Just a Few Monday Quick Hitters

Hey everybody, so I have previously stated that I'd be posting more frequently, and therefore to a somewhat abbreviated extent. I think that after approximately two and a half years, it has finally dawned on yours truly that it's just more convenient for everyone to check back for a few minutes every couple days than it is to undertake a novella's worth of bullshit once a month. And so here we go, consider this substantially curtailed post a sign of things to come. Here we go, bitches:

Scream 4: How Does the Ghostface Always Know Everyone's Schedule?, And Other Thoughts

This movie actually wasn't all that bad. I enjoy how it was almost a satire of itself. Wes Craven is nifty like that. Also, Neve Campbell looks like shit, and Courtney Cox's face looks like it's made of play-doh and condoms. She needs to stop or she'll no longer have a place in Cougar town (zing).

There's a scene near the end in which one character gets clocked over the head with a bedpan, at which point I thought that it should be an unofficial Hollywood dictum stating that whenever anyone in any movie is struck via bedpan, they should have to scream something ironic, like "Oh, shit!" as it happens. Anything relating to what typically goes into a bedpan would suffice. You can imagine the possibilities.

Also, how come nobody ever thinks to block the bad guy's phone number after the first call? Ya know, the one that always ends up with the dumb bitch saying "This isn't funny! I'm calling the police!" and hangs up? Right then, block the goddamn number that just called you. How has nobody thought of that? And if you have a landline, disconnect it! What's the mystery? I know, it's a "Scream" movie, so I shouldn't devote much thought to it. But this movie is otherwise surprisingly thorough and well thought out, so these unresolved, hanging details irk the shit out of me.

Lastly, there's one token black character in the movie. It's a cop, aaaaand he gets stabbed in the forehead after no more than five minutes of screen-time. It's nice to see Wes Craven still abides by at least one of the staples of horror-movie production. Ha.

Remember What I Said Last Time About Ketchup in Diners?

So. Friggin'. Depressing....

#ThisShitHastoStop

See what I did there? I started a Twitter trend.

Actually, in reality, no I didn't. Guess what people - whenever you put a hashtag in front of something you post on facebook, in an email, or whatever, chances are it's not gonna become a "thing" on Twitter. Nobody gives enough of a shit about your #TriptoVegas!, your #NewPuppy, or your #WorkKickballLeagueChamps pictures to stop what they're doing, go on Twitter, and join the legions of followers you have regarding this subject (italics to indicate sarcasm). All you're succeeding in doing in pissing people off; people who don't feel like having to slowly pick apart the four or so words you mashed together to form one woefully uninteresting phrase. Essentially, you've added unnecessary punctuation, and you've eliminated spacing. Congratulations, you're a douchebag.

What's even worse is when people use the hashtag in front of a single word, then treat it as if it's just a regular word in a sentence. Let me illustrate with one I've been seeing quite a bit of recently - "Heading downtown to watch the #Flyers take on the Devils!" Really? You feel the need to remind everyone that the Flyers are a trend on Twitter? That's atrocious. Just say "Flyers" please, will ya? And if you have a problem with that, you can find me at @Idontgiveashitwhatyouthink. Thank you.

Oh, last thing - it's a friggin' pound sign. Not a hash tag. Jesus.

Making Up Words is Still Fun

This one isn't even my own thought, buuuuuut I'm gonna pass it off like it is, anyway.

Movie trilogies - there's the original, the sequel, and....what? The "third installment?" The "conclusion?" What do you call it? It's hard to put an appropriate descriptive label on these movies. I mean, "third installment" makes it sound like it's a brainless piece of garbage thrown together just to make a studio a few extra bucks (Ahem, Matrix Revolutions, ahem). And "conclusion" doesn't always work because if it's any good, chances are there will eventually be another one, thereby invalidating said term.

While on that subject, many times, that fourth movie will be a backstory that takes place before the original (an idea for which George Lucas was a genius for creating and a moron for poorly executing), and we all know these movies as "prequels." Good. Fine. This still doesn't solve the riddle of the third movie in the trilogy...

With that in mind, I humbly suggest "trequel" as the term applied to the third of three related movies. Don't ask me where the word/spelling came from. As I mentioned, it wasn't my personal idea. I just heard it blurted out recently, and I decided I liked it. And so there you have it - "Return of the Jedi" is the best trequel ever, though not as good as the sequel, which is also better than the original and all of the horrible prequels. Boom.

Here's Somethin'...

How do you tell when an Asian is high?

Also, what do Asians do when they have trouble seeing things that are far away?

Just some things this round-eye was thinkin' about just now.

Language!

It's legitimately interesting that the older I've gotten, there seems to have been a shift in the hierarchy of offensive "curse" words. For example, there are two "f" words that people generally don't like. I still use one of them when I get fired up about something. You can guess which one that is. And I used to think it was generally considered the most deplorable word one could say.

I now think I was wrong, for the other "f" word is the one that seems to bother people a bit more (the gay slang). It's just interesting how I used to treat this particular word as if it were the word "the," in that I'd use it without even thinking it was a big deal. I've come to realize over the past couple years though that this one makes people just about as uncomfortable as they can get, it's really a particularly cutting insult when directed at someone, and so I've essentially eliminated it from my vocabulary, which I think is a good thing.

Ya Know Who's a Huge Fag? - Tim Tebow

Zing! That's an awful joke, I know. But come on, I'm kidding. I just wanted to make you shake your head at my apparent hypocrisy for a second. But I do have some thoughts on football, and so...

Football Thoughts!

It's funny how, for years, everyone loved getting after Alex Smith for being a huge bust. He had a different offensive coordinator every single season to complement a host of bad head coaches, but still people crucified him. Now that he has calmly engineered the 49ers to a 7-1 start (one Tony Romo pass away from being 8-0), nobody is making a peep. That's bullshit. I know he's not a pro-bowler, and he'll never be Hall of Fame material. But come one, give the guy some credit. He has a good system and finally some good pieces (Gore, Davis, Crabtree, Edwards, etc.), and so he's winning, albeit in a weak division. But still, good job Alex Smith. You deserve some mention.

I won't hurl any legitimate gay slang at him, and I know he's 2-1 this year, but still, Tim Tebow is the worst fundamental quarterback I've ever seen. Watching his mechanics as he throws a pass is like watching two obese people try to have sex. It just looks uncomfortable, nobody involved really enjoys it, it's just generally nauseating, and it usually ends with someone overexerting themselves and falling down. But Tim Tebow is jacked out of his mind, and the man can run, so why they don't make him a Tight End is beyond me.

What is it with New York Giants huge running backs? They seem to begin their careers on fire, then a few seasons later, almost instantly become a liability. I know Brandon Jacobs scored against New England, but generally, he stinks. And nobody in New York really trusts him anymore. It's weird because he was once - briefly - such a beast! Smell like Ron Dayne all over again, doesn't it? What's the problem up there with those kinds of guys?

Some Notes on Flies

I heard that the fruit-fly only lives for about 10-15 minutes. I didn't verify this, I just took it as fact because I'm lazy. But assuming this is true, that's also remarkable, and I don't understand how any of them get anything done. I mean, they have to be born, become acclamated to their bodies, learn from their mothers what their wings do and how to use them, practice flying, meet some friends, go look for food, eat, go on a blind date with a girl fruit-fly, wait the obligatory three days before calling her again (which, in fruit-fly time, I'm guessing is, like, 45 seconds), keep courting her, have sex for the sake of reproduction, then enjoy retirement before dying. That seems like an awful lot for 10 minutes, doesn't it? And for the females, you'd figure they also have to tack on giving birth and instructing their children, so as usual, females make things even more complicated.

Also, I do not endorse the expression, "You have the patience of tsetse fly" (Yes, "tsetse" fly, which you people probably thought was "teensy fly"). Anyway, as the name might suggest, these insects are rather small. However, since when does physical size have anything to do with patience? For all we know, tsetse flies might be the most laid-back, patient members of the animal kingdom. It's pretty ignorant that we assume that they have no patience just because they're small and buzz around making weird noises. Ya know what else does that? - midgets. Midgets looooove running around and squawking in incomprehensible phrases, sounding like they just sucked in a few balloons' worth of helium. So are all midgets impatient? That's a pretty rash assumption, isn't it?

And to take it a step further, am I to assume that I can generally estimate levels of patience simply by looking the physical size of all people? For example, I'm 6'2". Does that mean I'm more patient than my 5'6" sister? Well, actually yes, I am because she's a crazy person, so that's a bad example. But you get the idea. Tsetse flies - you get a bad rap. Midgets - I'm sorry, I don't know what to tell ya. Buy stilts, I dunno.

Alright, I'm outta here. Post a comment. Check out the poll on the right side of the page. And as always, f*ck 'em if they can't take a joke.

DJ

God, I'm So Metal ("Metal" means "Awesome" if You're a Complete Geek Like Me)

Hi everybody, it's good to be ba....wait, what's that? You absolutely love that new logo at the top of the page? Yeah, me too, it rocks. For the record, I realized that both my last name and the name of my favorite rock band of all time (if you don't know who that is at this point, just stop reading and get the fuck off my blog site) both begin and end with the same letters during my freshman year of high school. We're talkin' 1996 here, people. But I guess this just shows you how helplessly lazy I can be that it took me 15 fuckin' years to make something this insanely clever and tangible from that happy lettering coincidence...(Your use of the three period dots just now makes me feel like you're going to transition into a secondary item about this new logo thing by employing weak, exclamatory segue)

HOWEVER! (And there it is) There's more. Not only did I get artwork made up for this stunning piece of aesthetic and artistic genius, I've already thrown it onto t-shirts! That's right, motherfuckers, the dago has crossed into four-digit readership (And in just a shade under two and a half years. Congratulations, jackass), and I've decided to commemorate said mini-milestone by merchandising. Take a look at the pic on the right (and click on it for a larger view! Yeah!). You know you want one. Come on, you know you do. And when you come to grips with that, just lemme know and a t-shirt you shall receive.

Alright, enough of this shit. Let's go discuss inconsequential things like usual, huh? Sound good? I thought so. Off we go:

I. STARTING OFF WITH A VERY, VERY, VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION

Soooooo, is Casey Anthony still technically a milf?

Think about that one for a minute. If you're disgusted, my job is done.

II. IN THE END IT'S ALL "FINE"

I think "fine" may be my least favorite word in the english language. It used to be the word "no," but when women kept saying that to me, I eventually just decided to start hearing the word "yes" instead, and everything, ya know, just kinda works itself out, usually because I'm physically stronger than them (Just checking - joking? Yes, joking. Jesus, relax).

Anyway, so speaking of women, they're actually the sole reason that "fine" isn't fine at all. In other words, guys listen up, if/when you get to that point of your relationship with your lady friend where she starts to regularly and abruptly end your arguments or acquiesce to your preferences by using this word, look out. She's nearing the end of her rope. An example:

- Dude: "Babe, remember I told you a week ago that I told the guys I'd play poker with them this Thursday, just like I do every Thursday?"

