Last night, I watched It's A Wonderful Life, which I am not ashamed to admit is one of my favorite movies. For one thing, it's a totally great movie, and I always feel like there's more to it each time I watch. Like last night, I realized that the first person who shows up at George Bailey's house at the end of the movie to bail George out of trouble is the guy who goes to the Building and Loan in the bank panic and demands all $242 of his money. Also, I realized that the movie is really about the danger of going into business with your dad's alcoholic brother. You'd think they would have fired Uncle Billy long before trusting him with $8000 of the B&L's money, right? I mean, he keeps a crow named Jeremy in the office! He ties strings around his fingers to remember things instead of, I don't know, WRITING THEM DOWN!!!
But hey, the movie is awesome. I mean, it's all romantic, and it's basically about how awesome it is to be kind to others, because they will be there for you, and how your friends are really the proof of how rich you are. In the end, Mr. Potter and all his money are still unhappy, unfuckable, and alone except for the creepy guy pushing him around in his wheelchair. Still, personally, I want to be both. Why is it that you can't be like super popular and rich at the same time? Is that a law?
I mean, don't get me wrong, when the revolution comes, I plan to put rich people's backs up against the wall. But I wouldn't mind being rich if I had the chance. It's much better than being poor, I think. I mean, poor might be semi-chic from time to time, but it's really only cool to look poor, as in wearing designer clothes designed by people who live in the gas chamber of a condemned prison and sewn by Cambodian infants to look shabby. That is pretty cool. But I would enjoy being able to boss people around with money. Really, let's face it, that's all that money is. In the olden days, you would be like, "I am the Archbishop of Mainz!" and that would be enough to let people know not to fuck with you, because you command like crazy amounts of knights, and everyone's afraid of you, because without your favor, God will kill them with the Black Plague and other shit. Or you'd be like the Baron of Muchausen's Syndrome, and when people around you are like going to war, you're pretending to be sick to get attention. That's power. Oh wait, that's mental illness. I'm so fucking confused.
No, money is power, not a new point, but let's face it, people with money always do totally boring things with all their power. I like me a crazy billionaire like Richard Branson, a conceited asshole who's dream is to circumnavigate the earth in a balloon. Well, that's not actually his dream, that's just an awesome thing he does with his money. Seriously, if I had Bill Gates kind of money, I'd start my own space program, and I'd build a golf course on the Moon. Then I'd demand like $100 million from my crazy asshole friends to play 18 holes. Since gravity is like 1/6th of Earth's, a par 4 hole would be like a mile, and instead of sand traps, you just have giant craters everywhere. Plus, at the end, I'd have a bar called the 19th Hole that would actually be a time portal to the Cretaceous period, and we'd all go there and fucking hunt dinosaurs, and pretty much kill all the animals we could. Ray Bradbury be damned.
I mean, rich people set up the most boring charities, and honestly, many charities give money to people with money, like when people set up charities to give money to doctors and hospitals to find a cure for some disease, like Spidermonkeyitis, where your left foot turns into a spider monkey during the full moon (my uncle suffers from this), I mean, why not just give the money to some real shit, like people without feet at all, or without a place to sleep or food to eat? No, rich people need to be like, "I gave 100 grand to cure Dandy-Walker syndrom! Yay for me!"
I think I'm going to start my own charity that gives money to rich people with awesome, worthless uses of money and power. Like, you know what would be awesome? A guy who gets around town by having an army of people crowd-surfing him down the street. Get like 500 people, and pay them all like $100, and they've got just one job, not to drop you, and they like run around, and push you down the street, crowd-surfing your way to work. That would be an awesome waste of $50,000, and you would have many 500 people kind of happy, and me very happy. What about taking vicious dogs from every dog pound in America, and instead of euthanizing them, you employ them as the guards at a new Supermax prison!??! Try to escape when Fido the Fido-killer is ripping your leg off. Guess you'll think twice about being in the Aryan Nation now? (Question: are people in the Aryan Nation racist against black dogs? And if not, then they are even stupider than they already are. At least take your prejudice to the illogical extreme.)
What does this have to do with It's A Wonderful Life? Nothing at all, but to say that Mr. Potter sucks balls. By the way, where did he get all his money? Was he just born with it? God was like, "You don't get working legs, but you get a million dollars," and Potter was like, "You once called me a warped, frustrated old man," and God's all, "Um, no, I just said you get a million dollars," and Potter's like, "What if I were to offer you a position making $20,000 a year, starting today?" and at that point, God is like, "I forgot why I don't talk to characters from movies," and Rocky shows up and knocks Mr. Potter out, and is like, "I hate you, Mr. T!" Remember? Like in Rocky V where he has brain damage and beats up crippled people because he's demented?
Well, I feel like I pretty much didn't talk at all about what I really love about It's A Wonderful Life. That's OK. At some point, I promise, I will.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Here's some letters I've been meaning to write
Dear The Lead Singer of Incubus:
I was driving today, and I heard your song "I Wish You Were Here" on the radio, and I wanted to offer a minor critique of one line in particular in the second verse: you mention that you were like on the beach, and looking up at the sky which resembled a back-lit canopy, with holes punched in it. And you are counting UFOs, and then you say "I signal them with my lighter". Here is where I think a little lesson in physics and mathematics may help you out, and I wouldn't do this to, say, the lead singer of Creed, but you did use the word megalomaniac in a song, and that doesn't go unnoticed. What I'm trying to say is, respect.
OK: so, a lighter is actually not a good UFO signaling device. Your average lighter might be visible in a big concert hall, when it's dark, but then it only has to go a few hundred feet, instead of being viewed against, um, a GIANT FUCKING PLANET.
I don't know if you looked up in the sky tonight (December 1st, 2008), but there was a planetary conjunction. (Conjunction junction, what's my function? What the---the Electric Company? Next I'll be quoting shit from the Polka Dot Door. Can I get a childhood PBS-octemy? Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I was writing a letter to you, the lead singer of Incubus.) In this conjunction, the planets Venus and Jupiter were close to each other, and the Moon to boot. Venus, by the way, is the third brightest object in the sky, after the Sun and the Moon. And it's like the same size and shape as Earth, approximately. Now, it's pretty close to Earth, but if you were to signal to it with YOUR FUCKING LIGHTER, I don't think people would see it. I'm just saying. They would be far more likely to hear your ear poison playing on their radios. If you wanted to signal aliens, why didn't you talk about like rocking the fuck out of their saucers or something? Your songs are dumb.
Sincerely, Cheetah X
Dear The Aliens from the Incubus Song:
Sorry about all that craziness about you being signaled by lighters and shit. I mean, the guy is clearly off his rocker, no pun intended. Even if you were in the sky above the beach, looking down, with like a 1000x telescope, what are the odds you are going to see him? I mean, he clearly has no conception of scale, and must think that he's like super fucking important if you're going to notice his goddamn lighter from space.
That would be like being a random number between one and a fucking trillion, and if you threw a dart at the number line, being like, "It hits me every time!" Um, no it does, Einstein. It will probably hit you one in a TRILLION FUCKING TIMES. I mean, come on, the aliens, you know math, right? I was afraid to write this in my letter to the lead singer of Incubus, because he's like not really that smart (see: his tattoos, lyrics, and books--yes, books, can you believe that? what a jerkoff), but the circumference of the Earth is like 24,000 miles, and that means that we're talking like 80,000 square miles a hemisphere (pi times circumference, keep up, the aliens) to look at and see this dipshit with his lighter. If I say that you COULD see the lighter if you were looking at, I don't know, 100 square feet of land at a time, the odds are 1 in 4 million that you would spot him. So, can you tell Mr. Lottery Winning Alien Communicator that he needs to learn some science before he starts talking to you guys? I would greatly appreciate that. And by the way, his music is shitty, and I would appreciate if you would send a gift to Creed for not recording anything else. Thanks, the aliens.
Sincerely, Cheetah X
Dear Milton Bradley:
While taking a piss earlier, I wondered why you have waited so long to update the board game clue with new awesome characters, locations, and murder weapons. I am waiting for the day when I can say, "It was Professor Crackpipe, in the Meth Lab, with the Lynch Mob!" And someone is like, "No, I'm sorry, it was Clubbins McDeathdealer, in the Cider House, with the Cancer Baby." Also, I've got an idea for a new thriller board game for adults only called Date Rape Dorm Room (D.R.D.R.) where you try to avoid roofies and date rape, and in the process, become like head cheerleader. Actually, cancel that idea. I am suddenly concerned that you will take my suggestions about Clue less seriously. If that is the case, please use the self-addressed stamped envelope to express any concerns you have with my plans to create an empire based solely on board games, and won through board games. I have recently defeated the Mogul Emperor in a game of Stratego. That is all.
Sincerely, Cheetah X
Dear The Lead Singer of Creed:
I will try to keep this short, and all the words small. Your band is shitty. I hate your music. Thank you for not making it any longer. I hope your family has a wonderful Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Sincerely, Cheetah X
I was driving today, and I heard your song "I Wish You Were Here" on the radio, and I wanted to offer a minor critique of one line in particular in the second verse: you mention that you were like on the beach, and looking up at the sky which resembled a back-lit canopy, with holes punched in it. And you are counting UFOs, and then you say "I signal them with my lighter". Here is where I think a little lesson in physics and mathematics may help you out, and I wouldn't do this to, say, the lead singer of Creed, but you did use the word megalomaniac in a song, and that doesn't go unnoticed. What I'm trying to say is, respect.
