So...

So I gave my calendar a cursory glance the other day and realized it's that time of year again...

2007-04-13T00:45:00.003-05:00

...when I turn from bitching about shoveling to bitching about mowing. Ahhh, the glorious four seasons of Wisconsin: Cold, Fucking Cold, Coldish, and Wish it Was Cold Again. It being Coldish, that can only mean one thing: It's time for families to shrug off that sadly non-fatal cabin fever and spend quality time together...

... doing something that doesn't require them to actually interact with one another on any level.

Such activities include gawking at lethargic animals far removed from their natural habitats, sitting at a ballpark waiting for the top of the seventh inning so you can go home and do something interesting, and not catching fish.

And, of course, an event-free trip to the Milwaukee Public Museum.

Yes, for some reason, folks plan their annual sojourn to southeastern Wisconsin's premier collection of quartz in the less chilly months of the calendar year, despite the fact that all the displays are climate-controlled and decidedly indoors. I guess the rationale is that Winter (i.e. Fucking Cold) is reserved for watching such stimulating intellectual television fare as "American Idol: The Sixth or Seventh Season" and "Bachelor: Some Smug Prick Selects a Shallow Whore... in Rome!" Learning while being quietly bored is strictly a springtime activity.

The Milwaukee Public Museum is an ideal spot for anyone interested in dropping a week's pay to see dead things and exhibits that never change. It also boasts the Midwest's largest collection of dead-eyed, life-sized mannequins responsible for causing that crippling doll phobia of your youth. The following is a helpful guide for the uninitiated intended to suggest points of mild interest in this exquisite and breathtaking cabinet of curiosities.

Now, I haven't been in the building for over a year, but trust me. It's still the same. It's always. the. same.
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THE STREETS OF OLDE MILWAUKEE

The Streets of Olde Milwaukee exhibit harkens back to a day when the letter "e" was inserted at the end of adjectives to make them look more affected. This happens to be one of the museum's more popular setpieces as it reminds Milwaukeeans of a time when their city was just as filthy and boring, but refreshingly free of black people.

Things to look out for:

> The bell at the apothecary's office that fails to ring or summon anyone. Push to your heart's content, little ones! The damn thing doesn't do anything!

> The nickel-and-dime movie theatre. I seem to recall that once upon a time one could go in there and see piece-of-shit nickelodeons. This is no longer the case. Boo-fucking-hoo.

> That creepy old lady rocking on her porch

> That creepy old doctor standing in his office

> That creepy old photographer whose flash goes off just as you turn away

> The pub. There's a bust of a naked lady behind the bar. Hee hee!

> The candy store, manned by actual breathing people. Because Americans love to gorge themselves on sweets whenever offered the opportunity, this is the single most annoyingly crowded space in the entire building. However, brave the obese masses and fetch yourself some rock candy on a stick, as this will offer you something to grate your teeth against while enduring the rest of the museum's pulse-relaxingly dull offerings.

> The subtle lead-in to...

THE STREETS OF OLDE EEUROPEE

Tired of traversing the cobblestone streets of "yore" hometown? Then step onto the equally cobblestoned streets of olde-ish Europe. Which is basically exactly the same as the streets of Olde Milwaukee.

Only with chickens.

Many people don't realize that across the Atlantic, every city consists of precisely one house belonging to a family representing each of Europe's different nationalities. And to assist the nosy tourist, there is a helpful placard prominently displayed in the window of each house to let you know if you're spying on a potato-peeling Irishwoman or perhaps a side-switching Italian; a cowering Frenchman or maybe even an Armenian that nobody cares about.

One thing is consistent, however: Still no black people.

Don't worry. They get their own special sub-exhibit. Tucked in an out-of-the-way corner. Somewhere. I think. I've never really looked for it.

Things to look out for:

> Around Christmas, a special evergreen tree hangs suspended, upside-down, high above the fountain in the square, as if to say, "Start another war, you oven-lovin' krauts, and you'll wish we were just dropping fir trees on your ass."

> A Spanish lass beating a rug or something on a balcony. Near a chicken. On the roof. Because this is where chickens roost as a habit in Europe, I guess. Anyway, she's kinda cute for a mannequin. If, you know, if you're into that kind of thing...

> The display of ratty ethnic dolls

THE RAINFOREST

What better place than a faux rainforest to look at bugs, snakes, and bats, and hear teenage future trophy wives squeal, "Eek! Look at the bugs, snakes, and bats!"? The rainforest exhibit is actually fairly tolerable in that it allows one to enjoy both the fascinating natural wonders that the Amazon has to offer coupled with the piece of mind that comes with knowing they're all thoroughly dead. After all, rodent-devouring centipedes are cool on youtube; less so when digging their venomous fangs into your three-year-old son.

Actually, that would be kind of cool, too...

Things to look out for:

> The jeep that plays "La Bamba" on a continuous loop

> The "I Spy" plant with various tiny critters scattered around it and a diagram on the wall letting you know what to look for. Effin' sweet.

> The bat cave. Not the cool one with all the superhero gadgets; just a fake cave with some fake bats in it.

> An anaconda eating a caiman

DROOLING IDIOT: Wha?

*sigh* A snake eating an alligator.

DROOLING IDIOT: Where?

Shut up.

> The dead bug preparation room. Complete with fake geeks.

> The howler monkey button; arguably the second best contraption in the entire museum. Push this just as old folks walk by. They hate that. Trust me.

LAND OF THE LOST, or DINOSAURS: FUCK YOU, CREATIONISTS

Ahhhh, the dinosaur exhibit: the thought alone is enough to make every child's heart leap and every Bible Belt-ers blood boil, and not in the good old-fashioned "plague of" way.

It pains me to admit that I myself hate the museum's dinosaur section on account of its keynote display: a life-size depiction of a tyrannosaurus feasting on the juicy internal (now external) organs of a recently slaughtered ceratopsian. Never mind the fact that the carnosaur in question has not a scratch on him after apparently doing one-sided battle with a monstrous, multi-horned testorene machine that outweighs him by several tons (or "tonnes," if you're English and can't spell) --

Well, actually, mind that fact. The triceratops and its kin are my favorite dinosaurs, and I have no doubt they pounded the T-Rex's overrated ass left and right across the plains of Cretaceous Montana. Goddamnit. That exhibit pisses me the fuck off every time I see it. Total mind-boggling bullshit. How was I not consulted in the creation of that diorama? Double goddamnit!

CONCERNED CYNICKITE: Have you considered therapy?

Mind your own business.

Things to look out for:

> The glaringly erroneous claim that the stegosaurus weighed in at seven tons when it was actually closer to two. I knew this in kindergarten. Milwaukee is apparently where the paleontologists from community colleges are sent.

> The little screen showing a biome that changes from desert to tundra and back again at the press of a button. This is a gripping chance to exercise one's god complex... for all of two seconds. After that, you're just pushing a button. Which seems to be the museum's key selling point, now that I think about it.

> The room of quartz. Ahhh, experience the sundry wonders a cramped cubbyhole filled with sparkly glorified rocks has to offer. Actually, you have no say in the matter, cause you have to pass through here to exit the dinosaur exhibit.

> There's a fake paddlefish in the fake stream behind the fake tyrannosaur eating the fake pentaceratops. Pretty fakin' cool.

> Touching the giant false leg bone near the reconstructed torosaurus skeleton. It's just like not touching a real dinosaur fossil!

~~THE INJUNS~~
~~THE INDIANS~~
~~THE NATIVE AMERICANS~~
~~THE AMERICAN INDIANS~~
~~THE NATIVE AMERICAN INDIAN AMERICANS~~
THE PRE-EUROPEAN CONTINENT HOGS

It is impossible to celebrate the heritage of our medicore state without devoting an entire museum wing to North America's casino-establishin', bead-barterin', firewater-swillin', thunderstick-fearin', totem-polin', bull-sittin' former tenants, the [insert current tepid politically correct phrase for "Indians" here]. In this unmemorable part of the tour, you'll see Indian mannequins in native dress dancing (read: remaining stationary while sliding along a concealed track in a predetermined path) to the sounds of pre-recorded native drums... all for the pleasure of the very white men who subjugated their people and named rivers after them.

Things to look out for:

> Indians are always blabbing about how in tune they are with Mother Nature and the Great Earth Spirit and all that eco-friendly horseshit...

... so naturally the setpiece of this exhibit is a graphic, life-size depiction of a group of bloodthirsty natives slaughtering the fuck out of a group of terrified bison. If these assholes were really so gung-ho about co-exisiting harmoniously with the world around them, you'd think they'd promote more of a vegetarian, non-majestic-bison-massacring lifestyle. At least the white man shot the poor dumb brutes from a distance while they were grazing peacefully, rather than running them down like a gang of sociopaths from a lousy Stephen King movie.

> The tiny diorama showing Indians living at the same time as the mighty mammoth...

... aaaaand driving said mammoth off a cliff.

*sigh*

> If you take nothing else away from this blog entry -- and you won't -- remember this: There is a small rattlesnake sitting on the righthand side of the anti-bison display as you face the exhibit. Embedded within the rocks near this rattlesnake is a small button that, when pressed, causes the serpent to shake his tail and emit a low rattling sound.

THIS IS THE SOLE REASON THE MILWAUKEE COUNTY PUBLIC MUSEUM EXISTS.

Press this button, and press it often. Show it to others* and receive their undying gratitude and adulation. Enjoy it, for this will be the only part of your museum trip worth repeating to your friend (no, that is not a typo).

* For example, Laura's sister Carrie, who would never have known of its existence without the gracious tutelage of yours truly. BWA-HAHAHAHA! Suck it, Carrie!

THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL OF MARINE LIFE

This is a giant tunnel that starts with tuna and ends with glow-in-the-dark shit you can't see. Kind of a metaphor for life, really.

MUMMIES, or LARGE-SCALE GRAVEROBBING AS A SCIENCE

The movies have attempted to convince mainstream America that mummies are, indeed, cool. Archaeology has done its level best to abolish this entrancing notion, and the Egyptian exhibit in the Milwaukee Museum has put the last nail in the sarcophagus, so to speak. In real life, mummies are highly unlikely to rise up and invoke curses against you, unless it's the Curse of Blowing 18 Bucks to Look at Rotting Child-Kings.

Things to look out for:

> The Cleopatra display. She's about to get her asp on. The display marker makes a point of informing us that Cleopatra would have been considered quite ugly by modern standards. Well, no shit, Cosmo. Nobody was attractive before the 1990's. Have you ever paged through your parents' yearbooks and wedding albums? Holy crapping Christ, people, it's a wonder the human race ever got busy in the first place. And that they continued doing it through the Dark Ages and the Nixon administration? Yikes...

> A double-decker display of mummified remains. Just... lying there. Remaining quietly mummified. *sigh* Leave it to Egyptology to make Death boring.

> Row after row of priceless historical artifacts... in the center of which is a TV screen showing clips of the Mankiewicz/Taylor debacle Cleopatra in all its gaudy, eye-soring glory. Not... not quite sure just who they're trying to appeal to there...

...AND THE REST

Oh, and then there's AfricaAsiaSouthAmericaMiddleAmericaPacificIslandsThe Arctic.

Things to look out for:

> The ersatz igloo, pumped full of recirculated air -- you know, as per ancient Inuit tradition. People who enter it will invariably utter such profound statements as "It's cold in here" and "When are we going home?"

> The Eskimos stabbing at some poor seal through the ice. The curators seem to have a fetish for native americans eviscerating dumb animals.

> The hall of shrunken skulls in the South Pacific. Not to be confused with the disappointingly skull-free musical South Pacific.

> The moth-eaten collection of exotic animals in the halls of Africa, Asia, and the Americas. On the one hand: A dusty old Cape buffalo squatting in a swamp? Sure, neat, whatever. On the other: Stuffed squirrels and sparrows? Come on. I mean, was it really necessary to include an exhibit highlighting the very fauna I'm indoors trying to avoid?

> The rock garden in the Orient, land of mystery, rugs, head-scratching commercials, and footwear that can't be worn indoors. The fake rock garden. Because if there's anything more compelling than a real rock garden, it's a fake one.

> The dark alcove, also in the Asian exhibit, that houses an ostentatious display of... swords? chairs? chamberpots? I don't-- you know, I don't really know what they're showcasing in that glass case. I always check it out whenever I'm there, but I always come away as nonplussed by it as I am by all Asian culture, such as anime, paying large sums of money to eat uncooked flesh, and houses made of paper.

> There is no reason to visit the Middle or South American halls. Not unlike the regions they are modeled after.

THE IMAX-ed Out My Credit Card to Afford this Movie EXPERIENCE

Have you ever been to a movie theatre and thought to yourself, "Why isn't Harry Potter's head bigger?" Well, you're in luck! The Milwaukee Public Museum happily caters to the "bigger is better" style of living that has made Americans reviled the world over. And nowhere is this more evident than showing a documentary about sea cucumbers on a movie screen the size of an ocean liner. Evidently, this bloated excess is intended to enhance the moviegoing experience by immersing one more fully into the film. I believe this was also the prevailing theory behind 3-D movies.

And we all know what a runaway success that was.

Things to look out for:

> The screen. You-- you really have no other choice...

THE GIFT SHOPS

Here it is. The only reason any child endures a lengthy visit to Milwaukee's answer to Lunestra: the gift shops. I won't bother harping on the fact that they're criminally overpriced -- and, oh, Christ, are they -- but will instead focus on how painfully dull they've become as I've aged, perhaps in an effort to keep up with the tedium on unwavering display at the rest of the museum.

I mention this only because the museum gift shops of my youth kicked ass. Hell, I still have books, toys, and other memorabilia obtained from them after dutifully traipsing through the Hall of Human Waste*. But now-- now the shops kowtow to the pretentious, elitist artsy-historical set, people with plenty of disposable income and the erroneous yet steadfast belief that it will buy them class and intellect. It will not, but it will net them a pretty sharp mug shaped like King Rameses II's head.

* This did exist at one time. I kid you not. Had something to do with how wasteful we humans are. To drive home this monumentally obvious point, the brain trust behind this exhibit decided to add yet another garbage dump to humanity's legacy. Ironically, the exhibit has since been trashed.

Things to look out for:

> The rhinoceros viper stuffed animal. If you see this, buy it for me. It's only like $10, and I'm kicking myself figuratively for not getting it when I had the chance.

> The Exit sign

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There. Now you've seen the museum this year. No need to support the furthering of human knowledge by paying to see butterflies flit about.

Yes, that's an exhibit, too.

In closing, get the blue raspberry rock candy. You will not be disappointed. Until you re-enter the museum proper.
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THING I'M CURRENTLY [STILL] PISSED ABOUT

Roughly this time a month ago, I had what can only be described as the single worst audition I have ever experienced in my life, even worse than the one in which the play was cast by the effeminate director while the rejects stood onstage with the winners. Fun night, that was.

Anyway, picture in your head the stereotype of the typical stage director. Got it? Glasses, arty, vague, pretentious, affected, purposefully disorganized, spouting meaningless buzzwords like "organic"... yeah, there you go. Well, loath as I am to admit it, this is not how many directors I've worked with actually behave. In fact, I was beginning to lose hope in the posturing, hippy-dippy theatre impresario caricature...

... until the auditions for The Importance of Being Earnest, that is.

This woman-- this... homely, stork-like talent vacuum -- who bore more than a passing resemblance to a female version of Egon Spengler from Ghostbusters -- put us through the ringer of pointless, ludicrous theatre activities, almost as though she were trying to prove the fact that just because it's a stereotype doesn't mean it's not true.

We lined up like obedient little mini-fascists and shared our favorite foods. Then we walked across the stage saying our names. Then we skipped across the stage saying our names. Then we walked across the stage again, this time without saying our names ... names which we wrote down on the forms she had in front of her vacant face for the express purpose of not having to chant them while skipping across a hardwood floor, the dizzy bitch.

Then we played imaginary dodgeball. Yes, you read that correctly. We played imaginary dodgeball... with an imaginary dodgeball. Because, if you know anything about the erudite, Wildean period comedy-of-manners The Importance of Being Earnest, you are well aware that imaginary dodgeball plays a critical part in the development of the plot.

Oh, and we're not done yet.

One hour into the auditions, and we still haven't touched the script yet. But there's still plenty of time to play "Weeds and Flowers!" What is "Weeds and Flowers," you ask? "Weeds and Flowers" is a theatre exercise used to determine if your director is an incompetent hack who couldn't direct traffic on a one-way street. If she makes you play "Weeds and Flowers," she is this kind of director. The women had to "become flowers" and the men had to "become weeds."

For this reason, I shall refer to this artistically-challenged non-wit as "the weed whacko" for the remainder of her unforgivable existence.

So the weed whacko finally got around to oddly matching us up in groupings that would make it impossible to effectively determine our compatibility with one another while reading poorly-chosen selections from the script. This part was almost as insufferable as all that came before. Leave it to a theatrical type to suck the joy out of one of the most brilliant comedies in the history of mankind.

And please let's not get me started on her ambiguous miscommunication about the callback and casting process, along with the cowardly, late-night mass email rejection I received from her cohort several days later. Because, believe it or not, my person can only sustain so much unfiltered bitterness and spite.

CONCERNED CYNICKITE: Didn't get the part, huh?

Er... no.

However, I will not succumb to my seething rancor and place her name in the annals of this blog, not so much out of uncharacteristic graciousness as fear of being slapped with a libel suit. If you're an actor in the Milwaukee area, however, feel free to email me at the link posted on my profile page and I'll be happy to name the drip in question as part of my community [theatre] service. Apparently she's a nurse who fancies herself an artist. If she were ever my nurse, I'd gladly choose death.

For her.

CONCERNED CYNICKITE: So, about that therapy...

Shut up.

So I was shovelling 3.5 metric tonnes of snow off of my driveway the other day and I thought to myself...

2007-03-11T03:00:00.000-05:00

"God, I hate this [expletive deleted]ing state." And then it occurred to me: Perhaps I could channel this avalanche (LOL!!1!) of unrestrained rancor into a more useful outlet.

Such as a blog no one pays me to write.

Anyway, the following is a fun and fact-free romp through the natural world of the greatly negligible state of Wisconsin, focusing on its diverse and largely annoying population of indigenous animals (of the non-beer-swilling variety).

BLOG READER WHO SHOULD BE ENTERING EXPENSE REPORTS OR DOING SOMETHING EQUALLY DREARY: Wow. Kind of a long stretch from "snow" to "North American wildlife," don't you think?

Good point. Maybe I'll just skip this entry entirely and read the latest enthralling update on your online diary-uh.

BLOG READER BLAH BLAH BLAH: Oo, today's entry is all about a poem I found on somebody's myspace and a conversation I had with my sister about last night's "Grey's Anatomy!" I also embedded a youtube music video by an artist who's unpopular for a very good reason.

(long, uncomfortable pause)

Are we done here?

BLOG READER: Yes.

Right. Now, on with whatever the hell it is I'm crabbing about this month.
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Greetings, children! Have you ever been rudely forced out-of-doors just as you sat down to watch the latest seizure-inducing episode of some creepy Asian cartoon featuring spiky-haired, round-eyed waifs throwing playing cards at one another while shouting gibberish?

What a bummer, right?

WRONG!

So very wrong, stupid. It is essential that you learn to leave the safety, warmth, and comfort of your sturdily-constructed home -- even though it symbolizes the endpoint of the entire reason our species evolved, exited the leopard-infested jungles, and cultivated civilizations in the first place -- for two excellent reasons:

1.) Your mother/legal guardian/babysitter/father's-friend-Lance needs "alone time" to "watch her stories" and "balance her serotonin levels with various prescription medications."

2.) You're getting fat, America. Or so the scare tactics on the television newsmagazine shows would have me believe.

Oh, and Nature is filled with wonders beautiful and intriguing and special and edible and fatal and recyclable and all that.

Why, here in my very own you'd-think-it'd-be-more humble state of Wisconsin, the creatures you're bound to run into while walking in the park wearing just your trenchcoat, or driving 15 miles above the speed limit on dark country roads, or blindly shooting at anything in range, are many and varied, indeed. For instance...

1.) The squirrel

The squirrel is something of Wisconsin's mascot. Only it's not. This is because squirrels are about as prevalent as grass, rocks, and glassy-eyed Packer fans in our state. Jittery, greedy, and ubiquitous, the squirrel is the bane of little old ladies' birdfeeders and acorn activists everywhere.

There are two main species of squirrel in Wisconsin: grey and red (which is apparently Latin for "kinda brownish"). As you can see, the scientific community didn't bother wasting any more time naming these humdrum tree-humpers than they absolutely had to.

2.) The white-tailed deer

This flighty, embarrassingly cowardly ungulate earns its name due to the white strip of fur located on the underside of its stubby tail. While bounding gracefully away from hunters -- many of whom, apart from being homely, are also apparently bad at hunting -- these yellow-bellied bastards flick the whites of their tails in the air as something of an artiodactylian "fuck you" to their would-be murderers.

For hundreds of thousands of years, the deer population participated in a finely-tuned predator-prey relationship with the wolves, cougars, and bears also found in our state. Eventually, however, scores of settlers of European extraction showed up and had a lot of firearms on their hands, but not a lot of legal reasons to shoot other European settlers (having duly cleared out the Not-Technically-Indians years earlier). Now, I imagine none of them had the foresight to actually plan to decimate the natural predators of the most common large herbivore in the Midwest in a concerted effort to skyrocket the deer population, thus granting future sportsmen a viable excuse to squat in the woods once a year and visit STD-riddled strip bars, but decimate them they did...

... And now I'm dodging North America's sorry answer to the antelope every night on Hwy 57. Thanks a lot, Puritans.

3.) The black bear

People are always disagreeing about the proper way to conduct oneself in the event they encounter a bear. Should you play dead? Offer it your backpack? Stand up to it? Poke it with a stick? Walk backwards calmly? Do the hokey-pokey? Turn yourself around?

Here is T.C.I.'s personal, time-tested strategy for avoiding a traumatic bear-mauling:

Don't go to where bears are.

Works. Every time.

4.) The raccoon

Ah, yes. The raccoon. Nature's hobo. Digging through your trash can, washing rotten apples in the local water supply, eating things that people listed in the Guinness Book of World Records wouldn't put near their oral cavities... the raccoon is truly a filthy fucking bum.

To make matters worse, the new mothers are always getting run over by cars, leaving their squalling, helpless babies on the side of the road to send shooting pains of sympathy down your aorta. Please be forewarned, however. T.C.I.'s family, being suckers for lice-ridden potential rabies-carriers, took it upon themselves to "save" two such orphaned transients once upon a time. This was fun for a few days...

...though not for the raccoons, I imagine, seeing as how they promptly died.

The point, my little cynickites, is this: God clearly hates the raccoon, and wishes him to eat garbage and suffer traffic-related deaths. It is not for you to interfere with His divine plan, no matter how sadistic and amusing it is.

5.) The mosquito

On the other hand, God, that unpredictable deviant deity, adores the fucking mosquito. Why else would they be so relentless, so prolific, so successful, so goddamned motherfucking annoying as all ass-loving shit?

However, they do help spread various useful deadly diseases, such as malaria (which primarily afflicts pretentious globetrotters who brag about crawling around in swamps during the two weeks off from their adventurous job in claims processing) and the West Nile virus (which gave an easily-panicked America something to obsess about after the anthrax scare died down). They also target sweaty fat folks with a procilivity for bananas. And woman-abusers rejoice: only the female mosquito sucks blood. So, that bug yer squishin' on that favorite BBQ-stained wifebeater of yours? It's yet another woman who jes' made you so durned mad sometimes, y'know?

But you still love her. She knows you do.

6.) The robin

The robin is Wisconsin's state bird. They're brown and orange -- the two ugliest colors in the Crayola box -- and are completely unremarkable in every way.

They pull a lot of worms out of your lawn, though. I don't -- don't know if that's good or bad, per se, but it's about the only damn notable thing I've ever seen them do.

7.) The opossum

The opossum is North America's only marsupial*. It looks like an acromegalic rat, behaves like a badger with hemorrhoids, and plays dead more often than your myspace-obsessed emo daughter (potential roadkill that pretends it's actual roadkill. Hee, hee. That Mother Nature is one amusingly twisted old bitch, I tell you what).

* An old Australian word meaning "freak of nature."

Everyone I've ever met has confessed an almost pathological hatred of the poor opossum, and frankly, it's a bit hard to argue with them. Mrs. T.C.I. is especially antagonistic towards the prehensile-tailed bastards. Them, and chickens.

She was raised on a farm. I offer this by way of some explanation.

8.) The rabbit

In case you've been wondering -- and, let's face it, you have -- the difference between bunnies and rabbits is this:

Bunnies are small and fuzzy and cute and appear on TV to hawk cream-filled chocolates during the Messiah of the Living Dead season.

Rabbits eat your pretty flowers, and therefore must be destroyed at all costs.

Mrs. T.C.I. was told that planting marigolds around one's less-obnoxiously-colored flora will deter the ravenous monstrosity that is The Rabbit on account of its vile taste. My sarcastic thanks to the old wife who told her that tale, because now I've got stupid yellow flowers all over my fucking yard, and I hate yellow.

Anyone even thinks about suggesting pink carnations as a natural deterrent to water mocassions and you can take the matter up with my fists, you ass nuggets.

Anyway, a rabbit is the first animal I ever killed after I first learned to drive. My girlfriend at the time, who was in the vehicle when the tragedy occured, thought this was rather humorous. She was also a mind-boggling slut. I'm not sure if one story informs the other...

9.) The water mocassion

Speaking of which, these are big, black, badass snakes, kind of the class Reptilia's answer to Shaft. They sound cool and are wildly deadly and apparently we have them around here.

Naturally, I've never seen one.

Now that I think about it, that might be a good thing. And since we're on the topic of dangerous reptiles...

10.) The coral snake

The coral snake is red and black and yellow, or red and black, or red and yellow, or black and red and yellow and black, or something. It looks amazingly similar to the king snake, which is also a combination of red and/or black and/or yellow, and is poisonous.

Or maybe it's the coral snake that's poisonous*. No one but the field guides ever seems to know, and they're probably just guessing to begin with.

* This is actually true: To be accurate, I should have used the term "venomous" when describing the coral and/or king snake. Animals are venomous; plants are poisonous. However, you are an ignoramus, so I'll simply pander to your deeply-ingrained lack of herpetological training. Idiot.

Here is a helpful, popular, thoroughly unscientific rhyme you can recite to yourself after a colorful serpent bites you in the middle of nowhere:

"Red on black, your name is Jack;
Red on yellow, and it might be a different species altogether, but maybe not. I'm not sure."

Or wait, maybe it goes like this:

"Red on yellow, you're an ugly fellow;
Red on black, there might also be a thin white band separating the two. Or am I thinking of a corn snake? A milk snake? You know, I can't remember. Forget I mentioned it."

Since the coral and king snake are so cruelly indistinguishable, there is really only one thing you can do when faced with such a reptile: Pick it up and let it bite you.

If your hand turns red and starts to swell, it means you probably shouldn't go around picking up wild animals, Marlon Perkins.

11.) The garter snake

Go ahead and pick these guys up. They're pussies.

12.) The bluegill

Bluegills are the pigeons of the sea. They're in every goddamned festering puddle of duckshit from here to eternity, and they're always eating your best nightcrawlers while you're out fishing for actual fish. The only purpose the bluegill serves is to convince the DNR to let you pour gravel around your pier, since the lousy panfish love building nests among the rocks.

Rocks that you laid down, enabling the bluegills to create more stinking bluegills, and thus the intricate dance that is Life continues...

... as sanctioned by the Department of Natural Resources.

13.) The Canada goose

I have nothing to say about these omnipresent shit-spreaders other than to bellyache about their common name:

If you want to specify which goose you're referring to -- "goose" being the noun in this phrase -- shouldn't the adjective used be "Canadian?" What's this "Canada goose" crap?

That's all.

14.) The honeybee

If I see one more woman yelp and jump and wildly flail her arms at the mere sight of one of these glorified mosquitos, I'm gonna give her something to yelp about. You outweigh the fucking thing by 165+ pounds, girlie. It's time to grow the hell up, don't you think?

If you see a spider, on the other hand, well... carry on. Spiders scare the shit out of T.C.I.

15.) The cicada

The cicada is a giant, grotesquely malformed fly that is renowned for its ability to hibernate for 17 years before emerging, perching on the drainpipe just outside your bedroom window, and emitting the most god-awful buzz for hours on end while you're trying to sleep in on Saturday morning.

16.) The blue jay

The blue jay picks on weaker birds, mocks larger ones, hogs all the good seed at the feeder, and abandons its young if a predator treads too closely.

Needless to say, this is my single favorite creature on the North American continent.
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Okay, so those are more than enough descriptions of Midwestern food chain placeholders to keep you rascals away from your actual jobs for a few hours.

And please, don't anyone leave a comment saying "Oh, you forgot to mention the beaver! Hee, hee! Get it? Beaver! LOL!" I'm not listing every fucking animal that squats in this miserable wasteland, all right? I've got other things to avoid doing.

BLOG READER WITH TOO MUCH UNSTRUCTURED FREE TIME: You seem to bitch about your home state an awful lot. So which is your favorite state in the Union?

Um... Canada.

BLOG READER ETC.: First of all, not especially funny or original. Secondly, I thought you hated extreme cold and people who choose to speak French over English.

Oh, right. Okay, um... Mexico.

BLOG READER ETC: I thought you hated extreme heat and people who bitch about the government of the neighboring country they illegally sneak into rather than demand rampant reforms from their own nation's ass-munching president?

Oh, yeah. Well, I don't know. I guess Rhode Island hasn't pissed me off lately.

In closing, I also ran over a cat once. I got over it.
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Please join T.C.I. in mourning the loss of an endless fount of unique anecdotes: As of the last day of February 2007, I am no longer employed at the fish lab. It was time for me to find a position closer to home, one that paid more and offered nicer (read: any) benefits, and one far less interesting, satisfying, or purposeful. That's right, T.C.I. is now a reluctant and continually kvetching clutcher of the bottom rung of Corporate America's Ladder of Crushed Dreams.

Sadly, the women of Corporate America are far less intoxicating to look upon than co-ed science hotties in their form-fitting tank tops. Ahhh, the sacrifices I make to shut my damn wife up...

Pressing question: Why don't more psychopaths go on bloody shooting sprees in the average office workplace? I mean, high schools, factories, shopping malls, freeways... all perfect places for the soul to wither away in, sure, but really: For pure, unfiltered insanity cultivation, is there any more ideal spot for a madman with a high-caliber rifle and a kink in his beleagured heart to express his dissatisfaction with Life in general than your run-of-the-mill cubicle maze?

Not-- not that I have any plans at the moment, mind you...

Heh, heh. Um, moving on...
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"PERSON" I'M CURRENTLY HATING

The guy who plows our road

For reference, here is an artist's conception of what this jacktard looks like:

Yep. That's him. I imagine.

Since my house is located on the corner of two suburban roads, this dick monkey is always -- maliciously, I assume -- depositing mounds of heavily-packed, all-but-immovable snow right at the end of our driveway. And he's doing it on purpose. I just know he is.

Oh, the innumerable, crushing woes of the American bourgeoisie...

In any case, I hope he contracts West Nile virus and dies.

So I wanted to compose a special Valentine's Day edition of my blog denouncing the inanities of womynfolk when it occurred to me...

2007-02-12T00:00:00.000-06:00

... a healthy portion of my readership (approx. 5 out of the 7) is composed of baby-bearers.

And while I'm definitely not adverse to biting the hand that feeds me, gnawing it down to the stump seems just a sliver on the ungrateful side.

So, in the immortal words of every living Hollywood screenwriting hack, "to hell with originality!" I'm going back to the well of my limited creativity to take a few healthy sips and maybe, just, you know, jump in and splash around a little...

Here are five more movies I know will blow based solely on the merits-- or lack thereof-- of their trailers.

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1.) ~~THE APPARENTLY ENDING STORY~~
~~THE LORD OF THE RINGS: IT'S JUST AS LONG AS READING THE BOOKS~~
~~A WRINKLE IN THE BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME~~
~~THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE ROLLTOP SECRETARY DESK~~
~~HARRY POTTER AND THE OVERUSE OF THE CGI EFFECTS~~
BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: Various ugly tree creatures decide that the magical dreamworld of Terabithia -- located just off the coast of Racine, WI -- has been disconnected from the mainland for long enough. They determine to build a self-anchored suspension bridge spanning the vast gulf that exists between the world of reality and that of computer-generated weird-looking shit.

> Why it will suck: Here we go again. I have no idea what the plot of this fantasy novel set in the Land of the Library's Young Adult Section happens to be, but I'm gonna take an educated guess and assume it involves some neglected child or children escaping the daily unspeakable terrors of his or her pampered suburban life by entering a mystical world of make-believe.

And while immersing themselves fully in this ridiculous waste of time, the spoiled, white bread crybabies conjure up a giant evil robot that steps on things. I guess. I don't know; the trailers are kind of vague on that point.

Anyway, I'm sick of these movies about some perfectly healthy kid boo-hooing about Daddy not playing catch with him every free second of the day. Oh, you poor thing. How selfish of your father to spend 40+ hours a week, toiling at some thankless, 8-5:30, cube-squatting, paper-pushing, interchangeable office job just so he could clothe and feed and shelter your ungrateful little ass. Who do you think bought you that baseball glove in the first place, kid? You think we belong to some socialist utopia that tosses them out for free, all hither-and-thither and willy-nilly-like? And you just throw the damned thing on your bedroom floor when you get home, anyway! Learn to respect the things your parents give you and then maybe we'll talk! Otherwise, get a job and then we'll see how much you wanna play catch after Old Man Jacobson tears you a new one for forgetting to add repeating headers to that Excel spreadsheet you slaved over!

*clears throat*

Ahem. Excuse me. I believe I was channeling my father there for a minute.

The point is, if the kids in this movie are even thinking about bitching about feeling ignored in their charmed lives as citizens of a free, democratic, first world nation, they'd better at least be getting abused on top of it. That's all I have to say.

And please, various gods of the sundry heavens and hells above and below, please, please don't let there be some obvious, tacked-on moral about how the industrial-technological movement is heartlessly displacing the environment and "the good old days" -- you remember, when children were regularly crippled by polio and smallpox and animators had to draw cartoons by hand.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: As I mentioned before, I believe I saw some giant, shadowy creature of a mechanical nature clomping ominously about the trailer. If this turns out to be a Decepticon -- say Devastator, or, ooo! ooo! Trypticon! -- who's become separated from his evil teammates, this is intensely cool.

If, as is far more likely, I was grossly mistaken and it's just some giant shadowy creature we never really get to see, well, fuck this movie. BUST BUST BUST.

2.) THE NUMBER 23

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: Head-scratchingly popular hack, Jim Carrey, reeeeeally wants that Oscar, so here's a psychological thriller rip-off of the actually funny Will Ferrell's recent existential comedy Stranger than Fiction.

> Why it will suck: Did I not just mention the words "Jim Carrey?"

Odd thing about the former token majority on "In Living Color:"

Jim Carrey in a comedy = not funny
Jim Carrey in a drama = funny

That Jim Carrey has two Golden Globes to his name is conclusive proof that entertainment award shows have outlived their collective usefulness... whatever that was.

The wife in the trailer seems concerned that Jim Carrey might kill her, as foretold in the plot of the novel his life appears to be mirroring. Seems to me that any woman married to Jim Carrey has far more pressing problems at the moment than her imminent death. Come to think of it, you kind of expect that she'd embrace her homicide with open arms rather than endure a lifetime as the bedmate of that egomaniacal toilet stain.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: Rest assured that Ol' Flubberface'll favor us with plenty of goofy expressions as he delves further into insanity's relentless grip. That should be good for a few unintentional laughs. Also, characters like this usually die at the end, so there's that.

3.) ~~THE GRUDGE~~
THE GRUDGE 2: STILL HARBORING
THAT ONE THRILLER WITH DAKOTA FANNING AS A CREEPY LITTLE GIRL...GO FIGURE
THE AMITYVILLE BORER
STAY ASLEEP
~~EVERY OTHER HORROR FILM PRODUCED IN THE LAST SEVEN YEARS~~
THE MESSENGERS

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: The Union of Scrawny, Pasty, Sub-human Freaks with Black, Dead Eyes and the Ability to Run Up Walls is contractually entitled to appear in at least one Hollywood horror film per calendar year. Enjoy.

> Why it will suck: Because movies about malnourished humanoids that only equally oddball children can see are never scary, never interesting, and certainly never original.

First of all, ghost movies are at an inherent disadvantage in that, focusing as they do on mere noncorporeal apparitions (the existence of which is apparently still a matter of extreme uncertainty), our colorless family of "heroes" is never in any immediate mortal danger. Ever. The most these folks have to lose is a few hours sleep and their credibility with friends and neighbors. Inconvenient, sure; possibly fatal, not so much. They should just be thankful they didn't move next-door to a homestead of cannibalistic hillbillies or a lakeside camp filled with horny young counselors.

Secondly, when are film families gonna realize that if the gorgeous, turn-of-the-last-century, recently-renovated, out-in-the-middle-of-cornfields-and-cross-burnings country home of their dreams is ridiculously low-priced... it's because it's fucking haunted? Honestly, people. A nervous realtor in the movies means a brutal, will-be-revealed-to-the-audience-in-sepia-toned-flashbacks massacre occurred in the house in the recent past, and you're about to purchase a home replete with vengeful demons that push picture frames off of shelves.

For comparison, a nervous realtor in real life means the paint used in the house was probably lead-based. This is a far more irritating problem to address than a ghost kid who meows.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: I 'unno. Don't movies like these usually have a pants-fiddlingly nubile young babysitter or blossoming-into-glorious-adulthood teenage daughter in them?

4.) BECAUSE I SAID SO

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: Diane Keaton is slowly going senile, and wants it to be documented on film.

> Why it will suck: It seems to me that there exists a disturbingly large contingent of people in this nation who can't get enough of watching Diane Keaton fuck old men. This group of folks needs to seriously consider indulging this fetish in the privacy of their own homes with the appropriate "mature" movies specially produced for their, er, "mature" set, cause ain't nobody needs to see that shit while out on a date.

Now, I fully accept that it must be empowering for such people to know that old coots like themselves can still enjoy sex well into their second century, but why must this gruesome burden fall squarely on Diane Keaton's bony shoulders? Angela Bassett, Dyan Cannon, Amy Brenneman, Diane Lane... these are all perfectly acceptable hot old broads whose bodies need to be displayed openly and often. And for those of you female cynickites who have an equal gripe with decrepit, randy old geezers constantly getting paired with drool-inducingly gorgeous, just-out-of-community-college starlets...

... good for you. Believe me, I, for one, will be perfectly happy when Sean Connery decides to hang his by-now vestigial penis up for once and all and leaves the seduction of such fine young things as Zoe Saldana to the age-appropriate studs in the acting community.