- Bitch: "Oh.... but I thought... maybe... Ya know what, nevermind."

- Dude: "What's the matter? Are you angry?"

- Bitch: "No. It's fine. I'm fine. We can do my thing next Thursday..." (walks out and slams door)

- Dude: "Wait but I'll be (door slams) playing poker next Thursday..." (hangs head and takes deep breath)

See what I mean? She's nearing the edge, motherfucker! You can tell! On the other hand, if she had just responded by saying something like, "Oh, right I forgot. Well hey, can you skip it this one time? It'd mean a lot to me", like she would have during the honeymoon phase, I guaran-damn-tee you any boyfriend in the world worth his salt would drop the poker game and hang out with his lady.

I'm tellin' ya. "Fine" is the beginning of the end. And it starts popping up everywhere... "Work was fine," "No that's fine, let's go see Wolverine," "You want me from behind? Again? Ok, that's fine," and maybe the worst one is when you try to make compromising plans - "It's fine, let's just go!" If you've heard anything like this over the past month or two dudes, get your shit together and brace yourself. You're about to be back on the market.

III. A FEW SHORT SNIPPETS OF DIALOGUE

Kate: "Deej, can you remember a long number for me?"
DJ: "As long as it isn't pi, yes."

DJ: "Yo, how many people do you think left the theater after seeing 'Inception' saying "(gasp), Oh my God, so the whole thiiiiing was a dreeeeeam!!!"
Bill (shaking his head in disgust): "Too many... and most of them were women."

IV. THE SMALLER JUNGLE CATS DONT FEEL SHIT

Think back to the last time you were at the zoo. Hopefully it wasn't all that long ago because the zoo is awesome. Animals, by and large, are hilarious (Are you giggling while reminiscing right now about the staring contast you had with the giraffe who was trying to chew a tree branch? Yes. Yes I am), and beyond that, you're almost guaranteed to learn something new and interesting every time you go.

What I learned last time is that there's something fishy going on in the wild cat section. And I'm gonna get to the bottom of it. Let me ask you something - what do you notice about all the caged animals (reptiles excluded) whenever you're at the zoo?.... They're all clearly drugged up/tranquilized to a degree/sedated/whatever, right? Right.

And it's easy to see. There's no other explanation, really. I mean, when I was growing up, I was always taught that kangaroos routinely like to jump/bounce. Therefore, it was rather disappointing to discover that the Philadelphia kangaroos spend their days laying spread-eagle on their backs, drueling, weezing, and obviously struggling to breathe. The most I ever get out of them is a sort-of peripheral gaze that seems to say, "Hey, you with the eyebrows. These bastards gave me the elephant's dosage of sedative today, and I can't move. If you could go get me a Kit-Kat, chew it up for me since my jaw is numb, then drizzle it into my mouth, that'd be great. Otherwise, get lost." Saddened by this virtual exchange, I typically choose to get lost...

And the rhinos are so fuckin' stoned that when they locate you and walk toward you at a pace of about one yard/hour, to them it actually feels like they're charging full-speed at you - "I'm gonna geeeeeeet yoooouuuuuu, heeeey wheeeeere'd you gooooooo?"

(Ummm, are you gonna relay to us what you think every animal you mention is saying? Yup.)

You get the idea. It's the same all over the zoo......except for where they keep the fuckin' pumas and cheetahs and the other, swifter jungle cats. Always, always, always when I walk by their glass enclosures I can feel the message in their lurid, yellow death-cat eyes - "You DO realize that the only thing stopping me from eating your lungs out through your asshole is a few inches of glass. Get the fuck away from me, hairball...Right now." And I usually obey and carry on.

The few times I do stick around a few seconds more, I just end up confirming my suspicions. If I stay and look around, and even so much as approach the glass, they start moving. Then sometimes the fangs come out. That usually coincides with when pee comes out...of me, that is. And then I run.

It's curious then, when I next get to the lion and bengal tiger areas, they're all, "Heeeeeey, duuuuude, it's you again! What's been goin' on, buddy? I heard you just pissed off Carlos the puma again. Man, he wants to eeeeat yoooouuuuuu, hehehehe. Don't worry. Just hop on over the fence and come on in here with us. We were just thinking of ordering some chinese and watchin' a 'Queer Eye' marathon for a few hours....No? You gotta go?Aiiight, man. Take 'er easy."
They're all tame because they're all drugged.....except the fuckin' pumas. And also I can tell what they're all saying.

V. QUICK HITTERS PART ONE

- Using the term "dee-lish!" to describe something sexy/sassy/etc. is gayer than two guys having sex.

- I have always hated and will always hate the phrase "rough and tumble." It doesn't make any fucking sense. It's consistently used as a singular thought to describe someone or something. Words that describe things are called adjectives. "Tumble" is a fucking verb. And it's not hyphenated, so it's can't be perceived as a singularly descriptive term like "rub-and-tug" (love those, by the way). So...I mean....what the fuck? You can't use that word to describe anything! Imagine if you tried? - "Hey Deej, what do you think of that Tom Hanks fella?" "Hmmm, good question. He seems pretty tumble to me. And I like that. Such a tumble guy, Tom Hanks." I know...fuckin' retarded.

- If someone with a camera came up to me as I was drinking my morning Dunkin' Donuts coffee and asked me, "Hey, what are ya drinkin'?", I'd look at them incredulously, look down at my cup, look back the person, and scoff, "Coffee, asshole. What do you think I'm drinkin'?" I sure as shit wouldn't smirk happily and say, "Hey, I'm drinkin' Dunkin'!" Those commercials are stooooopid.

- Whoever is the stand-in/stunt-double for Edward James Almos on movie sets should call himself Edward James Almost.

- So, Roger Ebert didn't care for the latest Transformers movie. Well, guess what - Roger Ebert doesn't have a face anymore. It's just mangled mush. So he can go ahead and stick his "two thumbs up" his fuckin' ass. Autobots 1, Dickface Ebert 0.

- I heard in some cheesy motivational/self-help advertisement recently that it's good to "be friendly with yourself." I thought to myself that I'm never friendly with myself, but many times when I'm alone I get downright romantic with myself.

VI. THE AMBIGUOUS ORIGINS OF SOME SAYINGS

Have you ever thought about where some universally understood and frequently used anecdotes/sayings came from? I have. And I often end up confusing myself because I can't figure out how many of such expressions have come to symbolically/metaphorically imply what we all understand them to imply today.

Let me clarify. Everyone knows where the term "jumping the shark" came from and what it means. But in case you don't, it came from an episode of "Happy Days" wherein the Fonz literally jumped over a shark while on water skis. And from that moment on, the show began to wane. That moment was the show blowing its load, and from then on it continuously declined in popularity until it eventually just ceased to be. So now, whenever a show/movie/anything, really, reaches a point where it tops out and you know it can't get better and in fact will actually start to regress from that moment on, that thing has just jumped the shark. Everyone got that?

Ok, so that's an easy example of how a seemingly impossibly relatable situation has taken on a very mundane meaning. I get it. But, there are others that give me much more pause. For example, "bought the farm" I don't quite understand. How can it be possible that the once literal purchase of a plot of land eventually became such a significantly fatal transaction that the phrase now simply means to die? I would really like an explanation here.

But more interesting, or perhaps disturbing, is this one - "screwed the pooch," which we all understand today to mean "made a stupid and costly error." Am I really to understand that at one point in time, there was apparently a person who literally started butt-fucking a dog and immediately afterwards thought "Ooooo, ya know what? This was probably a bad idea having anal sex with ummm...with this dog." And assuming so, how fuckin' crazy is that?!?! Though, I can certainly see how such an occurrence would be memorable enough so as to become immortalized in metaphor. In other words, that's probably not something you forget, so you might as well apply some meaning to it, right?

On the other hand, maybe back whenever this originally happened, "screwing" was also meant to be taken literally. Maybe someone just took a screw-driver and mechanically fastened a dog to a wall or something, thereby essentially "screwing the pooch." We can only hope that this much more civilized possibility has some truth to it....We can onlyhope.

Clearly, this is just the type of blog item that practically begs and screams for innovation/creativity. By that I mean, if you're feeling saucy and feel like commenting on this post, I urge you to do so as it pertains to this section. Offer up some new ones. Take a bizarre and/or uniquely funny or embarassing situation from your life, describe it, then tell me/us the life lesson you gleaned from it. I bet they're almost all innately funny to some degree, and who knows, maybe it'll catch on, right? If nothing else, I promise that if its any good, I'll work it in to my next post without disclaimer or explanation...ya know, just to fuck with people.

A quick example to get the ball rolling... I once accidentally shit my pants while driving my car on the way to a date (Accidentally? Meaning there are other times you 'intentionally' shit yourself? Good point, no. All pant-shitting is accidental, I suppose). See, I thought it best to get out all the farts I could before sitting down to a meal with a lady, so I was just lettin' em rip. I had plenty of air fresheners and a good 20 minutes of windows-down speeding on I-95 ahead of me, so I figured any/all "aroma" would be long gone by the time I picked her up. Anyway, I was already running a little late, so after my mobile-shart, I decided to pull over at a gas station and have a look-see. Clearly, there was bad news in my skivees, so in the fuckin' trash can they went! Then, after a quick wash of the hands and forced blockage of short-term memory, I was back on the road. But now I was rollin' commando....And I hate commando.

So the rest of the night, though I wasn't actuall naked, I felt naked. I felt exposed, and it ruined everything. I was trying to make small-talk/jokes, but all I was thinking about was how hopelessly pendulum-like my balls were. Unhoused, involuntarily undulating...annoying. So naturally, my jokes, my attention span, my general ability to converse pleasantly, they were all underwhelming.

At the end of the night, after dropping her off, I said to myself, "God, why did I force that fucking leftover meatloaf this afternoon?" I knew the meatloaf I had for lunch was the reason that I sharted. Meatloaf always gets me like that. But I remember thinking that day that if I didn't eat it now, it would be wasted and eventually tossed, so I ate it. And I paid for it.

So, from here on out, whenever you find yourself in a situation where you feel generally uncomfortable, exposed, naked, aesthetically embarassed, etc., please feel free to say you"forced the meatloaf" on that one. Are you a girl who forgot you shouldn't wear white to a wedding until after you arrived? - you forced the meatloaf. Did you only pack the one bathing suit you own but haven't worn for over a year on your vacation, then realize when you put it on at the beach that now the waist is so tight that you're a fucking muffin top? - you forced the meatloaf. Did you wear an ascot because your uber fashion-concscious slut of a girlfriend said you should dresss more like Ashton Kutcher? - you forced the meatloaf. Get it? Good. Give me some more examples.

