Friday, November 30, 2007

Night Of A Thousand Fish Puns

First off, let me just say that I did not... repeat, did not... poop myself during last night's performance of Disney's The Little Mermaid. It was touch-and-go there for a while, but fortunately the turmoil in my "workin's" calmed down by the time the curtain rose and, thus, we were able to enjoy a Broadway production of a popular animated musical from our collective youth. Here's how it all went down:

NOTE: During the course of this post, I'm probably going to come off as a total musical-theater fruit pie. Which is fine; that's what I am and there's no sense in denying it. Just wanted to give you fair warning though, and also to promise that the next post I write on ZFS! will be as butch as a bunch of sexy, sexy firemen. Just to balance things out.

Back Story: The first question that I imagine you're asking yourself is, "Why, C-dog, with the wide variety of theatrical offerings at your disposal, did you choose to go see a big, honkin' production of an old Disney movie, especially since you hate corporate greed and are also just ridiculously handsome?" Well, the truth of the matter is this... Girlfriend wanted to see it. Plain as that, really; she loves The Little Mermaid (both the movie and the Hans Christian Anderson tale) and she wanted to see what they could do with the story on Broadway. And, since my parents were nice enough to get us amazingly good seats for her birthday (third row; we were practically in Ariel's lap for most of the performance), we were able to go into it secure in the knowledge that, no matter what, at least we hadn't shelled out the cash ourselves if it sucked. I believe that's what they call a "win-win."

So, how was it? Well, for those of you who don't care about the details and would very much like to get on with your days, I'll spare you the suspense: Bottom line, it was okay. Now, you Impatient Ike's and Iris' can go do your important business-related things and leave us theater queens to dish about the set design.

Without further adieu, for those of you who'd like a little more depth in your commentary, let me now present to you...


-The awesomest thing about seeing it last night was that it was the show's first time back onstage after the Stagehand's Union strike that has shut Broadway's tight, little butt down for the last three weeks. Before the show, Thomas Schumacher, the production's producer, came out and gave a very funny speech that served both as an acknowledgement of the strike, and as a reminder to the audience that the show hadn't been performed in a while and that there may be technical problems that need to be addressed throughout. There weren't, of course (these guys are pros), but you never know; it was smart of the producers to hedge their bets like that just in case all the walls fell down or something.

-Hands down, no question, the best thing about the show was the evil squid-villain, Ursula. Sherie Rene Scott, an actress I'd never heard of before, absolutely knocked that part out of the theater and into Kevin Kline's production of Cyrano de Bergerac down the street. She's not in the show just a ton or anything, but her two big numbers tear the roof off and she's funny as hell to boot. Seriously, she's worth the price of a ticket alone.

-The rest of the cast broke down like this: The chick who played Ariel was cute as a button and very good; vocally, she sounded a lot like the cartoon, and she had a very expressive face that handled the non-speaking portion of her performance quite well. The guy who played the Prince was just fine, but maybe a little bland (so your basic Disney Prince, then). The kid who played Flounder was also good; I'm always impressed to see a kid hold his own on the Broadway stage with considerably more seasoned actors. The two guys who played Ursula's electric-eel minions were good, too, and the chorus as a whole did their jobs as well as to be expected. On the other side of the spectrum, we had King Triton; the guy who played him was, in a word, lousy. And then there was Sebastian...

-The guy who played Sebastian, one of the biggest parts in the show and the character behind the movie's most memorable songs, was absolutely awful. Actually, he wasn't just awful... he was offensive. Let me put it to you this way: He didn't actually say, "Yessa, Massa... yessa," but he came pretty goddamned close. No joke, Al Jolson would have loved his performance; this version of Sebastian made Jar Jar Binks look like Frederick Douglass. Not helping matters, the actor had the charisma and charm of an actual crab; a dead one that's about to be eaten at Red Lobster. Consequently, "Kiss The Girl" and "Under The Sea" were about as lively and fun to watch as a tax audit. Seeing as how those are the big showstopper numbers... um... the producers really might want to consider a quick re-cast before the production goes any further.

-Another oddity: The set design. It was, to say the least, an avant-garde interpretation. It wasn't bad, exactly, but it was certainly different from what you'd expect to see from a Disney-backed show. Girlfriend described it as, "bad diner art," and I think that's accurate; lots of pastels, fluffy-looking coral reefs, and bizarre, carnival ride-esque contraptions that swung people around the stage as if they were swimming through the ocean.

-Oh, and you know those roller shoes that are so popular with the kids these days? That's basically what the actors wore to simulate swimming. And all the mermaids-and-men had tails hanging off their butts. They moved realistically like a tail in the water would, so that was nice, I guess.

-So, yeah... not a bad show all in all, but certainly nothing to do backflips over. If you really need a Disney fix, I'd by far recommend Mary Poppins over this. And over both of those, I'd of course recommend any show that you can find that features lots of nudity. Because that always enhances the theatrical experience, in my opinion.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Redefining Audience Participation

Okay, so here's what we know:

1. I'm quite ill thanks to some Death Hummus that I ate last night. I've got... issues, let's say... and at present, said issues are requiring me to stay close to home. Or, more specifically, my home's bathroom.

2. The Broadway Stagehand's strike ended last night, meaning all shows will be back in business tonight.

3. Girlfriend and I have tickets to the The Little Mermaid tonight. We've had them for a while, but I'd kinda forgotten about them because I just assumed that the aforementioned strike would negate their worth (that's the kind of luck we tend to have, you see).

4. Turns out, though, the tickets are still good; the show is on and we'll be there.

5. This is great, except for, as you may remember, I'm still at present a rather sick person.

Best Case Scenario: I feel tons better by the 8pm curtain and we enjoy a night out at the theater as we watch a mermaid lady get some legs, lose her voice, fight a bitchy squid, and take kissing advice from a not-at-all-racially-insensitive crab.

Worst Case Scenario: It ends up looking something like this, only with less of the color blue and more of the color brown...

Keep y'all posted, of course. Or you might see me on the news as the guy who ruined a musical and traumatized children by power-shitting on Ariel. Never a dull moment at ZFS!, kids.

The Lesson I'm Currently Learning

Just because the hummus you found in the back of the fridge smells okay and tastes okay, doesn't mean that it is okay. Please, someone, make it stop...

NOTE: Needless to say, I'll probably be shivering in bed and praying for death most of the day. Carry on bravely without me. If I'm feeling up to being horizontal, I'll post some entertainments of some sort later on.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Arbitrary Rulings (One Sentence Edition)

Rubber Finger Tips - I've been using these at work lately and, while it's been great to flip through a large stack of papers with ease, it really sucks to know that I've finally completed my transformation into an old lady named Gladys who knits and spoon-feeds her cats from a crystal goblet.

Hugh Laurie - Girlfriend would leave me for the House version of Hugh Laurie in a heartbeat, so I've linked to the Black Adder version of him instead as a way of confusing her, which in turn will keep me as the only brainy hunk in her life for at least another day.

Line Dancing - Lame, but at least it keeps the sort of people who'd be open to line dancing busy and, thus, not out forming lynch mobs or trying to stop you on the street to tell you about, "the miracle of Jesus Christ our Savior."

El Sabroso Guacachips - A piece of plywood that's been handled by a Mexican day-laborer tastes more like guacamole than these chips.

Humor - Humor is like heroin; I guess it's okay if you're into that sort of thing, but you really should be careful not to overdo it or everyone will hate you (oh, and you might die).

Why New York Rules - Their hot dogs are just retardedly good, especially with the onions on them; a glass of "Coconut Champagne" on the side makes things even better.

The Uppercut - I once gave Jeffery Mills an uppercut to the jaw right after he sucker-punched me in the ribs; neither of us could move for like five minutes, but then we shook hands and got some ice cream (we were both eleven at the time and, as you know, ice cream is the beer of the early-double-digit population).

