That loud whooshing noise that you hear is the collective sound of ten million pairs of panties sliding off because Kristen Stewart cheated on Robert Pattinson. From blog posts, to Facebook updates, to tweets, to so-called news articles, women all over the globe are publicly announcing that they're wet and ready to comfort the forlorn Rpat with their vaginas. Wait. I thought men were supposed to be the shallow sex-fiends. I don't hear guy-one offering some schlong therapy for Kstew. Maybe it's because she's a vapid, soulless whack-job. Wait. I thought men didn't care what's between a woman's ears. I'm confused.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
Shoulda Known Better
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
If a decade of American Idol has taught me anything, it is that the popular music industry doesn't know shit about music. It's kinda like expecting a used car salesman to know how to change a head gasket. Their job is to make a profit by selling stuff. Period. This I have known ever since I was in college and most of my favorite bands were virtually unknown. It was the time when Kurt Cobain met his untimely end, and I can remember people crying (!) and saying that he was a "poet" and "the next John Lennon"... neither of which qualify as a compliment. Either way, it was bullshit. Kurt's little grunge band was little more than image and attitude. His voice had all the subtlety and nuance of a rusted muffler. And, the lyrics? "A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido. Yeah." Wow. Forget Lennon. Kurt had to be channeling the spirit of Shakespeare! But, somehow, he became the poster boy for grunge music, even though there were much better bands out there (Soundgarden, anyone?). The image sells, so we praise the image and those who make it. The ones making the good music get brushed aside for the marketable shit. It shouldn't be a shocker, it's been the industry standard since four mop-haired limeys made millions of women wet their pants just by being mop-haired limeys.
This year, however, I must admit: I fell for it. I saw a shimmering thread of light as it broke through the grey haze of grandstanding mediocrity that passes for music: for the first time ever, Dream Theater got nominated for a Hard Rock/Metal Grammy. I was shocked and thrilled. Beside myself with anticipation. Of course, it ended in disappointment. The Grammy went to those legendary headbanging gods of metal: the Foo Fighters. Oh, music industry. You were so close.
I was disappointed, not in the music industry, but in myself. I let hope rear it's fickle head by thinking that the mainstream might abandon it's standard operating procedure of dip-shittedness and actually support heart and talent, instead of image and marketing. Ergo, I hang my head. Sadly, for one fleeting moment, I raised my hopes that the popular music industry would wise up and see it my way. Shame on me.
But, the industry isn't finished with me. Oh, no. Unfortunately, the stupid continues in the case one of my favorite bands, Delain. They're a talented symphonic metal band from the Netherlands. Their third album was supposed to come out last year but their record label's parent company, Warner Music Group, won't release it. Why? Why else? They aren't as marketable as every screamo terd-metal band fronted by a talentless, testosterone-addled meathead with ten pounds of piercings and a raging case of hepatitis because he spends more time in the tattoo parlor than learning how to sing. They won't release a good band's album because it doesn't appeal to their focus-group-determined target audience for metal: the beer-swilling, aggro, douchebag, frat-boy who thinks that the quality of the music is directly proportional to the number of times they use the word "fuck."
I'm no fool. I know that a band like Delain will never get the industry to drop their panties the way that they do for propped-up hacks like Lady GaGa or Taylor Swift, but, frankly, that's a good thing. To be famous and popular in music, you have to appeal to as many people as possible; that means aiming for the least common denominator: the average person. In case you haven't noticed, the average person is kind of a nit-wit. Joe Average knows as much about music as he does about politics, good beer and safe driving. He is the one with a singing rubber fish on his wall, a scrotum on his truck, and a Kid Rock album in the CD player. Not exactly a connoisseur. Maybe that makes me a music snob. Okay, that definitely makes me a music snob. So be it. To me, winning big in the music business is a lot like coming in first in a pissing contest. So, you're puddle's bigger than mine. Congratulations. I shan't be fooled again.
If a decade of American Idol has taught me anything, it is that the popular music industry doesn't know shit about music. It's kinda like expecting a used car salesman to know how to change a head gasket. Their job is to make a profit by selling stuff. Period. This I have known ever since I was in college and most of my favorite bands were virtually unknown. It was the time when Kurt Cobain met his untimely end, and I can remember people crying (!) and saying that he was a "poet" and "the next John Lennon"... neither of which qualify as a compliment. Either way, it was bullshit. Kurt's little grunge band was little more than image and attitude. His voice had all the subtlety and nuance of a rusted muffler. And, the lyrics? "A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido. Yeah." Wow. Forget Lennon. Kurt had to be channeling the spirit of Shakespeare! But, somehow, he became the poster boy for grunge music, even though there were much better bands out there (Soundgarden, anyone?). The image sells, so we praise the image and those who make it. The ones making the good music get brushed aside for the marketable shit. It shouldn't be a shocker, it's been the industry standard since four mop-haired limeys made millions of women wet their pants just by being mop-haired limeys.