VII. QUICK HITTERS PART TWO

- It' interesting that you can't say that a dog "ruffs." it doesn't actually ruff, it barks. You can say a dog goes ruff, but you can't say "I walked past a dog and it ruffed at me." Conversely, while you can say a dark "barks," you rarely hear someone say that a dog "goes bark." You can't say "I walked past a dog and it went bark at me." This is all interesting because dogs are unique in this regard. Other animals generally have one noise that applies in both contexts. For example, a cat both "meows" and "goes meow." A pig can oink or "go oink." Cows can moo or "go moo." Why is it this way? And don't even get me started on "bow-wow." Only bassett hounds make that noise. No other dogs do, so why is it generally accepted?

- It's toilet "paper," not toilet "tissue." It would be tissue if my butthole sneezed into it, but it doesnt. Because its a butthole, not a nose. And buttholes get paper. And that's that.

- I don't know when it happened, but it's also interesting these days to notice that buying something offline and buying something online are really the same thing. Seems like they should be antonyms.

- I had something that wasn't quite a dream, but I don't think I was completely conscious either when it occurred to me. Anyway, it was an idea for a Saturday morning cartoon show. It would be called "Roller-Bears!" (exclamation point is part of the title), and it would feature grizzly bears on roller-skates (not rollerblades, but rollerskates) going around and stopping bullies from picking on people. The bears would have helmets and would skate very, very fast. The theme song would mimic the melody of the 80's cartoon "Gummy Bears," and ya know what that's it for this item because I'm already bored of it.

- I used to think not laughing at farts anymore was the most obvious sign that you're old. But now I think that actually occurs when you find yourself reading the obituaries every morning just to see if one of your past friends or coworkers is dead yet. That's when you know you're old.

- There are few things in life more depressing that going to a diner and finding that they feature plastic bottles of Hunt's ketchup on the tables instead of the glass bottles of Heinz. That seriously sucks.

- I recently described former Rams wider receiver Torry Holt as "smooth." When I was then asked "how smooth?" I replied by saying, "the clubs he goes to always feature some soulful R&B, probably heavy on the saxophone. He always wears a cool hat that I could never pull off. There's always classy women sitting with him on plush suede couches. And I bet he always drinks drinks that are NOT martinis but that DO have olives in them." I was proud of that description, and I felt validated when my conversation-mate said "Wow, that's fuckin' smooth." Damn, right. Big Game rocks.

- I recently heard someone explain that he got from point A to point B by taking a "random ass path to get there." But his inflection/emphasis was kinda skewed. He put the stress on the word "ass" instead of "path" as I had been expecting. And emphasis is a tricky bitch. It can completely change how you interpret something. In this example, due to the shifted emphasis, I found myself wondering if his path was random-ass, or if his ass-path was random. See what I mean? And if its the latter, what the fuck is an ass-path? Say it all aloud if you don't follow me here.

VII. THE PERFECT DRUG.

I wish I was the guy who got paid lots of money to come up with the seemingly arbitrary brand names from drugs, like Claritin, Paxil, Cialis, Valtrex, Prilosec, etc. Shit, I make up jibberish words all the time!, so I think this would be just truck-loads of fun. Now, I've heard whispers that the finished product names are derived, at least in part, from the names of the chemicals in them or some shit. Whatever, I don't buy it. They're all just conjured from thin air, I'm convinced. And I think I should have that job. And to take it a step further, I want to star in the commercials for it, because said commercials are unbelievably funny 100% of the time. Consider the following:

(Cut to a scene of DJ sitting in a canoe gently rocking atop a peaceful lake that's reflecting the light from the sun on a beautiful, cloudless day. There's no sound save for a few birds chirping somewhere in the branches of the surrounding evergreens, and DJ and the beautiful woman seated next to him cast the single fishing line they're sharing into the water before they sit back and smile at each other. Then, DJ looks at a camera that is somehow also in the canoe...)

"Ya know, three months ago my dick didn't work. But then I asked my doctor about Shmaggleporf. And now (looks at woman, who looks back lovingly), let's just say that's not the last rod she'll be handling today (smirking/giggling, then smiling and lightly nodding at the camera with a mixed expression of relief and naive optimism). Thanks, Shmaggleporf."

See what I mean? Awesome. God that would be fun.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand that'll do it for now. Feels good to be back again. Ask me about my goddamn t-shirts already, will ya please? Thanks.

Dago out.

Startling Revelations

Hello again everyone. Intros be damned, this post is long enough as it is. Settle in. Off we go. Oh, actually, wait a second. For some reason, this site has been acting up, and I can't always control the spacing between paragraphs. No idea why...Alright, you've been warned. Nooooow I can say off we go...So, ummm, off we go:

I. MANDATORY BIN-LADEN NOTES

I like to add levity to almost all situations - good, bad, peaceful, violent, offensive, touchy, etc. - and so with that in mind, I say we have a little fun with what should henceforth be considered a national fucking holiday. Ready? Here we go:

- MENDENHALL NEEDS TO AMEND-ENHALL (GET IT?!?!) HIS TWEETS.

In case you have been doing your best Bin Laden impression by living under a fuckin' rock for the past few days, you've undoubtedly come across what Pittsburgh Steelers running back and recent Super Bowl loser Rashard Mendenhall had to say about all this via Twitter. To paraphrase, he said that we should not celebrate Bin Laden's death since we don't really know his side of the story, and that we'll never reeeeeally know what happened on 9/11 because it's just so hard to believe that airplanes could actually cause buildings to crumble.

I'm not making this up folks. This is what he said, and in no uncertain terms. I guess you could say that he doesn't fumble over his words like he fumbles the fucking football in the end zone during the Super Bowl (zing!). Apparently, this absolute buffoon believes that all the internet broadcasts of Bin Laden relaying his direct intentions over the years do not accurately convey "his side of the story." And apparently the abundance of video footage of the planes smashing into the World Trade Center and the awful aftermath just isn't conclusive enough to determine "what really happened." Ya know what, thousands on facebook and other social media have already said it in far more creative a style than I have the ability to employ while I'm this worked up. Rashard Mendenhall - you have hereby (far) surpassed Brett Favre and his adulterating, cock-photographing habits as the most deplorable human being in the history of the NFL, if not all of professional sports. And one final note, anyone caught wearing his jersey from here on should be shot in the head twice and dumped into the ocean.

- SURVEY: WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE SAID?

If you have even a passing interest in commenting on this post, I urge you to do so primarily by answering this question: if YOU were the military officer/soldier who - for lack of specific detail - broke down the door and put Osama Bin Laden in your crosshairs at point blank range, what would your specific/choice words have been? I mean, I can't imagine anyone in their right mind who would NOT want to say something epic, dramatic, or 80's/90's Schwarzenegger-esque to Bin Laden's face seconds before sending him to the other side. Then again, maybe some of you would be too amped up and excited to think on any coherent level at that point and would just instantly cap his sandy ass.

Personally, I can't decide. Part of me would want to say something as profound and enduring as Neil Armstrong did when we landed on the moon. But, as alluded to above, I bet in an effort to do so, I would inevitably collapse into Shwarzenegger or Stallone voice and end up sounding cheesy and ruining the moment. For example, if I burst through the door, put him in my sights and shouted either "Prepare for justice!"/"Justice...at last!", or "You brought America to its knees. Now we're back on our feet, so you can read the words on the bottom of my boots when you look up at me from HELL!" (note: that sentence is to be said with the exact same inflection/emphases as Friar Tuck from the Kevin Costner Robin Hood movie just before he pushes that evil witch out the window), or if I shot him first, stood over his corpse and said "I just red, white, and blew you away, asshole!", or "No dialysis machine can save you now, motherfucker!" See? All of those sound like they're trying to be awesome, but I'm thinkin' they actually sound wholely stupid.

There's a part of me that would want another soldier to shoot him; someone who knew a victim of 9/11 on a personal level just so he/she could say "This is for (victim's name), you son of a bitch!" That would work. That's good. But I feel like it wouldn't completely encapsulate what all of America would want to say to him given the opportunity...

And so I'm left confused/undecided. And I come to you, my diminutive readership. What would you say to Osama Bin Laden before killing him? What would be the best approach? Would you scream it? Whisper it in his ear? Would you shoot him in the feet and knees a bunch of times first and rhetorically and sarcastically ask him "what's the matter? Is the wittle tewwowist baby gonna start cwying?" before finally ending it? Would you even have used a gun, or would you have slowly pressed your bayonette (do any guns still have those?) into his stomach while making unflinching eye contact with him at so close a range that you can actually feel his beard against your face while you smile like the fucking Joker, just so he can see how much you're enjoying it? I think that would have been pretty neat.

Actually, I have decided at least that much for myself - I wouldn't have used a gun. I would have used a blade of some kind. And I would have done it niiiiiiiiiiiice and slooooooooow. I'd want him to see what most of his internal physiology looks like strewn about the floor before the gray-rain curtain of this world rolled back for him.

Your thoughts are highly encouraged here.

- BACK TO FOOTBALL FOR A SECOND

Remember when a bunch of Eagles fans abandoned the team in favor of the Pittsburgh Steelers because they just couldn't support a franchise that employs Michael Vick? HA! What do you have to say for yourselves now? Your quaterback is a rapist and your running back is an abject disgrace of a human being. Have fun with the black and yellow. You deserve each other.

- THE UNFORTUNATE TEMPORTARY NATURE OF THINGS

It's a shame that the sense of fierce patriotism currently coursing through my veins and through those of so many other Americans these last few days is ultimately fleeting. A few weeks from now, the American flags that are once again flapping in the Spring breeze will be folded up and placed back in the trunk in the basement, the stickers on the bumpers of the cars of the commuting American workforce will be either peeled off or replaced with a "Philadelphia Flyers, 2011 Eastern Conference Champions" sticker or something like that, gold-trimmed "USA" pins will be taken off our lapels, national anthems at sporting events will once again be echoed in the stands with the usual disinterested monotone, and everything will go back to the comfortable way it was before May 1st. In other words, I'm glad we're celebrating this, and I bet we'll remember what happened every May 1st for many years, but I'm just saying - wouldn't it be nice if people were this overtly proud ALL the time?

