Hey Science, Thanks for the Segway

I like to get on science’s ass a lot. Some might say, lay off the guys in labcoats, Joey, they make differences to our everyday lives in imperceptible ways. I say suck my dick, hypothetical asshole. We’ve been subjected to nothing but cop-out inventions over the last twenty years, most of which seem to only consist of music and cameras. Know what, scientists? I could live out the rest of my life without encountering a new device to store pictures of people I don't care about, and I still wouldn't complain. Meanwhile, they haven’t even had to change any of the goddamn inventions in Disney’s World of Tomorrow since the fifties, and I don’t think anyone cares.

So why would it surprise us that when science unveiled its latest and greatest transportation device it turned out to be… the Segway.

It's okay, now erectile dysfunction doesn't have to be the most disappointing thing about you.

Now look. If I wanted to look like an idiot, I could take yoga for three years and learn the backwards pile driver so I could shit in my mouth at the park. This being a slightly more convenient way to accomplish the same goal. So let me get this straight, science. We don’t get to teleport anything, and we still have to open our own refrigerator doors, but OOHHHH in the event we want to ride around in a stupid big-wheeled scooter that looks like it runs on nothing, hey we’re all set.

There comes that time in the life of a divorce child’s life, when the estranged father makes that hard final push for a shot at his son’s affection. The boy has lost a lot of respect for his father since he lost his job and stopped trying to hide the Asian teen porno mags in the passenger seat footspace of his Chrysler LeBaron. But the wily father at least still knows his son’s interests. And that’s why on his thirteenth birthday, when all he really wants is a remote controlled helicopter, and dad walks in on visitation weekend with his newspaper-wrapped gift, and a stale layer of weasel dust in his bushy mustache, that boy knows exactly what’s inside that box. It’s an old balsa wood glider kit off the discount rack at that seedy Korean corner store downtown. And just like that, dad is dead to him.

You know, if science had just pretended to forget our birthday instead of trying, it would probably still have some of its photos up in the house.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I Don't Like Philadelphia

What's that you say? Thinking of going to Philadelphia, are you? Don’t even deny it. I can tell. With that slack-jawed look on your face, and dried, frothy drool pursing in your lip creases with palpable dreams of cheesesteaks and Fourth of July celebrations. Well wipe that disgusting slobber up – seriously, you're not a dog, dry crusty drool shit is disgusting -- because you know what? I bet you’ll hate Philadelphia. I said it. I hear those legendary cheesesteaks are only made from the sickest cows in Pennsylvania. And they don’t have to do it either. They actually lose money by using dying animal meat, they just enjoy making you eat sick cow in Philadelphia. And if you’re planning to visit there, I hope you’ve also fitted yourself for an unmarked grave and picked up an AIDS vaccine. THAT'S RIGHT. I JUST SAID YOU'LL GET AIDS IN PHILADELPHIA. You probably won’t find that out until after you leave Philadelphia, though, because Philadelphian doctors are only trained in curing mouth hemorrhoids, the most popular disease in Philadelphia.

What? Never heard such outrageous claims before? Come as a shock to you, yes? Well consult an encyclopedia, friend. It’s all in there. But you might want to do so outside of Philadelphia. Because if you even so much as make mention of literature in Philadelphia, even as a joke to say, “Hey, isn’t it friggin retarded to have books?” they’ll take your car and the virginity of your youngest daughter (or sister). And if they catch you reading a book in Philadelphia, well then god help you because then they really get mad and do vindictive things like injecting leprosy in your genitals and snapping the spine of your girlfriend (or book).

Old people are shot on sight in Philadelphia. You could ask the mayor of Philadelphia why that is, but he’d probably shoot you instead of answering. You see, Philadelphia shoots anyone that asks questions. No one is allowed to ask about anything they do there. That’s why they’re still allowed to stow their slowly-developing children in dungeons, execute them unceremoniously and feed them to locally-owned livestock in the form of a buttery spread, like a hummus, which causes them to lick the roof of their mouths all day.

It’s too late for this little boy in Philadelphia. Next stop: the glue factory.