This year, however, I must admit: I fell for it. I saw a shimmering thread of light as it broke through the grey haze of grandstanding mediocrity that passes for music: for the first time ever, Dream Theater got nominated for a Hard Rock/Metal Grammy. I was shocked and thrilled. Beside myself with anticipation. Of course, it ended in disappointment. The Grammy went to those legendary headbanging gods of metal: the Foo Fighters. Oh, music industry. You were so close.
I was disappointed, not in the music industry, but in myself. I let hope rear it's fickle head by thinking that the mainstream might abandon it's standard operating procedure of dip-shittedness and actually support heart and talent, instead of image and marketing. Ergo, I hang my head. Sadly, for one fleeting moment, I raised my hopes that the popular music industry would wise up and see it my way. Shame on me.
But, the industry isn't finished with me. Oh, no. Unfortunately, the stupid continues in the case one of my favorite bands, Delain. They're a talented symphonic metal band from the Netherlands. Their third album was supposed to come out last year but their record label's parent company, Warner Music Group, won't release it. Why? Why else? They aren't as marketable as every screamo terd-metal band fronted by a talentless, testosterone-addled meathead with ten pounds of piercings and a raging case of hepatitis because he spends more time in the tattoo parlor than learning how to sing. They won't release a good band's album because it doesn't appeal to their focus-group-determined target audience for metal: the beer-swilling, aggro, douchebag, frat-boy who thinks that the quality of the music is directly proportional to the number of times they use the word "fuck."
I'm no fool. I know that a band like Delain will never get the industry to drop their panties the way that they do for propped-up hacks like Lady GaGa or Taylor Swift, but, frankly, that's a good thing. To be famous and popular in music, you have to appeal to as many people as possible; that means aiming for the least common denominator: the average person. In case you haven't noticed, the average person is kind of a nit-wit. Joe Average knows as much about music as he does about politics, good beer and safe driving. He is the one with a singing rubber fish on his wall, a scrotum on his truck, and a Kid Rock album in the CD player. Not exactly a connoisseur. Maybe that makes me a music snob. Okay, that definitely makes me a music snob. So be it. To me, winning big in the music business is a lot like coming in first in a pissing contest. So, you're puddle's bigger than mine. Congratulations. I shan't be fooled again.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
THON-onymous
It's that time of year again. There's a chill in the air. There's a festive song in every heart. And, there's hung-over teenagers shaking coffee cans at every red light, trying to make up for every moral and social abomination that they've committed in the name of whatever Greek letters they have emblazoned on their sweatshirts. Yeah, it's for a good cause. In my opinion, real charity doesn't come with a commemorative T-shirt and a self-congratulatory pat on your back.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Fuck Joe-Pa
Every time I hear people talk about the Penn State sex abuse scandal, they throw everyone else under the bus, but defend Paterno tooth-and-nail. "Oh, he can't be guilty of anything. He's Joe-Pa. He's an institution." They spew on and on, reminding us of his record and the decades of good football that he's given us and what a legend he is. So, what about the sex abuse that was going on? "Oh, yeah, that. He reported it to his higher-ups. Like, what else was he supposed to do?" Oh, I don't know, call a fucking cop? Just throwing that out as an idea, you know, brainstorming here. Maybe, instead of thinking of his team's reputation, he should have thought about a little boy, naked and crying, being used as a sex toy by a vile old man. Just in case you weren't paying attention, that's the important thing here.
Are people really so enamored with his high-water-wearing ass that they're gonna fall back on the chain-of-command in a collegiate athletics department? He told his boss? I got some straws here if you wanna grasp at them, too. If Sandusky was stealing towels from the locker room or downloading porn on Penn State's network, yeah, tell the boss. He was diddling elementary school kids in the locker room. Call the fucking cops! Better yet, beat him bloody with a sawed-off axe handle and then call the fucking cops!
As for McQueary, how do you explain your behavior, or lack thereof, to the children that were hurt? "Hey, dude. Man, that really sucks that some old perv pinned you against the wall and corn-holed you before you were old enough to have hair on your nuts. That musta hurt. Damn. I saw him do it, by the way, but I'm not into violence so I didn't stop him or nothing. I did tell my boss, though, and I think he told his boss, too, or something. Whatever. So, everything's cool. Right? Go Lions!"
Everyone involved, including the vaunted Joe Paterno, sat on their hands, plain and simple. They played football while Sandusky played with little boys. Yet, because of our pathological need for gridiron glory, we canonize that sawed-off little coke-bottle-glasses-wearing nitwit as some kind of grand ol' patriarch because he was good at winning games. Meanwhile, he was letting little kids get raped by some disease masquerading as a human being. "Fail" is appallingly insufficient at a time like this.
For you football fans, for you beer-swilling, team-color-torso-painting, rah-rah-rah jackoffs that swarm the bleachers like lemmings looking for a cliff, for you armchair quarterbacks that nestle your asses into your recliners and fawn over your widescreens like you just TiVo'ed God in HD, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, right here, right now...
...here it goes...
...brace yourselves...
Football is a game.