You know, like me.

On another equally obnoxious note, how many goddamned "comedies" do we need telling us, "Hey! Sometimes mothers and daughters have trouble understanding each other! Isn't that wacky?"

Yes, girls. Your mothers can be flaky, or selfish, or old-fashioned, or domineering femynyst bitches, or spineless Stepford wives, or, in the case of Diane Keaton, clinically neurotic, bi-polar messes who flail about the place for no good reason.

And yes, mothers. Your daughters can be hyperemotional, or nasty, or anti-social, or superficial, preening bimbos, or whining, self-destructive emo-girls, or, in the case of Mandy Moore, lousy actresses.

We get it, ladies. You have trouble connecting sometimes. This concept is neither amusing nor fresh. So please, allow Diane Keaton to get back to what she does best...

Making geriatric porn.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: Blonde, perfectly-built goddess Piper Perabo is listed among the cast. Despite possessing one of the worst names in Hollywood history, there exists exactly zero physical flaws on that magnificent reincarnation of Aphrodite.

5.) THE ASTRONAUT FARMER

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: A NASA engineer-turned-corn-pickin'-rube decides to build a rocket ship in his barn.

Somehow, this movie is not being marketed as a comedy.

> Why it will suck: I refer you back to the plot as outlined above. With my jaw dropped. And a stunned look on my face. And a significant loss of brain cells in having witnessed this commercial to begin with.

What the-- ? Who did-- ? Why was-- ? Why? I mean, really, guys, why?

Look, Hollywood screenwriters, just because critics and audiences alike have been bemoaning the lack of original ideas for movies lately doesn't mean that you should run with every original idea. I mean, I can't even grasp how I'm supposed to take this shitfest -- which sounds exactly like a lame Disney family film starring Tim Allen and some chick from the CW network -- seriously.

Apparently, the guy -- this... astronaut farmer -- used to work for NASA. Okaaay, fine. I'll buy that. So, at NASA HQ, was he the man capable of building an entire operable space shuttle... by himself??? And where does Farmer Joe Shmo happen to amass all of the materials required to construct an orbital spacecraft? Kansas must have some pretty impressive flea markets, I tell you what.

ASTRONAUT FARMER AT FLEA MARKET: So I'll take this here flyswatter, and that there chest'er drawers, and this porcelain cow looks kinda sharp, and-- oo, hey! Is that several hundred thousand pounds of liquid hydrogen propellant I see over there? Ya got that in oxygen, by any chance? (To his wife) Look, now, Enid, you put that back. My star-flyin' machine don't need no beaded seats!

I suppose all of these questions and more will be poorly answered in the movie, but damned if I'm wasting money that could be better spent on scotch finding out.

Oh, and a side note for all you Democrats out there: please don't chuckle or, gods forbid, laugh uproariously over the embarrassingly weak WMD joke featured prominently in the current trailers. I mean, I'm all onboard with condemning beady-eyed, talking turd Bush and his Jesus-sanctioned war, but supporting lame topical humor -- particularly in a mind-anesthetizingly pointless film like this -- just isn't going to help the cause.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: For the rest of his career, Billy Bob Thornton can pretty much coast on the good will he engendered with his laugh-out-loud, painfully funny, and unrepetantly nasty tour de force performance in that anti-holiday classic Bad Santa. If you have not seen this movie and have no desire to, you also have no business reading this blog. Take a hike, Snowflake.

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Mocking people far more successful than I am is a very constructive and healthy use of my free time, I like to think. Of course, I am writing this from work...

In any case, don't go see these movies. Or do. Whatever. Once you jokers navigate away from this page, you're really no longer my responsibility.

In closing, Jim Carrey and Diane Keaton's epileptic fits have been mistaken for quality acting for years now.

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It's gonna drive me nuts if I don't mention a trio of classic plays that deserved inclusion in my Classic Literature that Doesn't Suck section from this entry, so here they are:

> The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde and The Country Wife by William Wycherley, two period comedies that are -- gasp! -- actually funny.

> Lillian Hellman's The Little Foxes, a family drama in which the bad guys win... throughout. My favorite character is Machiavellian brother Ben Hubbard, a courtly southern gentleman who'd sell his family and his soul for a couple extra dollars and whose dialogue is a cynic's delight. His penultimate monologue concerning the people who "will own this country one day" is chillingly prescient:

“I say to myself, years of planning and I get what I want. Then I don’t get it. But I’m not discouraged. The century’s turning, the world is open. Open for people like you and me. Ready for us, waiting for us. After all, this is just the beginning. There are hundreds of Hubbards sitting in rooms like this throughout the country. All their names aren’t Hubbard, but they are all Hubbards, and they will own this country one day. We’ll get along."

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So my last entry regarding cynical definitions to common theatrical terms seemed to have gone over like a batch of beer-soaked bear claws at the Policemen's Ball (though it wasn't an especial hit with directors, oddly enough). Therefore, I have decided to add a few extra definitions for the snickering pleasure of my more dramatically-inclined constituents.

GLOSSARY OF THEATRE TERMS, Part the Second

Lighting Designer: A glorified lightbulb hanger.

A favorite catchphrase of the lighting designer is "Find your light, dammit!" One would think that "finding the light" would be the job they were expressly paid to do, and one would be wrong.

Set designer: An architect who designs houses nobody can live in.

Stage Manager: This bossy little martinet is like a director, only she knows what she's doing. Stage managing is, without question, the most thankless task in the entire theatre world. Stage Managers know this, and therefore make it a point to be insufferable bastards throughout the show's run.

Open auditions: Auditions open to anyone, including people the director hasn't already pre-cast under the table.

Precasting: When a director tells his favorites to try out for an open audition so he can "fairly" offer them the roles he promised them three weeks before.

Some theatres dispense with this charade altogether and openly place actors in roles without auditioning them. Until someone does this with me, these theatres consist of narrow-minded elitist pricks.

Should a theatre decide to pre-cast T.C.I. in the future, please expect this definition to be updated accordingly.

Small parts: According to directors and lead actors, these don't exist.

"Break a leg!": To the layman, this term means "Good luck with the show!" Among those in the theatrical know, it translates roughly to "I hope you break your fucking leg, asshole."

"The Scottish Play:" Shakespeare's ominous tragedy Macbeth has a long and storied history of bringing bad luck to any theatre bold enough to produce it. Some claim it is cursed; others that it is kinda boring and its supporting characters are severely underdeveloped. Either way, thespians being a supersititious and asinine lot, if you simply must mention this classic within the confines of a playhouse, it is considered good manners to refer to it as "The Scottish Play."

That being said, I implore everyone reading this to scream "Macbeth" loudly and frequently should you ever have the misfortune to enter a theatre. This is very rude and annoying and hilarious.

Myspace: This well-known Internet abyss of shameless onanism is apparently utilized by actors and other theatrical types the world 'round for "networking" purposes.

Networking: Inviting others to witness your unrestrained narcissism through the use of garish webpage designs and an irritating loop of a crappy acoustic version of your favorite song. Those who "network" efficiently find they can quickly amass hundreds upon thousands of online "friends." This is far less time-consuming and satisfying than actively going outside of one's home to make offline friends.

Here's a safe rule to help you decide if myspace is right for you: Are you a giddy female under the age of 20? No? Then I regret to inform you that high school ended some years ago. Welcome to the rest of the planet.

Which, sadly, you'll find is not a whole helluva lot different. Still, enough with the myspace already, people. Your list of interests is, ironically, not all that interesting.

OBSESSED, POORLY-GROOMED MYSPACE ZEALOT: You hypocrite! Look at you! You keep a blo-og! It's the exact same thing! Now, I'm gonna go on my myspace account and tell all of my friends I've never meet that you're a big jerk! LOL!!11!1!!1

Myspace is about acquiring friends. Have you ever read my blog? Does it honestly sound like I'm trying to make friends around here?

Curtain call: When the actors line up to take their various bows immediately after the play ends. No matter how strategically the director plans this out, someone will get pissed about their order in the bows. And this person will invariably be you.

Intermission, or Intermezzo: The theatrical equivalent of "halftime." This is the time for the audience members to stretch their legs, purchase concessions, use the restrooms, read the playbills, wonder what the hell happened in the act they just watched, ask their friends what the hell happened in the act they just watched, decide no one knows what the hell happened in the act they just watched, collect their belongings, and drive home.

After the Intermission, the actors are left to wonder what the hell happened to the audience that was just watching.

Popcorn, Raisinets, Goobers, and Snowcaps: You're in the wrong theatre. Actors don't generally have heads that are fifteen feet high.

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And finally, on a serious note, I'd like to take this time to say good-bye to a woman who was not only a wonderful influence on my life, but made life wonderful as a rule: "Aunt" Donna Ford.

Aunt Donna was the aunt of two of my dearest friends, Lynda and Angie, and as I've always been an unofficial brother to them, she was my unofficial aunt by extension. She was a warm, charming, highly intelligent woman with a wickedly dry sense of humor. She was also a loyal and vocal supporter of my writing and acting abilities, such as they are, and of all the people in her life whom she cared about.

I will not go into further specifics -- this simply isn't that kind of blog -- but I just need to say that Aunt Donna... Aunt Donna was the kind of individual who makes me wish there was a Heaven, because to never get to laugh with her again seems like the cruelest kind of Hell...

Rest in Peace, Aunt Donna. If I'd known you forever, it would not have been long enough. We miss you.

So Mrs. T.C.I. has made it clear as Crystal Pepsi that she doesn't like me wasting so much of my valueless time working on my blog...

2007-01-22T00:27:00.000-06:00

... and that reminded me, "Hey, it's time to work on my blog."

This week's entry is brought to you courtesy of a failed audition I recently had for a local production of motor-mouthed limousine liberal Aaron Sorkin's military drama, "A Few Good Men." Seeing as "Cwazy" Tom Cruise, Demi-Talented Moore, and Jack "The Self-Caricature" Nicholson (kidding. I love Jack. Even cynics are required to adore that irrepressible old badass) were unlikely to appear in lower Canada (i.e. Wisconsin) to cold read for the leads in question, I figured I might have a genuine shot at the starring role of lt. jg. mr. pu. qt. Daniel Kaffee, the cocky, sarcastic young work-avoider who does a complete and implausible 180 in Act Two to become as noble and thoughtful and serious as any standard, paint-dryingly dull hero is required to be.

It appears I may have grossly overestimated both the broad-mindedness of the highly political theatre system and my own woeful lack of dramatic range. I did, however, reacquaint myself with two hard and fast rules of the theatre:

1.) Directors have decided who exactly you will or will not play long before you even lay eyes on the audition notice in the paper.

2.) Heroic roles are too goddamned boring to enjoy playing.

Hmm... you know, before I let this petty rant spiral into a Charybdis of narcisstic self-pity, it occurs to me that perhaps I should educate those of my rational and intelligent cynickites who wisely choose not to allow theatre within 100 feet of their lives. And so, to my constituents from such illustrious fields as, say, industrial printing press maintenance and athletic supporter sales, please enjoy the following...

GLOSSARY OF THEATRE TERMS

Theatre: A building nobody goes to where gay people act straight and straight people try to convince the rest of the world they're not gay.

Auditions, or Tryouts: The process by which the director decides you are too tall, too old, too fat, too female, too black, too hairy, too interesting, too moral, too intelligent, too not-one-of-his-favorites to suit the part of Man Holding Spear #3. He determines this through an intricate method which entails ignoring you while you stammer over a poorly-selected piece of trite dialogue (or side) as he whispers to his stage manager... who happens to be sitting five rows away from him.

Callbacks: An extension of the audition process. A callback is when you travel 50 minutes out of your way for 5 minutes on stage to hear a decision the director reached 2 days ago.

Producer: An invisible yet surprisingly loud individual who backs the show. He makes all of the stupid decisions, starts all of the problems, takes all of the credit, and does none of the work. Naturally, he makes all of the money.

Director: A producer who, sadly, is not invisible. For a closer look at T.C.I.'s true feelings about a very "special" kind of director, please consult this article (section 2).

Playwright: The guy who writes the words that won't be spoken correctly during the performances. He is the sworn enemy of the director, who believes he can improve on the playwright's ideas. He then goes on to prove he cannot to a remarkable degree.

Romantic leads: The roles young, good-looking people get because they're too boring to be character actors.

Character parts: The roles old, colorful people get because they're too ugly to be romantic leads.

Jack-all shit: The roles T.C.I. gets because he's too not-made-of-cardboard to be a romantic lead and, evidently, too attractive to be a character actor (though he personally knows an entire high school full of women who'd be happy to refute that latter claim).

Ingenues: Pretty young things the director and/or lead actor tries to sleep with.

Bitter, catty old hags: Ingenues over 27.

Extra, or Chorus member, or Supernumerary: An actor with an ego inversely proportional to the size of his quark-sized role.

Ego: The fuel that runs the theatrical machine. Everyone involved in said machine possesses it in spades and trowels, from the star actress who refuses to accept that 85 other people in the city could perform her role as well or better than she can, to the set decorator, who honestly believes the production would grind to a screeching halt if those were irises on the UR. end table instead of lilies.

Without ego, the theatrical world would not only run smoothly, but become an example of enviable harmony and true, artistic vision to be held up for the rest of the planet to aspire to. This idea is about as popular in the world of performing arts as geothermal energy is in the world of reality.

Absurdist, surrealistic, avant garde, and performance "art" pieces: Theatre that is a migraine-fomentingly utter waste of the audience's time, money, and patience. Needless to say, this is the only kind of theatre the National Endowment of the Arts is interested in funding.

Drama: A play that wins awards and cures insomnia.

Comedy: A play that people actually enjoy; therefore, not art.

Farce: A loud, annoying, surprisingly unfunny style of "comedy" that keeps door manufacturers steadily employed.

Musical: A play where the characters break into song after every six minutes of dialogue to mask the fact that the author has only prepared about seven minutes of story. Tourists find nothing odd about this idea and spend exorbitant amounts of money to attend such productions.

Ironically, as much as straitlaced John and Jane Q. American enjoy the flamboyantly homosexual concept of the musical, they still manage to vote against the gay marriage amendment every November. Speaking of which...

Democrat: How you are required to vote if you plan on being welcomed into the theatrical fold. If your views, opinions, and beliefs veer from this rigid norm by even a nanometer, you can expect to be reviled, taunted, and shunned without mercy. Which is ironic, seeing as how the Democrats claim to be the party of open-mindedness.

Set: What the actors are trying not to bump into. Either the best or worst part of any production.

Costumes: Ill-fitting, unflattering, anachronistic clothing an actor constantly complains about while backstage.

Props: What T.C.I. is always forgetting to carry onstage.

Rehearsal: Practice. Pretentious, "serious" actors really hate it when the uneducated masses refer to their rehearsals as "practice," so please, by all means, do this constantly.

Notes: The time immediately following practice when the director gathers his cast and crew together to bear witness to his impassioned love affair with his own voice. This is also the time of the evening when T.C.I. doodles in his script to make it look like he's writing down the director's weak suggestions. Shhhh...

Blocking: Where the director tells an actor to go, which is invariably in direct opposition to what the playwright intended. Whatever the director decides during practice, he will change his mind completely just before opening night.

Opening night: The only time an actor can expect his friends and family to show up and offer either half-hearted sympathy or ridiculously over-enthusiastic praise. After this performance, all he will see is old people. Row after row of very, very old people...

Roses: What women who don't have enough talent to warrant them receive on opening night.

Method actor: Someone who can't act.

Shakespearean actor, or Classical actor, or Tragedian: A prick who thinks that reciting the words of geniuses somehow entitles him to justified feelings of grandeur; a social retard.

Vaudeville: A broad, obnoxious, outdated, and dismally embarrassing form of "acting" that I could have sworn died out in the early half of the last century. Unfortunately, its spirit appears to be alive and well in the black void located at the heart of every ham, mugger, and scenery-chomping hack who thrives in community, college, and professional theatre.

A vaudevillian makes two unforgivable and egregious assumptions: one, that the audience is composed of idiots who need to be winked at, prodded, and informed directly whenever a punchline is about to be delivered, and two, that he or she is funny.

I have never known this second assumption to be the case.

Critic: A job created to allow the metally-retarded to pursue a career in literature.
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There it is. The entry that will effectively keep me from being cast in any show ever again.

Not-- not exactly sure why I wrote it, then...

And considering how the preceding adequately conveys the contempt I feel for my chosen "profession," you can only imagine how much I must hate every other career path open to me.

In closing, if my wife asks, this article had a ghost writer.
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AN OPEN LETTER TO THOSE OF MY CONCERNED CONSTITUENTS WHO HAVE TAKEN IT UPON THEMSELVES TO INFORM ME, IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS, OF ANY SPELLING AND/OR GRAMMATICAL ERRORS THEY HAVE ENCOUNTERED DURING THE READING OF MY FREE BLOG:

Goe fuk yursellvs.

SINCERELY,
THE MANAGEMENT
___________________________________________________________

T.C.I.'s MOVIE REVIEW MINUTE: This past weekend, Mrs. T.C.I. and I watched the recent blockbuster smash Superman Returns... to Piss Away 2+ Hours of Your Life. Now, I will spare you the obvious criticisms -- i.e. the nobody who played Superman was instantly forgettable; Kate Bosworth made a wretched and colorless Lois Lane, and didn't even do us the favor of being nice-enough-looking to jerk off to; James Marsden played yet another non-variant on his tired "lockjawed, Wonder Bread, All-American boyfriend" shtick; Frank Langella's talents were wasted in an underwritten role as editor Perry White; the movie should have focused exclusively on the unimpeachable pair of Kevin Spacey and Parker Posey as a deadpan Lex Luthor and his socialite floozy girlfriend, Kitty Kowalski -- and instead share a (poorly constructed from memory) conversation I had with my wife during the last big scene in the film (before an interminable "Will Superman die while laid up in the hospital?" bit that anti-climactically caps this sorry sack of superhero shit):

T.C.I.: Wait, wait, wait. He's lifting a fucking island? How is he lifting a fucking island?

MRS. T.C.I.: He just drew his powers from the sun.

T.C.I.: So? That was awhile ago. There's no sun anywhere near him now! He's in a part of the ocean where the sun isn't shining and he's under a giant fucking piece of rock.

MRS. T.C.I.: But he was just drawing his power from --

T.C.I.: Yes, the sun, I know. Who cares? In the beginning of the movie, he was struggling to hold up a runaway jetliner... while the sun was shining brightly for all to see. Now -- with no sun in sight -- he's effortlessly manhandling a fucking landmass... which happens to be made of Kryptonite. And the last time I checked, an airplane weighed in at slightly less than a small continent and had far less Superman-killing Kryptonite in its physical makeup.

MRS. T.C.I.: (giggles)

T.C.I.: What?

MRS. T.C.I.: Nothing. That was just funny.

T.C.I.: This movie is dumb. I wish he died.

Right. How stupid does one have to be to honestly believe that Superman, Lois Lane, or their mop-topped bastard child will ever be in true, life-ending peril during the course of the first movie of the new Superman franchise?

And should I feel somewhat ashamed that I rooted loudly for the trio of store-bought thugs as they kicked the crap out of a weakened Superman, America's Hero? I mean, man, seeing never-not-cool Lex Luthor knock Captain Flawless down a rocky incline... that's pure movie magic right there, people.

Anyway, it's long and boring and has Marlon Brando not playing The Godfather, so don't bother.
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WOOOOOO-HOOOOOOO!!!

THE BEARS RULE!!!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

THE BEARS ARE GOING TO THE SUPER BOWL FOR THE FIRST TIME IN 21 YEARS!!!!!

OH, YEAH, BABY!!! OHHHHHHHHHHH, YEAH!!!!

BEARS! BEARS!! BEARS!!!

Ahem. In case your Sarcast-o-meter is reading off the charts right now, I'm actually not kidding. T.C.I. loves the Chicago Bears, and he hasn't been this excited since he saw The Transformers movie trailer last summer.

Yes, Grossman will choke. Yes, the Colts will undoubtedly fold the Bears into little origami floral bouquets. Yes, Peyton Manning is one of the weirdest creatures to lurch across the face of this stack of fossilized animal remains. And yes, the Half Time show will suck it -- Big Time.

But it's the Bears, people! Illinois's Team! And some of Wisconsin. And parts of Indiana. And Iowa? Maybe Iowa.

You know, I've got-- I've got this weird feeling brewing inside me all of a sudden. It's like-- like suddenly my heart doesn't feel the overwhelming urge to disengage itself from its aorta and bleed itself out. And I no longer fervently wish that the Winter our nation was experiencing was decidedly more nuclear in nature.

Is this... is this feeling... "happiness?" Is that what this is? Am I experiencing what you people refer to as "joy?" "Contentment?" It makes me feel glad to be alive, to be an active member of the society of planet Earth.

I don't like it.

So, to alleviate my inner emotional confusion, I will now start shouting pro-Bears propaganda at the top of my Net lungs:

GO BEARS!!!!

WOOOOOOOO!!!!

BEAR DOWN!!!!

MOUNT AN UNIMPRESSIVE OFFENSE AND FORCE THE DEFENSE TO SCORE ALL OF THE POINTS!!!!! YEAH, BABY!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

DA BEARS!!!!!

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH, BABY!!!

Also, the Packers suck.

So I've been revisiting some of the literary classics that were forced upon me by the stale teaching curriculum of my youth...

2007-01-09T14:17:00.000-06:00

... and I thought, "Who doesn't love reading about people reading?"

So here it is -- finally -- T.C.I.'s long-awaited, quasi-scholarly critique of...

****

CLASSIC LITERATURE...

that
SUCKS

****

Now, in order to fully appreciate the concept of turd-sniffingly rotten "classics," one must first ascertain exactly what kind of literature qualifies as a "classic." In order to do this, you must ask yourself the following questions:

1.) Does it hold your interest? Do things happen-- intriguing, exciting things-- at regular intervals throughout the story? To characters who don't make you want to shove your fist through the cheap drywall in your mother's basement?

2.) Is there a beginning, middle, and an end, occuring in precisely that order? Does it not drag out its insomnia-ending plot well past the breaking point of any sane reader?

3.) Does it refuse to harp in a heavy-handed manner on an extremely obvious theme symbolic of the author's frustration with the state of the world at large and his/her contempt for those who could overthrow the status quo but instead choose to do nothing useful... like, say, write a mewling book about it?

4.) Does it have widespread public appeal? Is it championed by regular, normal, likable, down-to-earth, humble, approachable individuals who don't pat themselves on their throbbing cerebellums whenever they let drop a pithy bon mot.

If you answered yes to any or all of these questions, you most definitely do not have a classic on your hands.

And in case you were wondering, you also do not have a John Grisham novel on your hands. Writing skills above the level of a third-grader are generally required before a book can be considered literature.

Classics are randomly selected by self-appointed critics and scholars, or pricks, who judge a literary work on its various merits, such as how effective it is in boring the ever-loving crap out of people, or how shamelessly it promotes socialism. For instance, does it have dinosaurs? That would be cool, so no, it is not a classic. Does it feature existentialism, homoerotic themes, and French people? Bingo! I probably had to read it in high school.

The following is an incomplete list of classic literature that I have read, partially or in full, that, quite honestly and without debate, reeked of day-old chamois shit.*

* The chamois (pronounced incorrectly) is an antelope indigenous to the mountains of Europe whose skin is apparently useful in washing convertibles and constructing bike shorts. Such is the majestic nature of humanity's love for its fellow creatures.

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1.) Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

> Plot: A saucy cat named Heathcliff beats up dogs and eats lots of fish in a comic strip set on the tempestuous moors of England. He's also a completely irredeemable dick who fucks up every life he touches with impunity. Oh, and his girlfriend, Catherine, is a fucking bitch, too.

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Cliff's Notes

> Why it's considered a "classic": We have flighty, pillow-headed womenfolk to thank for this one, folks. Throughout history, it has been proven beyond possible argument that women just loooooove bad boys. Heathcliff is the prototypical bad boy. Therefore, he's a misunderstood, romantic soul who simply needs a woman strong and caring enough to set him back on the right path. And the perfect woman for this ridiculously futile task? Why Catherine, the world's most manipulative [harsh slang term for female genitalia], of course.

I hated these two self-absorbed, crybaby bullies. They're pissed off because life is hard. Yes, that's right. Once again, literature foists on us two young, perfect, pretty people who whine about how unfair the world is to them. Excuse me for a moment while I cry into my handkerchief, please (Editor's Note: In the previous sentence, please read "cry" as "vomit" and "into my handkerchief" as "repeatedly on the grave of Emily Bronte"). How is it that the plain Jane people of this planet cannot seem to get enough of reading about underwear models with flawless complexions who piss and moan about how rough it is to be gorgeous while they're busy fucking other underwear models with flawless complexions?

And ladies, enough with the "bad boy complex" that seems to be an in-born trait with your gender. Bad boys steal your money; cheat on you with your best friend; count date rape among their "special skills;" freely abuse drugs, alcohol, women, various health codes, and the English language; and usually end up in prison as the property of some other bad boy. So how's about we give that cool guy with the motorcycle/your yard boy a rest and go on that date with Bill from Accounting, hmm?

Oh, does that sound boring to you? Well, something tells me you'd tire of "love marks" on your right eye after a few years, too.

> There must be something good about it: The character of Hindley fits T.C.I.'s bill as the much-maligned and unfairly reviled pseudo-villain that he tends to favor.

DEWY-EYED BRONTE FANGIRL: Oh, but he's so mean to Heathcliff! That, and he's unattractive.

Wow. Hindley is mean to Heathcliff. The same Heathcliff who gets taken in by Hindley's father to be favored and preferred over his own natural-born son at a formative age, the same Heathcliff who gets showered with affection by some crazy old codger at the expense of the dotty man's less-photogenic male offspring. Add to that the fact that Hindley's sister is the colossally repugnant princess, Catherine, and I'd say Hindley has more than one valid reason to be Asshole Quarterly's "Justified Misanthrope of the Latter Half of the 1800's." Oh, and then, after Hindley loses his wife Frances, the one person who actually gave a rip about him, Heathcliff helps the poor guy drink himself to death and immediately lays claim to his orphaned son to raise as something of a rancid little Heathcliff, Jr. Gee, that Hindley. What a jerk.

Another good point: Heathcliff and Catherine both die before their time. Unfortunately, it is not at the pincers of a crustacean-shaped robot from 8500 years in the future. So that's no good.

2.) A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

> Plot: Two cities -- er, let's say, Paris and... Waubeka -- have a tale to tell, so sit right back and you'll hear... a tale. Anyway, a bunch of hypocritical, whiny-ass radical Frenchmen, in a time when French people didn't automatically appease anyone who gave them a dirty look, overthrow the oppressive aristocratic regime and, like any true adherents to the principles of equality and love for your fellow Man, proceed to slice everyone's head off with a large blade. Also, this story takes place in an era when every romantic hero had a deux ex machina in the form of a slovenly, dispensable lawyer who happened to look exactly like him. How convenient.

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Cliff's Notes

> Why it's considered a "classic:" Are you kidding me? It has all the essential ingredients: a tepid central love triangle, a paper-thin pair of young lovers, rampant political oppression and revolution, themes a-plenty, knitting, and, above all, it's so very, very dreary!

I will say this much for Old Man Dickens. The guy could sure come up with some catchy, memorable names: Uriah Heep, Mr. Murdstone, Ebenezer Scrooge, Martin Chuzzlewit, Seth Pecksniff, Wackford Squeers, Peg Sliderskew, Miss Snevellicci... I mean, come on. Those are some powerful, kick-ass monikers right there...

... Which almost makes up for the literary equivalent of dust and mildew the man's pen spewed forth with alarming regularity.

Anyway, the novel contains a noble, almost motiveless act of self-sacrifice in the name of unrequited love and an honor found too late in life. Critics love this kind of unrealistic horseshit. People who want to read about royal fatcats getting their heads handed to them -- guillotine-style! -- may want to look elsewhere.

> There must be something good about it: A large number of French people are miserable, killed, or both. No wonder the English love this book.

3.) A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

> Plot: Tennesse Williams loved tiresome Southern belles who can't seem to shut the hell up, so here ya go.

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it. For two different classes. Goddamnit.

> Why it's considered a "classic:" It's that fucking "bad boy" bullshit again. Stanley [some Polish last name] is, if you can believe it, an even bigger dick than prissy li'l Heathcliff. Stanley is about as cultured as a hunk of coprolite*, not nearly so intelligent, and puts himself above all others. Oh, and he also beats his wife and rapes her sister.

* Fossilized turd. Hee hee.

AND WOMEN STILL THINK HE'S SEXY.

Oh my God. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS PLANET?!?

You know what? I'm not even gonna apologize for that egregious breach of Netiquette. The fact that an abusive, beetle-browed rapist with the IQ of something that is physically incapable of having an IQ can be touted as any kind of sex symbol is conclusive proof that the human race is just a fad on this sorry lump of future Sun food.

Okay, enough about Magilla Gorilla and his raw animal magnetism that symbolizes the pent-up savagery of the human race unleashed on an innocent blah de blah de blah de blah. It is also worth noting that Blanche is a drip, Stella's a masochist, and that American Express guy is arguably an ever bigger idiot than Stanley. Also, the play is duller than the backside of a cardboard box.

Unsympathetic, dreary characters unleavened with humor or interest of any kind? Insta-Classic, my friend!

> There must be something good about it: The minor character Steve tells an amusing joke about a horny rooster. That's it. Really.

4.) Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller

> Plot: A salesman dies.

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it.

> Why it's considered a "classic:" Career sad sack Willy Loman is a failure as a father, a husband, a salesman, a human being... and a driver, apparently, because he crashes his car and dies. Aside from the unrelieved misery of the plot, the characters are instantly forgettable and there is absolutely no comic relief of any kind. Everybody whines, everybody feels sorry for themselves, and everybody thinks they have it worse than any other person who ever trudged across the face of this pathetic planet.

Critics, who love feeling superior to others, naturally cream themselves at the mere thought of this play.

Not Remotely Fun Fact: I had to play Willy's personality-deprived son "Happy" in a scene for a Dramatic Interp. class. How's that for irony?

> There must be something good about it: No matter how temple-throbbingly tedious the going gets, the title assures you that Willy will, in fact, die at some point.

5.) Lord of the Flies by William Golding

> Plot: Kids left alone on an island try to govern themselves and fail miserably. Not unlike every group of humans that has ever gathered together in one place at one time.

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it.

> Why it's considered a "classic:" There is a wildly popular theory prevalent among educators that any "classic" featuring characters of an age relative to that of the individual forced to read said "classic" is destined to be a winner.

This theory is stupid.

In any case, a bunch of spoiled shits acting like savages and killing one another while proving that humans are innately and irretrievably assholian in nature evidently appeals to the inner jackass of the literary scholar. I believe the novel also has something to say about the state of society vs. the individual. Or something about conch shells, I'm not really sure...

So guess which major characters die? That's right: the fat, ugly, unpopular one and the sweet-natured quiet boy.

Not Remotely Fun Fact: I had to write a paper about this novel on a topic offered by the teacher. Our teacher, a rabid Christian, naturally offered "The character Simon as Christ figure" as an option. T.C.I., being an equally rabid idiot, naturally chose this topic, knowing next to nothing about Christ or how the hell he figured into this putrid book, and proceeded to pen a god-awful (no pun intended) composition about... something. Anyone who got below a B- had to rewrite their paper. This amounted to about 90% of the class. T.C.I.'s grade?

B-

And she knew I had no idea what I was talking about, but since I chose her savior as my theme, I got a free exemption from a useful writing exercise. All hail this Christ fella!

That reminds me: my equally evangelical shop teacher gave me an A on the world's shoddiest-looking cross because I chose to forge it instead of an anchor or a key.

I had no need of an instrument in school; I could play people like fucking fiddles, I tells ya.

> There must be something good about it: I dunno. That conch shell sounded kinda cool...

6.) Oedipus Rex by Gary Sophocles

> Plot: Guy unknowingly kills father. Guy unknowingly sleeps with mother. Guy finds out about this fucked-up shit. Mother/Wife hangs self. Father-killer/Mother-fucker blinds self. Brother-in-law/Uncle inherits kingdom and own set of shit to deal with.

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it.

> Why it's considered a "classic:" It's a pain in the ass to read and everyone overacts embarrassingly, even on paper. The only thing critics love more than histrionics are heavy-handed and inaccessible histrionics.

> There's got to be something good about it: The plot synopsis itself reads just fine. And now that you've read it, skip it.

7.) The Tragedy of [Reading] King Lear by William Shakespeare

> Plot: Senile asshole treats golden child like shit and shitty children like gold. Shitty children return favor by treating senile asshole like senile asshole.

In a related story, another senile asshole treats golden child like shit and shitty child like-- well, you get the idea.

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it. But, oh, was that a tight race with "just give up..."

> Why it's considered a "classic:" This play is so much more criminally sleep-inducing than each of the Bard's other justifiable classics, Hamlet, Othello, and MacBeth, that it naturally leaps straight to the top of every self-respecting scholar's "Best Shakespearean Work" list.

I don't care about King Lear. I don't care about his dizzy daughter, Cordelia; I don't care about his noble dickhead supporter, Kent; I don't care about too-good-to-be-human, Edgar; I don't care about doddering old Gloucester; I don't care about the doesn't-come-anywhere-close-to-the-accepted-definition-of-the-word-"witty" Fool; I don't care about anything at all in the entire play. Everybody's a jerk, and deserves exactly what they get. And good riddance to the lot of 'em.

> There must be something good about it: Goneril and Regan, the deliriously wicked daughters, are, along with Mama MacBeth, the best female parts Shakespeare ever wrote. And bastard-in-every-sense-of-the-word Edmund has his moments (though he pales in comparison with Shakespeare's villainous master stroke, Iago [see below]).

8.) The School for Scandal by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

> Plot: A catty bitch runs a school for vicious gossips in 18th century London. Like all things in 18th century London, this proves to be far less interesting than it sounds.

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it.

> Why it's considered a "classic:" As one of the most famous comedies of manners, it's incisive and witty and sharp and laugh-out-loud hilarious!

Or so I was told. I was grossly misinformed.

The play starts out well. We meet self-obsessed, morally-bankrupt she-weasel Lady Sneerwell and her consortium of informants, minions, and fellow rat bastards. Rumors are relayed, lies are spread, secrets are shared... and then the plot kicks into gear, the lifeless main characters are introduced, and the reader and the audience proceed to forget to refill their prescriptions for Ambien CR.

There's also the infamous "Screen Scene" in which the Teazles and the Surfaces hide behind a screen and hilarity is expected to ensue.

It does not.

The play ends with Sneerwell and cohorts, but too little, too late, Sheridan, you old dead windbag.

Not Remotely Fun Fact: In college, I was cast as Trip, a dopey servant who puts on airs. The character, while amusing, has one page of dialogue in a three hour play. I weighed the options and, after receiving a meandering, arty lecture from the pompous jagoff of a guest director, decided that playing a bit part in a play I loathed -- and which would take valuable time away from my liver-deconstruction -- was just not worth it.

Oh, and on the description list of physical traits he was looking for in my character, posted with the cast list for all to see? "Weird-looking." I scheisse you nein, my friends. What a cocksucker.

_________________________________________________________

And T.C.I.'s Number One Most HATED "classic" of all time...?

9.) The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

> Plot: Wouldn't that be nice?

> Did I finish it, resort to Cliff's Notes, or just give up: Finished it. Oh, that I had just given up...

> Why it's considered a "classic:" I don't know. I honestly just. don't. know. Some kid has various life experiences that amount to pretty much nothing important over the course of a short book. Whoop-de-ding-dong. And this qualifies it as the novel-of-choice for rebels and delusional conspiracy theorists the world-round?

HOLDEN WANNABE CURRENTLY FOAMING AT THE MOUTH: You don't understand, man! Goddamn! It's all about a child's coming of age in a society--

Yes. Yes, moron. I got it. Society is cheap and commercial and Life is violent and cruel and People are selfish and shallow and the only way to effectively deal with it all when you're a young man coming into his own is to say "goddamn" a couple hundred times.

Very deep. Very profound. Very waste of my goddamn time.

> There must be something good about it: I lifted the slang term "helluva" from this book and use it in my writing constantly. For example: "I hope J. D. Salinger remains a recluse for a helluva long time."
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Have you, my ever-loyal cynickites, grown weary of my constant bitching and belittling? Well, why have you stuck around here so long, then? In any case, as a slight respite from my avalanche of ire and just to try something new, the following is a list of classics which, in my undebatable opinion, rightly deserve their assignation as such:

The Tragical History of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark by William Shakespeare

Justly if arguably regarded as the greatest play ever written. Believe it or not, this grand tragedy contains more genuine laughs than all of Shakespeare's "comedies" combined. And what killer supporting roles, man: officious Polonius (another much-maligned non-villain who happens to be my favorite Shakespearean character), conniving but capable King Claudius, foppish Osric, the interchangeable duo of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the Gravedigger, that dispenser of drolleries and skull histories alike. Shame the women are such wooden saps.

The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice by William Shakespeare

Forget the breast-beating theatrics and crybaby cries of racism from the monumentally dense Othello; forget his wispy twit wife, Desdemona; and please forget the plastic romantic "hero," Cassio; there is only one reason to herald this play as one of the most fascinating ever conceived, and his name...

...is Iago.

Iago is the great-granddaddy of all villains. Every memorable bad guy created since must bow down in abject worship of this manipulative master-hater. Surrounded on all sides by imbeciles, hypocrites, and boors, it's hard not to sympathize with Iago's cynicism and bitterness. After all, he alone understands just what the hell is going on at all times. He drives his boss insane, destroys the resident pretty boy's reputation, and runs his wife through with a sword. I guess you could say he was living the American Dream. And through it all, he still manages to maintain a wicked sense of humor and scathing wit. This is one hateful, unrepentant son of a bitch.

In fact, he-- he kind of reminds me of someone...

Inherit the Wind by Jerome Larence & (non-General) Robert E. Lee

Easily my favorite American play; a masterful, clever, incisive condemnation of willful ignorance and bigotry (against rational thought and the free will to think for one's self, no less)... and it also features the character of E. K. Hornbeck, a super-cynical columnist based on hilariously acid-tongued misanthrope H. L. Mencken. I had an opportunity to play Hornbeck once (and hope to do so many times in the future) and damned if you could tell the difference between the two of us.

Oh, and it's not meant to be a documentary, Quietly, it's a creative re-envisioning free to implement poetic license, so eat it with a side of shaddup. Ohhhh, snap!

Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw

One of the select few Shaw works I can enjoy without feeling like I'm drifting off in some required socioeconomics class, it also stars that crown prince of smartasses, Prof. Henry Higgins. Higgins despises ignorance, fluffy-headed feminine ideals, linguistic butchering, and being wrong about anything. Needless to say, he's always been a dream role of mine.