Jesus Appears On A Cat’s Ass - Those Line Dancing people are going to totally lose their shit when they see this.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Emeril Lagasse: Cancelled

Never cared for the guy, personally... I'm not a big fan of catchphrases as a rule, nor do I generally care for people who shamelessly mug to a studio audience over cloves of garlic, say, or large pots of gumbo. I'm sure he's a very nice person, kind to old people, never kicks Hurricane Katrina victims in the shins, etc, but whatever... him being off the airwaves means that I'll never again have to hear an audience applaud wildly with the idea that, at some point soon, perhaps after a commercial break, things will indeed be kicked up an unprecedented "'nother" notch. And that pleases me more than any of his food ever could.

Wait, they're still going to air reruns? Well, fuck... nevermind, then.

Full story is here

Eating Styrofoam From Japan

I bought a package of Japanese chewing gum the other day. It looked exactly like this:

NOTE: This is not the actual package of gum that I bought; I ate it much to quickly and there was no time for photographs. The above picture is taken from a website that sells Asian gum, as well as Asian candy, Asian novelties, and I think you can get some mail-order sushi on there too. Although that is not to be trusted and will probably be confiscated at the Post Office. And then you'll go to jail.

As I worked my way through the little, individual boxes of variously-flavored gum bits, I noticed that the three pieces in the upper right-hand corner (the Green Apple, Peach, and Frog flavored ones) were being supported by a thin piece of Styrofoam that made them even, height-wise, with the boxes that surrounded them. I suppose it could have also made them even in a spiritual sense, or in a fiscal sense, or even in a self-esteem sense, but we'll never really know. Gum can't talk, kids. It just can't.

Anyway, I saw this white plank just lying there in the cheap, cardboard box and I thought, "Fucking sweet! I was just saying to Girlfriend that I really wanted to eat a small quantity of Styrofoam that's typically used to elevate gum! Look out, folks, I'm going to snack on this shit hardcore!!!"

I lifted the Styrofoam to my mouth, greedily, ready to get my grub on, but then I noticed the words that were printed on it's face. This piece of Styrofoam was trying to tell me something:

That's right... "Do Not Eat Inedible," is what this piece of factory-grade packaging material said to me, and the power of it's words struck my heart like a thing that struck some guy this one time and it was awesome.

How foolish I was. How close to death I nearly came.

Well, maybe not death, but... you know... a stomach ache from eating Styrofoam. Hell, maybe it would have killed me. Who knows? Styrofoam, much like gum, can't talk. We'll never know if it had malice on it's mind. Though I have to say that it is pretty suspicious, what with it just laying there all sexy, flat, and non-biodegradable. It exploited my weakness for wanting to eat polystyrene thermal insulation... and it was very nearly victorious.

Oooh, wouldn't it have been totally ironic if I had eaten it and died, but it was the ink that the manufacturer used to print the warning message that actually killed me? Like, it was poison or something, and if they hadn't put it on the Styrofoam, it would have been fine. That would be like a modern-day O. Henry story, except I wouldn't have to sell my hair or anything! Heh... neat.

Yeah... what were we talking about? Japanese gum? Right, so this Japanese gum that I bought was really good, very sweet and tasty, but it loses it's flavor really quickly. Which is a total bummer, because it's like, yum, I'm chewing on some Strawberry gum and then, BAM!, it suddenly tastes like... like... (gasp) STYROFOAM!!!

I'm scared now.

Monday, November 26, 2007

I Have Seen A Large, Three-Dimensional Representation Of An Epic Poem...

...and so should you.

Unless, of course, you don't like things that are large and in three dimensions. If that's the case, then you'd probably be better off giving Beowulf a wide berth. Although, keep this in mind: If you don't like things that are large and in three dimensions, you're basically saying that you don't like buildings, or trees, or national monuments, or James Gandolfini. And not liking those things will only lead to you being ostracized by your friends and family, particularly where James Gandolfini is concerned. I understand he's quite popular.

Anyway, Beowulf... yes, it is an awesome experience. That's the key word, actually; "experience." It's the the overall largeness of the IMAX screen and the inherent wow-factor of the 3D technology that really makes this worth seeing. Which is not to say that Beowulf is a bad movie; not at all. It's merely good. But when it's slathered in state-of-the-art doodads and whatsits... Okay, you know how in The Breakfast Club, Ally Sheedy's character was a cute-as-a-button, prototype for the Goth Girl subculture? And do you remember how she looked at the end, after Molly Ringwald made her over? Remember what happened next...? What I'm trying to say is that Beowulf is just fine on it's own, but when it is tarted up with the IMAX and the 3D... well then... it's suddenly much more appealing to Emilio Estevez.

NOTE: "Emilio Estevez," in the above analogy, represents "we, the people of Earth." Just so we're clear. I'd also like to point out that this is the first time in the history of pop-cultural analogies that Emilio Estevez has ever represented anything other than Emilio Estevez and if someone would like to create a plaque in their metalworking shop to commemorate said event, that would be just peachy.

Frankly, I can't imagine seeing this movie not in 3D. The IMAX thing you can take or leave and it won't make that much of a difference; modern movie screens are pretty big in their own right, after all, and as I've been told over and over again by various women, it's not the size that matters but the fact that I finally stopped crying because the neighbors were threatening to call the police. But, yeah, the 3D... seriously, kids... amazing. I've seen 3D movies before (Friday the 13th, Part 3, Nightmare on Elm Street, Part 6, Comin' At Ya!, that thing at Disney with Michael Jackson that he made before he completely lost the plot and started looking like a melted white woman), but this was quite simply on an entirely different level. Let me put it to you this way: I now know what the sensation feels like to have it appear that Grendel is going to put his head in my lap. And it feels pretty wicked, gotta say.

Oh, speaking of Grendel, he was totally my favorite character. Played, via the magic of motion-capture animation, by perennial weirdo Crispen Glover, the makers of Beowulf have made Grendel less of a scary monster and more of a scary, retarded man-child, like if Lenny from Of Mice and Men were twenty feet tall and pissed off. Which works, surprisingly. I'd kill to see some behind-the-scenes footage of Glover acting out this part, because I bet it's the freakiest thing since that time he tried to kick Letterman in the head while tripping on acid.

And... yeah, I guess that's all I've got to say about Beowulf. Go see it; it kicks ass. But again, and not to belabor the point, but seriously only see it if you can see it in 3D. You won't regret it, and that's a ZFS! guarantee!!!*

*Not a guarantee.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Post-Turkey Day Hodgepodge

NOTE: The author recognizes that no one really cares about his Thanksgiving vacation, especially since nothing of much interest actually happened. He promises to try to keep this brief so we can all get on with our lives. He also promises to cool it with the whole "talking in the 3rd person" thing, as he realizes that it makes his readers want to hit him about the face and neck with a sock full of yams. He's sorry and he's working on it.

Girlfriend and I spent our Thanksgiving holiday in a ritzy suburb of Scranton, PA. All things considered, it was a nice time, although I did get arrested for trying to break into a building that looked a lot like Dunder-Mifflin. My actions are due to my inability to separate fact from fiction and I've been told by my state-appointed counselor that these new pills I'm taking should help correct that. Also, I'm Batman. Oh, but seriously folks... Girlfriend has got some relatives out there, and they were happy to have we interlopers hang around for a couple of days. It was very homey and quaint and I drank a lot of wine.


Our Greyhound Bus experience wasn't bad at all, much to my surprise. Port Authority is never a place that you're going to want to hang around in for long (you're as likely to catch the clap there as not) but otherwise, none to shabby. No delays, no traffic, we weren't forced to fight any of our fellow travellers on the side of the road, Mad Max-style... A success, in other words. Take that, holiday travel disasters! You can't keep C-dog down!