That's it. Go back and read it again if it didn't sink into your lite-beer-and-testosterone-addled brains. It is a game. Nothing more. A bunch of overgrown kids playing with a ball. "No, it's about achievement and glory and--" Bullshit. It's a game. It's about scoring points. What the fuck is a point? Can you buy food with a point? Can it change your tire if you get a flat? Will it get rid of this nagging headache of mine? A wanna see a point. Gimmie a picture. A wanna see a bunch of points. Serve me up a big, steaming bowl of points so that I can take a bite and feel the achievement and glory swirling around in my big fat belly. Can't do it, can you? So, what the fuck is a point? Nothing. It is pointless (pun intended with extreme prejudice). Football is a game. Anyone who makes it out to be more than that has more issues than I do.
So, fuck Joe-Pa. Fuck McQueary. Fuck everyone who knew what that disgusting pig Sandusky was doing and did nothing. Fuck everyone who put the importance of a stupid, pointless fucking game over the welfare of a little kid. And, for those of you who "bleed blue-and-white," do me a favor: bleed out.
Are people really so enamored with his high-water-wearing ass that they're gonna fall back on the chain-of-command in a collegiate athletics department? He told his boss? I got some straws here if you wanna grasp at them, too. If Sandusky was stealing towels from the locker room or downloading porn on Penn State's network, yeah, tell the boss. He was diddling elementary school kids in the locker room. Call the fucking cops! Better yet, beat him bloody with a sawed-off axe handle and then call the fucking cops!
As for McQueary, how do you explain your behavior, or lack thereof, to the children that were hurt? "Hey, dude. Man, that really sucks that some old perv pinned you against the wall and corn-holed you before you were old enough to have hair on your nuts. That musta hurt. Damn. I saw him do it, by the way, but I'm not into violence so I didn't stop him or nothing. I did tell my boss, though, and I think he told his boss, too, or something. Whatever. So, everything's cool. Right? Go Lions!"
Everyone involved, including the vaunted Joe Paterno, sat on their hands, plain and simple. They played football while Sandusky played with little boys. Yet, because of our pathological need for gridiron glory, we canonize that sawed-off little coke-bottle-glasses-wearing nitwit as some kind of grand ol' patriarch because he was good at winning games. Meanwhile, he was letting little kids get raped by some disease masquerading as a human being. "Fail" is appallingly insufficient at a time like this.
For you football fans, for you beer-swilling, team-color-torso-painting, rah-rah-rah jackoffs that swarm the bleachers like lemmings looking for a cliff, for you armchair quarterbacks that nestle your asses into your recliners and fawn over your widescreens like you just TiVo'ed God in HD, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, right here, right now...
...here it goes...
...brace yourselves...
Football is a game.
That's it. Go back and read it again if it didn't sink into your lite-beer-and-testosterone-addled brains. It is a game. Nothing more. A bunch of overgrown kids playing with a ball. "No, it's about achievement and glory and--" Bullshit. It's a game. It's about scoring points. What the fuck is a point? Can you buy food with a point? Can it change your tire if you get a flat? Will it get rid of this nagging headache of mine? A wanna see a point. Gimmie a picture. A wanna see a bunch of points. Serve me up a big, steaming bowl of points so that I can take a bite and feel the achievement and glory swirling around in my big fat belly. Can't do it, can you? So, what the fuck is a point? Nothing. It is pointless (pun intended with extreme prejudice). Football is a game. Anyone who makes it out to be more than that has more issues than I do.
So, fuck Joe-Pa. Fuck McQueary. Fuck everyone who knew what that disgusting pig Sandusky was doing and did nothing. Fuck everyone who put the importance of a stupid, pointless fucking game over the welfare of a little kid. And, for those of you who "bleed blue-and-white," do me a favor: bleed out.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Nine Things In The Name Of Safety That Looked Better On Paper
9) Anti-Vice Programs
It's kinda funny when self-appointed do-gooders try to save us from our addictions especially smoking. Most ads for smoking cessation programs are paid for by...the largest goddamn tobacco company in the world. Yeah, that'll work. Go to a grocery store and have the produce manager tell you about the hazards of pesticides. I'll bet there's subliminal messages in the ads ("no really, emphysema tickles. It's like an Elmo doll for your lungs"). As smarmy and heart-string-tuggy as they are, they can't compete with the lure of addiction. We'll start a new anti-heroin campaign: "stop jamming needles in your arm and frying your veins." It's an addiction! I love the casino ads: “Come here and win 7 billion dollars with one spin.” Then, in the smallest font that is still legally considered text, they have “Gambling Problem? Call 1-800-LOSE-BIG.” Pretty soon, we'll start seeing ads for politicians that say they actually care about their constituents...oh, wait. Aw, shit. Never mind.