II. DESPITE WHAT MY BROTHER TELLS ME, I'M NOT ADOPTED...

In fact, I can say conclusively that I am indeed the biological offspring of Anne and the judge. I know this because my parents have recently taking a liking to regaling me with detailed stories about their sexual encounters in the early 1980's. Relax, I'm kidding ('Nice to see you haven't lost any of your, ummm, charm.' Thank you). Actually, though Bill (my older brother) occasionally still insists that I am the product of my mom's mysterious relationship with the mailman, I know I'm really the fruit of the judge's loins because with each passing day - and at a much more accelerated pace over the past year - I am noticing that I am undoubtedly transforming into my old man. Sadly, this is not exactly what I had in mind when I always said I wanted to be a transformer.... It's fucking crazy, but it's noticeable in all aspects of my daily life. Allow me to illustrate with some examples:

- Laughter: I used to make fun of people who snort when they laugh, so you can imagine the fun I've had over the years at the judge's expense since he never actually "laughs;" he only snorts. The louder and more rapid the snorts, the more amusing/funny he finds the joke/situation. It's weird... And wouldn't ya know it, over the past six months or so, I've noticed that when I'm laughing really hard, I occasionally experience snorting fits, sometimes so violent that I sound like a congested pig trying to ram lines of cocaine up his snout...That's right.

- Snoring: If this were an Olympic sport, the Mazzola house would be a gleaming, golden beacon of victory. Again, it used to be funny to me that I could hear him snoring in his room. Now, you might think that this is no big deal as many people can hear others snoring in their bedrooms. Yeah, well what I didn't tell you is that I could hear him snoring while I was still down the block playing basketball and he was passed out in the living room watching "Horatio Hornblower" (again) on A&E or some shit... Predictably, for about a year now, I've occasionally woken myself up to the unfortunate sound of my own "labored breathing," as the judge likes to put it. When this happens, I typically whisper "I can't fucking believe this just happened again," and I pass back out immediately. Ironically, passing out immediately is also a habit mastered by the judge.

- Phantom head-itchiness: This goes hand-in-hand with the snorting laughter in a way, but I think it's sufficiently funny to warrant its own section. In other words, when the judge launches into pig-junky laughter time, he also routinely starts to aggressively scratch the top of his head. Not because he's befuddled, but seriously just to give his left hand something to do while laughing. With that in mind, I've never stopped laughing so abruptly as I did the first time I realized I was doing this as well. While I can't remember what I was laughing at, I can remember feeling my eyes widen as they tend to do when you experience a shocking realization, and I remember slowly removing my hand form my head, bringing it down in front of my face, and just staring in disbelief at my open palm. This singular act really made me start to feel like maybe, just maybe, the mailman wasn't involved in my conception at all....

- Hobbies: Recently, I've discovered that there aren't enough crossword puzzles on the fucking planet to satisfy me. In related news, guess who else would love nothing more than to have an endless supply of crossword puzzles at his disposal?...

- Mannerisms: Speaking of crossword puzzles, and really any intellectually stimulating activity at all that can be done sitting down, the judge loves to bounce his legs while doing them. You know what I mean; it's the same action the proverbial grandpa does when he's bouncing his young grandson on his knee. Yeah, that. He does that. Sometimes just the left. Occasionally just the right. Most of the time it's both, and when it's both, half of those times he alternates right and left, and the other half the legs are bouncing in exact synchronization. Now, I've actually been doing this for quite some time - I can even remember a time in grade school while taking a test I noticed an irritating squeaking noise. It wasn't until several minutes later when I couldn't stand it anymore that I looked up to find that my foot was bouncing on one of the legs of the desk in front of me, causing the noise. So I've had plenty of years to come to grips with this one, no problem.... The part that gets me now is that the judge, when thinking hard, and sometimes simply when reading, will put the tips of four fingers (all except the pinky) of his left hand on the top left corner of his forehead and keep them there indefinitely. Typically, there's a pen wedged between two of these fingers, and the hand is only removed so to write in another crossword puzzle answer. Naturally, I now find myself doing the same thing, albeit occasionally with my right hand instead of my left. By the way, in case you were wondering, while sitting here thinking about writing this blog post, both my legs are bouncing in unison at a furious rate, and when I take a minute to proofread the paragraphs I finish to ensure they're worded they way I like - thereby giving me a chance to remove my right hand from the keyboard - you betcha, four fingers right on my fuckin' forehead. And lastly, the big one....

- Argument Style: Now, one could fairly suggest that this is something that is just as likely assimilated via a lifetime of direct communication/interaction as it is a product of genetics, but I think the fact that our faces become contorted in exactly the same way, our involuntary hand motions are identical, etc. strongly suggest the latter. Either way, the similarities here are almost eery. We both get loud without realizing it, we are both absolutely relentless when we feel the need to be ('AKA all the friggin' time'), and we both have that annoying tendency to persist until the opposing party acquiesces, shuts down, or otherwise admits defeat - even if we're wrong, which is an almost unfathomably rare occurence. However, the judge's win percentage in the sport of playful debate has dipped considerably in recent years as yours truly has become equally proficient at it. In other words, the proverbial student has long since been the master. Still, despite this, the judge will inexplicably engage in debate with me when I pay he and Anne a visit, and....well...long story short, that's why his win percentage has declined.

A final note here, I realize that this lengthy blog item has essentially amounted to one light-hearted and ringing endorsement of my old man, which is a sweet and tender idea. The only problem is that I'm not nearly that sweet and tender. With that in mind, allow me to point out that I'm way better than the judge at everything from crossword puzzles to accurately quoting Lord of the Rings to raining justice down upon the wicked. I just choose sometimes to afford him the luxury of self-confidence, which is why he remains in the eyes of many a scholarly and sometimes intimidating pillar of knowledge and justice. That's right, you all can thank ME (and Bill to a degree as well, but I see/verbally squash the judge more frequently these days) for your lofty opinion of him. If I were to remind him that he's not even on the same intellectual plane as me, it would crush him. Like Gandalf did to the balrog, I would smite his ruin upon a mountainside.

And so that's how I know I'm not adopted....Actually, wait, all I've done is confirm that I know who my old man is. And since I'm becoming so much like him, I haven't even noticed that I'm not becoming more like Anne in any way. Shit, suddenly I'm not so sure Anne is my real mom. Dammit!

III. QUICK HITTERS

- "Wunderkind" is a word I could seriously do without. First, it just sounds stupid, and if you say it with any kind of regularity, I'm betting that you're stupid as well. Second, and just as frustratingly, there are so many dumb people in the world who will hear this word said aloud for the first time, convince themselves that the speaker of the word must have said "wonder kid," misunderstand this phrase as an acceptable conversational term, and will then proceed to sound like a shmuck for an indefinite amount of time. And that just fuckin' irks me. Real bad. Like when people say "let's play it by year" or something like that. There isn't a word in existence that adequately conveys how much I want throw people off a cliff when this happens.

- I recently had a sore throat, so I took Chloraseptic for the first time in my life ('Really? First time ever?' Yes, that's what I said!). It wasn't until several minutes after I used it that I read the directions on the bottle; specifically the part that tells you to "spray once" and "not to swallow." I really wish I had read that beforehand, because then I possibly could have avoided spraying five/six times, swallowing it, then stomping, quickly fanning my face with my hands, and making incomprehensible whining/baby noises like Buddy the Elf when he tries the fruit spray. Because that's EXACTLY what happened.

- I am such a pathetically loyal Philadelphia sports fan that I realized if I had both a Delorian and the sports almanac from Back to the Future, I'd go back in time and STILL bet on the Eagles to win the Super Bowl. Ya know, just in case. Like I said, pathetic.

- Am I the only one (other than Jenn) who watched that show "V" on abc? Ya know, the one about alien lizards that disguise themselves as exceedingly sexy women? Sounds like such a cerebral show, I know... I think Jenn and I might be the only ones who watched it religiously though, honestly. Either way, the first season just ended with a pretty serious cliffhanger, but unfortunately it looks like the show isn't going to be renewed, leaving me with an irritating bevy of unanswered questions to which I would really like to acquire some sense of resolution lest I eventually claw my eyeballs out wondering what would have happened ('You'd seriously wonder about this?' Yes, I would. Otherwise, how are we gonna know what to do when the REAL aliens invade?) So, with this in mind, a plea: if you've watched the show - hell, even if you haven't! - please submit to me a possible resolution so that I may eventually convince myself that whatever you say is indeed what would have ultimately happened. I just need something. Help me. Whatever you say I won't get mad, for "I am of peace...always."

- During a pre-game tailgating "block party" before a recent Flyers game, I asked a woman on stilts if her boyfriend likes to go up on her. I thought this was funny.

- I don't often remember my dreams, but I do regularly seem to recall that I have trouble running during them. Why is that? I mean, I've had dreams where I'm walking, jumping, driving, having sex, having sex while walking/jumping/driving, etc. So why can't I run? Is there something to all that? What does it mean? Does it mean that I should learn to slow down? Does it mean that there are some things I don't like in life that I can't outrun? Somebody tell me....And no, I have not had the dream where I'm falling.

IV. AN EPIC STORY

One morning, Gregor Samsa awoke to find that he had transformed into a giant bug. Realizing that whatever events could possibly henceforth transpire would make for a wildly overrated story that's so saturated with thick and unnecessary symbolism that you could actually choke to death on it, Gregor stayed in bed and decided to hold his breath until he died. THE END!

V. THERE'S A HIPPO IN MY BEER







Take a look at this picture. This was my view of my glass of Sam Adams Noble Pils. When I looked at it, I saw the head of a hippo. Can you see it?




VI. GOD IS A SQUIRREL
I don't want to sound like a dirty hippie trying desperately and in vain to appear psychologically liberated, overly free-spirited, or abstract or anything, but I had a (very sarcastic, almost frivolous) conversation recently about what comes next when we die. Both myself and my partner in dialogue - I think it was Bill, and I think we were on our way to a Sixers game - agreed that its overwhelmingly likely that no religion has it exactly right, and that whatever comes next (if anything at all) is probably so far different and beyond what we can comprehend that it's almost ridiculous to assume we, as humans, can ever acquire even a moderate understanding of it...

...But ending the conversation there, while perhaps logical, just isn't any fun. And so we kept talking. First, Bill wondered aloud, "Yo, seriously how fucked up would it be if the Muslims end up having it right? And when we die, we're addressed by a spirit who calls himself Allah, and the Quran is 100% correct, and there are all these dark-skinned virgins waiting for us, etc?" We laughed at this thought, and we both agreed that if presented with this afterlife, we'd both say something "Are you fucking KIDDING ME? Islam had it right the whole time? Hahaha, that's crazy! Get the fuck outta here! What's next, you gonna tell Han shot first?" (If you don't get the reference, go watch Star Wars). And then we'd laugh a lot both at our apparent ignorance and at the complete mind-fuck that awaits all our friends when they die. Then, I guess we'd go to a mosque in downtown heaven somewhere or something, or grow a big, gnarly beard, or go ride a camel, or learn why all crazy Muslims have three names - one of which is inexplicably always Aziz or Bin, - or whatever else Muslims do every day.