I didn't gorge myself this Thanksgiving like I usually do. It probably had a lot to do with me being at someone else's house, as opposed to my own or at the house of a relative who's seen me eat before and thus is able to psychologically cope with the inherent horror. Don't get me wrong, I did as much damage to the spread as anyone else... I just didn't, say, start doing gravy shots or dive head-first into the pumpkin pie. Nor did I attempt to use a paring knife to remove all the turkey's skin in one long, delicious strip, like how an old Grandfather would peel an apple. I was the very model of restraint, a fact for which I'm sure Girlfriend's family is thankful. They can take a trip to Europe on the money they've saved on the cleaning bills!


How 'bout them Cowboys?


We slept on an air mattress in the basement rec-room. There's no other way to put this; it sucked balls. Of course, this is, not the fault of our hosts. No, it has more to do with the physics of air displacement that happen when a fat guy lays down on an inflated bag made of space-age plastics. Needless to say, it was like sleeping with my midsection in a foxhole and it was unpleasant. Not helping matters: Every time someone walked through the kitchen, their footfalls would echo around our room (directly below) and give the whole basement a creepy, haunted-house feel. Oh, and when anyone flushed a toilet, it sounded like we were about to get hit by a tidal wave. All in all, there was nothing that aided sleep and everything that didn't.


After dinner, we watched The Polar Express. Not a good movie, though it was nice to hang out and eat leftovers with a bunch of people who treated me like family, especially since my actual family was so far away.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Thanksgiving Tips And Tricks

NOTE: After watching the Home & Garden Network for 24-hours straight and taking all of it's lessons to heart, I have become the premier blogging authority on how to have the best Thanksgiving ever in the history of holidays built around the eventual genocide of an indigenous people. Because I love all of you so much (especially when I've been drinking), I'm now going to share my tips and tricks with you. Jesus, do you know how fucking lucky you are???

Thanksgiving Tips And Tricks

-Carve the turkey while wearing nothing but a kicky, festive Pilgrim hat. What you lose in sanitation, you'll more than make up in holiday spirit. Be warned, however: Stray pubes will kill the mood faster than you can possibly imagine. Your motto should be, "Shave before you carve!"

-On Thanksgiving morning, wake up early and replace every single family member's prescription medication with Tic-Tacs. By the time the food's ready, everyone should be climbing the walls and/or crying in a heap under the dining room table. Be prepared to laugh your ass off!

-Take one pumpkin pie, one bottle of tequila, and a few shots of Everclear and throw it all in a blender that's been set to the highest speed it can maintain without the motor exploding. The resulting drink is called "The Mayflower Surprise" and it will get you so drunk, you'll attempt to cross the Atlantic Ocean in an effort to flee religious persecution.

-Three words: Cranberry Sauce Wrestling

-When the relatives start to arrive, be sure to make them feel welcome in your home by giving each and every one a long, soulful kiss (with tongue). It wouldn't hurt to offer hot-oil rubdowns, either, but only if you've got the supplies on hand. And make sure those fingers are limber!

-For a bonding experience that everyone can enjoy, kill your own turkey together as a family. Your heart will throb with what you can assume is love as you watch ol' Grandpa Joe kneel down and drag a sharpened hunting knife across the bird's throat while the cousins pin it's twitching body to the ground. Let Mom handle the gutting, as that's the kind of work a woman can really tackle with aplomb! After the arterial spray is wiped off, make sure to instigate a big group hug (or if your family is a bunch of pussies, a group cry). Guaranteed, the memories will last a lifetime. Much like scars.

-Above all else, though, just make sure that you get the chance to talk with your family. Let them know how you feel, and listen to their feelings in return. If they're reticent to speak freely due to pending litigation against you, don't be afraid to make them talk. Use force if necessary. Watch the movie Hostel for ideas on how to best get the information you want to hear. And remember to always say, "I love you." But make sure you say it before they pass out from the pain!

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Sandwiches I've Never Eaten

The Chip Butty

Country of Origin: The U.K.

What's The What: A load of french fries jammed between two slices of buttered bread

Thoughts: Although this seems on paper like a good idea, honestly, I don't think it's something that ZFS! can fully support. I mean, sure, buttered bread is good and, of course, french fries are near and dear to the clogged, greasy chambers of my heart, but... I don't know. It just seems, for lack of a better word, a little bland. Maybe if you were to throw a hamburger patty on there, or perhaps a shot of Ranch dressing, you'd have something worthy of a fat guy's approval. But until then, the Chip Butty is a lot like the career of it's fellow-British import, The Stone Roses; lots of early promise, but a quick fade into nothingness.

The Dagwood

Country of Origin: The good ol' U.S. of A.

What's the What: Tons of various meats, vegetables, cheeses, and condiments piled high upon many, many slices of bread.

Thoughts: Wow. I think being served a sandwich like this would illicit from me the same reactions that 70's porn starlets had when faced with the prospect of making a movie with John Holmes. It's just so big!!! Not that I couldn't handle it, of course; I'm a pro. Still, it's undeniably daunting. And it would require some strategy; obviously, unless you've got some anaconda in your blood-line, you wouldn't be able to fit your mouth around this monster. You'd have to attack it "harmonica-style," which, personally, I feel is never as satisfying. And, yes, you could just take it apart and eat it as individual sandwiches, but this destroys both the idea behind the Dagwood, as well as my extended sandwich-is-penis analogy.

The Francesinha

Country of Origin: Portugal

What's the What: Two slices of white bread, stuffed with wet-cured ham (whatever that is), topped with melted cheese and then drowned in a traditional tomato/beer sauce.

Thoughts: I believe we now know where the phrase "hot mess" came from. Okay, truthfully, I bet this tastes just spectacular. After all, it's basically just a cooked ham and cheese sandwich with some sort of funky gravy on it, and that doesn't sound like something you could really screw up. However... well... just look at the thing; rarely has a sandwich looked so much like something that was pulled out of a septic tank. Plus, I know me; I can barely eat a regular sandwich without getting it all over myself, much less one that appears to be messier than the early days of the Exxon Valdez eco-disaster. What I'm saying is this: I'd like to try the Francesinha, but I'd have to eat it naked, in a room that's been covered by many tarps, and there would really need to be a shower nearby so I could sluice off the effluvium when I'm done.

The Choripan

Country of Origin: Various; pictured is the Argentinian style

What's the What: Some sort of crusty peasant bread stuffed with grilled chorizo, tomatoes, and chimmichuri sauce.

Thoughts: There is nothing wrong with this sandwich. Nothing. I could eat one of these sandwiches every day for the rest of my life and die (early, and after a long meat-induced coma) a happy, happy man. And it's side dish? No fries for this magnificent bastard; nope, it's just a fried fucking egg! How brilliant is that? I want a fried egg served on the side of every dish I eat from now on, including sushi, ice cream, and scrambled eggs. Goddamn, the Choripan's got me excited! I've got to get my ass to Argentina, but quick. They'll call me El Americano Gordo Loco and soon I will be their king!!!

The Sandwich Loaf

Country of Origin: Sadly, The good ol' U.S. of A.
What's the What: You take a loaf of bread and cut it length-wise into slices. You then put a thick smear of egg salad, or tuna salad, or ham salad between each slice of bread, stacking them one on top of the other. Finally, you "frost" your sandwich loaf with festive, color-tinted cream cheese that's been whipped into a spreadable consistency.
Thoughts: Seriously, what the fuck was in the drinking water back in the 50's? This, of course, would be the complete opposite of the Choripan; everything is wrong with this sandwich. For starters, it's less of a sandwich and more of a cake. A cake! A cake that potentially has egg salad in it!!! And that's not even the most disturbing part; no, the mid-century housewives thought it would be a good idea to take the cake theme one step further and frost the fucking thing with cream cheese! The mind boggles, truly. Seeing the Sandwich Loaf in all it's glory goes a long way to helping me understand why there were so many alcoholic businessmen back in the day; if this abomination was waiting on the dinner table for me when I got home, I'd drink too. And then have my wife committed to a sanitarium, because clearly the bitch be crazy. "Doctor, she frosted my sandwich!" "It's okay now, Mr. Davis; we have a pill that can fix that. Would you like a cigarette to calm your nerves?"