8) Ultra-Bright Headlights
It's happened to you. You're driving along, minding your own business, obeying each and every traffic law to the letter (hey, this is a hypothetical, work with me, will you?) when "that guy" comes up on you. He had to brush up on his Spanish so he could go to AutoZone and get those brand-spanking new headlights for his Honda Civic. You know the ones I'm talking about...the one's with three beams: high beams, really high beams, and Imperial fucking Death Star blaster beams. The kind that can fade your paint job. The kind that put out light that would give Theodore Maiman a boner. He got them so he could see better, you know, to be safer. It's okay that he's toasting your retinas because he can see just fine. God forbid it's raining out and the light reflects off the road like one of those foil board things that you see hot chicks in the movies using to tan their under-chin areas (do those really exist?) Is it really safe to have lights so bright that NASA calls you up to bitch about them? It's like when the sweaty, hairy leather-laminated dirtbag on the Harley says he has loud exhaust pipes to save lives and not just to be an obnoxious, attention-whore douchebag.
7) Safety Signs/Slogans
What makes people think that a pedantic little placard plastered over your workstation will keep you from being a dip-shit? Oh, yeah, it's cheaper than actual training. Remember when your parents left you alone in the house for the first time? What did they say to you? “Behave." Everyone said the same thing in an innocent, almost bored deadpan: “I will." Meanwhile, you were chomping at the bit, trying to look bored out of your mind, just waiting for the car door to slam outside before your raided the old man's liquor cabinet and snooped around for his hidden titty magazine collection. “Drive safely?” Whew! Thanks for reminding me, I was planning on chugging a fifth of gin and driving to Jersey backwards at night. “Don't tailgate?” I was so gonna ride me some minivan ass, but, you showed me the light. Thank you inanimate sign!
As proof of their ineffectiveness, the warnings have only gotten sterner over the years. It used to be stuff like "Safety First" and "Arrive Alive". Now it's "You're a Useless Fucking Piece of Child-Murdering Subhuman Shit if you Don't Wear Your Seat-Belt." Regardless of how macabre you make the message, we ignore it. Because, when you're faced with cutting a 2-by-4 and the blade guard on your saw makes it take an extra three seconds to make the cut, you say, “fuck it, I don't need all ten fingers. As long as I have enough to pick my nose and flip people off, I'm good.”
6) Are you sure you want to do that?
We got anti-virus software, anti-malware, anti-spam, anti-rootkit, firewalls...the average computer can't scratch it's digital ass without something getting in the way. You would think our computers would be as impregnable as Fort Knox or Rosie O'donnel. And, yet, bad bit bugs proliferate like geeks at a Star Trek convention. Why? Because the weak link in the chain is the mouth-breathing dumbass wiping the Cheeto's grease off the keyboard.
The typical infection scenario goes something like this: you want to download the latest celebrity sex tape. You click on the link and POOF, the warning pops up. “SuperMegaUltra Security Suite has detected a potential hazard. Lethal.DriveFucker.WTF.exe is a potentially malicious program.” You look at it. "Threat level: moderate." Well, we've been at a moderate threat level since 9/11 and there haven't been any attacks since. You stare back at the warning, then at that thumbnail of that phenomenal Kardashian rack, then back to the warning. Threat level, moderate. Erection level, severe. Click. Boom. Before you know it, your computer has more viruses than the "actress" in the movie you were trying to download. Stupid succeeds every time it's tried.
5) School Buses
A school bus used to be a big, boxy diesel-powered juggernaut that hauled your snot-nosed brat to school. Now it's like the Pink Floyd light show grew wheels. They got big red lights and strobes and flip out "Stop" signs and that big swinging cow-pusher thing to keep your cross-eyed little nitwit from crawling under the front of a twenty-ton truck. What's next, a fireworks show? A platoon of armed crossing guards hops out and blocks the road? You could give it goddamn deflector shields, it won't matter. There's still gonna be that one dick who's hopped up on Amp and last-night's Nascar race that is going to try to pass a stopped bus. Dicks cut in line...because they're dicks. That's kinda why we call them that. It ain't rocket science. There will always be dicks in the world and they will always make the world a little less safe until we invent a high-tech dick deterrent device...of course, that may involve rocket science, or at least some basic ballistics.
4) Child-Proofing
The contraptions that we come up with to keep our kids from getting into our grown-up shit are hilarious. It's like OSHA hired Rube Goldberg. The funny thing is that nothing actually stops the kids from doing what you don't want them to do. The kids will find a way in, simply because they really, really want to, and they have all that time that you're at work to practice. Most kids are actually better at getting into the goodies than the adults are. How long does Granny fumble with the pain-pill jar with her twisted, knobby, arthritic fingers before she says “fuck it” and hands it off to little Billy, who's already figured out the latest XBox hack in between potty training sessions and nap time?
Lighters with little flip things don't actually stop someone from making fire, they just add another step to the process. And, they also tick off smokers who are kinda cranky and twitchy already. Getting between one and his smoky-treats is like getting between a momma bear and her cubs.
