Respect Authority

Ima keep it short because it’s a Saturday, so I’m feeling a little “dehydrated” to say the least, and have been wasting away on the couch all day watching skateboarding videos online. And guess what, now all of you are too.

Ever been parched after an exhausting session at the skate park? Why not choke down a thick, gooey snickers bar to relieve your thirst? Well… because that would be retarded. Just like this commercial:

If you’ve seen Lakai’s epic exercise in melodramatic slow-mo mixed with interspectacular skateboarding, Fully Flared, you’ll immediately realize what a bunch of bullshit this Spanish Snickers commercial is. Aside from the creative swashbuckling and shameless lack of originality displayed in the ad, as someone who has never once reached for a Snickers bar after sweating it out riding my board on a hot Summer afternoon, watching this makes me want to perform a fucking “hungerectomy” on the agency who spawned this foul abomination.

And there’s the real deal for those poor unfortunates who haven’t seen it. Alas, its only flaw is the conspicuous lack of a Mexican Colin Farrell.

Next week on Zero Tolerance: When sites become YouTube blogs :\

These two videos have singlehandedly — or I guess dual-handedly — forced me to officially accept and appreciate Twitter, particularly Rainn Wilson’s feed. You win, excessive new social networking technology. This time.

Hangovers have always existed, even before color was invented!

The dark shadow of suicidal gloom enveloping you after enjoying a few too many glow sticks the night before? Call up Dr. Green. Or perhaps you’re a real bad ass, and drank a few too many glasses of red wine while watching America’s Best Dance Crew, so now your brain is pulsating more than Mario Lopez’ pants every time he locks eyes with JC Chasez? Dr. Green’s got an herbal remedy for that too. However, if you’re not a devout vegetarian, you could just drink some more wine, but I find alcoholism doesn’t really compliment the taste of Frosted Flakes all that much.

Obviously, the easiest way to avoid a hangover is to simply not drink at all, but that’s no fun (except for not feeling like a drowned, bloated corpse the entire next day, I guess). Plus, just like how nobody liked the militant straight edge kid in high school, once you graduate to the adult world of working full time, paying bills, and being able to afford better drugs, nobody likes a teetotaler either. Because they make people feel guilty about their drug problems, and that’s not very nice at all!

Some may say it’s irresponsible to encourage substance abuse as a cure for substance abuse, but I say, that’s why God blessed us with so many different varieties of drugs in the first place! Imagine a world where there weren’t vines flowering with beautiful PCP blossoms every Spring, or proud groves of crystal methamphetamine trees. I mean, fuck, Kentucky would have to find a new state tree in that case!

Curing a hangover isn’t about making good choices; after all, if you knew how to make those you wouldn’t be hungover in the first place. It’s about making less bad choices, and personally, I’m of the opinion that skipping out of work so you can smoke marijuana all morning and chase it with a couple glasses of scotch is a lot healthier than eating all that greasy diner food the hungover many tend to gravitate towards. By noon, you’ll be ready to start drinking again!

After about a thousand pages and what feels like years of babbling, the apocalypse-averting stimulus-recovery-rescue bailout package has been finally passed and signed. The economy works again! Right? Right?

Um, maybe.

The first point that merits making is that the Republican bitching was kind of intellectually honest — in that the bill wasn’t exactly a stimulus package, nor did it directly address the emergency at hand. They complained that the monies appropriated by the bill are for something called “spending” rather than “stimulating.” Which, according to Republicans, doesn’t equal “job creation.”  

That being said, Republicans haven’t proven themselves capable of crafting sustainable economic policy, so any criticism they offer should be taken with a huge, absolutely inedible grain of salt. However, it still remains to seen whether the Democrats’ bill (with provisions for birth control, education, and energy independence) will fill America with smart, capable and productive citizens who can do something other than manage other people’s money (poorly - I’m looking at you, you fucking bank managers). Read More ›

Check it out everybody, it’s today’s cartoon from the Weekly World Racist. If you don’t have a subscription, you can also find it in the hallowed pages of The Missourah Grand Wizard, which no one actually reads. Hey, it’s not the paper’s fault their target demographic doesn’t know how to.