OK: so, a lighter is actually not a good UFO signaling device. Your average lighter might be visible in a big concert hall, when it's dark, but then it only has to go a few hundred feet, instead of being viewed against, um, a GIANT FUCKING PLANET.
I don't know if you looked up in the sky tonight (December 1st, 2008), but there was a planetary conjunction. (Conjunction junction, what's my function? What the---the Electric Company? Next I'll be quoting shit from the Polka Dot Door. Can I get a childhood PBS-octemy? Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I was writing a letter to you, the lead singer of Incubus.) In this conjunction, the planets Venus and Jupiter were close to each other, and the Moon to boot. Venus, by the way, is the third brightest object in the sky, after the Sun and the Moon. And it's like the same size and shape as Earth, approximately. Now, it's pretty close to Earth, but if you were to signal to it with YOUR FUCKING LIGHTER, I don't think people would see it. I'm just saying. They would be far more likely to hear your ear poison playing on their radios. If you wanted to signal aliens, why didn't you talk about like rocking the fuck out of their saucers or something? Your songs are dumb.
Sincerely, Cheetah X
Dear The Aliens from the Incubus Song:
Sorry about all that craziness about you being signaled by lighters and shit. I mean, the guy is clearly off his rocker, no pun intended. Even if you were in the sky above the beach, looking down, with like a 1000x telescope, what are the odds you are going to see him? I mean, he clearly has no conception of scale, and must think that he's like super fucking important if you're going to notice his goddamn lighter from space.
That would be like being a random number between one and a fucking trillion, and if you threw a dart at the number line, being like, "It hits me every time!" Um, no it does, Einstein. It will probably hit you one in a TRILLION FUCKING TIMES. I mean, come on, the aliens, you know math, right? I was afraid to write this in my letter to the lead singer of Incubus, because he's like not really that smart (see: his tattoos, lyrics, and books--yes, books, can you believe that? what a jerkoff), but the circumference of the Earth is like 24,000 miles, and that means that we're talking like 80,000 square miles a hemisphere (pi times circumference, keep up, the aliens) to look at and see this dipshit with his lighter. If I say that you COULD see the lighter if you were looking at, I don't know, 100 square feet of land at a time, the odds are 1 in 4 million that you would spot him. So, can you tell Mr. Lottery Winning Alien Communicator that he needs to learn some science before he starts talking to you guys? I would greatly appreciate that. And by the way, his music is shitty, and I would appreciate if you would send a gift to Creed for not recording anything else. Thanks, the aliens.
Sincerely, Cheetah X
Dear Milton Bradley:
While taking a piss earlier, I wondered why you have waited so long to update the board game clue with new awesome characters, locations, and murder weapons. I am waiting for the day when I can say, "It was Professor Crackpipe, in the Meth Lab, with the Lynch Mob!" And someone is like, "No, I'm sorry, it was Clubbins McDeathdealer, in the Cider House, with the Cancer Baby." Also, I've got an idea for a new thriller board game for adults only called Date Rape Dorm Room (D.R.D.R.) where you try to avoid roofies and date rape, and in the process, become like head cheerleader. Actually, cancel that idea. I am suddenly concerned that you will take my suggestions about Clue less seriously. If that is the case, please use the self-addressed stamped envelope to express any concerns you have with my plans to create an empire based solely on board games, and won through board games. I have recently defeated the Mogul Emperor in a game of Stratego. That is all.
Sincerely, Cheetah X
Dear The Lead Singer of Creed:
I will try to keep this short, and all the words small. Your band is shitty. I hate your music. Thank you for not making it any longer. I hope your family has a wonderful Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Sincerely, Cheetah X
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Turkey Holocaust Day
Fact: Thanksgiving is one of the most patently evil of all holidays. I mean, thing of the elements of the thing: food; family; secret pictures of Adolf Hitler on the inside of every Butterball turkey; and two football games, one of which will involve the Detroit Lions (i.e. SUCK!).
Yeah, bet you didn't know the thing about the Detroit Lions.
Fact: I love evil. Therefore, I love evil holidays. Therefore, I love Thanksgiving. I mean, for me, Thanksgiving is always a time to stuff about five turkeys down my throat, plug it up with a piece of pumpkin pie, start an IV drip of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, and tell everyone near me that I love them, even though that's usually the booze talking. Just kidding! I don't drink. I should have thought about that before I went around telling everyone I loved them when I went to the grocery store the other day. They might have just thought I was weird or something.
Fact: Thanksgiving has not always been a national holiday. I think people have weird ideas about holidays, like they were celebrated annually since the event being celebrated. FYI: Christmas did not start the year after Jesus was born. (Yeah, actually, I guess it was, but it was a totally different holiday--it was Roman, and they welcomed back their dead ancestors. Don't most people try to avoid their dead ancestors, as a rule of thumb? I personally don't want zombie relatives showing up on Valentine's Day being all, "We missed you!" It would be time for some shotgun-wielding. Then again, when is it the wrong time to brandish a shotgun?)
Fact: I want to be elected Archduke of Thanksgiving. If they have parades, they should have nobility to preside over them, and I think I'm going to start a parade just to win the noble title. I mean, marshal? What a stupid title for the presiding officer of a parade. Maybe the Marquis de Parade would be cooler. Or not. How about Caesar of the Parades? These are getting worse and worse. Maybe I could be Brigadier General of Thanksgiving, or just Shah of Shahs of Thanksgiving. (That means king of kings to Persians. Totally sweet.)
Fact: someday, I would like to visit Turkey. Mostly to see the Church of Hagia Sophia, which, when the Byzantine Empire was defeated by the Ottoman Turks in 1453, was turned into a mosque, but still, it has some of the coolest architecture. Wikipedia it. The place has this dome with all these tiny windows supporting it, it's awesome. Ah, the Byzantines. Kick ass cathedrals. Giant iron chains across your harbor. Pretending to be the Roman Empire when you ruled like a half a sliver of land. Priceless.
Fact: someday, I would like to shoot a turkey. Whenever I go to this bowling alley, I always play Turkey Hunt!, a video game where the controller is a shotgun (see: above) and you blast turkeys with said shotgun. I am not sure if I ever bagged three turkeys on one level, but I know that I've gotten two several times. Of course, in the video game, you don't get to eat the turkey that you've blown out of the plains of New Mexico. Instead, it tells you how many points you got, and then you can keep going, killing turkeys for like twenty minutes. If you think this video game is retarded, then you are correct. However, I cannot resist it. I love video games with gun controllers. Remember Duck Hunt, that old Nintendo game? That game was fucking retarded with a capital Tar, but I would always want to play that when I was at a friend's house, just to use the gun controller.
Fact: I've just revealed way too much about my lust for gun controllers.
Fact: I need to start a band called Gun Controller.
Happy Turkey Holocaust Day, everyone.
Yeah, bet you didn't know the thing about the Detroit Lions.
Fact: I love evil. Therefore, I love evil holidays. Therefore, I love Thanksgiving. I mean, for me, Thanksgiving is always a time to stuff about five turkeys down my throat, plug it up with a piece of pumpkin pie, start an IV drip of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, and tell everyone near me that I love them, even though that's usually the booze talking. Just kidding! I don't drink. I should have thought about that before I went around telling everyone I loved them when I went to the grocery store the other day. They might have just thought I was weird or something.
Fact: Thanksgiving has not always been a national holiday. I think people have weird ideas about holidays, like they were celebrated annually since the event being celebrated. FYI: Christmas did not start the year after Jesus was born. (Yeah, actually, I guess it was, but it was a totally different holiday--it was Roman, and they welcomed back their dead ancestors. Don't most people try to avoid their dead ancestors, as a rule of thumb? I personally don't want zombie relatives showing up on Valentine's Day being all, "We missed you!" It would be time for some shotgun-wielding. Then again, when is it the wrong time to brandish a shotgun?)
Fact: I want to be elected Archduke of Thanksgiving. If they have parades, they should have nobility to preside over them, and I think I'm going to start a parade just to win the noble title. I mean, marshal? What a stupid title for the presiding officer of a parade. Maybe the Marquis de Parade would be cooler. Or not. How about Caesar of the Parades? These are getting worse and worse. Maybe I could be Brigadier General of Thanksgiving, or just Shah of Shahs of Thanksgiving. (That means king of kings to Persians. Totally sweet.)
Fact: someday, I would like to visit Turkey. Mostly to see the Church of Hagia Sophia, which, when the Byzantine Empire was defeated by the Ottoman Turks in 1453, was turned into a mosque, but still, it has some of the coolest architecture. Wikipedia it. The place has this dome with all these tiny windows supporting it, it's awesome. Ah, the Byzantines. Kick ass cathedrals. Giant iron chains across your harbor. Pretending to be the Roman Empire when you ruled like a half a sliver of land. Priceless.