Monday, November 19, 2007

The Reviews Are In!

NOTE: The reviews are in from the world wide (web) premiere of The New England Patriots Will Destroy You, a blog post from earlier this morning. Herewith, a sample of what people are saying about the latest offering from ZFS!, otherwise known as the greatest blog ever written by a fat guy from Arlington, TX who's drunk a lot and is also dating a girl who prefers to remain anonymous, though it's not because she's embarrassed to have her name linked with his in public, or so she says. He chooses to believer her, because otherwise he'd just cry. Anyway, on to the reviews:

The New York Times: "...a tepid attack on a storied football franchise, though it did smell quite pleasantly of bacon..."

The Sporting News: "...this post lies in the hazy middle-ground between 'not funny' and 'a perfect example of why certain people shouldn't be allowed access to the internet.'"

Entertainment Weekly: "Clinton Davis has done it again! And by "it," we mean, "posted on his blog."

Newsweek: "You know there's a war going on, right? I mean, we really do have other things to report on that are slightly more pressing..."

Bill Belichick: "My football team will destroy you."

My Dad: "A blog? I...uh... don't know what that is. Does it mean you're gay? Because your mother and I have a bet going."

Tom Brady: "(he opened his mouth but no words came out; just the sound of an angelic choir)"

Satan: "Hey, thanks for the mention, C-dog!"

The New England Patriots Will Destroy You

NOTE: After last night's 56-10 thrill-killing of the Buffalo Bills, which was preceded in weeks past by nine games of equally dominating professional football, it's now clear to everyone that the New England Patriots are playing on an entirely different level than any other team in the NFL. The question now is, of course, why? Why are they this good? How have they gotten so dominating? Just what the fuck is going on in Massachusetts these days? Well, after conducting some extensive research that we here at ZFS! assure you is not made up, I believe that we've got some answers. Look now, to our reporter's findings...

(Again, these are all true)


How The New England Patriots Will Eventually Take Over The World, or, "Tom Brady, Warrior King"

-Red Bull in the Gillette Stadium water supply.

-Extra practice, a strong work ethic, and a pact with Satan that's been signed in the blood of a virgin child. Also, more strength training.

-You know that one team-building exercise where you have to fall back and trust that your fellow team members will catch you? Yeah, the Patriots do that all the time. And then they laugh and hug and tell each other secrets.

-Half of the offensive line are actually shaved apes. No one is sure which ones, though, because they all love bananas.

-Watching Tom Brady descend from the heavens every day before practice is an awe-inspiring sight that has really bonded the team together as an individual unit.

-Before every game, the Patriots send the other team a copy of The Departed with a note attached that says, "Don't forget, we're from Boston too." It's hard to concentrate on your play-calling when you're terrified that Jack Nicholson will have you whacked.

-At the start of the season, Coach Bill Belichick set the mood early by killing a cancer-riddled hobo with his bare hands in front of everybody. He hasn't spoken a word to his team since, but the team understands his meaning. Parenthetically, it's said that when the Patriots go to sleep at night, all they dream about is Belichick's cold, dead eyes.

-The Patriots have Randy Moss, so...

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Arbitrary Rulings 7

Strikes - Not to put too fine a point on it or anything, but if you're not supporting the currently-striking members of the WGA and the Broadway stagehands union, then you've basically got Sumner Redstone's balls in your mouth right now. How's that taste? Like a dusty, old-man nutsack? Good... learn to love it; soon you'll grow to associate that particular taste with greed, power, and that tremor in your guts that bubbles up every time another piece of your soul dies. Sure, you'll probably be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams... but you'll still have an elderly gentleman's junk in your face 24/7. Personally, when it comes down to the choice of being tea-bagged by a billionaire tycoon, or not being tea-bagged by a billionaire tycoon... well... I guess I just don't mind waiting for new episodes of The Office until a fair deal is hammered out. But that's me.

Hip Bones - My grandmother took a nasty fall a few days ago and shattered her hip bone. After surgery and some very liberal doses of pain medicine, she's doing okay now; maybe not back to 100%, but definitely on the mend. This is great news, of course, and it means that I can now focus my energies on dealing with the real villain of this personal slice of family drama: The Hip Bone. Seriously, Hip Bone, just what the fuck is your problem? I understand that, as a person's years advance, you're going to weaken and degrade a bit; that's just common sense. But have you really let yourself go to the point where you can't withstand a simple slip n' fall? I mean, it's not like my grandmother was BASE jumping or anything. She didn't get sacked by the New England Patriot's defensive line after a botched hand-off. She was mopping the floor (which, at her age, she shouldn't have been doing anyway, but that's a digression best worked out amongst my family, as opposed to in cyberspace)!!! Hip Bone, you really let us down... I know you're a vital joint of the human body's skeletal system and, thus, we should cut you some slack, but no. It's for that very reason that I feel you should be raked across the coals of my righteous indignation; you are vital, therefore, you should always be at your best, your strongest, your most secure. In short, you failed, Hip Bone. I hope that you are very, very ashamed.

Adorable Kittens Wearing Wooly Caps - The last two items were pretty heavy, so I'm including this particular entry merely as a way to lighten the mood and make everyone smile. Click on the link, feel the warmth bloom in your heart like a single Daisy through a crack in the asphalt of an abandoned basketball court in the bad part of town, and then let's all move on with a spring in our step and a song in our heart.

Fresca - Delicious! Though it's not a beverage that I'd order in a restaurant or at any sort of social gathering. While it tastes like a fresh, clean kiss from the Princess of all Things Citrus, it's definitely a little fruity in every sense of the word. I mean, okay, clearly you've gathered from this blog that I'm nothing if not a man who's secure in his sexuality; I've talked more about my love of musical theater than any straight guy ever has in the history of "is he, or isn't he" debates. Still, ordering an ice-cold glass of Fresca in public would illicit the same reaction amongst hetero males that the"I Hate N-word" sign in Die Hard 3 elicited amongst the good people of Harlem. And, in my case, Samuel L. Jackson would more than likely not be around to save my butt from a sound beating and possible stabbing.

Bright Lights, Big City - I've been reading Jay McInerney's debut novel over the last couple of days and, while I've managed to cut through the fog of 2nd-person-perspective pretension and actually enjoy it for the earnest piece of fiction that it is, I've found myself becoming more and more disturbed with each turn of the page. Why? Because "Bright Lights, Big City" is about me. Or, to be accurate, it's about every single mid-20's guy who has ever found himself lost in a delirious spiral of bad behavior that's structured within a maze of career anxieties that is housed in a city both dauntingly large and unfathomably cruel. Or something. Look, my point is this: If you change every reference in "Bright Lights, Big City" from cocaine to booze, and if you excise the failed relationship, you've got a story that runs fairly parallel to my own, at least on a thematic level. Which is not something I expected from a book that was once turned into a movie starring Michael J. Fox, but there it is.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

But Where Will I Get My Overpriced, Overrated Hot Chocolate Now? Where, I Ask You... WHERE???

The grody details are here.

Thursday Morning Hodgepodge

NOTE: The 'podge is back, this time on a Thursday, and this time, it's personal. Or as personal as these things ever get, I guess.

So, I fell asleep watching Kitchen Nightmares last night and, thus, I had long, stressful dreams about waiting tables while Gordon Ramsey shouted at me. In other words, it was the hottest night of dreams I've had since I got my "Collected Works of Shannon Tweed" box set for Christmas. Oh, but seriously... yeah, all last night, in my mind, I was taking people's orders and refilling drinks, and lifting trays piled high with food over my head, and being shouted at by an angry, red-faced Scotsman. Consequently, I'm awful sleepy right now. Pity me. Or bring me wicker baskets overflowing with Red Bull.