Taking it a few steps further, while Islam is just an objectively bonkers institution, I suggested that it would be just insane if God turned out to be a giant celestial squirrel in outer space. Imagine that for a second. During your mortal life, you inevitably wonder to a large extent about what the afterlife is like, what heaven is like, what God is like, if there are angels, if you'll see deceased loved ones again, etc. And you probably do so for at least a few minutes or so every week. Then you die, aaaaaaaaand woops, God's a squirrel. How would you react? Would you get angry and say something like "Jesus, all that fucking time stressing and wondering what comes next, and you're a fucking SQUIRREL IN SPACE!? Son of a bitch!" I bet that'd be a natural reaction.

After that, and after your head stopped spinning, I bet it'd be natural to ask questions like "Are you always a squirrel in space, or do you only appear that way for now to remind us newly deceased people that all of our earthly endeavors were/are "nuts" (zing!) in the grand scheme of things?" And if God replies that he simply always has been and always will be a squirrel, what do you do then? Do you just accept it and float around space with him forever? That'd be crazy, right? It's fun to think of things like this, and it's good for you too, because whatever you think comes next, I promise you you're wrong. So you're better off preparing for the unexpected/insane/unbelievable. Just don't say I didn't warn ya....Squirrels, dude. Squirrels.

Then we got to the Sixers game and got kinda drunk. Oh, and the Sixers won. Fuck Lebron James.

VII. DISNEY WORLD

I just got back from Walt Disney World, and I can say with no hesitation that it was one of the greatest five-days periods of my life. I'm not going to get incredibly sappy on you here. Just suffice it to say that if you were there as a child, it's worth going back. Also, if you just so happen to go there with somebody you love, it's that much better. You just gotta trust me here.

I'm not going to get into detail about what rides were cool, what sucked, which parks and attractions you should hit first, etc. I'll just tell you that the atmosphere there is such that you will find yourself helplessly, though gratefully, and relentlessly trying to, nay, forcing yourself to conjure the Disney memories from your childhood that you had previously believed were long gone and lost forever. And upon seeing/hearing/doing something that actually allows you to successfully re-remember one, you're then immediately greeted with a feeling of pure euphoria, exactly like the first time you lived it, if only for a period of time so brief that it feels like half of an instant.

In other words, to me as an adult, there may not be any objective appeal to the idea of a large series of fountains in Epcot Center that randomly spit out arking, snake-like bursts of water, but when I walked by them on Monday morning, put my hand in them, and saw a couple of actual six-year-olds playing in them, there was a moment - again, too brief to really describe - when I actually felt like it was 1989, and I welcomed the sense of uncorrupted happiness that suddenly washed over me as I remembered when I was the six-year-old boy playing in that very fountain, proudly sporting my brand new Donald Duck baseball cap and everything.

I don't know why it's so amazing/compelling, but it is, and definitively so, that all these years later, that same fountain is still right there doing the same exact thing. And so is Space Mountain. And so if the giant golf ball thing. And so is Muppet-Vision. And so is the monorail that takes you to the Contemporary Resort so you can have lunch with the characters. And so are the Mickey-shaped breakfast waffles. And so is Main Street USA in the Magic Kingdom. And so are all the other details you remember that once collaborated to bring you the best time/feeling of your life. Like they're all frozen in time. Actually, that's kind of what it's like when you're there - frozen in time. Perhaps that's why it so often felt like no time had passed; like I hadn't grown up at all. So many times I found myself just as enraptured by the enormity of it all as I was way back when. The only difference is that this time I didn't need mommy to hold my hand while daddy told me where to go and when I'm allowed to take a bathroom break....Well, that, and also this time I could get really drunk at all the different countries in Epcot.

And when it came time to go, I was just as upset as I was in 1989. Not because I had to go back to work, but just because I simply didn't want to leave it all behind again. Still, I managed to peel myself away and head back home, comforted by the fact that I know I can go back again, and everything will be as I left it... exactly as I left it. And I'll get to be six years old for a third time. I can't wait.

If you think this last bit here makes me soft, I humbly suggest you go fuck yourself.

Alright, that's all for now. 'Til next time, Rashard Mendenhall is a douchebag.

Dago out.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand We're Back!

You missed me a lot. We both know this.

It's been about a friggin' year since I hopped on here and shared some of thoughts on things, so I figured now's as good a time as any to unload a little bit. So with that in mind, let's just get to it, shall we?

I. MODERN FITNESS "CLASSES" ARE FUCKING STUPID.

It must be getting tougher for commercial gym chains like LA Fitness or Bally's or whoever to compete and/or differentially market themselves from the more convenient fads like P90x and such these days because it seems like every five minutes they're offering some newfangled, would-be trendy exercise program like "Zumba" or "Aqua Fit" or "Pole-Dancing" (note: I do NOT have a problem with this one) or, and this one is just hilarious, "Latin Heat!" - which I can only assume involves little more than putting a Jennifer Lopez playlist on shuffle and shaking your ass (aka "booty-quake", which is a term I just learned and thoroughly enjoy) in front of a mirror while holding maracas and/or plates of nachos... If I'm wrong, it ain't by much.

The only problem with these programs - well, save for the atrocious names/titles themselves - is that they don't do a g'damn thing for ya. Do you know how I know this? It's because I look into the rooms where said classes are being held, and all I see are orbicular, gelatinous heaps of desperate humanity gracelessly thrashing about. It's sad too because the only thing in those rooms thicker than the thighs is the collective naivete. In fact, I'm setting the over/under at three months..... which is the amount of time I'm giving myself before I barge in one of these shams and start dragging these helpless rotundos out of the room, slapping them, pointing my finger in their face so close that their eyes go crossed trying to look at it, and telling them "Listen, if you want to get in shape and lose weight, moderate your diet and get. on. the. fucking. treadmill. No amount of 'urban aqua salsa spin hip-hop pilate aerobic basics' is going to do anything for you!" Let me know if you got the over or under and I'll let you know in early June if you were correct.

But while we're still on the subject, for a while I found myself wondering how they (whoever "they" may be) continue to conjure these fraudulent exercise programs, but I think I've figured it out. Clearly they just take three six-sided dice with different exercise terms on the faces, roll them, and mash together the three words that come up. Yes, that's how it's done, I'm convinced.
The level of legitimacy/rationality in this naming process seems to match that of the programs themselves, so it all makes sense. See, I know everything ('Yes, I believe you think you do...' Yes, that's correct).

Fortunately, however, charades such as these aren't without their sense of entertainment. And by that I mean that I've found it to be remarkably fun to make a game out of this dice idea (plus it serves as a rather convenient avenue through which I can channel my frustration and turn it into laughter, which is always nice to be able to do). The game is simple; you don't even really need dice. Just think of three different words you often see/hear in the gym and arrange them in such a way that a creates a funny hypothetical fitness class name. I'll start you off with some examples, and then you should think of your own and post them in the comment section... Some of my favorites so far are "Urban Salsa Weight-Training," (what would you even DO?!? Ha!), "Circuit Pole-Dance Kickboxing," "Heavy Aquatic Belly Dancing," "Spinning Hip-Hop Yoga", "and "Zumba Zumba Weights." Go ahead and try it out...Ri-diiiii-culous how much fun it is.

II. A QUESTION THAT PLAGUED MY MIND FOR SOME TIME

What would a sequel to "Air Force One" be called? Would they just suck it up and call it "Air Force One Two"? That would be silly. Or would they go with the more aesthetically pleasing but completely illogical "Air Force Two"? (Illogical because it would presumably still take place on Air Force One).

I eventually contented myself with concluding that they would probably just commit movie suicide by completely ditching the number "2" and just adding a colon/cheesy tag-line. We've seen this before with abhorrent sequels like "XXX: State of the Union", "Hellraiser: Bloodline", "Highlander: Endgame," "Terminator: Salvation" and "Rambo: Stallone's Bulge"..... I'm kidding, I've never heard of that Hellraiser movie either (Zing!).

Anyway, for the Air Force One sequel, I bet they'd center the cheesy tag-line around the air/sky/weather and come up with something like "Air Force One: Twilight Terrorism" or "Air Force One: A New Evil Dawns" or the like. Of course, if they sought my counsel, I would suggest they make the wise choice and go with "Air Force One: Seriously, Get Off My Fucking Plane".... By the way, this becomes a lot funnier when you say these movie titles out loud in that stern, movie-previews-guy voice.

And that about wraps up my thoughts on Air Force One and it's hypothetical follow-up. I feel better.

III. A SMALL NUGGET OF IRONY

I recently heard someone say that we (meaning all of humanity I assume) need to settle our differences so that we can unite to make a difference.

Think about that for a few seconds. I'd have probably changed the wording up a little bit. The way this is worded makes me feel like I'm about to have a nose-bleed.

IV. WHY BLUETOOTH AND CENTER CITY DON'T MIX

The reason is simple: because when you're walking around my neighborhood at night (a nice neighborhood, but really not far from rape-ville...you know what I mean), you can't tell who's on their bluetooth and who is a fucking psychopath talking to himself (which I've seen with striking frequency).

Let me paint a picture for you. It's downtown Philly. It's winter. It's after midnight. You're walking home from the gay bar, errr, from the bar. You hear footsteps behind you. You turn around to see that it's a large person wearing a large coat, hat, and gloves. You hear the person speaking, saying things like "I gotta do this. I got this. I got this!" What does your brain say to you at that moment?

I'll tell you what it says. It says, "This is probably just a man walking home and talking on his bluetooth. But, then again, we're not far from rape-ville. Maybe the clothes have nothing to do with the weather. Maybe he doesn't want to be seen and/or leave fingerprints. Maybe there is no bluetooth. Maybe, just maybe, I'm about to shiv'd in the neck." Then, immediately after that, your brain diverts all its power to send emergency messages to your ass muscles, ordering them to clench so you don't instantly shit your pants at the thought that just occurred to you. And as everyone knows, you can't clench your ass while walking....so you STOP. Then your brain says, "You're stopping? Really? When Shivvy Magoo looms a mere six steps behind you?" Then, after you take one final second to feel like a shmuck for stopping, your brains once again diverts its power to the legs, instructing them to pick up the pace, nay, RUN! the rest of the way home with zero regard for anyone's safety. So that's what you do. You run, and since it's winter, you slip on the ice and fall on your ass so many times that you start to laugh at the irony of the situation - even though you're escaping rape-ville, your ass is still taking a pounding (Again, zing!).

Finally, once you get home safely, you stop and think for a moment. You think to yourself, "I bet that was probably just a normal guy. He was probably talking to someone on his bluetooth about something he had to do. He probably was wearing those clothes because, well duh! Come on! It's freezing out there! He probably didn't want to kill and/or rape me." Then you feel comfortable. Then you go about your business for a while. Then, much later, the ultimate ironic thought pops into your brain when you realize that this normal guy on his bluetooth probably thinks YOU'RE the psychopath. I mean, who the hell goes from a normal walking pace to a dead stop to a full sprint in a five-second span?

And THAT, my friends, is why bluetooth technology and downtown Philly don't mix.

