Monday, March 31, 2008
An attempt to set the events of the film a mere 19 years past its original occurrence (1989), while leaving the plot to hinge on the singular machination of Bill and Ted's academic achievement, would have met with different, and cataclysmic, results. No one in these cynical times - not even Karl Rove herself - would have believed it possible to round up such a cast of historical figures and keep them on the stage in a California suburb without retainer and appearance fees that, in the face of our current economic climate, would reach far beyond even the deep pockets of Ted Theodore Logan and Bill S. Preston, Esq.
What would be paradoxical is how, given the exposure of that particular bit of financial fallacy, these historical figures could have been sent back to fulfill their appointed roles both in the course of human events, even and up to the eventual passing of Bill and Ted's history test. Circumstance and timing indicate fairly clearly that many of the film's luminaries were abducted in the primes of their careers, prior, perhaps, to the achievements for which they were best known. And that is still to say nothing of the tangential impact of Bill and Ted's excellent adventure (the adventure itself, not the movie) on the world around those people. It is entirely conceivable, for example, that a contemporary of Sigmund Freud (Dude), having witnessed the sudden intrusion of a phone booth into early 20th century Austria, may have been thusly been inspired to contribute to its invention. Only wikipedia, and its inscrutable editorial staff, knows for sure.
What is certain is that, within the clever give-and-take of the movie's protagonists with their historical specimens, there is a balance never before witnessed in film or, tragically, in reality. It is this balance, and not some mysterious occurence, or "strange thing afoot at the Circle K", that was so intrinsic to the plausibility of the future presented herein, a future where George Carlin would truly be the most worthy ambassador, and a black man in a charcoal gray onesie with trapezoidal shoulders could lead us all.
The final sad truth is that what Bill and Ted could never have foreseen - what none of us, back in the brighter and more glorious glow of the thawing Cold War could have seen - were the disastrous repercussions of making a sequel. It was the most obvious possible indication that Hollywood's liberal bias had overreached itself. Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey, in the crystal lens of retrospect, was stupid enough to almost singlehandedly reap responsibility for the rise in American conservatism that has led to the bloodied, battered state of the country today. And deservedly so. But it is still ironic - indeed, even a little bit poetic - that the second film could so drastically undercut the immense and hopeful legacy of the first film, and that the intervening years, and all the years to come, would a journey so bogus be.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Because I read the books a few years back (I needed something to nap to then, too), and my impression was that, at the very least, Isildur deserved the benefit of the doubt for having been seriously contemplative of the question of what to do with the Ring after It came to him. He was deeply conflicted about choice - and the subtext was clearly that his deliberateness was exploited by the Ring, that's how smart that fucking Ring was. Maybe the Ring won't bring you the paper, but it will certainly put your dog to shame.
Unfortunately, the way the movie makes it sound, Isildur was this weak-willed, incompetent hack with a sniveling expression, and not a single line of dialogue with which to redeem himself. Personally, I would have made Isildur's part a musical part, and made the movie 20 minutes longer to squeeze his story in there.
Take note, lord of the rings: the fellowship of the ring, the movie: there's a reason I capitalize The Ring, and not you anymore. I am not to be trifled with. Just ask juggs rinehart the blah*. You know what time it is?
(* the artist formerly known as Judge Reinhold)
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Paul Begala's birthday isn't until May 12th, so there are plenty of shopping days between now and then to find a more ideal gift for him than Anti-Monkey-Butt Powder, which he is going to need once Hillary Clinton finally bows out of the Democratic presidential race.
I'm hoping that happens right around May 12th, so I can leap in with a perfectly timed six-pack of Anti-Monkey-Butt Powder, thereby luring him to the Oscar the Grouch '08 cause.