Do people really watch that Tyler Perry’s House of Payne show? Because, judging by the commercials, it's at least as offensive to black people as that bounty hunter guy who got his TV show taken away from him for dropping the N-word (which was shocking because, as everyone knows, bounty hunters are expected to uphold the highest standards of class and morality while they're punching in a deadbeat dad's teeth). Parenthetically, since when do bounty hunters have TV shows? Wasn't everything that needed to be said on the subject of televised criminal apprehension already eloquently spoken on COPS? I just don't get our cultural landscape sometimes. Oh, but anyway, that House of Payne show looks just god-awful.


My girlfriend is making fish for dinner and I'm excited about that fact in exactly the same way that I used to get excited about going to a party on a Saturday night where I knew I was going to drink tons, see old friends, and wake up on a well-manicured lawn on the opposite side of town wearing someone else's close and inexplicably holding a trophy for 2ND place in a breakdancing contest. Girlfriend's fish cooking skills are that good.


Matt Damon is, according to People Magazine, the Sexiest Man Alive. Whatever. I mean, he's a good-looking dude, no doubt, and he certainly kicked a lot of people in a pleasing manner during the run of those Bourne films, but... Sexiest Man Alive? That seems like a pretty broad statement when you consider the sheer amount of attractive dock workers, firemen, cowboys, rock musicians, chefs, and bloggers (ahem...) out there. Surely there's at least one other person currently living who's sexier than Matt Damon. What I'm trying to say is that I'd really like to get a look at People Magazine's research into this seemingly definite conclusion; I just can't imagine that they were particularly thorough.


Farts are hilarious!!! (Sorry, I've got a quota to meet)


I found on YouTube this old clip of a young Elton John singing "Burn Down The Mission" on some BBC program:

Um... question... Are we sure that Ben Folds and the 70's-era Elton John aren't the same person? Because I'm not convinced. I think that Ben Folds might have perfected time travel and is now currently performing under the name Elton John in the 70's, and under his own name in the here and now. The key to unravelling this dimensional mystery is Bernie Taupin, but he won't return my calls. What is he hiding?

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Bad Toys: A Selection From The '07 Class

Some fancy-pants consumer reports watchdog group has released their Worst Toys of ‘07 list, which is designed to let parents know which toys currently on the market are the most hazardous to their children's health. You can read the full list by clicking on the above link, but I've taken the five most interesting items and featured them here on ZFS! as a part of the ongoing, mandatory community service that I'm currently working off for the state. You understand, I'm sure. Anyway...

Jack Sparrow's Spinning Dagger

Reason Why It's Bad: Any ER doctor or nurse will tell you that 95% of all fatal stabbings come from a person trying to cut a bagel with a dull knife (the remaining 5% come from drunk NFL linebackers at strip clubs, but that statistic is not relevant here). Because the knife is dull, the bagel-eater must apply much more force, causing the blade to slip and stab over and over again his wife who's been whoring her ass all over the downtown area, did you think I wouldn't find OUT??? Anyway, the same principle applies to the Jack Sparrow Spinning Knife; it's just not sharp enough to penetrate the flesh of a demon pirate (or whatever the hell that movie was on about) and thus the user must make several attempts at bringing down their foe. This, sadly, usually gives the demon pirate plenty of opportunity to eat the child's face. With a proper, sharp dagger, this would never be a problem.

Dora The Explorer Lamp

Reason Why It's Bad: Makes kids think that Mexican children can glow in the dark, which we all know is false. Chinese children, yes. Mexican children, no.

Hip Hoppa

Reason Why It's Bad: Gives kids the false impression that they're receiving a package filled to the brim with Kool Moe Dee, Doug E. Fresh, Sir Mix-A-Lot, and The Sugarhill Gang. This couldn't be farther from the truth. The Hip Hoppa is actually just some kind of futuristic pogo stick or something and has no ties to the urban rap scene of the mid-80's. This will cause your children to wonder just why in the hell they've been buying all these fresh Adidas and gold chains in the first place, which will eventually lead them to giving up all interest entirely in the golden age of Hip-Hop. Then they'll have no choice but to start buying Hoobastank CDs. You don't want that, parents. You just don't.

Lil' Giddy Up Horses

Reason Why It's Bad: Isn't it obvious? I mean, look at them. They're the gayest thing since Jobriath. Not even little girls can get away with playing with toys that look like a drag queen's hilariously misguided idea of a purse. Basically, buying your son or daughter a Lil' Giddy Up Horse means you want to abuse your kids, but you'd much rather the neighborhood bullies did the actual heavy lifting. As it were.

My Little Baby Born

Reason Why It's Bad: As everyone who's ever read a Stephen King novel or seen a bad horror movie from the 70's knows, all baby dolls are possessed by the devil. Don't believe me? Stare into the eyes of the doll in the picture up top, there. Now check to see if you've still got a soul. You don't, do you? It's because little Baby Born just swallowed it up and crapped it down to Satan himself. Congratulations, dude; you're now this doll's bitch. Enjoy that. Oh, and don't buy this toy for your kids. Evil lurks within.

Here's A Picture Of Some Gross-Shaped Food

Discussion Questions

-So, apparently, there's a diner in Taipei with a toilet theme; you sit on toilets, you eat out of toilet-shaped bowls and, apparently, they serve ice cream that looks like poop. Yeah.... I... huh... okay, I know I'm like the Jimmy Breslin of scatological humor, but even I'm a little taken aback by this. Really, can anyone actually fathom eating in a place like this? Even ironically, I think it'd be a bit much. I can only imagine that any conversation regarding a meal at the Modern Toilet (which is it's name) would go exactly like this: "Hey, let's eat a that toilet diner!" "Heh, sure, right on! Poop food!!!" "Yeah... okay, so let's go." "Oh, you were serious?" "Well, not really. But you seemed like you wanted..." "Ugh, I don't want to eat there. I was just kidding." "Thank God! Let's hit the IHOP and call it a night!" "Hooray!!!"

-So, if you want ice cream at the Modern Toilet, you pretty much have to get chocolate, right? Because it seems like anything else would screw with their theme, being as how no one has vanilla-white poops. Or mint-chocolate poops. Or Strawberry poops. Or... well, you get my point.

-Given the inherent logic that's present within the Modern Toilet's overall concept and design, shouldn't the restrooms be food-themed? And if they are, which would be more disturbing: Eating food that looks like poop, or pooping on things that look like food? I know it seems like the former would be the answer, but from a strictly avant-garde perspective I'd say they're about equal.

-When I mentioned in the previous question the "avant-garde perspective," did it sound like I knew what I was talking about? Like, did it sound as if I could whip out a Luis Bunuel reference at a moments notice and have it be oh so totally relevant? Because, I'll be honest, I'm just talking out of my ass here.

-You know that part in This Is Spinal Tap when they talk about the two-word review for their "Shark Sandwich" album? The review was, in it's entirety: Shit Sandwich. I bet pun-minded food critics in Taipei had a fucking field day exactly like that with the Modern Toilet. Which, all kidding aside, I think is just really crappy of them.

-See what I did there? I'm so clever.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

How I'll Save Us All

If a bunch of FBI agents pulled up and were like, "C-dog, aliens just landed and they're demanding that someone explain to them, succinctly and in under three minutes, the concept of fun or they're going to start blowin' shit up," I'd be all "it ain't no thang, y'all." They'd be confused at first, then I'd pull this little number out of my pocket and use it to drop some knowledge on the aliens crazy, green heads:

"Banned in D.C." by Bad Brains

And then the government would shower me with medals and mad cash, being as how I'd just saved everyone's asses with my mastery of the powers of YouTube.

