thrown skyward as a result), any atmosphere that could survive the gravitational pulls and releases would be opaque at best on a clear day (perhaps whatever higher power there is had a spark of compassion, and in its almighty pity sent a little functional weather your way and blew a few metric tons of poison gas and particulates out of the way). I mean we’re not even getting into the really important things like orbital shifting and irregularities that may have severely altered the processes of life and evolution, rendering your existence improbable in even the remotest sense. And then there’s the whole pesky fabric of space thing, which would have buckled, drawing the two objects into a collision. resulting in one mass, floating in (and causing) a destructive field of massive rock fragments and near light-speed particulates, which (judging from the makeup of the two planets) may have just enough energy to create something entirely different altogether.
 
And let’s say that all of that physics talk took a day off, and you managed to somehow evolve into the social sharing fuckwad credit to your family of obvious inbreeders that you are today… Each day on your wondrous ring-bedazzled moon-having planet would be many, many times the length of a current hollow iron space station moon-having current habitat (Scientology, motherfucker!). And that might lull you into a sense of false security when blocking an entire aisle as you debate between the store brand and the name brand Oreos as you text back and forth to your bros about how great the new Star Wars movie is. I mean it only took you eleven viewings, because REAL fans have to see the same shit nearly a dozen times to fully grasp the whole intricate layering of Han and Leia having bred some evil, whiny prick that talks to Voldemort in an obvious rip-off of Thor and Guardians of the Galaxy. And don’t even get me started on the whole comparison of a certain character dynamic that rings awfully close to a little chunk of the last Star Trek film. But rest assured, I still have to waste MY time on THIS planet (with an atmosphere I can see through – even if it has been poisoned by the illuminati – and solid ground and weather and an orbit that makes some sort of sense) standing behind YOUR self-absorbed ass.
 
The problem isn’t some dumb Photoshop or social share, and it isn’t even the fact of having a moon that would somehow be roughly ninety-five times the mass (or over seven hundred and fifty times the volume; although Earth has it beat on density some eight times over… and we’re not even getting into the rings and the shit-storm THOSE would cause… not unlike that bratty-ass kid of yours, orbiting around your cart and sneezing and coughing on everything) of the planet that it orbits. It all comes down to ME simply wanting to squeeze by so that I can get the fuck out to my car and inspect the latest ding from some lazy asshole who just threw a cart into the quarter panel, versus trudging the extra eleven feet to the CART RETURN with it’s wonderfully bright signage, so designed as to stand out against the blue sky which lacks what? Fucking Saturn hanging there like some childish cut-and-paste nightmare.

Halloween: Making it Safer for the Rest of Us

Another night of these begging little bastards with their iPhones and $200 sneakers, being dropped off in our neighborhood by yoga pant-wearing women driving Lexus and BMW SUV’s to mooch free food.

In keeping with tradition, we’ll hand out condoms in the hope that these pint-sized ingrates will take them home and prevent their parents from having any more children that they can’t feed.

I’m Not a Monster, After All

Don’t get me wrong, I feel bad for the dude… I’m not a monster, after all.

But in hindsight, two things were working against the man whose stall I barged into in the restroom:

One: That door latch appeared to be in perfect working order.

Two: (and possibly more important than the first) His missing legs most certainly did not prevent him from engaging that fucking latch.

But I’M the bad guy. Perhaps my telling you that taking a “stand” over an honest mistake was, well, a mistake, but cut me some slack here. I was probably just, if not more embarrassed. And just a little freaked-out to be frank.

Facebook Privacy? Oh, Puh-leeze.

Dear Facebook “Friend” who continually posts the “Privacy” thing every time it circulates,

If you are posting some copied and pasted “disclaimer” declaring your “rights” regarding any information that you share on Facebook, and honestly believe that you’ve “protected” anything, you are a fucking moron, and should just remove yourself from my “friends” list here.

 
In the interest of brevity, let’s just roll two key things out for you, genius:
 
1. You are using an online service to post your thoughts and likes and gripes, and of course, more fucking selfies of yourself than anyone really cares to see, quite honestly… and you do this by choice. Believe me, it isn’t MY choice to see you on a bench, and then walking, and the drinking coffee, and then with your comb, and then with your dog, and then with your dog and your lunch… YOU select to share this meaningless bullshit, and I simply ignore it, because quite frankly, I’m not impressed that you managed to make a fucking sandwich. You’re (and for the record, you illiterate, self-important shit-bag, it’s NOT “your”) an adult. You made a conscious decision to post the pics. Should someone else be equally as fucking stupid as you are, and select to republish your sandwich selfie as a part of some ad campaign in Azibukistabishkan to sell roof rat-based luncheon meats, then it’s your fault for supplying the imagery to begin with, you simpleton.
 