Fact: someday, I would like to shoot a turkey. Whenever I go to this bowling alley, I always play Turkey Hunt!, a video game where the controller is a shotgun (see: above) and you blast turkeys with said shotgun. I am not sure if I ever bagged three turkeys on one level, but I know that I've gotten two several times. Of course, in the video game, you don't get to eat the turkey that you've blown out of the plains of New Mexico. Instead, it tells you how many points you got, and then you can keep going, killing turkeys for like twenty minutes. If you think this video game is retarded, then you are correct. However, I cannot resist it. I love video games with gun controllers. Remember Duck Hunt, that old Nintendo game? That game was fucking retarded with a capital Tar, but I would always want to play that when I was at a friend's house, just to use the gun controller.
Fact: I've just revealed way too much about my lust for gun controllers.
Fact: I need to start a band called Gun Controller.
Happy Turkey Holocaust Day, everyone.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
I am a woolgatherer
Not that it should shock you, but a word exists for what I am, and for what I do. It's cool that there are words for like everything in existence. If you were to forge a toaster and an electric blanket together with a lizard egg, and somehow this Frankenstein creation performed anything at all, even like, um, smelling terrible on command, it would be named by somebody. According to Mitch Hedberg, this is done by adding "-er" to the end of the name. You would have created a smeller.
While reading about this really sweet album (In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel) I came across the pejorative term "woolgathering" used in a review of the album, and I was like, "Hmm, I would sure like a specific definition of that word." So I looked it up, and it turns out, it's something I engage in quite frequently.
Woolgathering: indulgence in idle fancies and in daydreaming; absentmindedness: "His woolgathering was a handicap in school." (PS: In case you wondered, dictionary.com says that this word is a combination of the words "wool" and "gather", and not "woolga" and "ther" like you thought. I mean, if we listened to you about word etymology, most people would still be communicating with semaphore. Ha! Just kidding. We're friends.)
I often find myself daydreaming about nearly impossible situations, some of which may come true, such as engaging in a sabre duel with terrorist leader Sayid abu Bakr and former Grand Wizard David Duke on a steel girder 80 floors above the ground. I came real close to that last year, and then David Duke was all, "Forget it, you guys, I just watched the Deerhunter last night, and I realize now how crazy it is that I've been shooting heroin and playing Russian roulette ever since I lost the race for governor of Louisiana." That guy is a pussy. Note to self: never again fantasize about duels with Klan members. They will always make some excuse and back out of it.
Sometimes I think about things that could happen for real, but most of the time, I think that I fantasize about things that are not real for a reason: they are much cooler than real things. Just as an example: in real life, I will never be President. But in my fantasy life, I'm like better than President. I'm the Emperor of California and Nevada, and we're poised to invade Arizona and northern Mexico. I drive around in a Cadillac that's had the top sawed off, and it has a chandelier on the hood, like the Duke of New York in Escape from New York. (If I ever meet Donald Pleasance, I will demand that he tell me that I am "the Duke of New York, "A" # 1!" Shit, he's dead. Oh well. See, better to live in fantasyland!) Actually, none of this is true. In reality, I come up with these blogs as I'm typing them, and that may be far more interesting, the fact that all this stuff kind of lives inside my head.
I mean, in real life, my fantasies are all about being interviewed by like Rolling Stone magazine, and people are like, "Cheetah X, your blog has become a touchstone for people who don't give a shit about the future of anything," and I'll be like, "The people who read my blog care about the future of things, they just don't care about the future of jalapeño pizza, Furby, or Diet Coke Plus." And the interviewer will be like, "Heavy." End of interview. Insert like twenty photos of me posing like a badass with the carcass of an animal that I've hunted and killed with my bear hands. I mean bear hands. This is another fantasy of mine, to kill a bear, and then hollow out his paws and wear them over my own hands. It will be sweet. I don't think my girlfriend will appreciate them, however, so I will need to judiciously choose when to wear the bear hands. Mainly when I'm hunting and killing animals with them.
How gathering wool came to be associated with idle fantasy seems a little strange. I mean, wool is a fucking commodity. Maybe if I was idly collecting cockroach feathers, then I would be guilty of idle fantasy. Again, because they don't exist. But that might be a little long. Cockroach-feather-gatherer. Also, gathering for a long time has gotten a bad rap. I mean, when it comes to hunter-gatherers, who were the badasses? That's right, the people with the bear hands. Gathering is a worthless activity. I mean, look at homeless people going through your recycling bin, and tell me that you have respect for their activity. But if those homeless people collected glass bottles, made them into weapons, and went around killing pigeons for food, you'd be like, "I'm calling the cops! There's a pigeon hunter on the loose in my neighborhood!" The cops, of course, would tase the shit out of you. Then they would violate all kinds of civil rights of everyone in a 20 block radius. That's the LAPD for you. Injustice much?
Anyway, I'm sure there's something else that could be gathered instead of wool. What about those plastic grocery bags? I will admit to having a collection of them, and it is a fantastical collection, because I always imagine as I ball up yet another plastic bag that I will someday find a purpose for it and the other 60 bags under my sink. Of course, since I don't make a habit of needing to put things in plastic bags, this never happens. So really, let's say that from now on, woolgatherers just got themselves a pardon, and people engaged in absentminded idle fantasies shall henceforth be known as baggatherers. I like the way the two g's looks in there. Bagga. Therers. No, it's bag and gatherers, silly dictionary. Oh, fine, we'll keep it the way it is. Jerk.
While reading about this really sweet album (In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel) I came across the pejorative term "woolgathering" used in a review of the album, and I was like, "Hmm, I would sure like a specific definition of that word." So I looked it up, and it turns out, it's something I engage in quite frequently.
Woolgathering: indulgence in idle fancies and in daydreaming; absentmindedness: "His woolgathering was a handicap in school." (PS: In case you wondered, dictionary.com says that this word is a combination of the words "wool" and "gather", and not "woolga" and "ther" like you thought. I mean, if we listened to you about word etymology, most people would still be communicating with semaphore. Ha! Just kidding. We're friends.)
I often find myself daydreaming about nearly impossible situations, some of which may come true, such as engaging in a sabre duel with terrorist leader Sayid abu Bakr and former Grand Wizard David Duke on a steel girder 80 floors above the ground. I came real close to that last year, and then David Duke was all, "Forget it, you guys, I just watched the Deerhunter last night, and I realize now how crazy it is that I've been shooting heroin and playing Russian roulette ever since I lost the race for governor of Louisiana." That guy is a pussy. Note to self: never again fantasize about duels with Klan members. They will always make some excuse and back out of it.
Sometimes I think about things that could happen for real, but most of the time, I think that I fantasize about things that are not real for a reason: they are much cooler than real things. Just as an example: in real life, I will never be President. But in my fantasy life, I'm like better than President. I'm the Emperor of California and Nevada, and we're poised to invade Arizona and northern Mexico. I drive around in a Cadillac that's had the top sawed off, and it has a chandelier on the hood, like the Duke of New York in Escape from New York. (If I ever meet Donald Pleasance, I will demand that he tell me that I am "the Duke of New York, "A" # 1!" Shit, he's dead. Oh well. See, better to live in fantasyland!) Actually, none of this is true. In reality, I come up with these blogs as I'm typing them, and that may be far more interesting, the fact that all this stuff kind of lives inside my head.
I mean, in real life, my fantasies are all about being interviewed by like Rolling Stone magazine, and people are like, "Cheetah X, your blog has become a touchstone for people who don't give a shit about the future of anything," and I'll be like, "The people who read my blog care about the future of things, they just don't care about the future of jalapeño pizza, Furby, or Diet Coke Plus." And the interviewer will be like, "Heavy." End of interview. Insert like twenty photos of me posing like a badass with the carcass of an animal that I've hunted and killed with my bear hands. I mean bear hands. This is another fantasy of mine, to kill a bear, and then hollow out his paws and wear them over my own hands. It will be sweet. I don't think my girlfriend will appreciate them, however, so I will need to judiciously choose when to wear the bear hands. Mainly when I'm hunting and killing animals with them.
How gathering wool came to be associated with idle fantasy seems a little strange. I mean, wool is a fucking commodity. Maybe if I was idly collecting cockroach feathers, then I would be guilty of idle fantasy. Again, because they don't exist. But that might be a little long. Cockroach-feather-gatherer. Also, gathering for a long time has gotten a bad rap. I mean, when it comes to hunter-gatherers, who were the badasses? That's right, the people with the bear hands. Gathering is a worthless activity. I mean, look at homeless people going through your recycling bin, and tell me that you have respect for their activity. But if those homeless people collected glass bottles, made them into weapons, and went around killing pigeons for food, you'd be like, "I'm calling the cops! There's a pigeon hunter on the loose in my neighborhood!" The cops, of course, would tase the shit out of you. Then they would violate all kinds of civil rights of everyone in a 20 block radius. That's the LAPD for you. Injustice much?