Candide by Voltaire

"What's Optimism?" asked Cacambo.
"I'm afraid to say," said Candide, "that it's a mania for insisting that all is well when things are going badly."

How could a scathing, unrelenting indictment of blind optimism not be on my list of favorite books? I especially enjoyed Martin, the quintessential pessimist, and Signor Pococurante, a cultured Italian fatcat who collects famous works of art and literature and criticizes them without mercy. Highly recommended.

Are you seeing a trend here?

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

Meant to be a bleak dystopian vision of the future, the people in the society in question are allowed to fuck whoever the hell they feel like whenever the hell they feel like it.

Not-- not quite sure how this qualifies as "bleak," exactly, but hey, a good read is a good read, am I right? Especially when it's got a concept I can get behind (hee hee).

Keep an eye out for World Controller Mustapha Mond's telling and captivating dialogue with John Savage towards the end of the novel. Mond is a would-be baddie who allows people to have differing opinions without summarily slaughtering them and even thinks for himself, insofar as it's safe for him to do so. If only all world leaders tried this...

1984 by George Orwell

Fascinating and relentlessly oppressive, this is an even bleaker dystopian vision of the future, where War is a business, sex for pleasure is forbidden, thinking for yourself is even worse, and everyone worships their leader with a frightening, unflinching fervor.

Pat Robertson called it "... the feel-good story of the less than 10,000 years the Earth has been in existence!" and President George W. Bush said, "I can't wait for the year 1984 to get here!"

Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton

Here is your very rare glimpse into the softer side of T.C.I.'s tortured, demented psyche: This is one of the most moving, poignant, powerful books you'll ever read, and the scene towards the end on the mountain between the black priest (father of the murderer) and the white landowner (father of the victim) left me, unashamedly, in tears. Do yourself a favor and give this one a shot. No cynicism here. Just magnificent storytelling.

Antigone by Jean Anouilh

Want to read a one-sided, laughable account of the Antigone story in which the heroine is unimpeachable and her antagonist has no redeeming values whatsoever?

Then go read the lousy Sophocles version, little Ms. Femynyst.

Wanna read an intelligent discourse on the trickiness of balancing the common good versus the needs of the individual, in which King Creon is a complex, rational personality hopelessly harangued by that self-righteous, uncompromising hypocrite, Antigone? Pick up a copy of Anouilh's version. It's loaded with great dialogue and moral complexities.

Ironically, I'm reasonably sure Anouilh intended Antigone to be the more sympathetic of the two. She definitely doesn't come across that way. Self-appointed martyrs rarely do, I suppose.

Animal Farm by George Orwell

Pigs = Humans
Don't trust anyone named Napoleon
Crows represent organized religion
Hard work will only land you in a glue factory
Goats can read
Children enjoy fairy tales about barnyard animals' inevitable descent into an oppressive totalitarian regime

I see no problem with any of this.

The Devil's Dictionary, or The Cynic's Word Book by ~~Satan~~ Ambrose Bierce

A book so chock full of brilliant, nasty, quotable definitions to common words that I won't risk neglecting any by listing some examples here. Just check it out, please.

And, despite the fears of a Baptist office manager I once knew, I assure you it has little to nothing to do with the Church of Satan.

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

Ha. Right. Just wanted to see if you were still paying attention.

A friend of mine who slogged through this mess (I only had to work backstage on an interminable stage version of the novel) told me that an early chapter deals entirely with a turtle crossing the road. Symbolic hoo-ha notwithstanding, it seems to me that turtles and the Dust Bowl would make ideal crests for the coat of arms of ponderous, unreadable classic literature.

____________________________________________________________

Well, look at that. For once a list of my hates is tempered, albeit mildly, by a list of my likes.

I think I need a shower...

In closing, I hereby generously offer myself as the new sex symbol of the millenium. Have at it, ladies. Dakota, put that thing away.

____________________________________________________________

What I'm currently reading: The Elegant Universe: Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and the Quest for the Ultimate Theory by Brian Greene

What I'm currently not understanding: The Elegant Universe: Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and the Quest for the Ultimate Theory by Brian Greene

What I wish I was reading: Anything in the Uncle John's Bathroom Reader line

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As a man who is perpetually at odds with the planet and life in general, it should come as no surprise to you, my misery-adoring constituents, that 75% or more of T.C.I.'s dreams are nightmares of one sort or another. Therefore, it is with great pleasure that I inform you that on the night of Saturday, January 6, 2007, I was subjected to not one, but two sweet-ass dreams in succession.

1.) I was actively existing within the universe of the upcoming Transformers movie, which starred Kelsey Grammer as the voice of a troubled Soundwave. Best part: I dreamt that I found my missing Ravage action figure, a cool cassette tape that transformed into a black panther and was the pride and joy of my childhood. Alas, upon waking, its whereabouts remain unknown...

2.) I got to take a tour of Jabba the Hutt's palace, which was not unlike a natural history museum. Whatever. The thug slug turned out to be a surprisingly ingratiating host. He was also married, I seem to recall. Good for him.

It suddenly occurs to me that I am a dork. I used to have dreams that Charisma Carpenter (circa early "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," when she was my ideal woman with those ideal thighs) and Pamela Anderson (circa early "Baywatch;" not in her current haglike state) were jousting for my affections. Now I'm revelling in REM sleep that should be reserved for a ten-year-old living in 1985.

So Baby New Year is all geared up to slit the throat of Old Man 'Member-When...

2006-12-29T21:21:00.002-06:00

... and I believe a certain blogger with a distractingly cute butt promised his constituents some predictions for 2007, all of which are destined to be borne out ...

... in some glorious, glorious dimension in which I am ruler of all life forms and "The King of Queens" never made it onto a single Fall lineup. Not even once.

Here, then, for your non-reciprocal, work-avoiding pleasure, are ..............

T.C.I.'s BANNER HEADLINES FOR THE YEAR 2007 A.D.D.

PRESIDENT BUSH DISAGREES WITH OWN POLICIES, HAS SELF ASSASSINATED

GLACIERS DISAPPEAR, REPLACED WITH BILLBOARDS ADVERTISING "The New Hummer 3.41 -- This Time, Nature, it's Personal"

DEMOCRATIC CONGRESS RAISES TAXES ACROSS BOARD TO ENSURE HIGHER QUALITY OF LIFE FOR ALL. POTHOLES IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE CONTINUE TO GO UNFILLED.

ATTRACTIVE, HIGH-POWERED CELEBRITY COUPLE GETS ENGAGED, MARRIED, REALITY TV DEAL, SEPARATED, DIVORCED

HUMAN POPULATION EXPLODES, OTHER POPULATIONS REJOICE (look, you gotta grant me one groaner)

REV. AL SHARPTON VOWS TO KEEP MOUTH SHUT IN PROTEST OF SOMETHING. PROPERTY VALUE OF PLANET RISES EXPONENTIALLY FOR FOLLOWING 3 MINUTES AND 7 SECONDS.

V.P. CHENEY SELLS EARTH TO HOME PLANET IN EXCHANGE FOR COLORFUL BEADS, LIFETIME SUBSCRIPTION TO "CAT FANCY"

FAMOUS PRO ATHLETE KILLS 8, BEATS WIFE INTO COMA, CRIPPLES PUPPY, AND FIREBOMBS ORPHANAGE. JUSTICE SYSTEM KINDLY SUGGESTS HE NOT DO IT AGAIN.

JERRY FALWELL'S PSEUDO-SCIENTISTS PRESENT INCONTROVERTIBLE EVIDENCE SUPPORTING FLAT EARTH THEORY, CALL IT 'BRILLIANT ARCHITECTURAL PLANNING.' KANSAS SCHOOL BOARD IMMEDIATELY BURNS ALL MAGELLAN BIOGRAPHIES, GLOBES, 3-D MOVIES

WORLD GOVERNMENTS APPROVE NEON ADVERTISING IN NIGHT-TIME SKY. REST OF UNIVERSE INFORMS EARTH THEY'VE HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OF US.

HARRY POTTER DIES. HA, HA.

DINOSAURS FINALLY CLONED, EAT PEOPLE. SCIENTISTS WONDER WHY THEY CLONED DINOSAURS IN FIRST PLACE. In related news... T.C.I. FINALLY HAPPY, UNIVERSE COLLAPSES.
____________________________________________________________

That was fun and laziness-conducive. I may add more in the new year should the mood strike me.

In closing, the Kansas School Board thinks Magellan is a cushioned shoe insert.
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T.C.I.'s Blog Year-in-Review

Well, it's been over a year since I started this highly-embittered record of my hates, dislikes, and deprecating recollections of TV shows I loved as a child, so I thought I'd cap it off with a few highlights and low points that seemed memorable at the time.

BITTEREST MONTH: April, hands down. The poor Milwaukee County Zoo in particular took quite a beating. I could blame this on the inexplicable disintegration of a friendship that occurred at the time, but I choose instead to simply regard April as HISTORY'S WORST MONTH... EVER. I offer, for your consideration:

Hitler's birthday (April 20)
The Columbine High School massacre (April 20)
The sinking of the RMS Titanic (April 14/15)
The Civil War (April 1861 - April 1865)
President Lincoln's assassination (April 14)
Martin Luther King, Jr.'s assassination (April 4)
The Oklahoma City bombing (April 19)
The Chernobyl "goof-up" (April 26)
The Rodney King verdict L.A. riots (April 29)
My sister's birthday (April something)

MOST CONTROVERSIAL ENTRY: Follow the link above to the article dated April 23. I certainly made no friends with friends of the teachers' union that day. Again, I primarily blame the month of April.

And the teachers' union, for sucking urine-soaked golfballs.

LEAST POPULAR ENTRY: Judging by the complete absence of comments on this article, apparently nobody here was an "Alias" fan. Good for you.

MOST POPULAR TOPICS/REGULAR FEATURES: You rascals seemed to enjoy anything regarding vitriolic movie trailer reviews, nostalgic remembrances of TV shows past, and my exciting adventures in ............ THE FISH LAB!

I imagine that last bit with cool, dramatic orchestrations behind it. You can imagine whatever the hell you damn well feel like.

TOTAL NUMBER OF HOT FEMALE ADMIRERS MY BLOGGING HAS NETTED ME: 0

TOTAL NUMBER OF GAY OVERSEAS ADMIRERS MY BLOGGING HAS NETTED ME: 1

ODDS I'LL EVER BOTHER TO EXPLAIN WHY THE WORD "IDEALIST" IS IN MY BLOG'S DOMAIN NAME TO BEGIN WITH: Worse than the odds of a UFO piloted by Elvis landing on the Loch Ness monster while it's on vacation in Atlantis.

That is to say, Not Good.

HAPPIEST MONTH: What is this, your first time here?

Well, there you have it. One year and counting for The Cynical Idealist. Here's to a few more years of unrestrained, blood pressure-inflating misanthropy... before my death by self-induced heart attack.
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T.C.I. CATCHES YOU UP ON: The CW network's "ONE TREE HILL"

Brooding-Airburshed-Pretty-Boy, torn for seasons over whether he loves Hot-Bitchy-Girl or Notably-Less-Hot-Emo-Girl, finally chooses the latter, then promptly keels over from a heart condition. As if this wasn't bad enough for NLHEG, her brother, Somehow-Entirely-Different-Race-From-His-Sister-Marine, left for another tour of duty.

BAPB's brother, Unattractive-Wooden-Legitimately-Conceived-Guy, almost threw The Big Game to make good with Weird-Looking-Moneylender-Thug, but luckily came to his senses in the second half and helped his team to victory. This greatly pleased Bald-Coach-Who-Can-Actually-Act. Unfortunately, UWLCG's joy was short-lived as WLMT proceeded to run down UWLCG's wife, Impossibly-Gorgeous-Pregnant-Smart-Girl.

In a sub(par)plot, Not-Hot-Slutty-Redhead-Who-Makes-Trouble-For-No-Discernable-Reason decides to help HBG pass Calculus by cheating. Interestingly, HBG had no clue she was failing said subject until shown a copy of her transcript. Which NHSRWMTFNDR apparently carries about on her person.

BAPB's mother, Actress-Who-Hasn't-Aged-Well-At-All, checked UWLCG's mother, Actress-Who-Has-Definitely-Aged-Well, into rehab. Then AWHAWAA went on a "date" with the show's irredeemable villain, Smarmy-Slimy-Asshole-Man, even though the man has done absolutely nothing positive during the entire show's run (saving BAPB's life that one time definitely does not count). In fact, the writers, having -- temporarily, I'm sure -- stalled on plot ideas, have decided to turn SSAM into a repentant good guy by letting him willingly take the fall for UWLCG's non-murder of WLMT, who died when his car crashed of his own volition. Don't ask.

Thing is, SSAM recently shot his brother, Beady-Eyed-Good-Guy, in cold blood during a high school "massacre." No one knows this yet, but I imagine AWHAWAA will be far less inclined to attend award ceremonies with SSAM after learning he happened to plug her fiance, BEGG, in the chest with a Saturday Night Special.

Meanwhile, Heavensent-Hispanic-Goddess-Who-Still-Haunts-My-Dreams-At-Nights was unconvincingly revealed to be a lesbian a few seasons back and got summarily shipped off to wherever it is lesbians get shipped off to.

Cleveland, I imagine.

So Jesus the Christ was born a couple thousand years ago, and that means it's...

2006-12-12T03:16:00.000-06:00

... time to go shopping at 4:30 in the morning the day after Thanksgiving!

Just as Baby Jesus intended.

Only, I'm not going, see. As a rigid non-Christian and, ergo, social pariah, it's difficult for me to get in the mood to hang icicle lights in honor of an ancient pagan celebration co-opted by your more enterprising and humorless recent religions.

Now, don't get me wrong; I actually don't mind Christmas, or whatever stupid holiday your inferior religion is stubbornly demanding be recognized by the rest of the nation. I mean, you've got the songs and the lights and the dying trees and the songs and the tooth-shattering candy canes and the lucrative employment opportunities for midgets and fat, bearded pedophiles and the songs and the TV specials and the friendly "Keep Christ in Christmas" banners on the lawns of your local zealots and the songs and the Salvation Army bellringers whose piercing, accusatory stares you so desperately try to avoid as you scurry into Target and the assholes in the mall parking lot who TAKE THEIR SWEET FUCKING TIME GETTING THEIR UGLY LITTLE SPAWN INTO THEIR PIECE OF SHIT MINIVAN WHEN YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THAT SPACE FOR FIFTEEN GODDAMNED MINUTES AND THE SONGS THE SONGS THE FUCKING FUCKING SONGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*wheezes heavily, slowly catches breath, takes twice the recommended dosage of his prescription anti-depressant medication, enters a tranquil, euphoric state*

Ahhhhhhhhh.

I love this time of year.

And this season, whether you're bowing before Jesus or Santa or the menorah or Ooloompopo, the Kwanzaa Kid or Sam Walton, Father of Our Heavenly Wal-Mart, just remember...

Nobody will like that "special" surprise gift you picked out for them. Nobody. Not. One. Body.

It was a nice thought, though. Buuuut if it was the "thought" that truly counted, capitalism would crumble overnight. And you don't want that for Christmas, do you, Stalin?

Ahhh. I do love this time of year. I really do. Yes, indeed...

With the exception of the following:

FOODS

1.) Fruitcake

To be uncharacteristically fair, I've never actually eaten fruitcake. This is on account of the fact that I have no desire to place in my intestinal tract what looks like puke in bread form.

2.) My mother's egg nog

Egg nog = good

Southern Comfort = better

Egg nog + Southern Comfort = What exactly am I being punished for, again?

3.) My sister-in-law's green cookies*

You see, her secret ingredient is ... cheese.

Now, be sure to keep that secret to yourself because if there's one thing this planet needs less of, it's candy with fucking cheese in it.

* It has recently come to my attention that these pastry perversions are actually meant as appetizers, which then begs the question as to just why in the hell were they made on cookie-baking day and stored in containers with the non-cheese-riddled confections, for Christ's sake.

4.) Candy canes

Ahhh, candy canes. The candy corn and black jelly beans of the Christmas season: No one wants them anywhere near their mouths, but it sure wouldn't feel like the holidays without 'em.

TV SPECIALS

1.) Anything by Rankin-Bass

You know what I'm talking about. Those crappy, creepy effin' puppet specials like "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "The Year Without a Santa Claus" and "Stilted, Zombified Marionettes Engaging in Gross Acts of Racial Profiling and Social Darwinism."

2.) Frosty the Snowman

All right, I'll accept the fact that Frosty is as far out of the closet as last year's Goodwill donations, but come on. A talking pile of snow is not magical. It's terrifying, no matter how happy it is to help you redesign your guest room.

And who are these people kidding? Frosty doesn't get shipped off to colder climes for the Summer, destined to return and prance about with your children once the geese fly south for the season. He's subjected to extensive and intrusive scientific testing before ultimately being melted down, his remains to be studied by military and science experts for years to come. Also, his existence will be officially denied by the government and all witnesses forced to recant their statements or mysteriously disappear.

3.) Charlie Brown's Christmas Special

It's very telling that America as a nation gets such a sick kick out of watching a balding hydrocephalic who suffers from severe manic depression. This poor kid is miserable, you assholes, and can you blame him? He's surrounded by imbeciles, bitches, and socially-retarded blankyphiles, none of whom would shed a single tear if he duct-taped a plastic bag around his head. They're all too busy setting footballs for no one to kick and waiting for pumpkins to appear in a pumpkin patch ... or something, I don't know. He also owns a dog that thinks it can fly its doghouse around like a damn biplane. Fucking idiot.

If all this doesn't sound terribly amusing to you, there's a very good, solid reason for that. It's not. Charlie Brown and Cohorts are very similar to Mickey Mouse and Friends in one important respect: They're not funny. Wow, the decorating of your shitty little tree provides a brief respite from the constant, unrelenting ache of rejection and self-loathing you experience the other 364 days of the year (add one for leap year). Laugh it up, Chuck!

MISCELLANEOUS

1.) Tinsel

Whoever created tinsel obviously had a.) no children and b.) a houseful of maids to pick up after his littering ass. Tinsel is a bright, shiny way to give yourself something else to clean up after the holidays. Why not just toilet paper your kitchen, or empty a couple bottles of spaghetti sauce in the den?

2.) The term "trimming the tree"

I'm not "trimming" anything, moron, I'm decorating the tree.

Actually, I'm doing no such thing. That's women's work.

3.) Socks and underwear as gifts

Socks and underwear* are not gifts; they are necessities. Are you honestly going to tell me that you only supply your dependents with the basic articles of clothing required for their warmth and comfort on the birthdays of major deities? Or do you make it a point to wrap up Li'l Timmy's Fruit-of-the-Looms in a pretty pink bow every time he needs a new set of skidmarkers?

* This gripe not applicable to any scanty unmentionables courtesy of Victoria's Secret or Frederick's of Hollywood. In fact, it's my very firm belief that these are the only gifts you fine ladies out there should be receiving.

4.) Monstrous Inflatable Snowman/Santa/Reindeer/Polar Bear with Candy Cane/Snowglobe Containing Snowman, Santa, Reindeer, and Polar Bear with Candy Cane

What better way to tell the folks on your block, "Yep. I'm that neighbor"?

SONGS

1.) "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"

The moral of this charming story is that if you're gonna be different, you'd better have a useful fucking skill to be exploited. You know, like freaks in a circus sideshow. And, um, it might also come in handy if your particular talent couldn't be easily replicated by a standard household item, like, oh, say, a flashlight.

How heartening to know that ostracization and class prejudice are just as prevalent in ungulate society as they are in ours. And I'd like to go on record saying that "reindeer games," whatever the hell they are, have got to rank among the animal kingdom's most goddawful boring activities ever.

2.) "Frosty the Snowman"

This jolly, happy soul romps and plays and frolicks with the many unsupervised townschildren. What a joy; what a magical, wonderful creation; what a true embodiment of the playful, generous spirit of the season...

... then he melts.

Merry Christmas, kids!

3.) "Christmas Shoes"

*rubs temples* Oh, sweet heavenly god, do I hate this soggy, sloppy sack of shmaltz in audio form. For those of you lucky bastards never to have endured this glurgy* drivel, allow me to sum up its inspid "plot" for you:

* For a detailed description of this adjective, type "glurge glossary" in the search engine of www.snopes.com. I'd provide the direct link for you, but the owners of the site are real pricks about linking to their articles.

Some ragged kid's mom is going to meet Jesus tonight, and I ain't talking about attending your local Nativity play. Instead of consulting a trained medical specialist with an emphasis in treating her specific affliction, her son -- naturally -- decides that the only sensible thing to do in this dire situation is buy her some fucking shoes. Thing is, he has no money with which to buy her this magical pair of useless fucking death shoes.

The protagonist of our song, a self-centered dickhead who views himself as something of a living saint, wisely pays for the mooch's shoes both to symbolize his recognition of the true spirit of Christmas and to get the stupid little shit out of line. Mr. Moneybags then decides that the meaning of this encounter was to provide God with an opportunity "to remind [him] what Christmas is all about."

Yes, you egomaniacal asshole. Your Lord Above only has an entire universe to coordinate, but sure, He'll take time out of His busy schedule to help some bourgeois yutz who has enough funds to go about buying shoes for every flea-bitten quasi-orphan he crosses paths with rediscover the meaning behind His son's birthday.

Asshole.

4.) "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"

How, how, how do parents explain the lyrics of this saccharine shitfest to their Kris Kringle-infatuated offspring? I mean, the kid in the song watches his maternal progenitor sucking face with the Jolly Old Elf. This can only mean one of two things to a child who still believes in Santa Claus:

a.) Santa Claus is actually Daddy and, therefore, not real, thus summarily shattering a lie that has been ingrained in the poor little turd since birth, or

b.) Mommy's a whore.

5.) "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas"

No you don't.

6.) "Christmas Carol"

In this pile of vocal vomit, a tiny orphan (?) girl asks a department store Santa to drop her off at some unsuspecting, child-starved couple's house for Christmas. See, her name is Carol, and she was born on Christmas Day. Get it? Get it? Anyhow, this foster home flee-er (how are all the kids in these holiday songs running about all willy-nilly in the first place?) gets her prayers answered when Pseudo-Santa the Sucker decides to accept her as a tax deduction ...

... and promptly gets arrested for child abduction. Or so I'd like to think happens after the song's final verse.

The point of the song, dear children, is that fake Santas will always be able to grant your greatest wish. Always. Always, always, always.

But it sure helps if your name is a lame pun.

7.) "A Few of My Favorite Things"

This aural dysentery is a song from the shitcraptic musical The Sound of Music. It also has jack-all nothing to do with Christmas. What the fuck is next? "Old Man River" for Passover?

8.) "Little Drummer Boy"

BABY JESUS: So ... what have you fellas brought to celebrate the arrival of your Lord and Savior, sent down from Heaven Above to bathe you all in His eternal love, hmm? Let's see ... Ooo, I see we have some gold here, gold is always good. And, uh, what is this? Perfume? Potpourri? Ha, ha! Just givin' ya a hard time, Balthy. Frankincense. Yes, very nice. I'll be sure to burn this after my first stinky. Oops! Looks like that'll be right about now. Ha, ha! I kid, I kid. And, we also have ... hrmm, some ... myrrh. (pause) Well, you can never have too much myrrh. I guess. Uh, thanks, Caspar. You know, is it Caspar or Gaspar? I can never remember... You know what? We'll talk later. (pause) So ... is that everyth-- Oh, hello there, you. Yes, you, with the -- the drum there. What's your name?

LITTLE DRUMMER BOY: Um, little drummer boy.

BABY JESUS (rubbing his temples): Right, I see where this is going. Okay, LDB, whattaya got for the mortal incarnation of God, hmm?

LITTLE DRUMMER BOY: I am but a poor little boy who, somehow, was able to afford this ridiculously useless drum in the middle of a desert. Shall I play for you?

(long, dangerous silence)

BABY JESUS: Excuse me?

LITTLE DRUMMER BOY: Shall I play for you, my Lord?

BABY JESUS: Wait, wait, wait, just -- just wait. Wait. Here I am, plunked down in the middle of this barren, Me-forsaken future warzone, freezing My ass off among the ox and the lamb and their collective shit -- all to bring you a world of peace and joy and harmony and enlightenment and you -- you want to play me a fucking song on your cheap-ass drum? Tell me, Melchior, what's the going rate for a "pa rum pum pum pum" on the free market these days?

MELCHIOR: Uhhh...

BABY JESUS: Shut up. Listen, Cheapskate, take your drum and hit the dunes. I'll be looking for you on Judgment Day, dipshit. (calling off) Oh, and you tell that little jerk Maria I hope she chokes on her Me-damned nightingale! (to himself) Me H. Me!

THE VIRGIN MARY: That wasn't very nice, Jesus.

BABY JESUS: Quiet, woman, or I'll sic the Protestants on you.

THE VIRGIN MARY (muttering): Fucking Protestants...
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That being said, I want this ~~for Christmas~~ ~~Hannukah~~ ~~Kwanzaa~~ ~~Winter Solstice~~ ~~Chinese New Year~~.

I plan to be back soon to share my predictions for the coming year. In the meantime, I sincerely hope all of you enjoy the holiday season, my unseen but appreciated Cynickites*, whatever your beliefs or disbeliefs. You've made it a fun first year of my blog.

And by "fun" I mean "time-consuming and financially abortive," of course.

* Including, but not limited to, ~~Big Load~~ ~~El Grande~~ the Fourth Earl of Excelor, Sgt. Mellors, Dakota, ~~Behnnie~~ Quietly, Patelicious, Hucklebuck, Laura, Maria, Anonymous Jim, Mark, Tommy, and my silent minority: Christine, Angie, and the ludicrously-patient Mrs. T.C.I.

In closing, this year, let's put the God back in Godzilla.
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"PERSON" I'M CURRENTLY HATING:

Ann Coulter

Don't know who this blight on humanity is? Sorry to shatter your blissful ignorance (I really am envious), but I think it's important that you recognize her as quite possibly the dumbest pundit ever to emerge from the primordial ooze from whither slither pundits as a species.

Now, I like to think I'm very balanced when it comes to dispensing vitriol evenly amongst the right and the left, but occasionally there comes along a mouthpiece so ridiculous that he/she/it demands to be singled out and reviled for the walking refuse he/she/it is. Here is a video of Her Horsiness nattering on incoherently and being just generally -- and effortlessly -- obnoxious. Notice how that crazy-cool Brit Jeremy Paxman has to do absolutely nothing but sit back and let her dig own grave from the fertile earth of idiocy, arrogance, and colossal bitterness. I especially want to call your attention to the harpy's uncanny ability to speak without moving the corners of her mouth in a voice that emanates directly from out of her ass.

In her defense, however, Ann Coulter's existence serves one very important purpose: It allows us the unique opportunity to see what a praying mantis would look like with a thin layer of flesh stretched over its exoskeleton.

So I was helping the lovable old owner / St. Nick doppelganger of my favorite townie bar celebrate his 60th birthday...

2006-11-29T00:17:00.000-06:00

... by drinking cheap mugs of tap beer and listening to the locals serenade* me with such karaoke classics as "Oops! I Did it Again" when I thought to myself, "Barflies. Why haven't you griped about barflies in that unprofitable blog of yours?"

* For the purposes of this sentence, please read 'serenade' as 'launch an unprompted aural offensive upon.'

"Well," I slurred internally, "because I've had shit to do, idiot." Yes, I called myself an idiot. I see no reason to exclude yours truly from my rampant, unchecked misanthropy.

So, in order to shut myself up, and, more importantly, because I really don't have any other viable ideas at the moment, here's a list of the stereotypical stool jockeys you're bound to run into at your local hangout, dive, pub, tavern, saloon, speakeasy, old man's bar, sports bar, piano bar, harpsicord bar, discotheque, gay bar, lesbian bar, bisexual bar, metrosexual bar (or "club"), microbrewery, macrosudsery, AA meeting, or Wal-Greens throat syrup aisle.

DAKOTA: Wait, shouldn't you be working on your playwriting?

Would you people give me a fucking break, already?
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1.) THE LONELY BIGOT

> Where you'll find him: Dive bar; old man's bar; Klan mixer

> His precise location in the drinking establishment: The middle of the bar, with several empty stools to either side of him.

> Appearance: Male; whiter than Hitler; middle-aged to elderly; in the worst shape of his life.

> What he's doing there: Smoking heavily; drinking the cheapest tap beer available; watching Nascar or the "Blue Collar Comedy Tour"; talking loudly to no one and everyone; cursing the Mexicans for trying to take his job; skipping work.

> Immediate goal: To find a friend. A friend with whom he can share his grand ideas and shattered dreams, his hopes and sorrows, the myriad of joys that life can offer, and the pain of loss and regret it invariably brings...

... oh, and also a fellow white man to shift uncomfortably while he unleashes a barrage of derogatory ethnic slurs and racial profiling. And seeing as how you're white...

> Long-term goal: To get stabbed in the throat upon leaving the bar when it turns out the "wetbacks" he's been riding all night can, in fact, "speak American, for Crissakes!"

2.) UGLY SLUTTY GIRL

> Where you'll find her: Anywhere alcohol and penises come together in a glorious union.

> Her precise location in the drinking establishment: Hanging heavily on you, her horseface resting on your shoulder as her too-much mascara smears itself all over your new shirt.

> Appearance: Tight, slutty shirt; tight, slutty skirt; makeup, makeup, makeup!; prissy accessories (preferably pink); mammoth mammary glands; a face so monstrous it would force even Medusa to politely excuse herself from the room.

> What she's doing there: Swaying to a death metal song; headbanging to a ballad; giggling; pointing at guys; making catty comments about pretty girls; thrusting her breats in your face; avoiding paying for her own drinks; firmly burying the last remnants of her self-respect.

> Immediate goal: To find a boy -- any boy -- to tell her she's pretty and shower her with affection, attention, and long island iced teas. Her chances of finding just such a sap increase exponentially as the night wears on and the vision of the male populace wears down.

> Long-term goal: To leave your apartment at 7:30 tomorrow morning in her strappy heels and tube top after an uncomfortable "I'll call you" conversation.

3.) RAPIN' RONNY

> Where you'll find him: Clubs; college bars; frat parties; holding cells

> His precise location in the drinking establishment: Grinding on something with a vagina or, later in the evening, perhaps a table leg.

> Appearance: Abercrombie & Fitch, Tommy Hilfiger, Eddie Bauer, Ralph Lauren, whatever -- as long as it's pink; baseball cap or visor, preferably facing the incorrect way; carefully-cultivated five o'clock shadow; smug look of unsubstantiated superiority

> What he's doing there: Standing around with several of his clones; mocking those wearing less pink than he is; casing the joint for girls with skirts ending just below their bikini zones; rationing his Roofies; overcompensating for something.

> Immediate goal: To bang the ugly slutty girl.

> Long-term goal: To ask daddy's high-priced attorney friend to lead the case for the defense.

4.) THE BORYTELLER

> Where you'll find him: Old man's bar; dive bar; nursing home rec room; the bus at bar time; corner of 8th and Juniper.

> His precise location in the drinking establishment: Right next to you. Goddamnit.

> Appearance: Scruffy; leathery; pungent; flea-conducive; older than the pines; seems to have just been released from the drunk tank, really; has an affinity for army-surplus jackets.

> What he's doing there: Talking to you; scratching parts of himself while talking to you; shoveling beer nuts into his maw while talking to you; shooting cheap whiskey while talking to you; staring creepily at that young blonde chick across from him while talking to you; breathing on you while talking to you; following you into the bathroom to talk to you.

> Immediate goal: To tell you why things were so much better back in his day, by gum!

> Long-term goal: See above.

5.) CAPTAIN INCOHERENCE

> Where you'll find him/her: Anywhere alcohol can be found after 12:30 am.

> His/her precise location in the drinking establishment: Leaning over the bar slurring invectives at the napkin holder opposite him/her.

> Appearance: Any age, any gender, any race, any creed. Sure is ugly, though.

> What he/she's doing there: Trying to tell you something, dammit!; bumming a smoke; lighting the wrong end of the bummed smoke; dropping the lit bummed smoke on your lap; spilling his drink; spilling your drink; knocking over the beer nuts; falling off his stool; bumping into the biggest, meanest guy in the place; cussing out the biggest, meanest guy in the place; getting his ass kicked by the biggest, meanest guy in the place.

> Immediate goal: To make sure you know this: "I was once ... not in my house, I tell him! ... always gotta be up so goddamn early ... and I says, "The Macedonians? Fuck you!"... oop, dropped that ... John Deere green ... what did -- didjou say? Oh, I was talking? Wh-What did I say? ... and that's why I don't raise Angora rabbits anymore ... why's the -- the thing up there all ... I miss Crystal Pepsi ... Mike? Are you Mike? ... free-trade agreement ... he spelled it with one 'A' ...

> Long-term goal: He's trying to tell you, dammit!

6.) NAPOLEON, v.2

> Where you'll find him: Wherever those accursed Brobdignagians congregate, mocking him with their mighty, unattainable height.

> His precise location in the drinking establishment: About waist-level.

> Appearance: Short; diminutive; miniscule; itty-bitty; wee; li'l; teacup-size; probably scowling.

> What he's doing there: Glaring at tall people; insulting tall people; picking fights with tall people; shoulder-blocking tall people; rubbing his injured shoulder after shoulder-blocking tall people; avoiding being stepped on by tall people; using a baby seat to reach the bar; drinking from a glass too large for his teeny hands; looking up.

> Immediate goal: To kick your ass, motherfucker!

> Long-term goal: Crying himself to sleep with tiny, tiny tears.
____________________________________________________________

Yes, yes, I know there are dozens more. Loosen your girdles, ladies, I don't want to hear your stupid suggestions.

Well, the holidays -- secular and non -- are upon us, so rest assured that T.C.I. will have plenty to rant about in the coming weeks.

I'll just be too lazy to write it down, is all.

In closing, Santa Claus does, in fact, operate my local bar of choice.
_____________________________________________________________

ATTENTION! IMPORTANT CHANGES HAVE OCCURRED IN THE FISH LAB WHERE T.C.I. WORKS!

> Our pale blue scrubs have been retired in favor of starchy new purple ones. Or "wine," as the label maintains. Any color named after something containing alcohol is my favorite color. I'm waiting anxiously for my "rum-flavored puke" shoes to come in.

> In addition to rows after rows of mercury-riddled zebrafish and stupidly-named fathead minnows, our lab is now also home to several Xenopus frogs (they look like fat, squat, entirely aquatic versions of Kermit, but are less likely to stage musical numbers or fuck pigs), a lonely, swivel-eyed puffer fish (who supposedly puffs up when disturbed, but apparently being jabbed at by a cheap Bic pen occurs regularly in his natural habitat, so no luck yet), and a pair of kick-ass crayfish that love to munch on frog brittle (brittle made for frogs, not of them).

The crayfish were intended as food for the refuses-to-puffer fish. However, they are too large and aggressive to serve as dinner (or "supper" to you silly Brits) for the puny fellow, so now they've been slipped into Larry the lungfish's tank. Lungfish are like a cross between a chubby eel and a salamander with tentacles instead of feet. They can grow to six feet in length (this one hasn't yet, but he's a-tryin'), have an oddly content, doglike expression on their faces, let you pet them without kicking up a fuss (to answer your question: slimy, rubbery), and apparently hold the key to curing Alzheimer's.

They also evidently like to eat crayfish one piece at a time, resulting in a slow, cruel, painful, hideous death by gradual dismemberment.

My job makes me sad.

> I recently received a raise. Which was promptly negated by a just as recently-implemented retirement fund deduction.

My job makes me sad.

> A bright, new school year has brought with it a bright, new, perkily-breasted influx of gorgeous Maxim covergirls. I'm telling you, if I'd have known science chicks could be so hot, I'd have stuck with zoology instead of choosing a lifetime in the theatre with women suffering from Narcissistic Personality Disorders (er, present company excluded, you understand, ~~Behnnie~~ Quietly).

In fact, in his search for an assistant, one of our investigators has recently acquired a voluptuous Italian specimen with veeery impressive, er, "credentials."

I love my job.
____________________________________________________________

Effective 11/30/06: Happy 26th or 27th Birthday to my brother Thom(as).

So I've been enjoying a wide array of colorful and informative political ads while watching reruns of "Scrubs" lately...

2006-11-06T23:45:00.000-06:00

... and it suddenly occurred to me: "Oh, yeah. Tuesday is the day I exercise my right not to vote."

Yes, you heard me. Or read me, whatever. I am a proud and unflinching member of that most despised of apathetic Americans: the Parasite of Democracy. The Parasite of Democracy refuses to exercise the individual freedoms people have apparently died to supply him with, choosing instead to feast quietly off the scraps left by the bloated living carcass of American Politics that will simply do whatever the sweet merry fuck it feels like anyway.

If you don't mind -- and you don't -- I'd like to take this time to present the candidates of each major political party who will be coming soon to an election near you.

And remember, folks, YOU MUST VOTE. YOU MUST. YOU ABSOLUTELY MUST. MUST, MUST, MUST. Elsewise, our fair nation will be overrun by a thousand tyrants-in-miniature, each grasping for as much money and power and prestige as they can amass until the entire country grinds to a halt, slathered in bureaucratic red tape as our once-proud empire slowly caves in upon itself.

Also, if you don't vote, you won't get to be one of those self-satisfied back-patters who goes around telling people you voted with the arrogance of one who has just, say, solved the problem of world hunger, or a Rubik's cube without moving the stickers around.

__________________________________________________________

1.) THE REPUBLICAN CANDIDATE

Appearance: Incredibly white; thinning gray hair; glasses; old enough to recall fond memories of redbaiting with "Crazypantz" Joe McCarthy (as he was known back in the day); red tie; control panel on lower back.

Loves: His money; The Bible (King James version only); the use of science and technology solely for the purpose of creating more weapons with which to kill other inhabitants of the planet; the PAX channel; picketing the march of intellectual progress; black-and-white sitcoms from the 50's; any furniture instructions that include the direction "Insert Tab A into Slot B"... cause that's the way God and the O'Sullivan desk manufacturers intended it, dagnabbit!; interns.

Hates: The fact that you're enjoying Life; dinosaurs that weren't Ark-sanctioned; the "X" in "Xmas;" the complete filmography of Michael Moore; any combination of colors that may result in a rainbow; Harry Potter; fancy book-learnin'; any stretch of earth selfishly concealing mounds upon mounds of sweet, glorious fossil fuels (obtained strictly from the remains of Ark-sanctioned dinosaurs, naturally); mass transit systems; that dark-skinned young couple who just moved into the neighborhood; glaciers.

His party's real agenda: To drain this pitiful world of its valuable resources before moving on to the next host planet.

Who votes for these guys?: Those jocks and princesses you hated in high school

Odds of winning: 50%, unless his opponent is deceased, in which case his odds drop to 0%.

Is actually: Satan.

