Friday, April 20, 2007

I Have a Fucking Hammer

I have very little to say about this subject. In general I feel that paying attention to the bored kid who enacted a real life shoot-em-up defeats the whole purpose of ignoring him in the first place.

But in this case, I really just couldn't help myself. Look at this picture. Seriously, look at it. Mister Seung-Hoo Chop sent this picture as a part of a package to NBC in between murderous outbursts on the Virginia Tech campus on April 16. The rest of the package included various different poses with guns, knives, and a threatening video pushing his resentment for the fact that he was a thoroughly disappointing human. But what... what's the deal with this photo? Can someone tap him on the shoulder and inform him that he's thinking of scaring us with a picture of himself holding a weapon that would take more than 15 swings to do any sort of significant damage? You mean to tell me that you're composing a cryptic message from the grave and what I assume to be intentions to conjure a sensation of intimidation, and the natural instinct was to raid the toolbox? Did you run out of weapons on the checklist? And how did the shot of you strangling yourself with a tape measure not make the cut? I personally think even a picture of you with a calculator would have been more frightening than this brainchild. Everyone would be talking about what this dead Asian guy could possibly have been calculating. Way to think it through, asshole.

Wednesday's Abortion does not in any way endorse killing innocent and promising people because of your inability to be remotely noticeable. But if that day comes for you and you find yourself at the post office paying postage to rush a posthumous photo of you grimacing while aggressively holding toolbelt contents for a major TV network... hey, looks like you're about as good at scaring people as you were getting them to like you.

Sunday, April 8, 2007

Logan's Run had the Right Idea

[Editor's note: This article is old people friendly for your convenience.]

Okay. It's time somebody told them. It's fun that they don't know yet, and it's cute how easy it is too keep things from them like it's high school volunteering time all over again and we're doing fun experiments at the assisted living home to see what happens when they get the yellow pills without the red ones, but...

Old people. All right. You've been great... you tell us those same stories, over and over; we can't get over how easily impressed you are, especially when we lift things; and that physical decline, boy, what a warning for us. But look ... You are completely useless. It's really time to wrap it up.

Calm down. I expected this. Relax. Pretend it's 1946 or something. Comfortable? Okay. I'm not an old person hater. I'm simply speaking on behalf of the rest of us. I'm just gonna spell it out here. You walk too damn slow. You take too long thinking when I ask you questions. You tire way too easily, and I'm sure you couldn't even withstand more than three punches to the abdomen. You eat the damn flavor of Jell-O pudding that I don't like, taking Jell-O's money and efforts away from creating new damn flavors of Jell-O pudding.
You poop and pee in your drawers. None of us were really ever cool with that.

We could do this the easy way, or we could just stop feeding you soft things.

Mentally and physically, it's pretty much a disaster all across the board. Everything has passed you by and it's really becoming a pain in the ass to keep you up to speed. Teaching you WordPerfect in 1995 was a weekend from hell that I'll never have back, but now cell phones? PDAs? Mp3s?

I think it's starting to become clear now. We're in the age of the now, and you're so a thousand years ago. Your old age might have meant wise stories for people like myself back during the Taft administration, but I got Wikipedia, motherfucker. We're educating ourselves just fine without you, and I think we're all feeling a little like that person at the library when the smelly guy sits way too close. Well we're sticking our elbows way the fuck out and you're not catching on, wrinkles.

So here's my proposal. Everyone grab a shovel and kill an old person. That's right: it's time to go Barbaro on them. No no, it's not cruel. Barbaro was killed because he was experiencing weight-shifting levels of pain. Think about that the next time an 83-year old picks up a nickel in the middle of a crosswalk on your green light. When your weight shifts, the shovel will find its way to their temple. It's the natural way.

Thursday, April 5, 2007

Fergie Wants You to Think She's Sexy

I'd like to start off by reminding everybody what year it is. This is a big theme for this topic. It's 2007. We're seven years into the time that everybody was supposed to have hovercars. By the way, still waiting on that one, science. Can we please take a day off from inventing new Hot Pocket breading textures to give that a go? We don't ask for much from you. We just want to drive in the air. Thanks.

The reason for emphasizing the year is simple. We've come to a point as a culture where the complexities of basic health needs, simple diseases, and hygiene have been medically solved and easily remedied. Basic concerns such as "How do I keep my ass from itching after I poop?" are a thing of the past. We now have the ability to focus on improving outward appearance, being healthy, fit, attractive. We appoint our most beautiful people as the spokespeople of humanity, granting them celebrity status, to allow them to take in fame and camera time so that they can reflect to the world just how impressive our species can be.