Anyway, I'm sure there's something else that could be gathered instead of wool. What about those plastic grocery bags? I will admit to having a collection of them, and it is a fantastical collection, because I always imagine as I ball up yet another plastic bag that I will someday find a purpose for it and the other 60 bags under my sink. Of course, since I don't make a habit of needing to put things in plastic bags, this never happens. So really, let's say that from now on, woolgatherers just got themselves a pardon, and people engaged in absentminded idle fantasies shall henceforth be known as baggatherers. I like the way the two g's looks in there. Bagga. Therers. No, it's bag and gatherers, silly dictionary. Oh, fine, we'll keep it the way it is. Jerk.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
I apologize for never making sense ever
I was over at my friend's apartment last night, and we were surfing on the Youtube, and came across a thing about cup stacking. If you are unaware, cup stacking is this huge phenom on the Youtube, where children stack cups up and then unstack them, and then claim that they have the world record for cup stacking. This may be one of the most useless hobbies ever invented. I make fun of my little brother all the time because he plays so many hours and hours of computer games, but at least he's at least engaged in something that was designed by other people to be entertaining. Who was the first person who took a look at a stack of plastic cups and went, "You know, I bet I'd be awesome at making these into little cup pyramids, and then stacking them up into different pyramids, and then doing this all to a shitty techno beat!" Because that person needs to receive a beating, and then be handed a Playstation. "Here, you stupid dumbfuck, if you want to mindlessly entertain yourself, we have a number of inventions to do that with already. Put those fucking cups away."
It makes you question whether America can last long enough for me to carry out my scheme where I become Governor of Colorado and then dig through an abandoned silver mine to the underground Rio Grande and escape to Mexico with the state treasury. I stole this from the plot of a novel...called...Grover's Cleveland...yeah, that's it. Um, I mean, it was called the Our Omelet. I love those Denver omelets. I do. I need to get back in the habit of making omelets. And stealing state treasuries.
But still, that probably will never happen, none of it, me writing a novel about it, stealing the state treasury, or even the underground Rio Grande escape. Such a bummer. And all because a bunch of people in this country have pretty much given up on their lives. What happened, America? It's like everyone has been swallowing glass for years, and it's finally catching up with us. "Ow, my insides are bleeding again. I guess I should just go back to this reality television program where cancer patients fight for their survival. Chemo Island."
What a brilliant idea. No one is allowed to steal that one from me. (PS: After writing this, I saw an ad in this magazine that says "Tayln vs. Eye Cancer" and I immediately felt bad for this.)
I often wonder what people have been thinking about when they give up on their lives, and start pursuing things like cup stacking as a way to boost their self-esteem. I mean, for one thing, if I ever had a child, and they showed me their special talent for spinning plates, I would fucking hack off their arm. I would be like, "Why don't you do something useful? What is this plate spinning? America is at war with insectoid aliens that sucked out your mom's brains! Help me finish building this x-ray laser already!"
(X-ray lasers are the coolest, everyone. If you are unsure how to make a high-tech beam weapon, I'll let you in on the first secret of high-tech beam weapon manufacture: you can't be scared of a little radiation. And by a little, I mean, you'll never grow hair again.)
Stupid insectoid aliens. I mean, what if that happened? What if Hitler comes back from the dead, and we have World War II: Part 2--Israel's Revenge? These American cup stacker children and life-wasting people everywhere will be completely useless. Again, at least my little brother will probably be recruited to pilot a remote drone of some sort, like a fifty-foot battlebot that spits fire and uses a flaming sword to cut through Israelis. I mean Nazis. I always forget which side I'm on in future conflicts that I invented.
I mean, I can tell you what side I would have been on in wars in the past, given the chance. Hundred Years' War: England. Thirty Years' War: Sweden. Russo-Japanese-Grizzly Bear War: the Grizzlies. American Revolution: Mitsubishi (they have paid me to say this, in exchange for a free Galant). Just a few more, I promise. The Seven Years' War: The not-French-and-Indian side. Man, why don't we get into more wars that are like time specific? I mean, way back when, it seems like they were kind of free-form, and England and France were like, "What, should we take, um, like a hundred years to fight over whether your king is really our king? How's that sound? Good?" But eventually, by the 1700s, people had it figured out. England and France were like, "Yeah, seven sounds like a good number to me, we'll fight until 1763."
America, if there's two things I've learned from this rambling blog, it's that 1) I'm going to pitch a show called Chemo Island to the Oxygen channel, and 2) we need to start telling people how long we'll be at war with them again. Maybe we peace out of Afghanistan and Iraq, and then we'll just go to Iran and be like, "Hey, Mahmoud whateveryournameis, we're going to come invade your country, because of those nukes and your funny hats. How's three years of war sound? Just 20 months? I think we can arrange that? Yo, China! You want a piece of this in two years time? We'll fight you for a year and a fortnight?"
The Year and a Fortnight War. It is epic.
Oh wait, war kinda sucks, doesn't it? Well, I'm still looking for some help constructing this x-ray laser in my basement. Don't worry, we can't use it until I launch it into space. I mean, ha ha! Shooting an x-ray laser off on the ground. Are you crazy?
It makes you question whether America can last long enough for me to carry out my scheme where I become Governor of Colorado and then dig through an abandoned silver mine to the underground Rio Grande and escape to Mexico with the state treasury. I stole this from the plot of a novel...called...Grover's Cleveland...yeah, that's it. Um, I mean, it was called the Our Omelet. I love those Denver omelets. I do. I need to get back in the habit of making omelets. And stealing state treasuries.
But still, that probably will never happen, none of it, me writing a novel about it, stealing the state treasury, or even the underground Rio Grande escape. Such a bummer. And all because a bunch of people in this country have pretty much given up on their lives. What happened, America? It's like everyone has been swallowing glass for years, and it's finally catching up with us. "Ow, my insides are bleeding again. I guess I should just go back to this reality television program where cancer patients fight for their survival. Chemo Island."
What a brilliant idea. No one is allowed to steal that one from me. (PS: After writing this, I saw an ad in this magazine that says "Tayln vs. Eye Cancer" and I immediately felt bad for this.)
I often wonder what people have been thinking about when they give up on their lives, and start pursuing things like cup stacking as a way to boost their self-esteem. I mean, for one thing, if I ever had a child, and they showed me their special talent for spinning plates, I would fucking hack off their arm. I would be like, "Why don't you do something useful? What is this plate spinning? America is at war with insectoid aliens that sucked out your mom's brains! Help me finish building this x-ray laser already!"
(X-ray lasers are the coolest, everyone. If you are unsure how to make a high-tech beam weapon, I'll let you in on the first secret of high-tech beam weapon manufacture: you can't be scared of a little radiation. And by a little, I mean, you'll never grow hair again.)
Stupid insectoid aliens. I mean, what if that happened? What if Hitler comes back from the dead, and we have World War II: Part 2--Israel's Revenge? These American cup stacker children and life-wasting people everywhere will be completely useless. Again, at least my little brother will probably be recruited to pilot a remote drone of some sort, like a fifty-foot battlebot that spits fire and uses a flaming sword to cut through Israelis. I mean Nazis. I always forget which side I'm on in future conflicts that I invented.
I mean, I can tell you what side I would have been on in wars in the past, given the chance. Hundred Years' War: England. Thirty Years' War: Sweden. Russo-Japanese-Grizzly Bear War: the Grizzlies. American Revolution: Mitsubishi (they have paid me to say this, in exchange for a free Galant). Just a few more, I promise. The Seven Years' War: The not-French-and-Indian side. Man, why don't we get into more wars that are like time specific? I mean, way back when, it seems like they were kind of free-form, and England and France were like, "What, should we take, um, like a hundred years to fight over whether your king is really our king? How's that sound? Good?" But eventually, by the 1700s, people had it figured out. England and France were like, "Yeah, seven sounds like a good number to me, we'll fight until 1763."
America, if there's two things I've learned from this rambling blog, it's that 1) I'm going to pitch a show called Chemo Island to the Oxygen channel, and 2) we need to start telling people how long we'll be at war with them again. Maybe we peace out of Afghanistan and Iraq, and then we'll just go to Iran and be like, "Hey, Mahmoud whateveryournameis, we're going to come invade your country, because of those nukes and your funny hats. How's three years of war sound? Just 20 months? I think we can arrange that? Yo, China! You want a piece of this in two years time? We'll fight you for a year and a fortnight?"
The Year and a Fortnight War. It is epic.
Oh wait, war kinda sucks, doesn't it? Well, I'm still looking for some help constructing this x-ray laser in my basement. Don't worry, we can't use it until I launch it into space. I mean, ha ha! Shooting an x-ray laser off on the ground. Are you crazy?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Time to become a rock god...er...perhaps some demigod of rock...
Personally, I'm a big fan of demigods. God-gods are a little harsh, all lightning-bolty and turning people into pillars of salt-y, whereas your average demigod is just basically killing for fun, like an Italian. Not only that, but they are like half-mortal, which is a strange concept, but whatever, it worked for the Greeks and Romans, and they invented all sorts of awesome shit like depravity and abandoning unwanted children to the elements to die of exposure. (That's called keeping it real, yo.)
Anyway, that's what I wouldn't mind becoming: a demigod of rock'n'roll. Ozzy Osbourne is like the Zeus of rock'n'roll. I wouldn't mind being like the Achilles of rock, or the Heracles of rock (I'm sticking with the Greek thing here, chill out, Hercules fans--by the way, remember that gay-ass show about Hercules starring that loser Kevin Sorbinowhozzits? that show sucked), rather than having to be the Apollo of rock. PS: what a shitty job Apollo has, he's basically the Sun's chauffeur. True story. The unfortunate part is that he let his son Phaeton try to drive the Sun around, and Phaeton burned up most of what used to be Schenectedy, NY, and so Apollo basically can never give up his day job, because he has asshole children. Note to self: expose any asshole children to the elements, Roman style.