2.) THE DEMOCRATIC CANDIDATE

Appearance: Tall (sometimes freakishly so); full head of metrosexual-approved hair; good-looking in a bland, non-threatening, trusted-local-newscaster kind of way; eerie perma-grin; blue tie; generally white, though occasionally comes in darker shades; may possess vagina

Loves: Your money; athletic and persistent immigrants; hypocritical celebrities who have as much disposable income as they do loud, unsolicited opinions; endangered insects more than your children; comedy-dramas created by Aaron Sorkin; apologizing to people he's never known for things he never did for closure he doesn't need; blaming society; handing out second chances like so much candy corn -- along with third chances, and fourth ones, and fifth ones... ; seeing that society's fallen get a fresh new start... in that little house right across from your son's favorite playground; interns.

Hates: Accountability; managers who expect union members to work on consecutive days; movies where the bad guy dies; all SUV's, expect for the three currently parked in the garages of each of his vacation homes; any word used to describe any individual in any way, whatsoever; leaving an ass unkissed; healthy white males who engage in intercourse with healthy white females while holding down steady jobs; cannibas-free brownies; living amongst the filthy urbanites he champions; convenience.

His party's real agenda: To keep the Republicans in power.

Who votes for these guys?: Those deliberately non-conforming conformist/beatniks you hated who ran the school paper.

Odds of winning: 50%, unless he is deceased, in which case his widow can start decorating the Governor's Mansion immediately.

Is actually: Voting Republican.

3.) THE INDEPENDENT CANDIDATE

Appearance: Good Lord, it's anybody's guess: tall, fat, bald, hairy, short, skinny, creepy, dopey, sleepy, happy, haggy, craggy, brawny, scrawny, tawny; memorable in the way that a Lewis Carroll creation or, say, a UFO is memorable.

Loves: Fence-straddling; hemming; hawing; keeping his options open; considering all possible angles; thinking things over; going into it with an open mind; trying something completely different, but ultimately the same; interns.

Hates: Republicans; Democrats; taking a stance on abortion; running for office.

His party's real agenda: Ideas welcome, apply within.

Who votes for these guys?: No one, apparently.

Odds of winning: 0%, regardless of the life status of his opponents (this rule not applicable in Minnesota).

Is actually: A figment of your imagination.

4.) THE GREEN PARTY

Appearance: Dangerously emaciated thanks to an unaturally herbivorous diet; may actually possess fronds and a root system.

Loves: The planet.

Hates: You. Filthy meatsack.

His party's real agenda: To siphon off precious votes from the Democratic Candidate.

Who votes for these guys?: Very dumb Democrats.

Odds of winning: 0%. Even given a nuclear holocaust in which all life was decimated with the exception of a Green Party candidate and a piece of radioactive driftwood, the electoral college would still hand the presidency to the driftwood.*

Is actually: Made of soy.

* Vote Radioactive Driftwood in 2012!

5.) THE LIBERTARIAN CANDIDATE

Appearance: For all intents and purposes, appears to be a perfectly normal human being... except for that bright glint in his eye, which may indicate either idealistic hope or the sudden urge to sever your jugular with his canines.

Loves: Being armed; the freedom to live as he chooses... in a secretive, heavily-fortified compound away from the rest of civilization; emptying his rifle into your chest if you inadvertently step in his tomato patch

Hates: The very government he is currently trying to become a part of; rules and regulations; calm, open, healthy discourse free of raised voices or gunfire; the whites of your eyes; sanity.

His party's real agenda: None of your goddamned business.

Who votes for these guys?: The home-schooled kids you hated in high school.

Odds of winning: 0%, unless everyone else is dead. And that can be arranged...

Is actually: Perched on top of the belltower in the town square as you read this.

__________________________________________________________

So there you go. Winners, every one. Except four of them.

Enjoy performing your civic duty, my easily-pressured cynickites. It's what MTV would want you to do. Oh, and I hear there's a sticker in it for ya, too. Let it not be said that our government doesn't take care of its own.

And hey, at least the colossally outdated and insultingly unnecessary electoral college won't be fucking up these elections. That's for 2008!

In closing, yes, I fully plan on welcoming our new overlord after my refusal to vote results in a fascist dictatorial regime known as The Conglomerated Former Unified Territories of the Mid-North American Region. All hail the beloved Chancellor!
____________________________________________________________

I have a busy day of not voting ahead of me tomorrow, so no secondary entry this time, kids.

So I was missing the genetically-ideal facial features of you, the few but loyal members of my beloved constituency...

2006-10-22T19:34:00.000-05:00

... and decided to emerge briefly from my self-imposed dormancy to regale you with tales both amusing and grand.

Right.

No, I just felt like bitching some more.

Oh, and you're also shockingly, distressingly unattractive. All of you. Every last one.

Yes, even you.

Especially you.

Anyway, it has occurred to me recently that my complete lack of interest in the affairs of my fellow Man (for feminists, read "Myn") just doesn't seem to be coming across as clearly as I'd like. People are still talking to me. Constantly. About things.

It should come as no surprise to any of my avid followers that I am the last person on this lava-filled mass of undrinkable water to express any interest in "things." I'm not sure where the people I encounter on a daily basis are getting the impression that I actually care, about them or their things. Why does your average evolutionary offshoot still insist on approaching me and engaging in one-sided conversations about his manatee-shaped uncle's triple bypass surgery or that cute guy she likes who she doesn't realize is dating the other cute guy she likes?

And then it struck me: Nobody on this glorified moon rock has access to a Matthew-to-Stupid-Asshole Dictionary.

Well, problem solved. Until the next stupid asshole I run into. With my knee.

The following are some sample translations of the words I say, how stupid assholes incorrectly interpret said words, and, finally, what I actually mean by these words.

HOMELY PRICK WHOSE GAME OF UNREAL TOURNAMENT IS LOADING: You know (wheeze), you could just (wheeze), you know (wheeze), tell people what you really mean. Maybe if you were (wheeze) just a little less of a wimp (wheeze), you'd have the balls to let people know how you fe -- Oh! Oh! My game loaded! My game just loaded! (wheeze, wheeze, wheeze) I am an armchair warrior!!! Rahhhh!!! (pause) Er, that is, if they ever make an armchair large enough...

An interesting take on the issue, Self-appointed Cyberspace Psychologist. Or Dicknose. May I call you Dicknose? In any case, society expects certain concessions from its participants, willing or no. One of the most important of these is that in order to get along in it successfully, one cannot, under any circumstances, go around telling other members of society how one really feels. This would lead to an alarming spike in the number of Other People-on-T.C.I. hate crimes, or, worse, deep discussions with stupid assholes whose feelings have been "hurt" and whose brains are "not applicable."

So instead, I complacently utter the many simple phrases that society demands of me. Often this is enough to enable me to purchase alcoholic beverages whenever I require them (78% of my waking moments) and assure others that I am, in fact, "fine." Quite frequently as of late, however, these common, meaningless courtesies have done nothing to prevent the onslaught of unwelcome aural vomit that gets regularly spewed at me by the Stupid Assholes across this great nation.

So, hence, this blog entry. Happy, Dicknose?

DICKNOSE: (wheeze, wheeze, wheeze)

Wonderful. And here we go...
___________________________________________________________

> What I say: "How are you?"
> What you hear: "Greetings, fellow world citizen! By staring directly at you and uttering three basic words, this apparently alerts you to my intense fascination with your current state of health and/or mind. Also, please inform me immediately if you happen to be experiencing a bad day. Follow up any such proclamation with a verbal laundry list -- that omits no detail, however trite or insignificant -- of just how bad a day you are having. Much obliged, friend!"
> What I'm really saying: "Say the word 'fine' to me."

> What I say: "Ah." (a.k.a. "Oh," "I see," "Huh," "Uh-huh," "No kidding?," "Really?," and *non-committal grunt*)
> What you hear: "Tell me more!"
> What I'm really saying: "I've been humming the theme from 'The Transformers' in my head for the past eight minutes."

> What I say: "Sorry, but I have to get back to work."
> What you hear: "Gee, I'd love to hear whether your spoiled, purposeless, overfed house cat ever finished rolling over, but duty calls! You know how it goes. Nose to the grindstone! My boss is a slavedriver! Ergh! Ha, ha! Catch me later, though. I can't wait to hear how it ends!"
> What I'm really saying: "Congratulations. You are so boring that I, the world's laziest inhabitant, would actually rather continue working than humor your vapid, narcissistic ass for one fucking second longer."

> (in an email) What I write: "I'll write more later."
> What you read: "Fascinating! Your 83-paragraph, grammatically-suspect, and spelling error-riddled dissertation on the finer points of efficient CD rack organization was well worth the thirteen minutes that have now evaporated from my physical timeline, never to be enjoyed again. I promise that I will soon answer you in kind, with sentence upon non-capitalized sentence of intrigued queries as to your learned opinion on the "genre vs. alphabetical" debate.
> What I'm really writing: "I gave your unsolicited novella all of two seconds of my fleeting attention. This blatant lie I am now sending you should serve as a place-holder for the lengthy epistle I have no intention of writing."

> (on the phone) What I say: "I can't talk long..."
> What you hear: "Shoot. I'd really love it if you poured 37 minute's-worth of entirely inconsequential verbal feces into my ear just now, but, sadly, I am in a rush and can only spare a few moments."
> What I'm really saying: "Your reputation as an aural terrorist is so well-known that I have to preface a simple phone call with a warning specifically designed to keep you from nattering on like the braying jackass you are."

> What I say: "I don't want to do anything that might ruin our friendship."
> What you hear: "I care about you. I really do. And someday, somehow, somewhere, we might have been more than friends, but as it stands now, that is but a dream for another time. Yet if I cannot have your body -- your soul --to share with mine, at least allow me to cherish you as a confidante, a companion, a friend. If you cannot remain in my heart, you can at least remain close to it. Au revoir, mon cherie."
> What I'm really saying: "You're too ugly to have sex with."

> What I say: "Are you wearing perfume/lotion?"
> What you hear: "Your intricately-plotted attempt to ensnare an unsuspecting member of the opposite sex through the combination of the science of insect pheromones and liberal application of Melonberry Banana-Apple Cocoa Buttercreme Delight has proven successful. I am yours."
> What I'm Really Saying: "Sweet holy Christ, is there fruit rotting around here somewhere?"
____________________________________________________________

Sadly, the kinds of people who are most likely to abuse my intolerance for yakking assgoblins are also the least likely to be literate, so this has been something of an exericse in futility for me....

...not unlike all of my blog entries.

In closing, enough with the fucking lotion already, ladies.
___________________________________________________________

OOPS. I ALMOST FORGOT I HATE THESE GUYS, TOO: Remember that Top 10 List of my most hated heroes and good guys I posted a short while back? Well, here are a pair of glaring omissions: Sir Lancelot and Robin Hood.

Sir Lancelot, as the mythological paragon of virtue and tedium, got to win every fight he ever took part in ... except against his even more migraine-inducingly dull son, Sir Galahad. Check out T.H. White's fairly kick-ass novel "The Once and Future King:" Lancelot, aged 80, gets soundly thrashed by his boy, aged 60 and having recently undergone a personality lobotomy, during the search for the Holy Grail. And then Lancelot, like all true, noble, valiant, flawless heroes..... cries. That's right. Mr. I-Humiliate-Everyone-Else-On-A-Daily-Fucking-Basis actually. Fucking. Cries. This is the only funny thing Sir Lancelot has ever done.

Ol' Lancey Boy also got to fuck the equally uninteresting Queen of Camelot right under the nose of doddering King Arthur and somehow came out of this situation looking like the good guy. Virtuous defender of right and all-around upstanding moral bloke, my egg-white ass. Lancelot proved once again that you can be a hypocritical, bullying prig and still come away with a reputation as mythology's greatest hero just so long as you also happen to be good-looking.

I wish Sir Lancelot really did exist just so I could enjoy the fact that he'd be well and truly dead by now.

Robin Hood, on the other hand, handily stole vast sums of money from the rich ... only to squander it all on a shiftless load of flea-infested hangers-on who then had no real incentive to go out and get real jobs. I believe the liberals now use this career criminal as a mascot for the modern-day welfare program.

ZING!

But no, seriously, Robin Hood was an idiot.
____________________________________________________________

TIME OUT FOR MATTHEW'S FIRST ANNUAL SELF-SERVING PAT ON THE BACK, V. 2:

It's that time of year again. The time of year when, through some apparent mix-up in the balance of the cosmos as we know it, T.C.I. manages to be lauded for his non-literary talents, such as they are.

As I wrote in my last entry, I have been very happily lax in my blog-updating "duties" on account of being involved with my first professional theatrical job in the Milwaukee area. I'm currently playing half the cast in a two-man comedy called Dracula vs. the Nazis. Among others, I play two versions of Count Dracula, two versions of Eva Braun (yes, Hitler's girlfriend. That's the one. And it pains me to admit that the Evas are my two favorite characters. May the Jews forgive me... Of course, if it helps, all the Nazis in the play die. So that's cool), a blithering English minister, and a conniving old Ma Barker-type from Brooklyn and her adopted son, a candy-craving Southern hick/idiot savant. If you're really interested in going to it and don't mind seeing me in a revealing dirndl (though who would, really?), all the important information can be found at this here link.

Oh, and here's the self-serving, back-patting part: a trio of positive reviews of the show, the first one being my first notice in a major U.S. newspaper.

The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel

Vital Source Magazine

Shepherd Express

CYNICKITE PISSING ON MY PARADE: Uh, gee, T.C.I., don't you normally revile mirror-stroking egotists who march around, thrusting their laurels and accolades into other people's faces?

Well, yes, but... but not when they're me...

CYNICKITE PISSING ON MY PARADE: Hmm, I could have sworn that was the definition of "hypocrisy..."

Who are you? The field reporter for the fucking American Heritage Dictionary? Fine. Here's a review from a dessicated old bat who hated our show. And I offer no apologies for her pedestrian literary skills.

"Can you believe I used to be an English teacher?"

So T.C.I. is proud to announce the very first official...

2006-09-04T12:08:00.000-05:00

......

... wait for it ....

CYNICKITE OF THE MONTH OR QUARTER OR WHENEVER THE HELL I FEEL LIKE IT!

Mild and half-hearted congratulations are in order for T.C.I. Institute's very own ............

Sgt. Mellors!

*pause for confused murmuring, some yawns, sounds of people leaving the room*

Now, please enjoy a brief, unauthorized bio of our honoree.

Name: Sgt. Mellors

Real Name: Rear Admiral Bob Turdberger III

No, seriously, dick: Classified

Age: Mid-to-high double digits.

Race: Second to last place

Gender: Classified

Likes: Listing his dislikes; the feel of cotton; a clean, firm loaf-pinching

Dislikes: Listing his likes; the Dutch; being fooled by those false "eyes" on the wings of moths

Proud card-carrying member of: The Committee to Oversee the Extinction of the Common Snipe (COTECS)

Favorite color: Sienna (medium rare)

Favorite movie: Proper Maintenance for Your Xerox Copycentre C2000 Series

Favorite animal: The llomama (correctly pronounced in the Spanish tongue as yo-MA-ma), a very heavyset relative of the llama. Fun to ride, but very costly to feed.

'Cause she so fat!

Ooooooo! No way, dawg! No way! Oh, no I di'int!

Muppet he reminds me of: Bert

Thinks my new headshot... : "... looks fine."

How I know him: We appeared in public as a tweed-wearing rogue who makes out with his "sister" and a laidback Cockney bobby, respectively. We were also in a play together.

Hobbies: Eating at regularly-spaced intervals throughout the day; coughing during movies; very quietly insulting the hard-of-hearing; petting things

Ultimate goal in life: To convince the peoples of the British Isles to stop mis-pronouncing and -spelling the word "aluminum."

Immediate goal in life: To enter a Victoria's Secret store without giggling
_____________________________________________________________

Would you like to be the next "Cynickite of the Month or Quarter or Whenever the Hell I Feel Like It?"

What the fuck is the matter with you?

In any case, here are the requirements to be considered for this entirely unrewarding privilege*:

* Believe it or not, I'm serious here. I plan on making this a regular feature of So... And you will learn to embrace it without dissent, as you do all of my arbitrary whims.

1.) You must send me an email (using the email link on my profile page, fittingly enough) expressing your interest. Actually, your interest is of absolutely no consequence to me. Just include a relatively recent photo of yourself so I can sketch a scathing caricature that is guaranteed to make you whimper, "Whu --? I don't look like that! ... Do I?" Enjoy your plastic surgery bills and lifetime of crippling self-consciousness, you gorgonesque walking landfill.

If my request for a picture of you seems a little -- oh, what's the word I'm looking for? -- creepy, then just tell me if you have boy parts or girl parts. That should narrow the field down some.

Also, because I'm fully aware of how difficult it is for the average Earth-trudger to go one minute without talking about him or herself, feel free to include some basic information about the enigma that is you.

Not that it will matter. I'll write whatever the hell I feel like anyway.

2.) You must have contributed at least one (1) (!) comment to an article -- any article -- on So... Such as, oh, say, this article.

INCOMPETENT NOSEDIGGER WHO NEEDS TO BE SPOONFED EVERYTHING LIKE THE FUCKING BABY S/HE IS: But -- but -- but I'm not a member of Blogger.com!

*rubs temples; talks in slow, measured tones as though addressing an especially stupid child* All right, well, then, follow the shining example of our first inductee, Sgt. Mellors, and post a comment using the Anonymous option. And make sure to "sign" your unproductive ramblings with your screen name of choice (or, hell, your real name, if you possess zero creative juices).

3.) You must possess a sense of humor at a vestigial stage or higher. If you take offense easily, well, frankly, I've got to say I'm a little surprised you made it this far, junior.

4.) Do you enjoy the comic antics of actress Kirstie Alley?

Get out. No, seriously, get the hell out of here. I can't -- I just -- I mean, really, you should know better by now. Jesus.

************

So, that's all there is to it. Now, get postin'! The next Special Cynickite might be YOU!

In closing, I hope you enjoyed the first and last installment of this feature.
__________________________________________________________

Well, T.C.I. has some sad news for his loyal constituents. Due to fully-foreseen events, my cruel mockery of a life will get very busy over the next two months, what with work, avoidance of work, and a hefty, kickass role(s) in my first professional* play in the Milwaukee area (more on that in a future "Shameless Self-promotion" piece). I also need to start refocusing my energy on my playwriting and stop wasting my cleverness, or vain attempts at such, on you voracious lot of literary tapeworms.

* yes, occasionally in the theatrical field -- if you're very, very lucky -- people will actually compensate you for your time and talent.

Therefore, my installments may be spaced out at maddeningly longer intervals than you're generally accustomed to.

*pause for gasps of shock and dismay, uncontrolled weeping, various suicide attempts as people's worlds crumble about them, polite coughing*

Yes, yes, thank you. And the fact that you're accustomed to my relatively consistent bi-weekly deadlines says a lot about my character, my integrity, my loyalty to my microscopic fanbase, and my distressing lack of purpose on this rapidly-rotating clump of celestial droppings.

If all goes well (or, more accurately, doesn't), expect me to resume my regular spewings of precisely-aimed vitriol sometime before or around the holiday season.

Because I fully intend to have plenty to bitch about by then.

So I started a brief discussion concerning favorite villains at the end of my previous entry...

2006-08-25T01:18:00.000-05:00

... and I thought, "Wow. What a great idea for an article. My Top Ten Favorite Villains. I love villains. All kinds of villains, from film, television, literature, cartoons, comics, you name it. I could actually write about something that gives me a modicum of pleasure whilst I while away my hours on this gradually overheating lump of space debris. I would honestly enjoy that."

Clearly, that idea was not going to work.

So I have decided instead to compile a Top Ten list of asscrackers from the flip side of the moral compass...

Heroes and Good Guys.

I have always hated heroes and good guys. And I can honestly say that this is not some retroactive cynical posturing on my part. Ever since I was a mere five-foot-tall kindergartener, I can vividly remember being bored spitless by the many animated arbiters of justice and righteousness that I was bombarded with throughout my formative years: Optimus Prime from "The Transformers," Duke from "G.I. Joe," Link from the video game "The Legend of Zelda," He-Man, Batman, Aquaman, Spider-Man, Wonderwo-Man, and countless others that I have understandably evicted from my cerebral warehouse. It seemed to me that adults had only two key traits they expected one to possess if one hoped to attain any level of heroic stature:

1.) You must be good-looking.
2.) You must be duller than a week-old loaf of bread.

Back in my day (a phrase I hope to employ with irritating frequency as I age. Very slowly), male heroes were generally tall, dark, broad-shouldered, lantern-jawed, and completely devoid of any physical or moral flaws. Female heroes were generally tall, wide in the breastfeedin' area, wide in the baby-producin' area, wasp-thin in the lower intestin' area, and completely devoid of any physical or moral flaws.

A pause now as we hail the Grand March of Progress.

"Why," I thought to that young version of myself with the unflattering bowl haircut and corduroy pants, "must the good guys be so goddamned perfect all the time? Always noble, always brave, always invincible, always brooding, always winning, and never, never, never saying or doing anything even remotely humorous?"

I mean, seriously, what is it with positive role models who can't regale us with a dirty limerick to save their lives? If we met these people nowadays at, say, a seminar for Proactive Mission Statement Creation, Implementation, Revision, and Reimplementation, we'd surreptitiously glance at our watches and make a polite excuse as we hurried back to the open bar to freshen up our Black Label Johnny Walker.

Maybe we can consult history to help shed light on this painfully dreary subject. The word hero, I have arbitrarily decided, stems from an ancient Greek word meaning "free of personality and facial blemishes." This definition is somewhat misleading as most Greek 'heroes' had personality to spare. This is evidenced by the fact that they were all, almost without exception, complete and utter cocksuckers. For example...

Hercules: A thick-skulled, third-rate circus strongman who beat women, tortured animals, bullied anyone weaker than him (which, naturally, amounted to everybody in the fucking universe), went mad, killed more people and animals -- including his wife and children -- and, for all of these various kind deeds, was granted demi-god status upon his long overdue death. Gee, I wish the king of the gods was my dad...

Achilles: A self-obsessed, attention-starved crybaby who died immediately upon being shot in the back of the foot. As most near-immortal uber-soldiers are prone to do.

Odysseus: This self-congratulatory wiseass had the bright idea to piss off Poseidon, god of the sea, at the beginning of his journey home from the Trojan War ... a journey that would carry him -- yes, that's right -- across the fucking sea. And this genius was supposedly the brilliant strategist behind the Achaean forces. Naturally, the gods (being so fair and just and all) proceed to decimate Odysseus's unfortunate and blameless comrades one by one over the next couple of decades before reuniting the cocky motherfucker with his by-now wrinkled hag wife and chip-off-the-old-block son. Father and son immediately bond by killing a large number of unarmed old men. It's a very touching story.

Perseus: Rode on a flying horse.

I guess this doesn't necessarily qualify him as a cocksucker, per se, but, Jesus Christ, who does he think he is, Rainbow Brite?* You're a mythical hero, for gods' sakes! Ride a fucking dragon!

* I honestly have no idea if Rainbow Brite ever had access to a flying horse. It just seems like something the dizzy little shit would do.

As you can see, the heroes of the Ancient World were real pieces of work in their own right. But this is beside the point, which seems to have escaped me for the moment, so I will now perform an awkward segue.

An attempt has been made recently by authors, screenwriters, artists, and sports entertainment entrepreneurs to spice up the dullard that is the typical hero with the creation of the anti-hero. The anti-hero is a no-nonsense, cynical, take-no-prisoners vigilante who kicks ass, deliberately avoids taking names, and does this all under the thin-as-grease-on-wax-paper veil of heroism. The best way to convey the major difference between the hero and the anti-hero is to place them in an oversimplified, unenlightening faux political context, as I will do..........

Now.

The hero votes Democrat. He refuses to permanently finish off his adversary, thus allowing said adversary -- who suffers from no such moral compunctions -- to continually escape/be released from the local insane asylum/massively underfunded prison and proceed to ruthlessly eliminate half of New Metropolis City before being subdued and incarcerated. Again. Until his next successful attempt at small-scale genocide.

The anti-hero votes Republican. He has no qualms about wounding, torturing, and dusting off his adversary by any means necessary. This "means necessary" usually translates to wiping out half the good people of Outer Gothamburg before bringing his adversary to heel. This prompts an immediate retaliatory attack from the deceased adversary's vengeful next of kin, who proceeds to wipe out the remaining half of the city's populace.

The supervillain votes Independent. This enables him to pursue his dream of murdering incompetent henchman, possessing volatile space-age weaponry, and telling large numbers of people what to do, while at the same time ensuring that he will be represented by the very sympathetic ACLU should he ever be apprehended and asked to pay for his heinous crimes against humanity.

Enough. Now, on to.........

MY TOP TEN LIST OF MOST HATED HEROES AND GOOD GUYS

My reasons for reviling these fleshy, bipedal versions of balsa wood are all fairly uniform:

> their bland, cookie-cutter good looks
> their notable absence of any signs of wit or humor
> their frustrating invincibility
> their unlikelihood of failure in achieving whatever it is they set out to do
> their ability to always get the equally bland girl (or guy)
> their smug self-righteousness

Every one of the following entrants possesses at least two or more of these traits ... and, in some cases, all of them. So I'm not going to repeat myself (for once). Instead, I'll offer up a little tidbit of 'unknown' insider info, or sample dialogue, or whatever the fuck I feel like to keep you lifesucking vultures happy.

And I should point out that these selections are by no means in order of revulsion.

1.) The Incredible Hulk

Not to be confused with The Uninspiring Hulk or The Nondescript Hulk. Now, if you're going to make a monstrous being capable of almost limitless physical strength, you really ought to make him cool-looking, too. Some horns, a set of scales, spikes, rows of slavering fangs... Simply coloring a giant gymrat green just isn't going to cut it, even if he does own the most extensive collection of low-quality purple slacks in the known universe.

CLEVER CYNICKITE: You just hate him cause he's always kicking the crap out of The Rhino.

Good call, dickface. Yes, yes, it's true. I must be the only person in the world who thinks The Rhino is cool. Oh, well. Oh, uh, and in the natural world, let me just say that Rhinoceros always trumps Gorilla, no matter what color the ugly ape is.

I also hafta add: let's all hope and pray that I never acquire the ability to gain god-like strength the angrier I get because, boy howdy, that would get real nasty real quick-like.

2.) King Kong

Why is this overgrown distant cousin of ours even treated like one of the good guys? He fucking eats people on a regular basis. When he's not busy wrecking things on a grand scale, that is. I hate this double standard we seem to apply towards mammalian versus reptilian mega-monsters. Godzilla (who doesn't eat people) gets disoriented -- as any tourist in downtown Mugsville will do --, flattens a few dozen buildings along the way, and gets painted as a public menace for his troubles (mostly by Democratic officials, who don't appreciate him stomping on their inner-city voting base). People, come on. He's not deliberately doing this to torment you. He's a 500-foot-tall fucking lizard.

Oh, but noble old King Kong does it and everyone's like "Oh, he has such a deep soul" and "Oh, he loves Fay Wray so much" and "Oh, let's film a shitty remake starring Jeff Bridges." If gorillas are supposed to be so fucking smart, he should know better than to toss around street cars like so much confetti. You don't see giant dolphins pulling that kind of crap.

And what's with all these fanboys getting excited about the exploits of the Hulk and King Kong? These are just big, heavily-muscled humanoids. For adult geeks to get all worked up over how muscular and strong their heroes are seems kind of, oh, I don't know ... latent?

And for the record, outside of Hollywood, the Tyrannosaurus wins. Suck it up, fanboys.

3.) Hulk Hogan

Ahhh, the days of my youth. Many a night the family gathered 'round the picture box to watch some good old-fashioned sports entertainment before it was recognized as either a sport or entertainment. The WWF (not to be confused with the WWF) was (and, I suppose, still is) the male version of the soap opera. Follow-the-rules Good fought Do-everything-but-follow-the-rules Evil in a weekly struggle for domination of the square circle. Sometimes Good prevailed and sometimes Evil overcame, but one thing never changed year after year after year after year ...

HULK HOGAN ALWAYS FUCKING WON. GODDAMNIT.

My entire family hated Hulk Hogan. "Take your vitamins." "Say your prayers." "Rip your shoddily-made tank tops in half." Hey, Hulk, here's a suggestion: "Don't take your performance-enhancing drugs." Nothing drained the suspense out of a match like knowing that Hulk Hogan was on the title card. He always won. Always. He was the WWF Heavyweight Champ for like, I don't know, 85 years running. And how did he achieve this prestigious title? The powers that be at McMahon headquarters thought we'd buy him defeating Andre the Giant in physical combat.

What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. People?

I would have a hard time believing a fully-grown bull elephant would overcome Andre the Giant in a test of strength, much less Captain Handlebar. Still, they set Hogan up as their golden boy (as evidenced by his preferred color scheme) and we were stuck with him. For years.

And years.

Until the Ultimate Warrior beat his ass that one time. Without cheating.

Now that -- that was a good day...

4.) Luke Skywalker

T.C.I.'s MEANINGLESS BRUSH WITH QUASI-FAME #23: I took a theatre class at college with Mark Hamill's niece. She talked about how they'd see him at Thanksgiving once in awhile.

I have discovered that it is physically impossible to tell a story involving the guy who played the most boring character in all of science fiction and make it even remotely interesting.

Still, he's pretty kick-ass as the voice of The Joker in the TV cartoons.

But really, how could you not root for Darth Vader? Or the Emperor? Or Jabba the Hutt or Grand Moff Tarkin or Boba Fett or the abominable snow-whatever or that slimy thing in the onboard garbage disposal...

5.) The romantic leads in a screwball comedy

Cary Grant, Clark Gable, Katharine Hepburn, Claudette Colbert, Cary Grant, Rosalind Russell, Katharine Hepburn, Carole Lombard, Cary Grant ... these are just some of the names of Hollywood's Golden Era of actors who played the exact same boring-ass roles in the exact same boring-ass 'comedies' that the exact same boring-ass moviegoers flocked to in the 30's and 40's.

For those of you who don't know, screwball comedies were not nearly as fun as they sound (and if you're hoping that "screwing" and/or "balls" come into play here, well, pal, you are in the wrooong section of Family Video, let me tell you). The hero and heroine were supposedly charming and intelligent and playful and lively. In actuality, they were none of these things. They did, however, hate each other on some poorly-thought-out pretext that enabled the viewer to bear witness to their "witty," deprecating banter over the next two hours. At the close of this time, the combatants suddenly decided that they, in fact, loved each other all along, something the average audience member could have told them after a quick glance at the marquee.

DASHING MALE LEAD: I find you charming but insufferable. I shall tame you like the feisty philly you are.

FEISTY FEMALE LEAD: I need a stud to do that, not a jackass.

DASHING MALE LEAD: You're an obnoxious, self-obsessed proto-feminist, and I find that irresistible.

FEISTY FEMALE LEAD: I have no reason to be attracted to you outside of your transitory good looks, so I love you.

DASHING MALE LEAD: Oh, oh, uh, already? Hmm, I must have overcome my easily surmountable obstacles in the third reel, so let's kiss.

The End. Until the next entirely predictable, love-hate formula picture is trotted out to the brainwashed masses.

When will screenwriters learn that true romance (unlike false romance, which involves cads and villains and qualifies as perfectly acceptable entertainment) is only interesting when it takes place in the real world and involves one directly? For some reason, directors seem to want to pigeonhole me into this type of thankless role lately. But even if I wanted to play it, I couldn't, as it is beyond the scope of my acting ability to deliver tired, lovelorn drivel convincingly or pretend to find a constantly-bitching feminist attractive.

6.) Peter Pan

Recently, Peter Pan was voted Fictional Character Most in Need of a Major League Ass-Kicking by the T.C.I. Institute for Voting for the Kicking of Asses of Fictional Characters.

I hate this smug, hateful little twerp. I haaaaaaaaaaaaate him. I mean, Jesus, really, how can anyone respect this vile, irritating, pint-size version of Errol Flynn? I swear, outside of Wile E. Coyote, Captain Hook has to be the most sympathetic villain in the pantheon of evil entities. That guy could firebomb an orphanage while gutting a kitten and he'd still earn our pity for having to suffer implausible defeat at the hands of this scrawny, megalomaniacal terrorist.

Few people know this, but Peter Pan is generally portrayed by an actress on stage for the simple reason that a woman is far less likely to get set upon by pissed-off theatre patrons after the show. All the same, she still may want to have an exit strategy in place after the curtain call.

7.) Romeo (also goes by the name of Cassio, Ferdinand, Orlando, Sebastian, Orsino, Edgar, Claudio, Claudio [no, that's not a typo], Bassanio, Lysander, Demetrius, Lucentio, and a number of other clones that no amount of money could convince me to play.)

Once upon a time, there was a very gifted and ingenius playwright named William Delbert Shakespeare who decided to write what would become the template for romantic tragedies. He entitled it The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, and the two young lovers have been boring the ever-loving shit out of schoolchildren ever since.

THE GOOD NEWS: He dies in the end.
THE BAD NEWS: He talks for five hours first.

Let it be known here and now that I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for Shakespeare, one of my three most revered idols. Let it also be known that I loathe Romeo and every comatose character he ever descended from or inspired. Yes, I'm well aware that the stock pretty boy romantic hero with no discernible personality is not limited to Shakesepearean provenance (Marlowe, Sheridan, Wycherley, Middleton, Jonson, Congreve, the Grecian bores, et al. are just as guilty) and I also realize how important this type of character generally is to the plot of such a story.

Knowing all this, however, does little to quell the urge to amputate my left leg with a rusty chainsaw during The Balcony Scene.

And wouldn't it have been nice if the greatest dramatist who ever lived had the inspired vision to seriously and sympathetically present a pair of lovers who were -- gasp! -- not young, conventionally attractive, or in top physical condition? You know, like the majority of society?

8.) Disney Princesses and Heroines

If you happen to be one of those dumpy femi-ogres who bitch and holler at the media, the movies, the magazines, and the toy marketing departments for continuing to perpetuate an unrealistic feminine image for young girls to feel pressured to aspire to, you better not also be one of those cut-from-the-same-wide-swath-of-cloth soccer moms who lets her little girl collect garish Disney Princess memorabilia.

Because aside from the inherent, ludicrous hypocrisy of such a stance, the world has quite enough spoiled little fucking princesses in it already, thank you very much.

Sample dialogue:

CARDBOARD DISNEY HERO: I will rescue you!

STYROFOAM DISNEY HEROINE: I don't need a man to rescue me. I'm empowered and spunky! (trips and falls) Eek! I tripped and fell! Somebody rescue me!

CARDBOARD DISNEY HERO: I will rescue you!

COOL-ASS DISNEY VILLAIN: It's too late, you fools! My plan has already been set in motion. Nothing shall stop me now!

CARDBOARD DISNEY HERO: Aren't you supposed to inadvertently fall to your doom right now?

COOL-ASS DISNEY VILLAIN: What? No. Why? Are you going to push me?

CARDBOARD DISNEY HERO: Oh, heck, no. The liberals would eat me alive. You see, while laughing maniacally, you slip and fall. Then I nobly offer to save you even though for all intents and purposes you are a thoroughly despicable monster who has been spending the better part of the last hour-and-a-half trying to kill me. As I perform this very noble and stupid gesture, you -- quelle surprise -- try to kill me, causing you to lose your grip and fall to your much-deserved death.

STYROFOAM DISNEY HEROINE: Uh, excuse me, I'm being beautiful and thin over here...

COOL-ASS VILLAIN: Well, crap. (slips and falls) AAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ... fuck.

STYROFOAM DISNEY HEROINE: How wonderful! Everything turned out perfectly for the gorgeous young woman who already has it all. Yay me!

9.) Mickey Mouse

Here is a rare exception to the heroic norm: Mickey Mouse is short, unattractive, puny, and a member of the mammalian order Rodentia.

He is also astoundingly, monumentally, eye-gougingly not funny.

I have never witnessed this abyssmal and stupefyingly successful marketing ploy say or do anything that could even pass as mildly worthwhile. He's like a cross between a rat-shaped Boy Scout and the most uninteresting thing ever to exist in the five-billion-year-plus history of the planet Earth. In fact, the most noteworthy thing that can be said about this half-nude waste of animation cels is that his ears seem to be incapable of not facing forward.

Believe it or not, T.C.I. is actually fairly tolerant and even fond of children, but any product of your loins that can't wait to meet Mickey Mouse at Disneyland and/or world needs to be very gently and humanely euthanized.

For the good of civilization, you understand.

10.) Superman

DID YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA?: Everyone knows that Superman is susceptible to Kryptonite, but did you know that he reacts differently to different colors of Kryptonite?

Green -- harms and/or kills Superman. Despite this well-advertised fact, none of his enemies has thought to introduce it in crystallized form into the local water supply or fashion themselves a permanent pair of Kryptonite underwear.

Red -- turns him into a dick.

Pink -- increases his appreciation of Bette Midler and the musical Cabaret by 65%.

Black -- makes him moody and withdrawn. Tends to wear emo glasses and write poetry about self-mutilation on his MySpace account. Suddenly hates his parents.

Blue -- known to cause diarrhea, headaches, and fatigue. Do not take if you are pregnant or plan on becoming pregnant. Do not take with red Kryptonite. Do not fly or attempt to leap over tall buildings while taking blue Kryptonite. Known to cause sexual side effects in 4% of the supermales studied. Side effects decreased when subjects stopped taking blue Kryptonite. Consult your superphysician before taking.

Hardly worth mentioning:

> Bugs, Buster, and Babs Bunny
> Tweety Bird
> The Roadrunner
> The Everyman in the movies that always gets portrayed by Tom Hanks
> Kermit the Frog (sorry Erica, but Jesus. Of all the Muppets you could have gotten permanently grafted onto your flesh... )
> Any and all elves
> The Rock
> Jerry (the mouse from the "Tom & Jerry" shorts)
> Any two characters who get top billing in a romantic drama, comedy, or dramedy
> Blade, Angel, that chick from the Underworld movies, and every other intense, brooding, curiously zombie-like vampire
> Robin (a.k.a. Batman's bitch, Bruce Wayne's bitch, Bitch)
> Pretty much anyone who's been a member of the Justice League of America at any point in time
> Steven Seagal (not sure that this one even qualifies as a good guy)
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Well, that was invigorating. Nothing relaxes the mind, spirit, and body like meticulously cataloging your various hates. Go on. Try it sometime.

But don't bother telling me about it. Cause I really don't give a shit.

In closing, if one more mouth-breathing space-waster tells me I look like Superman, I'm gonna get angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry...*

* Did you get that reference? Congratulations. You are a pathetic geek.

WHAT I'M CURRENTLY PISSED ABOUT: That my favorite celestial body, Pluto, is no longer considered a planet.
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Stay tuned for the very first official naming of...

The Cynickite of the Month or Quarter or Whenever the Hell I Feel Like It

Coming soon...er or later.