Seriously though, there is no part of this video that doesn't look like the best time anyone ever had. The only other thing I can say is that I was born too fucking late, man. For reals. Oh, and it's also kind of a bummer to know deep in my heart that I'll never be as cool as what is represented in this video.

Eh, well.

Who's up for starting an awesome band?

Slow News Day

I recognize that something exciting doesn't happen every single day. I'm aware that, occasionally, a journalist will have to stretch to make a story seem relevant and interesting. And, yes, I've gathered that Britney Spears doesn't always flash her cootch or endanger her kids in a fashion timely enough for it to make the evening press deadlines. But even when all of that is taken into consideration, I still have to ask this question:

Do we seriously need another article on how the dinosaurs may have possibly become extinct?

And it's not like the above story was buried in the Science section... IT WAS ON THE FRONT PAGE!!! Or the "front page" equivalent of a website; you know what I mean. Look... C'mon, guys. At this point, in the year 2007, with a war overseas, and a global climate that's slowly heating up to the temperature of Starbucks coffee, does whether or not the dinosaurs got killed by a comet or a volcano really fucking matter? I feel the same way about this that I feel about those stories that Time and Newsweek run at least once a year that ponder, for 6,000 words no less, "What was Jesus really like?" (Answer: Nice!)

I'm sure that there are people out there that are interested in these topics (not me, of course, but some people) and, in the proper context, I can totally buy that they are, in fact, actually interesting. But that doesn't qualify them as newsworthy. Sorry, but it just doesn't.

Anyway, I'm done being all cranky. Just wanted to get that off m'chest. The fart jokes will resume shortly.

Monday, November 12, 2007

The Seven Continents Are Not As Hilarious As I Would Like

NOTE: By "hilarious," I mean, "shaped like the most interesting parts of the male or female anatomy." Just so we're clear.

North America

I've never been less proud to hail from the continent of North America than I am at this moment. Just look at it... sure, it features a bounty of geographical locales that offer a wide array of climates, cultures, and other junk like that. But what it doesn't offer is a shape that's both hilarious to the eye and pleasing, on a base level, to the soul. Sure, you could try to make a case that Florida sort of looks like a tiny wang, and okay, Alaska could be considered boob-esque, but both of those would be suspensions of disbelief far greater than any Hollywood blockbuster has ever required of us. No, sadly, North America just isn't hilarious. And this makes me sad to reside within it's unfunny, non-genital shaped borders.

South America

Well, at least you can say that South America is putting forth the effort. If you turn your head to the right and kind of squint... yeah... it looks kinda dick-n'-balls shaped. Hey, that's more than what we've got. Which, of course, once again proves that people who live in a climate where it's so hot you have to be naked all the time know more about sex than we repressed, four-season-having, losers ever will. And when you ad Brazil to the mix, which is pretty much a country devoted to looking at boobs... I mean, there's just no contest over which is the superior America.


This is just a waste. A little more elongation on either side of the continent and you'd have a very passable wang-n'-sack shape. But nope; it's too stumpy on the sides, and not round enough on the top or bottom to effectively favor a tit. Australia just doesn't care about our amusement, I guess. Whatever, land down under... whatever.


Foot fetishists will get a kick (har!) out of Italy, but that's really all they've got going for them in the hilarious shapes department. See, this is your problem with the continents that are all chopped up into a bunch of different countries and islands and whatnot. Visually, they're just a mess, which doesn't translate into geographical comedy. Really, I'd have expected better from a place that spawned both The Benny Hill Show and Swedish pornography.


Same deal as Europe, though I guess it gets a few bonus points because it sorta looks like China is pooping out India. Sorta, I said... it's not dead-on by any stretch, so don't get too cocky, Asia. You're still a bunch of non-hilarious blobs of land mass. Also, you've got a lot of wars, which are the equivalent of venereal diseases in this particular scenario.


Nothing much to see here, but it's understandable. It's like a million degrees below zero down there; what do they know from sexy shapes? Everyone that lives on Antarctica is bundled up all the time with layers of Gore-Tex and scarves, which makes them all look about as appealing as a dead sea lion. Plus, the population is almost exclusively nerdy scientists and a bunch of penguins anyway... so who cares.


Okay, now we're talking. This is a continent that went after looking like a schlong-n'-bag with a vengeance and unquestionably achieved it's goal, hands down. Now, granted, you have to turn your head to the right to get the full effect but, hey... that's a small caveat to concede when you've just won the coveted, Most Hilarious Continent prize. Pat yourselves on the back, you sexy-shaped mass of land; you've earned it. Now, um, can you work on all the political strife and horrific disease and famine issues? You're a winner, after all, and you've really got to start acting like it.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Not Worth Your Valuable Time

Zzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... (cough, rolls over)... Zzzzzzzzzzzz.... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzhmghp... Oh hey, looks, it's Edward Norton. Wow, he seems really miscast in this roll. I mean, he's trying to be all brooding and mysterious, but he's really just coming across like a 17-year-old kid in a High School drama department who just read a book about method acting and is attempting to "re-live" the experience of that one time when he wore his Dad's leather jacket to school and girls.... hmmm... getting sleepy... (yawn)... hmm... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.... Zzzzzzzzzzmgph... What, what's happening.... Oh, it's Jessica Biel. Too bad her acting ability isn't on par with the stellar quality of her ass. That is a fiiiine ass. And... yet... I can't seem to stay... awake... Zzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... God, this movie is so pretentious, I think it might actually try to give itself a blowjob before the credits roll... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Man, Paul Giamatii is the only person actually trying to put forth a good performance... run, Paul, run... NO! Not towards a shitty holiday-themed movie, they're going to make you be Santa Claus... Paul, why... why... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz... Zzzzzzzzzzzzz...
Just in case you missed it, I thought The Illusionist was mad boring, yo!!! True dat... true dat, indeed.

Friday, November 09, 2007

I've Been Tagged

It seems that Kitty, who head-chefs over at the best blog ever dedicated to trying to get a spouse to eat vegetables, has tagged me to do... uh... this thing. Here, I'll let her explain:

The rules are simple. Link back to the person who tagged you, list 7 random and possibly fascinating facts about yourself, and tag 7 more blog friends, by linking to them and leaving comments on their blogs.

Yeah, what she said. I'm going to do that. Right now, in fact:

Seven Real Things About C-dog, or, "Extreme Facts, Madcore!!!"

NOTE: Keep in mind that, because I tend to be fairly open and honest on ZFS! about my life and it's general goings on, coming up with seven things that I haven't already mentioned in one of my 776 previous posts is a lot harder than it looks. Also, let me stress again that everything on this list is true, and I only mention it again because of the enormous amount of bullshit that I've spewed forth on this site in the past. For once, you're getting the straight dope from me, a straight dope.

1. I've been in jail. No, really... here in New York, even. We're talking handcuffs, mugshot, fingerprinting, a court date; in short, the works. Why? Well, let's just say that no one was hurt, nothing of value was damaged, and my record has since been expunged. One of these days, when I'm hard up for blog-worthy ideas, I'll tell the whole story. For now, though, I think I'll just sit here and smugly enjoy this tiny bit of mystery that I've just created for myself.

2. I worked, for about a year's worth of my time in Austin, as an intern/production assistant for big-shot Hollywood director Richard Linklater. This was just after the release of Waking Life, and I spent most of my days working in his casting office, helping to interview and audition actors for a sadly never-completed film about high school football (it would have been quite good, I can tell you that). Working there did absolutely nothing for my film career, though I did meet some very nice people, and I got to read the screenplay for School of Rock about a year and a half before anyone had even heard of it.