This has not gotten off to a good start. Bad start for a demigod of my stature. Anyway, I think that I spend enough time thinking about awesome music to qualify as a musician. I mean, I'm going to be in like a death-metal/folk/panda squeal band. Panda squeal is a genre of music where one member of the band does dental work on a half-sedated panda. The drills and panda whining are quite melodic. No one has merged that with folk/death metal either, so I'll be the first one. The band is called Armageddon Apocalypse Trainwreck. Also, I decided today when I was using the urinal at the Child Support Services office (I am not kidding, I was there, luckily not for myself--see the above comment about dealing with asshole children) that I should start a band called Chitty Chitty Gang Bang. This band will not be cool at all. We will only sample songs that make people want to choke themselves with their optic nerves. You know. Things like Mary J. Blige yodeling, Peter Frampton doing dental work on a panda named Ling Ling, and Shaquille O'Neal talking. PS: What is a fu-schnicken? Somebody look this up, because I feel crazy telling people that Shaq used to play with a group called the fu-schnickens.
Anyway, I guess that instead of just coming up with awesome band names, I should also create some really awesome band story arcs. See, most great bands have some wonderful tales to tell. They almost seem Arthurian in their legendary quality. Like the Beatles: they played clubs in Germany for years before they ever made it big, mostly thanks to Paul McCartney's fetish for legless women, and Ringo Starr's inferiority complex and subsequent psychoanalysis by Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, in a late-in-life re-partnership. Then they get big, only to decide that they got so big, they should not do things that normal bands do, i.e. play music, and instead they decided to do things that most bands should not do, i.e. make movies starring themselves as themselves. Only Help! is an awesome movie, I have to say. They made awesome movies. Then they got so big, that George Harrison was forced to trade his wife to Eric Clapton in exchange for their souls back from time-traveling Michael Jackson. That was a crazy weird day.
See, maybe Arm Apoc T-Wreck, we'll start by playing only free concerts. We'll go backwards from what most bands do. Our first show will be a nationally-televised concert we play for free from a beach where hundreds of dead dolphins have washed up after being killed by General Electric products. During that show, our original guitar player will be assassinated. I will have to avoid telling that part when I hire an original guitar player. Then, our fan base will dwindle, until we're forced to play in tiny clubs as the opening act, and eventually, it will just be me, playing guitar on the street, and screaming about dead dolphins, and trains that go wreck in the night, and songs about knife-fights.
Also, I will play the halftime show at the Superbowl, after being dropped out of the sky in a solid-gold caboose, although I will sabotage the drop so that I completely wipe out the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. I will then suit up, and lead my own football team, the Fairbanks Tornadocanes, to victory over the Kansas City Chiefs. Then I will force the Kansas City Chiefs into exile on a reservation.
Of course, I will also need to write songs. Most of them will be about things that I know: how hard it is to be friends with dragons, what it's like to have leprosy, how to overthrow the government and become President, what it's like to have sex with like millions of groupies. Basically my life. Except the opposite.
I'm sure that it can be done. I think I'm going to start right now.
Nevermind. I already gave up.
Anyway, that's what I wouldn't mind becoming: a demigod of rock'n'roll. Ozzy Osbourne is like the Zeus of rock'n'roll. I wouldn't mind being like the Achilles of rock, or the Heracles of rock (I'm sticking with the Greek thing here, chill out, Hercules fans--by the way, remember that gay-ass show about Hercules starring that loser Kevin Sorbinowhozzits? that show sucked), rather than having to be the Apollo of rock. PS: what a shitty job Apollo has, he's basically the Sun's chauffeur. True story. The unfortunate part is that he let his son Phaeton try to drive the Sun around, and Phaeton burned up most of what used to be Schenectedy, NY, and so Apollo basically can never give up his day job, because he has asshole children. Note to self: expose any asshole children to the elements, Roman style.
This has not gotten off to a good start. Bad start for a demigod of my stature. Anyway, I think that I spend enough time thinking about awesome music to qualify as a musician. I mean, I'm going to be in like a death-metal/folk/panda squeal band. Panda squeal is a genre of music where one member of the band does dental work on a half-sedated panda. The drills and panda whining are quite melodic. No one has merged that with folk/death metal either, so I'll be the first one. The band is called Armageddon Apocalypse Trainwreck. Also, I decided today when I was using the urinal at the Child Support Services office (I am not kidding, I was there, luckily not for myself--see the above comment about dealing with asshole children) that I should start a band called Chitty Chitty Gang Bang. This band will not be cool at all. We will only sample songs that make people want to choke themselves with their optic nerves. You know. Things like Mary J. Blige yodeling, Peter Frampton doing dental work on a panda named Ling Ling, and Shaquille O'Neal talking. PS: What is a fu-schnicken? Somebody look this up, because I feel crazy telling people that Shaq used to play with a group called the fu-schnickens.
Anyway, I guess that instead of just coming up with awesome band names, I should also create some really awesome band story arcs. See, most great bands have some wonderful tales to tell. They almost seem Arthurian in their legendary quality. Like the Beatles: they played clubs in Germany for years before they ever made it big, mostly thanks to Paul McCartney's fetish for legless women, and Ringo Starr's inferiority complex and subsequent psychoanalysis by Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, in a late-in-life re-partnership. Then they get big, only to decide that they got so big, they should not do things that normal bands do, i.e. play music, and instead they decided to do things that most bands should not do, i.e. make movies starring themselves as themselves. Only Help! is an awesome movie, I have to say. They made awesome movies. Then they got so big, that George Harrison was forced to trade his wife to Eric Clapton in exchange for their souls back from time-traveling Michael Jackson. That was a crazy weird day.
See, maybe Arm Apoc T-Wreck, we'll start by playing only free concerts. We'll go backwards from what most bands do. Our first show will be a nationally-televised concert we play for free from a beach where hundreds of dead dolphins have washed up after being killed by General Electric products. During that show, our original guitar player will be assassinated. I will have to avoid telling that part when I hire an original guitar player. Then, our fan base will dwindle, until we're forced to play in tiny clubs as the opening act, and eventually, it will just be me, playing guitar on the street, and screaming about dead dolphins, and trains that go wreck in the night, and songs about knife-fights.
Also, I will play the halftime show at the Superbowl, after being dropped out of the sky in a solid-gold caboose, although I will sabotage the drop so that I completely wipe out the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. I will then suit up, and lead my own football team, the Fairbanks Tornadocanes, to victory over the Kansas City Chiefs. Then I will force the Kansas City Chiefs into exile on a reservation.
Of course, I will also need to write songs. Most of them will be about things that I know: how hard it is to be friends with dragons, what it's like to have leprosy, how to overthrow the government and become President, what it's like to have sex with like millions of groupies. Basically my life. Except the opposite.
I'm sure that it can be done. I think I'm going to start right now.
Nevermind. I already gave up.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Dear Banana Republic,
Please see your way into giving me free clothes for life. I have many good reasons for this. The first rhymes with "smacktail". It is a word made of a color and the duty of the postal service. OK, I mean, I have pictures of you snuffing orphans in Cambodia. Yes, the Republic of Bananas, committing atrocities against Cambodian children. OK, that's a lie. In fact, that's a terrible start. Let me start over.
Dear Sizzler,
I went to the Sizzler last night. I am not solely responsible for this incident. There was consultation with someone else, and we agreed to go to the Sizzler, even though going in, we kind of got all high-school-debate-team on it, and went over the points about Sizzler that are like a birthright for American children.
Resolved: When you were a kid, you thought the Sizzler was a fancy restaurant. I don't know how I ever thought of the Sizzler as an amazing place, because the thing I remember from my childhood about Sizzler was ordering all-you-can-eat shrimp. Any restaurant that has an all-you-can-eat item should instantly go off your list of good restaurants. If Spago introduced all-you-can-eat caviar, you would have to be like, "Um, here's a crazy idea: let's go to Spago. No, I'm just kidding. I don't want to go there, unless you want to go there. We could go there?" It's one of those things, that as a grown-up, you know what the Sizzler really is. It's the fucking Sizzler. They have the salad bar.
About the salad bar: when I was a kid, I never got the salad bar. My parents got it. I got steak and all-you-can-eat shrimp. They got the endless salad bar. Now that I'm an adult, I always get the salad bar, probably because it makes me feel mature. Here's the thing about the endless salad bar: it rapes your intestines. Somehow you find yourself plating up tacos (I mean, yeah, what the fuck are you thinking, me at Sizzler?) and you skip the iceberg lettuce and pile some spinach and romaine on a plate, and dump on an obscene amount of shit, like you've never before eaten a salad, and you convince yourself that no salad is complete without kidney beans, peas, cheese, croutons, bacon bits, shredded carrot, toxic salad dressing, and baby corn. Um, baby corn? Are baby corn like aborted regular corn? I don't want to know, but you pile that shit on a plate, and I'll eat it, and then I'll be like, "Oooooooowwwwwwww. My intestines!" But then I'll go back and have ice cream that tastes like chocolate made inside of a dead animal, that you suck through a dirty wet sock. But you eat most of it. Because why not?
