|The following rants are the result of whenever something especially itchy crawls up our asses and dies.
A few years ago some anonymous hippie began forwarding me a local weekly rag from Cincinnati called Citybeat. I’m not sure how it made its way to me since the FBI guards at the compound tend to pounce on contraband. Especially contraband that mentions WTO protesters as heroes. And especially especially contraband that contains actual WTO protesters, but that was Umberto’s Christmas present from Phillips Petroleum last year and they had to let it in.
As you can guess it’s an alternative newspaper, the usual liberal urban brochure found in almost every college town, and there’s only so many times you can read about city hall dragging its ass or how the newest local band has an ‘original’ sound (read: funk rock with the lead singer in a leotard with cowbells.) But next to the fact the paper was free, there was one column which kept me coming back. No I’m not talking about the Women Seeking Women personals, I’m talking about Bob Woodiwiss’ Pseudoquasiesque column.
Each week Bob would target a topic and skewer it with sarcasm and imagery usually only found in acid trips. He’d take on anything from current events to internal personality flaws and his writing has the kind of voice that seems to come out of your own head, point to your chest and then smack you on the chin when you look down. It’s the kind of writing that makes me wish I was a better writer, and I’ve never really wanted to be a writer. Kind of like watching a flying squirrel makes you want to fly, but you’re not even a squirrel.
Anyway, Bob wrote a column recently about how he’s closing up shop. I don’t know if the well is drying up or maybe the circus finally looked like a valid option, but the only thing I can say is: Good Luck Bob. I hope the pastures are greener in the next field. I’d also like to say
Do yourself a favor and peruse some of his older columns. Soon there won’t be any new ones. And they’re really a hoot.
Something has happened today that I think bears mentioning. The release of The Fellowship of the Ring has caused movie reviewers across the nation to make no fucking sense whatsoever. Let’s take for example Roger Ebert’s review, which states:
Emphasis mine, because who in their right mind would think Roger “I ate Gene Siskel” Ebert wouldn’t love a set of jolly fat creatures who nap a lot and eat 8 times a day? Here’s my picture of Roger Ebert giving “My Dinner with Andre” two thumbs up:
Well fuck me. I must have missed the part where it was Frodo who scared off the Ringwraiths at Weathertop all by himself in the book, or that part where it was Samwise who killed the Balrog in Moria. And that whole part with Gandalf doing battle with Saruman? Well obviously I guess in the book there were hobbits there to keep Gandalf from being destroyed. And it must have been magical flying hobbits who helped him escape. I guess I missed that part of the book where the hobbits, using something other than blind, bumbling luck, keep from getting captured before meeting Aragorn.
You’re right Mr. Ebert, the book really is all about the Hobbits. I mean it couldn’t be you’re perhaps finding your own meat and bread colored glasses to view the plot through, seeing as how the Hobbits eat 8 times a day and all.
Over at the New York Times we find the review of Mr. Elvis something or other. I couldn’t get past someone named Elvis writing a review of a movie for the New York Times. Elvis gives us this bit of history about the popularity of Tolkein’s books:
That statement is so fucking stupid I’m going to quote it again, in pink:
That’s right, only “Zealots” read The Lord of the Rings. What did he mean by that? Fuck you for asking me that. Like I would know. I think he’s calling your mom a zealot.
Next up is this telling statement from Mr. Elvis:
Just in case you’re missing it here, Elvis is saying Fellowship of the Ring, a movie faithful to the plot of the book published in the 50′s, has similarities to George Lucas’ “Mythology” of Star Wars, a film released in 1977. This is a sort of a new reverse of the fucktardism that appeared in critical reviews of Episode 1. Instead of accusing George Lucas of stealing from every story in the world to create Star Wars, now critics evidently have wrapped all the way around in a kind of inverse infinity symbol of retard drool, and think every story is based off of Star Wars.
Never mind the fact that I’m struggling to find the similarities between the two stories this fucking idiot is talking about. Is Sauron Frodo’s father? Are Hobbits really Jawas? Is the ring a lightsabre? or is it the force? Fuck you Elvis, that’s two minutes of puzzling over your idiocy I will never get back. The first line of the last paragraph of the review is by far my favorite:
No shit? Wow I bet if the movie was longer than 180 minutes then it might run longer than its current 180 minutes as well. And finally, if this segment doesnt prove these people are idiots, nothing will:
Thanks Elvis. You just condensed Fellowship of the Ring into a two sentence indictment of your own stupidity.
Marc Prensky runs a company called games2train.com and has written a book called “Digital Game-Based Learning”.
This in no way precludes him from being a fucking idiot.
Quick to jump on the “Everyone’s to blame but the terrorists” bandwagon that is suddenly so popular in the country today, Mr. Prensky has written a thought revoking essay entitled “Video Games and the attack on America.”
I think you can see from the title where he’s going with this. (As a side note, we recommend reading the essay out loud with a pronounced lisp. It really helps clarify the stupidity of the thought process used to write the essay.) Actually, on second thought be careful reading the article as it represents a massive atropine needle loaded with 16 ounces of pure uncut stupid right into your brain.