My political savvy knows almost no bounds. How do you like me now, Barack Obama? That's what you get for hitting on my girlfriend, mister. I could totally have used the Anti-Monkey-Butt Powder to score the endorsement for you, but you blew it, dude. You totally blew it. Just like those ugly chicks did to our blind governor.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
My therapist always tells me that I won't do my self-esteem any favors by comparing myself to other people, so I don't. But that quack has never said jack squat about comparing myself to a spider, so I do. And every time, I end up losing, and my self-esteem spirals into a miasma out from which all the Snickers and all the Twix and all the golfers crotch hooks in the world cannot lift me.
Zod knows, I have killed plenty of spiders in my time. You would think that, after all that carnage, I would have cultivated a sense of superiority over the entire order Araneae. But consider the legacy of Charlotte A. Cavatica, who could rightly be regarded as the mother of bloggerism itself. Think about it: thoroughly unimportant and insignificant daily editorials in her web that changed the mind of the country bumpkins in charge of awarding blue ribbons at the county fair? That's exactly how people use the WORLD WIDE WEB today, OBVIOUSLY!! Well, that and for making lolcats.
So no, I don't feel superior. You were wrong for would-thinking that. I feel like a jerk, and so should you. Because while Charlotte was out there weaving words into her webs so that she could get "some pig" elected president, you and I were getting jerked around in grade school classrooms and not being taught the alphabet or how to weave webs or ANYTHING. And now, I can't even get a single celebrity endorsement for my Oscar the Grouch '08 campaign, all because I was not born a spider.
The practical upshot of my persistent illiteracy is twofold. First of all, I was not invited to partake in the making of this fine, quality video:
I mean, there's no denying what these women are saying. It truthfully is raining McCain. Hallelujah. Hosanna in excelsis.
Second of all, my write-in campaign for Oscar the Grouch lacks the muscle of this campaign, targeted at getting John McClane, hero of the Die Hard franchise of movies, elected president.
As none of you may recall, four years ago, I tried like hell, and at tremendous personal expense, to get Kenny Crandall from the movie Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead elected to the nation's highest office. And despite fielding a candidate that many considered more viable, and less intellectually dormant, than either John Kerry or George W. Bush, K. Crandall barely managed to muster 3,000 votes from among the entire American electorate.
I never had the coverage that they give to a John McClane candidacy, and it most certainly isn't raining Oscar the Grouch the way it's raining McCain. Obviously, in the face of this news, the Oscar '08 campaign is a totally lost cause. Because nothing beats John McClane. Just ask Hans Gruber. Or that scary fucker Karl that McClane hung from a bunch of conveniently placed chains after beating the crap out of him. Or any of the other German terrorists that held the Nakatomi Plaza hostage that Christmas Eve 20 years ago. Or the planeload of escaping weirdo military psychos who got blown up over Dulles airport after McClane lit their fuel trail on fire. I don't think even Kenny Crandall himself could overcome that.
But I will persevere nonetheless, and my perseverance will know no bounds. Because if there's one thing I know how to do, it's to persevere in the face of not-worth-persevering-against odds. Which is exactly how I've managed to continue writing this ridiculous blog which you are the only person not reading. But screw this learning to read business - that is just NEVER going to happen. What am I, a spider or something?
Charlotte A. Cavatica
Wherever Dead Spiders Go
Hell, Michigan 48169
If John McCain gets elected, you have no one but yourself to blame. You are ruining America. Fuck you, you dead fucking spider.
Love and kisses and slow, painful death to all your spider children,
P.S. Do you know a good clothes-washing/dry cleaning service in New York City? Thanks loads.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
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Wednesday, March 19, 2008
I FUCKING NEED THIS!
Please someone who reads this blog (all both of you), track down the person who bought this on eBay and make them an offer. I will totally be your best friend.
Golfer's Crotch Hook on eBay
I knew the economy was souring, but have times really gotten so tight that all you get for $48 million is ONE LOUSY DIVORCE? Dude, Paul, you just basically rented Heather Mills for five years for 48 MILLION DOLLARS, man! That's roughly $24 million per breast! Or $48 million per leg!