V. QUICK HITTERS

- Not sure if I've mentioned this before, but I'm going to say it again regardless. There should be a "Wack-A-Mole" style game in which you have to use the hammer to hit little avocado shaped creatures, and it should be called "Guac-A-Mole." Genius, I know. Plus, when you get a high-score it could spit out coupons to a local produce shop instead of tickets you need six million of to redeem for vastly overpriced stuffed animals. And as I learned the hard way, mashed-up stuffed animals don't taste nearly as good on nachos as avocados do.

- My least favorite part of every football game is the opening drive because that's when you are introduced to every player on both sides of the ball by way of pre-recorded video. I don't mind this idea, I just hate what is routinely said during these little intros. In other words, I don't understand why so many players have to tell you where they went to college by specifying that it is the only college with that particular name. You know what I mean? For example, "Jerricho Cotchery - THE!....North Carolina State University." I hate that shit. It doesn't add any prestige to your alma mater by proclaiming that it is the only one with that name. In the future, please just say "NC State" instead of being a complete douchebag. Is that too much to ask?

It is funny, however, to consider the alternative. Like if I played in the NFL and said, "DJ Mazzola, A!...Saint Joseph's University. As in one of MANY!....Saint Joseph's Universities. but I went to THE!....one in Philadelphia, PA."

- People, if you have a personal problem with features/layout/aesthetic of facebook, please don't let your chosen (and only) course of action be to post a status update that starts with "Dear facebook,..." then explains your concern, then ends with "Sincerely, (your name)." It's not funny. It's nooooooooot funny. And nobody gives a shit, especially Mark Zuckerberg. Stop.

Alright, that'll do it for now. 'Til next time, stay away from those bullshit gym classes.

DJ

Jack and Red Wine are Like Brain Laxatives

Dudes, bitches - I'm sorry. I've been busy. But just because I haven't written anything of substantial length doesn't mean I haven't been devoting substantial thought to some important shit. And yes, by "important shit" I indeed mean "fun things that don't really matter at all."

In fact, it's been quite the opposite. Over the past few months I've actually been making quite sufficient use of my Blackberry's "Memo Pad" feature - jotting down and amending different thoughts at the moment they enter what I typically refer to as "saracastic whirwind" - my mind. Unfortuantely, this often seems to happen as I'm driving, and so I've tended to endanger the lives of innocent automobile travelers by typing on my smartphone as I drive 90 in the left lane. But hey, if ultimately two or three people get a laugh because of it, then I say it's worth a little harmless vehicular manslaughter, don't you? ('Did you say harmless vehicular mans...' Yes, I did, and I realize the contradiction of terms. Leave me alone)....Alright, nice to see that my internal demon critic remembered to show up today too. And with that said, seems like we're ready to conclude the intro and get rolling. This is going to be a long one folks, so either strap in (strap on too if you're into that and my blog makes you horny) and grab the beverage (or lubricant) of your choice and settle in for a while, or make up your mind now to break it up into pieces and read in intervals. Either way, don't bother telling me it's too long. I don't care. Ok off we go:

I. THE TECHNOLOGICAL HYPOCRISY OF WORKING-CLASS, MIDDLE-AGED AMERICANS

When I look at work e-mails, I am regularly bombarded with what looks the result of my Microsoft Outlook vomiting up it's Alpha-Bits. In other words, I'm witness to a virtual cornucopia of business acronyms like NDA, RFQ, TPA, DUI (kidding), PDF, and the like on a daily basis, all of which are requested, of course, ASAP. And if they're not, then that means the email was just sent to me FYI.

What's funny to me is that the folks who use these abbreviations as elements of their typical communication are the same people who claim that teenagers communicating via text messages with acronyms like "ttyl," "tmi," "lol," "brb," "lmao," and the lesser-known "omgiltisote" ("Oh my God I love Twilight I'm soooo on team Edward") are directly responsible for the deterioration of the English language. To that I say fooey and p'shaw! While I agree that these modern pop-culture abbreviations are exceedingly lame, they're essentially used - at least theoretically - for the same purposes as the professional ones: to save time and space. And there's nothing wrong with that. With that in mind, parents, baby-boomers, old fogeys (couldn't wait to use that word!) who don't understand it - stop complaining. You do it too, just in a far different context. Plus, without unnecessary abbreviations, we would be left without some fantastic one-liner movie jokes like this one from "Forgetting Sarah Marshall":

- "You need to get over her. You need to put your P in someon's V."

- "No. I need to B my L on someone's T's."

See what I mean? Case closed. So text and abbreviate away, ye juvenile gay-vampire-loving children!

II. NEW YORK SPORTS TALK RADIO - HILARIOUS

I enjoy listening to the local sports pundits from different cities offer their "objective" thoughts on their teams and such as I'm driving for work through their domain. And while I must painfully admit that Boston seems to have the best, most articulate, and most intellectual talk-show hosts I've been fortunate enough to experience, I have to say that the New York guys are the funniest. I can't remember the exact number on the dial or the call letters right now, so I can't tell you to tune in, but they're not hard to find...

First off, the callers are hysterical. It's like the radio station seeks out everyone who didn't quite make the "Jersey Shore" final cut and asks them their thoughts on the Yankees. You know how when you hear someone on the radio, you think you can tell from their voice what they generally look like? Yeah, I like to think I'm pretty good at that. Therefore, I believe I can somewhat adequately deduce that everyone who participates in sports talk radio in New York currently has a wife beater adorning their woefully unchiseled body, and they're cradling their Boost Mobile phone while they apply an extra half bottle of gel to their stalactite-like hair that's just going to have a backwards Yankee hat (the kind where the emblem is made up of sequins) applied to it anyway. And when they finish their call in to the station, they're not even going to listen to the broadcasters' responses. Instead they'll run to the nearest mirror to make sure their skin is orange enough today... Now, I realize they can't all actually look like this, but that's what they sound like - "Ayy, how come the Yanks haven't re-signed Jet-ah yet? I figyah he's good for anoth-ah 15 yea-ahs and will bat at least .600 until he's fifty-fou-ah, so why not re-sign the guyyyyyeeee? Tell ya what, if they don't, me and my guys are gonna staaum the Yankee front office." That's right folks. You heard it here. ('Why do you always have to rip the Yankees? Is it cuz they beat you last year?' No, fucker. This has not been an indictment of the team. Pay attention).

But perhaps what's funnier than anything else is that they'll spend a good several segments - say, two and a half hours, talking about everything from Rivera's 9th inning ERA and Nick Swisher's OBP to A-Rod's magazine covers and Derek Jeter's favorite restaurants, but just as the show is minutes from going off the air, they'll say "We'll come back with some closing remarks after this....Oh, and the Mets stuff too." Ha! They give the poor little old Mets approximately three minutes of their time. And, to this Phillies fan, there's not many things more satisfying than that.

III. A QUICK NOTE FROM THE HIGHWAY

I drove past a Buick LeSabre. Then I laughed because it made me wonder if once there was a car model invented by a normal, dorky white dude called the "Sabre," then DeCharles Stevenson's parents got a job at Buick and were charged with inventing new model names...or LaMarcus Aldridge's parents, or DeJuan Blair's, or DeMarcus Ware's.... Haha. Come on, that's funny.

Side note: I was gonna put Delroy Lindo in there - ya know, the black detective from every movie ever? - but he gets a pass because it doesn't quite fit the scheme, and because he's Delroy Lindo (which is to say, awesome).

IV. A FEW MORE QUICK HITTERS BEFORE I MOVE ON

- I absolutely hate the phrase "come with" as in "We're gonna go grab a banana smoothie. Ya wanna come with?" First off, ending sentences with prepositions annoys me in... (Stole that joke idea from "30 Rock" and I'm proud of it!). But seriously, that phrase needs to be banished. Is it THAT much of an inconvenience to tack on "us" or "me" or "we" - whichever is appropriate - to the end of that sentence? "We're gonna go grab a banana smoothie. Ya wanna come with us?" See how easy that was? Is that too much to fucking ask?

- I was watching something with Spanish subtitles for a while. Then, after it ended and I went about my business, I didn't realize that my brain was still in "try to really understand Spanish" mode. Thus, when one of the first words I heard in conversation a few minutes later was "mosquito," I legitimately thought that meant a very small place designed for Muslim worship.

- When flying into a major city, during the initial descent as I look out the window, it ALWAYS seems like SO many people own swimming pools.

V. FEAR OF LOUD AND SMELLY PUBLIC POOPING = WARM, DIRTY SEATS

Let's face it guys (and probably girls), nobody really likes to poop in a public restroom. Not really. But as we all know, sometimes, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go, and you just have to deal with it.

When said situations arise, I'm willing to bet that most guys do the same thing - when they enter the bathroom, especially if there's a handful of people walking around in there, you walk allllll the way down to the last possible stall against the wall, don't you? Don't lie to me, yes you do. Why? That's easy - because you feel this most adequately removes you from the rest of the crowd. You feel that if you fart really loud or something, there's a chance nobody else will hear it or know that it was you if you're down at the end. Also, you just convince yourself that being all the way at the end is the closest thing to matching the comforts of pooping alone and in private. Finally, you convince yourself that all of these toilets are probably dirty, and your best chances of finding a clean atmosphere reside in the lonely stall all the way at the end; at a far enough distance that nobody would dare think to venture such a distance just to poop....

There's just one problem, and I've already mentioned it.... EVERYONE ELSE THINKS LIKE YOU. When you go to the last stall, guess what - you're in the most popular one, motherfucker! Ha! Be honest, when you get there, you're routinely disappointed by the wet toilet paper clinging to the inside of the bowl, or the inexplicably large quantity of shredded toilet paper strewn about the floor right where your feet will have to go, or the dingleberries resting just behind the back of the seat, or the unflushed poop, or the overall stench, or something like that, right? Right. We all know I'm right. And again, that's because nobody likes to poop to the audible and olfactory displeasure of strangers, so everyone goes way to the end, thinking they're outsmarting the other, pooping masses.

You think the seat is that warm because it's hot in there? Think again. It's because there's been a consistent barrage of bursting fat assholes on that very same seat throughout the day.

There IS, however, an easy solution to this, and it's a simple one....Are you ready?.....SHIT IN THE FIRST STALL! That's right, the one right next to the urinals, the one that makes you feel almost like you're on top of the guys who just need to take a quick, innocent, odor-less little pee. Trust me on this. Nobody ever thinks to go in the first stall unless its an emergency and is the only one left available. I'll personally guarantee you it's the cleanest one, too. Because nobody wants to be loud. Nobody wants to think that all the other guys in the bathroom are standing around washing their hands saying to each other, "Hey, nice to meet you. Say, how about the guy in the first stall shitting his brains out! God, that's gross! He's gross! Let's make fun of him and laugh together!" and then they slap hands. Because that's what you think everyone else is doing... Relax; they're not. Just reconcile with yourself the fact that bathrooms are gross to begin with, and if you're lucky enough to get a clean stall, you should consider yourself just that - lucky. It results in a far better overall experience, trust me.