Oh, and by the way, this is actually from the New York Post… which really isn’t all that surprising anyway.

The cartoonist/despicable human being responsible, a cowering wraith of a man with the pen name Delonas, is obviously about to be in some serious shit. Monkey shit, that is, and that’s the most serious kind of all the varieties of shit, because it is unfortunately often airborne. If there’s anything we can take away from this week’s news it’s that you do not fuck with chimpanzees, and nobody wants to take the rap for that stimulus package.

Though my reality television loyalty has long lain with VH1, the glaring absence of a new Project Runway season means I’m craving some slightly-less-flashy-but-equally-trashy editing of the Bravo variety these days. So it’s with a little trepidation, and no small amount of shame, that I’ve decided to tune in for the second season of The Real Housewives of New York City.

All things considered, it’s incredibly easy to watch this show - not only because its mind-numblingly inane but also because Bravo plays it at least five times a day. While past incarnations of the Real Housewives variety — several seasons of Orange County, and one paltry attempt in Atlanta — have left me wanting, the NYC version deserves commendation for its ability to bring the trash closer to home. After all, we EXPECT Orange County to be full of gaudy women with sugar daddies and spoiled kids. But with New York’s myriad definitions of what’s “hip,” and my personal participation in a definition that doesn’t involve gobs of money (only skinny jeans), Real Housewives is a depressingly accurate reminder that the starving artist image has nothing on an Upper East Side condo. Read More ›

If there’s one person who could ruin America’s fairly universal loathing of Wall Street executives right now, it’s Michael Moore.

The fat activist (fativist), behind movies that include Bowling for Columbine and, more recently, Sicko, is putting out a call for people in the banking, brokerage and insurance industries to give him the inside scoop on the nation’s latest abysmal failure: Wall Street. 

“I am in the middle of shooting my next movie and I am looking for a few brave people who work on Wall Street or in the financial industry to come forward and share with me what they know,” Mr. Moore wrote on his Web site this week. “Based on those who have already contacted me, I believe there are a number of you who know ‘the real deal’ about the abuses that have been happening. You have information that the American people need to hear.”

Thanks, but no thanks. First of all, no one is more capable of destroying liberal thinking by shoving it aggressively down people’s throats than Moore. No matter how much I’ve agreed with his political and social positions in the past, I cringe when I see him on camera: a 683-pound representation of how Americans that benefit the most from this country (freedom of speech, capitalism, cheeseburgers) are those who appreciate it the least. I believe in gun control too, and universal health care, and preventing future terrorist attacks by having at least a marginally less sketchy government - but when Moore exploited a teen crippled by gunfire to picket the offices of gun-selling K-Mart, well I mostly just believed in using guns to kill annoying fat people. Read More ›

So the big story this morning - which I couldn’t make up if I tried - is that of a 200-pound pet chimpanzee that authorities were forced to shoot to death after he mauled Charla Nash, a woman he had known for years, leaving her critically injured and lacking significant pieces of her face. 

The woman was a friend of the chimp’s Connecticut owner, 70-year-old Sandra Herold, who’s had 14-year-old Travis for years. The monkey has appeared in television commercials and often poses for photos with the locals. He also has many a claim to domestic fame: among Travis’ skills were drinking wine, bathing and dressing himself, and using the computer. 

I’m as much of an animal lover as the next person - those ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan and probably-not-her-real-dog make me cry every time - but I also have a very clear understanding of the difference between “pet” and “wild animal.” Pets include dogs, cats, fish, turtles, even the occasional pot-bellied pig. Wild animals, as we’ve seen through countless in-home maulings, include alligators, tigers, oversized snakes — and chimpanzees. 

Yes, they’re cute, and they seem smart. But the ability to react to speech, wear pants with suspenders, or smoke cigarettes does not a creature of higher intelligence make. And either way, a good rule of thumb is to keep no pet that weighs more than you do. Especially at age 70, since I’m fairly certain Medicare doesn’t cover monkey maulings.

Check it out, another self indulgent photography post!

The first two are actually pretty old, taken back in an evil time several months ago, a time that has now led me to believe that 28 degrees Fahrenheit is warm. Plus, as I work at home (baby daddy is a full time job, okay) one could say I wasn’t getting out a whole lot. One could say, “that Howard Hughes mother fucker on the sixth floor’s beard is starting to smell.”