OK, resolved: you would be surprised, but Sizzler can actually cook a steak. I enjoyed my steak. I haven't had a steak that I haven't made in a long time. That's probably a lie, but I like telling them, so shut up. When I said that's probably a lie, THAT'S probably the lie, because I'm not much for spending shitloads for dinner, and I'm not going to order a steak at like IHOP or Denny's. Anyway, the steak is pretty good. I encourage everyone to get the steak. And always have the toast that they offer you. It will remind you of your childhood quicker than a beating with an ironing cord, or a visit from that "special" family friend.
Still, after discussion, resolved: the Sizzler is not some place that I will return shortly. I will return longly. Maybe after the memory of that ice cream leaves my system. God, I think I'm having flashbacks about that.
Anyway, Sizzler, if you could help me blackmail the Banana Republic into giving me free clothes, that would be sweet. Thanks.
Signed, Cheetah X
Dear Banana Republic,
I know my last letter came off a little threatening. I mean, I never sent you a threatening letter, hahaha! This is a proposition that I would like to make, a clever advertising gimmick for a sale that you will have, and it will happen soon.
You will have The Clothing Buffet.
For $250, you can get all the clothes you can wear.
So, it's incredibly tough to imagine people really putting on like twelve shirts and walking out, because twelve shirts would not fit. They would have to limit their shirts and pants so that they could buy shit like belts and jackets. I totally think this would be awesome. Besides, everyone knows that your clothes are really made by the same Cambodian slave children who make Gap and Old Navy clothes. So don't like, lie, and pretend like it's going to cost you a bunch of money. All-you-can-wear!
In return, all I'm asking for this brilliant idea is free clothes for life. I'll even always wear a t-shirt that says "Inventor of the All-You-Can-Wear Sale!" OK, I mean I'll get a tattoo of that. On my neck! Yeah, sweet. And on the other side of my neck, I'll get a banana. Being eaten by a Republican.
Get it, the Banana Republic? Cool.
Signed, Cheetah X
Dear Sizzler,
I went to the Sizzler last night. I am not solely responsible for this incident. There was consultation with someone else, and we agreed to go to the Sizzler, even though going in, we kind of got all high-school-debate-team on it, and went over the points about Sizzler that are like a birthright for American children.
Resolved: When you were a kid, you thought the Sizzler was a fancy restaurant. I don't know how I ever thought of the Sizzler as an amazing place, because the thing I remember from my childhood about Sizzler was ordering all-you-can-eat shrimp. Any restaurant that has an all-you-can-eat item should instantly go off your list of good restaurants. If Spago introduced all-you-can-eat caviar, you would have to be like, "Um, here's a crazy idea: let's go to Spago. No, I'm just kidding. I don't want to go there, unless you want to go there. We could go there?" It's one of those things, that as a grown-up, you know what the Sizzler really is. It's the fucking Sizzler. They have the salad bar.
About the salad bar: when I was a kid, I never got the salad bar. My parents got it. I got steak and all-you-can-eat shrimp. They got the endless salad bar. Now that I'm an adult, I always get the salad bar, probably because it makes me feel mature. Here's the thing about the endless salad bar: it rapes your intestines. Somehow you find yourself plating up tacos (I mean, yeah, what the fuck are you thinking, me at Sizzler?) and you skip the iceberg lettuce and pile some spinach and romaine on a plate, and dump on an obscene amount of shit, like you've never before eaten a salad, and you convince yourself that no salad is complete without kidney beans, peas, cheese, croutons, bacon bits, shredded carrot, toxic salad dressing, and baby corn. Um, baby corn? Are baby corn like aborted regular corn? I don't want to know, but you pile that shit on a plate, and I'll eat it, and then I'll be like, "Oooooooowwwwwwww. My intestines!" But then I'll go back and have ice cream that tastes like chocolate made inside of a dead animal, that you suck through a dirty wet sock. But you eat most of it. Because why not?
OK, resolved: you would be surprised, but Sizzler can actually cook a steak. I enjoyed my steak. I haven't had a steak that I haven't made in a long time. That's probably a lie, but I like telling them, so shut up. When I said that's probably a lie, THAT'S probably the lie, because I'm not much for spending shitloads for dinner, and I'm not going to order a steak at like IHOP or Denny's. Anyway, the steak is pretty good. I encourage everyone to get the steak. And always have the toast that they offer you. It will remind you of your childhood quicker than a beating with an ironing cord, or a visit from that "special" family friend.
Still, after discussion, resolved: the Sizzler is not some place that I will return shortly. I will return longly. Maybe after the memory of that ice cream leaves my system. God, I think I'm having flashbacks about that.
Anyway, Sizzler, if you could help me blackmail the Banana Republic into giving me free clothes, that would be sweet. Thanks.
Signed, Cheetah X
Dear Banana Republic,
I know my last letter came off a little threatening. I mean, I never sent you a threatening letter, hahaha! This is a proposition that I would like to make, a clever advertising gimmick for a sale that you will have, and it will happen soon.
You will have The Clothing Buffet.
For $250, you can get all the clothes you can wear.
So, it's incredibly tough to imagine people really putting on like twelve shirts and walking out, because twelve shirts would not fit. They would have to limit their shirts and pants so that they could buy shit like belts and jackets. I totally think this would be awesome. Besides, everyone knows that your clothes are really made by the same Cambodian slave children who make Gap and Old Navy clothes. So don't like, lie, and pretend like it's going to cost you a bunch of money. All-you-can-wear!
In return, all I'm asking for this brilliant idea is free clothes for life. I'll even always wear a t-shirt that says "Inventor of the All-You-Can-Wear Sale!" OK, I mean I'll get a tattoo of that. On my neck! Yeah, sweet. And on the other side of my neck, I'll get a banana. Being eaten by a Republican.
Get it, the Banana Republic? Cool.
Signed, Cheetah X
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I'm not sure who's responsible: this has two meanings
So, I just watched this movie, Bobby, which is about Bobby Kennedy, and stars his dead self talking on the television a lot and giving these awesome speeches, which is the only reason I watched it. I didn't need to see Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher in a movie written and directed by Demi's ex-boyfriend, Emilio Estevez, star of Freejack and Mighty Ducks VII: Fuck Me, Can't I Die Already, I'm Sorry I Ever Tried. That's actually an awesome movie. Bobby, it was OK.
It got me thinking: how shitty is assassination? I mean, it kind of fucked up the 20th century. Right at the beginning, bang, William McKinley gets shot dead by some anarchist with an impossible name. It's like Cgolzovog. I swear. That's closer than you'd believe. (This could be why you remember certain assassins and don't have a clue about others. Lee Harvey Oswald. Pretty easy to remember. Thenmozhi Rajaratnam? Good luck getting remembered as the assassin of Rajiv Gandhi, in 1991, with an explosive belt (and by the way, never name your kids anything Gandhi--Mohandas Gandhi, killed in that movie; Indira Gandhi, killed by her OWN BODYGUARDS in 1984, and ol' Rajiv Gandhi (Indira's oldest son!) killed in 1991; please, if you want death-proof children, give them a name like Assfaster. That will keep them safe.)
OK, where was I? Right, William McKinley. Tariffs the world over were raised in his honor. That's a joke about how McKinley was a big proponent of tariffs. It's funny because...well, OK, let's just keep going. The King of Greece was assassinated in 1913, by a homeless alcoholic. Um. Hmm, I better be a little more careful at work. And then, this one is big, Archduke Franz Ferdinand gets killed by a gunman named Gavrilo Princip, and both of them are memorialized forever by indie rock bands that sing about the necessity of wearing tight pants and thick-rimmed designer eyeglasses and keeping your hair messed up like you just crawled out of a trench in the First World War, because that was exactly what happened after Gavrilo Princip killed the Archduke. Except the tight pants and designer eyeglasses. I made that up.
This list keeps getting crazy. The Kingfish, Huey Long, was murdered in 1935, before he could run against FDR for President, and people tried to kill him but they decided to let polio and alcoholism finish what they started. That's a low blow. Well, I can go lower, in order to hit a cripple. Ha ha ha! Just kidding, I love the New Deal. That makes all this OK.
There's a new Tom Cruise movie about the attempt to assassinate Hitler. It's called Dianetics: The Secret to Ending the Holocaust, starring Tom Cruise as L. Ron Hubbard. It is fourteen hours of mind-numbing lectures about KSW and other total crap. I can't wait for it to come out on DVD.
Argh. This is taking too long, and I haven't even got to the 60's, when like everyone gets killed. JFK, Malcolm, Dr. King, Bobby. That was the assassination decade for the assassination century. Every time I think about those guys, I wonder what it would be like if they had lived. Would we really be in the situation that we are in this country? I mean, if Dr. King had lived, would it have taken this long for there to be a black president? If Bobby had lived, would it have taken this long for people to talk honestly about what it takes to change our country? If JFK had lived, would he and Malcolm X ever made an album of Christmas music with Sammy Davis Jr? That would be awesome. The JFK-Malcolm X-Sammy Davis Jr. Christmas album. Featuring such hits as "Fuck you, I'm a Muslim" and "Fuck you, I'm a Jew" and "Fuck you both, I was the, erah, President".