3. I once got to eat dinner at the famed, super-duper exclusive Soho House restaurant here in New York. It goes without saying that I did not pay. See, my uncle is a mover and a shaker in the advertising world and, on the occasions that he swings through my fair city, he's always happy to let his starving not-really-a-writer nephew mooch a free meal off his expense account. On this particular evening, he let me tag along to a business dinner with some clients and friends. Happy to say, I was at the top of my charming, witty game and I didn't embarrass myself or bring shame to my family's reputation in the least. It was also the first and only time that I've had Beef Tartare. It rocked.

4. I once waited tables at an Outback in LA for an entire dinner shift while gooned out of my mind on Jim Beam and cheap beer. I'd love to say that my tips were better than normal, and I'm sure all the teetotalers of the world would love it if my tips were significantly less than average, but the truth of the matter was that my tips were about on par with any other, non-gooned night. I'm just that middling of a waiter, I guess.

5. The last CD I bought: "We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank" by Modest Mouse. The last DVD I bought: The Departed and The Descent (bought at the same time). The last book I bought: A banged up copy of Tom Wolfe's The Right Stuff from the Salvation Army store across the street from my apartment. The last song I heard before starting this post: "Fascination Street" by The Cure. The last movie I watched: The Panic In Needle Park, which was just awesome, providing you dig love stories about junkies, which I totally do. The last book I read: "Finders Keepers" by Mark Bowden.

6. Once, during a particularly dire financial period, I shoplifted allergy medicine from a Duane Reade. No, I'm not especially proud of that fact, but it happened all the same. I also think that, of all the things a person can shoplift in the city, allergy medicine is probably the dorkiest. Okay, maybe acne medication would be worse... but just barely. (This, by the way, didn't have anything to do with #1)

7. Something that makes me inexplicably happy: Seeing large groups of people, via YouTube or in person, doing their own well-choreographed interpretations of the zombie dance from the Thriller video. Like these people, and these people, and especially these people. I even like it when Filipino prisoners do it. Why does this bring me such joy? Can't say. But it sooooo does.

And here are the lovely, attractive people that I'm tagging in kind, as was stated in the rules: Ruth, Cornelius Redgrave, Big Daddy, Jamie, Gal Gotham, Moxie, and Stew. I'm sure one of these days I'll get around to actually notifying them that they've been tagged. But I'm certainly not going to do it tonight. Sleepy!

Thursday, November 08, 2007

ZFS! Takes On The Wheel Of Fortune: Celebrity Edition Line-Up

While reading the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly on the toilet this morning, I discovered (via a flashy, trying-to-hard advertisement) that it is now apparently time for the latest "Celebrity Edition" of everyone's favorite hangman-influenced game show, Wheel of Fortune. This filled me with... well, apathy, frankly, seeing as how the last time I actually watched Wheel of Fortune, I was probably twelve or thirteen and just killing time before the The Simpsons rerun came on. Still, seeing as how I've got nothing else to talk about today, and given the fact that attacking semi-demi-quasi-sorta-kinda famous people always seems like a fun mid-morning activity, let's take a look at who's going to be spinning the great wheel o' fortune for their favorite charities. And then let's make fun of them.

Monday, Nov. 12th

Neil Patrick Harris - Now, dammit... I set out specifically to rip on undeserving celebrities who are just trying to do a nice thing for a worthy cause and, fuck, the first person they give me to work with is somebody whom I really dig. I saw NPH in Cabaret on Broadway a few years ago and then I sued him for replacement socks because he blew mine off!!! Ahem... yes, he was quite good in that production and I hear he's quite good on that How I Met Your Mother show, even though I haven't seen it myself (despite the fact that it's got Willow from Buffy on it). So, fine. Carry on, Neil Patrick Harris. Let's move on...
Robert Gossett - Okay, never heard of this guy! He's on The Closer, which I know my Mom's a big fan of. I'm going to say that he's probably like the fourth-lead and isn't even in every episode; probably plays a sassy, wisecrackin' coroner or something.
Diane Neal - She's kind of hot, but again, she's on one of the Law and Orders and she's not that hunky Det. Stabler or that foxy... uh... lady detective with the hard-to-spell name, so, therefore, we can only assume that Diane Neal also plays a sassy, wisecrackin' coroner. But one that's got a nice rack.

Tuesday, Nov. 13th

Paula Deen - I love her because she reminds me of my Southern roots, but seriously, she's trying to kill America. Have you seen the amount of butter this lady puts in stuff??? I mean, I'm a dude who likes fatty, fried things as much as the next future coronary candidate but, sheesh. Eating one of her casseroles is like playing Russian Roulette with an Uzi.
Steve Schirripa - I kind of bugged out on The Sopranos before he really became a big part of the show, but I remember him being there sort of vaguely in the background and I remember him as being very fat. I'm sure he and Paula Deen will be soul-kissing before the first commercial break. Also, isn't he the one that's written a bunch of Italian-y, mobster-ish books to leach off of The Sopranos fame? If so, he's perfect for this program.
Sherri Shepherd - I love how they put all the fat people together on one episode. You know that shit was done on purpose; the producers assume that if a Sherri Shepherd is placed next to a Diane Neal, the latter will catch the "fatty disease" and balloon up on-camera like an over-inflated life raft. Which would be great television for us, but probably bad for Law and Order; no one likes a sassy, wisecrackin' corner that's morbidly obese.

Wednesday, Nov. 14th

Kristan Cunningham - I'm sorry, but who the fuck is this? She's cute and all, but she's listed as being from The Rachael Ray Show. Um... isn't that, like, Rachael Ray's daytime talk show? What, is this chick, like her sidekick or something? I mean, c'mon guys, it's not like Rachael Ray's better than the Wheel; she endorses fucking Dunkin' Donuts for christssake! You guys should have easily been able to get the real deal on your show and not this sycophantic chippie who looks like the girl at frat parties who drinks to much and ends up crying on the porch because her High School boyfriend dumped her four years ago. I assume, of course; again, I don't know who she is.
Montel Williams - I don't know what it is, but something about Montel Williams always struck me as deeply, deeply disingenuous. Like, I bet if you got right up next to him, he'd smell exactly like a used-car dealership or a conference room that hosts a lot of pyramid scheme sign-ups. He is a fine lookin' hunk of talk show host, though, I'll give him that.
Sandra Lee - HATE!!! She's the bitch that does that Semi-Homemade show on The Food Network; I urge you, at least once, to check it out because it's the most offensive thing to ever get broadcast over the airwaves since that shit they picked up on the satellites in Videodrome. The entire show is this, exactly: "Hey housewives, let's make a refreshing summer dip for you to serve your man when he comes home from a hard day at the office. First, open a bottle of ranch dressing. Next, dump it in a bowl. Now, go put on an apron and have another baby. When your husband comes home, serve him the dip. Then serve him (wink!)." Seriously, it's disgusting, but hilariously so. Watch it and hate her with me.

Thursday, Nov. 15th

Alison Sweeney - No clue who she is, but totally click on her name then come back. I'll wait. Did you see it!?!? She's got the eyes of a madman! I swear to fuck, right after that picture was taken, she ate the cameraman's heart right out of his chest cavity. If she's like that all the time, I'd totally watch whatever bullshit program she's on. I dig scary chicks that know the taste of blood.
Paige Hemmis - If you look like a tranny anyway, it's probably not a good idea to walk around wearing a tool-belt. That only heightens the comparison.
Jeff Probst - I was going to talk about how he's one of the few people who've hosted a reality show that actually seems like a pretty decent person, but then I Googled his name to get a picture to use in the link. Wow... lots of nude pictures. Like, way more than you'd expect for a dude. I'm actually not sure now if he ever has pants on. I mean, hey, he's got the goods (I guess), so it's cool if that's what he's in to but... yikes... so was not what I was expecting when I clicked the "search" button.