So I haven't trashed any recent or upcoming movies lately...

2006-08-08T22:08:00.000-05:00

... and it's high time I remedied that thoughtless oversight. Here it is, T.C.I.'s Top Five Movies He Knows Will Blow Based on Previews Alone, pt. III.

SMARTASS CYNICKITE: That has got to be your weakest intro yet.

But it was brief.

SMARTASS CYNICKITE: Well-played, Master.

I have got to stop letting you assholes interrupt me.
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1.) THE ANT BULLY

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: Every single idea for an animated movie has been done already, so here's another cartoon about bugs.

> Why it will suck: Do you remember several years back, when Antz and A Bug's Life came out within months of each other? And do you remember thinking to yourself, "Christ, how many computer-animated movies about talking ants does one civilized planet really need?"

The answer, apparently, is "at least three."

What makes this version different, I guess, is that it features humans. A kid, the ant bully of the title -- maybe, I'm not sure -- is mean to the ant colony, so they shrink him down to ant size -- I, uh, I don't know how exactly the ants possess this kind of technology to begin with, or why they don't just use it to conquer the planet, but, well, it's whimsical, so I guess we'll have to go along with it -- and the kid eventually learns a valuable lesson about the fact that exterminators are paid to eliminate pests from places humans regularly frequent. Which, you know, is exactly what the kid was doing for free. Oh, and maybe it's the exterminator who's the titular Ant Bully and a villain to be reviled because he's, you know, just doing his job and dutifully filling out his niche in society and all. Much as, say, ants are wont to do.

This movie is touted as being produced by Tom Hanks and featuring the voice "talents" of Julia Roberts, Nicolas Cage, and Meryl Streep. Ignoring the fact that I despise (with the notable exception of Hanks in his strictly comic/character roles) each of these inexplicably popular, self-proclaimed members of Hollywood royalty, whatever happened to the dependable, faceless, unsung voice actors that used to breathe life into these projects? When did cartoons become a breeding ground for listless, leading man/lady A-Listers looking to attach their instantly recognizable names and just as forgettable vocal talents to a glorified straight-to-video kids' flick?

These are rhetorical questions, of course. I imagine money and ego are the likely answers, as they are to every question ever asked in the state of California. When is that Anus of the Union gonna go ahead and drop off into the ocean already?

Er, hopefully some time after my beloved little brothers move to Oregon, naturally. Heh, heh. Uh, hi, John and Tom.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: If this movie has anything to offer over its much, much, much earlier predecessors, it will no doubt be that the ants will have six legs as opposed to the entomologically-inaccurate four they were allotted in A Bug's Life. Apparently, basic insect anatomy, although common knowledge to third-graders, is beyond the grasp of your average computer animator. And unlike Antz, this movie won't misspell the word "ants" in the title.

2.) STEP UP

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: A tough, extremely white gang member works as a janitor in a dance school and also enjoys dancing like the Queen of the May when with his homeboys. Somehow, this proclivity fails to get his ass pounded on a regular basis (at least, not in a figurative way). He meets a hot chick who also dances and they decide to prove to the world that straight men can love ballet without fearing for their heterosexual status. Scores of audience members remain unconvinced.

> Why it will suck: Okay, okay, I got the obligatory, unoriginal, "any guy who likes dancing is a homo" dig out of the way, so I can get on to the bulk of this unfair disparaging. And if you're a man who gets a kick out of ballet and still wants to steadfastly maintain his heterosexuality, fine, cool, whatever. But what remains one of the key roadblocks impeding my appreciation of this kind of film is the simple fact that ballet ranks right down there with interpretative dance, poetry, abstract art, avant garde theatre, and protest songs as the most dispensable and worthless forms of art in the known universe.

BALLERINA WHO'S SURFING THE NET FOR SOME ODD REASON: I don't believe you truly understand the amount of training, talent, and effort that goes into being a ballet dancer.

Agreed. But there is also nothing on the books that says I have to care. I assume it also takes a great deal of training, talent, and effort to create homemade bombs and send them through the U.S. Postal Service, but I'm not about to send Ted Kaczynski a bouquet of roses.

BALLERINA WHO'S SURFING THE NET FOR SOME ODD REASON: Comparing the high, timeless art of ballet to random domestic terrorism and postal fraud is low and despicable. Even for you.

*shrugs* Whatever. I'm still not sitting through Swan Lake, princess.

The other key reason I hate these films is the fact that this "plot" has been recycled so many times it has its own plastic bin next to my garbage can. Dirty Dancing, Save the Last Dance, The Cutting Edge, Good Will Hunting (okay, that's a bit of a stretch, but the trailers did bring it to mind. Which figures, because I fucking hated that movie), and countless others involving "chasing your dreams" and "believing in yourself" and "wasting your parents' hard-earned money on a liberal arts degree."

Oh, and in the preview I've seen -- ad nauseam -- the lead chick says something like "So you think you can dance? Catch me." And guess what? He catches her.

Okay, first off, the chick must weigh all of 86 pounds sopping weight. I would hope any able-bodied young gangbanger could catch her frail ass without throwing out his back. And secondly... sweetheart, you asked the bald son of a bitch if he could dance. Then you said, "catch me." I'm sorry, but the proper follow-up command would have been "dance with me." If you wanted to evaluate his ability to grab and contain random flying objects, then tell him.

I mean, Christ, baseball scouts don't ask potential ballplayers, "So you think you can catch? Dance with me."

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: Mushy-headed flicks like this one are always aimed squarely at the teen set, the only group of people on this planet that are as hard-to-please as they are easy-to-please. And since all teens are horny, superficial, single-minded biological ticking timebombs, this movie will undoubtedly have a large ratio of fit, sexy, shapely, writhing, feisty sex kittens dry humping their dance partners left and right across the screen, all in the beautiful rhapsody that is thinly-veiled bipedal intercourse.

3.) THE LADY AND THE WATER

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: A strikingly ugly lady gets kicked out of Fairy Tale Land for the unforgivable crime of being ugly and is forced to find an apartment with pool access. For some reason, this upsets Paul Giamatti and a wolf, both of whom somehow manage to be less hideous than the lady in question.

> Why it will suck: Apparently, somebody in Hollywood forgot to send out the memo informing writer-director M. Near-Dusk Shamalamadingdong that his movies are pretentious, incomprehensible embarrassments, not unlike the man himself. This is a shame, as it would save whatever film company is currently financing his patented style of drek millions upon millions of dollars; money that would be better spent on a buddy movie about a tired cop played by Tommy Lee Jones protecting Jenny McCarthy and Carmen Electra, two dizzy but lovable hairdressers who have recently witnessed a mob hit.

I would like to think that I'm not the only person in America who is continually underwhelmed by MNS's steady stream of cinematic misfires.

GUNG-HO IDIOT: But -- ! But -- ! But what about The Sixth Sense? That was brilliant! I mean, it was -- it was just -- I mean, he was dead all along! We all thought he was alive, but he wasn't! Brilliant!

Yeah? What else do you remember about the movie?

GUNG-HO IDIOT: Uhhh.... ermmm... there was this kid... who saw... dead people?

And...?

*long pause*

GUNG-HO IDIOT: But he was dead!

You know what? How did the hordes of clueless theatregoers get suckered into that "surprise" ending in the first place? When a friend of mine started describing the movie in detail to me, I guessed the gimmick halfway through his recital.

GUNG-HO IDIOT: Oh, yeah, right. I bet he gave you a huge hint.

Yes. Yes, he did. Would you like to know what this "huge hint" was? It was this: "Bruce Willis gets blasted in the stomach at point blank range by a crazy guy wielding a shotgun."

People, people, listen to me. I may profess to be an expert on many -- okay, all -- subjects, but I confess that this is generally a satirical ruse of mine played for laughs. Regarding the validity of the following piece of information, however, I think the majority of experts in both the medical and firearm fields will be happy to back me up:

Man + Shotgun blast to stomach cavity from two feet away = Dead Man

This probably sounds much more complicated than it really is, but trust me, the formula is generally fool-proof. Oh, and if common sense wasn't enough to convince you Bruce Willis was killed by that shot, how about the fact that it's never referenced again and he doesn't even appear to suffer any residual damage from the attack?

Also, I hate Haley Joel Osment.

Still not convinced of MNS's inborn suckocity? Well, aside from his movie about boring ghosts, there's his movie about boring superheroes, and his movie about boring aliens, and his movie about boring....... um, villagers... Look, if you don't believe me, throw yourself a little MNS movie marathon party. And be sure to buy yourself a sturdy length of rope ahead of time as it will come in handy when you feel the overwhelming desire to hang yourself from the ceiling fan after the thirty-fourth kitchen scene in Unbreakable.

Anyway, who the fuck greenlit this film about fairy tale characters invading a second-rate apartment complex to begin with? I will unashamedly admit that I was so intrigued by the mind-boggling idiocy of the commercials (apparently the Most Frightening Thing Ever is an oversize coyote with mange) that I checked out its entry at www.themoviespoiler.com to see if I could make any sense out of this sack of feces-on-celluloid. And guess what?

The complete film synopsis makes even less sense than the goddamned commercials.

Hell, the poor guy who wrote up the spoiler entry seemed genuinely confused, and he just saw the fucking thing!

And who the hell decided that Bryce Dallas Howard (awful name, by the way) would be best utilized in movies as a beautiful, bewitching ingenue? I mean, if she wants to act, fine, apparently she's not half-bad. But ye gods, people, ugly is ugly. And what else do you expect of the offspring of Richie Cunningham? Poor girl. Judging by thge physical monstrosities that are her father and uncle (the amusing Clint Howard), Time will not be gentle with her already gorgonesque features.

And finally, why is MNS giving himself larger and larger roles in each successive film? The following is an incomplete list of inanimate objects that could deliver more compelling performances than the Egotron 2000:

-- driftwood
-- a can of paint
-- a smaller can of paint
-- a box (contents: anything)
-- the wall to your immediate left
-- any other wall in the room you are currently occupying
-- Russell Crowe

> Why it may not be a complete bust: Evidently, a critic gets brutally massacred. This fact alone should guarantee it an Oscar nod.
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So there you have it. Now, it falls to you, my loyal constituents, to help improve the quality of Hollywood films by refusing to go see Hollywood films.

SMARTASS CYNICKITE: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Nice try, slick, but that was only three movie "reviews." You owe us two more, you shiftless son of a --

*sounds of intense struggling, a sudden gasp, gurgling as Smartass Cynickite slowly chokes to death on his own blood*

Now, then, anyone else?

*sound of crickets, crunching sound, sound of no crickets*

Right.

In closing, I actually have a great idea for a cartoon about two ants trying to win a dance competition when something spooky happens as a twist ending that makes even less sense than the movie's already stupid premise. It is currently locked in a vicious bidding war.
__________________________________________________________

FINAL SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE: Well, it's finally been revealed. The producers of the current Batman film franchise have finally signed an actor to star as the legendary Crown Prince of Crime, The Joker, in their next installment. And the name of this long-awaited lucky SOB is.........

Heath.

Fucking.

Ledger.

As the Joker.

The.

Fucking.

Joker.

Please move immediately to your right as my projectile vomit tends to cut a wide swath.

For those of you blissfully ignorant people who have no idea who the hell Heath Ledger is, he's an Australian heartthrob with the hair of a poodle and the beady-eyed squint of your forever-brooding standard leading man. He starred in A Knight's Tale and Brokeback Mountain and the abominable The Brothers Grimm, for which he still remains on the F.B.I.'s Most Wanted List for the crime of Boring the Ever-Loving Shit Out of T.C.I. in the First Degree.

Unbe-fucking-lievable. The Joker, people. I mean, it's the fucking Joker. The king of all villains. The jewel in the crown of any self-respecting character actor's comic book movie career. An ideal role tailor-made for, say, the mega-talented Steve Buscemis and James Woodseseses of this world, but no. LaLa-Land's Powers That Be Dipshits have decreed that, once again, a perfectly good character part must go to a romantic lead so they can sell more tickets to the googly-eyed girl crowd. Christ, they already have that mobile lump of tedium Christian Bale playing Batman; at least let those of us who like to stay awake during movies enjoy the villains.

And no, alien-faced "dreamboat" Cillian Murphy as the Scarecrow definitely does not count.

God, just imagine if, say, the creator of the Star Wars series had decided to cast a wooden, personality-free pretty boy as uber-villain Darth Vader. Wouldn't that suck?

Oh, wait. He did. And it did. George Lucas, I hope you spend an eternity in a very bad place that plays the three prequels you shat out in a continuous loop.

Christ. Heath Ledger.

As The Joker.

I wish Hollywood was a person so I could punch it repeatedly in its miniscule nutsack.

So I was listening to a few dozen radio deejays this past week and it struck me for the millionth time ...

2006-07-21T18:10:00.000-05:00

... Christ, I fucking hate deejays. I mean, really, besides anyone whose family receives a portion of its livelihood from this indefensible profession, who on this celestial speck of dirt doesn't choke back a bit of vomit at the mere thought of a radio disc jockey, arguably the single most annoying and useless insect in the known universe?

Hell, I'm irritated just writing about the strident sons of bitches. I swear, pretty soon I'm going to have to talk about something I actually enjoy or it's the top of a belltower with a W2000 sniper rifle* for me. But for the time being ....

*I learned about this weapon from my Hitman video games. This will be my leading defense should the case ever reach trial.

... here are the standard radio "personalities" that I love to hate. And not "love to hate" like how mentally-vacant entertainment news show hosts refer to popular movie villains, but "love to hate" like how I love to hate cancer, or foreign countries I've never been to.

1.) Token female shoehorned into an otherwise male-dominated morning show

> Presumed physical description: Middle-aged, dumpy, big hair, too ugly for any other entertainment format.

> "Personality:" Shrill, loud, and outspoken, yet has surprisingly little of value to add to any conversation. Bitter about her irreversible homeliness and onset of menopause and more than happy to take her frustrations out on any woman in the listening area who happens to be younger and hotter than she is. Most of her listeners, however, are men wondering why the hell the morning program decided to hire a woman who won't shut up about her fucking kids and can't tell a single joke without referring to her period.

Soon, though, she will attract a legion of "sisters" who nod thoughtfully at her tired, "I'm an under-appreciated working mom who has it rougher than any other living being that has come before me" credo.

> Single redeeming trait: Quickly learns she's not remotely funny or interesting and resigns herself to supplying forced laughter after anything her marginally less-untalented co-workers say. And whatever keeps her from opening that useless fucking blowhole of hers can only be a very good thing.

> Typical phrases:

-- "You guys..." *clicks tongue in disgust*
-- "Oh my God, she's too skinny. She's so skinny that it's just sick. A woman shouldn't be that skinny. Ugh. I hate her."
-- "He's sexy. I would have sex with him."
-- "I like to eat triple Whoppers baked into double fudge brownie cake. I'm fat and I hate my body. However, I refuse to change my eating habits in any way or begin an effective exercise program which would alter the way I look, and, subsequently, my low self-image. Are you going to finish that?"
-- "Girl power, even though I'm in my mid-to-late forties!"
-- "My kids were so funny last Saturday! Let me tell you a long, involved, meandering story about them that has absolutely no pay-off." *proceeds to do so* Can you believe it? I mean, isn't that funny? *self-conscious, non-committal murmurings from her co-hosts, some polite coughing*

2.) Cocky, politically-incorrect foulmouth on an alternative or hard rock station

> Presumed physical description: Short, puny, greasy hair, too ugly for any other entertainment format. (Note: Occasionally, "fat" can be inserted in place of "puny.")

> "Personality:" He's a dick, and boy, is he proud of it. He'll utter words like "wetback," "homo," "rugmuncher," "whore," and "commie" and revel in the shockwaves such audacity will invariably create. Unfortunately, his listening audience consists entirely of poorly-educated Northern rednecks (are there any other kind?) and prepubescent boys who giggle whenever someone says "boner," so his shock jockery tends to go largely unprotested-against. And just to be clear, we're not talking about a high-profile raconteur like Howard Stern here: this bigoted punk is an insignificant shmuck on local radio whose community college broadcasting degree was printed on the back of a Hardee's napkin, and is of far less commercial value.

> Single redeeming trait: Though he happens to be an undeniable little prick, at least he's not a completely stupid little prick. This coward will insult every ethnic and cultural group out there, safely cowering behind radio's Wall of Invisibility ... every group, that is, except black people. The weasel just doesn't have the balls to risk offending African-Americans, which is some small consolation when enduring the steady flow of his stream of willful ignorance.

> Typical phrases:

-- "Man, I'm sick of those panty-waists trying to marry each other. What a bunch of butt pirates. Why don't you go have sex with each other, you butt pirates?"
-- "If you like any music other than the stuff I play, you're gay. Even if you like the stuff I play, you're gay."
-- "Real men like watching sports filled with fit young guys wearing form-fitting clothing, fixing cars by breaking their engines, and climaxing over the thought of purchasing tools we don't need, let alone know how to use. Any man who doesn't like to do these things is a woman."
-- "I've never heard of the phrase 'the lady doth protest too much' and would have no idea how it accurately applied to me even if I did."
-- "My local sports team drafted a guy no one ever heard of from a cornfield in northern Nebraska. He will revolutionize the game and make your local sports team sorry they ever started a franchise in your general area. This interchangeable, non-descript young athlete's performance on the gridiron will be likened to the Second Coming. I will refuse to acknowledge this ludicrous prediction when it fails to come to pass and is thrown in my face in precisely four and a half months from now."
-- "Women are dumb and weak and don't know how to drive. I wish I could get laid once in awhile..."
-- "You're stupid, caller. You stammered for a split second, so you're stupid and obviously have no business being heard on public radio. Now, here's a recording of a fart I made..."
-- "I'm a homely guy who likes to read Playboy and look at boobies. I also inhale oxygen on a regular basis and require water to live."

3.) The insanely quiet somnambulist on the overnight shift of the soft rock station

> Presumed physical description:

Male -- small, balding, glasses, too ugly for any other entertainment format.

Female -- wasp-thin, glasses, too ugly for any other entertainment format.

> "Personality:" It's after 11. Maybe you've just put the kids to bed, ensuring they won't get nearly enough sleep before getting up for school tomorrow; or you're hauling a shipment of explosive chemicals in an old semi with bad suspension cross-country; or you're working third-shift on the factory line adding the weaves to those creepy, pedophile-friendly Bratz dolls. Whatever you're doing up at this hour, why the hell are you listening to this droning cyborg? Man or woman, the late-night shifter at the soft rock station has a penchant for love songs no one else plays for a reason; soppy personal stories that involve disease, divorce, death, or (preferably) a combination of all three; and speaking in a singsong voice he/she somehow keeps modulated at just a hair above a whisper. Always boring and oddly morbid, he/she assures his/her quietly weeping caller that God really does loves them ... though judging by the laundry list of personal tragedies you've endured, all evidence seems to point to the contrary.

> Single redeeming trait: Cheaper and more effective than Ambien.

> Typical phrases:

-- "Are you missing a loved one tonight? Did you two have a fight, maybe break up? Did one of you immediately contract mesothelioma and now only have one month to live? Why don't you call me up and tell me about it while your voice breaks constantly throughout the call?"
-- "Here's a love song I picked specially just for you. And anyone who has a case similar to yours involving heartbreak of some kind."
-- "I like waves. Birds are pretty, too. Waves and birds. So pretty. And nice. Pretty nice, if you ask me." *soft chuckling, followed by a barely audible contented sigh*
-- "Children are blessings. They're like little angels sent down from above to teach us how to smile and laugh and hope and dream. I am most likely sterile, barren, or blissfully unaware of the existence of teenagers."
-- "Just remember, friends: It's always the quiet ones who snap and commit heinous crimes with common household objects." (standard and unsettling sign-off phrase)

4.) Partying trio of obnoxious young adults on the pop rock station

> Presumed physical description:

Alpha male -- metrosexual boy band reject (on my local pop rock station, this is literally the case and is viewed as some kind of "claim to fame." This is sad, pathetic, and very, very funny)

Beta male -- metrosexual scrawny twerp

Token female -- hair highlighted so often that it is impossible to discern which, if any, color is her natural one; was cute enough for a one-nighter several years ago, but Time and bucket after bucket of MGD mini's have not been kind.

> "Personalities:" Remember those crazy party animals you knew in college? Well, guess what? They're still there. Imagine a horrific otherworldly limbo in which a group of aging, formerly attractive "cool kids" is stuck perpetually discussing how they passed out from too many Jose Cuervo shots or saw a drunk guy pee on a fire hydrant after Summerfest. Now, imagine you are listening to your local bubble gum pop rock station. Notice the complete lack of any observable difference? That's because radio stations geared towards today's youth market take one unquestionable fact of life to heart: Today's youth, when not behaving like sex-starved, partially-retarded pygmy chimps, loves nothing more than to hear about today's youth behaving like sex-starved, partially-retarded pygmy chimps. Ergo, the following time-tested formula for rock station success:

A threesome of loud evolutionary dead ends + instantly forgettable music - intelligent, worthwhile, or witty conversation + cross-promotional events featuring energy drinks x bland, half-hearted interviews with the scruffy guy from "Real World" or "Survivor" = very wealthy white, male, radio station executives

> Single redeeming trait: Will quickly grow old and bitter and die of liver failure or venereal disease, as will the majority of their listening audience.

> Typical phrases:

-- "Dude, that song was off the hook!" *annoying laughter*
-- "Dude, you were sooo drunk last night!" *annoying laughter*
-- "Dude, that chick or dude on that one WB show is sooo hot. I imagine he or she would gladly take me up on an offer of casual intercourse." *annoying laughter*
-- "Dude, your mom's a MILF!" *annoying laughter*
-- "Dude, I just saw that one movie with that one smug, pretty boy dickhead who goofs off at college/works at a themed restaurant/tries to hook up with his childhood sweetheart! It was sooo funny! I was laughing sooo hard!" *annoying laughter*
-- "Dude, it's Totally Tricked Out Tuesday! Let's dress up our interns as giant babies and feed them Gerber's mashed eggplant until they vomit!" *annoying laughter*

5.) Disorganized pothead in charge of local college radio station

> Presumed physical description: Gangly, hair at least shoulder-length and not washed in the past week, penchant for brightly-colored T-shirts advertising fads from the 80's, unflattering facial hair, powerful and ever-present odor of a botanical origin, too ugly for any other entertainment format.

> "Personality:" What kind of person refuses to support their local college's makeshift and sorry excuse for a radio broadcasting station? That's right. Every person. College radio stations are notorious for playing a mishmash of records the deejay found lying around the basement of the condemned building the studio is located in ... that is, when he's not playing a wide array of dead air. The poor sap in question here is either a communications major doing his damnedest to earn a little extracirricular credit for his real world resume or some joker who thought he'd share his patented brand of non-humor or predictable leftward politics with the "masses." By which I mean "both listeners," one of whom just has his radio set to Scan. The college radio deejay is occasionally a giggling, self-serving idiot and just as often a well-meaning but ineffectual clod ... either way, he makes the average professional deejay look like a polished mega-talent. And for this reason alone, the vengeance of the gods will be swift and merciless.

> Single redeeming trait: Due to his lack of technological savvy, the likelihood of you getting to call in and say "Bill Jenkins likes to suck wieners" on the air is instantly quadrupled.

> Typical phrases:

-- "Um, I'm going to play a, um -- *shuffling noises* Where did I put it? Uh, it's a really -- it's a neat song by ... you know, that guy with the -- *small crash is heard* Whoops. Okay, here it -- no. No, that's not -- Um, I can't find it right now, so here's a commercial. I'll just check -- *another small crash* Whoops."
-- "Oh. Whoa. Is the song over already? Huh."
-- "I can't find my coffee cup. I left it right over here... *silence* Oh, there it is." *thirty seconds of slurping sounds*
-- "If anyone has some extra nachos they don't want, bring them up to Room 420 of Crowley Hall."
-- *fifteen consecutive minutes of dead air*
-- "I had a really rough night yesterday, so while I take a nap, here's the hour-long, uncut remix of Don McLean's American Pie."

6.) Vacuous, inarticulate, non-threatening country station duo

> Presumed physical description: Male and Female -- bland and unmemorable in every conceivable aspect, yet still manage to be too ugly for any other entertainment format.

> "Personalities:" Country music stations are renowned for being 'family-friendly,' which is Republican-speak for 'mind-shatteringly dull.' So go ahead, let Little Timmy set the dial to 98.6 WONA (which, as we all know, stands for "War of Northern Aggression"... as differentiated from 98.6 WOSS "War of Southern Slave-Holding"). You won't have to worry about him hearing the word "butt" or "damn" or "hell" (unless it's capitalized) or "sex" ... or, in fact, anything of any importance whatsoever. Country deejays simply like to laugh at innocent anecdotes that are not remotely funny and bemoan the nation's regrettable lack of in-depth discussions about the flag.

Did you miss the latest episode of the PAX channel's latest soap featuring Billy Ray Cyrus? They'll happily recap it for you. Have no idea what I'm referencing? You will, because they'll go into stringent detail relating last night's show in its entirety to their listening audience, even though nobody seems to care. Want to experience the fleeting sense of instant camaraderie and self-validation? Call them up and heartily concur with their assertion that Gretchen Wilson is, in fact, a"rockin' chick." Have a ph.D. in molecular biology and subscription to The New York Times... ?

Er, you might want to switch the station.

> Single redeeming trait: They have a tendency to give away free T-shirts like so much confetti. And no sane person can have enough free T-shirts. Unfortunately, to obtain said undersized T-shirt, you'll have to attend a country concert or county fair, so that sucks.

> Typical phrases:

-- "This guy is so great. I mean, he just ... speaks from the heart, you know? He just ... speaks. He's so great."
-- "I can't believe these people want to take God out of the Pledge of Allegiance after we went to all the trouble of shoehorning Him into it back in the 50's. I just can't believe it. Can you believe it?"
-- "Let's hear it for our troops over there. They're like ... they're just ... wow. I mean, can you imagine? Can you just imagine? Really. Just, wow."
-- "I'm not a big Jeff Gordon fan. I wish Dale Earnhardt wasn't dead. Can you believe he died? Wasn't that just ... ? *pause as he/she shakes head* Sad. Just so sad."
-- "Keith Urban's such a cutie. I just love him. And so polite. Got a nice tush, too. *self-conscious girlish giggling* But really, so polite. Just ... the nicest guy ever. Oh, and he's Australian, too. Did you know that? He is. I remember hearing that years ago and thinking, 'Huh.' "
-- "Who wants a free T-shirt?"
_____________________________________________________________

In a future installment, I will list and vivisect the assorted hacks and jackwaters who make regular guest spots on radio programs.

But not today. Enough is enough, already.

In closing, sales of Sirius Satellite Radio will likely skyrocket immediately after this entry is posted.
_____________________________________________________________

BENCHMARK MOMENT IN T.C.I.'s LIFE #8 OR SO: While sitting in one of West Bend, WI's two illustrious movie miniplexes this past weekend, Mrs. T.C.I. and I were treated to what will go down in my forgettable personal history as one of the single greatest movie trailers of all time. Imagine this --

ILL-MANNERED CYNICKITE: What movie did you see?

Oh, uh, the pirate one. With Johnny Depp. Look, it doesn't matter. Now, imagine the lights dimming --

ILL-MANNERED CYNICKITE: Was it any good?

What?

ILL-MANNERED CYNICKITE: Did you like it or was it a piece of crap?

What the -- ? Look, it was fine. Will you let me finish?

ILL-MANNERED CYNICKITE: Really? You mentioned a movie on here that you didn't proceed to completely trash?

What do you want from me? It was overlong, overplotted, and overcrowded, but it was amusing and fun. I can't hate everything all the time, you know. I'm not Supercynic, for Christ's sake.

ILL-MANNERED CYNICKITE: Well, that's no fun. You should only be allowed to see movies that suck.

Well, don't worry, junior. Hollywood's kind of seeing to that already.

Anyway...

Imagine the lights go down. You're smashed next to your significant other in a just-large-enough theatre seat, jostling for ownership of the armrest. Idiots with unnaturally loud voices and no concept of arriving on time to see a fucking movie are entering late and discussing -- loudly and for fifteen minutes -- where to sit while standing immediately behind you. Then ...

The darkness lifts, ever so slightly. We see the planet Mars from the point-of-view of a space rover. We are informed that the final image it transmitted from that its unsuccessful voyage in 2003, the Year of Some's Lord, was classified Top Secret. Loud, crashing sounds, similar to the footsteps made by some colossal beast, are heard. Then ... the silhouette of a giant robot, reaching down and crushing the rover in its mighty grip! The following words flash across the screen: "It was the only warning we would ever get." And finally, a block of metallic or rock-like letters come into view and "transform," as it were, into the following movie title:

TRANSFORMERS

Cue to T.C.I. actually clapping and cheering, with no help from any of the assorted too-old or too-young or too-unappreciative turds in attendance, in a crowded movie theatre. Yes, I am truly a dork, but I am a happy, happy dork, and this feeling does not come often to T.C.I.

A live-action Transformers movie. Due out on July 4, 2007. Directed by Michael Bay, best known for offering films with absolutely no moral message or deep theme or intrinsic artistic value. Will I be disappointed? Probably. Will it suck? I'd take that bet. Am I getting my meager hopes up, only to have them brutally dashed to pieces against the Rocks of Failure to Adhere to the Cartoon and Comic Book's True Storyline and Overall Concept? All hands abandon ship, my friends. Will they have Soundwave, hands down the coolest of the Decepticons, transform into something other than an AM/FM cassette player merely on account of the aggravating and relentless march of technological progress? No doubt about it, my friend. And I don't think the Dinobots are in it, either.

Still, in an entertainment world filled with movies about cowboys tackling personal issues as well as each other and documentaries about our impending extinction due to circumstances we can no longer do anything about, it's nice to have a popcorn flick on the horizon that I can obsess about like the ten-year-old I've never really stopped being.

And it'll make a hell of an entry when I tear it apart the day after I see it.

So I had to stand up in a wedding this past weekend...

2006-07-09T01:52:00.000-05:00

... and rather than forcefeed you greedy little work-dodgers all of the sordid details, I thought I'd try something new and have one of my very own, extra-lucky, partially literate cynickites engage in a pointless Q & A session with me.

KNOW-IT-ALL FANBOY: Um, pardon me, Mr. T.C.I., uh, I hate to nitpick, but, uh, "new?" Haven't you already used this "original" idea in one of your past blog entries?

T.C.I. (nervously shifting eyes): Uh, no, I... think I'd remember something like that. Now then, let's --

KNOW-IT-ALL FANBOY: No, no, really. I distinctly recall you exhausting this limited concept in an entry about zebrafish. I believe you can locate the article I'm referring to here.

T.C.I.: Ah.

(long uncomfortable pause)

KNOW-IT-ALL FANBOY: Well?

T.C.I.: Ummmmm....... Fuck you?

KNOW-IT-ALL FANBOY: Good point. (Pushes up glasses, shoves handful of greasy chips into oral cavity, goes back to playing his Level 59 night elf priestess on World of Warcraft.)

Good. Now that we've got that sorted out, it's time to pick that "special" constituent of mine who gets to engage in a little rowdy Q & A with me...

... Which sounds far sexier than it really is. So let's see...

*scans Internet for people reading his blog*

Ah, yes. You. Yes, you there, the only person on the Web not currently looking at photoshopped pictures of nude celebrities, or sharing your political views on a message board filled with people who already feel exactly as you do, or composing a lameass, poorly-metered poem for your MySpace account about how hard it is to be a teenager even though you don't have to work for a living like the rest of us. You.

SGT. MELLORS (looks around, confused. Points at self): Me?

*rubbing temples* Oh, God. This is gonna be uphill all the way, isn't it? Here, just take these cards and read the questions I prepared beforehand. You can read, can't you?

SGT. MELLORS (taking cards, flustered): Uh, I, uh, I --

Damn it, Tim Crowley! Just read the fucking cards!

SGT. MELLORS: Don't tell people my real name!

Oh, dry your eyes, Niagra. Look at it this way: it'll add another search result when you google your name. From this point on, however, I will address you as "Q." And everything you say will magically appear in italics. In turn, you will address me as "A."

Q: What the heck is a "google?" Is that some newfangled drug you kids are hopped up on these days? And why do I have to be a consonant--

*A backhands Q*

Q: First question -- what did you wear for this auspicious event?

A: Oh, that's right. This blog entry was about a wedding. Well, since I stood up in the ceremony -- as an "attendant" on the bride's side (yes, yes, it was a union of liberals) -- I was required to rent a tux for the occasion. Not one of my choosing, mind you, but since I didn't have to foot the bill for it, hell, you can throw me in a Glad bag and cinch me off at the waist for all I care.

Well, actually, that's not entirely true...

Now, I have no beef with tuxudoes, per se. In fact, there is something mystical and otherworldly about a penguin suit's uncanny ability to transform almost any ape-descendant, no matter how knuckle-dragging, beetle-browed, or potbellied he may be, into a serviceable image of the protagonist of an Ian Fleming novel.* I don't know the exact mechanics of what exactly makes this possible, but it's true. Ask my wife.

*That would be James Bond, stupid.

What tends to detract from the overall effect of the debonair, dashing figure you cut in your nicely-pressed headwaiter's uniform, however, is when the vest and tie you are issued happen to be bright, soft, pastel yellow in color. Yellow. Like, Easter egg and Peep urine yellow. That yellow.

Okay, now, I am sure that there are marriage ceremonies in which grown men decked out in the color third from the top of a rainbow is perfectly acceptable. But these ceremonies generally take place in Vermont, have a disproportionate number of Judy Garland songs on the playlist, and don't have Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson in attendance. Which is fine, you know? As far as I'm concerned, send all the goddamned yellow tuxedo accoutrements straight to New England. Or Hawaii, wherever. As long as they are nowhere near me. Yeesh. I mean, the ladies are looking to oogle a suave George Lazenby* clone, not some dork who looks like he should be delivering singing telegrams.

*That would be James Bond, stupid.

Q: Speaking of "the ladies," how did they enjoy seeing -- Oh, God, do I really have to read this?

A: Yes.

Q: *sighs* How did they enjoy seeing T.C.I. in all his matrimonial finery?

A: They loved it. Each and every one of them. Regardless of race, creed, age, religion, lack of religion, position on the political spectrum, sexual preference, use of corrective eyewear, or aversion to the color yellow. Without exception. They all loved me. Unconditionally.

Q: You know, that doesn't even make sense. Your "matrimonial finery?" You weren't the guy getting married!

A: No one was looking at him.

Q: But the bride was --

A: Or her. Shut up and do the job that has been foisted upon you.

Q: Fine. Here's a question. What kind of person needs validation about his personal appearance from a faceless "mass" of web-surfers he will likely never meet in the real world?

(pause)

A: Um... I, uh, I don't think -- I don't think you're reading from the cards there --

Q: Yes, yes, it says so right here on this card that I have no intention of showing you. Well?

(pause)

A: I distinctly remember saying "no rhetorical questions." Moving on.

Q: So, did you meet any of the dreaded Babblers Three while at --

A: Six.

Q: Babblers Six while at the wedding?

A: Oh, Christ, am I glad you asked that question I prepared ahead of time. As a matter-of-fact, I met -- and grudgingly "conversed" with -- a large assortment of WYBMF's, Over-Explainers, and Captain Obviousi (my wife was there) whilst celebrating the revered sacrament of temporary holy matrimony. But the two most shameless and memorable verbal offenders were a textbook Narcissist (she's an opera singer turned theatre .......... person) and her mentally-unhinged (or at least very-poorly-fastened) best friend, the poster child for the International T.M.I. Girl Association.

Now, the Narcissist was a relative cakewalk. That is, if said mobile pastry also made it a point to deliver pseudo-intellectual toasts about Plato's Republic and drop theatrical names like so many buffalo nickels. Okay, so you're an actress (I think) who was an opera singer (or something) and are attending a prestigious Midwestern university (I seem to recall). But listen, theatre folks, here are two crucial rules one needs to keep in mind when talking to other people about the world of drama:

1.) If the person you are addressing is not associated with theatre, they don't care what you have to say about it.

2.) If the person you are addressing is associated with theatre, they don't care what you have to say about it.

I have never found this not to be the case. Theatre rivals will view your regaling them with a catalog of your successes as a means of pointing up their own failures and will respond defensively or not at all, and normal, well-adjusted human beings free of any massive egocentric neuroses will just wonder (in the case of a girl) when you'll get over this "cute little hobby" of yours, or (in the case of a guy) if perhaps you're gay.

Still, my natural and paradoxical anti-theatre bias aside, she was a charming and talented person overall. As opposed to her associate. And let's not get me going on that one...

Okay, let's.

Drunk, shrill, obnoxious, whiny, and attention-starved, by the end of the weekend T.M.I. Girl had: given my ear a brutal yank for no valid reason; broken her little foot on a rock and subsequently fallen into Lake Michigan; loudly accused my friend and I, in full hearing of the straitlaced in-laws, of a minor crime we, er, may or not have committed *coughcough*; and unloaded a steaming pile of T.M.I. concerning her unfortunate past -- which, for her sake and yours, I will refrain from relating in these pages. This is partially because I am not (as was previously supposed) composed of pure, unfiltered Evil, but mostly because I wasn't listening since I WAS AT A FRIGGIN' BAR.

However, I did give her a rib-crunching bear hug at one point, so I may have had some of that coming. Oops. Heh, heh.

Oh, and she also pointed out how impressive it was that a "man of my age" could maintain a flat stomach (uh, there was a pool party early on in the weekend, so this is not as weird an observation as you might initially think). Excuse me, excuse me, but... "man of my age?" I'm 30, as my profile will conclusively attest to. Thirty. Thirty years old. Gee, how utterly mind-blowing that a crook-backed old coot of my rapidly advancing years can manage to not be a walrus-shaped sack of blocked arteries. REWORKED CLICHE ALERT: I should also point out that a woman safely ensconced in a mansion of glass ought to strongly consider every other party game she can think of before suggesting a rock-throwing contest (i.e., I saw T.M. of T.M.I. Girl at the pool party, and there are just certain times when a one-piece works best for all parties involved).

Q: What crime did you commit?

A: Don't skip ahead. I was talking about how I looked in my swimsuit.

Q: Oh, give it up already.

A: But when it gets wet, you can see these little Chinese dragons appear!

Q: ...

A: Shut up. It's cool.

Q: So... What crime did you commit?

A: I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I'm not a complete idiot. Suffice it to say that "if" my buddy Ernie and I had "happened" to "borrow" a certain special "something" made of "wood" that only had one "boot" on from a place where people "sleep" and/or "consume a morning meal" while on "vacation (or "holiday" to my U.K. constituents, who must then, as logic would dictate, refer to their holidays as "vacations")," rest assured that I saw to it that that "something" was returned to its proper place of residence within mere "days." Along with its boot.

I'm sorry, I mean "boot."