Here’s a fun fact. Did you know that just living in Philadelphia will cause a woman to go sterile? It’s true. It’s debated whether the cause is from the high levels of pollution in Philadelphia, or just the fact that babies have innately stopped developing as an evolutionary defense mechanism. But you won’t see the Philadelphian ladies complaining. They’re just happy that the constant raping in Philadelphia won’t lead to offspring.

Now I’m probably not telling you anything you couldn’t find out in a trip-tix from Triple A. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t hear it from somewhere outside of a travel service provider. Cause hell, no one told me that currency in much of Philadelphia was stolen car parts and that hospital patients’ bones were used to pave the streets. No, no one told me. I had to find that out for myself. Through a Philadelphian.

And no, Philadelphian detractors, this has nothing to do with me projecting anger over a falling out with a girl that happens to have been born in Philadelphia. Jennifer. We’re all way past that, and brutally disemboweled hearts have quickly healed. Besides she probably was just lying about her place of birth like they teach you to in Philadelphia, stabbing children with used syringes until they tell their first one. And it’s not like I’d do something so hasty as to lambaste an entire city of people solely based on a single encounter with a scathing, pointy-cheeked two-timing whore that once resided there (in some rusty, overpriced shack where they had to gun down household pets just to put food on the table, no doubt). That probably has little to do with it. Though it’s consistent with the behavior you’d expect from a city that eats its breakfast and lunch out of cancer patients’ bedpans. So you’ll have to excuse me for smiting the city for its open abuse of the elderly, rampant poverty, and raising its girls to be whores and named Jennifer. It must just be that Philadelphia is a shitty, shitty city.

But don’t tell the average Philadelphian. They’ll piss on your face for saying that.

Ode to My Anus

I pulled a muscle in my ass today. It doesn't sound so bad to just say it, but when you've actually gone ahead and done it, it haunts you. I can't sleep, I can't walk up stairs, and I tried walking it off but that only made it worse. A pain in the ass -- who woulda thought, you know? I mean, you throw your back out and that's saying something. But being slowed down by a muscle in your ass? How can I even face the world?

I guess maybe this is just payback. I had it coming. All these years I haven't appreciated or even acknowledged the presence or support my ass has provided through the thick and thin, and this is the only wake-up call it is capable of giving. Well dammit, I'm the kind of man who recognizes when he’s misstepped (see any of my stories about this). I'm not too proud to step up and apologize. Even if it's to my own ass. So, ass, this is for you.

Ass, I'm a fool. I've neglected you. You clearly have starved for my attention, and what do I do? I look the other way. I'm so wrapped up in my business that I consider you an "inconvenience." I joke about you, label you as a punchline. I sit down really hard and I don't even feel bad about it. Occasionally I even close things with you. I know. Like I don't have hands. I make fun of proctologists and their choice of a profession that caters to the anus. I laughed at Uranus jokes, no matter how lame and grossly unfunny they were, just to feel more like everyone else. I cursed your existence, your purpose, and your stuuuupid crack. Oh and sometimes I sit on sharp things, and I know that can't be good for you.

Was it worth it?

I've been a royal asshole. No offense.

Forgive me.

I thought I was pretty hot shit. You know what that's like. I got so swept up in popular opinion, fart jokes, and Family Guy that I simply stopped taking you seriously. And that's where I was wrong. You may be "just an ass," but you're an ass nonetheless, god dammit. You are one of the top 50 most important body parts I have, and, yes, I'm placing you just above the coccyx for once. When was the last time I looked you square in the eye and said, "Hey ass, um, thanks for all that cushiony padding. It's been a long day and you really make me forget that I'm sitting on a rock hard surface"? When have I even mentioned that thing you do in khakis? You know, those dark, well-fitting ones that get me looks all the time. Yeah, those. It goes unsaid.

Ass, on behalf of myself and all of my 2000 parts, I’m sorry.

You may think I'm just writing this in hopes of a voodoo miracle, that placating you will cause the dull pain in my ass to miraculously subside. And, in fact, that's exactly why I'm writing this. But it’s also to apologize. Cause I went overboard. And now I feel your pain.