Friday, Nov. 16th

A Bunch Of Soap Opera Actors - Yeah, I've never heard of any of these people, and I'm getting kind of tired and drunk, so I'm just going to say that, generally, they're all stupid, probably drug addicts, and their acting abilities are severely limited.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Wednesday Morning Hodgepodge

NOTE: As you may have inferred from the title, this post is kind of an informational jumble. Sorry about that; there's just a lot to discuss and I don't feel like posting a million times today. So away we go...

First thing's first, today is Girlfriend's birthday. Feel free to wish her as happy a b-day as you think she deserves (hint: "the happiest ever" would be a good starting point).


Today is my Friday. That's right... there's nothing better than a job that encourages you to burn off your remaining vacation days. So, as of 5pm today, I'm officially chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool, though I will not be shooting some b-ball outside of the school. I don't have game, you see.


Because apparently this is soup week on ZFS!, here's a quick n' easy recipe for the amazing deliciousness that I made for dinner last night:

Tomato-Basil Soup, Extra Fatty-Style

2 cans crushed tomatoes
12-15 basil leaves, chopped
1 cup heavy cream
1 stick butter, sliced up
S&P to taste (use fresh-ground black pepper if you're awesome)

Dump all of the above in a bowl. Use one of those stick blenders on the mixture until it's all smooth and creamy and so sexy looking, you just want to dunk your head in and not care if you drown. Pour it all in a pot and heat it up until it's... uh... hot, I guess. When it's done, chow the fuck down and send me a thank-you note. Oh, also, if you eat all of what this recipe yields, your heart will more than likely explode. So share it with friends!


Help Girlfriend and I settle a matter that's been bugging us: How many African-American rock stars from the last twenty years can you name? And I'm talking straight rock and roll and it's immediate offshoots here; i.e. not R&B that's got like a fart's worth of rock in it (like Seal). The list we've been able to come up with so far is:

-Lenny Kravitz (though, gag)
-Darius Rucker from Hootie & The Blowfish
-H.R. from Bad Brains
-That one guy from Blessed Union of Souls
-That scary-looking guy from Sevendust
-Roland Gift from Fine Young Cannibals
-Ben Harper

And that's really it. Surely there's got to be more, right? Remember, we're only talking from the last 20-25 years or so; Hendrix doesn't count. This topic, by the by, comes from watching that The Next Great American Band show on Fox; they've got on there an all African-American band that we've been trying to decide how to classify. They play guitars and stuff, but they kind of sound like a hip-hop version of a college jam band that got peed on by Bootsy Collins.


I've decided that I would like to be photographed. Professionally, I mean; not like with a Polaroid camera, or in a mugshot-type situation. Why have I decided this? Overwhelming narcissism, of course. Duh. So if any of you need a husky, hairy guy to stand in front of your cameras and look all cool and deep... uh, hi. Right here. No nudity, though, unless it's tastefully done and really important to the script. If you photograph me and the pictures are awesome, I'll display them on this site, thus earning you at least twelve dollars worth of free publicity. It should go without saying, also, that I cannot pay you for this service. However, getting the opportunity to work with me is like finding an Igloo cooler full of gold bars. I'm that much fun to be around.


And... yeah. I guess that's it for the hodgepodge. I should get some crap done around the office, I suppose. Yo homes, smell ya later!

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

The 1:00am Crazy Show

As usual, I conked out last night around eleven while watching Adult Swim's nightly re-run of Futurama. This is as common a scenario around our house as my girlfriend asking me to please, for the love of God, stop leaving my empty beer cans in the shower, and normally it's were the day's story ends.

But not last night. Oh no, kids... because last night, I was treated to a personal viewing of Brooklyn's own...

1:00am Crazy Show!!!

That's right. I'd been sleeping peacefully (or as peacefully as my insomaniacal ass ever sleeps) for a couple of hours when, from the street below my open window, a loud screeching voice cut through the fog of my slumber like a chainsaw through a Texan teen in the early 70's. I tried to ignore it at first, not immediately recognizing it as the prelude to the spectacle of lunacy that it truly was. After all, usually the crazies will bark at the stars for a minute, yell out something about Socialism, and then they're on their way to the all-nite liquor emporium. This time, though, the screaming didn't stop. Finally awake, convinced that this heretofore unseen person wasn't intending to let up in the near future, I did what any concerned citizen of the five boroughs would do... I leaned out my window, hoping to get a better view of the action.

This is where things got kinda sorta creepy... when I poked my head out and surveyed the scene (we're on the fourth floor), I couldn't see anyone. There was just this disembodied voice, ranting and raving, echoing around the canyon of buildings that line the streets of Brooklyn. It was then that I realized that this crazy person was directly beneath me, his or her presence being obscured by the awning of the sushi restaurant that occupies the first floor of our place. So I listened. It was, as I said, mostly a screamed ramble of obscenities and threats, but the basic topics seemed to be:

-Diseased prostitutes
-How the crazy person was going to "bash heads"
-How the crazy person's cousin was going to "bash heads"
-How we were all "dead for looking at [him/her]"
-How [he/she] didn't have to take this shit
-Various combinations of the above; example, "My cousin's going to bash the heads of all you diseased prostitutes for looking at me!!!"

It really was an impressive, Bogosian-worthy monologue and I feel that it more than likely would still be going on now, had a new character not entered the show after about fifteen minutes. He strode out of the deli/diner/donut shop thingy across the street from my building like Gary Cooper in High Noon, his Giants sweatshirt and flip-flops speaking volumes about his hero's heart. He stepped into the street and, in a "Noo Yawk" accent thick enough to be used as blunt object to kill someone, he commanded:

"Hey you, get outta here, you fuckin' nut!"

Naturally, this only stoked the flames of crazy that were burning with such vigor in our still-unseen lunatic. His or her rage was then directly aimed at Flip-Flop Man, and he in turn gave as good as he got. They yelled at each other for a minute or two, with Flip-Flop taking the, "get outta here" stance and Unseen Crazy sticking to her, "gonna bash your heads, you diseased prostitute" guns.

Then, in what can only be described as the only sensible action taken by anyone last night, Flip-Flop ran back inside of the deli/diner/donut shop thingy after informing Unseen Crazy that he was going to call the cops. It was then that we (I) got our first look at he/she who can no longer be called Unseen. She... that's right, it was a lady... stepped into the middle of the street, never breaking the pace of her ranting, and to my surprise, she looked entirely... normal. A little trashy, perhaps a little haggard, but really no different than a lot of the vaguely scummy-looking denizens that make Brooklyn such a rich, interesting place to live. Anyway, she stood there in the middle of the street, screaming and yelling at cars as they swerved around her. Because I want you to really feel like you were there, I've taken the liberty of sketching this part of the action:

Better than a YouTube video, no?
It was then, as she ranted in the street, that we entered the Big, Exciting Climax of the 1:00am Crazy Show. Our hero, Flip-Flop, returned to the stage, this time wielding what appeared to be a rolled-up copy of the New York Post. "The cops are coming, you crazy bitch!," he shouted, menacing her with his cudgel. Now-Seen Crazy darted from the street, back under the awning of the sushi restaurant, and reemerged a second later with a large purse filled with god-knows-what. She began swinging it around like mace and Flip-Flop, not being the type to fear a swung purse, advanced on Now-Seen Crazy. They met in the street and began hitting each other with their respective weapons. Expletives flew from both parties. Finally, goodness and the Giants won out. Now-Seen Crazy backed off, screaming that she was going to get her cousin to help her "bash heads." She ran off, heading down a side street, leaving Flip-Flop standing alone. He was out of breath, but clearly relieved that the fight had ended in his favor. He sighed heavily, turned, and headed back to the deli/diner/donut shop thingy, looking, one can only assume, for a snack that would pair well with the taste of victory.
And... Curtain!!!
Postlude: About twenty minutes after our characters left the stage, a police cruiser rolled by. A cop got out, looked around, saw nothing, got back in his car, and away they went. Flip-Flop's heroism remains unsung.