3) Accident Avoidance Systems
Airbags are a wonderful invention designed to keep you from scrambling your egg in an accident. They're one of those safety features that helps you "just in case." It's not like you're gonna do a General Lee jump over some hay bales just to see if your active restraint system actually works. Antilock brakes and 4WD, too, are good things to have, but they do take things one more step away from driver control. Some people think that 4WD will prevent them slip-sliding all over the road, regardless of the weather. Yes, Virginia, ice is still slippery. It's not like your transmission will hop off the car and go throw salt out on the road. But, it's still a "helper" to keep you safe, as long as you recognize it's limitations.
Now, your ultra-pricey import can come equipped with a state-of-the-art computer controlled super-duper high-tech system thingy that will slam on your brakes for you if something gets too close. It's like an R2 unit for your Benz. Cool, right? Fuck that. Advances in technology don't give you an excuse to be a shitty driver. As for high-tech crap, modern technology can't keep your laptop from locking up at random, do you really want to trust a machine to avoid that suicidal deer that just hopped in front of you? Do you really want to give Joe Sixpack an excuse to get shitfaced and see if his Robo-Chauffer system will keep him between the lines? I'll be taking the bus.
2) Warning Labels
I don't even have to spoof labels. They're spoofs on their own. They're gubment's attempt to idiot-proof the world. The problem is that idiocy will always win, because, unlike common sense, there is no lower limit to it. No matter how dumbed-down you make something, there will be a knuckle-dragger that's dimwitted enough to Limbo right under that low bar you set. Sorry, but any shithead that puts contraceptive jelly on her toast deserves the stomach pumping as well as a whole shit tank full of public derision.
1) Flu shots
Wanna keep from getting sick? Sure, we all do. So, how do you do it? Well, you can exercise, eat healthy, get lots of rest, and take a needle full of the very viruses that you're trying to avoid and jab that fucker right into your arm. Ummm, wait. No. What?
Yeah. That's a flu shot. Dead viruses in a syringe. It's okay, they're dead. Little unicellular corpses to stick in your vein. Fun, except that some of them are not quite dead. Maybe they're just wounded. Maybe...they're undead! Rhinoviral zombies shambling through your blood vessels, biting the heads off your corpuscles and eating their tiny little hemoglobin brains.
Getting a flu shot is like sleeping with a hooker that used to have the clap but she swears she's clear now. Yeah, no. When it was immunization for the kind of viral fuckers that killed or maimed you, like polio or smallpox, it made sense. But it's the flu. You sneeze, you feel like shit and you get over it. Take some time off work and catch up on your TiVo. Also, the strain of the maybe-dead virus they stick you with depends on what the CDC thinks will be the threat that year. CDC. Centers for Disease Control. Part of the Department of Health and Human Services. The government...SUPER reliable source, there. They totally hit the Swine Flu thing on the head (I think I had a touch of that myself). Thanks, but no. I'll stick with vitamin C.
It's kinda funny when self-appointed do-gooders try to save us from our addictions especially smoking. Most ads for smoking cessation programs are paid for by...the largest goddamn tobacco company in the world. Yeah, that'll work. Go to a grocery store and have the produce manager tell you about the hazards of pesticides. I'll bet there's subliminal messages in the ads ("no really, emphysema tickles. It's like an Elmo doll for your lungs"). As smarmy and heart-string-tuggy as they are, they can't compete with the lure of addiction. We'll start a new anti-heroin campaign: "stop jamming needles in your arm and frying your veins." It's an addiction! I love the casino ads: “Come here and win 7 billion dollars with one spin.” Then, in the smallest font that is still legally considered text, they have “Gambling Problem? Call 1-800-LOSE-BIG.” Pretty soon, we'll start seeing ads for politicians that say they actually care about their constituents...oh, wait. Aw, shit. Never mind.
8) Ultra-Bright Headlights
It's happened to you. You're driving along, minding your own business, obeying each and every traffic law to the letter (hey, this is a hypothetical, work with me, will you?) when "that guy" comes up on you. He had to brush up on his Spanish so he could go to AutoZone and get those brand-spanking new headlights for his Honda Civic. You know the ones I'm talking about...the one's with three beams: high beams, really high beams, and Imperial fucking Death Star blaster beams. The kind that can fade your paint job. The kind that put out light that would give Theodore Maiman a boner. He got them so he could see better, you know, to be safer. It's okay that he's toasting your retinas because he can see just fine. God forbid it's raining out and the light reflects off the road like one of those foil board things that you see hot chicks in the movies using to tan their under-chin areas (do those really exist?) Is it really safe to have lights so bright that NASA calls you up to bitch about them? It's like when the sweaty, hairy leather-laminated dirtbag on the Harley says he has loud exhaust pipes to save lives and not just to be an obnoxious, attention-whore douchebag.
7) Safety Signs/Slogans
What makes people think that a pedantic little placard plastered over your workstation will keep you from being a dip-shit? Oh, yeah, it's cheaper than actual training. Remember when your parents left you alone in the house for the first time? What did they say to you? “Behave." Everyone said the same thing in an innocent, almost bored deadpan: “I will." Meanwhile, you were chomping at the bit, trying to look bored out of your mind, just waiting for the car door to slam outside before your raided the old man's liquor cabinet and snooped around for his hidden titty magazine collection. “Drive safely?” Whew! Thanks for reminding me, I was planning on chugging a fifth of gin and driving to Jersey backwards at night. “Don't tailgate?” I was so gonna ride me some minivan ass, but, you showed me the light. Thank you inanimate sign!