Plus, this way you never have to run into the conundrum that presents itself when you walk all the way to the end, then suddenly stop and think "Uuuuuuuh-oh, the handicapped stall looks clean and relatively unused, but I'm not handicapped. Is this okay? Is anyone gonna get mad?" You don't want that. You just wanna sit, split (your butt-cheeks, that is), wipe, and go. Take the first stall. You'll think of me fondly while you're wiping your butt-hole.

Finally, as a quite side note to the subject - why, exactly, are handicapped stalls THAT big? I understand that there needs to be room for either a wheelchair or an accompanying person to help, etc., but are all these handicapped people and their potential aides planning on parking their car next to the toilet? Do handicapped poopers prefer to celebrate a successful bowel movement with a game of twister on the floor? Seriously, there's WAY too much room in there. You could live in that thing.

VI. DR. DAGO'S "IF YOU THINK YOU'RE TOO FAT, YOU DEFINITELY ARE" TIP OF THE WEEK

If you're fat, you probably like to snack. For some of you this means pretzels, for others Doritos or Fritos or the like, and for the saddest among you this means multiple, multi-decker sandwiches. For the latter group, I'm sorry, you're fucking helpless. But for the rest of you, a tip:

Buy some fuckin' grapes. They come in enormous quantities, they're juicy and delicious, and you can satisfy your oral fixation and need to constantly put something in your face by eating a million of them with minimal detriment to your shape. Other fruits are good too, but grapes afford you the ability to eat for a long period of time. Apples, oranges, etc., in addition to being too much work, offer you a handful of large bites and then it's over and you're still hungry. With grapes, you can go on and on and on. So go buy like four bags' worth. I prefer the red, seedless kind. You'll thank me for this, too.

VII. A NOT TOO DISTANT TIME AGO IN A CITY NOT SO FAR AWAY...

Allow me to be crystal clear - LeBron James is a fucking loser. Period. And his first name sounds like it could be a Buick model... (LeBron? LeSabre? No? 'Eeeeeh, not your best effort.' Agreed, let's move on).

First, let me get the nickname stuff out of the way. The newfound "super-trio" of Miami Heat players Chris Bosh, Dwyane Wade (Oh yes, that IS how he spells his first name), and LeBron James has already been assigned with a host of potential nicknames, chief among them "Miami Thrice," "Three Kings," and just the aforementioned plain-old "Super-trio." These are all stupid. First, "Miami Thrice" I think just sounds too cheesy. I don't have much else to offer there, I just hate it. Second, you can't go with "Three Kings" because Chris Bosh is a gangly pussy. "Two Kings and a Fucking Doofus" would work better.

Still, if they're looking for a nickname, they should capitalize on the notion that the events leading up this - from their casual agreement to unite while competing in Beijing to their contracts expiring at the same time - was a "perfect" storm of sorts. Combine that with their new jersey numbers ( Bosh -1, Wade -3, LeBron - 6), and you can call them "The Perfect 10." All it requires is simple 'rithmatic to figure that one out. I'm really clever, I know.

Anyway, more on LeBron. To steal a thought or two from ESPN's resident goofball and pop-culture enthusiast Bill Simmons, I've begun to turn the corner on this deal in that I've started to enjoy that it happened; not because I like the players or how they went about making this happen, but because I'm starting to revel in the idea of having a collaborative super-villain in the NBA for whom I can passionately pray for serious physical injury and continual, epic failure. Hating Kobe is just getting too old, and his dig on Shaq ("I got one more than Shaq") followed by his cocky smile after the Lakers won again kinda made me like him a little (That being said, he's still a dirty, deplorable rapist).

On the other hand now, we have LeBron. I used to love this guy. The people's champ. The savior of the poor, championship-less, unappealing little city of Cleveland. There was no doubt, LeBron was the solution. LeBron would come through eventually. LeBron would resurrect that city's collective sports psyche....But, to steal a line from Keyser Soze, just like that (poof)....he's gone.

You know who LeBron is? He's Anakin Skywalker ('You're not really gonna draw an analogy to Star Wars, are you? I mean first Batman, and all this constant Transformers stuff, and now Star Wars?!? That's right, bitch!). Seriously, consider the astounding similarities.... Everyone - EVERYONE - thought that LeBron would eventually get a ring in Cleveland, thus in essence, bringing balance to the force. The dark Lakers and evil Celtics were winning too much, but the chosen one would bring balance, or so it was foretold and prophesied.

Yet, try and try as young James might, he could not elevate himself to the status of champion at his young age, which is to say, become a jedi immediately like the courageous Mace Windu (Kobe) or older, wiser Yoda (Tim Duncan). So what started to happen? LeBron started to complain. I don't have enough players! This isn't fair! Waaaah! Bitterness began to envelop the young King-to-be, and by the time the Olympics came and he tasted the sweet nectar of victory, his dark destiny became frighteningly clear.

From there, all it took was a dinner with Pat Riley (The Emperor...Seriously, look how Pat Riley sits in his chair when they show him - deviously, with his fingers interlocking, kinda like Mr. Burns....Evil) to convince him that all he needs to do is bow down to him and come with him to the Miami Heat alongside Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh (Boba Fett and a Storm Trooper), and his lustful need for a championship (transition to "the daaaaaark side...") would finally come to fruition ("....would be com-PLEEETE.") And so it is, ladies and gentlemen. LeBron James - your real life Darth Vader. I hate him, but I love to do so, as we do with all great villains. That's why this move both sucks and is kinda cool. It gives us a villain, but a villain we can be passionate about ('You just ended that sentence with a preposition...' Fuck, you're right!).

All we gotta do now is find who's going to rise up and assume the role of Luke Skywalker, take the fight to Darth Vader, and eventually force LeBron to throw Pat Riley down into a really long, seemingly bottomless pit while electricity shoots out of his fingers. I suggest Evan Turner of the mighty 76ers, haha.

Either way, Shaq is the Rancor.

Alright, I got lots and lots more actually, but I gotta think that's enough for now. I think I'm satisfied with my return effort here. Let me know your thoughts. Got a better nickname for the Heat? Better method for comfortably pooping in public? Just wanna tell me that you never missed me anyway because my blogs are obnoxious, rambling, and generally unentertaining? It's all good. Hope to hear from you.

'Til next time texters, guidos, poopers, fatties, and basketball/Star Wars aficionados,

Dago out.

Dago Awards: The Best/Worst of 2009, and Other Miscellany

Ya know, there are many times when I look back at the events of yesteryear ('I hate that word.' Me too, let me fix it...) Ya know, there are many times when I look back on the events of the past ('better'), and for one reason or another, I have trouble remembering in what year certains things happened. For example, I often can't remember in what year I went to what bar for someone's birthday party, I can't remember the year in which a particular movie was released or a given sports team won a championship (other than 2008 of course. Go Phils), etc. You get the idea. So with that in mind, I thought it might be fun to highlight some of the more notable events, achievements, topics of dago-discussion, and the like from 2009 and brand them unto my memory by immortalizing them with a list of arbitrary awards - awards for which I may use conclusive terminology like "most", "definitive," and other words that signify the result of judicious deliberation, but about which I've really not thought about at all. In other words, this is going to be very stream-of-consciousness and poorly thought out, which I think will lead to more fun and comedic award categories and such. Let's find out, shall we?...


I. THE KELLY CLARKSON AWARD FOR "BIGGEST GUILTY PLEASURE SONG" 2009 - "PARTY IN THE USA" by Miley Cyrus


Go ahead, pretend you don't leave this song on every time you hear it in your car. I used to deny it to, but there's no use. Once you get past the awful lyrics ("Nodding my head like yeeeah! Shaking my hips like yeeeah!" So young, but oh so profound you are Miley!), which may take a while, you'll give in. I think I first realized this on New Year's eve. It's 11:59pm, I'm obviously already feeling comfortably numb ('Pink Floyd!' Relax, it's just a cool phrase) at a bar with a pretty decent crowd, and we're all watching the tv screens and counting down as the ball drops. Inattentive in my considerably intoxicated condition, I lost interest around 7! or 6! or so, stopped counting, and started chugging my drink. But then, when the 2010 logo lit up and everyone started cheering, the dj at this particular bar ('Isn't this your cue to make a lame joke about how your name is also DJ?' No, I haaaaaaaaaate that) decided to buck tradition and abandon "Auld Lang Syne" in favor of, of course, "Party in the USA." The moment I recognized the song, with neither the capacity nor intention for restraint, I slammed my drink down on the table and started dancing like....well, like a drunk white guy - which is to say, enthusiastically, albeit spastically and in a manner that puts those in my immediate surroundings in mortal danger.


I think it was about halfway through the song when I stopped - sluggish and breathless from all the food and drink I had just rammed into my face - and thought to myself, "Oh my God, I just got excited for a fuckin' Miley Cyrus song. What the hell is wrong with me?!?" Now, I was in the immediate vicinity of a couple legitimately homosexual guys, so I realized that the completely rational possibility exists that I got some of their gay on me when I shook their hands earlier that night ('Are you fucking kidding me? What - diseases are contagious, aren't they? haha, kidding). But I don't think that explains it. I just think this song, no matter who you are and what music you like, is a perfect guilty pleasure. There's no rhyme or reason as to why some songs fit this mold, they just do. Typically, they're bad songs that you ('Do you mean the royal you?' Yes, thank you) find strangely catchy and infectious, and I can't imagine "Party in the USA" not striking everyone as exactly that.


Two final notes before moving on: some other notable guilty pleasures are "Miss Independent" by Kelly "I've turned into a fucking moo-cow" Clarkson, "Crazy in Love" by Beyonce, "Just Like a Pill" AND "So What" by Pink, and "Hot and Cold" by Katy Perry. If I left any out, lemme know!.... And secondly, my forthcoming award descriptions will not be as long as this one, so no worries....


II. THE HERMIONE GRANGER AWARD FOR "NEWCOMER OF THE YEAR ONTO THE 'NEEDS TO GET IT FROM DJ' LIST" 2009 - TAYLOR SWIFT


No no no, you belong with me, Taylor....(Get it?)


And she's, what, 19? Day-amn, that almost makes wanting to nail her feel wrong. Awesome, but still wrong. Still, if I got Taylor all to myself for the night, the sex would be.....wait for it....you know it's coming....swift (ba-dum, cha!)





III. COREY HAIM AWARD FOR "UNDERACHIEVER OF YEA...NAY, CENTURY!" - JOSH DUHAMEL


Why? Because Fergie's face becomes more grotesquely contorted and mushed and awful and gross and disgusting and gross by the minute. And I'm sorry guys, no ass in the universe can completely make up for that mug. Uck....Yes, u-c-k, uck.