I can think of a crazy number of ways I would rather spend that money. Like, how about buying 20 percent of JP Morgan's stake in the Bear Stearns fire sale last weekend? Or how about scheduling 11,162 2-hour sessions with Eliot Spitzer's 3-diamond hooker girlfriend? Is oil still trading at $110 a barrel? Because $48 million would buy a little bit more than 436,000 barrels of oil - enough to run all the Hummers in America for four whole minutes each.
Hell, if I had that kind of money, I could buy 13 million boxes of delicious Thin Mints cookies from the Girl Scouts, and stay so hopped up on chocolate and mint that I'd probably forget all about my marital troubles in the first place.
Better yet, what about the hundreds of freaky amputee cripples wandering the streets of Mumbai, or wherever the hell Sir Pauly Mac lives? (He's from India, isn't he? Seriously, where is that accent from?) What about their dreams of marrying an ex-Beatle and landing a job on Dancing with the Stars, or running in the Special Olympics, or finally being able to afford that cup of coffee and some fresh cardboard for their "help a Vietnam veteran" sign? I don't know what these people dream about, I'm just saying, why is it fair that all that money goes to just one disfigured person when there are so many much more needy disfigured people out there, some of whom are probably also gay?
Check this out:
For $5,000 to $7,000, a patient can get a serviceable below-the-knee prosthesis that allows the user to stand and walk on level ground. By contrast, a $10,000 device will allow the person to become a "community walker," able to go up and down stairs and to traverse uneven terrain.
A prosthetic leg in the $12,000 to $15,000 price range will facilitate running and functioning at a level nearly indistinguishable from someone with two legs.
- Inland News (Southern California)
May 14, 2006
That means that, even with just the highest-end prosthetics, Paul McCartney could have been the benefactor of 3,200 legs to somewhere between 1,600 and 3,200 lucky people, instead of spending the $48 million to get rid of just one.
All this points to just one conclusion: Heather Mills must have been fucking terrible in bed.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
It's been quite a year - some of it up, some of it down, some of it inexplicably zigzagging from the upper left to the lower right corner, some of it horizontal on a couch in my underwear with a box of Thin Mints, some of it staticky like when you tune your TV to channel 122 accidentally, assuming that you don't have digital cable where channel 122 is a fantastic and worthwhile bastion of quality programming, like Country Music Television or the Golf Classics Channel.
I have lots of memories from my year as a bloggerist that I just know I'm going to cherish forever. For example, I remember going to the bathroom at least eight times. And there was something about China. Also, yesterday morning, I commented on the fact that there were the makings of a great joke about bestiality in the phrase "put the cock in Cocker Spaniel," although I didn't actually come up with the joke. And let's not forget all those Thin Mints.
I suppose, if I'm being technical, the "cock in the Cocker Spaniel" non-joke was just beyond the borders of the year in question. It sort of counts more toward next year's anniversary. And truth be told, most of the Thin-Mint eating occurred after the anniversary deadline as well. I have now, on several occasions, had to resort to flossing to remove the excess bits of chocolaty, minty goodness from my molars and the back of my gums, simply so that I could go on smiling at my half-formed jokes about bestiality without humiliating myself. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be walking through the streets of Manhattan laughing about bestiality with chocolate in between your teeth?
I'm pretty sure there are all the ingredients for a joke about a shit-eating grin right there. For FREE! You can thank me later.
Apart from the "cock in the Cocker Spaniel" thing and the Thin Mints (and now the shit-eating grin non-joke too), all the trips to the bathroom, the vague thing about China, and endless cans of fruit, I don't really remember that much about the year I've been writing this. Of course, that could be the Thin Mints talking. I wonder about those things. Can Thin Mints really be trusted? Could there be some connection between the two boxes of Thin Mints and only remembering jokes about dog sex and poop-eating?
Which reminds me, my stepfather's birthday is coming up. I wonder what I should get him?
I guess it would be appropriate to wrap up this post with a look back at the past year of my bloggerization, as told in Thin Mints.
YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON NOT READING THIS BLOG: THE YEAR IN REVIEW...
This is me, after my first post on the new blog, March 12, 2007. Just look at that shit-eating grin on my face!Here's to another successful, chocolaty, minty year!
Me, leafing through my file of letters to Jesus. Look at that outrage! Look at me shake my fist in defiance of the Golden Rule! (Just kidding, JC, I totally believe in You! Hi to Your Dad!)
One of my favorites - the time Alex Rodriguez, Pervez Musharraf and I were eating mixed cones on a bench in Battery Park. Look at the rivulet of vanilla running down the corner of Pervez's mustache! What a goof!
This is me, Ronny Balboa (yes, that's his real name), and Rex "The Supervisor" Hymen at Halloween '07. You can't even tell it's us, can you? We were plunged into an existential quandary about the through line of our own existence for DAYS afterward!!
Me and Sarah watching George Bush's State of the Union address in January. (I'm the one with the popcorn and the Aqua Pod of water, Sarah is the one flipping off the television set, as if he could see her.)
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
And by the way, what the hell is so wrong with taking the last piece of fruit anyway? Should Goofus just leave it in the bowl so it can rot, just so no one will think he's rude? What about the starving children in Afghanistan and Iraq who have no fruit in the first place because of the shambles made of their economic infrastructure through years of outside intervention? Maybe Goofus was thinking of those poor, starving Iraqi orphans and being conscientious enough not to waste food, while Gallant was sending in the Army to bomb those orphans' parents!
Yeah, I said "orphans' parents." What?
I'd be willing to bet that sneaky little prick Gallant wants something in exchange for that fruit too. You think people just walk around handing out fruit, expecting nothing in return? Oh no, they don't. Goofus is scrambling to get his daily recommended allowance of fruits and vegetables in a household where quite obviously his parents don't provide him the nutrition he needs, while Gallant is busy trading orange wedges for sexual favors and political clout. I mean, just look at that sense of entitlement in Gallant's eyes, as if just having a piece of fruit is any sort of basis for establishing authority in a supposedly free society! I don't care if his father gave him that orange after he lost the 1992 election to Bill Clinton! That orange was paid for with United States tax dollars! It belongs to the people, asshole!
I'm more concerned about poor Goofus anyway, who obviously doesn't have extra fruit lying around with which to bribe the neighborhood girls so they'll pay attention to him. Goofus will probably grow up thinking the wrong things about women and believing he has to pay for sex. And then one day in 2008, after Goofus gets elected governor of New York, he'll be implicated in a busted prostitution ring, while that scumbag prickwad Gallant and his myopic economic and foreign policies drive the price of gas and food through the roof in America.
The moral of this story? Highlights for Children is completely morally backward. Stay away from it. Do not be taken in by the lies and deception. And also, if you have a choice between fucking a hooker and losing your job, or fucking the entire Middle East along with the economy and the security of your own country and not getting impeached, TAKE THE ORANGE.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Dole Fruit was kind enough to sponsor the boys from Canning Ops (and Rebecca Goodman, the token Jew, natch) for our annual trip to the Briggs-Goering Existentialism-athon in Stroudsburg, PA. Dole Fruit, in the face of the looming American recession and the recent attempted kidnapping of Ronny Balboa (yes, that's his real name) in the parking lot last December, put up quite a fight about giving us the money. But in the end, we argued that money was transitory, and profitability even more so. We also managed to secure a lucrative endorsement deal with Briggs-Goering to add the bake sale to the Existentialism-athon, which I'm pretty sure was what finally tipped the scales in our favor.
Dole Fruit also stipulated that the event be moved to Stroudsburg, and not held in that shithole East Stroudsburg anymore. That was fine with me. Personally, I had long wondered how the -athon got marooned in East Stroudsburg in the first place, and why I wasn't informed of the rules and regulations, but just thrust into the ranks as if I had been bought by a peddling shanghaier of human beings. Relocating to Stroudsburg, as arbitrary as it seemed, was fine with me.