As proof of their ineffectiveness, the warnings have only gotten sterner over the years. It used to be stuff like "Safety First" and "Arrive Alive". Now it's "You're a Useless Fucking Piece of Child-Murdering Subhuman Shit if you Don't Wear Your Seat-Belt." Regardless of how macabre you make the message, we ignore it. Because, when you're faced with cutting a 2-by-4 and the blade guard on your saw makes it take an extra three seconds to make the cut, you say, “fuck it, I don't need all ten fingers. As long as I have enough to pick my nose and flip people off, I'm good.”
6) Are you sure you want to do that?
We got anti-virus software, anti-malware, anti-spam, anti-rootkit, firewalls...the average computer can't scratch it's digital ass without something getting in the way. You would think our computers would be as impregnable as Fort Knox or Rosie O'donnel. And, yet, bad bit bugs proliferate like geeks at a Star Trek convention. Why? Because the weak link in the chain is the mouth-breathing dumbass wiping the Cheeto's grease off the keyboard.
The typical infection scenario goes something like this: you want to download the latest celebrity sex tape. You click on the link and POOF, the warning pops up. “SuperMegaUltra Security Suite has detected a potential hazard. Lethal.DriveFucker.WTF.exe is a potentially malicious program.” You look at it. "Threat level: moderate." Well, we've been at a moderate threat level since 9/11 and there haven't been any attacks since. You stare back at the warning, then at that thumbnail of that phenomenal Kardashian rack, then back to the warning. Threat level, moderate. Erection level, severe. Click. Boom. Before you know it, your computer has more viruses than the "actress" in the movie you were trying to download. Stupid succeeds every time it's tried.
5) School Buses
A school bus used to be a big, boxy diesel-powered juggernaut that hauled your snot-nosed brat to school. Now it's like the Pink Floyd light show grew wheels. They got big red lights and strobes and flip out "Stop" signs and that big swinging cow-pusher thing to keep your cross-eyed little nitwit from crawling under the front of a twenty-ton truck. What's next, a fireworks show? A platoon of armed crossing guards hops out and blocks the road? You could give it goddamn deflector shields, it won't matter. There's still gonna be that one dick who's hopped up on Amp and last-night's Nascar race that is going to try to pass a stopped bus. Dicks cut in line...because they're dicks. That's kinda why we call them that. It ain't rocket science. There will always be dicks in the world and they will always make the world a little less safe until we invent a high-tech dick deterrent device...of course, that may involve rocket science, or at least some basic ballistics.
4) Child-Proofing
The contraptions that we come up with to keep our kids from getting into our grown-up shit are hilarious. It's like OSHA hired Rube Goldberg. The funny thing is that nothing actually stops the kids from doing what you don't want them to do. The kids will find a way in, simply because they really, really want to, and they have all that time that you're at work to practice. Most kids are actually better at getting into the goodies than the adults are. How long does Granny fumble with the pain-pill jar with her twisted, knobby, arthritic fingers before she says “fuck it” and hands it off to little Billy, who's already figured out the latest XBox hack in between potty training sessions and nap time?
Lighters with little flip things don't actually stop someone from making fire, they just add another step to the process. And, they also tick off smokers who are kinda cranky and twitchy already. Getting between one and his smoky-treats is like getting between a momma bear and her cubs.
3) Accident Avoidance Systems
Airbags are a wonderful invention designed to keep you from scrambling your egg in an accident. They're one of those safety features that helps you "just in case." It's not like you're gonna do a General Lee jump over some hay bales just to see if your active restraint system actually works. Antilock brakes and 4WD, too, are good things to have, but they do take things one more step away from driver control. Some people think that 4WD will prevent them slip-sliding all over the road, regardless of the weather. Yes, Virginia, ice is still slippery. It's not like your transmission will hop off the car and go throw salt out on the road. But, it's still a "helper" to keep you safe, as long as you recognize it's limitations.
Now, your ultra-pricey import can come equipped with a state-of-the-art computer controlled super-duper high-tech system thingy that will slam on your brakes for you if something gets too close. It's like an R2 unit for your Benz. Cool, right? Fuck that. Advances in technology don't give you an excuse to be a shitty driver. As for high-tech crap, modern technology can't keep your laptop from locking up at random, do you really want to trust a machine to avoid that suicidal deer that just hopped in front of you? Do you really want to give Joe Sixpack an excuse to get shitfaced and see if his Robo-Chauffer system will keep him between the lines? I'll be taking the bus.
2) Warning Labels
I don't even have to spoof labels. They're spoofs on their own. They're gubment's attempt to idiot-proof the world. The problem is that idiocy will always win, because, unlike common sense, there is no lower limit to it. No matter how dumbed-down you make something, there will be a knuckle-dragger that's dimwitted enough to Limbo right under that low bar you set. Sorry, but any shithead that puts contraceptive jelly on her toast deserves the stomach pumping as well as a whole shit tank full of public derision.