2. By signing on in the first place, you agree to the Terms and Conditions (that long read you skip past on everything and click “I Agree” to rush into things, because golly gee, Jeb, you jus’ needs to gets yo’ selfie on) EVERY FUCKING TIME YOU LOG IN OR POST. Yes, it says that, fans of literacy. And posting something written by a thirteen year old legal expert from Santa Fe isn’t going to modify that contract. You don’t own the site. Hell, Facebook doesn’t own the site. It’s publicly traded. Take a few hours away from your meaningless life updates (yes, posting a photo of your new iPhone places you into “meaningless” territory, as does any image of you looking at a moon, a car, a place mat, sitting near the booth at that restaurant where they almost filmed a scene in that movie…) and contact the shareholders and board members, and ask each of them if it’s OK to modify the agreement, because holy shit, Universal Pictures is just dying to get at your feed for a movie based upon your updates. Can you see it?
 
“What’s new in Enterainment News? Let’s check in with Brock Hunkley…”
“Just announced today, the script for ‘Final Moments’, the story of robot uprising and armageddon, based upon the true story of some douchebag’s status updates on Facebook is held up in a legal battle following this loser’s posting of a modification to the Terms of Service on their wall. Braiden McSelfimportant had decided to retroactively claim some ownership of the photos of he and his dog licking an ice cream cone in an undisclosed, poorly-maintained backyard, when someone on his Friends list discovered the image being used to inspire the Vietnam War flashback scene in the forthcoming film.”
 
Seriously, no more about this. EVER. There is an alternative to sharing your life and every waking moment online. It’s called “NOT SHARING EVERY FUCKING WAKING MOMENT OF YOUR LIFE ON FACEBOOK.” In fact, while we’re at it, do you know why I enjoy our friendship remaining so damned “virtual?” Simply because I’d probably kill myself if I were forced to be around you and that ever-present fucking phone. There should be a law requiring your sorry ass to carry an old film-based camera, and limiting you to one roll per month, if for no other reason than to get a clue as to what a really important moment is. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all of that considered, become absent. Read a fucking book. Do something constructive for once, and see if it serves to better your vacuous, poorly time-managed life. And then you could display those photos in your own gallery, and retain all of the “rights” you want, you imbecile. Go fuck yourself.

Hugs and kisses as always,

Brian

Builder VS Accessory Installer

patina squarebody
I was recently asked an interesting, if not loaded question:
 
“Why do you hate patina builds?”
 
And that had the effect of pissing me off, because it proves that very few of these motherfuckers read anything beyond a word or two. I don’t “hate” patina. That would be a logical impossibility, or at the very last a psychotic reaction to something meaningless on any scale of importance, no matter how pathetic or sheltered your life may be. It simply wouldn’t make its way onto my list of things I truly give a shit about if I had to carry that list deep into the ten thousandth power.
 
“A better way to phrase this,” I responded, “would be to ask why I hold little respect for calling them ‘builds’ in the first place. And I say ‘little’ because with anything, there may always be an exception. I like to leave room for that, just in case.”
 
There is no design. There is no requirement of planning, beyond shopping in a catalog for what parts to replace with new bolt-in’s. It is an act of pure accessorizing, with apologies to that word for lessening its meaning in this respect. Unless you are creating an entirely new chassis, engineering fresh parts and whatnot to make this particular “barn find” (and for fuck’s sake, enough applying that word to every damned vehicle that has oxidized paint – if you literally discover a barn lost to the ages, and there is a mystery vehicle inside of that building, then yes, you have a barn FIND. We have been over this ad nauseam.) into something far outside of anything seen before in functionality, then you’re simply cloning the last 600 features from that magazine, you half-wit. To say that you “designed” a patina “build” is tantamount to saying that you “invented” a new dish for dinner, because you accidentally spilled canned chili on the spaghetti. Your reference to yourself as a “builder” or “designer” are what I’d refer to as “a real head-scratcher”, or maybe something closer to “obscenely over-optimistic”. What you do is truly something that anyone with some hand tools and general knowledge could pull off. It’s the color-by-number of the hot rod world. If it weren’t, there would be some variety. Think about it.
 
I view this “barn find, patina truck” scene as the dope-addled cousin of the “rat rod” movement: It’s a cliched caricature of anything it set out to be. These guys thought that a crusty exterior, set on a stance that looks broken at best was a way to be unique… a rebellion against a “sea of red ’32 Fords.” Now we have a sea of rusty C-10’s on smoothie wheels that look like the suspension just gave up. Sweet turn radius, pal. Almost as cool as that flat-brimmed hat holding your ears in. Can never be too safe.