OK, so that would never have happened. And, really, probably there is a reason none of the good stuff happened. My basic faith in humanity is always pretty much a goner when I start to get political. Because really, we shouldn't need someone to lead us there, we should just get there ourselves, and help other people to come with us. I mean, wow, this got way too serious all of a sudden for me. See, I wonder if I should even publish this blog, but now it's way too late for me to back out of it. I wonder how I thought I could write a funny blog about political murder in the first place. Well, I'm crazy, I guess, what do you want from me?
By the way, by the end of Bobby, I just wanted to get a CD of Bobby Kennedy's inspiring speeches, and listen to them a lot, as I watch my back for homeless alcoholic assassins creeping up my back stair. Er. That's not quite how it goes, is it, Gordon Lightfoot?
OK, bye.
It got me thinking: how shitty is assassination? I mean, it kind of fucked up the 20th century. Right at the beginning, bang, William McKinley gets shot dead by some anarchist with an impossible name. It's like Cgolzovog. I swear. That's closer than you'd believe. (This could be why you remember certain assassins and don't have a clue about others. Lee Harvey Oswald. Pretty easy to remember. Thenmozhi Rajaratnam? Good luck getting remembered as the assassin of Rajiv Gandhi, in 1991, with an explosive belt (and by the way, never name your kids anything Gandhi--Mohandas Gandhi, killed in that movie; Indira Gandhi, killed by her OWN BODYGUARDS in 1984, and ol' Rajiv Gandhi (Indira's oldest son!) killed in 1991; please, if you want death-proof children, give them a name like Assfaster. That will keep them safe.)
OK, where was I? Right, William McKinley. Tariffs the world over were raised in his honor. That's a joke about how McKinley was a big proponent of tariffs. It's funny because...well, OK, let's just keep going. The King of Greece was assassinated in 1913, by a homeless alcoholic. Um. Hmm, I better be a little more careful at work. And then, this one is big, Archduke Franz Ferdinand gets killed by a gunman named Gavrilo Princip, and both of them are memorialized forever by indie rock bands that sing about the necessity of wearing tight pants and thick-rimmed designer eyeglasses and keeping your hair messed up like you just crawled out of a trench in the First World War, because that was exactly what happened after Gavrilo Princip killed the Archduke. Except the tight pants and designer eyeglasses. I made that up.
This list keeps getting crazy. The Kingfish, Huey Long, was murdered in 1935, before he could run against FDR for President, and people tried to kill him but they decided to let polio and alcoholism finish what they started. That's a low blow. Well, I can go lower, in order to hit a cripple. Ha ha ha! Just kidding, I love the New Deal. That makes all this OK.
There's a new Tom Cruise movie about the attempt to assassinate Hitler. It's called Dianetics: The Secret to Ending the Holocaust, starring Tom Cruise as L. Ron Hubbard. It is fourteen hours of mind-numbing lectures about KSW and other total crap. I can't wait for it to come out on DVD.
Argh. This is taking too long, and I haven't even got to the 60's, when like everyone gets killed. JFK, Malcolm, Dr. King, Bobby. That was the assassination decade for the assassination century. Every time I think about those guys, I wonder what it would be like if they had lived. Would we really be in the situation that we are in this country? I mean, if Dr. King had lived, would it have taken this long for there to be a black president? If Bobby had lived, would it have taken this long for people to talk honestly about what it takes to change our country? If JFK had lived, would he and Malcolm X ever made an album of Christmas music with Sammy Davis Jr? That would be awesome. The JFK-Malcolm X-Sammy Davis Jr. Christmas album. Featuring such hits as "Fuck you, I'm a Muslim" and "Fuck you, I'm a Jew" and "Fuck you both, I was the, erah, President".
OK, so that would never have happened. And, really, probably there is a reason none of the good stuff happened. My basic faith in humanity is always pretty much a goner when I start to get political. Because really, we shouldn't need someone to lead us there, we should just get there ourselves, and help other people to come with us. I mean, wow, this got way too serious all of a sudden for me. See, I wonder if I should even publish this blog, but now it's way too late for me to back out of it. I wonder how I thought I could write a funny blog about political murder in the first place. Well, I'm crazy, I guess, what do you want from me?
By the way, by the end of Bobby, I just wanted to get a CD of Bobby Kennedy's inspiring speeches, and listen to them a lot, as I watch my back for homeless alcoholic assassins creeping up my back stair. Er. That's not quite how it goes, is it, Gordon Lightfoot?
OK, bye.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
I'm trying to take better care of myself as I get older. That's kind of a lie. What I actually mean to say is that I'm trying to treat health care as a beauty product. That may not make sense, but I'll explain: I'm going to get new glasses today. This is a good thing, since I haven't gotten new glasses in about eight years. In eight years, my eyes have gone from so-so, football-shaped, astigmatism nightmares, to kinda-bad, scrambled-egg, astigmatism prisons. The glasses that I have can't quite cut it, so it's time to get new glasses. But the only reason I got new glasses, really, is because the optometrist told me not to wear my contact lenses for two weeks, and I need to get glasses so I don't wear around the crooked, misshaped glasses that I've had for eight years. I've probably slept on these things. I might have taken a punch in them. I don't know. That's blacking out for you.
It's good that I have been going to see optometrists. For about four years, I wasn't wearing glasses or contact lenses, and I just pretended like I could see. I'm serious, I did a LOT of pretending. Unless you were standing next to me, I really couldn't see your face, and I did a lot of guessing based on how you walked, or what kind of clothes you wore, or whether or not you were really a grizzly bear. That was a scary day. I think most of it was that I had gotten punched while wearing, or slept on, these glasses, and I didn't have the money to get them fixed, so I just stopped wearing them. These are the kinds of decisions I make. What do you want from me?
Well, two years ago, I went and got contact lenses, because I was like, well, vain. I have no problem admitting that I care about how I look. Actually, that's not true. I think I have a total problem admitting that I care about my looks, but whatever, it's all over this blog now, no use trying to back up, hit the erase button, and pretend that it never happened. Now, as I'm going to get new glasses, which were promised to me like they are stylish and I will want to wear them, well, it's one of the many health-related things that I do solely based on how I look.
I stopped drinking Coke. I started drinking Diet Coke. I started running. I stopped injecting brownies directly into my abdomen. All of this has allowed me to lose like 25 pounds in the last few years. I think if I could happily be 25 pounds heavier, it wouldn't matter, but the fact is, when people are like, "Your stomach is touching my grocery cart," I realized that I had a problem. That never happened, but what if it did? That would be awkward.
I also started going to see a dermatologist to deal with my psoriasis. So far, that's going well, and when I see people, they're like, "Hey, looks like your skin thing is doing better." I really want to ignore my steroid treatments for a while, and watch as I get covered in white crusty plaques, and see if those same people are like, "You look like you got burned by acid blood, like in those Alien movies." They wouldn't, and neither would I. Those things are itchy, and I hate them.
This leaves one last thing for me to do: I need to go see a dentist. This is an activity that I've managed to skillfully avoid for about way too long. If I told you, you would not be my friend anymore. But I promise that I will. I kind of hate dentists, with their, "You should floss more," and "Peanut butter is not toothpaste," and "Stop pulling out your teeth by tying them to a car bumper," I mean, it's like they think they're better than me.
I think I'm doing pretty good, considering that I base most of my decisions on: is that going to cost me money that I don't have; or, does it really matter, because no one can see that I have had to get half my liver removed because of a bullet wound? I mean, just kidding! I was never in Sri Lanka!
So, yeah, if this got too personal for you, I'm sure I'll be back in the next couple of days with another blog about how I'm going to take over the world with a combination of mirrors and injured veterans of the National Football League. Oh yeah. That day is coming, my friends.
It's good that I have been going to see optometrists. For about four years, I wasn't wearing glasses or contact lenses, and I just pretended like I could see. I'm serious, I did a LOT of pretending. Unless you were standing next to me, I really couldn't see your face, and I did a lot of guessing based on how you walked, or what kind of clothes you wore, or whether or not you were really a grizzly bear. That was a scary day. I think most of it was that I had gotten punched while wearing, or slept on, these glasses, and I didn't have the money to get them fixed, so I just stopped wearing them. These are the kinds of decisions I make. What do you want from me?
Well, two years ago, I went and got contact lenses, because I was like, well, vain. I have no problem admitting that I care about how I look. Actually, that's not true. I think I have a total problem admitting that I care about my looks, but whatever, it's all over this blog now, no use trying to back up, hit the erase button, and pretend that it never happened. Now, as I'm going to get new glasses, which were promised to me like they are stylish and I will want to wear them, well, it's one of the many health-related things that I do solely based on how I look.
I stopped drinking Coke. I started drinking Diet Coke. I started running. I stopped injecting brownies directly into my abdomen. All of this has allowed me to lose like 25 pounds in the last few years. I think if I could happily be 25 pounds heavier, it wouldn't matter, but the fact is, when people are like, "Your stomach is touching my grocery cart," I realized that I had a problem. That never happened, but what if it did? That would be awkward.