1) Flu shots
Wanna keep from getting sick? Sure, we all do. So, how do you do it? Well, you can exercise, eat healthy, get lots of rest, and take a needle full of the very viruses that you're trying to avoid and jab that fucker right into your arm. Ummm, wait. No. What?
Yeah. That's a flu shot. Dead viruses in a syringe. It's okay, they're dead. Little unicellular corpses to stick in your vein. Fun, except that some of them are not quite dead. Maybe they're just wounded. Maybe...they're undead! Rhinoviral zombies shambling through your blood vessels, biting the heads off your corpuscles and eating their tiny little hemoglobin brains.
Getting a flu shot is like sleeping with a hooker that used to have the clap but she swears she's clear now. Yeah, no. When it was immunization for the kind of viral fuckers that killed or maimed you, like polio or smallpox, it made sense. But it's the flu. You sneeze, you feel like shit and you get over it. Take some time off work and catch up on your TiVo. Also, the strain of the maybe-dead virus they stick you with depends on what the CDC thinks will be the threat that year. CDC. Centers for Disease Control. Part of the Department of Health and Human Services. The government...SUPER reliable source, there. They totally hit the Swine Flu thing on the head (I think I had a touch of that myself). Thanks, but no. I'll stick with vitamin C.
My Unsolicited Review of "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo"
The truly pathological readers that I know have been gushing about The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. With all the media buzz and the impending movie, I've actually been ordered to read it. So, I did. In a word, my opinion of it is "eh."
That's blasphemy, I know. Everyone's flipping out over this book. Maybe it's because it was published posthumously. Maybe it's because he was Swedish and we Americans are amazed that other countries actually have their own novelists and stuff. I know not. All I can say is that I don't think it deserves all the kudos. It's a good story and the characters are interesting but, as the old saw goes, "the story is in the telling" and it's not told very well. Of course, that doesn't mean much; Stephanie Meyer made herself a household name by revising the "vampire rules" and recycling old Buffy angst to make an undead monster with uncontrolled blood-lust look like good boyfriend material. So, what the hell do I know? I'm sure the Larsson estate will be rolling in kronas. More power to them. I'm just not impressed.
The story was good though it was a bit anticlimactic. The subplots could have been worked into the main story a little more, giving it a bigger build-up towards the end. But, alas, we had chapter upon chapter of wrap-up. And, truth be told, the climax was a Hollywood director's wet dream. I actually predicted some of the plot twists but that might just be because I'm a genius. I don't want to spoil the ending for the seventeen other people who haven't read it yet, so I won't say anything else on plot. Suffice it to say that I liked the story well enough.
The writing, though, was weak, especially given the seismic orgasms that everyone seems to be having over it. I thought it was dry and methodical. Larsson, having been a journalist, was probably used to explaining things in a clear, concise manner, which is probably why his fiction is an exercise in exposition. The book is rife with passive, explanatory language, making it seem distant and impersonal. He tries to present some extremely visceral things and makes it read like a scientific journal article. It's all tell and no show. He invented some colorful characters and then painted them in greyscale.
Descriptions are cursory and not very evocative. They give you the setting but don't pull you into it. It's sort of like the props in an elementary school play; they're just kinda there. What he does expound on are pointless details and veritable laundry lists of actions ("She did this. She did that. Then, she did the other thing.") Sentence after repetitive sentence of ways and means with nothing with which to empathize. He also had a tendency to sprinkle in brand names and, in particular, he loved to recite computer stats. At one point, I thought I was reading a Best Buy ad. It's like the work of an author who's a gun enthusiast and insists on detailing bore sizes and muzzle velocities in the middle of a gunfight. Or, the cook who gives us a handy recipe. Steig liked his computers and he did his homework. Fantastic. If it doesn't advance the story, it just sounds like pandering.
His use of foreshadowing is blatant, almost patronizing. It's one thing to give the reader a hint of what's to come, it's quite another to bash him over the head with an announcement that something big and important is coming up in the next paragraph. It came off as very amateurish (and, since I'm an amateur, I would know.)
There's also a lot of unabashed proselytizing in it. All writers inject their own views into their work, but the good ones make it a part of the story. Larsson unloads unvarnished diatribes about the Swedish economy and social systems and personal injustices like...well...like a journalist. You don't make good chocolate chip cookies by dumping a pile of chips in the middle of the dough and spooning it out. You gotta work it in.
My biggest bitch with the book is Larsson's frequent, frenetic changes in the point-of-view. I could never tell who's eyes I was looking through and his expository dronings made it even more confusing. He flipped from one character to another in some nebulous, omniscient narrative voice and I found myself backtracking all the time. A book doesn't count as a page-turner if the pages are going in the wrong direction.