But just like Josh Hartnett’s seminal role (What? He’s proof that vampires can have mustaches) in 30 Days of Night, my tale is one of redemption, and my long winter is showing its first signs of relenting. Only I don’t have to turn into ashes now that we have daylight past 4:30 pm again, which is, obviously, a plus. Read More ›

First of all, apologies in advance to all the poor saps who are about to get subjected to this, but misery loves company and, just like Morrissey, heaven knows I’m miserable now.

Ah, isn’t the miracle of life so gosh darned beautiful? I don’t know about you guys, but after looking at these photos, I can’t wait to be a mom!

Seriously though… apparently Alien: Resurrection was some kind of a documentary? Everybody’s hating on this freeloading baby machine, but has anyone actually seen these rumored eight children… and not gotten their faces burned off by incredibly acidic projectile saliva?

Along those lines, while we’re busy footing the bill for supermom’s food stamp collection, I think we need to remember that each one of those kids has, in fact, two mouths. I’m really trying to be open minded about this, after all, WWOD? — that’s What Would Obama Do, by the way, and yes, bracelets are coming soon. Nonetheless, maybe I’m actually secretly racist, because I just don’t feel good about paying for some alien creature’s next meal, particularly since I… you know, might be it.

I know what you’re expecting. After all, it is Valentine’s Day. You’re expecting 1,000 words of vitriol on the misfortune of being single on a day like today, a Saturday no less. You’re expecting me to whine about the sad reality of watching TV instead of being taken on a romantic tour of New York, or ordering Chinese food in lieu of  a pricey dinner for two on the town. You’re expecting my lamentations on the placement of seasonal goods at Duane Reade - can a girl not buy her oatmeal in peace? Without staring down three aisles of chocolate and  stuffed animals.

A year or so ago, you would have been right. But I find myself on this particular Valentine’s Day entirely unphased by the proliferation of media and merchandise surrounding the holiday. Being single on Valentine’s Day is like being single every other day - sure, no kiss goodnight, but also no budget-breaking restaurant meals. Or navigation of gender-based behavior patterns. Or drama. The self-righteous cynicism that comes with being a single New Yorker is just an added bonus.

No, these days I’m just as happy, if not happier, to lounge around the comfort of my apartment than to try and wind my way through the complicated monster that is dating, and subsequently, relationships. Which isn’t to say I won’t be shooting mental daggers at any couple I see snuggling in public this evening - I am, after all, only human - but neither will I be pitying myself for any lack of snuggle partner these days.

Unfortunately for those of us who have long since embraced our independence, the marketing and merchandising arm of Valentine’s Day is strong, and getting stronger. Even though we few and proud find little difficulty in dodging the retail smorgasbord that comes with V-Day (after all, post-Feb. 14, it’s just another bag of chocolate, except now its on clearance) I have seen dozens of commercials and feature news stories advising unfortunate singles on how to keep their collective chin up during this - their 24-hours of personal Hell. Even Gawker, from whom I would have expected far more in the “fuck relationships” category - wrote up a list of things to do when alone on Valentine’s Day - among them dining solo and “having a love affair with New York.” Thanks Gawker, if I wanted cliche nonsense, I would have stood in the 15-minute line at Hallmark yesterday.

You know what you do when you’re single and in New York on Valentine’s Day? The same fucking thing you do every other day - watch TV, go the the gym, eat food, go out with friends, drink. And when all of your betrothed or attached peers are done picking up their $150 dinner tabs, you meet up and buy them a beer. After all, take-out Chinese is cheap.

So I’ve discovered a way to accept Twitter. 

To clarify, I fought long and hard for this. I’ve been vehemently anti-Twitter since the get-go, finding it hard to drop my perception of the social-nonsense site as a means for people to share unnecessary information with their pathetic and woefully dependent friends. So it was with both trepidation and no small amount of resentment that I bit the bullet and signed up as part of a broader obligation to adapt new marketing techniques at work. Since then I have been trying to find a way to accept Twitter the way my grandfather only recently accepted DVDs - because eventually I’m just going to have to. Read More ›