I read the thing and *immediately* started emailing terrorists all over the world demanding they turn in their computers and playstations. God help us all if the terrorists ever find out about the BFG. Or, failing that, the gigantic dots in Pac-Man that allowed him to eat the ghosts.
Here’s one of my favorite parts, laid out in pussy pink:
Despite the fact Mr. Prensky believes our nation’s children are a bunch of miniature versions of Private Hudson from Aliens, who will cower before the turtles in Mario Brothers or piss their pants at the thought of having to complete Pokemon in real life, I believe our children are smarter and braver than that. Like a bulging Scott Backula crotch in the premier of the new Star Trek show, our children are out in front, in your face, and in the center of the frame. They can easily handle Mayor Mike or whatever the world has to offer. Mr. Prensky further states:
He’s got my vote. I believe that 15 minutes into playing Microsoft Flight Simulator, children are led to the obvious conclusion that the game’s main goal is to plow a plane straight into the World Trade center towers. We obviously need to change the main goal of flight simulators so that six year old children realize that the purpose of them is to combat terrorism in all its forms! I guess my question is, what is he going to do about all those virtual cat toys that are teaching the nation’s cats to attack TV’s? WHAT ABOUT THE KITTY CHILDREN?
The solution is obvious. We should bomb Afghanistan with copies of Fly! 2, and ban any other video games that might possibly not pass along the message of combating terrorism in all its forms!
It’s come to my attention that some of you are perusing our porn forums, like the frustrated internet weevils you are, with the sole intention of jacking off to lesbians. As much as looking at hot girls bumping donuts gets me hot, I need to remind you people that you’re wasting valuable reproductive manna. And you must stop it now.
On a lesser note, Stepto tells me that there are even Alzheimer-induced, naked pics of wrinkly, misinformed grandparents on our forums. If you choose to manbeat to these pics be my guest, since a person with your fetish must have some horribly disfigured and incapable sperm to begin with. Jules Verne didn’t write “The Time Traveling Semen” for a reason: the little babymakers are supposed to be aimed at young women ready to procreate
Since I have a unique condition that lets me communicate with my genetic messengers the way a Seaworld trainer would communicate with a myriad of microscopic Shamu’s, I feel the need to let you be aware of their feelings on recreational masturbation..
First of all, you should know that they gossip incessantly about living conditions. Being in close quarters for days on end makes them irritable and punchy, so on those drunken, passed-out, blue ball occasions it’s best not to wear tighty-whiteys to bed or you might end up with a runny nose that smells kinda funny. The little fuckers move pretty fast and yes, they can swim uphill like salmon.
Secondly if you’re going to annihilate millions of them, try to ease up on the phenomenon known as “sockfucking.” It’s bad enough you’ve become a sort of Hitler-via-handjob to your own wasted offspring, tempting huge numbers of them with potential immortality and then snuffing their lives out with a grubby oil rag. Now they also view your footwear as a nylon pillar of Auschwitz.
Imagine being at the best waterpark in existence and gleefully speeding through a dark waterslide toward infinity, only to find yourself flung into a web, your only extremity superglued to an ungiving strand of polyester evil.
This is what you subject your own body cells to every day. Try not to hear the screaming next time you hide in the computer room while you furiously beat your gonads into submission. …and take it easy on the bleach: Have some respect for the dead.
And have some sympathy for the doomed. When gassing your little wriggling Jewmatozoas, it’s best to take the Hitler analogy to heart and embrace the shower for your genetocidal needs. I’m talking about the literal shower as well as the metaphoric one here. If they’re not going to be deposited into the warm, wet Nirvana of the female vagina, the closest they may get is the warm, wet Purgatory of the bathtub.
A sperm that constantly comes to “Wrong Way” (as opposed to “Dead End”) signs while spiraling down the drain will at least think somewhere one of his brothers has hit the jackpot and ridden the Lincoln Tunnel to the Big Apple. It may be bittersweet, but it’s better than ending up stuck to a paper towel next to last night’s dinner.
Not many people take this issue seriously. Unfortunately some take it all too seriously as I found while trying to come up with the lyrics for a song called “Ballad of the Lone Spermbadier” while sitting on a runway in Atlanta. I didn’t know how unappreciated singing about bombing sperm in a plane would be until the pilot had me forcibly removed.
The interrogation afterwards seemed to focus on me being some sort of terrorist, but it doesn’t jibe with my ultimate goal of world reproduction if I blow up the plane I’m sitting in. On a related note, I’d like to give a 9-month early Congratulations to the stewardesses of Flight 978 to Cincinnati!
I can’t stress how important it is to have a harmonious relationship with your little meandering half-clones. When you get through delivery and see that first awkward breath taken by your newborn progeny; when you realize what they can do for you, you’ll thank me.
On second thought, keep on jerking. Send your women my way.