You wouldn't think the monumentally venomous T.C.I. could possess such a guilt-ridden conscience, but then, you'd never think the English wouldn't know how to properly refer to a "vacation" in their own language, either.

Q: Well, thanks, that told me exactly squat. Anyway ... How hot was it at the weddi -- Oh, come on! Who the hell cares?

A: It was very hot during the wedding. Uber-hot. Like, Eva-Mendes-nude-in-a-steam-bath hot. But nowhere near that sexy and enjoyable. And, naturally, the sun's rays chose to focus their combined flesh-melting properties unto myself and Ernie, two large men standing outdoors in full fancy dress. Apparently, as one helpful guest pointed out to me, the color black absorbs heat. Fascinating. I'd never heard that fact ... less than fifty-eight thousand times throughout the course of my fucking life.

Well, at least it would be cooler once we moved indoors, right?

Wrong. Moron.

The reception took place in a "qualified historical building." Which basically means that while lead paint, asbestos, and centipedes the size of a man's fist are all perfectly acceptable, such crazy modern amenities as air conditioning, handicap-accessibility, and running water are completely out-of-the-question. In our unimaginative modern era, buildings of this type are referred to as "unlivable" and "condemned."

Of course, I was informed that two weeks after the event the building will be having central air installed. Gee, and just in time for that busy summer season, too!

Q: At least you had an hour and a half of open bar, right?

A: How the hell did you kn-- Oh. Right. The cards. Yes, the open bar was awesome...

... in spite of the fact that my pores immediately proceeded to sweat out my half dozen vodkas and scotches and just as many shots during dinner. Still, free liquor is free liquor, no matter how quickly it passes through your liver.

Interestingly, the bar was ordered to stop serving anything alcoholic one hour before the wedding was over. And you know what that means...

... Time for T.C.I. to finish out the night at his favorite local townie bar!

Which is exactly what he did. Hurray for the strong German and Irish influences throughout southeastern Wisconsin, without which I would invariably dry out long before 2 a.m. on any given weekend.

Q: Were there any particularly notable hot young women at -- All right, that's it. You know, I'm a married man, and so are you! Why must you insist on forever gawking at these poor young ladies and writing about it on the Internet like some lecherous old pervert? Control your libido, man. Jesus.

A: Yes, there was. One of the bride's nieces. Of such indescribable beauty that it is beyond even my extraordinary powers to describe it. But let's just say that this perfect young specimen owes it to the legions of heterosexual men and lesbians on this planet to go into modeling of some sort. Preferably the sort where clothing is optional and usually discouraged.

Q: Sick. Just sick. I hope you're proud of yourself.

A: I'm afraid you're going to have to phrase that in the form of a question.

Q: Okay, here's a question: How come it took you three weeks to pound out such a sorry blog entry?

A: You know what? Gimme those cards. You're fired. Give 'em to me. Give them to me! *yanks cards out of Q's hands* You turdnugget. *tears up cards, storms off grumbling*

Q: You know, I'm union, so I'm gonna need to be paid for a full day.

*door slams*

Hello?

*silence*

God, what an asshole.
____________________________________________________________

Well, there you have it. Another entirely unsuccessful Q & A session featuring the ongoing shaggy dog joke that is my life. And as long as I continue not to receive any financial compensation for my "efforts," I really don't care whether you enjoyed yourself or not. So suck it sideways, chief.

On a "rare" to "threatened with extinction" heartfelt note from T.C.I., I'd just like to say that the entire wedding weekend affair was a blast overall. To my great friend Laura and my new friend Dan, may good things happen to you so often that it gets seriously annoying, and may bad things continue to stay right where they're supposed to stay: scattered throughout my life as ideas for future blog posts.

A T.C.I. cheers to the Qwests,* Party of Two. You guys deserve it.

*May contain deliberate spelling errors.

In closing, I have a rock-solid alibi for the night of Thursday, June 29, 2006.

__________________________________________________________

A MAJOR T.C.I. ACHIEVEMENT IN THE FIELD OF SCIENCE AND BIOGENETICENGINEERINGOLOGY: Yes, my loyal cynickites, it has finally happened. All of my hard work and ability to feed flake food to small tropical fish twice daily has finally paid off. I have been ................... recognized.

You see, my buddy, Grubs, has recently been working as a "lab helper" (actual job title) for our lab's principal investigator (that would be a scientist, not a detective assigned to police high school administrators). Her reward for such intricate, precise, and virtually-incomprehensible work? Her name now appears -- in big, bold letters next to the principal investigator's name -- on a giant poster printout adorning the hallways of our institute outlining the groundbreaking research she and her supervisor have done in breeding and raising a rare albino strand of zebrafish. These findings were heralded at the Zebrafish Meeting in our very own state capital (that would be Madison, you other-staters, not Milwaukee) as being A Very Big Deal.

As mocking as I may sound, this is actually a very big deal. It shows those of us at the nadir of the totem pole that what we're doing really does matter to someone, somewhere, and Grubs especially will get a hell of a credit to add to her shamefully weak (I presume) resume.

So why am I, especially, as giddy as a Japanese schoolgirl about this? Well, in a small paragraph at the lower-right hand corner of the giant zebrafish study poster printout is a special thank you to the lab technicians for providing "exceptional fish care."

Yes, that's right. I kid you not. It's perfectly true. On a great, big piece of scientific literature hanging in the hallowed hallways of a major ichthyological institution is T.C.I.'s name, right there, big and black and bold and...........................

... misspelled.

Goddamnit.

So people I can't stomach are still carrying on one-sided conversations with me...

2006-06-18T20:24:00.000-05:00

... and that means you're going to hear me bitch about it in a one-sided conversation with you.

I guess you can consider this article an extension of my previous entry regarding the notorious Babblers Three. Once again, I offer the caveat that if you've never met any of the following mass-producers of carbon dioxide, you're probably one of them and are therefore reading the wrong blog. I'm sure the relative lack of spelling and grammatical errors has already alerted you to this salient fact. To get redirected to a site more compatible with your level of intellect, please type "omg!!!11!1!!1" or "ur kewl" or "u stoopid n00b!!1!!1 LOL" or "information regarding the Da Vinci Code conspiracy" into your preferred search engine and get the fuck out of here.

1.) Captain Obvious

> aka: The Narrator

> Is usually: A child just learning to talk; a friendly and harmless, if slow-witted, co-worker/neighbor/acquaintance/relative; your giggling teenage daughter; my wife

> Thinks you are: Blind and deaf

> Description: Captain Obvious, or, as he is occasionally known, The Narrator, likes to describe things that are happening right in front of your eyes, exactly as they are occurring. He or she seems to think they are providing some sort of public service by relating news that you can clearly see taking place, without the added bother of providing constructive color commentary or enlightening insights. Though generally well-intentioned and pleasant, these positive traits don't do much to counterbalance the fact that they can't go two goddamned minutes without mentioning the fact that their feet are cold...

... in the middle of fucking winter.

> Sample pithy observations:

"This pollen is bad for my allergies."
"It's raining outside."
"A car is coming."
"That dog is barking again."
"Beestings hurt."
"Switchblades hurt."
"Punching me square in the babymaker hurts."
"This cumbersome, heavy, ungainly object won't fit in the backseat. It needs to go in the bed of your truck." (A favorite of Mrs. T.C.I.)
"I like candy."
"They need to get a [touchdown/goal/basket/home run/thousand more points] to win."
"Your plant is dead."
"Your house is on fire."
"You're on fire."
"Your blog is awesome."

Okay, that last one is actually perfectly acceptable to sprinkle into everyday conversations with me.

> How to end the conversation: Well, to be fair, the verbal defecation that is the trademark of Captain Obvious doesn't really qualify as a full-blown conversation. It's generally just a stupid, useless, mundane, blatantly evident, singular "observation" that he or she drops every now and again with all the regularity of a duck with diarrhea. Your best bet is to roll your eyes and murmur, "yeah, I know" or "okay" and be done with it. An acidic, sarcastic tongue-lashing will only earn you a "Well, I was just saying..." or "You seem irritated" in response.

2.) The Over-Explainer

> Is usually: A figure of authority; a pretentious, patronizing pseudo-intellectual (the dreaded "triple P"); the first guy against the wall in any revolution

> Thinks you are: A drooling idiot.

> Description: The Over-Explainer clearly knows more than you do and he's taken it upon himself to let you know it in very simple, very precise, and very, very lengthy terms. It is not enough that you are told -- in a slow, even, condescending tone -- what it is that you need to know/say/do/think, this valuable information only The Over-Explainer seems to possess must be drilled into your brain through temple-throbbing repetition and rewording. After all, why just answer a simple question or offer a worthless opinion when you can rattle on about it until the listener gnaws his hand off at the wrist?

Your basic Over-Explainer tends to gravitate, with his or her mouth opening and closing at steady, rapid intervals, anywhere that captive audiences can be found, such as your classrooms, boardrooms, courtrooms, rehearsal halls, baseball/football/soccer fields, boot camps, council meetings, and the Oval Office. Although occasionally appearing in the form of a well-meaning bore, they typically take the shape of narcissistic vocal whores who have little to no respect for the basic intelligence of their intended victim.

> Sample dialogue:

Seeing as how I am in the dramatic field, the Over-Explainer I run into the most is known as the Stage Director (the Actor/Actress generally fits the description of The Narcissist from my 'Babblers Three' article). For those of you lucky, lucky bastards not remotely associated with the theatrical world, directors are generally smaller, far less physically-intimidating versions of God from the Old Testament. Whether you are working with -- excuse me -- for them for monetary or masochistic reasons, they will treat you as a cow's various stomachs treat their filthy, gnat-ridden food. I don't know if these people suffer from Napoleon complexes, or God complexes, or insecurity issues, or were just beaten up a lot as grade schoolers, but one thing is certain: they probably still get beaten up a lot by grade schoolers.

___________________________________________________________

DIRECTOR: I'd like you to move over there when you say that line.

WHAT T.C.I. SAYS: All right. (Obediently moves to spot indicated like the placid automaton he is.)

DIRECTOR: I need you to move there because she needs to see you to cue her entrance.

WHAT T.C.I. SAYS: Okay.

"WHAT T.C.I. WANTS TO SAY:" Okay, whatever, I'm here. Can we move on?

DIRECTOR: If she doesn't see you at the window, there's really no reason for her to come in, now is there?

WHAT T.C.I. SAYS (flustered into answering a rhetorical question): Uh... no.

"WHAT T.C.I. WANTS TO SAY:" Jesus Christ, whatever! I went were you told me to go! I get it! Let's move on! Christ!

DIRECTOR: You were standing waaaaaay over there at the other side of the room, and that just doesn't make sense because you're not even calling her name, and even if you were to call her name, the poor thing wouldn't hear you being all the way outside!

(T.C.I. nods lamely, eyes glazing over...)

"WHAT T.C.I. WANTS TO SAY:" Shut up! Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutup! Goddamnit, shut up!

DIRECTOR: But now that you're where I put you, she can see you plain as day and it all makes some kind of sense and eeeeeeeeverybody's happy. Wonderful. Perfect. That wasn't so hard now, was it?

(T.C.I. goes into catatonic state, pinches legs repeatedly to quell homicidal urges...)

"WHAT T.C.I. WANTS TO SAY:" That's it. I swear to god that's fucking it. I'm gonna wait outside by the trunk of his car with a fucking tire iron. I am not kidding. I swear to god...

DIRECTOR: All right, then, moving on. (pause) Oh, and [T.C.I.]? How about we try a little less angst and hostility this time and a little more disquietude and animosity instead, hmmm?

____________________________________________________________

You think I'm exaggerating, don't you? Parents, listen to me in this if nothing else (although you should technically heed everything I tell you. There's really no solid reason not to): Never let your children enter the world of theatre. Fuck the low chances of financial stability and high rate of enjoyment of garish 50's musicals, the fact of the matter is that with the sheer volume of Over-Explainers and Narcissists running rampant, unlegislated, it's a marvel that this business isn't drowning in a pool of its own congealed blood.

Which, admittedly, would look kind of cool.

> How to end the conversation: Don't be silly. This isn't a conversation you're having. Not when only one person is talking and your responsibility is limited to monosyllabic grunts and the occasional head bob. Seriously, if anyone knows of an effective way to get one of these pompous assholes to shut the fuck up whenever they start blathering on about how to operate the latest time-saving gadget, or why Brett Favre should be canonized, or how few people realize that nitrogen -- not oxygen -- makes up the majority of Earth's atmosphere, please, please, please let me know. I have tried everything short of driving a Papermate into their ear canals.

Cause that would just end me up in a courtroom, and then we're right back where we started.

3.) T.M.I. Girl

> Is usually: A young adult whose parents didn't get her the ballerina doll she begged for as a child; a shameless drama queen desperate for attention, sympathy, and more attention and sympathy; that "friend" on the outskirts of your social group that you make it a point to avoid at bonfires and office parties

> Thinks you are: Interested in her screwed-up fucking life.

> Description: Yes, I've gone gender-specific on this one for the simple fact it always seems to be those of the finer sex who want to offer me Too Much Information at wholesale prices. And what's trickier is that they possess the chameleonic ability to blend in seamlessly in social situations, behaving for all intents and purposes like a perfectly normal adult member of the human race...

... until they open their goddamned mouths and allow their sordid tales of childhood traumas, sexually deviant escapades, and debilitating medical maladies to come flooding out, frantically seeking to feast on the unsuspecting listener's massive stores of pity and shock. Now, it's one thing to share secret tales of woe in an intimate setting with close friends; it's another thing entirely to dump the fact that you were molested as a preteen by your third stepfather onto the poor guy handing out cups at the beer keg.

T.M.I. Girl feels she has had an especially rough life, even though she drives a pretty nice-sized SUV and shops at Eagle Outfitters. But the things she's been through! The hardships! The pain! The abuse! The lack of attention -- ye gods, the complete lack of attention! She can cry on cue and assume the fetal position at a moment's notice, anything to help illustrate just how uncomfortable the information she has to share will make you. And it's awfully hard not to be a little uncomfortable when a grown woman lies in a bawling ball on the ground and whimpers for someone to "just kill me."

No one thinks to take her up on the offer. Which is a shame, because it would make a hell of a screwed-up story to share at afterlife shindigs.

> Sample dialogue:

T.M.I. GIRL: Hey, what's up?

WHAT T.C.I. SAYS: Hi. Oh, nothing, nothing. Just ... enjoying the party and drinking.

(pause)

T.M.I. GIRL: Huh. That's cool. (pause) When I was a kid, my dad would get so piss drunk he'd wrap his belt around my neck and swing me in the air. His Doberman would try to bite my legs while I was dangling there, gasping for breath. Then Dad'd take my ma's hot curling iron and try to braid the hairs on my legs. As a joke, you see. The burns were so bad I couldn't walk for a few weeks. They had to take me out of school. I don't even have a G.E.D. Wanna see the scars?

WHAT T.C.I. SAYS: ...

"WHAT T.C.I. WANTS TO SAY:" ...

________________________________________________________

It is sad that bad things happened to you in your past. It is even sadder that I have to hear about it while I'm at a goddamned party. So save it for the fucking therapist and focus on the weather and your local sports team when socializing with others. Old drunken bar stories, those are good, too.

Uh, but not if they ended in trauma.

> How to end the conversation: No matter how tickle-happy Fun Uncle Ted might have been or how much it hurt to have her genital warts burned off, DO NOT offer sounds of sympathy or support for T.M.I. Girl, as this will only encourage her to shoehorn graphic tales of her personal misery into future conversations.

At this point, you really only have two options open to you. One, you can simply mutter a bored "ah" and walk away -- preferably mid-story. This will earn you an extremely useful reputation as a callous cad who doesn't care about other people's problems (and gee, won't you miss humoring all those whiners?). Or two, you can attempt to out-misery the self-serving sad sack. There are few things as satisfying as witnessing a T.M.I. Girl implode after her tragic story of repeated self-mutilation gets trumped by the "fact" that your father had to support a family of nine on his meager income as a quadriplegic mime.
__________________________________________________________

So that's it. This was an uncharacteristically abbreviated outing this week as I'm feeling even lazier than is usual for me. So lazy, in fact, that I won't even finish this sente

In closing, I hope no stage directors read my blog.

__________________________________________________________

T.C.I.'S MOVIE REVIEW MINUTE!

Mrs. T.C.I. and I rented Underworld: Evolution the other night and did not find it to be quite the carefree teen romp we were led to believe. However, what this sequel to the fairly successful and equally dreary Underworld: Intelligent Design lacked in humor, logic, interest, suspense, thrills, excitement, pathos, and daylight, it more than made up for in removals of lower jaws without the aid of anesthetic.

Call me crazy, but in a physical matchup between a snarling, rabid, hulking wolf-man the size of a Toyota Tundra and that boring guy from "Felicity," I'd say there was really only one intelligent way to place your bet.

And I would be wrong, apparently...

Scott Speedman, who really needs to start pitching Valium, plays a lycan (nerd-speak for "werewolf") and vampire crossbreed who can't speak above a whisper, is physically incapable of being interesting, and has some unexplained aversion to covering his upper body. Kate Beckinsale plays his love interest, a vampire who is -- get this -- mysterious, tortured, and inscrutable. Critics of Miss Beckinsale will be glad to learn she has not developed any notable acting talent since the horror that was Van Helsing. Fans of Miss Beckinsale's body (like yours truly) will be elated to learn that we get to see Miss Beckinsale's body.

Derek Jacobi is too wonderful an actor to be appearing in this drek. He plays (we learn in a painfully long exposition scene midway through the film -- roughly an hour after this convoluted information would have been of some use to the average viewer) the immortal -- uh, kind of, I guess -- father of twin bad boys: one bitten by a wolf, the other by a bat. Let me get this straight: you've got two boys, and you allow them both to get infected by rejects from a Universal monster movie? Child Protection Services on line one, Mr. Jacobi. Also, the immortal father who's mortal has greater powers than either son, even though he's not a vampire or werewolf or demon or ghost or computer mogul or anything. I don't know what the hell he was supposed to be, but regardless, wouldn't his sons have been unstoppable forces without the added stigma of being the "very first" vampire and werewolf? Why blame their bad attitudes on a measly fucking wolf and bat? Oh, and the unkillable father who gets killed nobly refuses to harm his sons, but spends the entire movie telling anyone who will listen that it's vitally important they kill his sons.

Funniest part: When Scott Speedman's character dies halfway through the film.
Saddest part: When Scott Speedman's character comes back to life at the end of the film.

So I recently realized that my posts have taken a turn towards the political and controversial in nature...

2006-06-03T16:19:00.000-05:00

... and we can't have that now, can we? After all, the last thing I had in mind when starting this online Bitch Niche was to say anything insightful and/or pertinent. This isn't to say, of course, that I give a rat's ripping fart in hell if what I write in my blog pisses you off. I can't -- and won't -- cater to everyone, but rest assured that if something I say makes you hurt on the inside, sometime soon I'll take a figurative dump on a viewpoint you also despise, you petty hypocrites.

Uh, no offense, you understand.

So, with that in mind... on with my reminisces of TV's "Saved by the Bell!!!"

For those of you unfortunate enough to have completely missed this milestone in the history of television excellence, the "Saved by the Bell" series followed the adventures (or should I say, misadventures! LOL!) of a ragtag group of kids in a middle-class Midwestern high school while covering every teenage stereotype known to man, and perhaps creating a few new ones for good measure. Presiding over this hoary collection of cliches was a wise and benevolent and sass-talkin' prissy old bitch named Miss Bliss.

Yes, her name rhymed. It was supposed to be cute. It was not.

Miss Bliss was played with a complete lack of memorable qualities by British stalwart Hayley Mills. Hayley Mills is best remembered as... er, as the -- the, uh, the identical cousins? Was she the identical cousins on that one black-and-white show about the horrors of indiscriminate genetic cloning? No, wait, that was Patty Duke. Or did Patty Duke play Helen Keller in that black-and-white movie about a blind, deaf-mute girl named Helen Keller? Maybe she played both girls. Or all three, since the identical cousins counted as two different people, I guess. So then Hayley Mills must have played a pair of twin girls in some movie about sighted girls who were always meddling in adult affairs, the li'l fucking scamps. I think it was called Double Trouble or Two for the Price of One or Disney Presents The First in a Long Line of Family-Friendly Horseshit or something. Look, the point is...

Nobody liked this adult-heavy freshman version of "Saved by the Bell." The kids were almost uniformly unattractive and the show had the audacity to present teachers as real human beings with feelings and foibles and positive traits.

Obviously, this wasn't doing anybody any good.

So the executive masterminds in "Saved by the Bell"-Land gave the failing series a life-saving overhaul (by the way, I know all this because I watched some "Behind the Camera"-type show about it. Let it not be said that I do not dedicate myself to fact-finding research. In the field of trite pop culture, at any rate). The school in question, Bayside High, was ripped up brutally from its quiet roots in Ohio or Iowa or someplace and transplanted wholesale in sunny, surfy, health-conscious, Moonie-conducive, prick-infested Southern California. Oh, and all but one of the adult actors, including former twin Hayley Mills, was given the ol' heave-ho with absolutely no apologies or regrets.

And thus began the immortal legacy that would be .................

"SAVED ... BY THE BELL."

THE STARS

> ZACK MORRIS

-Stereotype covered: The preppy, popular, lazy, scheming, girl-crazy blonde metrosexual (before metrosexuals were hip or even known to exist) with a coif that defied physics.

-Position in the fictional social hierarchy: The top, naturally. Everyone at Bayside wanted to either be Zack Morris or at least learn the secret behind his unshakeable mane.

-Position in an actual social hierarchy: Alas, probably very near the top rung as well. Although not known for his athletic prowess, a person with such financially-successful parents would have access to all the friends that money could provide.

-Did I know any Zack Morrises in school?: Yes. Though we were led to believe that Zack was a lovable charmer, I found all of his versions in the real world to be despicable, inconsequential twerps.

-Trait(s) he was known for: That eerily-perfect hairdo and his habit of saying self-congratulatory crap straight to the camera. Respect the fourth wall, asshole!

-How badly did I want to see this character come to a bloody, untimely end (on a scale from 0, meaning not at all, to 10, meaning oh-so-badly)?: 9

> A.C. SLATER

-Stereotype covered: Beefy, preening, sexist, meathead jock with latent homosexual tendencies.

-Position in the fictional social hierarchy: As Zack's sworn enemy and rival, A.C. held a position of power roughly equal to the "Preppy." This was illustrated by the fact that the bevy of shallow girls who had final say in such matters swooned whenever he flexed. Which was disturbingly often.

-Position in an actual social hierarchy: The top, even above the Zack Morrises. In fact, these far-from-complex future engagers in corporate nepotism were the kind of guys that the Zack Morrises I knew obsequiously sought to befriend, as the beta wolf does the alpha male of the pack.

-Did I know any A.C. Slaters in school?: Please. A.C. Slaters are more prevalent in our educational institutions than asbestos or lead paint. Which, to me, seems like a stunningly accurate analogy.

-Trait(s) he was known for: Possessing dimples and biceps, both of which he would display at the drop of a goddamned hat.

-How badly did I want to see this character come to a bloody, untimely end: 10

> SAMUEL "SCREECH" POWERS

-Stereotype covered: Snivelling, frail, gawky, uncoordinated, brilliant nerd with enough eccentricites to irritate an unmedicated homeless guy.

-Position in the fictional social hierarchy: Rather propesterously, Screech, though representing the social undesirables of Bayside High, was allowed to co-exist peacefully with his physical and socioeconomic superiors. For the price of his homework assistance, comic relief "abilities," and complete lack of self-preservation instincts, of course.

-Position in an actual social hierarchy: Rock bottom. Might as well be linoleum tile on the cafeteria floor.

-Did I know any Screech Powerses in school?: Yes. I may even have, erm, err, *coughcough* eaten lunch with several of them. Daily.

-Trait(s) he was known for: His unrequited love for Lisa Turtle and colossal inability to not fuck things up in royal fashion. He, uh, he may also have mugged atrociously on occasion.

-How badly did I want to see this character come to a bloody, untimely end: 9

> KELLY KAPOWSKI

-Stereotype covered: Effervescent, superficial, sanguine bubblehead cheerleader with a four-year-old's grasp on the real world.

-Position in the fictional social hierarchy: Top. The female equivalent of a Zack Morris. Every male I knew considered Kelly Kapowski to be Venus Incarnate. I personally never understood what all the fuss was about until Tiffany-Amber Thiessen blossomed into adulthood. And, man, what a blossom...

-Position in an actual social hierarchy: Top. Although the cheerleaders at my high school were built more like linebackers than Kelly Kapowskis.

-Did I know any Kelly Kapowskis in school?: I guess, but the ones I knew who fit this basic mold were far more demonic and homicidal-thoughts-inducing than the fairly benevolent Kelly.

-Trait(s) she was known for: Her mundane cheers and teeth-grating optimism.

-How badly did I want to see this character come to a bloody, untimely end: 9

> JESSIE SPANO

-Stereotype covered: Intense, neurotic, strident, humorless, perpetually hard-to-please uber-feminist.

-Position in the fictional social hierarchy: Like Screech, brainiac Jessie was improbably admitted to the inner sanctum of coolness at Bayside High. This was understandable, however, due to the fact that Elizabeth Berkeley was (is) so smoking hot as to make every guy want to go professional with that pocket pool thing.

-Position in an actual social hierarchy: Bottom, or as close as makes no matter. Jessie Spano's supermodel looks were distressingly misleading, as it is a well-known -- if cruel -- fact of nature that all true hardcore feminists are eye-crossingly ugly and, therefore, social pariahs. She did, however, have their inherent unpleasantness down to an art form.

-Did I know any Jessie Spanos at school?: Oh, Christ, yes. I'd even venture to say that these future grandstanding champions of O.J. Simpson and Michael Jackson were every bit as vile as your standard A.C. Slaters. And not one of them looked a shade as do-able as Bayside High's resident malcontent. Which is a shame, as it would have made their gamy rhetoric slightly more digestible.

Hmm. It occurs to me that that previous paragraph may be seen as being slightly political in nature. It also occurs to me that I frankly don't give a good goddamn.

-Trait(s) she was known for: Protesting in a shrill voice and her witty rejoinder of "Sexist pig!"

-How badly did I want to see this character come to a bloody, untimely end: Well, on the one hand she was aggravating, ironically narrow-minded, and forever unappeasable, and on the other she was a walking male fantasy who went on to star in Showgirls. So... 10+

> LISA TURTLE

-Stereotype covered: You know, I honestly don't know how to answer this one. I mean, she was the vain, materialistic, fashion-obsessed, poised, spoiled little rich bitch we all knew and reviled, but she was also a minority. And the minority is usually presented in the world of teen television as sassy, brassy, carefree and crazy-cool, which she was not. I am tempted to say that this character was "Saved by the Bell's" sole creative conceit...

... were it not for the fact that the behind-the-scenes special I watched let slip the fact that Lisa Turtle was originally conceived as your stereotypical snotty little Jewish princess.

Ah, well.

-Position in the fictional social hierarchy: Just below Kelly Kapowski, and justifiably so. Passably attractive and, more importantly, wealthy beyond fairness, Lisa's unassailable status as the offspring of a member of the privileged elite guaranteed her all the popularity that Daddy's money could buy.

-Position in an actual social hierarchy: Depends. On the region of the country the school is located in, on the racial makeup of its students, on the general political leaning of said student body. I'm telling ya, this character is throwing my entire rant against teen television cliches off-kilter.

But if she were white, at my school she'd definitely be at the top. Again, just below the Kelly Kapowskis, because, in the formative years, looks always trumps money.

This theory tends to reverse itself once you exit college.

Did I know any Lisa Turtles at school?: White, yes; black, no.

Trait(s) she was known for: Her obsession with fashion and her completely understandable revulsion for all things Screech.

-How badly did I want to see this character come to a bloody, untimely end: 9

> PRINCIPAL RICHARD BELDING (Note: This was the sole adult survivor of the Hayley Mills' "Saved by the Bell" massacre of yore)

-Stereotype covered: Balding, middle-aged, unhip, easily-fooled, stern but good-humored and fatherly figure of authority whose office, for some unexplored reason, doesn't have a receptionist area and connects immediately with the most heavily-trafficked hallway in the school.

-Position in the fictional social hierarchy: N/A

-Position in an actual social hierarchy: N/A

-Did I know any Principal Beldings at school?: Kind of. I knew plenty of stodgy, power-mad goosesteppers in the administrative office, and I knew a few well-meaning, good-natured, genuinely concerned mentor-types as well. Principal Belding, sadly, was a not-entirely-successful mix of the two.

-Trait(s) he was known for: His memorable high-pitched chortle and as Zack's ever-game foil. And the bizarre architectural layout of his office. Man, I never got over that...

-How badly did I want to see this character come to a bloody, untimely end: Just to show you what a social leper I was.... 0. Yes, that's right. The only adult regular on the show was the only character I could stomach. Fact is, it's just plain hard not to like the avuncular Dennis Haskins.

The fact that his character wasn't a self-centered prima donna, grating loudmouth, or mugging jackass may have helped some, too.

WE SAW THEM AROUND THE HALLS

> Max: Max. You know, Max. Max! The magician who ran the eatery that the kids hung out at! In fitting with the show's high standards of imagination, I believe the diner was called... The Max.

Max was actually a series regular during the first season, but execs figured that having one cast member over the age of 20 was chancy enough; throw in another fella who's closer to the grave than the cradle and you might as well be remaking "Golden Girls."

Also, Max was a painfully unfunny magician who served no purpose that anyone could divine apart from marginally owning the teens' fast food place of choice and offering the ladies bouquets of cheap ugly flowers he produced clumsily from his sportcoat.

How they should have killed him off: Incorrigible prankster Zack slips a foreign substance (obtained by henchman Screech from the science lab) into Max's dribble glass. Tragically, Screech screws up -- as ever -- and Max dissolves into a screaming puddle as the effects of hydrochloric acid run their course.

> Violet Bickerstaff: Oh, yeah, you remember her. All I have to do is say the words "a pre-90210 Tori Spelling" and it should all come flooding back, whether you like it or not. Yes, Tori's Daddy Aaron had a heavy hand in producing "Saved by the Bell" and it assured his much-maligned daughter a brief recurring role as Screech's equally nerdy paramour.

As a member of Bayside's intellectual elite, Violet was consigned to thick, black-framed glasses, an outre snort whenever she expressed amusement, and fucking the most physically repulsive male in her immediate radius.

How they should have killed her off: In an all-too-intense chess match, Screech's trademark clumsiness and excitability come together in a horrific apex as he tosses two bishops aside, both of which implant themselves firmly in Violet's eyes, piercing her impressive brain cavity.

> Mr. Tuttle: Arguably the most prominent in a long line of cartoon-like caricatures of teachers, Mr. Tuttle was the roly-poly, fast-talking business teacher and the biggest thorn in Principal Belding's side next to Zack Morris. He was actually good for a few self-conscious chuckles.

How they should have killed him off: He also taught Driver's Ed. Frankly, it's a wonder this character survived the show.

> Mr. Dewey: Arguably the best and most amusing of the kids' educators. Mr. Dewey was the bespectacled, rail-thin, monotonous math teacher (or was it science? The teachers at Bayside High had a tendency to pull double -- or even triple -- duty). I should also point out the very brag-worthy fact that my wife's science teacher in high school was the brother of the actor who played Mr. Dewey!

You may assume bowing positions ..................... now.

How they should have killed him off: Fuck you. Mr. Dewey ruled.

> Other teachers: Let's see, there was a Margaret Dumont-type who was hard of hearing; there was an owl-like middle-aged woman who couldn't see a goddamned thing, in spite of the bionic glasses plastered on her face; and there was a gym teacher/coach who was -- yes, you're way ahead of me -- a crude, chauvinistic, simple-minded lardass. I believe there was also a lone normal teacher, some woman who wouldn't put up with Zack's shit and had the gall to expect him to exert himself in his studies. Needless to say, this was too much reality for a show like "Saved by the Bell" and she quickly fell by Bayside's wayside.

How they should have killed them off: Failure to regularly practice fire drills results in a charbroiled nightmare when a fire alarm is pulled not in vain.

> Maxwell Nerdstrom: Here was a refreshing break from the nerd mold: Nerdstrom was an oily, sarcastic, pompous, conniving manipulator who unapologetically lusted after Jessie Spano and made no bones about the undeniable fact of his mental superiority.

Still, he was an annoying little dick.

How they should have killed him off: After finally procurring a date with the woman of his dreams, wealthy Nerdstrom pays his chaffeur to run him over when Jessie refuses to stop yammering about spotted owls and the ozone layer.

> Mr. Carosi and Stacey Carosi: Remember that summer the gang spent "working" at a country club on the beach? Wasn't that awesome? Or at least different? Anyway, during their tenure at the clubhouse, we got a chance to get to know their irascible and chubby boss, Mr. Carosi, and his no-nonsense, type-A daughter, Stacey. Interestingly, though not surprisingly, Ernie Sabella (later to find fame as the voice of Pumbaa the warthog in The Lion King) and Leah Remini (that lickable brunette who later married a fat guy on TV's "King of Queens") proved to be far more able actors than any of the series' regulars. I found this fact embarrassing and very, very funny.

How they should have killed them off: Hijinks and tragedy ensue as Mr. Carosi says "FU" to the local zoning commission and moves his entire clubhouse two hundred feet closer to the shoreline in an effort to allow guests to "dine among the fishes." He drowns when he realizes that he weighs far more than water. Stacey inherents the family business and is brutally stabbed to death by vengeful mobsters whom her father, heavily in debt, had been dodging for years.

> James, the actor: I will shamelessly admit that this was the only character who ever made me laugh openly and intentionally while watching "Saved by the Bell." James was some odd, random, thirtysomething, struggling theatrical actor who ran into the kids on occasion. We will ignore the blatant pedophiliac overtones of the character and focus instead on the fact that he was actually amusing at times. Whenever he showed up, he was inevitably recruited to impersonate some figure of authority, usually as an attempt to fool poor Principal Belding. His most memorable catchphrase, and one I am somewhat more ashamed to admit that I still use on rare occasions, came from his impersonation of a recruiter for an Ivy League school, when he would bellow out with true blueblood disdain: "Hhhhhhhhhhar-vard!"

As though any of those assholes at Bayside was destined for Harvard. Please.

How they should have killed him off: In an ill-advised attempt to help the kids convince Belding to give them a break from classes for the imaginary Diversity Day, James performs an immaculate impression of the prophet Muhammed. Muslims are not amused.

> Tori: No, not Aaron Spelling's charmed daughter; rather, the tepid placeholder in the final season when Tiffany-Amber Thiessen and Elizabeth Berkeley went off to, er, employ their newfound "talents," as it were. Tori was a tough-talking, streetwise rebel with a heart of gold. We knew she was a rebel because she wore a leather jacket, and leather jackets are generally far more rebellious than windbreakers. We knew she had a heart of gold because she was a woman, and women are emotionally weak and fragile. Tori holds the dubious claim of being the sole female ever to inspire an actual fistfight between Zack and Slater. This was quite an event, even down to the sounds of fake punches landing. She also disappeared without a trace or word of explanation once Kelly and Jessie returned after their heart-breaking forays into the world outside of Bayside High. Nobody noticed.

How they should have killed her off: I 'unno. Hell, they may have, for all I know.

REMEMBER THAT TIME WHEN...?

> Kelly, Slater, and Jessie made an 80's Flashdance-style dance video to market their Buddy Bracelets?: No matter how many diseases these three actors may cure between them, the existence of this episode will forever taint their legacy.

> Jessie overdosed on No-Doz and started dancing insanely to "I'm a Maniac," only to end up falling into Zack's arms while sobbing, "I'm so scared!"?: "Saved by the Bell" taught us not to abuse drugs. Which is ironic, seeing as how the show is far more entertaining while one is abusing drugs.

> Jessie and Slater paired off?: Leading to a long string of hysterical "You're a sexist pig!" and "You're my bitch!" exchanges. This never grew tiresome.

> Zack and Kelly broke up while at Prom -- or Homecoming or the Sadie Hawkins dance or homeroom or something?: Tears were shed and laughter was heard (the former by the actors, the latter by everyone who wasn't a dewy-eyed teenage girl).

> Jessie was rejected at a college fair by the Ivy League school of her choice?: Because she was so fucking annoying. Ha, ha!

> Zack dated a fat girl?: Sure, he was all prejudices and intolerance at first, but he later came to appreciate the sweet girl for her far more valuable inner beauty.

And then we never heard from her again.

> Mrs. Belding gave birth to her first child -- in an elevator, with Zack Morris as midwife?: And what did the Beldings name their son? Zack. Naturally. *cue intense vomiting*

> Ever-horny Zack locked interracial lips with Lisa backstage at her fashion show, a sight witnessed by a jealous Screech?: Poor Screech. Poor Zack. Poor Lisa. Poor viewers.

> Casey Kaseem hosted a "What if?" episode about the success of the gang's garage band, which featured a glimpse into their future lives?: "What if?" episodes = lazy writers. Poorly dubbed singing voices for the stars of "Saved by the Bell" = comic gold.

> Zack got an excellent score on his SAT's, thus proving he was really just an unchallenged genius all these years?: Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?

> As Jessie Spano, Bayside's first female quarterback, scored the winning touchdown at the Homecoming game, Screech and Lisa made tender love under the bleachers: Heh, heh. Gotcha.

Feel free to add to this incomplete list, and I will, in turn, feel free to pretend to give a shit.

SPIN-OFFS

The gang goes to Hawaii: And encounters a whole new island of stereotypes. And Dean Jones.

I don't really know who Dean Jones is.

The gang goes to college: Though none of them seems to have progressed mentally farther than fourth grade.

The gang is replaced by a brand new high school gang: Who quickly manage to get themselves cancelled.

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Ah, yes. Another too-goddamned-long entry fondly remembering a television show that had a great impact on my teenage years.

Actually, that wasn't too "fondly" at all, was it? Why the fuck did I watch that show anyway? And why do I feel compelled to watch it whenever they replay it on TBS? What the hell is the matter with me?

In closing, I ate with the Screech Powerses only because I felt sorry for them. Not for any other reason.
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Look at the size of that article I just wrote!! What are you looking down here for, below the line, expecting more free wit and snit? Gimme a goddamn break, people! I'm doing this pro bono, for Christ's sake! Jesus fucking Christ!

So it's been over two weeks since my last entry...

2006-05-22T23:04:00.000-05:00

... and that means it's time for another one. Whether or not I have a good idea.

I don't.

But, hey, this is my paycheck, so a cynical asshole's gotta do what a cynical assho --

Wait, wait, wait, wait ... wait.

It suddenly occurs to me that I have absolutely no monetary and therefore logical reason to maintain a fixed schedule with this mother-shoving time-sucker. I swear, the Internet is like one big, fat, insatiable black hole. Except more colorful and with occasional opportunities to win Xbox consoles.