So, to put it in brainless-teenage-girl lingo, I liked it, but I didn't like it like it. Good story, mediocre book. The movie might actually turn out better. I'll read book two, but I don't think it won't keep me awake at night.
That's blasphemy, I know. Everyone's flipping out over this book. Maybe it's because it was published posthumously. Maybe it's because he was Swedish and we Americans are amazed that other countries actually have their own novelists and stuff. I know not. All I can say is that I don't think it deserves all the kudos. It's a good story and the characters are interesting but, as the old saw goes, "the story is in the telling" and it's not told very well. Of course, that doesn't mean much; Stephanie Meyer made herself a household name by revising the "vampire rules" and recycling old Buffy angst to make an undead monster with uncontrolled blood-lust look like good boyfriend material. So, what the hell do I know? I'm sure the Larsson estate will be rolling in kronas. More power to them. I'm just not impressed.
The story was good though it was a bit anticlimactic. The subplots could have been worked into the main story a little more, giving it a bigger build-up towards the end. But, alas, we had chapter upon chapter of wrap-up. And, truth be told, the climax was a Hollywood director's wet dream. I actually predicted some of the plot twists but that might just be because I'm a genius. I don't want to spoil the ending for the seventeen other people who haven't read it yet, so I won't say anything else on plot. Suffice it to say that I liked the story well enough.
The writing, though, was weak, especially given the seismic orgasms that everyone seems to be having over it. I thought it was dry and methodical. Larsson, having been a journalist, was probably used to explaining things in a clear, concise manner, which is probably why his fiction is an exercise in exposition. The book is rife with passive, explanatory language, making it seem distant and impersonal. He tries to present some extremely visceral things and makes it read like a scientific journal article. It's all tell and no show. He invented some colorful characters and then painted them in greyscale.
Descriptions are cursory and not very evocative. They give you the setting but don't pull you into it. It's sort of like the props in an elementary school play; they're just kinda there. What he does expound on are pointless details and veritable laundry lists of actions ("She did this. She did that. Then, she did the other thing.") Sentence after repetitive sentence of ways and means with nothing with which to empathize. He also had a tendency to sprinkle in brand names and, in particular, he loved to recite computer stats. At one point, I thought I was reading a Best Buy ad. It's like the work of an author who's a gun enthusiast and insists on detailing bore sizes and muzzle velocities in the middle of a gunfight. Or, the cook who gives us a handy recipe. Steig liked his computers and he did his homework. Fantastic. If it doesn't advance the story, it just sounds like pandering.
His use of foreshadowing is blatant, almost patronizing. It's one thing to give the reader a hint of what's to come, it's quite another to bash him over the head with an announcement that something big and important is coming up in the next paragraph. It came off as very amateurish (and, since I'm an amateur, I would know.)
There's also a lot of unabashed proselytizing in it. All writers inject their own views into their work, but the good ones make it a part of the story. Larsson unloads unvarnished diatribes about the Swedish economy and social systems and personal injustices like...well...like a journalist. You don't make good chocolate chip cookies by dumping a pile of chips in the middle of the dough and spooning it out. You gotta work it in.
My biggest bitch with the book is Larsson's frequent, frenetic changes in the point-of-view. I could never tell who's eyes I was looking through and his expository dronings made it even more confusing. He flipped from one character to another in some nebulous, omniscient narrative voice and I found myself backtracking all the time. A book doesn't count as a page-turner if the pages are going in the wrong direction.
So, to put it in brainless-teenage-girl lingo, I liked it, but I didn't like it like it. Good story, mediocre book. The movie might actually turn out better. I'll read book two, but I don't think it won't keep me awake at night.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Some Things I've Noticed
The people who are least gifted with the ability to sing are often the most likely to demonstrate it.
It takes half an hour for your food to go from scalding hot to edible. It takes half a minute to go from edible to stone cold.
Bloggers are the internet equivalent of mimes; even the talented ones are otiose, irritating and devoid of meaningful communication skills.
There's a movie out called Final Destination 5. I guess Final Destination 1 through 4 were just living a lie.
A consultant's job is to take your watch off your wrist and then tell you what time it is.
Apple will never unseat Microsoft as the primary operating system for business users. If everybody switched to a Mac, nobody could blame their rank inefficiency on mysterious "computer problems."
Bankers and politicians are the only professions that ask you how much money you have before they tell you how much you owe. Even prostitutes and drug dealers are more upfront with their prices.
It takes half an hour for your food to go from scalding hot to edible. It takes half a minute to go from edible to stone cold.
Bloggers are the internet equivalent of mimes; even the talented ones are otiose, irritating and devoid of meaningful communication skills.
There's a movie out called Final Destination 5. I guess Final Destination 1 through 4 were just living a lie.
A consultant's job is to take your watch off your wrist and then tell you what time it is.
Apple will never unseat Microsoft as the primary operating system for business users. If everybody switched to a Mac, nobody could blame their rank inefficiency on mysterious "computer problems."
Bankers and politicians are the only professions that ask you how much money you have before they tell you how much you owe. Even prostitutes and drug dealers are more upfront with their prices.
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