So what in the name of sweet sweeping Christ in a vacuum cleaner is the story behind Fergie? Did I miss a day of school, because I don't remember it ever, ever being okay to be ugly. In fact, a lot of school time in my heyday was spent ridiculing and harassing the ugliest kid in class until they either had an emotional breakdown or started having sex with everyone by the sixth grade. It was like Survivor before its time.

But someone help me connect the dots on this one. Fergie's by no means attractive. Yet, one of her main selling points in her solo vocal career is that she's "hot." So extremely hot in fact, that a derivative descriptor to the English word delicious was spawned to assist in encapsulating the extent to which Fergie is sexually desirable to the potent male in what can only be described as fergalicious.

Okay, so here's where I'm a little hazy. Fergie... is fucking disgusting. I don't care how much chocolate syrup you pour on a young version of Jennifer Coolidge, my penis is going to be March of the Penguins soft. Why are we not more pissed off? I thought the point of our shallow culture was to advance to the point of refinement where we could close the gates of opportunity on the ugly misshapen asses of physical inferiors. Instead, we seem to be regressing back to the days where (gasp) looks didn't really matter, thanks in large part to wall-to-wall music video blocks featuring this Fergie bitch pulling a Dakota Fanning on pop music.
At the 1921 Miss America contest, you'd have been committed to a sanitarium for suggesting that someday the event would be masturbatable.

Where are we going with this? Do we want to end up back at the 1921 Miss America contest? Is that what we want? Do I even need to show the photo of the girl that actually won this brown paper bag festival? I thought we had finally discovered through our ever-growing human wisdom that moving penis = marketability. This Fergie/Dakota shit is an indictment on the male consumer, and I will not stand flaccidly by. So please, celebrity gatekeepers. Let's take out the trash. Either Fergie goes or we get hovercars. I'm not budging.

Monday, April 2, 2007

Wednesday's Child... Ruining Dinner Since 1981

If only someone out there could create some kind of strange cultural staple, that no one wanted or even asked for in the first place, something that's just kind of stuck in our collective face like a tablespoon of Triaminic. Oh wait, that already happened. And we've been enduring it for close to thirty years. Alright, the other six days of the week may have their own hold ups and shortcomings, but there is simply no other event over the course of the week that I dread more than Wednesday's Child.

Why, you might ask? What an astute, timely question to ask. You might say it's the gimmick of it all. And I'm not just talking about the way it does for local news what Katie Couric has done for the national news and period all over it. I'm talking about the blatant, unabashed, shameless way it appeals to the barely important events. If you ask me if it's more important that we learn about the graffiti that was removed from the Elm Street stop sign or little Taylor who now has an elated new barren adopted mother, I'm asking for street coordinates, motherfucker. You mean to tell me you have to fill a 30-minute time slot to give all the relevant news of the day and you spend 10 of those minutes at an adoption agency showing slowly-developing Pernicious shooting a basketball and running in circles in a backyard? What the fuck is going on?

Hey look! Despite not having parents their entire lives, these three children can still feed goats and play with sticks even when on camera! Do you want to adopt them now? Hmm. Well, once the spoonful of Spaghetti O's drop from my lifeless lips like Teri Schiavo's last-ditch forced feeding, I think I'm ready to vomit. Look. I don't want to adopt anyone. You know what? If I was interested in adopting someone, I'd probably have done something more proactive than picking up the remote. In fact, I think I speak for the majority of the local audience when I say that my life is complete enough as is, thanks. Now, is it the 6:30 block where they switch to animals that need homes?

Pick me or I'll ruin dinner for you.

Instead of recognize this demographical fact, however, it seems every network affiliate across the entire country decided years ago that each and every Wednesday evening should be the platform for the most awkward children's pageant of all time. So when I sit down to eat my evening meal, I get to look forward to watching a ten minute segment with an idiotic twerp throwing a baseball to himself while an overjoyed, undersexed social worker pours her heart all over the television screen recounting the three hour court proceedings that gave this boy the infertile parents he never dreamed he could have.

Hey, here's an idea. Let's set up a barren people TV network so that all the unhappy, childproof couples can tune in throughout the day for an endless stream of foster children parading around, begging for their companionship. They can even wear sashes indicating what drug their parents did in front of them, you know, to harken back to the child pageant tradition of Wednesday's Child. Gotta keep tradition.

The bottom line is, people watch the news for depressing life updates on the world. Not to buy a child. I wouldn't turn on Cinemax at 2am to watch Shrek 3 so who thinks I want little Tara's daughter credentials to replace my fix of vengeful men who lit their girlfriends' Brooklyn apartments on fire on the evening news?

At least I can eat.