So if I'm not doing this for the non-existent money or the threadbare comments I receive from the precisely three people who make up my illustrious constituency, what exactly am I doing throwing my literary skillz away on a blog when I should be doing some actual writing?

Well, the same reason anyone keeps a blog, I guess. Rampant, unchecked narcissism.

Keeps me indoors and away from society, too, and I think the four of us can agree that that arrangement can only effect a positive result on the world-at-large.

In any case, here is an abridged list of words and phrases in common usage in my immediate time and space that drive me batshit crazy. For reference, if course.
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1.) Bubbler: *sighs heavily, rubs throbbing temples, vomits repeatedly* Okay, half-wits currently squatting in the southeastern corner of Wisconsin, let me walk you through this one last time. That commonplace item which you continue to refer to with such unapologetically bold and brain-meltingly faulty conviction as a Bubbler is, in fact, A. DRINKING. FOUNTAIN. Also occasionally known as A. WATER. FOUNTAIN.

People, people, look, "Bubbler" was (is? Was? Who gives a shit?) a trademarked name for A DRINKING FOUNTAIN developed by the Kohler Company in Wisconsin waaaaaaay back when. So, while every Bubbler is a drinking fountain, not every drinking fountain is a Bubbler. In fact, I can't remember the last time I've even seen an actual, honest-to-the-various-gods Bubbler. And I've been looking.* So, for the same reason that I don't call all modes of vehicular transport "Geo Metros," don't call all dispensers of thirst-quenching H2O "Bubblers."

*No I haven't.

Of course, the kind of illogic I'm railing against is perfectly acceptable if the rest of the nation is doing it, such as calling all tissues by the brand name Kleenex, or referring to any bandage you slap on your fleshy frame a Band-Aid. These are names that have stood the test of time, and, let's face it, the average consumer can easily explain why he might refer to all correction fluid as Wite-Out. However, the following mostly fictional exchange is a mind-numbing example of why my former classmates in the hell I knew as "childhood" would call a perfectly normal drinking fountain a "Bubbler:"

A YOUNG AND ALREADY BITTER T.C.I.: I was at the drinking fountain.

SOME LICE-RIDDEN LATCHKEY KID: The what? Man, you're retarded! That's a bubbler!

A YOUNG AND ALREADY BITTER T.C.I.: No, no. I'm pretty sure it was a fountain out of which shot an icy stream of water from which I was seen to be drinking.

SOME LATENTLY HOMOSEXUAL JOCK WITH AN IRONIC CASE OF HOMOPHOBIA: Dude, you're so gay! No one calls it a drinking fountain! Dude! Huh, huh, huh, huh!

A YOUNG AND ALREADY BITTER T.C.I.: All right, then, uh, why is it that you call it a "bubbler?"

(Various looks of intense confusion are passed around a nearby circle of my 'peers.')

SPOILED BITCH WEARING TOO MUCH BLUE EYESHADOW: Well, duuuh. It's because, um, when the water comes up, it -- it bubbles... You know, it sort of bubbles up. Like it bubbles out of the -- thingey -- that it -- bubbles out -- of...

(My logic-deficient 'peers' crumble before my steely, unimpressed stare.)

A YOUNG AND ALREADY BITTER T.C.I.: You Wisconsinites aren't going to budge on this thing, are you?

MONSTROUSLY BLOATED OLD HISTORY TEACHER BITTERLY ENVIOUS OF YOUTH: No, I don't see how we can, really.

Drinking fountain. It's just a few extra syllables. Idiots.

2.) "Sick:" So, uh, a word that has, in the past -- with no exception and for all intents and purposes -- been regarded as being strictly negative in connotation has now, in current urban slang, been co-opted as a positive term?

For those of you not of the streets as I myself am, the phrase "That's sick!" nowadays roughly translates to "That particular car/stunt/shoe/pair of mammary glands/method of execution elicits feelings of admiration and/or desire from me, the speaker." Which begs the question...

How do we now refer to someone who is, in fact, actually sick?

SQUARE IN SUIT: Um, just say that they're "ill?"

Nice try, Poindexter. But all you've done is point out the unquestionable "coolness" of our hypothetical avian flu victim.

SQUARE IN SUIT: But -- But I thought "sick" meant "cool!" How can they commandeer both of the terms commonly used to denote poor health? I -- I'm so confused...

I know, my friend, I know. We'll just -- just have to try and keep up, then.

3.) Stop-and-go light: Apparently the same people who won't take the extra second to utter the words "drinking fountain" instead of "bubbler" have decided to use this sudden free time to add the wildly unnecessary "and-go" suffix to the "stop" in "stoplight."

I just don't get stupid people. Look, not only does "stop-and-go light" sound like the inane blathering of a drooling two-year-old, it makes no sense on any mental level I can comprehend.

MORON: Uh, hel-looooo! I don't just stop at a light, I also go at one. Duuuuh.

Really? Really? That's your lesson in ass-backwards rationale for the day? Well, in that idiotic case, you ought to call it a "stop-and-go-and-prepare-to-stop light."

MORON: Huh. Well, that's just dumb.

See? So why don't you shave off those redundant syllables from "stop-and-go light" and use that time you've suddenly freed up to schedule a vasectomy.

Everybody wins. But mostly future generations.

4.) Ax (formerly known as "ask"): Let me ax you a question: How the fuck hard is it to pronounce the letters 'S' and 'K' in succession? And the application of this linguistic blasphemy isn't even consistent. I mean, "mask" isn't pronounced "max." "School" isn't pronounced "xool." This ebonical nightmare makes me sick (adj., 4.b.).

5.) Pop: I don't know if I'll ever be able to adequately express my all-consuming contempt for the numbskullery that is the word "pop" in reference to a soft drink. The following is a brief but telling list of the various definitions of the word "pop:"

> POP is a fine example of onomatopoeia.
> POP is what corn kernels do.
> POP is a short, high fly ball in the sport of baseball.
> POP is a nickname for your male parent.

What it is not is a consumable carbonated beverage.

It's soda, you beetlebrowed 50's-era throwbacks. Soda. Soda, soda, soda, soda, soda. SODA.

ONE OF THE DUMBEST PILES OF CARBON I'VE EVER MET IN MY LIFE: Uh, no, it's pop. If I say 'soda,' you might think I was talking about baking soda.

That, my faithful readers, is an I-kid-you-not quote from some pathetic asshole I knew in high school. Seriously. Of course, he has a point. I mean, nary a day goes by when I don't somehow WORK THE PHRASE "BAKING SODA" INTO AN ORDINARY GODDAMNED CONVERSATION! I mean, are you kidding me? Who the fuck shortens 'baking soda' to 'soda?' And is this honestly a common source of confusion and consternation amongst "pop" advocates? Jesus, really, I just -- I can't -- I -- I mean, is this some kind of cosmic IQ test God is subjecting me to? And will my eventual and assured psychological breakdown place me ahead of the bell curve?

Call it a soda. Call it a soft drink. Hell, call it a fucking cola, for Christ's sake, you tick-scratchin' hicks. But please, please, for the love of what rare and precious brain cells you still manage to hold onto, give up that archaic and ludicrous, only-sounds-appropriate-on-a-black-and-white-rerun-on-Nick-at-Nite colloquiallism! GODDAMNIT!

Ahem.

Moving on...

6.) Git-R-Done: For those of you well-bred, well-read intellectual types who have no earthly idea who the hell Larry the Cable Guy is...

... God, how I envy you.

Larry the Cable Guy is comedian Jeff Foxworthy's successor to the throne of Redneck/Nascar Dad humor. A throne, in my humble opinion, that would best be dismantled, steamrolled, incinerated, re-incinerated, placed in a Payless shoebox, and launched into another galaxy... at which point we would declare war on said galaxy and obliterate it. Larry is fat, slovenly, loud, boorish, ign'nt, puerile, far from complex, and speaks with a pronounced Southern drawl. He represents precisely the Southern stereotype that our Confederate brethren insist is completely untrue.

Needless to say, southerners love him.

No, I don't get it, either. But, to be uncharacteristically fair, if a big fat bald guy dressed as a baby prancing around on Blue Collar TV makes their Jell-o jiggle, well, good for them, you know? I mean, I fully admit I just don't appreciate southern humor, and that's my own "problem," I guess. For that matter, I don't enjoy black or woman humor, either. Jewish humor is hit-or-miss, too, now that I think about it. Gay humor is funny for all of about three seconds. Comedy about parenting, ditto (Christ, if you're gonna spend all your time bitching about what a pain in the ass it is to raise kids, maybe you should have taken a much longer look at that "don't fucking have kids, then" life option). Marriage humor...

Well, now, that I can get behind.

Where was I? Oh, right. Larry the Cable Guy. Anyway, I wouldn't mind Mr. the Cable Guy so much if he kept his grating catchphrases firmly on his side of the Mason-Dixon line. But no. Now I've gotta listen to pseudo-southerners (read: Dumb Yankees) hollering "GIT-R-DONE!" out of their rusted pickups.

Actually, I don't hear that phrase hollered all that often around "these parts." It's mostly uttered by drunken proofs-of-evolution outside of bars at closing time, where I happen to conduct the majority of the "research" for this blog. I also believe there is a federal mandate in place requiring all tow truck drivers in the Midwestern and Southern states to display a "Git-R-Done" sticker prominently on the cab of their vehicles.

"Git-R-Done," as far as I can tell, roughly translates to "Though my ability to correctly spell 'get' is obviously in question -- and, as you can plainly see, I can't be bothered to add the first two letters of the word 'her' -- I have no problem spelling out 'done' accurately, though by all accounts I ought to have spelt it 'dun.' Odd, no?"

Just kidding, of course. It actually means, "Everyone! Hey! Hey, everyone! Look at me! I just repeated a meaningless catchphrase created by a transitory mediocre talent! Wasn't that clever of me? Wasn't it? Hey! HEY!"

Man, what have I got against people? Honestly?
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Well, there you have it. Just a brief sampling of the vast array of local words, phrases, and speech patterns that set my teeth to "GRIND." If you have any craw-stickers you'd like to add to this incomplete list...

Tough shit. Start your own fucking blog.

In closing, I could really go for a soda of the non-baking variety right now.
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STUPID THING MY WIFE WANTED TO DO THE OTHER DAY: While getting my weekly dose of exemplary Saturday afternoon television programming in, my wife came in from the yard to deliver the following news:

T.C.I.'s WIFE: I'm probably going to get rid of that skull in the garden. I think it's real!

Okay, perhaps I could have set that story up a little better.

We do, in fact, have a skull in our "garden" just off the patio that was left for no decently-explored reason by our house's previous owner. And before you reach for the telephone to rat me out to the fuzz, you backstabbing son of a bitch, I should point out that it is the skull of a horse. And it is, indeed, very real.

I have a real horse's skull of unknown origin squatting prominently off my back patio. There is a word for this. And that word is "sick." I mean, "cool."

I immediately told my wife in no uncertain terms that there was no way in hell that that kickass cranium of Secretariat was leaving my property while I remained above ground. It's not like it has rotting flesh and hair hanging off its recently-decayed cheeks. *sighs sadly* Yeah, that would be even sicker-- I mean, cooler.

Anyway, never mind my wife's inability to appreciate the disturbing uniqueness a genuine equine skull holds as a conversation piece, but what exactly was the point of telling me she was gonna get rid of it now that she figured out it was real? By this reasoning, a fake skull of a large dead ungulate would have been a perfectly acceptable lawn ornament in her eyes. But a real one, well, that's just weird.

It appears my wife has much to learn about the undeniable coolness of keeping creepy animal remains on display. Which is odd, considering she's a Catholic who enjoyed seeing the toe bones of various saints in the Vatican exhibit at the museum last week...

So I was on my way to work yesterday, flipping from one mindlessly jabbering deejay to another...

2006-05-05T22:15:00.000-05:00

... when I accidentally stopped on a news report. And just before I switched the station in time to catch the end of yet another colorless, interchangeable love song by Kelly Clarkson (at least, I think it was Kelly Clarkson. It might have been ... well, any vapid white girl between the ages of 16 and 25, really), I thought to myself:

"Maybe you should be listening to the news, Matthew, you sexy beast, you. Maybe you should be learning about the world you unwillingly occupy and the events going on around you. Maybe you should be writing blog entries that have something deep and pertinent and powerful to say about the planet Earth and its tenuous grasp on Order and Sanity rather than articles about your least favorite Autobots. Maybe you should start paying more attention to the road. You almost sideswiped that Neon, assnugget."

As you can see, I am also quite a dick to myself. That should serve as some small consolation to my detractors out there. You ugly, ugly bastards.

So ... The Cynical Idealist will now crack open one each of his most and least favorite items: a beer and a newspaper, respectively. [Editor's Note: For "newspaper," please read "Yahoo.com's 'In the News' sidebar on the frontpage of their website."]

Let's see what we have here... What's going on on the surface of this tepid planet, the layout of which is almost entirely conducive to the lifestyle of oceanic lifeforms though its dominant species is strictly terrestrial and cannot even consume marine water for sustenance? Ah, here we are. This seems fresh and compelling...

*************************************************************************

BUSH DOES / SAYS / THINKS SOMETHING STUPID. PEOPLE MAD AT HIM.

Wow. Fascinating. It seems that the majority of the population of the United States thinks our president is a Grade-A wiener and wants him reprimanded/punished/demoted/impeached/exiled/
assassinated/deloused/run over/to be a Democrat. Apparently, he is a poor public speaker; refuses to admit when he's clearly in the wrong; guilty of rampant, shameless cronyism; and a bit of a theocratic despot, actually.

See? Now this is exactly what I'm talking about. If I hadn't read this in a newspaper, or *ahem* an onlinenewspaperwithavisuallyinvitingfrontpage, I would never have known that a very vocal segment of the population actively dislikes a prominent member of the opposing political party! This is just -- just -- it blows my mind. Seriously. I mean, Democrats are highly critical of Republicans??? Amazing. Just amazing. Oh, and this is the real kicker: Apparently, the opposite is also true! Do you know what this means? It means that whenever a given party is in power, at least half of the nation will be pissed about it! Has anyone ever considered this before? You know, it's a good thing I've started reading the news. The world could use a no-nonsense straightshooter like myself to cut through whatever it is that needs cutting through.

In any case, Bush is evidently not only dumb but a descendant of Adolf Hitler as well. Actually, I have only inferred this from the comments made by countless naysayers comparing his presidency to that of the former Nazi regime of Germany. And I have to believe whatever an ideologue tells me because, after all, I strongly believe that the people of this world are far too intelligent and rational to toss around accusatory, vitriolic buzzwords like "fascist" and "communist" without perfectly good reason.

************************************************************************

MINORITIES WILDLY UPSET ABOUT SOMETHING. DEMAND MORE RIGHTS / MONEY/ LIBERAL GUILT / WORK VISAS / "GET-OUT-OF-WORK" VISAS / THINGS TO BITCH ABOUT / NIGHTSTICKS MADE OF NERF.

Hmm, it appears there are protests and boycotts and marches and riots planned as a response to something The Man did or said or didn't say or do. That The Man! Grrr! He's so rich and male and Protestant and Caucasian and Republican and above the age of 30 and in a position of authority of some sort! I'd like to settle his hash for some reason or other!

Of course, I'm sure being a white, adult male with only marginal feelings of requisite liberal guilt probably doesn't exactly endear me to the rapidly-growing number of apparently oppressed American citizens. And these include, let's see ... women (who, uh, technically outnumber us men, as far as those tricky statistics go), blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Native Americans, gays, lesbians, aethists, Jews, Catholics (insofar as the fundies assure us that they are not really Christians, the fact that Catholics worship Christ notwithstanding), the elderly, the physically-handicapped, the mentally-handicapped, the sanity-handicapped, the French, the self-congratulatory turds who refuse to shop at Wal-Mart, and fans of the TV show Reba. Now, if I've left anyone out, and I'm sure I have, please mount a strident, ineffectual letter-writing campaign against this blog. And be sure to start a petition to have it taken down. Really, nothing is more effective than signing an online petition.

I wish I was oppressed too so I had more things to bitch about. Not that running out of things to bitch about is an especially pressing concern of mine. Anyway, I'm getting off track here. The point is, The Man is up to no good -- again -- and those put-upon masses without a voice are finally demanding to be heard -- again. I think that's very interesting. How odd that the people claiming to have no voice are the loudest goddamned group of people I've ever heard. I hope they complain loudly, frequently, and without pause, because that's never irritating and always elicits the sympathy of impartial bystanders.

And what's all this about The Man's police force being unnecessarily brutal and undisciplined? I have no doubt that our devoted policemen, no matter how similar to the Neanderthal their methods and facial features may be, would never dream of abusing their power! I mean, come on, if you wanted to vent your pent-up sexist, racist, homophobic, macho rage to compensate for your flaccid penis and haunting lack of self-worth, I'm sure there are far more appropriate outlets than a career in law enforcement. Aren't there? Well, there would have to be, otherwise those unchecked, glorified schoolyard bullies would be roaming the streets, beating civilians senseless and hiding their transgressions behind an ancient code of 'Boys' Club' silence, not unlike the criminals they're meant to safeguard us from.

But I refuse to believe the very people assigned to protect and serve our society would resort to such cowardly, hypocritical tactics in order to control us through fear and intimidation and merciless skull-crackings.

I'm also seriously considering joining the Flat Earth Society.

What else do we have.... Ah, here we go...

************************************************************************

GAS PRICES ARE OUTRAGEOUS. CONSUMERS ARE OUTRAGED. In an unrelated story without any shred of irony, SUV'S CONTINUE TO FLY OFF CAR LOTS.

People are upset about the skyrocketing price of gasoline??? Oh my God, I'm upset about the skyrocketing price of gasoline! I love the news. It shows me that I'm grumbling the exact same entirely predictable complaints as millions of other automatons across this great nation. It also gives us an opportunity to gripe about our unfortunate situation without the messy responsibility of actually doing anything about it.

But I am going to do something about it! The next time I see a gas station clerk with absolutely zero control over gas prices, I'm going to piss and moan at him about what it costs me to fill up my tank! That'll show those nasty old oil companies! Taking my frustration out on their most insignificant, powerless, and innocent employee is a surefire way to see that my voice is heard! And I won't have to change my driving, oil-consuming, or Hummer 2-purchasing habits one bit! Let's hear it for democracy and capitalism and monopolies and lobbyists and irresponsible consumerism! Down with gas prices! Up with things that require gas to operate!

No, I am not a communist. Stop that.

************************************************************************

SOMEONE GOT KICKED OFF OF A REALITY SHOW. SOMEONE FROM SOME MOVIE HAD A BABY WITH A WEIRD NAME. SOMEONE FROM SOME MUSICAL GROUP GOT MARRIED / DIVORCED / REMARRIED / REDIVORCED / OUTTED. COUCH POTATOES WITH NO CONCRETE REASON TO EXIST ARE SPELLBOUND.

Thank God, the gods, the goddesses, or no one that our world has been blessed with celebrities from the fields of film, television, athletics, music, and 'society' (i.e. spoiled, vacuous rich bitches with no discernable talent in any of the aforementioned, or even non-mentioned, fields). When our cares become too much to bear, when the price of living grows increasingly difficult to keep up with, when little Jimmy dies suddenly in a tragic box turtle-related incident, it is comforting to know that out there, somewhere, is an obscenely wealthy dilettante wearing an engagement ring the size of a large songbird.

Really. Think about it. If there was no Oprah, who would tell us to read books about menopausal women? If there was no Tom Cruise, who would think to explore the exciting, expensive world of scientology? If there was no Paris Hilton, who would inform us of what was 'hot,' or, by her studied silence, what was comparatively 'not?' If there were no A-List celebrity liberals, who would crusade against those greedy Republicans while living like pampered royalty themselves, thus teaching us a valuable lesson about the cruelty of hypocrisy? If there was no Latrell Sprewell, who would keep those highly unmanageable coaches in line? If there was no Barry Bonds, who would break the records of your more talented, more honest, more drug-free ball players of years gone by? If there was no Madonna, who would show us that even famous people can succumb to the vicious, relentless ravages of Time? If there was no Michael Moore, who would remind us that George W. Bush makes a lousy president? If there was no St. Bretticus Favre of the Bay of Green, who would repopulate Door County after its portly citizenry committed suicide en masse through excessive bratwurst ingestion? If there was no Jessica Biel, who the hell would bother watching reruns of that miserable load of bonobo shit, "Seventh Heaven?"

As you can see, not only do celebrities provide an indispensable way to distract us from the futility of our middle-class lives, they also provide invaluable fodder to those of us who happen to be snide, embittered social commentators. And who would want to live in a world without cynical social commentators?

Put your hands down.

*************************************************************************

WORLD DISASTER OF MONUMENTAL PROPORTIONS OCCURS VERY FAR AWAY FROM WHERE YOU LIVE. PEOPLE UNAFFECTED EXPRESS SORROW, SHOCK, AND SYMPATHY, BUT SOMEHOW MUSTER UP STRENGTH TO CATCH SEASON FINALE OF "AMERICAN IDOL."

When disaster strikes, the compassion and altruism of the American people shines through. I hope those homeless kids in that state or country that was hit by a tsunami/hurricane/earthquake/mass genocide/genetically-mutated reptilian insectoid/Britney Spears tour really appreciated the boxes of used clothing, secondhand blankets, cans of creamed corn, and battered copies of The Da Vinci Code that we were generous enough to loan them as they struggled through their crisis of temporary interest to the global community.

Yes, I said "loaned them." I mean, I'm getting my Dan Brown book back, right? I need to reread it before the movie comes out. Christ, I don't even remember if Michelangelo ended up solving the code or not! The story was that damned forgettable! No, no, no, don't tell me what happens, goddamnit! I want my book back! I can't watch Tom Hanks play Jesus Christ if I can't bitch about how far the movie strays from the novel! And think of all the protests I have lined up for when the film is released! I think I'd better have a damned good idea what my panties are in a wad about before I start throwing newborn babies at the walls of the cineplexes in disgust! ... Oh, you've got one. Can I borrow it? Yeah, I'll give it back. Thanks. Thanks a lot.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Nature is a powerful, violent, surprisingly repetitive force which easily destroys land, homes, lives, and dreams in one swift, unsympathetic moment. And we, the poor on-lookers forced to watch the horror unfold from the safety of our plush sofas inside our sturdy homes many miles away, can only ask, "Why? Why them, Lord, not that I don't appreciate you leaving me out of it, but why? Those poor, poor people of other ethnicities! Why? Why?"

As far as I'm concerned, the answer is simple, really. God hated them. But, uh, I wouldn't get too cozy. He knows where you live, too. And He's gunnin' for ya.

***********************************************************************

ANOTHER PERFECTLY NORMAL BARNYARD ANIMAL DEVELOPS LETHAL MUTANT STRAIN OF EXISTING DISEASE. THOUSANDS UPON THOUSANDS DIE, BUT NO HUMANS. THAT COMES LATER.

Oh my God! Oh my God!! OH MY GOD!!! It's here! The horrible pandemic we've all been fearing, it's finally here! To wipe us out! To check our unchecked population! God and Mother Nature have conspired to thin out the ranks and cull the herd and finish off the chickens! Oh my God, what will we do? WHAT WILL WE DO???

Holy mother-sucking crap, this is just like that anthrax scare we lived through! And that SARS scare we lived through! And that mad cow disease scare we lived through! And that flu shot shortage scare we lived through!

My sole consolation in this time of death, decay, and looming hominid extinction is the comforting fact that the media has not taken it upon themselves to blow this issue into cosmic, panic-causing proportions simply for the sake of ratings. Thankfully, our news sources are there to provide us with solid information and salient facts, not to whip us into needless mass hysteria. As a species, we skittish humans are all just one step away from sheep interbred with lemmings, right? So I'm glad to see that no graphic special reenactments on news magazine shows; or sensational, opportunistic TV-movies; or intense interviews with doomsaying, bespectacled experts have been 'infecting' my television set of late. I mean, really, that would just create an atmosphere of baseless anxiety, paranoia, and fear in exchange for a slightly higher rung on the Nielsen's ladder, and that just isn't a far trade, you know? Luckily, the United States of America is renowned for its responsible journalists and discerning public.

Now, I just hope they'll keep us informed about the next Ice Age that's due any minute now. Or was it an asteroid?

___________________________________________________________

*folds up Internet news site and sets it aside, drains beer, burps, scratches self, burps*

Ahhh, there are few things more informative, useful, and relaxing than catching up on the local and world news. I may have to start making this a daily habit. As you can see, the news changes quite drastically from day-to-day.

In closing, it will serve me damn right if I get the bird flu now. And it will be all Bush's fault.

____________________________________________________________

COOL THING I SAW THE OTHER DAY: While driving to get a haircut (scheduled maintenance of his lush locks is a must for T.C.I.), I saw two crows harrassing a larger bird of prey, perhaps a red-tailed or sparrow hawk. Which is weird, because although crows are instinctively antagonistic towards owls, they don't tend to be stupid enough to piss off raptors (not that attacking owls exactly earns them a Mensa membership card, either). And especially not with a pathetic "flock" consisting of precisely two members. They took turns divebombing the bigger bird, and it wasn't even carrying a tasty dead critter to filch.

The whole bizarre affair ended abruptly when a bald eagle flew out from a nearby forest and took ahold of both crows with each of its talons and snapped their necks, then proceeded to drive the hawk into the side of a barn. The eagle then went into cardiac arrest and landed on a school bus full of kindergartners, which immediately crashed into a graveyard packed with mourners and burst into flames.

Just kidding. But I did see a goose fly by.

2006-04-27T13:49:00.000-05:00

Wannabe model for Kohl's menswear or that guy you don't want contacting your daughter through MySpace (the biologically-natural red eye should be a very strong clue)? Comments, opinions, derision welcome.

So I had an opportunity to witness history in the making this past Wednesday...

2006-04-23T22:38:00.000-05:00

... and I felt it was only fair to share this non-existent honor with my loyal constituency.

Now, when I mention the phrase "history in the making," only one name should instantly pop into your head. That's right ...

Wisconsin Governor Jim Doyle!

If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm being monstrously facetious here. Gov. Jim Doyle means so astonishingly little to me that I don't even know for sure if his first name is Jim. Not only am I too lazy to take the five seconds to scan the intraweb and confirm his Christian moniker, but I also do not care. I very strenuously do not care.

NOTE: I espouse some opinions in the following section that might be construed as political/ideological beliefs. If you prefer to ignore this kind of nonsense and get to the heart of my actual entry -- and no one will blame you in the slightest -- kindly scroll down to the section following the row of asterisks.

For those of you lucky enough not to reside in the justifiably underrated Badger State, Jim Doyle is our requisite chubby, balding, bland, easily forgettable gubernatorial representative. He was voted into office several years ago by a teachers' union so lazy that they make yours truly look like an Amish workaholic. You see, our teachers were/are upset over what they consider to be their too-low-to-live-like-upper-middle-class-citizens salary status, unlike every other American teacher in the history of this nation. Being the ignoramus that I am, I always assumed that teachers chose to become educators for the opportunity to share the gift of knowledge with the pint-size representatives of the next generation. On the contrary, I am reminded time and time again that people become teachers solely on account of the paycheck.

Which, apparently, will forever be too small.

How interesting. I think it is cruel that this world refuses to inform potential teachers of the relatively unimpressive wages they stand to make upon their release into the real world. If only television, movies, magazines, newspapers, books, the internet, and every other form of easily-accessible public communication could somehow let them know -- on a continuous basis -- that the field of education is a not entirely financially lucrative one. But alas, year after year, hundreds of these poor, hopeful, idealistic young educators enter the playing field with aspirations of attaining limitless monetary glory. Instead, they must settle for standard wages doing what they were trained (and presumably wanted) to do, supplemented by three measly months off every year. And a Winter Break. And a Spring Break. And various holidays of secular and religious import. And closing for snow days (yes, these even occur in your warmer states, such as Georgia. Hell, they occur there even more frequently then in Wisconsin! How can you not love this crazy country?). And "in-school teacher meetings," which one imagines are very ominous, very pointless, or both.

Okay, so I'm coming down pretty brutally against the undisputed Queens of Whining, the teachers' union, but really. You originally chose to become a teacher because you truly believed in the power, purpose, and importance of education, or because you were too incompetent to cut it as a professional musician/athlete/actor/novelist/scientist/businessperson/pundit/ geometric consultant. And then, suddenly, the unimpressive salary becomes your lifelong obsession and bitching point. If you were so interested in making gobs of money, why not explore the fields of, say, finance? Or business? Or anything, anything else?

CLUELESS TEACHER: But I want to get paid millions of dollars annually doing what I love to do!

Yeah, well, if I could make a yearly income in excess of $1.8 billion for a job as Jessica Biel's vibrating chair/bedspread, I think I'd be handing in my fishtank-cleaning club membership card first thing Monday morning. But you know what? People don't get paid to do what they love to do (unless you went to Harvard and your overrated prick friends and alumni can place you in any "career" you'd like). That's one of the countless reasons why this planet sucks mounds of turkey shittles. So accept the perfectly normal wages that you knew you were going to get, dry your eyes, get back to work, and shut the fuck up already.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The teachers of Wisconsin elected Doyle after ousting Republican walking turd, Scott McCallum (spelling? Who gives a shit. I don't imagine even he gives a shit). For the record, McCallum had this governor thing tied up in a pretty little bow and handed to him on a silver platter by Tommy Thompson, one of the most popular rulers of the upper Midwest region for the past umpteen years. And ole personality-free McCallum went and chucked it all by pissing off the surprisingly effective teachers' union (who I only wish would devote as much of their boundless energy to the actual job of teaching as they do to bemoaning their pay status). And so we got Doyle. Who promptly went about gutting the education program, forcing one of my college friends out of her teaching job.

This is called cruel irony, and it is much funnier in works of fiction than in real life.

In actuality, I don't mind Doyle any more than I minded McCallum or Thompson. I am not one of those viciously narrow-minded, ignorant ideologues found on both sides of the political aisle who believes that "things were so much better when my party's candidate was in power." In fact, as an embittered independent, my preferred candidate will never be in power, so things will always suck for me. And you. You just won't admit it.

******************************************************************************

So there I am at work, half-heartedly washing my hands -- er, I mean, strenuously sterilizing my hands in accordance with biological safety guidelines, when my good (still single) buddy Grubs informs me that the staff of the W.A.T.E.R. institute (seriously. That's what it's called. I love it. I really do) will be renaming the famous EPA boat, the Neeskay, later that day. As it turns out, she was completely wrong, as women are wont to be. In point of fact, the oddly-named but uber-cool-looking Neeskay will keep its stupid name. What was, in fact, "going down" was the naming of an entirely new seafaring vessel, destined to traverse the Wisconsin waterways in an effort to, uh, I think, er, mumblemumblemumble.

Look, I don't know, all right? Hell, I didn't know until earlier this week that the notorious Neeskay was a vessel operated by the Environmental Protection Agency. If I had known that, I would have scuttled it months ago. Those fuckers at the DNR are anal-retentive dickheads. Tell me where to put my gravel? Fuck you!

(Those last couple of comments should make no sense to anyone outside of my immediate family. And even with them it'll be touch-and-go.)

Now then, the illustrious name chosen for the boat scheduled for, uh, naming? Why, the Gaylord Nelson, of course.

You see, when you die in the state of Wisconsin, and if you were, in life, considered something of a "big cheese" -- *hold for polite laughter* -- it is considered customary to name an extremely ugly little red-and-green boat after you. If your name just happens to include the word "gay" somewhere in it, this is considered an especially fortuitous added bonus.

The Gaylord Nelson. It's not even worth the time it would take to call that name gay.

Anyway, we were "invited" to attend this premiere gala event by means of a plain sheet of paper located well below eye level on one of the side doors allowing entry to the building ... and the exact location of the ceremony wasn't even printed on it. Still, when noon rolled around, Grubs reliably bitched at me until I was forced to accompany her on a complete tour of the premises in search of Doyle -- or Doylie, as I have suddenly decided to call him -- and company.

We found him about fifteen minutes later under a tent located at the very edge of Lake Michigan, mere feet away from a well-protected nesting pair of Canada geese (Editor's Note: Canada geese are so rare in Wisconsin that every effort is made to ensure their safety. I'm kidding, of course. These nasty fucking oversized pigeons are everywhere. Also, be sure to refer to this species incorrectly as "Canadian" geese in the presence of touchy ornithologists when at all possible. This really ruffles their feathers). It was a beautiful day out, though you wouldn't tell it by the grim, humorless expressions on the face of Doylie's security detail. Homely assholes in suits too nice for the fellas wearing them, these jokers eyed Grubs and me with all the suspicious scrutiny expected of a pair of young, clean-cut Americans wearing pale blue scrubs with absolutely no means of concealing effective weaponry of any conceivable kind. You'd think their attention would have been drawn instead to the harbor on the opposite side of the bay, a dockyard consisting of dilapidated, interchangeable warehouses seemingly designed for the express purpose of concealing a starry-eyed, Jodie Foster-enamored nutjob with a high-powered hunting rifle.

Of course, it would have to be explained to said potential assassin just who in the hell Jim Doyle was, and at that point one would be confronted by nothing more than a slightly quizzical stare, so the whole thing would be an exercise in futility. My point is, nobody cares enough about Wisconsin to bother eliminating its useless governor, so stop eyeballing me, meathead.

After being impatiently waved over to join the obsequious throng by one of Doylie's aides, Grubs and I stood dutifully outside the tent to "hear" the remainder of Tia (?) Nelson's speech about what an honor it was to have a miniature, Christmas-colored tugboat named after her dead activist/senator/Wisconsinite father. My apologies to any Gaylord fans out there for my seeming lack of respect for the deceased. It's simply that I never heard about the guy until he died. This startles and distresses me a bit, seeing as how he was considered quite the influential public figure in political and environmental matters in his day. Oh, well. I'll always have that wee ship as a constant reminder of my disrespectful ignorance. If only the name didn't make me snigger like a sixth-grader every time I heard it.

After Ms. (Helpful T.C.I. Tip: "Ms." is the only acceptable form of address to apply to any woman of leftward leanings) Nelson's astonishingly quiet speech -- after all, I've never met a subdued environmental activist -- a large woman presented her with a gift of a matted, framed photograph of her father's namesake vessel. She then handed it to Ms. Nelson in an elaborately wrapped gift box.

Note to potential giftgivers: If you're going to just announce the gift you plan on bestowing on someone in front of all and sundry, don't bother wrapping the damn thing. Also, don't give matted pictures of crappy-looking boats as gifts.

This same woman then introduced us to the man of the hour -- well, the living man of the hour -- Governor Jimbo Doylie! Huzzah! After housting his heavy frame awkwardly from his chair, Doylie treated his wide-eyed listeners to a rousing speech about nothing I can clearly remember. It ended with an ass-kissing, grandstanding bit where he signed into "law" the donation of several acres or so as use for natural preservation purposes. Hopefully the birdlovers of Wisconsin can see to it that at least a portion of this land is put aside to help rebuild our waning Canada goose population. At last count, only 55 billion such waterfowl remained to befoul the pristine lawns of our fine state.

Not-remotely-well-known Channel 12 reporter Kai Reed was spotted by Grubs lurking about the outskirts of the ceremony, not writing anything down and nowhere near any cameraman that I could see. Maybe it was her day off and she just wanted to spend it at some smelly lakeside, I don't know. In any case, she was tramping about the grounds in stiletto heels and a red leather trenchcoat. You know, I always find it intriguing that our local reporters and anchorwomen find it necessary to deck themselves out like supermodels when they are all so completely and hopelessly unattractive.

Except for Toya Washington, also of Channel 12. That chick is smoking. Keep up the fine journalistic work, you Nubian goddess.

I forgot to mention the grand unveiling of the new boat's name, which consisted of removing a large piece of white paper from the bow of the ship and the blowing of foghorns up and down the harbor to herald the presence of the new kid on the block. It is my very strong opinion that this naming ceremony was held for the express purpose of allowing the Neeskay and friends to blow their damn horns for five straight minutes. An impressive experience. If absolutely everything impresses you, that is.

After all this grandeur, Grubs and I got bored -- moreso -- and wandered back inside. We could have gone to a luncheon hosted inside the building, but the thought of watching Doylie scarf down plates of cocktail wieners sounded slightly less appealing than euthanizing scores of innocent baby zebrafish (don't ask. I do what I do and I go home, all right?). Grubs, however, who has no friends and considers Sheboygan a hotbed of excitement, wouldn't stop babbling about her brush with history for the remainder of my shift.

Just kidding. She was actually babbling about something else entirely. I think. I wasn't really listening.

In closing, I'd still rather have a Canada goose on my lawn than a member of the teachers' union.
_____________________________________________________________

DID YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA?: Wisconsin's nickname is The Badger State in tribute to our once-booming mining industry. You see, visitors from nearby states would often mistake our filthy, phlegmatic miners, emerging as they would from various large holes in the ground, for the indigenous musteline carnivore, the badger. The badger is a repulsive, stupid, smelly, viciously small-minded, unrepetantly obnoxious creature with few, if any, positive characteristics.

The people of Wisconsin, in their collective wisdom, decided that this would be the perfect beast to adopt as a mascot for our homely state.

And they honestly wonder why people mock us without mercy.

So I went to the zoo on Sunday...

2006-04-09T23:40:00.000-05:00

... and since I got in free, I thought I would relive this magical experience and bring along all of you, my cheap, faceless cynickites, at no charge.

I did pay $8 for parking, however, so we'll have to work out an appropriate way in which each of you can reimburse me.

How on earth did The Cynical Idealist manage to slip into southeastern Wisconsin's premier collection of exotic wild beasts forced into undersized exhibits for the amusement of fat, homely children of all ages without paying, you ask? Simple. Mrs. The Cynical Idealist read somewhere that it was Family Free Day at the Milwaukee County Zoo, as sponsored by Some Stupid Capitalist Conglomerate.

INSENSITIVE CYNICKITE: But Matthew, you and your wife hardly constitute a family. Christ, you don't even own a dog.

Good point, dicklick. However, I believe the "Family Free" appellation was chosen based solely on its alliterative merit, and therefore selfish DINKs and hellbound single mothers are as welcome to gape dumbly at kangaroos as your more acceptable nuclear family of overfed automatons.

______________________________________________________________

So ... what kind of people can one expect to encounter on free admission days at your local, bureaucratic menagerie?

1.) Cheap S.O.B.'s: My wife does not enjoy spending money. This works out fairly well for us since the wages I bring home from my glorified acting/writing hobby and lucrative stint as a zebrafish caretaker make a mockery of the word "income." Unfortunately, this also means I am resigned to choking down Wal-Mart's store brand of fruit bars and visiting the zoo along with the indigent population of South Milwaukee.