I work my days away trying to help clients get the most of their vision into a build. I enjoy the guys who have PASSION and drive. That willingness to dive in and create something unique… an expression of an emotion in a mechanical object. These are the clients and the sort of car guys I want to be around, and enjoy the company of. On the other hand, I see the “patina” guys as looking for the quickest buy-in, and can’t jump that hurdle.

 
In fact, when you consider it, calling yourself a “builder” if all you do is slap a few parts, smoothie wheels and some airbags from a catalog under a rusty vehicle, that’s like playing the video game Rock Band, and calling yourself a “musician”. I certainly wouldn’t sign you on. Besides, I’ve heard that song played correctly a million times before. Even your best note-for-note rendition brings on a yawn no matter how ironic that retro script is across the face of your late-model amp.

The Changing Face of Language

We live in the scariest of times… We witness the revision of the present day alongside the careful editing of history. It strikes me as both odd and funny at once that “new” words are added to the English language, or worse, EDITED TO HAVE THEIR MEANINGS CHANGED.

The latter seems to coincide neatly with some politically-correct dickhead wishing to add a “softer” word to describe something, or worse, some degenerate who expects the world to alter their fucking viewpoint regarding some personal preference of this entitlement-seeker, and by commandeering an existing word and altering its meaning, or developing some fresh jargon to more adequately appease them.

For instance, with this Bruce Jenner in a dress bullshit… He is not a “woman” in any respect, be it “trans” or any other catchy, new-age bullshit prefix. If he took a transcontinental drive in a Trans Am to the Transamerica Pyramid Center while listening to a transistor radio as a friend in the passenger seat transcribed the transmissions of the radio show (discussing transmutation of water into wine), and mis-translating the hoots and howls of the transient illegal immigrants being transported into California, the situation would no more make him a “woman” than would lighting a Pop Tart on fire make it fucking Baked Alaska.

We’ve fallen into this wormhole, wherein we are expected, nay FORCED to bow to the whims and fancy of whatever brain-damaged spoiled brat deems as his or her (or, should you attend the University of Tennessee – that alone begs for me to seek mercy on your soul in the first place, you illiterate turd – the all-inclusive non-gender pronoun “ze”… what in the fuck?!!) “right” to some “respect”, simply by altering the fucking language. We are surrounded by these hashtag-using pukes on their giant phones who are so utterly disconnected to reality, yet so “connected” to social issues that they automatically assume that the two are directly interchangeable. There is no transference in this manner. You simply cannot be so far removed from reality that you can see fit to change it, simply because you “feel” something. It simply doesn’t work that way. Unless, of course, you have allowed the public school system to raise your kids, and you’re transfixed with fear that your offspring will go on a Twitter rant about what an awful sperm donor (or recipient) you are because you don’t understand them and these “feelings.” And if I cannot discern your gender, especially if you’ve taken steps to alter it to make that so, then please explain to me just how in the Hell it becomes my fault that you feel bad or misunderstood, or how I am not “paying conscious attention to your emotional state,” you freak? All of these fringe weirdos demanding “acceptance.” Here’s a thought: JUST LIVE YOUR FUCKING LIFE, AND STOP FORCING ME TO LOOK AT YOU. If I don’t see you, the chances are greatly improved in your favor that I won’t point and laugh at you. It’s as simple as that, honestly. That’s like dressing up as The Mummy for Halloween, but creating your costume from yellow feathers and beak, and then wondering why the other kids are calling you “Big Bird.” A little logic goes a long way there, cupcake. A decision to be “different” or your “inner self” is on YOU, and not me. Should you possess some “great strength and courage” to become your inner weirdo, then at least have the fortitude to take a few jokes at your expense. THAT is the sign of strength or courage… Not crying to just be loved, or protesting to force someone to accept your individual desire. Seriously. There we go, changing the meanings again. And to be frank, I don’t give a flying fuck if you like it, or if it makes you sad. I’ve never come to your door and forced you to gaze upon the Conservative white guy who enjoys punk music and guns and cars and women and B-movies. And I certainly have never forced you to alter your language or manner of thinking to accept with blind certainty that my selection of a lifestyle is protected by any law or otherwise. Force of a belief always meets resistance. That is an irrefutable fact. Going about finding acceptance via a less aggressive manner would breed infinitely more positive results, but it’s probably far less profitable. You’ll find a similar peace and far less self-inflicted suffering once you grasp that, you entitlement-age puke.

Certain words have EARNED their definitions and use and stature in the language. They command a respect for the things they are used to represent. And respect is earned, not forced upon anyone. And while I’m certain that the lily-livered liberal, entitlement-seeking generation we have now will change all of that in the future, you can bet your ass that it won’t be changing soon in my house. Even if your son drops by and threatens to hit me with his purse.

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