But then, I was never really the type who paid attention to the fine print. The ink wasn't even dry on my signature before one of the faceless corporate bigwig assholes (seriously, he/she/it had NO FACE) handed me a polo shirt with the Dole logo on it and a pineapple apron. "Here you go," he/she/it said, "and thanks for your participation."
I don't even want to speculate on what orifice he/she/it used to say that.
Long story short, I got to go to the -athon this year, but because Dole took my ignorance and unwillingness to read fine print for granted, I'm actually working the bake sale. I do not blame Dole for this, as I am ultimately the highest authority to whom I am answerable. But for the next few days, while any number of supreme individuals are wandering around discussing the finer points of Nietzche and Kierkegaard, and debating the ultimate derivation of higher purpose, I'll be deriving my higher purpose from schilling fruit pies to feed the ravenous intellectuals. My spirits will remain aloft on the aroma of baked goods and the knowledge that I am providing a vital service to my fellow men and token Jews.
2:27 PM - Eustice "Not The Supervisor, But Wishes He Was" O'Dowd and Phaedrus T. "Not The Supervisor, But Is Totally Fine With That" Kinney's canned peach and cherry pie is selling like hotcakes - hot canned peach and cherry pie cakes, that is!
2:29 PM - I totally can't do this anymore. I'm handing in my apron. I am so goddamn depressed. I'm going to re-read No Exit.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
All right, look here, Joy Behar, et al., you may know a thing or two about fashion and cooking and having your period and whatever else women know about, but you do not know ANYTHING about sexy men from the '70s and early '80s. Dan Rather, sex god??!?!!? Dan Rather isn't even a sex minor deity*!
Let's quickly recap who the sexiest men of my early childhood are:
It's a two-man race at the top, as I have said before. No one short of Jesus himself could get past Fred Rogers and Bob Barker. And since Jesus lives in all of us, including Freddy R. and Bobby B., any advantage on either side is nullified. (I'm talking to you, Mister Rogers, if that is your real name. Just because you were an ordained minister back when you were still breathing does not mean that you automatically get a Jesus-looks credit. Also, Jesus himself didn't even make the top 10, so is that really someone you want on your side? I'm just saying.)
After Barker and Rogers comes Dan Fogelberg, and rounding out the top 5 are Kenny Rogers and Mr. Greenjeans from Captain Kangaroo.
Beyond that, you're getting into the territory occupied by fictional characters, like Luke Duke (not that fugly Bo) and He-Man and the aforementioned Jesus. Dan Rather maybe - maybe - could crack the top 25, but he's not even the sexiest CBS News anchor as far as I'm concerned. That honor goes to his distinguished forebear Walter Cronkite, after whose example I have patterned my own attempt to grow facial hair and jowls.
* At least, not according to Dungeons & Dragons Deities and Demigods of Sexy TV Journalism handbook that stood on my bedside table for most of 1987 and 1988.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
I don't mind that you faked your clinical trials, especially as I now stand to recoup some of the expenditures I have made purchasing your fine product over the years. I also won't claim retroactively that I suddenly don't feel better anymore, even though this nasty little tickle in the back of my throat feels a lot like the early onset of a tidal surge of sickness coming over the sandbag wall of ZESTY Orange Flavor! Airborne I've been taking for the past few days. I also won't blame you for making me resort to that hideous metaphor from the last sentence, but that's mostly because I'm a nice guy.
What I do mind is that you didn't even call me before I read this story on the New York Times about your settlement of the class-action lawsuit against you.
Unending font of information that I am, I could have pointed you to this story from badscience.net, bastion of reputable journalism that it is, which explains that placebos still work, even when the people taking them know they're placebos.
I could have saved you $23.3 million dollars. And I didn't even go to law school. I think that's worth a few free tubes of Airborne to not cure my upcoming cold with, don't you?