It's such a shame too, for he's one of the better looking dudes in Hollywood these days, and he was in "Transformers" for Christ's sake! He's so close to being completely awesome! But no, he had to go get himself love-drunk of her fuckin' lady humps. So sad....Not to mention that he's in some new chick flick with the celestially beautiful and virtually flawless Kristen Bell (aka "Sarah Marshall"), with whom he would have made a fine real-life partner, and to whom the tabloids and Perez Hiltons and of the world could lovingly and conveniently refer to as "DuhaBell." That would have been better. And they would have gotten married on top of a mountain, and they're children would have formed a family band that toured the countryside, and the Black Eyed Peas wouldn't have been invited! ('To be clear, that last little rant was from Anchorman, right? Right).


IV. THE JAMEER NELSON AWARD FOR "ATHLETE WHO DJ THANKS GOD FOR" 2009- TRACY PORTER (CB, New Orleans Saints)



Because he's the guy that picked off Brett Favre. Die, Brett Favre. Die slowly. But die.








V. THE RODNEY KING AWARD FOR "WORD, PHRASE, OR OTHER VERBAL INSTITUTION THAT HAS BEEN BEATEN VERY BADLY AND NOW JUST REALLY, REALLY NEEDS TO GO AWAY" 2009 - THE INCORRECT USE OF THE WORD "RANDOM"


As far as I'm concerned, this word has been raped. And not like your harmless, every day, friendly, just-sayin'-hey rape (Harmless? You're an asshole! Yup. But rape jokes are funny). I'm talkin' like angry, dirty, back alley, I'm-also-gonna-steal-your-ipod-when-I'm-done rape. Folks, "unexpected" and "random" are two very different words with two very different meanings. For example, hypothetically, if you're sitting around talking about/listing your favorite movies, and someone says "I really like 'The Cowboy Way' with Keifer Sutherland and Woody Harrelson," that's not random. It's unexpected, and in this particular case maybe a bit ridiculous as well. But there was obviously a deliberate selection process involved there with a specific goal in mind - naming a favorite movie. That's not random. Random would be the following:


Person a: "Name any movie ever."
Person b: "'The Cowboy Way' with Keifer Sutherland and Woody Harrelson."


Get it? There's no selection process, no process of elimination, no nothing. Just a blind selection. Ponder this example, learn from it, and please, apply what you learn to your normal conversational speech, and let's try to restore "random" to its rightful place as a respectable player in the English language.


Previous words, phrases, or socially accepted verbal institutions that have needed to go away include: "You go girl," "Is that your final answer?," "Buuuuuurn!," "Catch you on the flip side," "E.V.O.O.," and "psyche!"


Did I miss any? Let me know.


VI. THE BRETT FAVRE "YOU'RE THE WORST EVER. FUCK YOU. MAKE UP YOUR MIND" AWARD 2009 - JAY LENO



Quick, somebody name something worthwhile that Jay Leno brings to the table!...I'll wait.... Ok who are we kidding, we could be here for months before we get an answer, and even then it would be forced. Why? - because Jay Leno is a fat, talentless hack who had to rely on Hugh Gran'ts libido and other people's misspelled newspaper headlines to appear hip and funny for the past decade. And now he's gone and wiped the funniest man in late night from the schedule. Fuck you, Jay Leno.


That about sums up my thoughts on Jay. But before I go further, on a brighter note, don't you think it would be funny if SNL ('You still watch SNL? Yeah, ya know what, I do. Andy Samberg, Kristin Wiig, and Seth Meyers are legitimately funny sometimes, so suck it) did a skit that featured Jay Leno and Brett Favre trying to order food at a restaurant?:



Jay: "I might just get an appetizer. I want to be done before it gets late."


Brett: "I want the filet. I love the filet with all my heart (starts to well up). I'd do anything for the filet..but...but I...but I just don't know if I can handle it anymore. Either my body or my mind. I might need to put on my Wranglers and think about this while sitting on the flatbed of my truck with my dog."


Jay: "Maybe you can just get the filet as an appetizer. I mean, there's nothing wrong with doing the exact same thing, just at an earlier time and telling everyone it's something new."



Brett: "You're right. I do want the filet. But I don't want to eat it here anymore. I want to eat at a whole new table with all new waiters and bus boys. But only after I tell our waiter here that I'm not going to eat at all."



I'll stop there, but you get the idea. That could be funny I think...But still, fuck Jay Leno.


Alright, that's enough for now. More awards to come if I ever think of any. Otherwise, I'll be back soon. 'Til next time.


DJ

I. THE MOST ANNOYING THING IN THE WORLD


If Iwere temporarily all-powerful and could instantly fix/eliminate but one major problem in this modern world wrrrrrrrrought ('Why all the extra r's?' I feel the word "wrought" packs a bit more of a punch if it sounds like you're grumbling when you say it, or if you trill the r's like in Spanish. Try it, you'll see) with impending global catastrophe in which we all live, it would not be world hunger, it would not be homelessness/poverty, it would not be crime, it would not be racism/prejudice/stereotyping, it would not be the sickening lack of Vince Lombardi trophies in Philadelphia, it wouldn't be drug addiction, it wouldn't terrorism, it wouldn't be general ignorance, it wouldn't even be the Jonas Brothers. No no, instead, I'd devote my attention to a much more irritating and unacceptable concern...


... Don't you hate it when you try to fill up your gas tank and the little latch that allows you to lock the pump handle in place is broken, thereby crushing your wish to either sit in the car while the gas pumps because it's cold outside or go inside the station itself to buy a cup of coffee and a scratch-off instant lottery game? Isn't having to stand there and manually squeeze the pump routinely the worst minute to minute-and-a-half of your day? You know it is, don't lie. The only thing that even comes close if when the latch is not broken, you set it all up, you go inside and buy your coffee and lotto ticket figuring that by the time you return to your car you will have a full tank of gas, then you find that for some reason, the gas stopped pumping about three seconds after you left it. That sucks a fat one as well. But still, you can always just set it up again, then sit in the nice warm car with your nice hot (or iced) coffee, so this situation doesn't make my blood boil quite as much as the goddamn broken latch - by far Earth's most pressing concern. In fact, this pisses me off so much that whenever I come across it, I feel more than just mildly compelled to spray down the whole station with gasoline and drop a lit match on it. The only reason I don't is because I don't want to lose the attached Dunkin' Donuts or A-Plus or Hess Express or whatever it is attached to it that gives me my huge french vanilla coffee. That's reasonable, right? ('Jackass, if you DID drop that lit match, you'd end up killing yourself too, did you ever think of that?' Nah-ah, cuz I'd do it drive-by style like black people like to do in movies and by movies I mean real life.... So there.).



II. MOVIE QUOTE/DIALOGUE OF THE DAY


From "Me, Myself, and Irene":


Hank: "So what's your tale, mother goose? Where ya from?"
Irene: "Oh, all over really."
Hank: "Mmmm - omnipresence. I like that in a woman."

III. PHALLIC IRONY!

Ya know what's funny? - the fact that birth control pills come in a package shaped like a clam. That's just....I don't know, that's just funny to me.


IV. FUN WORD COMBO

Taking two words - typically an adjective and the noun it's describing - and making them into one bigger, often funnier word has become a preferred custom of mine over the past few years. I do it a lot...Like, a lot alot. It's a fun game. And I thought that it would make a fun, quick little blog item earlier today when I was talking to my special lady friend. At one point during the conversation, she let loose a laugh that was very high-pitched and also sounded kinda retarded, ya know, like a retard. So naturally, I looked at her and said, "You sound like a three year old retard.... Wait....Yup, you're a threetard." We then laughed again, but this time, thankfully, we both sounded like like normal adults.



V. WAIT, MY NETWORK IS 3G?!? THAT'S AWESOME!....RIGHT?


As if Luke Wilson wasn't lame enough already - 'The rest of the cast of Old School is making funny movies, but I'm gonna make cell phone commercials!' - I can't sit down to watch tv anymore without having to endure him and his goofy square jaw and the rest of his I-look-like-a-middle-aged-and-stupider-looking-Zach-Braff face blab on and on about the wonders of having the world's largest 3G network at his disposal. Let me ask everyone something...


...What the fuck does "3G" even mean? Huh? What does that do for me exactly? I want some fucking explanations. I realize that it's an established (and apparently successful) marketing technique to throw a vague, poorly explained quality/feature of a given product into said product's commercials and imply that said quality/feature is what makes said product superior and/or needed ('You said 'said' too much just now.' Yeah, I know). I understand that this method probably works because the majority of humanity will listen to what they hear and believe what they're told because they're sheep (By the way, I will write a book, it will be called "People are Sheep".... and you will buy it.... Baaaaa.), but that's not enough for me this time. In past instances I haven't really given a shit - I don't care what chemical it is in 'Lectric Shave' that makes the hairs on my face stand up or why the fact that Denorex tingles while Head and Shoulders does not means that Denorex works better - but I've been so indundated with advertising of 3G networks and such that I just can't handle it anymore. Somebody fucking tell me. Now.


But ya know the only thing that pisses me off more than this? - the fact that one of the cell phone companies (I don't remember which) - is now hawking the nation's first 4G network!... And all I can think is - is it really that simple? Is that what all the middle-aged executives talk about when they're sitting around the large oak conference room table with the speakerphone that looks like like a spiderweb in the middle? I bet it is. It's amazing that people like that who probably make millions earn their riches (clearly I'm using the term "earn" loosely) by conducting a meeting that most likely goes like this:


Douchebag Exec A: "Alright, here's the dilemma. AT&T has gotten Zach Braff to advertise the hell out of their 3G network coverage. I need ideas.



Douchebag Exec B: "Actually that's Luke Wilson."



Douchebag A: "Whatever....Thoughts?"


(5 minutes of silence)


Douchebag Exec C: "...I got it! They're saying that their 3G network is best. Why don't we... and I know this sounds crazy, but follow me here... say that we have a FOUR G network?!?! (Sticking his arms out, moving fingers on both hands back and forth in a wafting motion as if to say 'Come here.') Ehh? Eeehhh? Not bad, right?"


Douchebag A: "Genius! Done! I want commercials to air tomorrow, and next week, let's figure out what we're going to tell people 4G could actually mean."


Yeah, that's probably how all those meetings go down. The DirecTV commercials also did a great job of parodying this phenomenon. You know those commercials - "But we don't broadcast in a million 80p, do we?..." Those commercials. I actually used to sit in on meetings just like this -complete with the huge table, comfy chairs, and fantastic views of the city -during my time at a certain science museum in Philadelphia, so I can legitimately attest to the overwhelmingly and comically superficial intelligence of these meetings. Nothing of note is ever actually said or done. It's hilarious.


But still, seriously, someone fucking tell me what 3G is and what it does.

DJ