I also started going to see a dermatologist to deal with my psoriasis. So far, that's going well, and when I see people, they're like, "Hey, looks like your skin thing is doing better." I really want to ignore my steroid treatments for a while, and watch as I get covered in white crusty plaques, and see if those same people are like, "You look like you got burned by acid blood, like in those Alien movies." They wouldn't, and neither would I. Those things are itchy, and I hate them.
This leaves one last thing for me to do: I need to go see a dentist. This is an activity that I've managed to skillfully avoid for about way too long. If I told you, you would not be my friend anymore. But I promise that I will. I kind of hate dentists, with their, "You should floss more," and "Peanut butter is not toothpaste," and "Stop pulling out your teeth by tying them to a car bumper," I mean, it's like they think they're better than me.
I think I'm doing pretty good, considering that I base most of my decisions on: is that going to cost me money that I don't have; or, does it really matter, because no one can see that I have had to get half my liver removed because of a bullet wound? I mean, just kidding! I was never in Sri Lanka!
So, yeah, if this got too personal for you, I'm sure I'll be back in the next couple of days with another blog about how I'm going to take over the world with a combination of mirrors and injured veterans of the National Football League. Oh yeah. That day is coming, my friends.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Buttrock is awesome
Let me explain some things: the Internet is one of my favorite creations of mankind, next to maybe the planet Mercury and street luge. But for about six months, my access to this wonderful tool has been greatly curtailed, and I've been forced to use the Internet like some homeless reprobate, when I get to the library, or break into someone's house and pee on their linoleum. Just kidding. I never go to the library. Anyway, this week, I got the Internet back at my house, and now it's time to use it to its intended purpose.
Promoting amazingly bad music.
So, I downloaded a whole bunch of real 80's buttrock. Some Def Leppard. Some Queensryche. I want to get even more. I'm like, who was super popular in the 80's and nowadays you can't hear them on the radio because that shit is like ear poison? Fuck, how could I forget Poison. I need to download some Poison, and some Motley Crue. Maybe some Motorhead. Anything with an umlaut in it. See, most awesome music incorporates German things somewhere, since music was invented by a guy named Mozart van Beethoven Bach. Er, he lived in the 1600's and wrote this awesome song called "Stairway to Heaven Part I" and "Stairway to Heaven Part II: The Hedgerows are Bustlin' Like a Motherfucker". Then Led Zepplin covered/ripped him off. To this day, he's still pissed about it, and he's been dead for like 300 years, so that's not easy to accomplish. Good job, Jimmy Page.
Well, what I'm trying to tell you is that buttrock is awesome, and you should all start appreciating this lost art form. How did we all forget about buttrock? Well, first of all, kind of like rap metal, we all WANTED to forget about buttrock. See, in like 1991, Warrant was like (oh shit, Warrant) going to their record label, and the record label had THEM on the wall, and they were all, "We're Warrant, and there's no way our career won't last forever!" and the next year, they go to their record label, and there's an Alice in Chains poster on the wall, and the guy's in Warrant were like, "I hope cocaine gets a lot cheaper! I think I need to commit some kind of violent crime!" And they did, which was shooting a music video for their shitty song, "Uncle Tom's Cabin". Just take a listen. The song is so terrible, that it needs to be played to death row inmates constantly. It might speed the process.
But to me, buttrock only brings back memories of a time in my life when things were simple: we hated Russians because they were Communists because Communism was a false ideology built on the premise that people are equal and the workers deserve to own the means of production and obviously that's crazy, we need to be slaves to massive corporations that tell us how to breathe and who to have sex with because of what type of clothes they're wearing and whether or not they've ever gone to the mall for the sole purpose of getting an Orange Julius and hanging out (note to self: get to Orange Julius immediately after finishing this blog...)(by the way, this I knew by age nine, so I guess 1986 was like bleak--I remember drawing nuclear warheads on everything, like at any moment I knew life would be wiped out like the dinosaurs). I guess that wasn't such a simple time, since I needed to write all that. In fact, I bet the years before buttrock were far simpler, but they involved less high-pitched singing about women and flowers and drug dealers who don't accept checks. And frankly, by the time I was ten, I was like, "You guys are preaching to the choir."
The great thing about buttrock was that it was so apolitical, at a time when I, a tiny child living in one of the most remote sections of America, who enjoyed such activities as crawling through culverts and throwing rocks at squirrels, was like, "Walter Mondale was a horrible choice for the Democrats! Why did Gary Hart have to be caught having an affair with that woman!" Meanwhile, here's Bon Jovi, singing about how we've got to hold on to what we've got, because it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. Apparently, we've got each other, and that's a lot for love, so we'll give it a shot.
I implore you, and I don't often implore people, but I implore you to listen to some buttrock as soon as you finish reading this. Hopefully, you've been inspired by this blog to crank up some total buttrock as soon as you read the name of your favorite buttrock artist. Some day, everything that was once ear poison will be played all over this country, and people will be like, "Fuck yeah, Nelson!" Even though that person should be stabbed immediately, and have their wounds treated like an icy sidewalk, and filled with rock salt, I totally agree with what they say. Although, personally, I think Firehouse. Yeah. Remember those guys? Man, time to get some more bad music playing on my iTunes. I think it might break if I play too much. How weird would that be, if computer software was like, "Fuck this, I can't listen to Jet City Woman one more fucking time," and just crashed on me. I would have to go without the Internet again, and that can't happen. OK. Got to calm down.
PS: I promise to get better at Blogger.
Promoting amazingly bad music.
So, I downloaded a whole bunch of real 80's buttrock. Some Def Leppard. Some Queensryche. I want to get even more. I'm like, who was super popular in the 80's and nowadays you can't hear them on the radio because that shit is like ear poison? Fuck, how could I forget Poison. I need to download some Poison, and some Motley Crue. Maybe some Motorhead. Anything with an umlaut in it. See, most awesome music incorporates German things somewhere, since music was invented by a guy named Mozart van Beethoven Bach. Er, he lived in the 1600's and wrote this awesome song called "Stairway to Heaven Part I" and "Stairway to Heaven Part II: The Hedgerows are Bustlin' Like a Motherfucker". Then Led Zepplin covered/ripped him off. To this day, he's still pissed about it, and he's been dead for like 300 years, so that's not easy to accomplish. Good job, Jimmy Page.
Well, what I'm trying to tell you is that buttrock is awesome, and you should all start appreciating this lost art form. How did we all forget about buttrock? Well, first of all, kind of like rap metal, we all WANTED to forget about buttrock. See, in like 1991, Warrant was like (oh shit, Warrant) going to their record label, and the record label had THEM on the wall, and they were all, "We're Warrant, and there's no way our career won't last forever!" and the next year, they go to their record label, and there's an Alice in Chains poster on the wall, and the guy's in Warrant were like, "I hope cocaine gets a lot cheaper! I think I need to commit some kind of violent crime!" And they did, which was shooting a music video for their shitty song, "Uncle Tom's Cabin". Just take a listen. The song is so terrible, that it needs to be played to death row inmates constantly. It might speed the process.
But to me, buttrock only brings back memories of a time in my life when things were simple: we hated Russians because they were Communists because Communism was a false ideology built on the premise that people are equal and the workers deserve to own the means of production and obviously that's crazy, we need to be slaves to massive corporations that tell us how to breathe and who to have sex with because of what type of clothes they're wearing and whether or not they've ever gone to the mall for the sole purpose of getting an Orange Julius and hanging out (note to self: get to Orange Julius immediately after finishing this blog...)(by the way, this I knew by age nine, so I guess 1986 was like bleak--I remember drawing nuclear warheads on everything, like at any moment I knew life would be wiped out like the dinosaurs). I guess that wasn't such a simple time, since I needed to write all that. In fact, I bet the years before buttrock were far simpler, but they involved less high-pitched singing about women and flowers and drug dealers who don't accept checks. And frankly, by the time I was ten, I was like, "You guys are preaching to the choir."
The great thing about buttrock was that it was so apolitical, at a time when I, a tiny child living in one of the most remote sections of America, who enjoyed such activities as crawling through culverts and throwing rocks at squirrels, was like, "Walter Mondale was a horrible choice for the Democrats! Why did Gary Hart have to be caught having an affair with that woman!" Meanwhile, here's Bon Jovi, singing about how we've got to hold on to what we've got, because it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. Apparently, we've got each other, and that's a lot for love, so we'll give it a shot.
I implore you, and I don't often implore people, but I implore you to listen to some buttrock as soon as you finish reading this. Hopefully, you've been inspired by this blog to crank up some total buttrock as soon as you read the name of your favorite buttrock artist. Some day, everything that was once ear poison will be played all over this country, and people will be like, "Fuck yeah, Nelson!" Even though that person should be stabbed immediately, and have their wounds treated like an icy sidewalk, and filled with rock salt, I totally agree with what they say. Although, personally, I think Firehouse. Yeah. Remember those guys? Man, time to get some more bad music playing on my iTunes. I think it might break if I play too much. How weird would that be, if computer software was like, "Fuck this, I can't listen to Jet City Woman one more fucking time," and just crashed on me. I would have to go without the Internet again, and that can't happen. OK. Got to calm down.
PS: I promise to get better at Blogger.
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