Still, it's not the fractious primary season that has me all bugaboo today, nor is it the results from Texas and Ohio themselves. What's eating at me is an email that was sent to Sarah early this morning by none other than Barack Obama himself. That's right, Barack Obama is emailing MY GIRLFRIEND.
At 4:00 in the morning!
From the campaign trail!!
And get this: they're apparently on a first-name basis too.
From: Barack Obama [firstname.lastname@example.org]Nice veiled innuendo with that subject line, B.O. "What happened today," huh? What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway? Is that shorthand for something I'm NOT SUPPOSED TO FIND OUT ABOUT?
To: Sarah [email@example.com]
Date: Wed, Mar 5, 2008 at 4:24 AM
Subject: What happened today
We may not know the final outcome of today's voting until morning, but the results so far make one thing clear.
When the dust settles from today's contests, we will maintain our substantial lead in delegates. And thanks to millions of people standing for change, we will keep adding delegates and capture the Democratic nomination.
We knew from the day we began this journey that the road would be long. And we knew what we were up against.
We knew that the closer we got to the change we seek, the more we'd see of the politics we're trying to end -- the attacks and distortions that try to distract us from the issues that matter to people's lives, the stunts and the tactics that ask us to fear instead of hope.
But this time -- this year -- it will not work. The challenges are too great. The stakes are too high.
Americans need real change.
In the coming weeks, we will begin a great debate about the future of this country with a man who has served it bravely and loves it dearly. And we will offer two very different visions of the America we see in the twenty-first century.
John McCain has already dismissed our call for change as eloquent but empty.
But he should know that it's a call that did not begin with my words. It's the resounding call from every corner of this country, from first-time voters and lifelong cynics, from Democrats and Republicans alike.
And together you and I are going to grow this movement to deliver that change in November.
I don't even know what to say about this. You scrimp and you save, and then you take all your hard-earned money and, instead of buying a Hyundai-sized raspberry or a raspberry-sized Hyundai, you spend it on a security deposit and a broker's fee so that you can live with a woman who turns out to be on a FIRST-NAME EMAIL BASIS WITH BARACK OBAMA AT 4:24 IN THE MORNING!
Then again, here I am practically running Oscar the Grouch's campaign all by myself, to the obvious neglect of my significant other. You know how I spent this past weekend? Trying to line up Vice Presidential candidates for the Grouch '08 ticket, that's how. I don't even remember what Sarah was doing the entire time. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I remember Sarah asking me to lift the other end of something heavy while I was on the phone at one point. I wonder what happened with that...
I guess I have no one to blame but myself. Sarah has gone Barack, and she may never go back. And it's all my fault.
Maybe I can make it up to her by voting for Hillary Clinton. She's a girl too, I hear! I bet Sarah would really appreciate that.
As for Barack Obama, I have some change for you if you're interested. It's 28 cents, left over from buying a bagel and an herbal tea this morning. I was going to give it to a homeless person later, but it sounds as if you and your supporters could really use it.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
What if you lied about your pants being on fire?
Liar: My pants are on fire.I find that in the mornings, especially, I am often beset by these weird Moebius-strip like turns of logic, and I sort of hate my brain for inflicting that on me. I would much rather be mindlessly listening to Steely Dan on my iPhone, or contemplating the infinite number of ways I will be able to spend my stimulus refund when it gets here.
Non-Liar: I think you're lying.
[The liar's pants burst into flame.]
Liar: [calmly] Thank Zod this isn't painful in any way.
But I also find that when I have my stupid little visions, they are so vividly detailed as to probably be worthy of some sort of detailed psychiatric evaluation. For instance, in the above scenario, the Non-Liar had a pencil thin mustache and was drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk, and fussing about whether he had included enough Bergamot in the mixture, which he most certainly had not. The pants in question were a deep blue polyester with barely visible pinstripes, a detail which quickly became moot once the pants were aflame.
I totally need to buy some Steely Dan.