2.) Minorities: You can call me whatever you want, but "wrong" ain't one of your choices. Nobody appreciates free shit like minorities. And if the White Devil wants to let the oppressed races feed dirty pellets to disturbingly small goats -- free of charge -- you can damn well bet your Great-Aunt Enid's pewter spoon collection that those greedy buggers will line up fifty deep to feed the fuck out of those mutant farm critters.

TANGENT ALERT!: Uh, memo to hateful minority groups ... I know you've been striving long and hard to find an acceptably insulting derogatory term for the white man -- cracker, honky, whitey, Casper, Republican, boss -- but "White Devil?" I'm sorry, but "White Devil" sounds cool. Like, 'wish-I-had-that-nickname-throughout-high-school' cool. Really, mega-uber-cool. So don't call us that. Cause I don't think it's having the intended effect.

3.) Republicans: If there is one kind of person on this planet who can enjoy not paying for something even more than a minority, it is a card-carrying member of the Grand Old Party. Republicans love dollars. The only thing they love more than dollars is not spending those dollars if they can possibly help it. On anything. Now, combine the concept of not injecting money into the local economy with the smug sense of superiority a reactionary conservative receives when gazing down at an imprisoned, defenseless Thomson's gazelle, and you've got the ideal RNC-approved family (i.e. one male father, one female mother, children not to exceed three in number) outing.

Unless Dad can kiss his boss's ass enough to score free tickets to a Brewers game. Cause free sports events featuring drug-addled young men in skintight pants trump everything in a Republican's family day wet dream.

Yeah, I don't get it either.

4.) Kids: Those psychotic motherfuckers are everywhere during free admission days. I don't think they even bring their parents. I think they get together with the other neighborhood kneebiters, down a couple hundred pixie sticks between 'em, then run the 17 miles to the zoo in just under 45 minutes. Nobody notices that these little bastards are without supervision because we all assume the nearest exhausted, heavyset adult is the asshole incapable of controlling their unruly offspring. And that tubby babymaker is too tired dealing with their own shit to notice your dirty looks.

This all works out perfectly for the kids in question. That is, until they make their way to the massively-overpriced gift shops around 3pm and realize they can't buy that fucking pole with a crocodile head on top that snaps open and shut because they don't have any money, the useless, ungrateful little societal black holes. Nothing is sweeter to my ears than the plaintive wails of a spoiled, towheaded, ten-year-old ugmonkey whose daddy won't buy him that stuffed snow leopard he so desperately and irrationally craves. Welcome to capitalism, half-pint! HAHAHAHAHA!
___________________________________________________________

In a previous entry, I really laid into the stereotypical mobile turd dispensers that clog your average mall come the holiday season. Well, not only do you have several of these recyclable airsuckers to contend with in a relatively open air environment such as a zoological garden, but there are several new species to watch out for. And here they are. For reference.

1.) Bitch with stroller: I cannot tell you how many strollers I saw being pushed around that contained zero -- count 'em, ZERO -- children onboard. Oh, there were plenty of soft drink cans, foodstuffs, camera cases, and gift bags, but a startling absence of any child-type creature. Mind you, I'm sure Devon/Mason/Taylor/Jordan/Logan was off happily banging on the Boelen's python tank, but I also have a certain paranoid, but not unjustifiable, suspicion that some of these stroller jockeys are actually childless masterminds who rent those heel crushers simply for the sake of having an eight-foot-wide plow with which to clear a path through the unwashed masses. And for that ...

I applaud them. The clever little assburglars.

As for the actual parents with strollers, maybe we can work out some kind of mandatory driver's education class to be taken prior to hurtling unsteadily through the common throng like some inebriated forklift operator.

2.) Big black mama with kids of various ages: I actually have to admit that I like this zoo regular. Normally gregarious and good-natured, just watch her long enough and you can be sure that some errant member of her large brood will royally piss her the fuck off. And once that happens, just sit back and watch the free fireworks, folks! Cause, unlike her pussyfooting, ineffectual, permissive-parenting white counterparts, I can assure you that this badass will get to whalin' on her misbehaving miscreant with the unrelenting fury of an invading American armed force. And what voyeur doesn't love to watch an unrepetant public display of familial violence?

3.) The human ping-pong: Ye gods, is this guy a-fucking-nnoying. The human ping pong hasn't even the remotest concept of personal space or his/her proximity to other objects, animate or in. They are busy looking at all the pretty animals, not where they're going, and they bounce from person to person without so much as an "Excuse me" or "Whoops! Sorry about that" or "Please forgive me, I'm just a dick." Now, some of your HPP's are simply lost in a benevolent daze, like my wife, and don't mean any harm in their careless meandering. Others are outright self-involved egotists who can't be bothered to observe even the most basic niceties such as, oh, say, not fucking touching me. Ever. Fortunately, the vast majority of HPP's are noticably smaller than I am, and bumping into me is not far removed from slamming into a retaliatory brick wall for them.

4.) Ugly people: For those of you from other parts of this fine country, or, indeed, from other countries entirely (Benvenuto, Citizens of the World with an Irrational Hatred of All Things American! Go fuck yourselves! Arrivederci!), Wisconsin is the North American continent's dumping ground of hideously repulsive westerners. Seriously. I am not exaggerating here. We Wisconsinites are, without question, truly and grossly repugnant creatures, and the fact that we're even allowed to exist on this planet says a great deal about the success of the liberal's Pity Party movement. And we're only getting uglier.

Don't believe me? Visit our zoo. I can guarantee you that the warthogs won't be the vilest things you see on display here.

Okay, so a large number of Wisconsin residents are irredeemably dogfaced. That's all well and good as far as I'm concerned. I mean, you tend to acclimate yourself to this 'ugly' realization as soon as you're old enough to see what a really attractive person looks like once you venture down to Great America or, well, anywhere else on the planet. The problem I have is with two specific subsets of Ugly People:

The woman baring her midriff who should never -- EVER -- bare her midriff: Sweetheart, come on. Did you really fail to notice the seventy ripples of Ding-Dong-descended fat when you put on your two-year-old daughter's "I'm a Snotty Little Fucking Princess" T-shirt this morning? Of course you did. Therefore, I can only surmise that you're subjecting the civilized world to your voluminous folds of flab for one of two reasons: a.) you're an independent womyn who's proud of the way she looks and wants to thumb her nose at the unfair standards conventional society demands that its women live up to, in which case I think you'd be hard-pressed to find even the staunchest feminist to support your belly-busting wardrobe choices, or b.) you're hoping to land a man who likes his women on the 'not-ashamed-to-make-a-public-spectacle-of-herself' side. And this 'man' invariably turns out to be ...

The guy wearing a muscle shirt who doesn't possess the musculature to warrant wearing a muscle shirt: You all know this pint-size He-Man. He's usually pasty, dangerously malnourished, and tends to sport a mullet, unkempt facial hair, or both. And, of course, his licorice arms are dangling embarrassingly from beneath his 'muscle' tank top. Size Small, of course, which is STILL three sizes too big for this little feller. Guys, here's a simple rule of thumb to use before showing off what you believe to be your bulging biceps: If you can't bench press at least your own body weight for several reps, let's leave the muscle shirt for at-home use only, shall we? Because you probably don't have the muscle tone required to carry a coin purse let alone attract a member of the opposite sex (or same sex. Whatever floats your proverbial boat).

And for the record, this criteria does, in fact, entitle me to wear muscle shirts in full public view. I'll be looking for you, ladies.
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Since I'm on a roll with this list thing, why don't I keep it going by sharing a deep, personal recollection of the many of God's awe-inspiring creations that I encountered while strolling through an unnatural, man-made prison of our biological inferiors?

1.) Chickens: These were special chickens because they were gold-colored and had heavily-feathered feet. Ooooo!

2.) A rooster: Yes. An honest-to-gods rooster. He even crowed! Like every fucking rooster I've ever seen in my life! In or out of a zoo!

3.) The domestic cat: Oh, yeah. You read that right. There are people paying upwards of ten dollars, not including parking, to see a normal, pointless, domestic fucking goddamned housecat in a cage.

AN EXCLUSIVE T.C.I. TIP: If you go to your local rescue shelter, you can see them for free.

4.) Cows, pigs, and a horse: All there. All boring.

5.) The newly-renovated Big Cat "exhibit": When the Milwaukee County Zoo decides to remodel an outdated, poorly-designed animal enclosure, it ultimately translates to one thing and one thing only: "We're going to throw some rocks in there and paint a nice mural on the back wall."

Which they did. Bravo, wildlife lovers.

In their defense, at least they resisted the strong temptation to place a housecat in the Big Cat Building.

6.) Black rhinoceros (male): The black rhinoceros differs from its African brethren, the relatively placid white rhinoceros, in being far more standoffish, stubborn, bad-tempered, destructive, and prone to uncontrollable fits of violence.

There's a joke in there somewhere, but I'm not about to dig it out. Though I do feel a little guilty for always having preferred the white rhino to the black one.

In any case, the male black rhino at the M.C.Z. kicks ass. That fucker's got an anterior horn bigger than most of the kids staring at him, and isn't it nice to see an animal impressive enough to keep even the most obnoxious, undisciplined crapsack from thumping on the pane?

7.) The Reptile and Fish House: Dark, humid, and eerie, the reptile house is any truly heterosexual male's single favorite part of the zoo experience. Where else can you find spitting cobras, bone-crushing pythons, snake-necked terrapins, caimans suffering from ennui, Amazonian tetras larger than your wizened grandmother, and an octopus guaranteed to make the some chick in pink squeal "Eek! It's got so many legs!" all congregating in a young boy's glorious dream garden? Hell, this place is what my garage when I was eight-years-old would have looked like if I had lived in the tropics and had access to an extensive array of tranquilizing weaponry.

8.) Monkeys and Apes: Monkeys and apes bore the shit out of me. They always have, they always will. If I wanted to stare at an ape, I wouldn't leave my bathroom mirror in the morning. Or, better yet, I'd go to the nearest cafe and watch the zoo patrons shovel fries into their oral cavities with the use of their stubby opposable thumbs.

9.) Bears: Sleeping.

10.) Giraffes: They were "on vacation" in Ohio while their enclosure was being 'remodeled' (see #5 above). This begs a large number of questions, but I don't particularly feel like asking any of them.

11.) The Aviary: Interestingly, this was both the most fascinating part of our visit and the most depressing. The wetlands portion of the birdhouse is, along with the Amazon River basin section of the Reptile/Fish House, the closest the Milwaukee Zoo comes to low-level magnificence. The various storks and ibises on display were strenuously locating reeds and grasses to add to the nests they were building among the rock formations, not to mention combing the shores for food and tenderly grooming their mates. Informative, beautiful, and compelling ...

... until the fact strikes you that these poor bastards can't fly ten feet in a straight line without slamming into a sky-colored wall. I guess most visitors can get past the cruel irony of the most freedom-embracing nation in the world 'clipping the wings,' so to speak, of the masters of true flight, but it always leaves me feeling more than a little hypocritical and ashamed.

But mostly because it proves just what a big fucking pussy I must be.

12.) The Small Mammal House: Ahh, the human ping-pong's hallowed ground. For those of you who aren't aware, half of the small mammal house is composed of a black hallway with seriously confused nocturnal insectivores scrounging around under romantic blue lighting. That's right. The hallway is practically pitch black. You think you have trouble avoiding strollers in broad daylight? Just wait till you get to this ambulance chaser's paradise. Still, the bushbaby was bouncing around like a pot-smoking paranoiac, and bats are never not cool, so that was a minor highlight of our visit.

13.) Moose: Despite the fact that the artiodactyls grazing in the caribou enclosure were clearly marked as such, not less than three people passed by helpfully informing others that the "caribou" we were peacefully observing were actually called "moose." I sincerely hope these same eminent zoologists took the time to cross to the opposite side of the road to correctly identify the poor, confused moose-like creatures lurching about in the enclosure marked "Moose."

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And how about the other, non-tetrapodcentric portions of the zoo?

1.) The Dairy Farm: Believe it or not, the bleachers facing the dairy milking station were filled to capacity as my wife and I walked by on our to get ice cream -- er, I mean, a manly dish of roast anaconda innards.

"People, people," I had the strong urge to yell in the crowded dairy simulator, "you live in Wisconsin, for Christ's sake. You really have no idea how this whole milk thing works? And, barring that, you really care? Oh my God, leave the barn 'exhibit' immediately and go see the goddamned jaguar, you sad little urbanites! They tend to be much rarer in these parts than, say, a cow."

2.) The gift shops: When I was a child, this was one of the best parts of getting to go to the zoo. As I have matured, it is comforting to know that this has not changed. I still like the gift shops, although my child-like awe is now tempered by the brutal constraints of a limited budget. Therefore, it was with a heavy heart that I left the zoo today without a rhino-emblazoned shot glass or a street sign helpfully warning that rhinos were, indeed, likely to cross at any time.

3.) The zoo train: Uh, yeah, we didn't go on the zoo train.

4.) Eating a honey mustard chicken, ham, and swiss wrap at The Chancery in Mequon afterwards: Where chickens and pigs truly belong ...

TANGENT ALERT!: It has very recently come to my attention that the second 'H' in "The Chancery" is a rather vital consonant in that phrase. I don't recommend leaving it out.
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So there you have it, my faithful, patient cynickites. Doesn't it feel as though you'd been to the zoo with me?

UNAPPRECIATIVE CYNICKITE (shrugging shoulders): I 'unno.

Well, do you feel listless, unfulfilled, and maybe a little peckish?

UNAPPRECIATIVE CYNICKITE: Yeah, I guess.

Then my work here is done. Prick.

In closing, I like the zoo. Just not most of it.
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THE CYNICAL IDEALIST'S HATEFUL HINT #231 (Kids' Edition!): Hey, kids! Is that stupid polar bear just taking a nap when you want him to get off his ass and jump in the pool? Or how about all those mean-looking fishies and snakes and alligators who just won't do anything? And who does that mangy lion think he is, not roaring, the lazy sissy?

Well, here are several T.C.I.-approved methods of gaining the attention of any calm, relaxed, inoffensive animal not pulling its weight when its sole purpose on this plane of existence is to entertain you and your spoiled, half-literate twin brothers, Montana and Dallas. It's really quite simple.

If you can reach the glass separating you from the animal's enclosure ... POUND THE EVER-LIVING FUCK OUT OF IT! The stunned dumb beast will have no choice but to react to that brilliant maneuver. And if you're really lucky, the stupid thing might just up and die of stress and shock. Yay!! You're the Great White Hunter, only much lazier and less impressive.

And if only a fence, moat, or trench keeps you from being rightfully trampled by a herd of vengeful elands, use that shrill, unpleasant, nasally voice your chosen god "blessed" you with. SCREAM AT THE POOR DAMN BASTARDS! If history has taught us nothing else, it is that the world will drop everything and listen when being barked at by a bratty, effeminate boy from across the way.

And if all else fails, throw things at them. Throw soft foodstuffs such as marshmallows only if you are a little pansy bitch. Rocks, sticks, Hot Wheels cars, strollers, digital cameras, and weaker siblings make far more effective attention-getting devices. Tossing your little brother into the polar bear den, in particular, should make for an unforgettable future family story.

However, keep that whole sticky "What goes around, comes around" saying in the back of your mind. Because if Uncle Matthew ever catches one of you trying to nap quietly or eat fruit roll-ups in peace or watch your SpongeBob undisturbed, fully expect me to rap you roughly on the side of the head, scream profanities into your face, and throw Tonka trucks at your teeth.

"Look! Look, now the little shit's moving! I told you this stuff works!"

So I don't have any new thoughts I feel especially compelled to share...

2006-03-23T22:13:00.000-06:00

... and that means it's ................................

TIME TO RECYCLE OLD IDEAS!!! (Huzzah!)

Yes, that's right. The Cynical Idealist is gonna take the unimaginative way out and present another list of five films he refuses to see in theatres based solely on the content of their trailers. There is truly no stronger evidence of a man's inherent laziness than when he decides to plagiarize himself.

If you enjoyed my previous judgmental and unfounded reviews of movies I had no intention of actually seeing, prepare to convince yourself that you enjoy this second installment as well. And if you didn't enjoy the previous ones, well, you know where the Back button is, Lord Snooty von Buggenbutt.
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1.) The Shaggy Dog

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: A perfectly innocent and good-natured English sheepdog runs afoul of, uh, someone and is cursed with having to appear in daylight as an obnoxious, third-rate former sitcom star. Oh, and some kid's dad doesn't believe in him. Quelle surprise.

> Why it will suck: A loud, annoying Disney remake of a bland, forgettable live-action Disney "classic?" If that ain't a recipe for Fetid Bowl of Horse Crap, I don't know what is.

Whatever information Tim Allen is privy to that enables him to continue successfully blackmailing top Disney programming executives into helping his career lurch along, it must be some juicy shit. I have yet to witness Tim Allen do or say anything even remotely smile-inducing. Well, with the exception of his work as Buzz Lightyear in the Toy Story movies, that is. But even then you didn't have to see his prematurely wrinkled mug gaping at you.

"Men are pigs?" Really? That's the bit you want to go down in stand-up comic history being remembered for? Come on. Haven't ugly single women been uttering that banal phrase for decades now? Well, if you can base a highly popular and astoundingly unfunny family sitcom around a grunting noise and have it run for several seasons, I guess I have no choice but to doff my cap to you, you lucky jackass.

Oh, and I have to say something about the fucking "everybody learns a lesson about sharing/respect/tolerance/family/reptile anatomy/sexual mores" garbage that's shoehorned into every Disney movie. This unrewarding and pointless cliche is as irritating as the "boring token love interest who adds nothing to the film" subplot that gets shoehorned into, well, every goddamned movie ever made. I swear, even romantic films are required to have romantic subplots tacked on. Jesus, Hollywood, get your head out of your vagina and face the fact that your entire viewing audience is not made up of love-starved housewives and giggling tweeners.

And why the hell is Robert Downey, Jr. still getting work? I hate that guy.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: It features Kristin Davis, who has the dubious distinction of being the only star of "Sex and the City" who doesn't make me want to vomit on myself. However, she is not nearly hot enough to justify spending one damn cent on this glorified collection of butt-sniffing jokes.

2.) The Hills Have Eyes

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: A stupid family travelling in the Southwest suffers graphically at the hands of "attractiveness-challenged" displaced hillbillies.

> Why it will suck: You know what? I like my freaky-deaky, outlandishly gory horror movies as much as the next closet sociopath, but it is my very firm belief that this particular breed of filmed sadism should only be produced and distributed to enable the government to lock up anyone disturbed enough to purchase a ticket for this mess. I mean, come on. I read that a poor woman gets raped while her father burns alive and her sister gets molested in a breast-feeding "incident." I hate to take an actual stand on anything here -- I mean, I really hate to -- but rape and molestation? These are not ingredients for a feel-good cinema experience. And no, do not feed me any of that "but the director is trying to send a message about the basic animalistic impulses at the core of a man's savage heart and the helplessness of women in a predominantly male blah blah blah blah" bullshit. This is not some highbrow, intellectually elite foreign film here, this is an exploitation piece about people getting hit in the skull with an axe. Repeatedly. In such a situation, you are expressly forbidden from playing the "message" card.

That said, go watch the Saw movies. I also like the Final Destination series. Please fast forward through all plot points in any of these aforementioned films.

And I realize that taking a stand against sexual assault is not exactly the most daring position one could choose to pat oneself on the back for. Next thing you know, I'll be saying I strongly disagree with Hitler's tactics, too.

In addition, I understand it that various pets are massacred throughout the film. Folks, if you're going on vacation for comedic and/or horror purposes, please do me a favor and leave your poor animals at home. They're only gonna get slaughtered as a warm-up to the eventual misery you yourself will have to face. However, feel free to bring your newborns along. Judging by these films, those suckers are indestructible. I tell ya, nothing drains the suspense from a suspense film like tossing in a kid under 16. As if I'd believe for one nano-second that an underage celluloid brat was ever in any danger (see Saw 2 for reference).

I know this is a remake of a Wes Craven movie (a remake?! Someone actually felt this was a story that needed to be shared with future generations?) and Wes himself is not responsible for it, but can we please get that guy some help regardless? I mean, don't get me wrong, he's very low-key and intelligent and charming in the interviews I've seen with him, but The Hills Have Eyes? Last House on the Left? Cursed, for Christ's sake? The poor fella's just begging for an hour with a therapist.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: It will.

3.) She's the Man

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: A transvestite finds acceptance on the soccer field of her local third-tier state university.

> Why it will suck: Because Amanda Bynes is quite definitely not "the man." She's also not the woman, or an even marginally-gifted actress. Amanda Bynes is a product of the Nickelodeon School of Acting, which means she is well-versed on the subjects of mugging, falling down unconvincingly, throwing temper tantrums, overemphasizing punchlines, and awkwardly conveying emotion when pathos is required. Some critics have likened this smug little shit's "talents" to those of Lucille Ball. I would not blame Lucy in the least if she took it upon herself to rise from her grave in zombie form to feast on the mite-sized brains of these idiots.

Not that I especially care for Lucille Ball's work, either, but Christ, no one deserves to be compared to Amanda "Look! I'm acting!" Bynes.

If you need further proof of this loudmouth's inability to be amusing, just watch her lame-ass sitcom on some station on some day called something. It's dreadful, and I rightly feel shame for having viewed this travesty even once.

As for this movie, I'm sorry, female character actors, but it's time somebody came out and said it: Men dressed as women = Comedy gold. Women dressed as men = confusing, unconvincing, and more than a little creepy. Ladies, instead of doing the cross-dressing gag as a cheap attempt to grab laughs, why not just become a lesbian comedienne instead? Ellen DeGeneres, Paula Poundstone, Margaret Cho, Rosie O'Donnell (in her prime) ... all funny, all mannish, all gay. But cutting your hair, putting on a suit, and deepening your voice? Yeah, there's a reason no one's laughing, sister.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: Movies like this always have at least one uber-doable blonde hottie in a bikini. And this one doubly so, I imagine, as penance for forcing the viewer to endure Bynes as a weird boy-girl monstrosity.

4.) V for Vendetta

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: A demented, masked killer stalks a bald teenage girl through the streets of [some dreary foreign city].

Just kidding. Actually, I think it's more about a resistance fighter/vigilante/rebel/bored, effete aristocrat who makes life miserable for the unjustly-maligned futuristic totalitarian regime of [some dreary foreign city].

> Why it will suck: That mask. If for no other reason, that bizarre fucking mask will sink this movie before it even leaves port. I can't decide if that mask is the scariest thing I've ever seen, or the gayest.

However, there are other reasons.

Do you know how I assumed the bad guys here would be neofascist, Nazi-esque megalomaniacs? Because the trailers feature an angry, wizened, well-groomed Britishman shouting at hordes of attentive plebeians via a plasma screen TV. Subtlety is not the strong suit of your standard, unoriginal movie villain. You know, just once I'd like to see a bleak vision of the future in which the antagonistic government that came to power after a brutal world war is portrayed as a commune of dirty, incompetent, affected, sniveling anarchists. Of course, this worldview would never happen, seeing as how liberals would so totally get their pasty, pacifistic asses handed to them when push came to air-to-land missiles.

At least the hero, I'm sure, will be an entirely fresh character, not like the typical brooding, mysterious, noble, flawed, disarmingly attractive, uninvolving bore one usually gets saddled with in these kinds of films.

Right. And the heroine won't be plucky and opinionated, either.

So let's review: Setting -- cliched, villains -- cliched, hero -- cliched, love interest (see?) -- cliched, mask -- sweet holy fuck.

And is it just me, or does that title sound suspiciously like a book by mystery-writer Sue Grafton?

> Why it may not be a complete bust: If you're gonna have a British nasty, you could do a lot worse than the grossly-magnified head of John Hurt. And Hugo Weaving, who was the sole reason to sit through the excrutiating Matrix films, might make something bearable out of the protagonist. But I ain't a-plannin' on findin' out!

5.) Stay Alive

> The plot as far as I can tell from the trailers: A group of impossibly attractive online gamers, who have obviously never watched The Ring, play a forbidden video game and become dead to the world, unlike any other online gamers in the history of mankind.

> Why it will suck: Well, first of of all, that title is a little too similar to that of a certain John Travolta disco-themed movie that shall remain nameless.

You know, it's nice to see that Evil is doing its part in keeping up with the times. By embracing the technological revolution, Evil can now infiltrate such previously untapped worlds of terror and fright as video cassette tapes, online chat rooms, cell phones, electronic home security systems, and now the colorful land of online video games. I can hardly wait until the highly-anticipated iPod, uPod, everyonebecomesaPod hits theatre screens next Fall!

A haunted video game? A game they "told me not to play?" I really, really wish I'd been at the pitch meeting for this bright idea.

EXECUTIVE: ... and if you die online, you die in real life!

HIGHER-RANKING EXECUTIVE: That's dumb.

EXECUTIVE: The hot girls who play it will wear very little clothing!

HIGHER-RANKING EXECUTIVE: Can we have it ready by Easter?

There is so astonishingly little behind this concept that I have nothing else to mock regarding it.

> Why it may not be a complete bust: Succulent Sophia Bush of "One Tree Hill" 'fame' lends her, uh, talents as one of the gamers. Oh, to live in an alternate reality where video game players resemble WB starlets.

SPOTTY, GREASY, SLIGHTLY PUDGY FEMALE GAMER WHO WEARS GLASSES: Screw you! I'm a gaming chick, and I'm hot!

THE CYNICAL IDEALIST: No, sweetheart. No you are not.
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Wow. Unfairly judging art and entertainment without bothering to give the subjects a chance to prove themselves is fun! No wonder there are so many critics. I may just have to make this a regular feature of So...

In closing, I actually want to see Stay Alive.
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THE CYNICAL IDEALIST'S HATEFUL HINT #27: Looking to rent a mindless, time-wasting film with absolutely no artistic merit or thought-provoking side effects whatsoever? Here are some useful tips to apply while searching the racks at your local overpriced video store ...

> Is there a sexy, nubile, half-naked chick on the cover? No? Put it back. Nope, don't even bother reading the blurb on the other side, just set it down and walk away. They have no business offering this piece of crap as an option, anyway.

> Pictures of explosions and guns are promising. Any director who regularly blows shit up in his films is not looking to win any accolades from the National Society of Film Critics.

> Speaking of critics, avoid any movie that has quotes such as "Moving...," "Mesmerizing...," "A masterpiece...," "A triumph of the human spirit...," "My girlfriend loved it..." featured anywhere on the sleeve. Movies with quotes like these tend to take place sometime in the distant past and feature a love story about two parapalegic homosexuals living in France portrayed by American actors speaking with English accents. It would make things a lot less complicated if films like these just had BORING AND SURPRISINGLY LONG emblazoned in bright red letters across the front of the jacket.

> Are there two or more mildly attractive women with their arms around each other, smiling, laughing, or giving each other exasperated looks? WARNING. Do not be taken in by the relative lickability of these chicks. You have inadvertently stumbled onto a movie about sisterhood, friendship, crying about unimportant shit, whining about relationships, having periods, and cursing men who are too smart to waste time on any of these sad sacks. Move along.

> Does the name Jessica Alba or Vin Diesel appear in the cast list? Ding ding ding! We have a winner (of sorts). Rest assured, no one will be learning anything of value while watching this movie. Not one damned thing. Just enjoy the ride.

So I figure it's a pretty sure bet that I'm gonna end up in some sort of hell when I die...

2006-03-07T17:09:00.000-06:00

...and here, for your reading pleasure, is a glimpse into what I imagine the little slice of hell that has been specially-configured to not suit my personal needs will look like:
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Time I will be forced to get up in the morning:

> Too fucking early

Time I will be forced to go to bed at night:

> Too fucking early

Work I will be expected to perform:

> Any. And lots of it. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I am not the biggest fan of labor of any kind.

Playing on background speakers, non-stop:

> Celine Dion (a standard in all hells)

> Barbra Streisand (see above)

> Hip-hop songs that rhyme words simply for the sake of rhyming and at the expense of any semblance of sense. Freestyle this, Hackmasta Shasta.

> Country songs littered with near and not-remotely-near rhymes. "Quarter" and "California?" Jesus, woman, move up north and get a real education.

> John Mayer. Interestingly enough, this will also be playing in my wife's heaven.

> Anti-war songs

> Pro-war songs

> Other war songs

> Christian music that sounds eerily similar to Aryan propaganda.

> Weird European crap. All of it. Even Monaco. Especially Monaco...

> Folk songs with all the forward impetus of a retarded glacier

> Anything teenage girls are into at any given moment

Only food items found in the cafeteria:

> Onions. Lots and lots and lots of revolting, inexplicably popular, bane of my taste buds onions. If you love onions, I neither need nor want you as an associate. Please exit this blog immediately. You know the way.

> Vegetables. All shapes, all sorts, all sizes (Except corn, which I think we can all agree kicks ass). Vegetables are for children and scrawny, personality-free, all-natural health nazis.

> Mushrooms. Jesus Christ, people, these are parasitic lifeforms! God, and you want that in you? Why not shove a tapeworm up your ass as a chaser? Also, they have all the slimy, rubbery texture of a worm. Bon appetit, fungus-lover.

> Meat that consists entirely of gristle, fat, and/or bones. "Cooked" rare, naturally. Tens of thousands of years on this dying planet and some of us are still purposely choosing to eat dead things "the old-fashioned way." Let's hear it for the progress of human civilization.

> Fish. Mmmmm! What is that I taste? Why, it's the delectable, unforgettable taste of ... nothing. Yippee. Can I have a second helping of bland, flavorless chum, please? Oh, add tartar sauce for a little added bite, you say? I have a better idea: Why don't I just eat a big bowl of fucking tartar sauce instead? Idiot.

> Any dessert with bits of nuts and/or chocolate in it. Oh, holy helping of mother-loving crap, is this ever a sore spot with me. Wow! A delicious brownie! A heavenly sundae! A mouth-watering bowl of ice cream! You know what this perfectly good treat needs? To be buried beneath a sea of tasteless rock-like chunks! And women, enough with the damn chocolate already. It's not enough you're increasing your dress size by four with that triple-layer choco-blast fudge-pack-a-rama parfait, but you gotta have chocolate chips slathered on top of the mess? Chocolate chips have effectively ruined mint-flavored ice cream and will no doubt follow me into the hellish hereafter.

> Anything black licorice-flavored. Would anyone mind telling me exactly why this flavor was invented? Were we bad? Like, "wipe my children off the face of the Earth with a Flood" bad?

The only drinks open to me at the bar:

Yes. Every hell has a bar. Can you think of a better place to put one?

> Bloody Marys. I'd like to find the sadist who thought up this pile of spiked antelope piss and perform a couple of emergency root canals on the sick bastard. I mean, let's just review this equation for liquid misery:

Alcohol (a) + Vegetables mixed into a vile pulp (vp) + A stick of fucking celery (c) = Matthew projectile vomiting at an alarming speed and frequency (Msf)

If you like Bloody Marys, kindly follow the example set by the onion humpers, you retarded farts.

> Diet Dr. Pepper. I hate the weird, untraceable taste of Dr. Pepper. Now, make that repulsive concoction "diet friendly." The commercials claim it still tastes just like real Dr. Pepper. Yup, it sure does. Next.

> Miller Lite. Believe it or not, this is the only beer the taste of which makes my stomach quiver and liver strenuously object. And I can down anything; Keystone (not just for Kops anymore), Milwaukee's ironically-named Best, Hamm's (which I continue to avow is simply cleverly-marketed mud), (Un)Natural Light, anything. I can even hold down other Miller products with an impressive degree of non-regurgitation. But that Miller Lite, sweet holy fuck. And their new ad campaign claims it has more taste. Well, Jesus, yeah, pal, that's your whole fucking problem right there! Now just lose the "taste" of liquefied gerbil droppings and we'll talk.

Famous women I will be forced to stare at that other guys I know consider hot but aren't:

> Christina Aquilera, Sarah Jessica Parker, Paris Hilton: bodies of goddesses, faces of dogs. These women's noses were each issued their own zip code, right? It seems only fair, what with the amount of mail from rhinoplastic surgeons those proboscides must generate.

> Ashlee Simpson. Also dog-faced and big-nosed, but this talent-free tagalong gets singled out on account of not possessing a single redeeming physical (or personal, come to think of it) trait. And she's honestly related to that living Venus, Jessica Simpson??? God and Mother Nature are horribly cruel and funny SOB's, I tell you what. And what with all the money that hypocritical Baptist bunch must be raking in after pimping out their hot daughter, you'd think Pa Simpson would have the presence of mind to get the ugly daughter a damned nose job already (Yes, I am being an asshole. Why do you think I'm going to hell?).

> Madonna. Am I the only person in the world who realized that this strident, wrinkled, weird-looking, snaggletoothed bitch was hideous even back in her "material" days? This chick -- I'm sorry -- "broad" (the age thing, you know) pulls the same "trick" that every dogfaced woman tries to get away with: you nasty-looking female trolls with halfway decent bodies strut around mostly naked, hoping that your assets will detract the average male's attention from your Medusa-like visage. And oddly enough, due to the idiocy of the average male, it works. Regularly. Not for me, though, uggos. As I always say, "If I can't look at the grille, it hardly matters what's under the hood." So keep slutting around and dressing like call girls, Fido, because men with taste and eyesight still ain't gonna fall for it.

The only pets I can keep:

> Cats. Everyone knows that the cat is the poster pet of hell.

> Zebrafish. Tanks and bowls and cups and pitchers full of pissed-off zebrafish lining the walls as far as the eye can see. I'm sure these vengeful little drain-stoppers will have plenty of choice words for my incompetent ass once I join them in the netherworld. They will also see to it that bleach is added to my list of available drink options at the bar.

The only shows/channels that will come in on my TV:

> Reality shows. Well, duh.

> The Home & Garden Network. This channel is so head-throbbingly dull that I can't fathom what even women and gay men could find so entrancing about it. My wife once made me watch a program about organizing a closet. Organizing a closet?! Holy crap, I hate actually organizing a closet. Why the hell would I want to take the time to watch someone else do it? Oh my god, and these shows have editors?

> Golf. I'm not sure how this "sport" warrants its own network, but I guess when you're rich, white, predictable, and devoid of a soul, programming execs will bend over backwards and frontwards for you. As I am not an attorney, absentee surgeon, politician, salesman, or member of any other rightfully-reviled occupation, maybe I just cannot fully appreciate this quietly-paced, white bread pastime. Although I hear that beer is served at regular intervals on the fairway by comely wenches. Perhaps it is finally time to get that medical license after all.

> Basketball. Sorry, guys. I know several of my constituents are big-time basketball fanatics, but I really would rather worry my foot off with a rusty hacksaw than sit through an entire NBA game. Yes, yes, I'm aware that college basketball is rumored to be far more exciting on account of its, er, well, uh ... you know, I forget. Whatever. My point is, the game lacks variety. Any variety. Just back and forth, back and forth ... This is also why ping-pong and goldfish fail to entrance me. Maybe if they tried it with women ...

> Women's basketball. Nope. Still no good.

> The Olympics: Summer, Winter, Spring, or Fall. Looking for a sure-fire way to kill a perfectly good party? Hint: Turn on the fucking Olympics! Why is this sure-fire? Because the Olympics are BORING.

IDIOT NATIONALIST: Hey, [this individual's natal country] holds the record for speed in regards to men who can run in an oval while passing a cylinder to one another!

BRAINDEAD JINGOIST: So what? [This individual's natal country] has citizens who can slide down a winding tube on a sled at an alarming rate!

I'm from America, a nation that has no need to assert its superiority and dominion over all other lesser countries. Still, enjoy your javelin toss, Zimbabwe.

> Day-time talk shows, soap operas, and all other daylight programming. In fact, why don't I just say "all programming aimed squarely at plump, superficial, homely, lonely hausfraus" and be done with it?

> All awards ceremonies. Hey, here's a stellar idea. Since it's not enough that celebrities are already rich, famous, narcissistic, and spoiled, let's shower them with accolades they neither deserve nor need. Sound like fun? Wait! There's more! We'll also televise it so the tired blue-collar industrial laborer in bumfuck Iowa can fully appreciate the vacuous preening that goes into being a household name.

> America's Funniest Home Videos. Clips notwithstanding (although only a quarter of them seem to be even mildly amusing), is there some kind of law on the books that requires that every host of this vapid show be a mind-blowing jackass? Bob Saget, Daisy Fuentes (hot -- yes; witty -- sorry), that prick who hosted with Daisy Fuentes, Tom Bergeron ... idiotic ass captains, all. And those voice-overs, oh, for Christ's sake ... By the way, I feel it's only fair to warn you that the cruelly unfunny Bob Saget will be waiting for you in hell. I believe it's all part of his contract with the Dark Lord.

> Concerts by pretentious beatniks. When did hour-long acoustic solos constitute fascinating art? Cause I call it glorified musak. Now order another low-carb latte in a shoddy recycled cup, you unkempt coffeehouse squatters.

> Shows about lawyers. Okay, so America hates lawyers, but loves shows about lawyers? Hell, I'm surprised no one's greenlighted a dramedy about atheistic French mimes yet.

> "Saturday Night Live." And it still won't be funny.

Pastimes I'll be resigned to:

> Reading the Bible

> Singing hymns (quietly)

> Speaking in tongues (quietly)

> Congregatin' (quietly)

> Denouncing anyone whose views veer even a milimeter from the ones that were pounded into my closed mind when I was an impressionable youth

> Not dancing

> Not drinking

> Not smoking

> Not cussin'

> Not fornicatin'

> Lots and lots of needlework

Ironically, my idea of hell is exactly the same as your average Baptist's idea of Heaven.

And to appease my right-winged constituents, I should point out that I will also have access to a time-share in a liberal hell where my days will be spent protesting loudly in a shrill, unpleasant voice; acting affected and bored; dating loudmouthed, hairy women; watching "The West Wing;" eating humus; listening to lesbian folk singers; and attending meaningless rallies led by smug, unshaven, well-fed hypocrites.
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There is more, so much more involved in my idea of what joy-sucking eternal torment would be, but I am bored and tired, so I'll continue it later.

Or maybe I'll write about The Transformers. I dunno. I haven't decided yet.

In closing, I was going to add a list of famous people I hated that I would have to party with in hell, but it quickly occurred to me that I hate a disturbingly large number of people.
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THE CYNICAL IDEALIST'S HATEFUL HINT #96: Starving, but too lazy to make yourself something substantial to eat? Simple; whine to your loved one.

MATTHEW: I'm sooo hungry. Can you make me something to eat? Please?

MATTHEW'S WIFE: Uh, I'm kind of busy right now. Can it wait?

MATTHEW (sighing heavily and slumping shoulders): Oh, fine. I'll just have some Spaghettios. (More sighing, followed by a slow, forlorn march towards the kitchen)

MATTHEW'S WIFE (exasperated): All right, all right. What do you want?

MATTHEW: Egg McMuffins.

If this fails to work for you, she does not love you. Leave her immediately.